I Want to See Santaaaa!!!

I'm a klutz, I guess. The lady at the jewelers told me that twice in almost five years is "less likely a bizarre coincidence, than it is your using that hand to do more"...or something like that. Basically, she was telling me in a nice way that bending the titanium prongs on my wedding ring is not a defect in their jewelry. It's because I'm klutzy and hard on my rings. So...having noticed one of my prongs "off", I had to relinquish my jewels for repair. My hand felt unbelievably awkward without my rings for the two weeks they were away. But it was worth the wait knowing they'd be renewed to their former glory.

After what seemed like forever, I finally got the call saying the repairs had been made, and that I could come and pick up my rings. I loaded up the girls and made a special trip into town (have y'all gotten the idea yet that I don't get out unless I have to?!). I only had Emma with me the day I dropped them off, so getting through the mall with both girls would prove a slightly greater challenge. With it about the be the weekend, and the season of Christmas shopping, it was a less that ideal time to brave the mall, but we parked, and made our way to the entrance.

Looking ahead to the doors we were to go through, I noticed a familiar couple not too far ahead of us. The man was wearing a bright red suit, with a great black belt and buckle, and sported a full white beard. His wife wore a red velvet floor length dress, trimmed with white fur. Yes, indeed, it was St. Nick and his red-cheeked bride, Mrs. Claus! I motioned to Olivia, and said: "Olivia, look who's here!". I wish I could have captured the look on her face when she saw them. She gripped my hand a bit tighter, and moved from walking slowly behind me, to nearly dragging me behind. We haven't talked about Santa all that much, but from the Christmas shows and books she's seen and heard, she was desperate to meet the big man.

Once inside the mall, we were able to catch up with Santa. Even in my estimation, he looked pretty genuine. I told Olivia she could go say hi, and she was nearly speechless when he turned to her, said hello, and commented on her pretty Christmas tree shirt. After that, he and Mrs. Claus turned to go downstairs. I guess their smoke break was up, and it was time to go back to taking pictures with the kiddies.

We headed for the jewelery store, but Olivia kept her eyes on Santa Claus as long as she possibly could. When she could no longer see him, she began asking me if we could go find him. I said we could, but only after we stopped to pick up my rings. While in line at the jewelers, she continued to ask about finding Santa. He truly was all she could think about. Her desire to find him again was only usurped by the eminent need she had to use the bathroom. Evidently the excitement of seeing St. Nick stirred more than her joy.

Once back from an emergency trip to the bathroom, we walked along the upper floor, and spotted a wintry wonderland down below. Walking closer, we saw him in all his glory, sitting on a throne of lies, surrounded by poinsettias, and totally fake snow. Kids and their parents with credit cards in hand were lined up 20 deep to get pictures with Santa. We stood, admiring Santa and his wonderland for a bit longer, before it was time to go. I genuinely appreciated her wonderment. She'd never seen a Santa before, nor ever been to a mall. Everything was enormous, new, and contained everything fun and beautiful. I let her soak it in and admired her excitement.

Appreciating her wonderment, but now desperately needing to return for naps, I informed my minions that it was time to go home. Those words seemed to be a death sentence on the Christmas spirit, and with them marked the moment Olivia's legs gave out. All of a sudden she was unable to walk, or speak rationally. All she could do was cry out: "I waaaaaaant to seeeee Saaaaaaaanta!!!". I quickly realized what great acoustics the mall possesses, and began making a dash for the door.

Unable to both carry Emma and drag Olivia, I pulled a: "I'm really sorry that we have to go home now, but I can't carry you. If you want to go with me, then you need to walk."

**crickets**

I took a few steps, pretending to walk away from her, which suddenly gave her the strength to rise up off the floor, and run screaming, to grab my hand. I tried to distract her, because a few steps later we were out the door. When she heard the doors close, that's when it got real. She knew we weren't going back in, so the drama increased ten-fold. She lost the use of her legs again, flopped down onto the concrete walkway, and kept crying to go back and see Santa. Loudly.

I moved her over to sit on a stone bench, and decided it would be a good time to do a little filming. Let me tell you, I've got some gems. Filming enabled me to not get too concerned that it was my child disturbing the peace, and focus on capturing some great family memories. A few passers-by pursed their lips at the scene she was making, while other, more generous ones nodded and smiled in my direction, as if to say "I've been there."

After so long, I decided it was time to pack up the party, and finally get home. My poor, extremely tired, star-struck, and disappointed girl, ended up requiring help to the car. I made quite the pack-mule with Emma in the carrier, purse over my left shoulder, and Olivia held to my right. She cried for a while in the car. That is until I began watching the blackmail video(s) of her, at which point she dried her tears and wanted to watch, too. Uhh-huh.

That was last week, and as I've retold this story to a few friends and family, something has slowly been eating away at me with each telling. Olivia's response to seeing Santa was precious, as was her desire to be near him. In between dramatic pleas, I asked what she wanted to do if we went back in to see Santa, and she responded: "I just want to seeeee him! He wants us to stay!".

I absolutely can't blame her for acting like that. She's heard stories about Santa, and seen pictures, but there he was in the flesh. Living, breathing...the very man himself. Even as the magic and excitement of birthdays and holidays has waned with my adulthood and increased responsibilities, I still remember being a kid, and having that intense sense of wonderment. It's a precious thing that I want to foster in my kids for as long as I can.

So, what's my problem you ask? Simply put, during this season of celebrating Christ's birth, as I see my child with the utmost longing to be near Santa, I must ask myself: "Am I as zealous to spend as much time with Jesus?". I have to confess to getting "busy". Sure, I've got kiddos that keep my hands pretty full, a home to maintain, and some animals that require tending, but that's no excuse. During this season of Advent, am I truly counting down the days to His birth with anticipation? Am I intentional with my time so I can be still and listen to Him? And I anxious just to be near Him? And when life presses in and time is running short, will I kick and scream my way to His throne just for a little more time?

These are only hard questions if the answer is no.

While I feel myself falling short of where I want to be, at the same time, I feel His grace drawing me in. Telling me He's still on His throne of truth, waiting for me to sit at His feet; just to spend time with Him. He's not absent during smoke breaks, or limited to working hours. He's available, and wants me and you to be available, too. To be present.

While Olivia's story with Santa is amusing, I hope that you'll let it remind you, as it has me, of our greater need to long for, and desperately seek out time with our Lord. Not to simply be satisfied with warm fuzzy thoughts about him, but to enter into His presence, through time in the word, and in worship. And yes, if we must, even do a little kicking and screaming for more time just to be near Him.

My Trip to the ER

On our way home from Thanksgiving with my family, I muttered the following to Andrew:

"I feel sorry for my blog. It's like life hasn't been eventful enough to blog about. Or maybe I'm just too tired to think anything is funny anymore."

Andrew gave me a look, as if to say "For real?". He then gently pointed out that not 15 minutes prior to my somber musing, our eldest daughter has taken the liberty of using her new gift of princess pink chap-stick to paint her lips. And cheeks, knees, and car seat. As well as smear gobs of the stuff all across her window. Never mind the fact that Andrew had just detailed the truck before our trip, and that it now smelled like flowery pink wax. Nope, that minor event was just a quickly passing blip in my mind. I don't know what I was thinking, but my friends, I'm here to tell you to be careful of what you ask for.

For a little back-story, I'll fill you in that I had a cold the week heading into Thanksgiving. Genius that I am, at the tail end of my cold, I grew really tired of my sniffles, and took some herbal stuff to dry that sucker up. It did. Most effectively. So, once the holiday and festivities were over, I thought my cold was, too.

But it was not.

