We received one of those phone calls today that comes from a most unexpected place. Because who ever honestly expects to answer the ringing or click open the text to learn someone they love has endured the unthinkable?
That the photos you saw on Facebook yesterday of a little girl placing a plastic crown atop the head of her baby brother, calling him "Princess Bubba" as he sat in his bouncer, those pictures that made you smile and warmed you with the love that Facebook-posting momma has for her precious little ones, that momma you saw at Thanksgiving nestling her weeks-old son in her careful arms, would be the last you would see of that toddler sister loving on her little brother.
When someone you love woke to a sunny Saturday morning, only to go to bed physically aching for a little boy that's not coming back into her arms. While my body squirms with the life inside bursting to get out, her body seeks the suckler that won't return, whose life has vanished too quickly.
How can this be fair? How can one not collapse under the weight of such a world where things happen we can't control and life changes without a moment's notice?
Only hope.
Only faith.
Only by the knowledge that there is a God in Heaven who nestles the little one in His arms - the little one we would all snatch back without a second thought, given the chance. And that God is our Rock. When nothing else makes sense. When the pain is great and undeserved, He remains faithful, the strength of our hearts, when no other strength can be found within us.
In this truth we hope. Without it we are nothing.
So we rest in that hope tonight. Lifting prayers for the hurting and asking peace for those to whom our human words are meaningless. Because we have nothing more to offer.
22 February 2014
17 February 2014
Of His Words
Twelve seconds after I'd closed their door for naptime, as soon as I'm on the potty (because that's when kids always have urgent things to say to Mommy), Emmett rushes out of his room, "Momma! I didn't get to say all of my words!"
I smiled, because I realized what he meant. And even though most of their delay tactics when it's time to lay down tend to frustrate Mommy and Daddy, this is one I kind of like.
"Ok, say your words." His look clearly indicated he couldn't do it while he was out of bed, let alone while he was talking to me on the potty. So, I finished and allowed him to get back into bed, snuggled up under his blanket, before he proceeded.
"Ok, now say them," I encouraged him.
"Good night. I love you. Sleep tight. I'll see you in the morning!"
Yeah, he's kind of adorable.
Also, his father pointed out, a bit like Dread Pirate Roberts. Perhaps he should start building up his immunity to Iocane Powder.
I smiled, because I realized what he meant. And even though most of their delay tactics when it's time to lay down tend to frustrate Mommy and Daddy, this is one I kind of like.
"Ok, say your words." His look clearly indicated he couldn't do it while he was out of bed, let alone while he was talking to me on the potty. So, I finished and allowed him to get back into bed, snuggled up under his blanket, before he proceeded.
"Ok, now say them," I encouraged him.
"Good night. I love you. Sleep tight. I'll see you in the morning!"
Yeah, he's kind of adorable.
Also, his father pointed out, a bit like Dread Pirate Roberts. Perhaps he should start building up his immunity to Iocane Powder.
12 February 2014
Of His Second Birthday
It was two years ago that our youngest boy made his frantic and harrowing arrival into this world. Two years ago that I gave birth on my bedroom floor to the little baby without a name and snuggled him close, not at all disappointed not to have had the baby sister Micaiah had insisted was coming.
And that kid.
I wish I could describe him accurately, but words won't do him justice. If you could just spend a day or two with this child, you would see what I mean.
You'd see the way he lights up a room with his ever-present grin. He is truly the most expressive and joyful child we have had - and considering the other two weren't terribly cranky kids, that's saying something. (Even his most recent exclamation of "Ew, yucky!" as we change his diaper accompanies an appropriate facial expression of disgust.) The way he says, "Tank ou" every time anything is given to him - and will repeat it ("Tank ou, Momma. Tank ou, Momma. Momma, tank ou!") until he is told he is welcome. And, of course, he responds with the same courtesy, "Welcome!" with pointed politeness whenever gratitude is expressed to him.
