What I Don't Want for Christmas...

I don't want a lot for Christmas
There is just one thing I need
Influenza A to leave us
No more kids in quarantine.

I just want to stop cleaning
And Walmart runs for juice and bleach
Will my wish come true?
What I don't want for Christmas?
The flu, flu yeah.

We were all set for vacation
Lists in place, ready to leave
When the dreaded flu came calling
To the firstborn in his sleep.

So we traveled to the ER
To confirm the casualty
Icky nose swab proved it right
And wrecked our plans with family.

I just want to stop cleaning
And Walmart runs for juice and bleach
Will my wish come true?
What I don't want for Christmas? The flu.
Flu baby.

To the pharmacy we headed
Tamiflu for my sick child
Shocking price tag, but we got it
Hoping meds would make this mild.

Two days later, still down with it
Poor child can barely lift his head
Finally we hit day three
And he emerged from his sick bed.

So we started making plans
To resume vacation bliss
An hour later, then we noticed
Something else had gone amiss.

Second child with a fever
Caught it early, so said doc
Tamiflu for all of us now
And sanitizing round the clock

So we're grounded here for Christmas
Runny noses, cranky kids
Trying to force feed medicine
That smells and tastes like rotten fish.

Oh, I don't want a lot for Christmas
This is all I'm asking please
Influenza A, just leave us
So tired of kids in quarantine.

Oh, I just want to stop cleaning
And Walmart runs for juice and bleach
Will my wish come true?
What I don't want for Christmas?
The flu, flu baby.

What I don't want for Christmas? Flu, flu baby.
What I don't want for Christmas? Flu, flu baby.
What I don't want for Christmas? Flu, flu baby.
What I don't want for Christmas? Flu, flu baby.

The Best Medicine

I never describe myself as a softie.

When my firstborn was still small, I took a personality test as part of Leadership Springfield (Class 25, Holla!) Anyway, the results didn’t surprise me. Logical, rational, organized, determined. All perfect words to explain my oddities. But the secondary questions related to how my personality changes with stress were profound. And powerful. You see, I don’t flip into other areas of strength when I’m stressed. I go extreme. I get more logical, more rational, more organized, more determined. Any fragment of emotional side I have disappears, and I become like a machine, quite literally.

I am arguably one of the most stoic and unemotional women I know.

But as the years of parenting tick by, the small seed of sensitivity springs up slowly.  I don’t know how to explain it really.  I don’t cry at much, but I do feel. Deeply.  I don’t react emotionally (minus a flash temper here or there…sorry Ben), but I do care a great deal for others.

It’s one of those paradoxical realities of myself that creeps up occasionally when I’m too tired, hormonal or even sometimes…perhaps…on the day my twins turn 3 (and I’m also tired and hormonal…bad combo!)

No waterworks for this momma, not yet at least. I woke up before the sun to hug my energizer bunny babies who are not babies any longer. Not even toddlers, really. These charming, precious guys have officially made it to three years today.

There have been some really great parts about having twins. And some less than fabulous ones too. My top 5 twin discoveries upon reaching year three in no particular order:

