BUNKER-LAND again!

Olivia had to use the word "epidemic" in a sentence as one of her vocabulary words this past week (just before the whole Swine Flu crisis hit the news full force). I reminded her that there was an example provided in a recent bible lesson.

"Liv, do you recall the disease that affected many people? The one where they were required to live outside the city gates and when people were approaching them, they had to yell, 'I'm unclean! I'm unclean!'"

A bewildered look settled on her face for just a moment, then...
"Oh, yes. I remember! Cheetah!"

An even more bewildered look settled on my own face as I again found myself "going there", stepping into the hilarious world of my Bunker girl to see what was spinning that pretty little head of hers. Her Bunkerisms often confuse me but always make me giggle.

"Liv. Liv!
What.
In.
Thee.
World.
Is.
CHEETAH?"

Almost instantly, a big ol' cheesy, "We've been here before in BunkerLand and you know we'll be here again," smile spread across her face as she clarified.
"Sorry, Mom," with a giggle, "I meant Leopard-sy!"

Oy vey!

Toni

Communion a la Reece

Today was Reece's first time participating in communion at church. He was very (VERY!) excited about it. I was very (VERY!) nervous, Reece being Reece. I just never know what he might do.

Or say.

So, I spent this past week coaching him on the proper way to receive communion. Now, I don't mean the "why" of taking communion. We've been over that in scripture together and he understands it as much as I think he possibly can for a boy of 7. No, I'm referring to the "how". And I decided it would probably be a good idea (a really, really good idea) to talk to Reece about HOW to go to communion.

"Honey, you're only going to use two fingers to pinch a piece of the bread. Just your two fingers, NOT your entire hand."
"I can't just grab it and get myself a big piece, right Mom?"
"Absolutely not. Just two fingers to pinch off a little piece of bread."
"How big is little, Mom? The size of a marble?" (Reece loves marbles)
"Yes, marble-sized would be good."
"No, it won't be good because maybe I won't remember how big a marble is. The size of my fingernail? Would that be good, Mom?"
"Okay, yes. Fingernail sized. You've seen our piece of bread when we come back to our seats, Reece. Tiny. Just a tiny piece."

Oy vey, how would it all go? It could go either way, Reece being Reece (which was not a comforting thought).

Now naturally, Carl is working on Sundays at this time so he had no worries at all. No, this one was all mine.
Our turn came.
Up we went.
Breath held.
Reece quickly eyed the bread and then....

BOTH hands on deck! Yes folks, he grabbed the bread with BOTH hands. Not only did he "forget" to only use two fingers to pinch off a piece, but he placed BOTH hands on the bread. Swell. Just swell.

The grape juice.
Please don't dump the grape juice.
After manhandling clumsily getting a piece of bread (three times the size of my piece, mind you), Reece's attention turned to the grape juice. He hesitated just long enough to again make me antsy. And I figured out why he hesitated. He was eyeballing the tiny cups to determine which one had the most in it. Yes. He. Did. Too.

I was stifling a giggle (and willing him not to trip and spill his juice in the middle of the aisle) as we headed back to our seats. But it wasn't over yet.
Reece is never really done. He began.

"Look at my piece, Mom. It's bigger than yours. Hahahahaha!"
"Mom, where do they buy these little cups?"
"Hey," (very concerned tone), "this bread doesn't match my shirt. Oh, but it matches yours. Hahahahaha!"
"I hope it doesn't taste rotten. Hey, it tastes like the bread we eat at Udupe."
"Does God know this is grape juice in this little cup?"

And there you have it. He really does understand the link between trusting in Jesus as his Savior and taking communion. Honest (we wouldn't have allowed him to take this next step if we felt he didn't.) But, well,...you have to know Reece.
This is him all the way.
Imaginative.
Talkative.
Inquisitive (one of his favorite thing to do is to watch the show, "How Stuff Works.")

I do believe I might need to bring Alka Seltzer to his baptism someday,...Reece being Reece.

Toni

Yards vs. (scary) Sales

Today was Carl's day off, so we decided to hit a few garage sales before getting around to some much needed yard work. I don't know about you but in my way of thinking, life is too short. Who the heck needs to spend 8 hours pampering the lawn on their precious days off from work? Isn't that just more work? (Just nod your heads in agreement.) After all, a little splash of dandelions never did kill anyone, and they are every child's "dozen roses" for mama. So, garage sales first. Yard work as an afterthought next.