You'd see how he puckers his precious lips whenever Momma asks for a kiss, or how she doesn't even have to ask often, because he offers them freely to everyone. In fact, you'd melt at the kisses he blows EVERY time he tells someone bye, bye or the way he has to run to the other bedroom for hugs and kisses with brother and sissy every night before bed, scampering off yelling, "Tisses, Caiah!" And the way they greet him eagerly, often falling over giggling mid-hug, just as happy with the night-time ritual as he is.
You would think it was adorable the way he runs to the garage door whenever he hears the car pull in, yelling, "Daddy home!" waiting for his hug, or even the way he asks every morning, "Daddy?" as I change his diaper, hoping it's not a work day. But that doesn't mean Mommy doesn't get any appreciation. If I've stepped out for a run to the grocery store, I get to see his happy face as soon as I come through the door, while he's tugging on Daddy, "Momma home! Momma home!" He definitely knows how to make us feel loved.
You'd probably also get to see his ornery streak - the side that snatches a toy from his siblings and runs away with glee, not necessarily because he wanted it, but because he knows they did. Or the angry glare he shoots at anyone who dare suggest he relinquish the pilfered play-thing and then the pouty reluctance with which he offers it back to the child in question.
You would definitely appreciate his eagerness to help. If he sees trash, he holds it up to confirm, "Tash?" and then dashes on his little toddler legs to dutifully place it in the proper receptacle. If we're cooking, he'll pull up a stool to help or run to the cabinet where his dishes are kept to find a plate, fork or cup (or all of the above). And if we're dishing out snack, he'll serve his brother and sister their snack cups before he accepts his own.
And even after noticing all the above, you'd be surprised just how many times a day you won't be able to help saying, "He's just so cute!" because it really is surprising just how many ways it shines through. You kind of want to give him a big hug all the time - unless he's getting into something he shouldn't just about every time you turn your back. Then you'll curse his blessed cuteness because it's just so hard to want to discipline that face.
I can't believe he's only been here two years and I wish I could freeze time, because I just love his tender and spirited personality and I wish I could frame it and keep it forever.
So, happy birthday to this guy - one of the many reasons I smile.
And that kid.
I wish I could describe him accurately, but words won't do him justice. If you could just spend a day or two with this child, you would see what I mean.
You'd see the way he lights up a room with his ever-present grin. He is truly the most expressive and joyful child we have had - and considering the other two weren't terribly cranky kids, that's saying something. (Even his most recent exclamation of "Ew, yucky!" as we change his diaper accompanies an appropriate facial expression of disgust.) The way he says, "Tank ou" every time anything is given to him - and will repeat it ("Tank ou, Momma. Tank ou, Momma. Momma, tank ou!") until he is told he is welcome. And, of course, he responds with the same courtesy, "Welcome!" with pointed politeness whenever gratitude is expressed to him.
You'd see how he puckers his precious lips whenever Momma asks for a kiss, or how she doesn't even have to ask often, because he offers them freely to everyone. In fact, you'd melt at the kisses he blows EVERY time he tells someone bye, bye or the way he has to run to the other bedroom for hugs and kisses with brother and sissy every night before bed, scampering off yelling, "Tisses, Caiah!" And the way they greet him eagerly, often falling over giggling mid-hug, just as happy with the night-time ritual as he is.
You would think it was adorable the way he runs to the garage door whenever he hears the car pull in, yelling, "Daddy home!" waiting for his hug, or even the way he asks every morning, "Daddy?" as I change his diaper, hoping it's not a work day. But that doesn't mean Mommy doesn't get any appreciation. If I've stepped out for a run to the grocery store, I get to see his happy face as soon as I come through the door, while he's tugging on Daddy, "Momma home! Momma home!" He definitely knows how to make us feel loved.
You'd probably also get to see his ornery streak - the side that snatches a toy from his siblings and runs away with glee, not necessarily because he wanted it, but because he knows they did. Or the angry glare he shoots at anyone who dare suggest he relinquish the pilfered play-thing and then the pouty reluctance with which he offers it back to the child in question.