1. Colors matter. Styles too. Despite my best attempts at cultivating individuality, I find myself purchasing the exact same item for both twins. It has happened to nearly everything we’ve received or bought for them since they were old enough to comprehend it was their “own.” Toys. Cups. Shirts. Shoes. Blankets. If I choose different colors, they inevitably want the same. If I decide to do a slightly different style, they will fight over one for days and leave the other collecting dust. Or they become very specific about what they want when asking for something simple, like ice water: “Orange straw, blue lid, green cup, please Mommy!?” Can’t just use what is clean. Opinionated little buggers. Never fails. Take last night, for instance, when I decided to give Toby the Thomas the Train birthday gift bag and Gabe the John Deere Tractor birthday gift bag. Seems harmless, eh? They were just gift bags. Leftover from birthdays past, actually. Toby likes trains better, and Gabe is fixated on tractors. So I went with it. Big fat fail, which I realized when Gabe opened up the present in front of the family crowd of onlookers and thought that since the bag was a tractor that meant he was getting an actual tractor from that tissue paper stuffed package. Not so much. Thanks, no thanks, practical mommy for a new comforter and some superhero guys. Pretty cool presents. Just not so much what the bag promised. And it wasn’t the same as Toby’s. Ouch. (Thank you Grandma Vicki for the WIN with the monster trucks to dry up those tears).
2. Bedtime takes forever.  A shared bedroom equals nightly discussions (between the two of them after the door is closed!). Sometimes we hear them talk about their day, other times they sing songs made up in gibberish (but with the melody of popular tunes) until they laugh so hard they cough incessantly. They need water.  And a blanket. And to potty (except for not really because they STILL haven't mastered the potty training thing yet, UGHHHHHHH). Then they are scared of trucks out their window and tree shadows. Or even better they act like they are asleep and then tiptoe out of their room and peek around the corner to see who is waiting to shuffle them back to bed. They keep each other awake well past their bedtime, and we can’t change it or stop it. A wise mom of twins once told me her children need that time when the rest of the world fades away and they can just be together and unwind. I suppose we are stuck with it. 
3. I waste less food. Period. Toby wants some more corn, and Gabe is eying his brother's fries. Cool. Switch. Gabe doesn’t love his plums but really wants some more avocado? Sure thing. I use nearly every single scrap of food for meals around this house. It’s really pretty amazing if you think about it. No waste. Extra yogurt? Someone wants it. A few bites of bacon on a plate? Sure enough, a hungry boy will chomp it up. Yes, they start out with equal portions of whatever we are having, but I’m certainly not going to tell them no if their brother isn’t chowing down. It’s a dog eat dog world out there, kids. Eat up or you loose it! I’m kind of kidding….kind of….I’m realizing at this very moment that cultivating this behavior is likely to lead to the ever popular “eat off your friend’s plate” mentality. Ooops. Sorry future friends…and wives.
4. “You have your hands full.” This is my least favorite compliment. Yes, my children are likely running in opposite directions or crying or making a mess of food or crafts or hitting each other or God knows what else. And yes, I do, in fact have my hands full. But to me it means that you aren’t noticing their clean and (sometimes) unwrinkled clothes, you aren’t noticing that I gave them a bath this week (several times probably), and you aren’t noticing that they say “please” and “thank you” like polite little fellows. No. This statement most definitely means that you see the well defined lines at my brow and a hint of crazy in my eyes. My life is nuts. And I appreciate the observation. It is a true statement. Maybe just not one that makes me feel I am rockin' it in that moment. We are all alive. We are dressed and fed and healthy. And we made it in one piece (to wherever it is that you encounter us). That’s a win in my book.
5. Kids make other kids laugh. I’ve figured out that having twins is kind of like when singleton children have a BFF over to play or cousins drop in. Sounds in the house go up a few decibels. The toys get scattered, and there’s usually a spill or two of juice and some crackers mashed into the floor. There may be fights. And tears. But always laughing. That is a perfect way to describe having two children of the exact same age (and genes, in my case). Toby and Gabe are best buds. They enjoy nothing more than playing together, pretending together, hurting each other (much to my dismay) and just loving life together. Which is really, really awesome. But also….kinda tiring!  It is a nonstop party. Sleepovers every night. And fits of giggles they cannot contain. I was trying to separate the crew and do time-outs this weekend after some peaceful playtime turned violent, and they were laughing so hard and so loud they could not even hear me. And then, there’s my favorite: the belly laugh shrieking giggles in public. My sister and I commiserate about avoiding contact with people in public that we don’t know after surviving a life with our social butterfly mother who shared our life story with every cashier, teller and casual passerby. In later years we cringed and walked away (man, we were mean). Well, mommy dearest, you got your payback. Because now when I take my boys with me they are doing one of two things: making each other cry or making each other laugh. Consider #4 above, you can see why I prefer the laughing. I don’t know where they got it (okay, okay, I do…it’s me), but my kids have the loudest and gut-busting giggles of hardly any child I know. And when they are together it just gets better (or worse, if you are their mom and we are in a quiet store). So this is my life now: Pushing the double shopping cart (nifty little creation) and smiling apologetically at EVERY SINGLE PERSON I pass because the twins are laughing so hysterically that strangers stop and stare. After an especially long wait in the line at Walmart last week, I had the entire front end of the store tracking me as I walked out. Yes. They did. And several stopped me to ask questions (Oh, April, you know how I loved that…). But there was something else pretty phenomenal about that trip to Walmart. I was tired and irritated, wishing the kids could be calm and I could just get out of the house once without making a spectacle of ourselves in public. As I apologized to the teenage cashier, she broke into a grin, looked me right in the eye and said, “Who can be unhappy after hearing that laughter? That is the best thing I’ve heard all day.”