The first garage sale was a bit of a faux pas (that's fox pox for those who don't speak French). It was in our neighborhood and we saw tons of cars parked all around a house that had the garage door open and indeed was filled with lots of "stuff." Only, where's the sign? There's no sign in the yard. Only a vaccum cleaner by the curb, propped up against a mailbox. Okay, maybe but....

"Honey, let's go up and see."
Carl didn't like that plan one little bit. He thought it was some kind of "inside" sale or "giveaway." (seriously). I was all, "Just what kind of "inside" sale do you suppose they're having? Exactly how does one get an invitation to the pre-launch private sale before they open to the general public?" Carl wasn't amused. And c'mon, giveway? For crying out loud, I saw people hauling couches and mattresses out of the house. There's a better chance it was a break-in than a giveaway.

Anyhoo, we trodded up the drive and sure enough, sale was in full swing. It wasn't meant to start until tomorrow, but there was a garage sale sign posted at the entrance to our neighborhood, not far from this particular house, and all the sale groupies thought they had found their mark. And the garage sale operators (not the homeowners, btw, who are living in CA) were letting everyone stomp through the house to check out the goods, a bit like a tag sale.

Honestly? I just had fun checking out the house because it's bigger than mine (Oh, just stop. I'm not gonna hang my head too low here because all you Home and Garden types know you'd do it too.)

Finishing there, we moved on down the main road and found a sign at the end of a very long driveway. It was a bit intimidating, the thought of committing to a quarter mile drive off the main road just to check out someone's junk stuff. But we ended up taking that as a positive, thinking there just might be some good finds because others would have passed on the scary driveway. How I wish I'd learn to listen to that little voice inside, just as I was taught.

The first thing I noticed was a little shed with "Phyllis' pecans" on it. Yeah, that's because Phyllis is nuts (did I say that out loud?) Phyllis was probably in her late 60's, more like Grandma Phyllis (No offense to any grandma readers here; just setting the stage for what's about to come in this story.) And Phyllis was, well,....she was just kinda scary (think Nanny McPhee).
Why scary?
Well, for one, do you suspect your grandma wore a thong? I thought not.
Granny Phyllis does.
And that's not all.
They're see-through thongs at that.
And she was selling them at her garage sale. Oh sure, you can try to convince me that they weren't hers ("That's not mine, officer. I was just holding it for Granny Rose.") But the thing is, there wasn't a single thing in that sale, not one, that would have belonged to anyone BUT a grandma like Phyllis. Lots and lots of stuff she should have tried to sell back in 1972. You know the kind of sale I'm talking about.

Except for the thongs.

And I might have not thought they were hers. That is, until I discovered her collection of two-piece bathing suits, also circa 1972. I just don't know how to put this gently, but they had to be size 42 X-long (I'll leave you to your own visual on that one.)
Now I can't be sure, but I think I stifled a slight whimper on that note. It wasn't over yet, however. I looked in the corner and there sat Grandpa (a pecan picker back in the day, I assume). He had this, this....look. This strange smile that said he found my discomfort amusing. I so wanted to turn to Carl and say, "Grandma got her freak on! We need to get the heck out of here NOW!," but I believe I only forged a strained, "All done. Ready, honey?" The look on Carl's face told me he too had passed Granny Phyllis' scary collection of sale items, which apparently left him a bit queasy and disoriented. Time to go!

The final sale was almost as scary. Should have turned back when we saw a guy that looked like Waldo (yes, that Waldo) attempting to start a chainsaw in the front yard. Again, it was a long driveway. Again, we failed to heed that warning sign. We got out of our van and a geriatric Cujo began toward us. He was probably part Chow and his upper lip appeared to be slightly curling as he made his way in our direction. I quickly shoved my kids behind me and forbade them to attempt to pet him.

A "bohemian" woman suddenly appeared out of nowhere. She had a ragged handkerchief tied over her head, hippie style, camoflauge pants and a heavily worn army green tank top on. No shoes and some very curly but unkept (a la wild) hair.
"He don't bite. He don't even hear," she yelled.