Upon our return home, I started feeling a little funny. There was a strange pressure in my sinuses. "No big deal.", I thought. That's normal after having a cold, right? It however was not normal. Very muchly not normal.

As it turns out, my fabulous idea of drying up that cold backfired on me. The herbs dried it up, but the cold stayed in my sinuses, and became the perfect breeding ground for a raging sinus infection. I say raging, because my right sinus was so badly infected that it agitated the roots of my teeth. I couldn't eat. I couldn't sleep. Even thinking straight was nearly out as a possibility. All that Sunday night I could feel my heartbeat pounding away in my teeth. It was like hearing the drumbeat to my own execution. Being awake all night long gave me ample time to rethink my life, question how I'm doing as a wife and mother, as well as mourn the things I should have been doing...since surely, this horrible infection would be the end of me. At least that's how it felt.

When normal business hours arrived Monday morning, the girls and I were found in town checking in with a doctor. I was pretty straight with the lady and told her I was ready for some antibiotics to roundhouse kick the infection in the butt. So, maybe I didn't say it exactly like that, but her checkup confirmed that I did indeed have a sinus infection, and it would require antibiotics. I usually avoid such things like the plague, but as it felt like I had a plague, I was ready to take anything if it meant feeling better.

Once my prescription was fulfilled, I quickly loaded the girls into their car seats, locked us in, and dove into that goody bag of meds. I took what she'd prescribed, and pointed the car home. Being in "town" with all the big chain stores usually means a big errand day when I make the effort to leave our small town. However, as my face was surely seconds away from exploding, I released myself from the guilt of not making the most of the trip, and made peace with simply getting our carcasses home.

Monday night came and was a close mirror of the previous one. The drum beat was throbbing away in my teeth, which around 1am had me on Google, finding reassurance that antibiotics can take up to 24 hours to kick in. So it said. Deceitful beast.

On very little sleep, I awoke Tuesday morning feeling very much...not myself. This time it was more than my teeth or the excruciating sinus pressure. My face. Something about my face wasn't right. I sat up and realized that I couldn't feel part of it. I went into the bathroom and beheld a horrible sight.

If you've ever seen the movie "Fun with Dick and Jane", then you have a perfect idea of what I looked like. In the movie, Jane participates in a botox trial to earn a few bucks while they're desperate for cash during Dick's indictment. At the completion of the trial, the doctor is reading the results, noting that only two people had serious reactions to the trial. As you can only imagine, Jane was one of the lucky winners, leaving her with an enormously swollen face, and distorted lips. THAT my friends, was the face before me on Tuesday morning. Even Andrew was impressed with the enormity of my lips, calling me his "Botox Princess". Very funny. And while I'm at it, I shouldn't say lip...because it was only the top right portion of my face that was swollen. Lovely.

Once again, as soon as business hours were upon us, I was on the phone with the doctor, attempting to figure out what to do. She told me I'd need an x-ray or CT scan, which unfortunately are only available at the hospital. Still in desperate pain, now wearing a distorted face, unable to put my teeth together or close my lips, I talked it over with Andrew and decided to turn myself into the ER. It seemed so stupid going to the hospital, but in the event that more drastic measures need be taken, that was the best place to be. Andrew rearranged his schedule so he could stay with the girls and work from home. He had to get a few things from the office, so I had half and hour to get ready before I could go to the hospital. I showered, but after that, there was only so much I could do to improve on "Botox Princess".

I pulled up to the ER equipped with my kleenex, essential oil hand sanitizers, and bag of prescribed meds and began my journey to the sliding glass doors. A male nurse was outside on his phone, and watched me approach; likely assessing what triage category I fell into. I felt like Quasimodo as I attempted to smile and look normal as I passed him, but my swollen lips wouldn't comply, and it likely looked more like a snarl.

The lady at check-in was kind and prompt, and I was soon sitting in the waiting room. I hadn't been waiting long before a nurse came through a large door with a wheelchair. I saw her speak to the lady at the desk, and noticed them looking at me. I busied myself with my phone, but couldn't avoid the fact that the chair was for ME after she called my name "Geena?". I walked over, ignoring the chair, and we chatted about the events that led me there. She said she'd take me back, and though I asked if it was REALLY necessary, she told me just to sit down and relax.

Being wheeled around was a strange experience and not in the least bit relaxing. Not just because I didn't NEED to be in one, but mainly because of the loss of control over the situation that I felt slip away. In a group text amongst my family, my Aunt put it best: "You are no longer human. When you are in the ER, you might as well be a one-hundred-something pound Petri dish." She further commented that: "Something about that place makes you feel like you are going to live out the rest of your days under the fluorescent lights, never to see the sun again."

Her humor was timely, because I was wheeled into a room dingily lit with fluorescent lights, and instructed to strip from my comfortable clothing and put on a ghastly, thin, and highly starched hospital gown. I hesitated, but obeyed. A few nurses were in and out of that room...I wasn't entirely sure who was caring for me, but I told my story about half a dozen times before the doctor came in. He told me I was likely having an allergic reaction to my medication, and that he'd be prescribing me some new stuff. Oh, and I'd also receive a shot in the butt before I left. He asked if I had any questions, and was soon on his way. The end.

No X-rays?! No CT scan?! I was relieved, but was also wondering why the heck I'd gone to the hospital. They say hindsight is 20-20, so for the information I had at the time, that was the place I needed to be. Even still, I felt like it was all a bunch of overkill. I was ready to protest when a random nurse walked in and asked if she should start my iv, but another nurse interjected that it was unnecessary as I was nearly on my way out. Thank goodness. The walls were starting to close in, and I was ready to get my new prescription!

Since I was reacting to my original medication, the Doctor ordered a steroid shot before I left, to help take the swelling down. I'd heard rumors about where steroid shots go, and a quick inquiry from the experiences within my family group text confirmed that I should prepare my tushy to be a receiver. I'm not a fan of shots, but have come a looooooooooooong way from the days of passing out. I think childbirth has had something to do with this.

Anyway, the nurse came in with a very large needle, and I made like it was no big deal, and took it like the strong farm woman I want to be. There was indeed a burning sensation down my leg from the shot, so once that was done, I changed out of the gown, gathered my belongings, and began limping for the door. I was free.

After quick stop at the pharmacy for my new, non-allergic reaction inducing meds, and then I was home. My hero-husband and peanut gallery received me, I smiled my puffy smile at them, relieved that all would soon be well again...and then I slept. For three hours.

And that's the tale of how blog fodder is created from rogue colds that turn into raging sinus infections. And explains why my brain is still a bit foggy after such an eventful week. Next time I'm feeling hard up for blog material, I'll be sure to keep it to myself.

Wintery Update

It's safe to say that winter has arrived. Last week, it was 80ish on Monday, and in the 40's by Tuesday. I knew the cold was coming, and was able to harvest the last of our lettuce and a few bunches of arugula. Not that we're eating arugula anymore. I did it purely out of principle. The beets suffered a worse fate as I forgot about them until AFTER the frost, and were only recovered the next wintery morning. Yes, I panicked upon remembering them, and was out there in my crocs with socks, pajamas and fleece robe...yanking up frozen beets. I console myself with the fact that our beets didn't do so well anyway due to the heat. Despite this, I was able to pull up enough good sized ones for roasting with supper sometime this week. Yum!

