The bunny and I don't click.

The Easter Bunny is pretty laughable, don't you think? I mean, I never really hopped on that imaginary trail when I was a kid(pun intended). Okay, maybe when I was a very little kid. But for the most part, I was just there for the chocolate (sorry to break it to ya, Mom and Dad).

Honestly, the idea that some freak of nature bunny was doe-dee-doe-ing around my house, dropping eggs, jellybeans and chocolate for the taking was just not all that believable.

After all, he had no special gimmick to impress my socks off. No flying sleigh. No "superhero" way into my chimneyless house. Sheesh, he didn't even need me to lay out some stinkin' carrots the way the bearded man needed those cookies. All in all, that rabbit tail tale just didn't score big points with me though I wasn't about to let on, lest my stash of baskety sugar be discontinued.

And I'm not a fan of those ridiculous egg hunts either. Seriously, those parents kids go crazy. I remember going on an egg hunt when I was little and feeling completely frustrated because I couldn't find them as fast as other kids. Not necessarily great fun if you come out looking like Charlie Brown after he's been trick-or-treating ("I got a rock.") And because my egg hunt experiences were a bust, I swore I would avoid them with my own kids. And for the most part, I have. Well, except for that one year.....

When Olivia was around 2½, I had a brain cloud and decided we should go. She even had a fleece bunny suit so I went all out and dressed her in it. Off we went to the local park for the egg hunt. And hey, just because I had a terrible experience didn't mean she would, right? Okay! So we arrived and there are quite a few parents there. Like, oh say, 300? Uh oh.

They divided the kids into three groups; toddlers, preschoolers, and elementary. I was standing at the edge of the concrete slab that made up the floor of the pavilion we were under (it was sunny and around 65º and Liv was already beet red in her fleece suit). Fortunate person that I am, the guy with the mic told everyone to line up on that very edge. Line up??? We have to line up? Just what kind of egg hunt is this going to be?

My mind began a race of its own, taking inventory like a salesman at a car dealership.
Do we really have to race to get the eggs?
Why is there a need to get on a starting line?
How did I find myself at the front of it?
Why is that dad lunging forward, both hands on his front knee, in the official starting position?
Why is grandma coaching (yes COACHING) little Jimmy to "run fast and hard as soon as you hear the foghorn"?
Foghorn? This hunt needs a foghorn? Dear me, I'm stuck in a bad drea.........

TOOOOOOOOOT!!!!!!!!!!!!

The foghorn sounded and I took off like a bat out of (hey, I didn't pen those lyrics; Meatloaf did). I was throwing "bows" (elbows, that is) like there was no tomorrow. Blue grocery bag over one arm (because a basket might have added drag to our sprint) and "sweat bunny" preschooler in the other.
"There, Liv. Get it. GET it. Geeeeeeet it!"
"Over there. Quick. Dive NOW!!!"
"Run! Grab it. GET. THAT. EGG."

I tell you I lost my stinkin' mind out there. My 2 foot tall bunny was haulin' tail (literally) all through the bushes to get her "fair share." She wasn't comin' out empty handed like me. Ut uh, not my kid.

And then,.....
As quickly as it had begun it was over. And I had behaved miserably. And my kid had cashed in at least 6 "prize tickets" from plastic eggs found during the hunt. And at 2 years old, she had to learn a lesson about grownups behaving badly sharing with others who have less than you, as she handed out some of her prizes to kids who had none. I was completely humiliated. I had bought in to the madness, hook, line and sinker. In a split second decision, I allowed myself to get swept up in a ridiculous race for something quite insignificant. And it left me feeling no better about Easter egg hunts than when I was a kid.

Never again. Sure, we might have a fun little hunt with cousin Colin when visiting my parents. Or just our family here at home. But otherwise I'm done. It's supposed to be about the kids having fun but it just doesn't play out that way (sigh).

Then yesterday we took the kids to have their picture taken with the bunny. It was held in a bubble dome outside at one of the "city" malls that are now being built around the country. The sun was beating down on the clear panels so that the inside temperature was akin to a greenhouse in July. That bunny was not happy. How could we tell? Well for one, he didn't move. I mean, not a hair (pun intended). My Reece was trying to get in tighter for the shot and bunny wouldn't even move his big fake rabbit foot.
"Reece, don't step on the bunny's foot.
Be careful.
Oh (realizing bunny was semi-comatose).
Okay then, I guess you'll have to do your best to step over it."

Another clue came when we forgot to reclaim our baby. Nice. (We were busy looking at the photos on the computer screen; at least you can see we have our priorities in order.) Bunny never flinched. He just sat there and waited like a statue for our return. He wasn't about to do anything that might have raised his body temperature a nano-degree. Yes, I'm certain he was just trying to maintain consciousness in the Swelter Dome. And I imagine he wasn't thinking lovely thoughts of me when I decided that none of the first three shots taken were acceptable. I suppose he might have even wanted to rough me up if he could have gotten away with it.


So, the bunny and I, we have our issues. I'm going to leave it at giving the kids a basket and placing all our emphasis on the Resurrection of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Now, there is a "larger than life" account worth hearing about. As for me and the bunny? Oh,I do fully intend to "enjoy" him, one chocolaty bite at a time (some things never change).

And a race worth running?I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus. Philippeans 3:14

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What makes a "real" mom??? Hmmm.......

Uh oh! I have been "tagged" for the Real Moms meme by the funny and down-to-earth De over at Just Another Day In Paradise.
(meme: a pre-set group of questions or an open ended sentence you answer about yourself on your blog. You may simply leave it at that, or you may "tag" someone else). If you're reading this now, consider yourself tagged.

So, without further ado, here's my answer. Real Moms love outside the box.

We've all heard the expression, "Think outside the box." And some of us have heard the lyrics to that old Wayne Watson song which state in part, God aint gonna stay in that little box I put Him in.

And real moms? They definitely love outside the box. I can't unanimously define what this means for every mom. But I can tell you what it means for me as an adoptive mother of (almost) four children.

For me, it meant submitting to God's plan for our family, even though it was very different than the plan I dreamed about and assumed would unfold. I always wanted (at least) four kids. And I assumed I would get married and "have" them. And now I do have them. Only, I didn't haaaave them. Rather, we adopted them through foster care. As we adoptive moms say, they were born not under my heart but in it. What a privilege it has been.

My journey to parenthood was traveled for many "miles" in painful silence. And it was during that time that God the Father was stirring my heart to love outside the box. To lay down my dreams to catch His vision instead. To grow me by asking me daily, "Am I enough?" before eventually revealing what He had in store for us regarding a family. He desired that we love outside the box. To adopt. And we have been e-n-o-r-m-o-u-s-l-y blessed for doing so.

I want to take this one step further to say that birthmothers who make an adoption plan for their children also know how to love outside the box. They are real moms in every sense of the words.