We had a crazy jam packed weekend of birthday fun to celebrate the wonder and amazement these two little cuties bring to our lives. I settled them down tonight after closing out their festivities with a bubble bath and some Llama-Llama reading. They fought over my lap and made silly faces at each other each time I turned a page. And then the giggles started.

I dialed back the stern mommy tone that so naturally escapes from me, closed my eyes and embraced the laughter exploding from my sweet children, swallowed the lump lingering in my throat and squeezed those baby lotion-smelling boys extra tight as they squealed with glee and begged for another book (and drink and blanket and potty pit stop).

We made it to three. Thank you, Jesus. 

Silver Lining

I can't quite remember anymore the exact day or time, but I know I was driving. I had stopped at a light not far from my house after a long day at work. The sunshine beat down, and I leaned my head back. I flipped open the sunshade, and as I glanced up, it was unmistakable. Gleaming. Shining. A glint of gray. I think I literally gasped out loud. The light turned green and as I crossed the busy intersection I waited for the next stoplight around the bend in the road, knowing I could scour the mirror yet again to make sure there was only one gray hair among the light brownish streaks.

I'm quite sorry to say...there wasn't just one.

So it begins. I have gray hair.

I suppose I forget sometimes how the stress has compounded these past few years. At work. In my marriage. At home. With my boys. With my friends. With life.

My response to stress is strange. I tend to embrace it and channel it into positive productivity. (Shocking, right?). The more stressed I get at work, the more efficient I become. The more stressed I am at home, the more I tackle. I become less emotional, more direct, and nearly robotic in the way I can chop away at the endless list 'to do' when it really counts.

Neverthless, the stress remains, and while I can internalize it and smile through the madness, my locks deceive me. My boys have aged me.

I grew up with one sister in a family where all three women in the house "cycled' simultaneously (yes, you can take pity on my dad). We shopped for bras, learned to dance, and routinely rented every chick flick on earth (Wild Hearts Can't Be Broken, anyone?). A home of girls.

Eleven years ago this month, I married my amazing beau Ben and embraced the journey ahead. Makeup and heels paired with pee on the toilet seat and acid wash jeans (oh yes, I made him get rid of those quickly). A woman and a man. Even Steven.

I am sadly outnumbered these days.

Boys are nuts. Can we just be honest?  I spend most of my time with my boys preventing injuries, playing referee and trying to convince them not to destroy everything I own. I scream in terror, rush to the rescue and walk into a disaster pretty much 10 times a day. It is a heart-stopping, stressful roller coaster of mommy-hood, this parenting boys stuff.

From my end, it seems like adding another boy to the first doesn't make it just twice as crazy. Oh no. There is an exponential factor of boy-ness when there are two or three. Don't believe me?

My life with boys, a.k.a. the top ten reasons why I now sport some gray hair(s):

(Okay, time out. Before you read this below list, please remind yourself that our house is kid-safe and we are good parents. Really, we are. I promise...okay...read on.)