Last week, on the last gorgeous, warm day, I determined that the girls and I would spend as much time outside as possible. I imagined our vitamin D stores packing away the goodness to get us through the winter ahead. Or something like that. So, from the picnic bench where I was watching the girls play, I heard a horrible sound. It was the sounds of a chicken in sheer panic. It turned out to be Sassafras alerting her (now large) babies to danger. I looked up just in time to see a huge hawk swoop down from the sky and attempt snatching up a yellow chickie snack. I jumped up, ran toward the hawk, hollering and waving my arms in attempt to save the chickies. It took off as I approached, but I knew it'd done some damage when I heard the chick crying. Once Sass and her babies were personally escorted back to the safety of the coop, I was able to inspect the chick. The hawk had talloned (is that a word?) it's back, and it's tush. The poor thing was in total shock from the attack and just stood there looking stunned while I checked it out. My Mom has had hawk trouble before, so I immediately called her for advice. Imagine my surprise when she couldn't initially come to the phone because her own chickens had just been attacked! I'd say the hawks knew the weather was about to become cold and were needing to find quick meals!

I returned to the coop with a few essentials: hydrogen peroxide, and warmed coconut oil. And gloves. I've learned that I can do just about anything when wearing gloves. The chick tolerated my spraying it with H2O2, followed by covering the wounds with the ever-amazing coconut oil (I was going to use the word "healing" to describe coconut oil, but don't want my hand slapped by the FDA), and set it in a warm box lined with shavings. When the cold weather came, I realized that I didn't have (or want to make) time to hold vigil as chicken doctor; keeping it warm at all times, making sure it ate and drank enough, etc. So, after it's initial treatment, it was going to be a sink or swim situation. A week later, I am happy to report that the chick is doing well and has healed nicely. The attack came about when Sassafras was ready to let her babies "fledge", but since this one was injured, she kept it warm under her wing during the cold nights. What a good Mama!

With the change of weather, I'm a bit relieved to be done with the garden. No more guilt over encroaching weeds, or not tending everything like I wish I could. So, the garden is done, and now we've entered the season of....wood hauling. Last year Andrew tried heating the house with our fireplace and blower. I thought he was crazy, but then I was bit by the bug, too. There's something incredibly satisfying about turning the thermostat off, and heating our living areas with pure, organic heat. Organic heat...it has such a nice ring to it.

The first couple of really cold days were exciting. My thoughtful hubby would start a fire before leaving for work, and I'd feed/tend it throughout the day, keeping us nice and toasty. The honeymoon ended a few days into it, when I noticed my hands looking quite aged. And then I felt my face. Desert-like, scary dry, zapped of all moisture. It was time to take action...lest I look like a 70 year old woman by the time spring finally arrives! I have brought out our humidifier, and slathered on more lotion in a week than I've used this year, and am determined not to let the dry heat suck the youth out of me. I shall prevail!

Murphy's Law for Moms #147

Murphy's Law for Moms:

The very moment you take a business call, your three year old is done in the sandbox and begins screaming for a snack. She needed a nap, but kept boomeranging out of her room, so you gave up trying, decided to wear her out and put her to bed early. But now she's being completely irrational, and you're on the phone with a perfect stranger. Not wanting to make it sound like you're torturing small animals in the background, you run from the screaming child. She, of course, follows. You flee inside and she chases you in...still screaming. You give her the: "Stop it right now, or I'm going to sell you off to a band of Gypsys!" glare...and she keeps hooping and hollering. She certainly knows this behavior is NOT acceptable, but you can't deal with it on the phone. Before you know it, you've locked yourself in the office closet in order to try and hear the person on the other line. You recompose yourself, attempting to sound like a sane human being, when really, you've just been running for your life away from an angry hobbit. From the closet, the demands for a "snack bar" are now decently muffled, and quiet enough that you can comprehend the person on the phone, and are able to finish your call.

Phew.

Possible hashtags:
#nosnackbarforyou
#timingiseverything
#timetocleanthatcloset

My Morning Out

There are some stories that I simply couldn't make up, even if I tried. The following is one of them.

Today was my big break. It's been a long past few weeks as Andrew has been tied up with work. Late nights mean Mama does all day, dinner and bedtime routine with the munchkins solo. I'm probably just a big wuss, but after so many "just Mom" days and nights and middle of the nights with the hobbits, I'm worn out. Today, being a Saturday, meant that Andrew was home. A friend was having a welcome-the-baby shower in town, and I while I had planned to take Emma with me, Andrew offered to keep both girls and let me have some alone time. Oh joy!

I got up earlier than usual, put on makeup, a new dress, and new-to-me shoes. Sans diaper bag, I was absolutely shocked at how light my purse felt with just my phone, wallet, keys and lipstick. I left the house feeling rather pretty, clean, and free.

The shower was held at a trendy coffee shop near downtown. Hipsters were all over the place. I definitely do not classify as anywhere near trendy, so it felt nice to be dressed up. The time with friends was lovely. I got to hold the darling little one. He still had the newborn smell about him, so I drank that in with my coffee. It was a fun time to celebrate the new fella and his Mama.

Once the shower was over, I stopped by the bathroom to pee freshen up. Exiting the building, I felt something brush my left leg. Looking down, I discovered a long string of toilet paper trailing from the bottom of my right shoe. I felt the gaze of a few especiallly-trendy hipsters, and not knowing what else to do, I reached down, grabbed the t.p. from my shoe, walked back into the bathroom and threw it away. I managed not to make eye contact with anyone as I walked to my car.

Checking the clock to see there was still time before needing to return to my nursling, I decided to stop by the Anthropologie store. I LOVE their stuff and have long been wanting to buy one of their beautiful coffee mugs. I hadn't been in a couple of years, so thought some time browsing around alone would be relaxing. I entered nearly beside myself at the idea of taking my time to look at pretty things, assured that the words "NO! DON'T TOUCH THAT!", or, "Put that down!" would not be exiting my mouth.

My joy however was short-lived, as just a few steps into the store, the top left strap of my right shoe gave way. I nearly fumbled, but maintained composure as I realized what had happened. Nevertheless determined to enjoy my precious alone time, I tried to continue walking. To my horror, the rest of the shoe was so loose that I was unable to walk without it coming off entirely. Being the quick thinking, smooth person that I am whatever, I casually dragged myself to the coffee mug section in the back, and hid behind a display. I was confident that I hadn't made too much of a scene. I tried to look at mugs and choose from all the pretty designs, but after a quick and vain attempt to fix my shoe, I felt utterly defeated. Shuffling around the store just wasn't going to work. To remove the broken wedge shoe would mean hobbling around, nor did I want to go completely hippie and walk barefoot. I wanted a mug dearly, but pictured dragging up to the counter to buy one like some kind of zombie, and simply couldn't bring myself to do it. My fingers brushed the red with paisleys, and yellow with polka dotted mugs, and I turned to make the long, treacherous journey back to the front of the store.

I refused to make eye contact with anyone as I slowly made my way to the front door, pausing behind clothing racks to re-grip the shoe with my toes. I made it up front, and waited on a few ladies to go ahead of me before gimping along behind them. Once I made it out the door, the last affixed shoe strap came loose, too. There was no playing it cool now. I paused, grabbed my completely broken right shoe, and hobbled along the sidewalk. A lady in a Lexus stopped for me to pass in front of her on my way through the parking lot. She saw me holding my broken shoe, and offered a compassionate smile.

Once in my car, I threw my shoe(s) to the passenger floor. And began to laugh. And cry. Hard. My big chance to have some alone time, and look at pretty things all by myself...completely ruined. By a stupid shoe! How often does thing kind of thing happen anyway?!!

I had planned to stop by for a few groceries on my way home, but now that wasn't going to happen either. With free time still on the nursing clock, but no shoes for my feet, I pointed my car toward the freeway. As I laughed and prayed and wept my way back home, I looked around for a tissue to wipe up the mascara running down my face. I had just cleaned the car last week, so the only thing I had to sop up my tears was a dirty baby sock. So pathetic.