You would definitely appreciate his eagerness to help. If he sees trash, he holds it up to confirm, "Tash?" and then dashes on his little toddler legs to dutifully place it in the proper receptacle. If we're cooking, he'll pull up a stool to help or run to the cabinet where his dishes are kept to find a plate, fork or cup (or all of the above). And if we're dishing out snack, he'll serve his brother and sister their snack cups before he accepts his own.
And even after noticing all the above, you'd be surprised just how many times a day you won't be able to help saying, "He's just so cute!" because it really is surprising just how many ways it shines through. You kind of want to give him a big hug all the time - unless he's getting into something he shouldn't just about every time you turn your back. Then you'll curse his blessed cuteness because it's just so hard to want to discipline that face.
I can't believe he's only been here two years and I wish I could freeze time, because I just love his tender and spirited personality and I wish I could frame it and keep it forever.
So, happy birthday to this guy - one of the many reasons I smile.
09 February 2014
Of Savoring the Days
Just because I don't revel in small talk about my belly doesn't mean I can't blog about it, right?
In just the past few days I have come to truly relish these last precious days and weeks with this rotund protrusion that limits my ability to see my pink-painted toes (in honor of that precious girl inside).
Though I have resorted to rolling off the couch, rather than attempting to stand from a position of laying on a throw pillow, and I have to visit the bathroom much more frequently than I'd prefer (making me question why I still have no stock in toilet paper), overall I enjoy pulling a sweater over this bulging belly holding my beautiful baby. I love feeling her movements inside me and rubbing my hands over the roundness that will be mere bulge in a few weeks.
As one who has left her "family planning" up to the God of the universe, I never know which child will be my last. Though it seems unlikely my womb will close after this one enters the world, one never knows what the uncertain future holds. Thus, I hold precious every moment of this pregnancy.
Yes, I eagerly await her transition into the world and fantasize about those moments when I will push my daughter from my body and carry her tiny, wrinkly body in my arms. I long to see her face and watch her grow. But it does not mean wishing away these amazing days when she is held safe inside, cuddled by my stretching skin, nestled in my womb, where she pushes and tugs in sometimes uncomfortable ways.
These are the moments I treasure.
In just the past few days I have come to truly relish these last precious days and weeks with this rotund protrusion that limits my ability to see my pink-painted toes (in honor of that precious girl inside).
Though I have resorted to rolling off the couch, rather than attempting to stand from a position of laying on a throw pillow, and I have to visit the bathroom much more frequently than I'd prefer (making me question why I still have no stock in toilet paper), overall I enjoy pulling a sweater over this bulging belly holding my beautiful baby. I love feeling her movements inside me and rubbing my hands over the roundness that will be mere bulge in a few weeks.
As one who has left her "family planning" up to the God of the universe, I never know which child will be my last. Though it seems unlikely my womb will close after this one enters the world, one never knows what the uncertain future holds. Thus, I hold precious every moment of this pregnancy.
Yes, I eagerly await her transition into the world and fantasize about those moments when I will push my daughter from my body and carry her tiny, wrinkly body in my arms. I long to see her face and watch her grow. But it does not mean wishing away these amazing days when she is held safe inside, cuddled by my stretching skin, nestled in my womb, where she pushes and tugs in sometimes uncomfortable ways.
These are the moments I treasure.
28 January 2014
Of Pregnancy Chatter
In case you missed it, I sit here at 36 weeks pregnant this morning. And clearly I've reached some sort of physical threshold with this burgeoning belly, because just this last weekend the instances of "When are you due, again?" have increased greatly - as in, everyone I see asks me this question, where it used to just be the few friends who actually cared when the baby was coming and honestly couldn't remember. Now the question means, "Wow, your belly is so big, clearly you're about to go into labor right here and I'm kind of hoping I'm not here when it happens - so just let me know if things start to feel weird and I'll bug out."
I'm 36 weeks pregnant.
For the record, that leaves me at a month away from my due date (or week, because a date is just unnecessary false hope) and, for further record, if this baby is anything like my last, I'm really about five or six weeks away from delivering (which puts me at four weeks away from, "Still in there?!" - no, I just like carrying basketballs under my shirt, it's so much more efficient). Which means six weeks of telling anyone and everyone I meet when this baby is supposed to come, it's a girl, no we don't have a name (at least not one we're sharing yet) and I'm still feeling ok and how excited we are or how ready I am for this even to transpire.