Jesus said, "Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends." (John 15:13) While he was not referring to birthmothers, I can't help but think about the parallel. Jesus literally laid down his life for his friends in order that they might have eternal life. And birthmothers courageously lay down every aspect of self (needs, dreams, desires, sense of entitlement, wants) in the the best interest of their child. In the hopes of a better life for their child. How huge is that? A birthmother who chooses to make an adoption plan for her child is a VERY. REAL. MOTHER. Yes, it's a fact. Real moms love outside the box.

~~~~~ WORDLESS WEDNESDAYS~~~~~

I really wanted to use the gas pump photo that I posted a few days ago (move down to view). Since it's already posted though, you'll have to tiptoe through my tulips instead. Happy WW! Oh, and I already posted previously for today so I already blew it for being uh, wordless. You know, a blogger trying remain wordless is like a universe trying to remain motionless.

That I might spare her.

Olivia can be the most outrageous-ly funny girl. She knows how to laugh at life and herself and her silliness can definitely be contagious. And then? She can also be a hard head like her mother (it's another family gift). This past Sunday, I came to her rescue. I rescued my spirited girl from her determination to be "right" at any cost. In all honesty though, the visual on this near mishap has kept me ha ha-ing for the better part of three days now. It has also blasted me into my own past and a similar faux paux. I'll start with Liv.

So, her church class had prepared to minister to us through a little performance of reciting memorized bible verses, a skit and a little song. Nice enough, right? Sure, but my Olivia insisted she was to wear "hiking gear."

Now I know her teacher. She's the pastor's wife and she has always been very thorough in advising us parents about such matters. The fact is, the need for a costume was not brought to my attention. No note. No verbal. Nothing. Yes, she has sent notes home in the past about changes in meeting times and so forth. But never has she requested us to dress our children up in any garb other than the standard "sailor suit" the kids already wear each week.

And yet,...Liv insisted.
"Seriously, Mom. I need to look like a hiker."
"But Liv, Mrs. K didn't say so. And your memory verse and skit have nothing at all to do with hiking. Why on earth would you need to wear hiking gear?"
"I don't know, Mom," said Liv as she began to gather hiker stuff in a plastic bag, "but I know I'm allowed to wear it for tonight's performance if I want to and I do want to."

By this time, she had packed a large Australian sun hat and a khaki "Junior zookeeper" shirt in the bag she was holding. She actually tried to wear the items but I got her to pack them instead, "just in case there's some misunderstanding." She confidently assured me there was not.

Trust me. You can't convince Liv she's wrong when she's determined that she's right. I don't want to break her bullheaded streak spirit but I do desire that she learn to lay down that strong will sometimes (it's a crucial necessity in order to take up our cross daily and follow after Jesus after all). Thus, the compromise was that she would bag the items and put them on after arriving at church.

Okay, so she went to her meeting spot and we headed into the sanctuary as service began. Finally, the time for her performance arrived and the kids filed onto the stage in three neat rows.

Not a one in hiking garb.

Not. A. One.

And Liv was spared the discomfort of looking like a tourist lost in the Outback. But I have to say, my warped sense of humor would have had a terrible time containing itself if I had seen her on that stage as the only kid in a hiking costume among dozens of kids in sailor hats and white shirts.

This near miss reminds me of the time that Carl and I were on a cruise and had gone "all out" to dress for a 50's theme night. Gosh, we looked good! I had on cropped jeans, a white button down cotton shirt, a ponytail with scarf tied around it and white pointy sneakers with bobby socks. Carl had his hair greased back, a white men's undershirt with a faux cigarette box rolled up in the sleeve, cuffed jeans and loafers. We walked into the ship's dining room with all the confidence of a sock hop couple blasting out of the past..........
only to..........(prepare to laugh with the rest of the dining room's occupants).......only to discover that everyone else had on paper Viking hats supplied by the cruise line. You see, it was Viking night, not 50's night. And it was too late to walk out. The entire dining room was staring at us and stifling laughs until Dave, one of our assigned table mates, clapped and called out, "The smokes are a nice touch, Carl. Ni....ce!"

Uh, so can you see why I was so determined to spare Olivia the same humiliation?
Someday she'll love me for it. Either that or she'll join the rest of the world in laughing at the fact that Carl and I were so not spared.

If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself
and take up his cross and follow me."
Mark 8:34b

Exploring a bit.

The weather has been nothing short of awesome here in Indiana the past two days. Yesterday it was sunshine and temps nearing 80º (good golly, gotta love it). And today, though overcast until late afternoon, was in the 70's and lightly breezy. Now that's my kind of March weather in the midwest! Jackpot.

Since we've all been spreadin' germs around and back again for the past ten days or so, we decided to "get out and air out", if only for our sanity. Yep, we all got out of the house while the house got a much needed airing out of its own. We packed a light lunch and headed southwest to Cloverdale and Cataract, visiting Cagle's Mill Lake and Leiber state recreation area.


Cataract Falls was quite picturesque (known to be the largest falls "by water volume" in IN; sounds like they were pretty desperate to claim a title for their natural wonder, lol).


And there was a covered bridge just above the falls that the kids enjoyed exploring. No folks, this aint Madison County (or even Brown County, Indiana) but hey, a covered bridge is always a neat encounter, especially as most of us don't cross one on any regular basis. Oh, and we thoroughly enjoyed the fact that the park was empty. No tourists (unless you count us).


Now, the dinky dot of a town called Cataract fascinated me. I'm really intriqued by old abandoned houses, ghost towns, and tiny "not on the map" places.


This town fit the bill. There was one (count it) store in the entire town.


It's an old and authentic General Store that has been in operation since the late 1800's. But, as Charlie Brown would say, "I got a rock." Closed on Mondays, she is. Still, we took a few neat photos before easin' on down the road again.


LOL! See that building peeking out from behind the old barn? That's the Cataract volunteer fire department.


All in all, it was a much needed day of getting out and inhaling fresh air as we all try to get over the bug that invaded our home this past week or so. I do Hope you enjoy the photos of our little jaunt.

OVERHAULIN' (blog makeover contest)

Splat Designs is having a template design contest. Fellow bloggers, check it out HERE.

(Muchas Gracias to the "other" Toni for sharing this information with me.)

Adventures In Bus Riding

"Get on the bus, Gus!" They even make it into the lyrics of a song, "they" being buses.
Carl sites this as one of the great disappointments of his childhood; that he never got to ride the bus to school. Why is it that kids see that big yellow bus as some "must do" rite of passage? And so hubby is left yearning for an experience that never unfolded (sigh). But not I.
I rode the school bus each day and ooooooh what memories.

It started with 1st grade. Bus number 8. Corner of Hollywood and Georgetown. Now the morning driver was nice enough, though I'm pretty sure she was a chain smoker who had long blown out her vocal cords (either that or we're talking a "drag" of a different kind). But really, she was nice enough. Opened the door and let us pass by her without too much intimidation.

But afternoons? Afternoons were a whole 'nother story al-to-ge-ther.
Enter Mr. Gestapo!
He was scare-"E", I tell you. Those were the tallest three steps I've ever had to climb and I had to do it every single day.