Andrew came to my aid when we saw me pulling in our driveway with a sad face. I told him the story, still sitting in the driver's seat, this time laughing and crying all the harder over how silly it was. He is a good and sympathetic listener, and laughed with me. Other than lessons in vanity and pride, I'm searching for what the Lord wants me to learn from this. As if lessons on vanity and pride aren't more than enough. I have much to learn.
And that is my story.

P.S. My tears are mostly dried, so now is a really good time to laugh with me.

P.P.S. I promptly threw those fancy, but broken shoes away and am contemplating donning my crocs for the rest of my life the day.

Sitting Still

I've never been very good at sitting still. There have always been things to do, and multi-tasking is in my blood. Just ask my Mom or Grandma. That is if you're able to interrupt their crafting of beautiful quilts, gardening ventures, bargain hunting, or tasty food preparations. They are do-ers, and I've come to terms with being one, too.

As mentioned in my previous post, this summer has been a busy one. We've kept the kids fed, the grass short, and completed quite a few big-ish projects. All of the "doing" was satisfying to my soul. The noticeable transformations have been such a delight to wake up to. I can't help but believe that as we've been made in the image of our Creator, Who makes all things new, that it's natural for us to delight in creating, and restoring things, ourselves.

While the doing-ness of the summer kept my hands happily occupied, my mind was being fed by another, long neglected source of pleasure.
Reading.
It had been too long.
Way too long.

I didn't think I had the time. Motherhood is truly a 24/7 job, far more taxing as well as fulfilling than I ever imagined. Unable to remember the last time I had a full night's sleep, I surely didn't think I had the mental capacity to digest a book. But as I have said before, and continually remind myself: If something really matters to me, then I'll make it happen. Triathletes don't just wake up one morning ready to run, swim and bike themselves to the finish line without previous training. Anything worth having requires some due diligence before one can arrive at their preferred destination. For me, renewing the long lost love of reading would require my sitting still. Not multi-tasking. Augh.

With a bit of discipline and the right books, I'm happy to say that the summer also included my re-introduction to the simple pleasure of reading. I haven't read anything as hefty as War and Peace, but so far a couple of new-to-me authors with thought provoking, and encouraging works have been excellent re-training wheels. I've found myself eager to find moments when I can sit down to snag a few paragraphs, and reveling in the weekends when Andrew has the kids supervised and I can soak in a whole chapter. Or two. I love that man. So dearly.

Acquiring a sandbox to promote non-Mommy related entertainment has helped a great deal. Like a lot. Especially when the alternative digging source was the freshly planted fall garden. The need to dig and roll about in the dirt just wasn't jiving with my even greater desire to have fall produce. So, if you have little people in your life between the ages of 2 and 12, and do not have a sandbox, please, for the love of Pete, go get one, and save yourself some sanity. My "Super Aunts" recommended getting one and it's been the best survival tip I've received in a long time. Hours of mostly peaceful outdoor entertainment await, and only at the cost of a little Craig's List searching, a few bucks, and hosing your kid off before they return inside your house. Just do it. Anyway...

What's funny is that as I've made time for reading, I've felt a lot more centered. Not new age-y "centered", but more like my old self/new-improved self/I-have-meaningful-thoughts-other-than-what's-for-dinner self. It's given me a glimpse, even in reading "Mom" type books, that other people are living and moving about in their lives, and even when the poop hits the fan (or misses the diaper), that it's gonna be okay. I'm going to go out on a limb and say that finding an outlet of creativity or time to read is especially important for stay-at-home-moms. I dearly love my children, but have found it a healthy thing (at least for me) to get in touch with the outside world apart from diapers, middle of the night feedings, and catching my kid pick her boogery nose and eating her findings. Too much of that turns my brain to mush. Regardless of who you are, if you find yourself needing a break when it may be physically impossible, find a few minutes to give your mind one. Check out the library, or go online to find something that catches your fancy. Reading-time may only consist of the time you take to go to the bathroom, but it's something.

The newest book in my hands is called "Desperate", by Sally Clarkson and Sarah Mae. I bought it on the recommendation of a Facebook friend and am so very glad I did. Frankly, it's been affirming to my Mama heart, and sweetly soul filling. The first chapter was so relate-able that I questioned if they'd been reading my journal. These ladies can empathize with the intensity of life with little people, as well as offer hope, creative ideas, and encouragement to the weary, "desperate" Mama. I didn't think I was tired until I began reading, at which point my eyes misted, and I wanted to jump up and down, pointing at my head, yelling: "That's me! Over here!". Grace, in place of more parenting rules jump off the pages, which in my estimation is something today's Moms are starving for. As with the sandbox tip, if you're a tired Mom, please get this book and make time to read it. Seriously, make it happen, and you'll thank me. I will accept all expressions of gratitude, including offerings of sand bags after my kids have thrown all of ours out, and are down to the bottom of the box.

P.S. Camo Crocs optional for your own fulfilling reading experience.

Warm Potatoes

Dear Blog,

In case you were wondering, no, I haven't broken up with you. It's just that, well, it was summertime and I guess I needed a break. I had no idea how much this summer would hold for my little family and budding farmette. Life has been crazy full. Housing projects have kept my hands especially busy. I got tired of the oppressively dark fireplace brick, so while Andrew was out of town I painted it. Other projects have included painting doors that've needed painting since we moved in, ripping up yucky carpet down to the lovely hardwoods underneath (what a treat!), painting furniture, and finishing a two-years-in-the-making lap quilt for our living room.

Another great summer project has been keeping up with the sweet little garden I planted in the spring. At least I thought it would be sweet. Someone, in her excitement, planted enough seed to feed a city block, and ended up with a jungle by July. I'm not even kidding when I say that I lost a kid in the arugula greens. By the time the garden had given us it's best and gone to seed in the heat, I went to yank all the guts out (dead vines, dried tomato limbs, etc) and found a few treasures that'd been hidden in the overgrowth. Including Olivia's harmonica. Hum...wonder how THAT got there?! And no, that is not a confession. It must've been left behind when we retrieved her from the arugula.

The gardens past, present, and even the one that's underway, have been been ample fodder for spiritual analogies. Preparing the soil, using good seed, regular watering, pulling weeds, harvesting the fruit...it's all been super good thought material. But while I'm discussing gardening, I'll choose this little line to throw out that in addition to some yummy greens, and assorted veggies, this garden brought our christening as watermelon farmers. At least that's how it felt when our watermelon vines dried up, leaving us to collect what added up to be a whole wheelbarrow of watermelons. They were pretty tasty, too!

Harvesting our produce was a sweet reward; especially knowing it'd been watered with a bit of our sweat (or just neveryoumind that slightly gross thought). I will readily own up to being a total nerd when it came to gathering our produce. But this will come as no surprise to some. To this day, my siblings harass me about a childhood confession of mine. Fresh from reading the Little House on the Prairie series, I confessed to feeling like a pioneer girl when I found delight in my dinner of a simple warm potato, as walked down the road by myself to my kid brother's t-ball games. I was young. It was fall. The air was crisp. And something about walking somewhere by myself with a warm potato gave me a feeling of nostalgia. In that moment, I was Laura Ingalls. Until I shared my euphoria with my siblings. Which was perhaps one of the worst decisions I've ever made. So, as I'm unable to live it down, why not share it with the world on my blog?!

I'd like to say I've matured, but I cannot. I can still feel the warmth of that potato in my hand as I crossed over the grassy levee into the t-ball fields. The delight over my garden as an adult is no less silly real. I was in such raptures over all the bounty, that I took pictures of our produce and posted them on Facebook. Yes. Pictures of tomatoes and green beans such. My apologies to any offended by my over-exuberance. *sigh* Maybe there's an herb or oil for this kind of behavior? Sadly, I believe I may have even taxed the sentiments of my husband, when several times a week during dinner I would exclaim: "Can you believe we grew that?!, WE GREW THIS! AND WE'RE EATING IT!!!. I'd usually ask just as he'd taken a bite, so he was mostly excused from responding. Other times he'd be kind enough to match my happiness and offer a: "Yeah honey...it's awesome!"