And can I be honest?
Half of what I say is a load of poo. I don't really mean it - I'm trying to gauge how you want me to respond so this umpteenth conversation about my pregnancy can end as quickly as possible. I'll tell you I feel ok because you don't want to hear about my woes, my sleepless nights or the bladder that's killing me. Conversely, if I can tell you think it's time this pregnancy were over, I'll totally agree and say I'm miserable, which I'm not, really, just a little uncomfortable sometimes. I'll say we're excited if you seem excited or say I'm nervous if you seem apprehensive about the fact that we're bringing home a fourth baby a mere few weeks after our youngest turns two (and I won't dare admit how excited I am that that's our largest gap between babies). Honestly, I just want you to go away and stop focusing on the protruding belly between us.
It's not that I don't love you. I do. I'm just done. This ain't my first rodeo and this fourth round of pregnant small talk is killing the introvert inside (ok, let's be honest, I hated it the first time) who yearns for deep conversation of any kind and does not thrive on the platitudes of well-meaning strangers and acquaintances. I understand this globe of a stomach is an obvious conversation starter but if you have nowhere to go from there, maybe just keep walking. I'd be ok with that, really.
And if you must address the elephant in the room, I'd recommend a simple, "We're looking forward to meeting her!", maybe a friendly belly rub (if you're daring - I know some moms hate it and, yes, it's awkward, but I'm totally used to it by now and at least makes me feel as though the my belly isn't an unwelcome addition to the room) and be done. No questions, no anecdotes about your sister's boyfriend's cousin who went two months past her due date (it's not helpful), just some loving encouragement.
Thank you and have a nice day.
This message brought to you by your friendly neighborhood pregnant lady.
I'm 36 weeks pregnant.
For the record, that leaves me at a month away from my due date (or week, because a date is just unnecessary false hope) and, for further record, if this baby is anything like my last, I'm really about five or six weeks away from delivering (which puts me at four weeks away from, "Still in there?!" - no, I just like carrying basketballs under my shirt, it's so much more efficient). Which means six weeks of telling anyone and everyone I meet when this baby is supposed to come, it's a girl, no we don't have a name (at least not one we're sharing yet) and I'm still feeling ok and how excited we are or how ready I am for this even to transpire.
And can I be honest?
Half of what I say is a load of poo. I don't really mean it - I'm trying to gauge how you want me to respond so this umpteenth conversation about my pregnancy can end as quickly as possible. I'll tell you I feel ok because you don't want to hear about my woes, my sleepless nights or the bladder that's killing me. Conversely, if I can tell you think it's time this pregnancy were over, I'll totally agree and say I'm miserable, which I'm not, really, just a little uncomfortable sometimes. I'll say we're excited if you seem excited or say I'm nervous if you seem apprehensive about the fact that we're bringing home a fourth baby a mere few weeks after our youngest turns two (and I won't dare admit how excited I am that that's our largest gap between babies). Honestly, I just want you to go away and stop focusing on the protruding belly between us.
It's not that I don't love you. I do. I'm just done. This ain't my first rodeo and this fourth round of pregnant small talk is killing the introvert inside (ok, let's be honest, I hated it the first time) who yearns for deep conversation of any kind and does not thrive on the platitudes of well-meaning strangers and acquaintances. I understand this globe of a stomach is an obvious conversation starter but if you have nowhere to go from there, maybe just keep walking. I'd be ok with that, really.
And if you must address the elephant in the room, I'd recommend a simple, "We're looking forward to meeting her!", maybe a friendly belly rub (if you're daring - I know some moms hate it and, yes, it's awkward, but I'm totally used to it by now and at least makes me feel as though the my belly isn't an unwelcome addition to the room) and be done. No questions, no anecdotes about your sister's boyfriend's cousin who went two months past her due date (it's not helpful), just some loving encouragement.
Thank you and have a nice day.