1. Food fights across the table. Or the car. Or the kitchen. Hopefully not on my nice couch. Always somehow ending up on the carpet because I step on the hard dried pieces the next day. Grrr.
2. Cleaning poop out of a full bathtub. Both twins splashing happily. The non-offender mad at the poop-er for causing bathtime to abruptly end. And then holding two contaminated wriggling naked toddlers while trying to remove all bath toys (to be thoroughly cleaned separately) and disinfect the bathtub before another round of "quick get clean baths" to rinse poopy water off the two year olds. And then battling little boy bath fear every day after because someone might poop again. Gross. I hate poop in the bathtub. Just saying...
3. Rotisserie chicken fresh from Sam's. Boys are angels, begging like birds beside the kitchen island. Hand them bits of meat as they munch happily. Three minutes of bliss. Then hysterical shrieking (me) chasing after the toddlers who have managed to run from the kitchen into their bedroom and hide behind some flowing window treatments, greasy chicken fingers staining their brick red curtains. Gotta strap 'em in their booster seats next time. 
4. Occupied brothers (all three) playing in the living room together. It's the kind of afternoon you wish for, with the kids getting along and the home happy, mommy and daddy managing laundry and mowing and dishes and bills. Too much laughing. It's a spinning contest. Who can get the dizziest? Um that would be Toby, which I realize as he careens out of control and falls head first into the corner of the wall. Bruise. Crying. Ice pack (which is worse than the bruise so more crying). Sigh.
5. Tracking lizards under the pile of pallets out back. Looking for snakes in the weeds. Ignoring Sam when he insisted that Aunt Sharon had a sleeping mouse on the floor...then the adults finding said dead mouse and realizing that he touched it. Endless grubby fingers pointed my way accompanied by the phrase: "Booger, Mommy." Bugs and guts and gross-ness.  Lots and lots and lots of hand scrubbing. Seriously.
6. The bathroom. That's all I really need to say. I know it only gets worse. I truly can't imagine the horror of three teenage boys in one bathroom. It already stinks. All the time. No matter how much I clean it. Uncontrollable boy pee is awful. We cheer the little ones along in potty training and then cringe when it sprays on the wall, the cabinet, the shower curtain. Then older brother sleepwalks. And doesn't have good aim in the dark. Ugh. Just, ugh. 
7. Reckless Glee. Launching off papa face-first onto the ground. Running full steam into the baby gate to see how it shuts. Taking out the air vent to stick toys (or feet and hands) into it. Pushing their faces nearly through the second story kitchen window screen (don't worry we don't keep it open anymore). Standing on every toy to balance up high. Jumping. Leaping. Climbing. Little daredevils prodded on by big brother. Bumps and bruises. Busted lips and bloody noses. We live in a constant state of avoiding (major) injuries and being thankful for the ones that "just" have a goose egg. 
8. Dirty clothes. Stinky sweaty socks hidden in toy baskets I don't find for days.  Or my new discovery: after doing enough laundry for what should be five days of clothes, I'm only finding two pairs of underwear and socks (not 5 like there should be). What does that mean, my friends? Someone isn't freshening up every day. Gross. I know. Working on it!
9. Running toward the street. Running away in the parking lot. Running down the hall at church, in the stores, everywhere. In opposite directions. Too fast.  Frazzled mommy. Yay!
10. And finally, the best for last. The perfect picture of what it means to be a mom of boys: Twins happily playing in living room. Run downstairs for one minute. One. Back upstairs and twins have vanished. Step into the living room and see the door to the garage wide open. Garage door wide open. I scream. In my pj's and not fit for the neighbors, but my kids have escaped so I have no choice. My heart stopping, I race into the front yard in just enough time to notice the twins hand-in-hand rounding the corner of the house to find daddy who was mowing.  Heart attack. Shaky from fear that they were in the road or down the street or worse. I hug them tight. And put on more childproof door handles.

All this. In the last two weeks. TWO WEEKS, people!  

Virtually every pregnant woman I know right now is having a boy. And I can't help but smile at the life they have ahead of them! 

Boys can be wild and rough. They can be reckless and destructive.

But for mommas of those little guys, from the moment we see their faces or hold their precious little hands, they've stolen our heart. To love a little boy is like no other. Through the wrangling and the catching and the stopping and the monitoring, they smile and laugh constantly. Charming, boyish grins. Strong and fearless.

What a privilege to raise these little ones so full of life, already boys turning into men, the days ticking by too quickly.

And so we hold them close, kiss their boo-boo's and cuddle them when they let us.

Raising boys is tough, but indescribably fun.  So I say, embrace the madness and mayhem.

And consider buying stock in Band-Aid.

Weekend Revival

Fridays hate me.  That is a strong statement, but I can't remember a Friday night in months when I didn't at some point think this exactly.  I dread weekends.

I remember the days of lazy pajama-clad mornings, running into town in the afternoon just because, tackling an outdoor project when the weather was perfect. Refresh. Recharge. Rest. Weekend bliss.

I miss those days.

My weekends are hard. Packed full of cleaning and catching up. Consumed with activity in short bursts between feeding hungry mouths, playing referee amongst the kiddos, and finding the sweet spot of perfect sleepiness to achieve naptime success. No matter what we do or where we go, our weekends are just anything but restorative.

My logical brain tells me that in just a few short years, my wee ones won't need us to carve out time for a nap, and the necessity of constant supervision will lesson. I know we will master potty training...eventually.

Rational me realizes that this time of wrangling kids and watching Saturday and Sunday breeze by before blinking is short.  The mom in me delights in the time I get to see my kids since I work during the week, truly.

But the tired me leaves work on Fridays to race to martial arts class, knowing the weekend insanity has only begun.  Late for class, dinner on the run, notice a gray hair (ahhh!), disaster of a house that finally couldn't keep up with life for five days, cranky husband because he's done it all the whole week and needs a mental break from children, finally bedtime...and then, the worst: Grocery shopping. By myself. On Friday night. At 8pm.  I'm worn out after the stress of a busy week. I'm hungry because there is no food left in my house by this time in the week except whole milk (sometimes) and coffee creamer (can't run out of that).  But there is a task to be done.

