It took me four days to paint a bunk bed.  It would be one thing if I could say “to paint a bunk bed well” but I can’t quite claim that.  On day three I was surly, feeling like there was no reason this project should be consuming my week.  How did all afternoon only produce a few white boards?

There was that quick interruption when I had to change sheets (twice) on account of a two year old having a rough day and wetting them.  Also on the subject of potty troubles, I plunged the toilet twice on account of a four year old who believes one roll of toilet paper per sitting should do the job.  It would have been quick clean up if he had thought to get me instead of flushing again…and again… and again until the floor and rugs were sopping wet with dirty water.  Oops.  That load of laundry included five towels and two rugs.

Then “I just need to switch laundry real quick” turned into “How did the mudroom get this muddy?” which turned into a quick vacuum, dumping muddy pants into the washer, and of course returning to the paint project.

About that time I heard a bus and two more heads appeared with, “Where’s our snack?”  ”Here’s my homework.”  ”Don’t forget to sign this.”  ”I’m still hungry.”  ”When’s dinner?”

Dinner it was and well after that before I found the paint smudge on my nose.

After all was quiet and four little eyes were closed in sleep I went to switch the laundry again.  Hanging over my old, breaking dryer I recalled my first sobering “I can only do so much!” moment as a parent and how it was ironically spurred by a laundry commercial.

It was the middle of the night and I was nursing a baby in the dark living room with the TV on in miserable attempt to keep my eyes open.  I’m certain there was yet more laundry piled on the floor, dried spit up on the couch armrest, and a pile of toys I couldn’t summon energy to clean before bed.  I do remember it had been a day similar to the painting day- full of interruptions and good intentions derailed.  One of those days you can’t recall what you did, but wow- was it ever hectic.

On came an Electrolux commercial with Kelly Ripa.

Nothing like a tan, perky, put together woman grinning her way through a demonstration of an amazing washer and dryer while I’m curled up on the couch with a nursing baby, bed head, retainers in, to make me feel… un-perky.  I’m sorry Kelly, I’m trying to hear what you’re saying but your amazing biceps are distracting me.  Will the washer and dryer make my hair silky and flippable like that?  I think I may be drooling.  (Oh, nope- that was the baby.)  Good NIGHT woman how do you get those teeth so white?!  Did you pick that outfit?  The color is fabulous… how old are these pajama pants I’m wearing? Read the rest of this entry

I have not mentioned enough how fantastic it is raising boys, especially two of them less than two years apart and completely different from each other… yet completely brothers.

Tractors, legos, inappropriate jokes about anything having to do with bodily functions, strong wills, weapons… and still snuggling with Mom.

My oldest rolls her eyes at the younger hooligans but she likes transformers.  She went against the second grade trend by inviting all her classmates to her birthday, not just girls because “boys play better outdoor games anyway”.  She informed me her favorite color is green- pink and purple are “just too… girly or something”.  Suddenly she’s over princesses and fascinated by Nellie Bly, Elizabeth Blackwell, and Harriet Tubman.

I was painting her nails last week and in her impatience she smudged them.  Sighing she said, “I just don’t know if I’m that kind of girl, Mom.”
“What kind of girl?”
“The kind that does nail painting.  I just don’t know if I care about it and I definitely don’t care about looking fancy and nice when I leave the house like you do.”
With another dramatic sigh she concluded, “I’m not with the boys all the time but I’m also not girly like the girls.  Sometimes it’s like no one understands me.  I don’t think there’s anyone like me.”

Hiding my giggles was ridiculously hard.  It took all my willpower to not say, “Really, mini-Shilo?  Nobody gets your tree climbing, non-conformist, deep sighing, nose in a book, writing, theatrical self?  Have you even seen my second grade picture?”
Instead I just nodded… understandingly.  ”You are definitely one of a kind, Darla J.  But… um… have you seen me ride a dirt bike?”

I was greatly anticipating a trip to Portland last week because my list had grown long of reasons to go.  My cousins were in town and after a couple years of missed connections, I was looking forward to time together.  I was giddy to meet my college roommate’s new baby.  After years of praying, complications, and losing their firstborn daughter, by God’s grace they have a little boy and I didn’t want to wait any longer to meet him.  My other cousin was moving into a new house and I committed to spending a day and a half helping her get settled.  I planned a morning of prayer with my aunt who does healing prayer ministry.  I called up another close friend for an overnight and coffee on New Year’s Eve.

Sean and I decided it would be good for me to have time with Darla so I invited her to come with me.  Then because of his work schedule, Sean suggested I take Haley so that he’d be flexible with just the boys.

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