Just a warning to anyone near and dear, but especially to my siblings: The summer garden has one bit of produce left to harvest.
Yes.
You guessed it.
Potatoes.
I hereby relinquish any self control over any jubilation, texts, phone calls, or photos that may be made, taken, or shared if this crop comes to fruition. Please consider yourselves warned, and prepared to satisfy my need for your mutual excitement. Because if you do, I might share our sweet potatoes. Maybe.

I'm off to Google the proper sweet potato harvesting time, but will be sure to keep in touch a little better in the coming months.

Farewell to summer, and much love from your warm potato loving friend,
Jenna

Sassafras and Co.

Earlier in the spring, I had considered how fun it might be to incubate some eggs, and a kind friend even let me borrow her incubator. My excitement bit the dust however, when I found out I'd have to monitor the humidity and temperature of the incubator, in addition to turning the eggs each day. For twenty-one days. While I may endeavor and some times achieve great things, babysitting chicken eggs just wasn't high on list of priorities.

Enter broody Sassafras. She was camped out in the nesting boxes for a week, screeching at us each time we gathered eggs, pining for some babies of her own. Andrew and I talked about giving her some eggs. You know...just for fun, and to see if anything would come of it. We tried not to get our hopes up, because we didn't know if she'd be a good chicken Mommy, as one of my Mom's hens turned homicidal on her chicks while they were hatching. Yikes.

I collected a few eggs from our Buff Orpingtons, and one from Sassafras herself. I used a permanent marker to i.d. the eggs with the date, and which breed of hen I'm pretty sure laid each egg. After that, I put them in the nesting box. Sassafras was ready and waiting for me, quickly used her beak to gently tuck the eggs underneath her, and nestled in. She seemed extremely happy. For a chicken at least.

And then she sat. And sat. And sat. And sat. And sat. And sat. And if you know the story of Prudence and her potty, then you get the idea that there was a LOT of sitting going on. I read that a broody hen will take in 80% less food during her broody period, so the less time she spends being broody, the quicker she'll recover once she's done sitting.

There was but one mistake in my plans. It was in my lack of scheduling. A chick's incubating period is 21 days, and 21 days from that date would find me out of town. Bummer. I was still skeptical in this crazy raptor hen's dedication to her nest, and mothering skills. Who knew if she would complete the task?

After much sitting, warming, and gentle daily turning as only a mother hen can provide, this past weekend, all of Sassafras' hard work paid off. I was indeed out of town, when I got a text from Andrew, informing me that he went into the coop to find four tiny little chicks darting in and out from underneath their Mommy! I was elated, and anxious to return home.

To make up for the time we were away, Olivia and I have spent our fair share of time hanging out in the coop holding these darling chicks.

Thankfully, Sassafras is an excellent chicken-Mommy. Unlike the hen which will go unnamed, this little Mama did NOT attack her offspring as they were emerging from their shells. She did an excellent job of sitting, taking the occasional water and food break, before returning to her nest. Now that her babies are here, she has protected them from the other curious and yes, sometimes cruel hens that attempt to peck her babies. They stick close to her, and she is the picture of patience as they peck at her waddles, and climb on her back when she sits down. It's all very adorable. We have LOTS of warm fuzzies going on over here! Fingers crossed that some of these babies are hens!

Life on the Urban-Farm and Lacto-Fermenting

Things are going well on the urban-farm. The cats are earning their keep catching things. Mostly lizards. I haven't seen any dead mice, but I'm choosing to believe they dispatch those in a discreet location, and leave their more impressive kills (large spiny lizards) around our picnic table. Because who wouldn't want to display their hunting trophies? Either way, the gatos have kept busy. And don't get as many pets after we find dead critters.

The lovely spring weather turned the hens into egg-laying machines. We were getting seven to sometimes nine eggs a day! Now that it's warmed up, we can usually expect a half dozen. Not that anyone is complaining about THAT! Here's one of the ladies inspecting the freshly mixed feed. I still haven't figured out exactly what laying rations are both best, and the most bang for our buck. Aside from free-ranging all day, the girls seem to do well with a mix of layer pellets, whole oats, sunflower seeds, with a splash of split green peas thrown in. Peas are high in protein, but I also like them because they add a splash of color. Doesn't it look appetizing?!

Here are the ducks, Niles and Daphne. They are a few months old, and sadly, since their arrival, we have constantly been questioning their genders. At first we thought we had a drake and a hen (hence the names), and then reasoned we had two females.

After some excellent gender-identification help from a couple of friends, we learned that the larger duck was really the female, and the smaller, more flighty duck was the male (because of his curly tail feather)! Good to know, right?! Well, as time has marched on, I'm a little sad to say that this week the second, larger duck we assumed to be Daphne, has ALSO sprouted a curly tail feather.

Yes, my friends, it is best assumed that we have two male ducks. Of which we have NO use for, since they won't be producing any eggs. Bummer. Possessing and feeding two free-loaders does not bode well. I may be looking into a local butchery-shop. Maybe.
Probably.

This post wouldn't be complete without an update on the garden. This photo below was taken two weeks ago. Since then, we've been grateful recipients of some good rain, which has made the garden double. And brought a hoard of mosquitoes, too. Despite my efforts to ward them off, I've served as a mosquito pin-cushion each time I retrieve our produce. Running breakneck speed through the garden hasn't lessen my bite count by very much either.

I've been able to monitor the cucumber vines from my kitchen window, and can report that in the last couple of days, they've now exceeded the height of the metal trellis (pictured in the center). Where they go from there, I do not know, but they've been producing some tasty cukes!

Here's just from today's pick.

It's been quite the treat to eat from our garden. Different salad greens, spinach, radishes, cucumbers, yellow squash, and zucchini... We're still waiting on tomatoes to ripen, but did I mention the bounty of squash and zucchini?!

Or the zucchini and squash?!

Oh my stars, those things grow quickly. We've been happy to share with friends, but alas, we still haven't been able to keep up with giving or consuming as fast as they're ready for picking. It's certainly a good problem to have, but a little overwhelming. Especially with blood-thirsty mosquitoes after you as soon as you step foot outside. Texas mosquitoes are viscous, y'all. West Nile virus? Malaria, anyone?


Today I was inspired to be proactive, looked up a few lacto-fermenting recipes, and got to work. Since receiving Sally Fallon's revolutionary cookbook "Nourishing Traditions" a few years back, I've enjoyed trying my hand at fermenting different foods. I like to laco-ferment because of the beneficial probiotics it provides my fam, not to mention, it's easy. Easier than canning will ever be, on a hot day, cooking the enzymes out of those precious veggies we've worked so hard to grow. But I digress...

I pulled out a few sterilized Mason jars from my stockpile glass jar supply, grabbed the sea salt, and started cutting herbs and veggies.

From what I picked today and had on the counter, I was able to do 3 quarts of basil and garlic-infused squash and zucchini, 1 quart of pickles, 1 quart of peppers. What kind of peppers, you ask? Well, they'll be pickled peppers of course! But enough goofy punning. These beauties will need to be burped everyday, lest they burst in a salty brine eruption, like my last batch of spicy carrots, and will be ready to eat or be put in the fridge in 3 days time.