Swell, so now geriatric Cujo is also deaf. Given that he also had cataracts, I began to feel a bit better about his approach, wondering if he even still had teeth. Could it be any worse?
That's when Tripod, the 3-legged cat, appeared from around the back of the house. Naw, not really, but it wouldn't have surprised me after seeing Chainsaw Waldo in the front yard. We're so outa here!

Four hours of yard work didn't look so bad after all that. And it was a most productive four hours at that; mowing, weed whacking, weeding front yard beds, dropping organic fertilizer in the front and seed in the back, thatching and bagging the front yard, and blowing away stray clippings from the drive and sidewalk. And frankly, after the garage sale adventures we had today, that yard work was more like child's play.

Afterthoughts:
Did I mention that I hit Reece in the leg with the weed whacker? He snuck up on me. If you're thinking, "I've done that before," then you've never seen Reece's legs. He barely hits the height/weight charts (3rd to 5th percentile). And his legs? Well, I'm thinking dandelion stems stand a better chance against the weed whacker. I'm just sayin'.

Oh, and I was clued in to enter a contest over at Pioneer Woman's blog. Admittedly, I am not a regular reader (don't hate me). But okay, I'll jump in on a chance to win a sw-weeet mixer. She was giving away 4. I scrolled down and saw over 400 entries. Well,...okay, about a 1% chance of winning. Not terrible for a giveaway.
I added my entry and...............I was officially something like entry #11,468. After reeling my bug eyes in, I gave a defiant little, "Hmmmf!" and thought, "I'll just run my own contest sometime. I'm sure I can come up with something for the 18 followers of my blog. Granny Phyllis had a few choice items, for example. What size sheer thong do y'all wear? ;)

Toni

ANOTHER NAME WRITTEN...

IN THE LAMB'S BOOK OF LIFE! The lamb's perfect record has now extended itself to include Reece, who, after precious times of talking about who Jesus is and what He has done for all (Romans 3:23, Romans 10:9-11), asked me to pray with him tonight as he asked Jesus into his heart as his Lord and Savior. Praising God for Reece's decision to follow Jesus!

“There is rejoicing in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents!” Luke 15:10

Toni

HE HAS RISEN!

HE HAS RISEN INDEED!

















A Happy and Blessed Easter to all!

Toni

Woe is me (part 1)

TurboTax is my Brad Pitt. I mean, I hold that handsome little product up on a pedestool and pledge my deep devotion. ;) Seriously, I'm a TT fan for life. It all started about 4 years ago when my dad had a heart attack. He had been preparing my taxes for me since,..well,...always. The thing is, I am no financial whiz. And as far as taxes go, I have not clue one. But my Dad, on the other hand, loves numbers. And he really enjoyed doing taxes for anyone in the family who wanted him to. Me want!

So during the tax season of 2005, my dad had his heart attack and was unable to prepare our taxes. Now, for the record, my dad survived (quintuple bypass surgery) and that's all that truly matters in this little "woe is me" tax tale. But one fact still remains.

I'm not good with financial "stuff".

I'm not good with spread sheets, payable and receivable, or red and black either. And of all years to have to learn about taxes, it was the year my dh moved out of state, which of course meant filing in two states (and the following year it involved THREE states; I'm thinking God was proving a point, that He wasn't happy with my indifference to accounting class in the 11th grade? I"m just sayin'...)
Left to our own devices, TurboTax saved the day.
And has ever since.

So this year, we were all excited to have filed and hit the notorious SEND tab. That is, until the next day when the feds rejected our returns. OUCH!

It seems we forgot to change Brandon's name with social security(SS) when we finalized our adoption last year (I know). I called SS to see what we would need to bring in to make the change. I got one of those, you know, "lovely" automated voice systems, which btw, screamed at me. I am so serious when I say that. Apparently, I didn't answer with a prompt yes or no and I ticked the fake person off on the other end because the next thing I knew, "she" was screaming the question in my ear. Seriously, folks, screaming. The volume had been amplified like mega times louder. And I couldn't scream back either because "she" would have taken me back to the beginning of the options menu ("She" had all the power, I tell ya.)