Mr. Gestapo had wire rimmed glasses and he peered over them with...with...I really believe it was a glass eye. Or two. And he never smiled, not ever (and if he did, I would have collapsed in fear). He just stared. you. down. as you climbed the steps to Gestapoville and, I kid you not, no one dared draw a single breath as they passed by him. Not a sound. Complete and total silence the moment you ascended the stairs of Mr. Gestapo.

We all sat and rode without words, fearing he would thrash us within inches of our lives if we made so much as a peep. And as if that wasn't enough, he chose the meanest kid on the bus to be his "bus hop", a Felton boy!
My parents can vouge for me on this one. The Feltons were like an entire sibling group of Scut Farkus's (you know, the mean, eagle eyed red head in A Christmas Story).

So okay then, Gestapo's at the wheel (scary) and his little toadie, Felton Sr., was sashaying down the aisles ready to pummel anyone who dared to defy him (as if). Yep, Carl sure missed out on a load of school bus fun. Uh huh. Whatever.

Fast forward to 7th grade and the bus ride home from St. Mary's. I was sitting in a seat when my little brother (who was in 4th grade) chose the empty seat directly in front of me. He had no sooner sat down when.....
Here. he. came.
Out of nowhere.
Augie!

Now, everyone on our bus knew there were just two heathens on board and they just so happened to be brothers. Mean, trouble making brothers named Augie and Wolfie. I am too serious. Augie was a year older than me and Wolfie was younger. And these brothers were always looking for a fight. On this particular day, the target was my poor little brother. Now let me just preface this incident by saying I was not the ever sweet and perfect sister who was adored by her siblings. Uh, NO. That wouldn't be entirely accurate. But I was fiercely loyal. Don't mess with my clan!

Okay, so Augie leaned into the seat, pulled my brother's hat off and BAMM! He slapped him upside the head.

Me: "WHOA! What do you think you're doing? He's in 4th grade, you big sissy."
Augie: "Who you callin' a sissy?"
SLAP!
Augie slapped me upside my head.
I couldn't believe it.

He then turned and whopped my brother again. Taking quick inventory of the situation, I did what any protective (and naive) older sister would do. I shoved him. HARD. He fell back onto the kid behind him. And he was NOT happy (uh oh).

"Nobody puts Augie a corner."

Okay, so he didn't say that because he was too busy snarling at me behind yellow teeth. But he did do something. He dove for me with both hands outstretched toward my neck. He was going to kill me. I was literally about to have the life strangled out of me by the evil Augie if I didn't react and FAST.

So I did. I reacted. I fell back into my seat and put up my dukes boots. And I proceeded to kick the blivens out of Augie's face. He never got a hand on me. He was too busy taking boot prints to his mean ol' mug. And then it was over. Just like that. He was MAD. Humiliated. But he was gone. And his little toadie Wolfie went with him. And no, the bus driver did not break it up. She was like 83 and I doubt she saw or heard one bit of it (no wonder she could take the daily chatter of the school bus).

Now, before you think I'm prone to violence, I'll have you know I do NOT have a rap sheet of any kind. Not even after whoopin' the tar out of Augie. And my Dad bee-lined straight for Augie's house when he heard of the incident. Augie's dad was actually reasonable (and I imagine Augie got another "whoopin" after my Dad left). And the icing on the cake was when Sister St. Luke threw him off the school bus for the remainder of the year. Ah, sweet victory (not that I reveled in it.....much).

There were other bus moments too, like when I spent the Christmas season by myself in Atlanta training for Eastern Airlines when I was just 20 years old. I took the bus system downtown to shop and asked a few older ladies where to hop off to do so. They gave me a big lecture about letting strangers know I was alone in a strange place. Came to find out after a few rounds of "Where are you from? Oh really? I familiar with that area," that I was speaking to my high school accounting teacher's mother. An amazing coincidence, seeing that I attended high school in Ohio.

And "the bus" still writes new chapters in my life today. My cat, Evy, jumps up on Carl's bench press every day to watch our Autistic neighbor boy board his school bus. I'm always thankful that it's not Mr. Gestapo who waits for this little guy with special needs. And while we don't need a school bus to get our kids to homeschool, we do see those familiar yellow buses all through our neighborhood each day and they do serve as a reminder to pray for the safety of all children, wherever their "bus" may take them.

"And pray in the Spirit on all occasions with all kinds of prayers and requests. With this in mind, be alert and always keep on praying for all the saints" (Ephesians 6:18).

The GermFest rages on.

Yesterday was a fiasco. My major cold (M-A-J-O-R) continued. As is usually the case when I have to blow my nose a g'zillion times, I ended up with a migraine headache. They are always on the left side (left base of skull, left temple, left eye). So it was with this migraine. I tried it all; cold packs,heating pad, medication, Vick's Vapo Rub (don't laugh; try it on your next headache). I even tried the balanced diet approach (ie. if you recently ate sweets, you balance with salty, etc.) Okay, so I didn't try a sledgehammer, but I was seriously tempted. Any one of these attempts might have worked in the past. Not yesterday. I began the day with a major headache and it raged on through the night.

Carl took the two oldest to church last night, while I stayed home with Cierah and the baby. Cierah was still congested and mopey, though her fever had come down to almost normal. Carl had no sooner put Reece to bed when, "BLAAAAAAH!" followed by a hysterical cry. Reece had done it too, thrown up in his bed. The bug had claimed another victim. I was down for the count with my migraine, so Carl went in and cleaned Reece and his bed. He no sooner tucked him in and had his linens going in the washer when, "BLAAAAAH!" followed by more hysterical crying. He did it again.

I felt bad for Carl. Yes, he's a "big boy" and he can handle it. But he doesn't usually have to because I choose to when I am not holed up in a dark room with a migraine. Immediately following that clean up, I heard the baby cry for a bottle. Daddy to the rescue again. In fact, Daddy's been rescuing all of us for a good 48 hours now. And he had to do it again this morning, as my migraine raged on and alas, homeschool was open for business. Somewhere in the midst of making cold packs for me, feeding kids, overseeing chores, doing housework, caring for the baby and who knows what else, Carl also donned his teacher's hat, opened my teaching plan and began to tackle the school day. Did I mention that he went to bed at almost 4am?

I'm happy to say that he finally gave me powered aspirin today and that was the "ace" that finally broke my migraine. I'm also happy to say that I was finally able to tuck someone in after 48 hours of complete misery; Carl. He's completely exhausted and sound asleep in Olivia's room right now. At least I know that he knows I'm not home eating bon-bons while he's working hard for our family.

~WORDLESS WEDNESDAY~

OUR HONEYMOON SUITE (many "moons" ago).
For other Wordless Wednesdays, try here.

I will survive!

Joy to the world, what a weekend it has been. For starters, evil booger bugs invaded our home. Olivia got it first. There's no mistaking when she's sick because she'll sit in homeschool with a (more than usual) glossed over look and kind of "toady" along. She's been toadyin' for the past few days. And her nose has been running like all get out. Not a pretty sight, I tell you. It's even less attractive when a shirt sleeve doubles as a Kleenex (even though the Kleenex box is two feet away; grrrr).

And I pretty much looked like Edith Bunker, frantically running around with alcohol and cotton balls, trying to wipe down every surface she touched. But there's only so many rounds of 'this pencil, that door, this light switch, that faucet handle' a mother can wipe before she begins to lose the germ-a-thon. And sadly, I definitely lost (note to self: second place winners are always first place losers).