Oh yeah, and lest any of you overly-generous readers think I know what I'm doing, I do not. I'd love to claim that I intrinsically know how to do these things, or am channeling my grandparent's farming and food preservation abilities, but I cannot. I winged it with the fermented carrots after seeing an inspiring-ly delicious recipe online. My family and I happily munched away when the carrots turned out so well, so I'll wing it again. Because as I told you, it's easy. Like stupid easy. And we have squash coming out of our ears. And because it'll be delicious.

One last thought before I sign off: Today I learned that if you add an oak, grape leaf, or even black tea leaves to your fermenting brine, they contain tannins that will keep your ferments crisp. Neat, huh?! We don't have a vineyard yet, and I didn't feel like hunting for oak leaves, so I threw in a pinch of black tea leaves to my ferments. I can't wait to see how everything turns out in a few days!

The Hallelujah Dance

Yesterday we went to a grocery store on the far east side of town. It's a really fun place (albeit a bit on the grungy side at times), where higher-end brand groceries come to rest just before their expiration date. I went with some friends a few years ago, and have enjoyed the treasure hunt of "What's here today" each time I've gone.

While shopping yesterday, a lady perusing the same aisle as us, saw my girls and asked Olivia how she was doing. It's become a bit of a joke amongst our friends to ask this of Olivia, because she always has the same answer. Not missing a beat, she smiled at the lady and said in her chipper voice: "I'm doing berry well!". I'm not sure what the lady expected, but when she heard this, her jaw nearly hit the floor. Once she'd collected herself, she went into a dance right there in the aisle, hopping around and saying: "Oh, praise you Jesus! What a polite little girl! Umm-ummm...gotta do a hallelujah dance over this!" She then turned to me and said: "Gimme a high-five for raising that one right, baby!"

I high-fived the joyful woman, and giggled a bit after she'd moved on. What took place in those moments has caused me to do a bit of reflecting this morning. I'm reminded that for all of the craziness of parenting, that we are getting somewhere. I'm encouraged to keep fighting the good fight in training our girls, because Olivia didn't come up with that phrase on her own. It's a product of our daily working with her. It's HARD work, but the fruit is showing up.

I've also been reflecting on what a healthy does of charisma can do for one's parenting. It isn't often that someone is physically moved because of my girl's good manners. Talk about encouraging! For as much child-rearing advice can be given and received, maybe it's time we let loose a bit and did a little more dancing in the grocery store aisles when we see that good fruit appear.

To my Mama friends, keep up the good work! Be diligent. Be consistent. Hang in there. The fruit is coming, and growing in sweeter ways as these little ones receive Godly instruction. You're doing well! And if you happen to meet me in the grocery store someday, I'll be sure to praise the Lord with a little hallelujah dance of my own.

Wedding Bells and Dinner Knives

Hello friends!
This past weekend, the kiddos and I trekked down south to be in one of my long-time friend's wedding. The wedding was so beautifully done, the bride, absolutely gorgeous, and our enjoyment of it all, very great. What a blessing to celebrate a Godly marriage!

When my friend asked me to be a bridesmaid, and Olivia to be a flowergirl, we were both honored and thrilled. Olivia was especially elated when I told her that Ms. Rachel was going to be married, and that she would get to wear a princess dress, and be in the wedding. I made the mistake of informing Olivia of her role, ohh, about a couple months too soon. On a weekly basis, the child would randomly gasp, sending me rushing to her to see if something was wrong, only to be informed (always as if for the first time): "Ms. Rachel is going to get maaaaarried, and is going to wear a princess dress! And I am going to wear a princess dress, too!". While my exuberance over hearing this wore off more quickly than her's, seeing her excitement over this grand event made me smile.

When the big day had finally arrived, I went to wake Olivia up with the big news that all the "sleeps" had past, and it was time to put on her princess dress. For all the months of talk, and shrill-voiced excitement, wouldn't ya know that she would wake up a grump and inform me that "I don't WANT to be in the wedding.".

What?

It took a hearty breakfast, and some attitude adjusting, but sooner or later, she came around to her formerly excited little self. Before said attitude adjustment, my Mom may or may not have overhead me threatening: "If you don't straighten up, you won't get to be in this wedding!". But as I said, she snapped out of grumpy-ville and happily munched on a rice cracker while I did her hair in ringlet curls. Despite 1/4 bottle of hairspray and tried and true Mom saliva , the humidity took it's toll and threw her curls to the floor before the evening was over, but my darling girl still looked beautiful.

I too was able to pretty-myself-up, too. Anticipating a long day, and the other bridesmaids looking stunning, I put on a little extra make-up to hold me over. Eyeliner was my friend. And either to my credit or as a confession, probably wore more makeup than I did on my wedding day. When I went to feed my sweet Emma before we left, she stared at me wide-eyed, a bit confused as to who this Mommy-resembling woman really was. I guess this is what happens when you only wear make-up on Sundays for church, or the occasional mascara if you're going somewhere nice. Like Target. *cough* I digress. Anyway, in the end, Emma was successfully fed (under a blanket), and with the make-up and some trusty Spanx, I felt pretty nicely put together.

We arrived at the historic Magnolia hotel at 11:30am, and from there, partook in a whirlwind of happiness upon seeing the beautiful bride, ohhs-and-ahhs over her stunning dress, dashing around downtown for picture taking with the wedding party, and general excitement for getting to take part in the wonderful event. The dashings-around were aided by the service of a large limo bus that hauled the wedding party around town. As Olivia had never been in such an enormous vehicle before, this was a VERY exciting way to travel. She didn't have to be sequestered in a car seat, had a vast picture window to look out at the town, and was the only little kid in our company. She loved every second.

The wedding took place in a lovely limestone I may be totally making that up church with cathedral ceilings. It was the kind of place that is so aesthetically pleasing that it requires no extra decorating. After pictures, and some munchies for the wedding party, it was time to hide in a small room while the guests took their seats. Once seated, we all lined up, and the wedding began. Up front in my place with the other "maids", it was time for the flower-bell girls to come down the aisle. (Bell girls because they carried baskets with bells that jingled as they walked.) Though I couldn't see at the time, I was later informed that the older flower girl, holding Olivia's hand took a few steps down the aisle, then decided to go sit with some folks. They ushered her back out, but she got no further than a couple more rows before grabbing an attendance card and pencil to mark that she'd been there. With a little more help and much laughter, the girls finally made their way down to the front. Very cute. Leave it to kids to lighten any nerves.

On the arm of her father, Rachel entered the room. She really was breathtaking. Every since I met her at 16 years old, she's been the detailed gal who knew how she wanted her wedding. All of her planning paid off, because she truly was a stunning bride, and had such a sweet ceremony. She and her hubby were married by the same pastor as his parents, who were married on the same date 39 years before. Neat, huh?!

After the ceremony, that long awaited kiss to seal the deal, and more pictures, we headed off to the reception. I had planned to let my growing-ever-tired-Olivia ride to the reception with my parents. It was a bad idea. I'm afraid I held up a few last minute group photos because my Mom had to come find me to say that Olivia was having a melt down. No, it wasn't solely because she was tired, or had missed her nap, or had floppy curls. It was because she realized she was missing out on one more chance to ride the limo bus. Poor kid. She sobered up and returned to her happy-self when I got her and took her with me on the bus once more.