And so I trudge to the store. Inevitably I am in the longest line, the slowest people before me. I'm cut off in the parking lot, the gas station lanes are full, and I close my eyes and whisper those words: "Fridays hate me."

Sure, I could go for groceries on Saturday morning. By myself with all three kids after breakfast. But by then I'm knee deep in dirty floors and scrubbing bathrooms, hopefully needing a shower after a 20 minute workout while the children are trying to do everything possible to hurt each other...or trying to climb on top of me while I plank. :) Yes, Saturdays are an option for groceries after the sleeping bear awakens and showers...slowly. Then we've spent the whole morning gone at the store, rushing back to make food, and before I know it, the twins are up from nap, and it's 3pm. My day is gone and I'm awfully behind. Ahhh the life.

And so Fridays it is. (Sigh)

For parents of young kiddos, weekends are a challenge. (Or maybe I'm alone here in my troubles...if so, please don't tell me you have it perfect or I might just cry)

For my family, there's always a bit of readjustment. The dynamic of two parents at home, expectations on both sides. A house to clean from the last week and prep for the next. Kids who literally want nothing more than to climb all over mommy and daddy. Work to be done, and lots of it, but no agreement on how much to do, who does it and when it gets done. Church is a delightful reprieve, but the circus to ready the kids to leave and the inevitable craziness of the morning leaves me exhausted, again, by mid-day.  By Sunday night I never feel like I'm ready for the week. I don't feel like I spent enough time with the kids, even though I've been home. To be frank, I feel anything but refreshed.

Can you tell my weekend attitude has taken a nose dive of late?

So in true Carrie fashion, I have decided recently to confront my troubles head on.  Why am I complaining when I have quite possibly the most patient and helpful husband I know?  Why am I complaining about a life that is incredibly rich in love and family and friends?  Why am I complaining in the midst of extra responsibilities and commitments that I not only asked for, but actually enjoy?

I am blessed beyond measure. And I'm also kind of a mess. :)

I can't continue hating Fridays.

What I need is a weekend revival. Small, consistent choices to notice the blessings instead of counting my frustrations. Appreciating the cashier who price matches even though I forgot my list. Being thankful for one hour of naptime freedom to plant some flowers in a long-neglected yard.

Intentional decisions to value my days, no matter the stress or trouble.

And then I had a weekend like this one. A powerful reminder of just how fantastic my life is. And why those little blessings along the way are important to seek out.

Color run with fun gals who make me laugh and embrace the mess. Purchased tickets to Wicked for my NYC birthday trip one month from tomorrow. Afternoon with kids who helped me vacuum and played in the laundry baskets that I emptied. Endless laughing at a twin who couldn't stop saying, "where's my fart gun?" (Seriously, this is my life with 4 boys and an obsession with Despicable Me 2). Stay-in date night with popcorn, pjs and seasons of Smallville. Sunday morning with cartoons and a happy family that miraculously was not late to church (for once).

And, most importantly, sharing in the joy today of watching my Sam get baptized in front of family and friends. Faith in a God who saves us, makes sense of the mess, and gives us hope.

All you weary ones, wishing that your weekends were a little more refreshing...take heart. I don't know about you, but I tend to see what I'm looking for. Anticipating overwhelming stress? That's what I see. But if I search out the blessings, I always find an abundance. What about you?

Seek, and ye shall find. 

Sleep Deprivation, and Other Perils of Motherhood...

After three people asked me with concerned looks if I was okay late this afternoon, I packed up my things, grabbed my purse and headed home. Done.

Bleary-eyed, no focus, shaky and exhausted. I knew it was bad, but by 4:30pm apparently no smile could conceal the truth: I am sleep deprived.

For four long days I've been up literally every single hour between 10pm and 6am with a sick child. We've tried trading off to get more sleep, but even when Ben takes a turn, I still wake up at the crying and end up going in the twins' room anyway.  We've tried bringing the feverish toddler into our bed, only to have him play with my hair and say repeatedly at 3am, "I ready to get up, Mommy!"  No!! And letting him cry it out doesn't really work when there is another little person in the same room as the sickie who you hope doesn't awaken at each scuttle. And so we continued. Four nights of "sleep" (I use that word hypothetically because it really doesn't seem like sleep) in 45 minute increments. Ouch.