So "she" told me, and I quote, DO NOT BRING IN A BIRTH CERTIFICATE. YOU MUST HAVE AN OFFICIAL COPY OF YOUR ADOPTION DECREE, NOT A NOTARIZED COPY. Okay well, being just a tad bit leary of the screaming automated voice system "she" (who clearly was not very stable), I waited patiently to be screamed at by a real person instead. And while the real person didn't actually raise her voice to me, she did basically call me a moron when she condescended, "Because M'am, you really needed to make that name change. Otherwise, when your son needs a driver's license, he won't be able to get one." Oh, how I wanted to fire back, "Exactly, sister, you got me there. Exposed my devious plot. I don't want my son to get a driver's license. Because then he might actually, what, drive, and we couldn't have that, now could we?"
Anyhoo (sheesh!), she verified that yes, I would only need to bring an official adoption decree to the SS office to get the name changed.
Great!
Dh would go the next day.
"Honey, I'm home. They couldn't do the name change because I didn't bring his birth certificate with me."
Well, excuse me while I scream. So clearly, my calling to check on the necessary documents (and subsequently being yelled at by the automated voice "she" AND being reprimanded by the live "she" for withholding driving privileges from my 2yo) was a complete waste of time. Fact was, we did need Brandon's birth certificate.
Swell, one small problem.
Forgot to name change that document post-adoption as well.

SOOOO.....TAX TIME COMETH AND YOU DON'T HAVE THE BIRTH CERTIFICATE THAT CHANGES THE SS NUMBER THAT PROMPTS THE FEDS TO ACCEPT YOUR TAXES. WHADDA YA DO?

Sure, we could file an extension, but that wouldn't be all complicated and crazy. Kind of like filing the 1040EZ. Why do that when you can sweat and toil over the 1040, right? ;)
Tune in next time when visit...the rest of the story.

Toni

A CLASS ACT

We are a class act, the "H" family. If you've read my blog for any length of time (stand up and be counted, masses), then you know we find ourselves in some, uh, "classy" squeezes.
*Reece checking himself VERY publicly for mud bunnies (here).
*Olivia threatening to throw down with an elderly lady at the post office (here).
*Cierah clinging to me like a 6-toed cat on an angora sweater because she was not about to use a brick glamour twa-lette (here).
*And nothing, absolutely nothing points out the many fine qualities of the H family and our high falutin' class like our stellar Denny's incident (here).
If you know us and know the stories, well then, you know. Class act all the way, baby.

So then, this evening's outing will come as no shock to you reg'lars. Walk with me...
Hubs had a very busy day at the airport and was held for 90 minutes mandatory overtime at the end of his shift (small potatoes as mandatory overtime goes, but just enough to unravel one's last nerve when it's hanging by a frayed thread). Meanwhile, back at the ranch (we don't have a ranch, I just wanted to add that for visual drama), I was being brutalized by four tough little commandos and their brilliant plan to rule the empire.

FREEZE FRAME: Loud crash heard in upstairs bedroom during Liv's math lesson.

Mom rushes upstairs to find a crying Brandon with a rasberry on his chin and buckets-o-tears flowing down his sweet (but not so innocent) little face. The hap? He and Reece decided to make a game out of Brandon jumping on Reece's VERY high bed to try to make slam dunks with Reece's stuffed animals. The hoop? None other than Reece's ceiling fan. Oh, and impish Reece? "I was just the ball return, Mom. I don't know how he got that boo boo." Hmm, seems I recall Richard Pryor once saying that a lamp got broken when his boys ran through the house. On questioning, one son replied, "I don't know how that got broken, Daddy. Why, that lamp was broken before I was even born." ;)

So now that you have a little glimpse into our chaotic day, you'll understand why us grown ups rebelled by refusing to cook dinner. Oh yes I would too do that. I defiantly tossed my kitchen apron in the darkest closet I could find and harshly slammed the door, a firm stand taken against my personal army of pint-sized banschees. Hmmmf! That'll fix their broken wagons! Okay, so I don't really have a kitchen apron. Just roll with me, would ya?