You see, yesterday my nose began it's own little wellspring of germs, particularly during the night hours (and y'all know how well I sleep anyway, right?) I have never, honestly not ever, had a cold where my nose ran this bad. This bug means business. And there will be no mercy shown to us, I fear. For, Cierah also came down with the Scurvy today. And when Cierah gets sick, look out. She leaves a trail of destruction in her path. Like when we had to abandon her stroller in Laguna Beach one year because she "blew out" in the seat while sick (Liv got sick right in front of the seal rescue's entry door during that same vacation; Precious!) Cierah ruined car seats too. It's just not ever a pretty experience when she's sick. This round is no exception. I woke up feeling oh-so-icky today, only to hear Cierah calling, "MoooOOOom! I frowed up. MoOOOOooom. I frowed uUUuup!"

Alrighty then. Our social workers were flying in today to check on the baby, I had yet to tame my Rosanna Rosanna Danna hair from last night's shower, had a list of morning chores that needed completed before their 9:45 am flight arrival (ie. making muffins in the oven while making sure my kids didn't present as Ragamuffins), and Cierah's bug had kicked into high gear with a 102º temperature and a bed full of yack. NOT PRETTY! NOT my best morning ever. Ah, but in the retro words of Donna Summer, I will survive. Or better yet...........
Philippians 4:13 - "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me."

Baby Got Book

A contemporary spin on a message that was, is and always will be.

Puttin' On The Spritz!

It was date night last night. Now if you're picturing me all gussied up with my hair styled and a spritz of perfume rubbed here-n-there, well just scratch it (the image, that is). You may recall I'm in my 40's with four kids ages 7 to 3 months. "Stylin'" for me means "I'm gonna wash that gray right outa my hair!" And I say, I do love a nice perfume as much as the next woman (Design by Paul Sebastian comes to mind). However, unless Eau De Baby Barf is all the rage, I'm not sure anyone would want to borrow my spritz.
So now that I have adjusted your vision (don't hate me because I'm beautiful), it will come as no surprise to you that our "date night" consisted of a movie rental, some homemade popcorn and a bed to slug out on while watching.
Go'head. Covet if you must. You know a good date when you see one.

Okay, so Carl set off to find us a few movies. He figured Blockbuster was the obvious choice, what with one on every flippin' corner. He called me a short time later and I expected he was going to give me a list of fabulous options to choose from. Um, Blockbuster gave us the option to jump into the 21st century. And that's because we had no idea, no flippin' clue at all that ya can't rent a VHS tape anymore. Gasp! You too? Seriously, we don't own a DVD player and apparently our VHS time warp is the equivalent of those who still had 8-track when cassettes were "high tech" (Ah, sweet memories; Carl had 8-track in his Olds 442 when I met him; we were sooo excited when he added a cassette adapter).

So, Blockbuster was a bust, alright. Carl asked what he should do so I came up with a brilliant idea. I told him to bust a move right on over to our local library. "They'll have VHS there." Off he went and was gone for quite some time. I just knew this was a good sign. I was finally going to get to see Narnia. Oh! Oh! Or maybe One Night With the King. Maybe even End Of The Spear. Things were looking up.

He finally made it home with videos in hand. I was presented with my options; Ray, 1962's To Kill A Mockingbird, or The Out-Of-Towners (that last one held some irony). Okay, not the hot list I had imagined, but not so bad either. We decided on To Kill A Mockingbird as both of us had recently read the book (not having read it in highschool like many others have). Can I just say WOW! We both loved the book and the film. It's a wonderful old classic and I'm amazed that Harper Lee did not continue her literary career after that first huge success (Pulitzer prize winner if you don't know). If you have read the book but not seen the film, I'll have to insist (and you'll get to see Robert Duvall as Boo Radley; perfect actor to portray him). All in all, it was a good date night.

In keeping with our "stuck in the 90's" theme, today we videotaped Olivia's homeschool cheerleading performance using Dino-Cam. "Dino-Cam" is our very large video camera from the 90's that can double as a billy club. We just refuse to step into the modern technological era (and besides, Dino-cam continues to serve us well). We also held out on cell phones, computers, DSL and more. I have no interest in an i-pod and blackberries are only for eatin' in my book.
So there we were, watching our little girl dish out another dose of "I'm growing up" with lots of love in our hearts and Dino-Cam on our shoulders.

You'd expect to see a monster satellite dish in our backyard too, eh? Naw! Though we do still have the manual cable box sitting on top of our television (Gotcha! Just twistin' your knickers).

I had to laugh when we tucked our kids in for bed tonight. Five year old Reece often bangs his head on the pillow while kicking both feet in sync as he sings a little church song he knows. We call this his "banga banga" and it helps him to fall asleep. As I walked by his room tonight, I heard the familiar "bang bang, bang bang" that told me he was on his way to dreamland. But the words were... different. I heard him singing a new song. It was strangely familiar so I pressed closer to his door with a listening ear.
"We've got spirit, yes we do. We've got spirit, how 'bout you?" Little "big man" was cheering himself to sleep after obviously paying attention during his big sissy's two practices and performance this week.
Seriously.
I'm not making this stuff up.
This is life in the "H" home as we "H's" know it.

All in all, It was a day filled with such sweet and fleeting moments. I would have liked to stand there and listen longer too, but there just wasn't time. Because tonight was another hot date night for two 40-something parents of four kids ages 7 and under. And you know what that means. Yep, I needed to "get my spritz on" and gussy it up.

A shelter in a time of storm.

After two incredibly beautiful "banner" days of 75º or more, the weather finally cooled into the 50's and changed to rain tonight. While I would have loved for those high temps to hang around, I do fancy a good storm.

Well, let me first back up and say that this point needs a little clarification. I actually went through a brutal phase of hating rainy weather during my teen years. You see, when fros were in, I had one. When perms were in, I had one. Yes, I had the spiral perm look looooong before it was "all that." So much before in fact, that my good friend Dave said to me back in the 9th grade, "Why do you have straight bangs but curls everywhere else? Nobody wears their hair like that."
Yea, is that so, buster? Well, I'm not "nobody". I'm somebody with lots of body and it's all on top of my head.

Fact is, I have naturally curly hair and while it has relaxed quite a bit with age, it was not something I treasured back then. It's a bit hard to enjoy a good coiffure when you know you're going to look like Rosanna Rosanna Danna within thirty minutes of sprayin'er down (TeeGwee, you know my pain, sister).

And I'm sure you can imagine how poofed up lovely my hair looked after bouncing around with the cheerleading squad for 90 minutes in a humid gym. Attractive? Oh yea.

Okay, so rain has not always been on my list of favorite things. I really do love a good storm though. When we lived in the country, we had a full front porch (oh, how I miss it). There were farm fields as far as the eye could see directly across from and behind us. Our view was completely unobstructed and it was wonderful. When a storm rolled in, we had front row seats for the show. God's mighty power was so evident in the frightening but beautiful streaks of light as they bolted across the blackened sky. And the thunder felt like it literally rolled through the foundations of our home. We saw more rainbows than I think I've seen my in my whole life. Oh sure, the storms were downright scary at times. But mostly it was breathtaking as we safely stood in awe of our Creator under the eaves of the front porch.