**As an aside, I've been in a few weddings before, but none as a mother of two. Participating is greatly different when you're keeping to the regular nursing and nap schedule of two little people. Yikes. I would like to offer a huge THANK YOU to my folks who helped me with the girls all weekend (while my hardworking man was detained...working).**

At the reception, there were a host of old and new friends to say hello to, food, dancing, and lots of celebrating the beautiful newly married couple. Olivia was seated next to me during dinner, and by that point in the evening, she was pretty much done. The music was initially very loud, so I shouted to catch up with friends, got Emma to sleep in her carrier, and tried to keep tabs on Olivia while we ate. After dinner I was alerted to the fact that Olivia was playing with silverware, and began using it to press against her tired face. Dinner knives aren't exactly friendly materials, so I confiscated those. With that entertainment gone, she asked to see my folks, to which I agreed. She wandered back and forth between my table and the one where they were seated. This was an acceptable form of coping with her exhaustion...until my friend with a better view of her walking behind me began laughing really hard at what she saw. Evidently in her post-wedding-ceremony-stupor, my child chose to get a sip of water from my Mom's glass, then walk to my table with it held in her mouth, then spit that water out into my glass. She did this a few times. I'm still uncertain if I drank from that cup, but that's beside the point. My Dad came to my rescue and took the kiddos home for a timely meeting with their beds. Thank goodness for him!

With the tired babies safely on their way back, I got to visit with a few more friends, admire the bride and groom some more, and blow bubbles at them as they left for their fabulous honeymoon. What a memorable day, for me, and my eldest, who had earlier informed some folks that she was a "flower" in the wedding. We returned home well fed, thoroughly partied-out, and for me, so happy to have seen my dear friend become a "Mrs.".

Here's a selfie of me and my "flower" on the ever-exciting limo bus.

Side note: While at the wedding, a few folks took me aside to say how much they love my blog. I was blown away by their kind words, and a tad embarrassed that I've kept up so poorly on here. I have a readership?! Anyway, thanks to those of you who encouraged me to keep on bloggin'! I will strive to better chronicle the craziness, so y'all can enjoy it, too!

I never...

I seriously never thought I'd have to say this. To anyone. Ever.

"Don't lick your hands!,
Don't lick the window!,
and Do NOT lick me!"

Motherhood changes a person.

I also never imagined having a small human screaming in demand: "WASH MY SHIRT!!!" after she spilled an entire cup of water on herself...after I told her not to get said water. Sorry, kid. Life's tough, and you'll dry.

I never fathomed calmly cleaning human pee up off what I had considered a once-nice wool rug, as if it was no longer a bio-hazard emergency. And then being able to wash my hands, and go back to making lunch.

I never knew how much reading a blog post about drowning would effect me. Or that later, I would have nightmares about it, and wake up pulling my husband's wrist up towards the ceiling, having imagined I was saving one of our children from the water. (Poor man. He endures a lot. Really, he does.)

I definitely never anticipated the frequency at which "This is why we can't have nice things." would exit my, or my husband's mouths. In one day we lost a crystal wine glass (which was a wedding gift), had the rug peed on (again), a small toy ripped to shreds, and my make-up bag invaded by a small, blush-compact destroying marauder.

This is why we don't have nice things.

I never anticipated how exhausting it would be to keep up with small children.

But...

I also never knew how much I would laugh after being told that chickens don't have lips. Or the delight I would having watching my girl flapping her wings and clucking around the yard. Because she wanted to be a chicken.

Or how my heart would swell when my little one, finally tired from a day of conquering the world, slowed down enough to say "I love you. Mommy, you are the Queen!".

Or how a chipper, early voice saying "Mommy! The sky is awake!" would be enough to summon me out of bed after a long night with the baby.

These are things I never knew.

This whole parenting bid'ness can be tough stuff. It certainly tests me every day. There are days when challenges abound, but inevitably, sweetness follows, and our participation in this insanity makes a bit more sense. Praise God for giving us strength in this season of "I never"s.

Fake it Til you Feel It

A couple weeks ago, when the girls went down for their naps, I went outside and sat in the chicken coop.

I guess I'll do anything for alone-time these days.

Now before you picture me sitting on a roost or in some mucky shavings, I can set you at ease and tell you that it's a cute little white building with a small porch surrounded by green grass, under a shade tree. In my opinion, it's pretty fancy-schmancy as far as rural chicken coops are concerned. The inside is divided in half, with the back part being where the chickens mill about, roost at night, and access the nesting boxes. The front half has a few salvaged cabinets, shelving for feed and whatever random gardening items I drag in, as well as an old 1970's orange plastic bucket-seated chair with metal legs. The previous owners left it behind, so it serves as HQ for nesting box watching.

While sitting in that bright orange chair, casually passing out hellos to a few of the hens who'd come to deposit their gems, the thought occurred to me that Andrew and I are chicken farmers. It struck me as odd, because I have had an image of a REAL chicken farmer being someone who has a huge farm, a red barn, and a million or so chickens in his possession. I realized that for some time I've felt like we're only playing at it, keeping chickens that is, when the truth of the matter is that we're really doing it.

When we acquired our first tiny flock 3 years ago, I couldn't tell you what a waddle was, what colors an Easter egger would lay, or why those baby chicks would someday want to sit on something high before they could properly go to bed at night. I certainly would have thought you were talking botany if you'd mentioned the "bloom" of an egg. What the world?! It's been a process, but we've learned a lot. The chicks grew up, and with them, our knowledge of how to care for them. I couldn't tell you at what point we moved out of novice chicken keepers, nor if that really matters. If you ask my Andrew, he will tell you that we became chicken farmers the moment we selected them to take home. And he would be right.

So, right there in the little white coop, amongst the quiet clucking, I realized that I've had some skewed thinking. In something as simple as keeping chickens, I didn't think it really counted until we'd been at it for a while. You know, until we had it down pat. Or at least had a red barn. The real truth is that the moment we begin doing something, we become it. This thought has been rolling around in the back of my head over the weeks, and has applied to other parts of my life.

Somewhere along the way, I picked up the phrase "Fake it til you feel it." This statement commands that if you don't feel/believe/like etc something, then act like you do until you genuinely do. While I don't support being fake or dishonest, there is something to to be learned from practicing something until we possess it. This makes me think of a believer's state of salvation. Christ has saved me, so I am saved, but since I'm still breathing and sinning, I am also continuing to be saved. Therefore, even when I may not feel like it, as I practice patience, I am being patient, also while growing in patience. Does that blow your mind?! It does mine. But that could be simply because there's little left of it at the end of the day. ;)

What I am suggesting is that for any area you or I need to grow in, let's fake it til we feel it. When Andrew and I were first married, I would start my day and avoid forget to make the bed. I later learned that if our bed was made, then Andrew felt like the house was clean. Realizing he could care less about dust bunnies lurking in the corners if the bed was made, this action became important to me. As a self-avowed non-maker of beds (who really likes to put decorator pillows in their just-so spots anyway?!), I had to fake it til I felt it. Sooner than not, as I daily owned this small task, I became....dun-dun-dunnnn...The Maker of the Bed. Subsequently, I now happen to love putting the pillows in their rightful places. Just ask my husband!

While this is a silly example, God has encouraged me that as I put on what I'd normally avoid, I'm growing. I am owning it. Be it parenting, cooking, listening, loving, cleaning; I am becoming that very thing which I put on. What's more is that what I practice can take on more meaning, a deeper character, or a greater richness. The act may end up becoming a skill.

It doesn't matter exactly when the transformation took place, rather, that something new and perhaps even beautiful exists where it didn't before. At some point, your and my titles begin to stack up. I become Jenna the patient Mama, Jenna the good listener, Jenna the puller of garden weeds, feeder of the hungry, washer of cloth diapers still working on not loathing this one, maker of the bed, and yes, even keeper of chickens. I'm doing it. It's happening. And even when I'm not feeling it, practice makes perfect.

I'm encouraged that at whatever stage of development I'm in, if I'm doing it, I'm making ground. There is progress. For those things I want to do but lack the skill, I should just start doing them and grow from there. God is gracious to remind me of what I should be doing for the betterment of myself, my family, and those we're around, and He will do the same for you. He is faithful to grow His children. He gives rest to the weary (Mt 11:28), and offers inspiration in the strangest of places. Even in chicken coops.