I feel like I'm falling apart.  My brain is mush. I can't form a complete sentence to save my life, and last night when the kid had multiple doses of antibiotics and actually rested for a good multi-hour stretch, I experienced the unfortunate misery of being too tired to drift off. Tossing and turning for hours, waking once more with the now-recovering babe and catching a brief four hours of solid sleep before a jolting alarm reminding me of an early morning event. Four hours of sleep. After four long days of no sleep. Nice correlation, eh? 

I am no stranger to sleep deprivation. Sam slept through the night at 12 weeks, but as a first time mommy I thought 12 weeks was torturous. Toby & Gabe....I still can't quite fathom how we survived as two working adults with newborn twins and a preschooler. To be perfectly honest my memories of that time live in pictures only. I have no true recollection of specific days or moments, just a foggy haze of twinfancy. And yet, we functioned. How? I do not know. God's grace, family and friends, and a lot of freaking hard work, really.

So why does it seem so tough today after less than a week of little snoozing?  

I'm not used to it. 

After having difficulty kicking some serious upper respiratory ickiness that keeps popping up over the past 6-9 months, I got the surprising news last week that my childhood allergies have worsened significantly. And I have, apparently, developed asthma. Asthma. 

I can't tell you the irony. I just signed up for two 5k races in April. I just finished a 90 Day Body by Vi Challenge (awesome stuff by the way) and hit my goal - a healthy BMI for the first time since year one of marriage. And yet, in the same week, I'm diagnosed with a chronic disease. Lovely.

Adult onset asthma can be caused by a variety of things, but a big trigger for women....pregnancy. Uh huh. Thank you twinsies for body stress and hormones. Sigh. Tomorrow I get a PFT (pulmonary function test for those of you non-breathing-challenged readers) and Thursday I go for three hour allergy testing. Joy.

Why am I falling apart? 

Every mother sacrifices for her kids. We give up peeing in peace. We give up toned tummies. We give up sleep (already covered that one). We give up hobbies and romance and free time, not entirely but a lot. We give up breathing...okay, that's a stretch but still a little true perhaps in this case...

Willingly, we give it up. Without reservation. From pregnancy to birth to years one, two, three and more...every day, counting our blessings more than the the things we give up. 

But on days like today, I must confess I crave a teeny bit of what I lost.  It doesn't mean I love my kids any less, I swear. But trudging out to my car after work, the prospect of coming home to a house of laundry, runny noses, opening bills, managing chore charts, bathtime, kitchen clean up, filling out allergist pre-appointment paperwork, and fielding a million questions from the littles...didn't sound completely wonderful. I got wistfully teary dreaming of a fictitious life where I could just collapse in bed and sleep. Really sleep.

And then I walked in the door. Smiles on every face.

"Mommy!" 

"Mommy's home!" 

"I loves you Mommy!"

Did my heart good. Three precious boys growing up too fast...so I traded my blissful evening of sleep for movie night couch-time with the kiddos before their bedtime and then mine.

I'm tired.

This mom stuff is hard, but I wouldn't trade it for anything. Seriously. Not a single thing.

Even sleep.

Stick With What Works

I like to do things well. That's not exactly newsworthy.

But the flipside of this is that I have a tendency to stop doing things that I don't find success in. 

Don't get me wrong. I'm not opposed to taking a chance at something new. I just end up not repeating the less than stellar results if it doesn’t turn out so great.

Over the course of my life, I have tried a lot of things. Ice Skating, Basketball (yes, yes I did…all 4 feet of me), Piano, Singing, Math club, Journalism, Politics (If Girls State counts), Cheerleading, Art, Tech crew for plays...

Some things stick around. Goat cheese? Delish. Some things don't. Frog legs? Nah, I'll pass next time. It's not the best trait to have because I tend to shy away from participating in things where I can't excel...like, for instance sports…of any kind. Or dancing in public.

When I ventured into motherhood, I knew I’d be faced with some serious pressure to perform. I am not crafty. I am not the best housekeeper. I am a decent cook, a better baker. My drawings are legendary for their lack of depicting what I’m trying to convey. All things creative really just don’t come naturally to me. Those skills are kind of essential when you need to teach your kiddos ABCs or learn to color pictures.  Kids don’t want organized bullet lists and a beautifully detailed meal plan. They want messy. They want imagination.

I wonder in awe at my family and friends and fellow mommies who are so very talented with all things kids and crafts day after day. In fact, now that I think about it, most of the people closest to me actually do excel in this area…an interesting insight into my subconscious need to surround myself with people who can do things I cannot, apparently.

I digress.