You know though, I'm not sure I would be able to see such beauty in a storm if a childhood incident had played out differently. When I was about 5 years old, a storm rolled in as my dad played baseball. As I recall it, the storm came up quite suddenly and everyone, spectators and players, bolted for the nearest spot of safety. There weren't many shelters to choose from, as there was just a small concession stand with an overhang or a further jaunt to the cars in the parking lot.

I remember a sense of mass confusion.
Rain pouring down so hard I couldn't see.
Thunder booming and lightning cracking in the distance.
Everyone running for cover.
I couldn't spot a single family member as I too tried to run.
And my own confusion quickly turned to terror. I became so terrified in fact that I literally stopped in the downpour and began to cry in a wave of panic.

The next thing I knew, someone scooped me high up into the air and I was being carried along in the direction of the concession stand. As I looked down through tears, I discovered I had been hoisted up over the shoulders of my own Dad. My father had rescued me from that moment of terror as he passed by, and a sense of safety immediately came over me. He was bigger than the storm and I instantly knew I was going to be just fine. Had my Dad not been there for me, I have to wonder if I would be able to "see" beauty in the power of a storm as I do today.

And isn't that just the best picture of our Heavenly Father's love for us? When life's "storms" rush over us without warning and leave us feeling confused, unsure or even terrified, we can trust in our Heavenly Father to be with us and to see us through. We can find refuge in Him.

And even when all else seems to fail, we have some incredible words of our Savior to cling to.
"I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world." John 16:33

Be encouraged to run to Him during your storm. Get in the Word and allow Him to speak to your heart. Jot down a verse that comforts you and keep it in your purse or use it as a bookmark in your current read. And know that in the midst of your own personal storm you can cast your cares upon Him because He cares for you (1Peter 5:7).

Psalm 46:1
God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble.

Isaiah 43:1-2
But now, this is what the LORD says — he who created you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel: "Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name; you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze.

Nahum 1:7
The LORD is good, a refuge in times of trouble. He cares for those who trust in him.

WORDLESS WEDNESDAY

Because I don't need any words!
For some other Wordless Wednesday images, click here.

Passing on the deal (with a side of muffins)

I know homeschool moms can appreciate this deal and make great use of the paper for printing worksheets, using for art, etc. I figure anyone who spends time in blogland might also consider it a good deal. Head to Office Depot's website and order their 10 reams of Xerox copy paper (that's 5,000 sheets) for $2.49/ream (that's half off; coupon should automatically be applied via the link for that sale item, but if not, it's 073649244).

Then buy 1 box of paperclips for $2.29 and add this coupon code: 044141777. It will give you an additional $10 off your order and you'll qualify for free shipping. My order total was only $18.22. UPDATE: As I said in my previous post, I'm so out of the loop. Uh, apparently you only need buy a stinkin' 29 cent item (not the $2.29 paperclips) and you'll still get the deal (using the same coupon codes as above). That means you'll get about $60 worth of "stuff" for around 16 bucks. I will too say it. I got hosed! Naw, not really. It's a GREAT deal!

For those who have read some of my previous blog entries I realize this is not the 11 x 14 legal sized. Thus (sadly) you won't be able to use the sheets as liners for your changing table. But hey! A deal's a deal!

Oh, and since this is such a "blah blah boring" business entry, I decide to spice it up, literally (yes, today's entry over at 5 minutes for Mom inspired me). Here is a recipe for pumpkin muffins that someone shared with me from Weight Watchers. Now, don't ask me "How many points?" because I don't have a clue. I do know they're super duper easy and super duper good (I just felt like saying "super duper" so I'm not sure if you'll find the "duper" part to be accurate).

EASY PUMPKIN MUFFINS
1 box spice cake mix
1 regular sized can pumpkin (not pumpkin pie filling).

Mix above ingredients together to make a very thick "batter." Place in greased muffin tin using two spoons and bake according to the muffin baking time on the cake mix box. Mmmmm!
Yield: 15

All in a good night's sleep.

Why is it that 90% of all males have no problem (at all) with zonking out the nanosecond their heads hit the pillow? They've got the gene, I tell you. It's in the code.

And then there's me. Bright eyed, bushy tailed me. Uh, as if. Anyone who knows me will tell you that's a laughable description if you dare catch me in, oh, say, the first 13 hours of my day. In fact, my mom and I actually have this "other" gene, a very special gene reserved for only a select few. It's called the "wake her up too early and she'll barf on you" gene. Idn't that special? Yes, we get sick..to..our..stomachs if we stay up too late and then arise early; like when going on vacation, which pretty much means one, and probably both of us is pasty green and ready to hurl before we even leave the house for the airport. Like I said, special.

So I'm not a morning person. I'm a morning wanna be. And I'm a night owl. Not by choice. I just can't fall asleep because I'm just not tired before midnight. And it's always been that way. Ask my sister and she'll tell you she got to fall asleep each night to her own personal crooner, moi! She's just lucky like that.
I would sing some really great stuff too, like In A Cottage In A Wood, Miss Polly Had A Dolly, and hey, even Bobby Sherman tunes (he's before most of y'all's time but let me just say, when you're 7 and a guy's got a velvet choker on, it's pure love at first sight).


Yea, so I gather my sister must have been covered by that "skip a generation" gene pattern because she can fall asleep with the best of 'em (not that my singing had anything to do with that, uh hem).

So, now we have a baby in the house and it's a bit tricky to merge his feeding schedule with my whacked out sleeping schedule. Uh, I lay down at midnight, fall asleep at, say, 1am and.........wha'sat? Baby's crying and ready to feed at 1:05 (guess I'm just lucky like that). He's making some strides lately but I'm still looking for that golden "all nighter" where he just sleeps straight through; you know,the night that causes many parents near stroke because now their wish came true but what if something's wrong? Jump out of bed. Run to bassinet to check on baby. Only to discover he's still sound asleep. Meanwhile, the residual adrenaline rush cancels the need for morning coffee.

Okay, so now that you know my sleep(less) habits and have an idea of the additional barriers to sleep that have been working on me these past several months, I'll share what lack of sleep does to a person (I knocked myself out cold tripping over the dog when Reece was an infant but that's another story for another day). The other night, I was sleeping (I'm using that word lightly) when it occurred to me that I wasn't in that unachievable R.E.M. phase (I never am. It's pretty hard to get there when one's noting ceiling patterns). Instead, I was in a state of endless coughing. Didn't want to wake the baby by getting up for cough medicine. Knew I'd wake him if I kept hacking up a lung. What to do? (Condoleezza Rice's dilemmas must pale by comparison). Get up, Toni. Get the cough medicine and stop the hack. I stagger into the walk-in closet and locate the Robitussin. Ut oh. No spoon and no little cup-a-ma-jig. Now what? Well gee whiz, people. It's 3am and I just don't give a hoot so I take off the cap do what any classy chick would do. I pour myself a capful, then (and I'm not sure how I managed this) I poured it not in my mouth but down the front of my jammies and directly onto the carpet. Oh, and on two hanging shirts. And some might have gotten in a dusty shoe but I haven't been back to check. For Pete's sake (whoever Pete is)! I now had to turn on lights, find wash cloths and scrub like a deckhand to clean up the cherry colored syrup from the carpet. 3am and I'm polishing synthetic fibers. Say it isn't so (whine added for emphasis).