This message brought to you by your friendly neighborhood pregnant lady.
26 January 2014
Of Our Little Home
As a good blogger, I shouldn't apologize for any absence or lack of updating on daily living, I should just jump right in, as if we've never been apart, leaving the topic of my silence to stand alone in the corner, as if it didn't even exist. Clearly I'm no good blogger as I've just started by inviting that awkward wallflower out in the middle of the floor to dance. That's ok. At least I'm not indulging in topic-snubbery. Because I do recognize, it's been awhile.
Frankly, it would have been longer, but I'm sitting in an empty house - like E.M.P.T.Y. Me. Alone. No kids. No husband. And this is maybe the second time this event has occurred in over five years. Which is apparently all the motivation (or loneliness) I need to actually pick up the keyboard and clack away on meaningless subject matter.
Truth be told, I wish this house were a little more empty, being packed away in boxes, ready to move on to our next abode. We've been trying to make that happen for nearly two months now with little to no interest happening in the housing market (at least regarding this particular house which, let's be honest, is the one I care most about right now). It makes me sad, not only because this season of waiting is trying, but also because I'm starting to feel a little defensive of our precious home.
I like this house. I really do. And if I were looking for a home and weren't 36 weeks pregnant with my fourth child, I'd totally want this house. And I just want to give it a big hug and assure it that it really is still pretty and those stupid buyers out there telling us "It's just not what we're looking for" wouldn't know a good house if it fell on their ruby red slippers. But instead I'm waiting impatiently for the day when it's not my house anymore. I suppose that's not very nice, either.
But it's not the house's fault. It's not the house's fault it only has three bedrooms and we're starting to feel that might not be enough for this family that's only getting bigger. If this home could magically sprout a few extra rooms with a few extra bunk beds stacked along the walls we'd stay in a heartbeat. We'd spend our summers in its backyard and we'd continue gathering with those neighbors we love so much. If the dining room could handle a table for twelve (or at least more than six since we'll be maxing that out in a short month or so), we'd be thrilled to enjoy a few more birthday dinners cooked right in that open kitchen.
In either case, it appears that's what we'll be doing for awhile longer, anyhow. And we're okay with that. We trust in a God that knows our needs and knows us. We are disillusioned enough in the American dream to understand that a bigger house isn't the solution to a perfect life, or even necessary for happiness. So, while we wait to see if this thing will pan out or not, we trust in Him, holding tight to our firm belief that His will is perfect - even if it means a family of six cozying up within these four walls - because we know others have done so with far less space and we don't even deserve the blessings we already have, nor do we deem to look on them with contempt.
So, here I sit, in this little home with a for sale sign in the front yard, waiting for the day it's taken down, but waiting even more anxiously for my three little blessings and their bigger blessing of a wonderful father and husband to walk through that door so we can celebrate life here just a little longer.
Until next time (which will, hopefully, not be nearly so distant) . . .
Frankly, it would have been longer, but I'm sitting in an empty house - like E.M.P.T.Y. Me. Alone. No kids. No husband. And this is maybe the second time this event has occurred in over five years. Which is apparently all the motivation (or loneliness) I need to actually pick up the keyboard and clack away on meaningless subject matter.
Truth be told, I wish this house were a little more empty, being packed away in boxes, ready to move on to our next abode. We've been trying to make that happen for nearly two months now with little to no interest happening in the housing market (at least regarding this particular house which, let's be honest, is the one I care most about right now). It makes me sad, not only because this season of waiting is trying, but also because I'm starting to feel a little defensive of our precious home.
I like this house. I really do. And if I were looking for a home and weren't 36 weeks pregnant with my fourth child, I'd totally want this house. And I just want to give it a big hug and assure it that it really is still pretty and those stupid buyers out there telling us "It's just not what we're looking for" wouldn't know a good house if it fell on their ruby red slippers. But instead I'm waiting impatiently for the day when it's not my house anymore. I suppose that's not very nice, either.