So, the bottom line: I didn’t get the crafty gene.  Unfortunately, it’s kind of a big one when you have kids. I already mentioned that if I give it a good shot and still can’t quite pull out a win, my next step is total and complete avoidance of trying it again.

So I stick with what works.  I bring packaged food to parties.  I do birthday meals out instead of trying to recreate the perfect dish in my home. I buy valentines instead of make them. I don’t even own cookie cutters. Seriously. 

But my mom’s training, my college internships, my PR degree and the endless supply of events I’ve planned professionally have perfectly equipped me for one thing:  I can plan a party.

It’s my skill. It’s my contribution.

I keep a running list on my phone all year of ideas, take pictures as the months go by of things I might want to include. I involve my kids in the process, designing the cake, choosing the theme. Rarely are the ideas mine, I will readily admit. I research for hours and meticulously plan every tiny detail.

I stick with what works.

I know. It’s silly. It’s possibly over the top.  It may cost too much.  It is (in the most recent case) a Pinterest explosion. But bear with me…it is my way of showing my kids that there is a fragment of mommy-ness inside. A little creativity. Some imagination.

And a whole lotta birthday love.

Birthday Boy with the Lego Block cake from Aunt Krystal

Block letters. Lego utensil holder. Lots of primary colors.

Design a lego guy.

Book exchange instead of presents. All the party fun without the need to break the bank. Oh, and guess how many legos in the jar. 

Sam's Speedway! Lego race car races. Hit of the party!

Thanks to an amazing gift from a college student, we had a giant mound of legos for fun building time.

Even the little guys wanted a turn at the races.

Buddies! Gabe, Toby & Dillon.

Happy Sam. Happy Parents. Happy Birthday.

Lots of ideas for the lego party were found athttp://projectmommie.blogspot.com/2013/01/a-lego-race-car-5th-birthday-party.htmlhttp://www.pinterest.com/source/sillyhappysweet.blogspot.com/

Lessons from Thundersnow

In another life (at least it seems that way) on a day much like today, two newlyweds in a suburb of Detroit donned puffy coats from Steve & Barry's and trudged down the hill through the snow to clear the church driveway parking lot before services the next morning. We lived in the warm and cozy parsonage as our compensation for serving the church in youth ministry.

Win for us: No house payment or utilities. Amazing financial opportunity for two young kids just embarking on our marriage journey...and allowing us to pay off an emergency appendectomy (lesson for those of you who think you don't need insurance!). 

Win for them: No more vacant property to be vandalized. And, best of all, onsite labor in the snow.  

I must confess that neither Ben or I fully understood the labor piece. We were newbies to Michigan. Blissfully unaware of the sheer volume of snow that was going to bless us with its presence. It seemed like a great tradeoff in theory...work for the church, live for free, and then be responsible for clearing the driveway and parking lot for Wednesday and Sunday activities in the event of snow. Done. No problem, right?

Until Thundersnow.

Have you ever experienced this particular weather phenomenon?  I hadn't. I honestly didn't even know it could happen.

In Michigan, snow blankets the ground from Halloween to Easter.  A snowstorm is a weekly, often daily, occurrence. Nothing stops. You learn to purchase extra necessities over time so there's no need for a mad dash to the store to stock up before it "arrives." Frankly, you'd live in a constant state of emergency if that was the case.  You learn to drive in it. You get to work on time because snow isn't an excuse for tardiness. Restaurants and schools stay open, and events still happen. It's not that the temperature is warmer or the snow isn't as bad. The real truth is that Michigan-ites are so accustomed to the wintery precip that they plow expertly, salt religiously and life goes on. Granted, they get way more snow than ice. But still. The sheer volume and frequency of snow there is a serious adjustment.

Especially when you are the one responsible for clearing the 1/4 mile driveway and parking lot twice a week. (Interjecting here that Ben says it was nowhere near 1/4 mile and I'm exaggerating. Probably true).

And so we learned quickly. We loaded up on hand warmers, wool socks and super attractive long underwear. We purchased boots, coats and gloves rated for a temperature we couldn't dream of actually being outside in. We (well let's just be real here..) I made a plan of attack: Ben would warm up the tractor while we loaded up the spreader with salt. He would scrape from the driveway entrance to the shed behind the sanctuary while I shoveled the church sidewalk and entryway. Then he would start on the parking lot, while I followed behind dutifully, making perfect parallel lines with the salt spreader. Great team. We could knock it out in under 2 hours. The lot was clear and the walkways were safe. Services and activities could continue on safely. No problem.

Until Thundersnow.