Clean up done. Back to sleep (the cough miraculously disappeared; I believe the stress killed it). The next sleep "intermission" came when I was dreaming that, of all things, I needed sleep. In my dream I told my oldest child to leave me alone so I could take a short nap. She's a gabber, that one, so even in my dreams I'm cutting deals with her for a few moments of silence. In my dream, I'm sleeping on the couch and suddenly, my daughter is tap, tap, tapping my shoulder.
"I told you to let Mama sleep!" Only, it wasn't my daughter. It was Carl tapping me in my sleep dream while tapping me in real life (like looking at your reflection in a mirror, then another, then another.....'ya ever do that?). Yes, I had just fallen asleep from the coughing drama and now I was wide awake again because my hubby needed pain medicine and asked if I could get it.
Stagger up. Lay back down.

Lemme try this sleep thing..one. more. time. Lay down. Doze. Aw, for cryin' out loud. Now Carl decided he couldn't sleep and was heading downstairs to try to find a comfortable position in his recliner.
Whatever.
C'mon now. It's 3:30(ish) and I'm googly eyed. But hey, I have the whole bed to myself. Ah! This might work.
And it does. I fall asleep after tossing several pillows on my head to run interference from my enemies, light and sound. G'night!

Now, some time later (the birds were singing), I woke up. Not wanting to face the morning (remember, "morning wanna be" only), I forced just one eye to open to see if daylight had arrived. I raise my eyelid to take a look-see and.....
AaaaaAAAhhhhh!!!

I bolted upright gasping for air.

Who's hand is that?

Again, I had pillows over my head, very little sleep to go on, and then there's that "other" gene to contend with.
My heart was beating like a rabbit and I'm pretty sure I stopped breathing altogether.
A hand.
When I had opened my one eye, I had seen an unfamiliar hand hanging right over the edge of my pillow (looking to suffocate or strangle me, no doubt). It all happened so fast. Where was my husband? How did that hand get in here? And who did it belong to?

Who did it belong to?
Shrek.
Uh huh, that Shrek.
My daughter has an enormous stuffed Shrek. Her daddy bought it for her when he lived away from us in Chicago (job relocation). He used to load Shrek up with hugs for her so she could cash one in when she missed him. Apparently she thought her daddy would feel better if he slept with her Shrek for the night. I'm always out of the loop. Didn't know we were having a sleepover with Shrek. Yes sirree, I almost stroked and all because Shrek tried to mug me. All in a good night's sleep.

Word up! (my word, that is)

Hey all, guess what! Janice and Susan over at 5 Minutes For Mom have posted an interview with yours truly.

I appreciate that Janice and Susan have given me an opportunity to present my thoughts about blogging with others. Do check it out and take some time to see what 5 Minutes For Mom has to offer. You'll love it.

Oh, and HP and PAI gals (you know who you are), you should know that Janice and Susan know our hearts. Do keep them in prayer as both gals are expecting (they're twin sisters too; isn't that beautiful).

Okay, now sk'diddle and read up. I insist!
(uh huh, that's me on the cute image below...back in 1983(gulp).

Puh-Klunk

We had a loooong day together. Without getting into personal details, I'll just say we spent eight hours taking care of some necessary business and the kids were exhausted as a result.

Now, my little "big" guy, Reece, does not fare well when he's tired. He is usually the one who makes the rest of us laugh with his silly antics, but skip some Z's and that boy's a whiner. Today he definitely skipped a few Z's. Whine alert!

So we have a bunch of "retro" games in our game arsenol. Operation. Don't Break The Ice. Twister. Ker Plunk. Reece loves marbles and that means he loves Ker Plunk, or as he calls it, "Puh-Klunk."

So we decide to play Puh-Klunk before the kids hole up for the night. Do not, I repeat, do not attempt to play this game when you've had a looooong day as I had. There are about 30 plastic sticks (like wooden skewers) that you have to shove through tiny holes in a criss-cross pattern to set up the game. Those babies were falling out as quick as I shoved them in. It flustered me to no end, especially with 5 year old Reece eagerly dancing over my head, giggling each time one fell out.

"That's funny, Mama. Hahahahaha!"
"Mama has little patience and lots of weapons. Now back off before I consider taking a crack at amateur acupuncture with these things."
Disclaimer: Mama would never say or do this, of course. She was just delirious from all that stickin'.

I finally got the game set up (nothing says "good times" like a 15 minute prep for a whopping 90 seconds of heated competition) and we began.
Pull a stick. Nothing. Pull a stick. Nothing. Pull a stick. Nothing. Continue this drudgery for a good twenty times. I didn't know if I should laugh or be genuinely concerned over their focus and interest in this mindless challenge.

Finally,...kerplunk, kerplunk. A good six or seven marbles fell into Reece's holding tray. I act like I'm pumped up by the action that just occurred.

"Whoa, Nellie. That's a big load you got yourself there, buster." Academy award performance by yours truly. I just knew the kids would be into the game all the more, what with mom's sudden expressed interest.

So, how does Reece respond to my enthusiasm?
Bring out your best wine whine 'cuz here it comes.
"Whaaaaaa!" Tears began falling and he literally fell face first to the floor.
"I'll never win now. NEVER!"
"Honey, it was only the first puh-klunk. You could still win."
"You don't have six marbles in your tray. I do. Dat's waaaay too many to win."
He was cryin' his tired little heart out and I was completely failing to comfort him.

Olivia took her turn and like a stick bandit, she slides one out with nary a ball dropped.
"Whaaaaa! Sissy did-ent get any marbles. Now I know I won't win."
"Aw come on, honey. There are still lots of marbles in the holder. It's too early to know who will win. Let's just play some more."
I take my turn and try with all my effort to drop a load. Two stinkin' marbles.
"Whaaaa!" (I'm beginning to get the giggles at this point, punch drunk mama that I am. So bad mommy turns away until she can compose herself).

It's Reece's turn again. Please, Lord. Please, please, please. Don't let any marbles fall in his........
JACKPOT!!!!! Reece scores another 8 marbles or so, throws his head back, opens his mouth wide and wails at his unwelcome fate. I'm trying to call the game. He cries even more.
"NoooOOOo! I want to play. You said we could play."
So I'm stuck in a wharped moment of playing "Puh-Klunk" with a kid who is dead tired, taking his turns through a blur of crocodile tears, and insisting we play on.
Liv's turn. She (thankfully) gets about nine marbles in her tray. But then,...
Ut oh! It occurred to me there were only 3 marbles left in the holder. What to do? What to do?

Now I know some of you will think me the worst mother ever for what happened next (there's probably a blog award for "worst mother" somewhere in blogosphere and I'm sensing the nominations pouring in). But, I just couldn't stand to see my little "big" man so distraught over his beloved game of Puh-Klunk, which he had asked at least 27 times to play today. It was a split second decision. It was shady. Wimpy. Yes, even dishonest. But before I knew it, my big paw was in the cookie jar, (er, his tray) and I was swiping marbles with the skill of a cat burglar (cat burglar n. A burglar who is especially skilled at stealthy or undetected entry of a premises). Yep, I was undetected alright. Suddenly, Reece had a mere six marbles in his tray. A few more plunked into mine as I removed the last stick and, joy of joys, he "won".

Now, for those who think this was the worst move ever, that I lost a teachable moment, that I corrupted him, set a bad example, yadda yadda yadda. I'm not going to deny that (actually, I'm pleading the fifth on the grounds that I might just incriminate myself). Really,this is so not what I would normally do. I don't throw games.

But something in his tired cry tonight just tugged at my heart. He was exhausted, but soooo wanted to play his beloved game. And he was heartbroken that he couldn't find pleasure in it when he played. My decision may have been many wrong things, but as I see it, it was also a moment of grace. I was lenient in the face of his tired tears. There will be so many future moments to teach him that he can't always have his way or be on the winning team (and we do strive to teach that lesson). But for tonight, he desperately wanted to be Top Dog in the game of kuh-plunk.