The Never Ending Story

Hello, again. It's been nearly three months since I last blogged. In that time we've been busy welcoming the arrival of spring, being giddy over our new hens laying their first eggs, getting a garden plot started again, and watching our girls grow like weeds. All of this has seemed to happen at lightning speed.

In the past three months, I've continued to deal with my own version of "The Neverending Story", known as potty training. We began back in January, and have slogged on. Like an uphill climb. Through mud. The "Potty train in a Day" how to's were a total joke. I wanted to throw toilet paper at those mothers who made it look so easy, but learned not to be a hater just because their kiddos were "ready". For any mothers yet to face this journey with your own wee-ones, I do not mean to discourage you. It's just that I've finally accepted that for all of the time, training, encouragement, incentive bribery , and guidance I've given my Olivia, she just isn't ready. She's not owning it yet. The irony of this fact is that she is potty trained. We have accident free days under our belts (after many accident filled ones), have run errands in big girl panties without disaster (although there have been many disasters), and for my highly verbal child, have had every possible discussion with her about being a big girl, using the potty, etc. Yes, she is fully potty trained, but only when I remind and take her to go. Like every 30 minutes. And as much as I cringe to admit this; her potty training is currently, likely a greater reflection of how "with it" I am on any given day. Perish the thought, because I am still in desperate search of my A-game. Until then, we slog on, because some day it's going to "click" and I'll have an independently potty trained child. Hopefully I'll find my A-game, too.

"P" is for Poop

Today's post is brought to you by the letter "P".

Words that start with the letter "P" are: pears, patience, and poop. And did I mention poop???

Never in all my days did I foresee that I would become a blossoming expert on excrement. They don't tell you these things when you're a young girl, adore babies, and stalk tired young mothers after church to see if you could hold their precious ones. You become a favored young person because you lighten their load, and in return, they spare you the dark secret that might deter you from producing your own little pooping hobbits. This would be the fact that dealing with poop is a requirement of motherhood.

While I don't feel very young anymore, I am a "young mother". As such, I have experienced the baptism of a young mother. Water would be nice, and even preferable, but when you've got babies, you're immersed in milk, and poop. Lots of it. Add 2 cats and a dozen chickens to the mix, and you're up to your ears in it. Some tools of the trade are wipes, while other days require a shovel.

When Olivia was younger, she randomly found it necessary to remove her diaper during nap time, and silently color her crib. I would go about my brief time of freedom, cleaning house, or trying to rest myself, blissfully unaware of the biohazard artistry going on in the other room. That was until the smell would eek under the doorway, or she would begin to sing while she painted, alerting me that something was very, stinkily wrong. Bath first, toys to occupy the now clean child, then crib detoxifying. Some days were worse than others depending on the previous day's diet. Yuck.

It's also really fun when you have a baby and they pull the party trick of peeing or pooping on your clothing, while magically managing to not leave a trace of it in their diaper. Yes, this is why a prepared Mama will have a change of clothes for herself handy. Some mothers may not have the energy to remember such luxuries as this, and must go about in public with milk stains, pee, or poo smeared in the most obvious places. This eventually becomes a new normal, she refuses to change her shirt because it'll just happen again on the next one, and that evening's shower is a greatly anticipated, sacred time.

Recent extreme diaper rashes have had me delve into the realm of poop detective. A rash presents itself, and may worsen over the course of a couple of days. I examine the remains, hoping for clues as to what items need to be restricted from the menu. My younger self would have been appalled at the lengths I now go to in order to figure out how to make my child better. I didn't know it then, but I certainly know it now...this is just part of the job description. Since some messes are worse to deal with than others, my husband reminds me that these things are helping me "grow on the inside".

Before Andrew and I married, I held jobs that involved giving tours, cooking, and teaching. I felt like I had built a pretty decent resume, and for the most part, really enjoyed what I did. On this side of marriage and children, I have my dream job, but still struggle with the temptation than what I do doesn't add up to much. Andrew usually asks me how our day went, and what I did. My most recent, becoming standard answer is "I fed mouths and wiped butts." At this early point in my mothering, it can be hard to see the forest from the trees. Some days it seems that all I do is clean up tiny (and some not so tiny!) people's messes, but the truth is that it's not always going to be like this. These little people are growing up. I can see it happening, and at an alarming rate. We'll put Olivia to bed and the next morning she has quite obviously grown. Those 2T clothes aren't shrinking, she's just growing. Emma is over a month old now, is smiling and "talking" to us, and it's all happening so quickly. They are changing, learning, and growing up. This is a train that cannot be stopped.

So, while right now I'm spending an inordinate amount of time making food, feeding people, cleaning up after those meals, and then dealing with what comes after, I'm purposing to enjoy it. Time is going by so quickly, and though it seems menial, what I do is making a difference for my family. There will come a day when my girls won't need Mommy as much as they do now. This thought makes me excited, and sad all at the same time. My plan is to enjoy this time while it lasts, blog about poop so that I can laugh about this current reality, and be a secret keeper for those young ladies who like to hold my baby. I do this because I don't want to scare them off, and because one day they'll likely enjoy this time as much as I am. Poop and all.

P.S. I can also keep smiling because one day I'll only have to wipe my own butt. ;)

Karen

Olivia was happily playing in her room, until she came across a little stranger she discovered at the bottom of her toy basket. She had found a long forgotten cloth dolly that had never received much attention. With chickens and new toys from Christmas having recently been given proper names, something about this friend bothered Olivia deeply. This doll didn't have a name.

Running to me in a panic, Olivia called out "Mommy! Help! Help!". A bit confused about what could be wrong, I reached out to her as she bolted into the living room. With the doll in tow, she cried out once again for my help, and shoved it into my hands. I asked her what was wrong, and with sad eyes, she looked at the doll, then back at me, and cried: "Mommy! What's her naaaame?!" The way she asked that question tugged at my heart. She knew we hadn't named this doll, which meant that it didn't belong. In her eyes, it was lost.

Creativity failed me, so I threw out the first name that popped into my head: "Karen. The doll's name is Karen." Olivia's eyes lit up, and she quickly retrieved the doll from my hands. She hugged it and with joy in her voice, declared: "Your name is Karen! I am Olivia. I love you, Karen. You are my friend, Karen. It's gonna be okay, Karen..." As if to reassure little lost Karen, Olivia inserted her name into as many sentences as possible before traipsing back to her bedroom.

I sat down, a bit bewildered at what has just taken place. The scene caused me to think about the importance of names, and especially knowing who we are. Even at two and a half, Olivia knew that something was gravely wrong for a dolly of hers to be without a name. There are many stuffed animals and dolls under Olivia's care, but until that point, they were all loved, accounted for, and known. With a name, Karen was instantly accepted into Olivia's play-world family. She had a home, she had friends, and she belonged.

In comparison, how beautiful it is to belong to the Lord. We are no longer scraping around in darkness, lost, hopeless, and unknown. To know Christ is to become children of the Almighty, adopted into His family, loved and cared for, brought into communion with Him. He gives us a new identity; one that supersedes any name or title we ever held, or may have in the future. We are His and we belong.

Though my current mission field doesn't have me out and about as much as it used to, I'm still challenged to keep my eyes open for any Karens I may encounter. Maybe it's the clerk ringing up my groceries, or someone who admires my baby as I'm running errands...he or she may not have a name yet. Lord willing, I can point them to the One Who gives eternal names, and identities. To the One who in a sense, pulls us up from the forgotten bottom of the toy basket, and gives us a home, for no other reason that His good pleasure, and glory.