But it's not the house's fault. It's not the house's fault it only has three bedrooms and we're starting to feel that might not be enough for this family that's only getting bigger. If this home could magically sprout a few extra rooms with a few extra bunk beds stacked along the walls we'd stay in a heartbeat. We'd spend our summers in its backyard and we'd continue gathering with those neighbors we love so much. If the dining room could handle a table for twelve (or at least more than six since we'll be maxing that out in a short month or so), we'd be thrilled to enjoy a few more birthday dinners cooked right in that open kitchen.
In either case, it appears that's what we'll be doing for awhile longer, anyhow. And we're okay with that. We trust in a God that knows our needs and knows us. We are disillusioned enough in the American dream to understand that a bigger house isn't the solution to a perfect life, or even necessary for happiness. So, while we wait to see if this thing will pan out or not, we trust in Him, holding tight to our firm belief that His will is perfect - even if it means a family of six cozying up within these four walls - because we know others have done so with far less space and we don't even deserve the blessings we already have, nor do we deem to look on them with contempt.
So, here I sit, in this little home with a for sale sign in the front yard, waiting for the day it's taken down, but waiting even more anxiously for my three little blessings and their bigger blessing of a wonderful father and husband to walk through that door so we can celebrate life here just a little longer.
Until next time (which will, hopefully, not be nearly so distant) . . .
06 December 2013
Of Enjoying Real Life
As I watched the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade last week, my remnant of personal tradition among my husband's family, with children scattered over the room declaring, "We want to watch a kids's show!", I assured them they were lucky they don't get stuck watching Mommy's and Daddy's choices very often, because when I was a girl . . . we sat on the living room floor very quietly watching whatever was on - and while the Flintstones made a regular appearance, so did M.A.S.H. and last night's video recording (you know, the kind actually taped over and over on the same VHS, none of this digital nonsense) of David Letterman, so as far as I'm concerned, my kids are living the life, entertainment-wise. So could Momma just have this one morning of the year, for crying out loud?
Nevertheless, there were the sweet moments, like when the Rockettes - the highlight of the yearly event, the part my mom would run in from the kitchen to see so that we were always watching at least that part together while the turkey took a rest from its morning preparations - donned the screen and my eldest and youngest turned Papaw's living room into their own stage. That girl kicking as high as she could and that little boy twisting in his own best version of dance. Special memories for a momma passing down her own childhood moments.
And then they announced it. Next Thursday evening would be a special live broadcast of an entirely redone Sound of Music.
To those who turn on their TV's regularly, this was probably old news. As it was, I was hit with it for the first time that morning and was already scheming how to tune the children out between the 7pm start time and their 8pm bedtime. Momma was going to need another allowance, and only a week later, to tune the television to her choice - while the kids were awake. It's a risky proposition because we all know, with three children aged five and under scurrying about, one can rarely hear her own thoughts, let alone the TV. Maybe they could go to bed early.
Either way, I spent the week reminding myself and my husband, though the hideous foil-adorned antenna had been stowed in the attic during this house-selling season of our lives, it would need to be pulled out for at least one night. I was watching that TV special - and suddenly I was having 90's flashbacks - who actually tuned in to a live TV special these days? Who doesn't simply watch them the next day, or at least with a delayed start so as to fast forward commercials? Apparently we, of the no cable, no DVR, no Netflix, even. That's who. I didn't even have a blank VHS handy. I was behind the technological times even if it had been 1993.
Then Thursday came and forecasts of ice and snow and a wintry mix of wonderland flooded the forecast and my mind. I was planning chili and Christmas movies and what dessert to prepare as a family while we snuggled in our warm nest. So, it wasn't until after the chili and after the newest VeggieTales Christmas DVD (see? sometimes we at least catch up to 2001 with our entertainment technology), as we stirred puppy chow in the kitchen and pondered what slice of holiday media to enjoy with our chocolately goodness that I declared, "It's Thursday!" "Yes it is," confirmed my confused husband. "We only have 18 minutes!" I cried, glancing at the clock.
Catching on, he dutifully, and reluctantly, hurried to the attic for that blasted antenna and, after the powdered sugar had been shaken over the snack and everyone had their bowls of Chow and cups of milk, we finished our Jesse Tree devotion just in time to tune in.