So the waitress at Sals Italian Restaurant takes our order. Our kids have no idea
what they're ordering, but they love to read menus and they think placing an order is aiken to waving a magic wand and POOF, food arrives on a plate in front of them.
Reece: "I'll take the fet-two-chinny with TWO bread sticks. TWO! It comes with two. Not just one. Make sure I get two because it says TWO right here." Naturally, his sisters pipe up and insist that their "feh-two-chinny" comes with two bread sticks as well. THANK GOODNESS for 1st grade readers. I mean, I'm sure the restaurant would have absolutely no idea how many bread sticks to include if not for our little Einsteins and their brilliant and necessary clarification (Toni tries not to fall under the table from embarrassment.)

The waitress brought some complimentary slices of bread to the table. Carl and I enjoy the dipping oils and so we poured some and placed it in the middle of the table for all to share. Reece took a particular liking to it.
"Mom, why are we eating oil?"
"Because it's good with the bread. Do you like it? It looks like you're enjoying it."
"Mmm-hmm. It's good. But it doesn't have any taste."
"Well, there's a slight spicy taste to it."
"No, no taste," then more insistant and sing-songy, "Nothing!"
Perplexed, I continued. "Yes, well,..uh,..then why are you eating it if it tastes like nothing?"
"Right. That's what I asked you in the first place."
(Toni is now baffled into silence, but Reece is NEVER silent)
"If it doesn't taste like anything, I can't say I don't like the taste because it doesn't HAVE any taste. So, I like it."
(Help me, Lord)

The service at SAL'S was uncomfortably slow, so Reece worked toward his inevidible requisite pit stop.
"I have to go to the bathroom."
We reminded him of all the things Reece needs constant reminders for, like walking and not running, speaking in a whisper and not screaming, flushing once and not making a game out of flushing again and again (When he was potty training, his dad taught him to yell, "Fire in the hole!", which Reece would bellow again and again as he flushed...we've got class written all over us.) As he left the table, he became intrigued by the fact that there was more than one passageway out of our area of the restaurant to the side that housed the bathrooms.

"Watch, Mom. I'm gonna wait 'till I get back there to cut over to the bathroom." He walked to the back of the room, turned and flashed a huge red-headed grin, then disappeared through the doorway to the other side.
"BACK AGAIN!", he yelled almost instantly, forgetting his inside voice and scaring the b'jeebies out of me, my feathers all ruffled and my heart a racing.
"Shhhh!" I shot back, insistently pointing back toward the bathrooms.
Again, he disappeared through the doorway.
I waited a few moments.
He didn't reappear.
Satisfied that he was really gone this time, I turned back around in my seat to chat with Hubs.

Suddenly from behind me, "PSSSSSSSST!"

For Pete's sake, what now??? I turned around to see Reece, both arms stretched out, palms facing forward, as he whispered loud as anyone could ever whisper,
"I
HAVE
TO
POOP!"

Now would be a good time to point out that linen table cloths double nicely as full body cover. I nearly pulled ours out from under the overlaid glass, I tell you.

On impulse, I loudly whispered back.
"REECE!
DO NOT ANNOUNCE YOUR BUSINESS.
JUST GET IN THERE AND TAKE CARE OF IT."

He loudly reciprocated. WHISPERING, of course.
"I CAN'T.
SOMEBODY ELSE WAS IN THERE FIRST AND IT'S GOING TO FLOOD IF I FLUSH IT."
(Ewwwwww!!!!!!)

Folks, howz that for class? Didn't help one bit that Reece is in major need of a haircut, put clothes on this morning that were three sizes too big, and basically looked like an extra from a Little Orphan Annie stage production. Proud mama here, all aglow (red-faced embarrassment will do that). Clampetts!

Truth is, I genuinely treasure our quirky, challenging, never-a-dull-moment family that God knitted together.
It's NOT perfect.
It's NOT smooth sailing all the time (or even most of the time).
And it's NOT easy to meet all needs, all the time, all that well.
But it is the family God called me to.
And no matter what happens within the dynamics of us on any given day, I am absolutely certain that His plan is at work in all our lives, individually AND collectively.
Glass half full, it's a beautiful vantage point, there for the taking.
It's God's telescope. Grab a view.

And we know that God causes all things to work together for good to those who love God, to those who are called according to His purpose. Romans 8:28 NAS

Toni