Gosh, how many times I have whined to the Lord. Been needy. Wanted desperately to "win" in some way in my own life. And not always, but sometimes, He has allowed me my whiny moment and my "win." Yes, He extends grace when we are not deserving. He has done that for me again and again. And I chose (albeit less purely) to extend a bit of grace to my whining tired boy tonight. He went to bed calm and ready for rest. And he'll need it because tomorrow? I'm reclaiming my Puh-Klunk crown.

2 Peter 3:18 But grow in grace, and in the knowledge of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. To him be glory both now and for ever. Amen.

Spring fever!

Well Halleluia! I'm thanking God for our beautiful weather today. Plenty of sunshine and 54º. As Steve Irwin used to say, it's "gaw-geous!" Now sure, you west coasters might be laughing your loafers off at that "warm" temperature, but for us "snowbirds" (thank you Florida, for that lovely label) a 50 something March day is reason to celebrate. Spring has sprung. I'm declaring it. Today's the day.

Here's a little ditty about spring fever. I want all you perfect weather folks (hello there, San Diego) to know that you are being cheated, chee-TEDD out of the wonder of spring fever. We snow birds usually catch it round about February.

Let's see. Christmas snow is lovely (though in Christmas snow years, I'm only about 4 or 5 years old). January is uh, cold. And long. And dark at 6pm. And boring. And did I mention long? None-the-less, it's a snow bird's duty to just man up and deal with it.

So then there's February. If you live in a 4-season climate and you're not fond of winter (a'la yours truly), then February is pretty much a duplicate downer of January. But,...BUT...by this time spring fever is raging within and you can practically smell March a comin' (in like a beast of a lion, but at least the gentle lamb's cowering behind). And as the fever burns and the musty smell of wet dirt becomes a reality, we tend to get very antsy in the pants for that first big transitional day of Spring. And when it arrives, oh my stars, it's a thing to behold.

The world literally springs back to life (pun intended). Teens get out and shoot hoops. Dog lovers walk their dogs. Joggers abound. Car windows are down and radios are cranked (Mercy Me or Casting Crowns just might be a blarin' from this gal's ride). There is such a sense of new life, it's nearly healing (I've heard some who suffer from depression say it literally is). And it can only be fully experienced (imho) if you've done your time shoveling driveways and managing dual clothing seasons.

Now being homeschoolers, I'm sad to say we didn't actually get to enjoy this day of sunshine. We had to do our work, eat lunch, then head out to swim lessons. But we did witness others enjoying it and we did feel the warmth of the sun on our faces. It's a start.

Oh, and we did see the Canadian geese making silly on the barely frozen pond behind us (waddle, waddle, slip, fall, sink. Waddle, waddle, slip, fall, sink). My 7 year old can' t remember what they're called to save her life.
"MoOOooom! The Canadians are back again."
Yes, she simply refers to them as "the Canadians," silly goose that she is (double intentional pun today; I'm on a roll).

And the ducks have returned as well (from across the road; what a rough migration trip that must have been). They hang out at some farmer's place when it gets too cold and then show up again on warmer days. They're a bit simple, ducks are. They waddle up to our fence out back, then make the short flight over it and land on their bills in our yard. One after another, they crash land, face first. You'd think one would get a clue from another. Nope. Ducks are dim. But they know how to get out and enjoy a spring day, just as any good snow bird does.

OURS???

A little girl of about 5 years old was sitting behind us today as we ate at a local cafe. Kids eat free on Tuesdays, the food is good, the waitress is sweet and it's only five minutes from our kids' swim lessons. No brainer. We head to the Sunshine cafe after swimming is done.

So there we sat, all six of us (well okay, so one was toadying in his carseat for a power nap). While we were eating, we could hear the little girl in the booth behind us.
"Mommy, do some ladies place their babies for adoption? Would you ever do that, Mommy? Don't we know someone who did that, Mommy? Do we know anyone who adopted kids into their family?"

She was genuinely curious about adoption. Carl turned to her and said, "These kids joined our family through adoption." She smiled shyly, whispered something to her mom (perhaps, "Mommy, that man is scary"?), then they turned to admire Brandon and learned a bit more about the special way God formed our family. We enjoyed speaking about it with this other family, who also had four children. As we parted, we agreed that God had richly blessed both our families in accordance with His perfect plan for each. Very positive encounter.

That being said, we aren't too fond of the less tactful questions. For example, a few weeks ago we were eating at McDonalds. The gal who took our order was not a teen, but probably in her late 30's. She admired the baby and asked when I had him. I shared that I did not birth him but rather he was in our care and we hoped to adopt him.

Now, my other three (adopted) children were standing there when this lady suddenly inquired,
"Are any of them yours?"
Ours? How so? As in biologically ours?
Carl and I have fielded unintentionally insensative comments many times in the past. So, how do adoptive parents respond to an innocent question that has been poorly worded and asked in front of the children it addresses?
How else.
We laughed. Not a rude "laugh at you" laugh, but rather a "field another insensative albeit not ill intentioned comment about adoption" laugh.
Which confused her. Naturally.
Which made us giggle just a bit more before responding (so our children could hear it), "They're all adopted and they're all ours."

Can I share something from this adoptive mother's heart with you today? If you have a friend or relative that will be adopting or has adopted, please consider how you will engage in conversation with them. Bless them by using words that honor and acknowledge adoption for the beautiful gift from God that it is.

Choose the following positive adoption language instead of the negative talk that helps perpetuate the myth that adoption is second best. By using positive adoption language, you'll reflect the true nature of adoption, free of innuendo.


Positive language (Negative language is noted in parentheses)
Just say...
Birthparent (Real parent)
Biological parent (Natural parent)
Birth child (Own child) (highlighted for emphasis)
your child (your adopted child, your own child)
Terminating parental rights (Giving up)
Made an adoption plan (Gave away)
chose to parent (chose to keep)
Waiting child (Adoptable child)
Making contact with (Reunion)
Parent (Adoptive parent)
International adoption (Foreign adoption)
Search (Track down parents)
Child placed for adoption (An unwanted child)
Court termination (Child taken away)
Child with special needs (Handicapped child)
Child from abroad (Foreign child)
Was adopted (Is adopted)

If you don't understand any of the above terms and would like some clarification, do feel free to ask me. I would be happy to explain.

I love that Jesus himself was "adopted" by his earthly father, Joseph. And I can barely wrap my mind around the fact that our most precious blessings were a birthmother and birthfather's deepest loss. I've said it before. Beauty from ashes. Peace from pain.

Galatians 3:26 For ye are all the children of God by faith in Christ Jesus.
John 1:12-13 But as many as received him, to them gave he power to become the sons of God, even to them that believe on his name: Which were born, not of blood, nor of the will of the flesh, nor of the will of man, but of God.

Find Your Wings - Mark Harris

I'm going to scrapbook some pages for my children, using the words to this song. Yea, yea, I know. Who has time to listen to someone else's preferred song, right? Don't cop out on me here. I insist. And it's so much better when you use headphones to block out other sensory input as you listen, not that I'm being perfectly pushy about your listening. JUST DO IT! I know you'll love it.