If you've never experienced this particularly amazing weather phenomenon, it is one for the record books.  The official definition (from wikipedia, but who's counting) is a heavy synoptic snowstorm that sustains strong vertical mixing which allows for favorable conditions for lightning and thunder to occur...In the United States...on average, only 6.3 events are reported per year. Thundersnow often produces snowfall rates in the range of 2 to 4 inches per hour. Snowfall of this intensity may limit visibilities severely. 

Imagine an incredibly powerful thunderstorm. Lightning stretching across the sky and thunder booming over and over. A torrential downpour making rivers in your yard and turning the scene outside your window a blurry version of what you know to be out there but can't quite see. Then picture in your mind this same storm, thundering in its strength, and replace the buckets of rain with snow. That, my friends, is thundersnow. 

It only happened once during our two year stint on Squirrel Road. But I won't ever forget it. Despite our standard protocol and best precautions, thundersnow defeated those two brave souls.

We had worked for nearly four hours, and the storm raged on. Our efforts were covered as fast as we could clear, and our muscles were sore with strain. Icicles dropped from every source on our blistery red faces. Eyes, nose, mouth. Beard (not mine...haha). Completely frozen. White-out conditions.

We finally called it.

As we collapsed inside our home, stripping off layers of sweat and snow-soaked clothing and huddling under heated blankets with our feet in warm water, out of breath from exhaustion, we picked up the phone. The church staff was understanding and apologetic. They did not ask us to risk life and limb, but we weathered the storm anyway, out of some sense of obligation and sacrifice, knowing that people were counting on us to get the job done. We had tried our darnedest, but in the end, the thundersnow won. All services and activities were canceled that week, one of the only times I can recall. 

It is a New Year. 

As I bundled up this morning to shovel the driveway in that decade-old teal puffy winter coat and slipped my familiar wool socks into the salt-stained zero degree snowboots, my heart breathed silent prayers of thankfulness. Because my winter gear has survived sub-zero temperatures before. I am prepared and equipped to brave the winter warning because I've been through it...many times. I have what I need. I know how to bundle up so I am protected from the elements. I know to take breaks, drink copious amounts of water, use my legs to avoid back injury and how to expertly avoid excess exertion, maintaining a healthy heart rate. I've got this.

Ben laughs at my willingness to tackle this stuff. Even during our time in Michigan, seeing the snow fall from the sky brought me joy and excitement. I looked forward to the workout. I wanted the challenge. During those long winters, I kept my mind occupied during the frigid swirling blizzards by beating my best time or tracing a perfect geometric path during the feat. What can I say...I'm a freak.

It's not so different than how I approach most things in life. I embrace the challenge. I attack the problem.  I define the issue and make a plan to survive.

But I'm not perfect. 

I forget. I forget my successes. I forget the times I've battled and won. I forget the times I lost but learned from it. And most of all, I forget that the road I've already walked has given me the tools I need to deal with circumstances I face.

I'll admit I'm an eternal optimist, but I just have to believe that we are sum of everything we've lived. You are who you are because of who you are.  You following?

Fights. Friendships. Faith. Finances. Relationships. Unemployment. Miscarriages. Broken Homes. Illnesses. Injuries. Pets. Babies. Jobs. Broken Appliances. Expectations. (Fill in the blank here if I haven't mentioned one of your particular struggles...) The good and the bad. All of it, swirled up and dumped down into one monstrous thundersnow. It rains down so thick there are times we only see the accumulation and not the individual flakes or the progress we've made. What we try to work through gets covered up and it seems all a meaningless mess.

But time passes by and the sun comes out eventually. We are so thankful for the good that when the hard times come again they seem that much worse. And, again, we forget what we've already survived. We don't remember the winter gear or the survival tactics that used to be second nature.  I am guilty of this more than I'd like to admit.

How do we forget that everything in our life has prepared us for this very moment?  Dare I say that everything in our life has happened to ready us for this very moment we are in.

My single biggest resolution for this new year is that my eyes will be open and my heart reflective. I am who I am because of all of it. I need to take the life I have right now, live it, and use it. Take the opportunities to exercise shoveling the snow because I can. Take the time to share wisdom with someone facing a challenge I've survived. Take the time to laugh and grieve and love with those who need it because I, too, need it. Forget the pity and press on with a smile.

Learn from the battles I've won (and lost) so that when I find myself in the midst of thundersnow once more, I'll recognize its power, understand its beauty and appreciate the lesson. 

I've been here before.  I have what I need.  I've got this.