I hadn't planned to snuggle together as a family with a fire in the fireplace, all eyes on the recreated classic, but it's the way it happened - as it goes with all best memories, the kind that can't be created on purpose. And then my littlest boy started dancing to the chorus of the hills coming alive and my daughter was twirling across the floor while Maria sang of her favorite things. And there we were in that blissful moment, and I didn't care that it would keep the kids up two extra hours, or that I sometimes couldn't see because an excited three-year-old has a knack for sticking his giant noggin in front of the TV, or that the acting was sometimes sub-par, or even the question at every commercial break, "Is it coming back?" (commercials are still a little foreign to them). I didn't care because we were making memories. The same kinds of memories I have from my own childhood, of sitting around the black box as a family, watching that TV special, with the Christmas lights twinkling and the icicles forming outside.
These are the moments real life is enjoyed.
Nevertheless, there were the sweet moments, like when the Rockettes - the highlight of the yearly event, the part my mom would run in from the kitchen to see so that we were always watching at least that part together while the turkey took a rest from its morning preparations - donned the screen and my eldest and youngest turned Papaw's living room into their own stage. That girl kicking as high as she could and that little boy twisting in his own best version of dance. Special memories for a momma passing down her own childhood moments.
And then they announced it. Next Thursday evening would be a special live broadcast of an entirely redone Sound of Music.
To those who turn on their TV's regularly, this was probably old news. As it was, I was hit with it for the first time that morning and was already scheming how to tune the children out between the 7pm start time and their 8pm bedtime. Momma was going to need another allowance, and only a week later, to tune the television to her choice - while the kids were awake. It's a risky proposition because we all know, with three children aged five and under scurrying about, one can rarely hear her own thoughts, let alone the TV. Maybe they could go to bed early.
Either way, I spent the week reminding myself and my husband, though the hideous foil-adorned antenna had been stowed in the attic during this house-selling season of our lives, it would need to be pulled out for at least one night. I was watching that TV special - and suddenly I was having 90's flashbacks - who actually tuned in to a live TV special these days? Who doesn't simply watch them the next day, or at least with a delayed start so as to fast forward commercials? Apparently we, of the no cable, no DVR, no Netflix, even. That's who. I didn't even have a blank VHS handy. I was behind the technological times even if it had been 1993.
Then Thursday came and forecasts of ice and snow and a wintry mix of wonderland flooded the forecast and my mind. I was planning chili and Christmas movies and what dessert to prepare as a family while we snuggled in our warm nest. So, it wasn't until after the chili and after the newest VeggieTales Christmas DVD (see? sometimes we at least catch up to 2001 with our entertainment technology), as we stirred puppy chow in the kitchen and pondered what slice of holiday media to enjoy with our chocolately goodness that I declared, "It's Thursday!" "Yes it is," confirmed my confused husband. "We only have 18 minutes!" I cried, glancing at the clock.
Catching on, he dutifully, and reluctantly, hurried to the attic for that blasted antenna and, after the powdered sugar had been shaken over the snack and everyone had their bowls of Chow and cups of milk, we finished our Jesse Tree devotion just in time to tune in.
I hadn't planned to snuggle together as a family with a fire in the fireplace, all eyes on the recreated classic, but it's the way it happened - as it goes with all best memories, the kind that can't be created on purpose. And then my littlest boy started dancing to the chorus of the hills coming alive and my daughter was twirling across the floor while Maria sang of her favorite things. And there we were in that blissful moment, and I didn't care that it would keep the kids up two extra hours, or that I sometimes couldn't see because an excited three-year-old has a knack for sticking his giant noggin in front of the TV, or that the acting was sometimes sub-par, or even the question at every commercial break, "Is it coming back?" (commercials are still a little foreign to them). I didn't care because we were making memories. The same kinds of memories I have from my own childhood, of sitting around the black box as a family, watching that TV special, with the Christmas lights twinkling and the icicles forming outside.
These are the moments real life is enjoyed.
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