Some days you just gotta wear gotchies on your head.

Now, don't ask me why, because honestly? I have no idea why yesterday's "business" became today's fashion accessory. But that's exactly how I found my five year old when I went in to check on the progress of his morning chores today.

The daily list is simple;

1. Get dressed and put pj's away.


2. Make bed.


3. Brush teeth.


4. Bring laundry basket downstairs.

Why anyone would want to alter the above list to include dirty gotchies on the noggin is way beyond me. But Reece has his own priorities, apparently smelly shorts as his crowning glory being one of them.

Why do any kids do the crazy things they do?
A few for instances;

• Why does a little girl paint her bedroom with red food coloring (hardwood floors and all) just after her mother completed Easter week cleaning?


• Why do the 6th grade gymnasts set the hotel bed on fire?


• Why do two young children think their mother will love their gift of a basket full of garter snakes?


• Why do those same two children find it funny to yell, "Fire!" from upstairs, only to tell their dad (who majorly stubbed his toe on the woodwork while running to alleged fire), "We just wanted to see how fast you could run"?


• Why does a little girl lie on her back and catapult her younger brother through the air for fun, only to break his arm when he lands on it?


• Why do two twelve year old girls go on a "faux" scavenger hunt, asking for an egg at one house and then selling it for a quarter at the next until they have enough money to go for ice cream cones at the local DQ?


• Why does a 5 year old girl scrape all her fried potatoes off her plate onto the floor behind the potato sack so her parents will think she ate them?

The little monster girl in these real life examples was, as you might have guessed, yours truly (wasn't I just darling!) Who knows why I did such crazy things as a kid. Sometimes I was silly. Sometimes I was foolish. But those were my "Tom and Huck" moments, those adventures of childhood that I'll carry with me as precious treasures for the rest of my life.

So my little guy had yesterday's business on his head as he went about some business of his own today. The "why" of it is really not important. I just trust that he too is taking snapshots in his childhood's memory bank and that's a good enough reason for me.

Of course I, on the other hand, preferred to use an actual camera (and yes, I will show his future bride, hee hee). Some days, you just gotta wear your gotchies on your head.

Micowave popcorn (not your Uncle Orville's bag-o-corn)

Store bought microwave popcorn is yet another way that unnecessary toxins are entering our bodies. It's in the oil resistent coating found INSIDE the bags. So not only is the fake butter a known carcinogen (cancer causer), but so is the coating, which is basically teflon (and very toxic) when heated. Don't take my word for it. Check it out for yourself.

So anyhoo, homemade microwave popcorn it is. Here's how;
-plain ol' brown paper lunch bags (no recycled or coated bags)
-a 99 cent bag of popping corn
-seasonings of your choice (melted butter, salt, cajun spices, parmesan cheese, etc.)

Place 1/3 cup kernels in a brown bag (no more or it will pop too full).
Fold over once and staple twice (this will not spark in your microwave, contrary to popular belief; even teabags have a staple in them).
Lie bag on its long side with folded edge up. Gently press out air.
Pop in microwave as you normally would, retrieving when 3-5 seconds between pops is noted.
Open carefully. You now have healthy, air-popped popcorn.
Enjoy "as is" or season and enjoy. It's healthy and frugal.

Note: If your popcorn bag is old, the kernels may not have enough water content in them and will tend to burn in the microwave. Be sure to have a fresh bag of kernels.

People at the party are the real party people!

C'mon in and welcome to The Ultimate Blog Party. I'm just one of many stops you can make along the progressive blog party line. My blogging buddies over at 5 Minutes For Mom would reaaally love it if you stopped by their places as well.

Ever been to a progressive dinner? Similar concept, only you don't even need to leave your pajamas to be part of this scene. Now that's party worthy!

I see some unfamiliar faces in the house so let me introduce myself to all. I'm Toni (Antoinette actually, but that would be the 1040; Toni is my 1040EZ). I worked for about 14 years in the airline industry (oh, the thinks I could think and the blog entries I could write about that career). I also worked as an RN for several years before adopting our first child and deciding to stay home with her. That was over 7 years ago and we now have 3½ children (currently working on our fourth adoption, a smilin' 2 month old who is in our care).
I love small towns and ghost towns, country settings and walks with my family. My life is quite simple and I prefer it that way. Oh, and I'm also half Polish so I'm strong willed and determined.

I'm blogging because the blank page (or screen) calls to me. Seriously. I really think I hear the paper aisles whispering "Toni" when I'm in the business supply store. Can anyone relate? It's always been this way, my need to fill a blank page. Blogging gives me a way to release that need. And I blog from the slant of a 42 year old Christian homeschooling mother of young children and all the "to do's" we experience as the adoptive family God knitted together.

So, grab a pirogi and check out my blog. I'm so glad you're here and I hope you leave with a laugh and the intention of stopping by again sometime. Don't forget to leave a comment so I can visit with you as well. Oops, I smell burning or's dee horvies so I have to run. Mingle!

The cHiLdREn'S Museum

Indianapolis reportedly has the biggest and best Children's Museum in the country. In fact, we buy an annual membership as it pays itself off in just two visits.
Well, today I got to go the Children's Museum. Well, *a* Children's Museum. At least that's what Olivia called it. And oh, what a time we had.

Trained spiders named Sharlette (the handwritten sign said so).
Baby spiders "from Egypt," with their own yarn web.
Dinosaur specimens in plastic viewing cases (a.k.a. my music cassette tape sleeves).
Lizards who hail from Salt Lake City and have their own exercise boxes (wouldn't want any unfit lizards after all).

Yes, I learned alot today. Let me tell you about the poachers. Olivia and her "assistant" (that would be her sidekick younger sister, Cierah) are certified divers. They dive for shells which the dolphins allow them to retrieve without attacking . There are no sharks to fend off because poachers in the Gulf of Mexico got them.
Apparently there is also a problem with French poachers killing off bears. But Liv and her toadie assistant saved one stuffed baby bear during a poacher attack and that bear is now trained (I assume he sat in on the spider's training session).

Pulling out a map and using the Navy flag her Uncle Scot gave her, Liv pointed to the natural habitat of the those Salt Lake City lizards.
"See those gills? They look like gills but those are no gills. Those are egg sacs."
Who knew?!

We then had a question and answer session. Being resourceful, Liv knew how to get information if she didn't know an answer; from her Barbie toy computer, also known as a "laugh top" (this coming from the same girl who says, "My badge" instead of "my bad"). Oh, and that toy computer can also scan snakes (there's about as much need for a snake scanner as there is for a lizard's exercise box, but alas we are in Liv's world at the moment).

The big reveal came at the end of our tour, when Liv told us she had received an email from Steve Irwin. Now she knows he died (sadly; we loved him), but I think it confuses her to still see him on TV. Anyway, apparently the email read, "Marry someone else." Did she fancy a future with Steve? Perhaps. Guess that's neither here nor there since she revealed that she's Jeff Corwin's wife. What with the Australian snake he presented her as a gift, who wouldn't want to marry him?

She said we were at the Children's Museum but I'm thinking we got lost in Mr. Rogers Neighborhood of Make Believe somewhere along the way. And that's okay with me because the real world will be on her doorstep soon enough.