Though it be madness, yet there is method in it!

Flashback Friday - When he became "Dad"

I feel ~~moderately~~ really guilty about Father's Day. Just a month ago, I dedicated an entire weeks worth of blogs to Mother's Day, and here it is the Friday before the big day and I haven't even mentioned the F-word yet. There are lots of ~~good~~ reasons for this:

I'm not a dad, and we all know my sun rises and sets on me.
I'm way too busy talking about other [increasingly random] things.
I'm trying to pretend it's not just a couple of days away because I (still) don't know what to do for a present to show my gratitude to the most amazing father I know - the father of my children.
It is impossible to buy gifts for the father of my children, so I procrastinate about it for as long as is humanly possible. (I think I'm doing pretty well. See, I'm good at some things!)

I waffled over whether to flashback this Friday to my own childhood and remember all of the memories with my own father or to showcase the man in my life that everyone always knew would make a great daddy. For now, I'm choosing the latter...and spinning it as a portion of his Father's Day present (along with unraveling the 2-foot diameter bundle of cords in our hall closet, isn't that good enough?).

Unlike myself, who never knew what kind of mother I would be or even if I truly wanted to have kids, Sam was destined to be a father. He was the one with all of the babysitting jobs growing up, while I preferred to make a couple of dollars cleaning houses. There was no kid-watching challenge he couldn't handle. When we were dating, he would tell me about his experiences with all of the children he'd cared for, and I was in awe.

"You watched someone's six kids!? At one time!?"

"You helped potty-train a child that wasn't even your own!?"

"You kept other people's kids overnight?!"

I would watch him interact with kids, and it made me fall in love with him even more. And, to be honest, it also made me a little bit jealous. He just had "it". And by "it", I mean the trait that enabled him to be a natural around kids. (I surely did not have "it".) They liked him. They flocked to him. Even more impressively, they listened to him.

When it came time for us to welcome our first into the world, naturally, I was a nervous wreck. And just as naturally, Sam was excited, poised, and more than ready to take on the role. (If he was nervous, he sure didn't let on to anyone, myself included.)

On September 5, 2003, we met our little Benjamin. (Well, he was 8lbs 14oz, but he was still little to us!) And while it took me a while to realize that I was, in fact, a mother, Sam stepped seamlessly and with gusto into the role of "daddy" (even if we did look like we were 14 years old).

And everything I needed to know about parenting, I learned from him.

It brings tears to my eyes thinking about what an amazing father he is. And I hope that I don't ever take it for granted that he has, from day one, changed diapers, rocked colicky babies, shown me how to hold gassy babies, encouraged me throughout the trials of nursing, known the right thing to say to stop a toddler from crying, the time and place for distraction versus discipline. He has played both good cop and bad cop as the circumstances required and sometimes entirely on his own. He knows how to evoke a laugh from the grumpiest of children by knowing all of their tickle spots. He reads books with funny voices. He even remembers to give them every dose of their prescription medicine when they've got (most commonly) the recurring ear infections.

He does it all.

It has taken me a while, but I've stopped being jealous, and I've started being proud. I'm so proud of the man that I married. I am so proud of the father that he is and was always meant to be.

When we were dating he told me he would love to have a big family. Six kids, even. While I thought he was crazy then (and I still do, a little bit now), I finally understand why someone would want to surround themselves with children. They are God's most precious gift to us. And Sam figured that out years before ever having one of his own.

Despite living in a time and place where, with each passing day, the value of a father figure is becoming less and less cherished, I am blessed to be able to say that my very own better half has set an excellent example of what it means to be a husband and what it means to be more than just "a father" - what it means to be a dad.

I love you, Sam. We are all so grateful for you.

Happy Father's Day!

In closing, may we all - dads and moms - remember that our children are only little for a few blinks of the eye. I hope we all cherish these moments. It won't be like this for long.

How to Know You're a Mom...Wednesday Again!

The top of your refrigerator is not just for jumping off of (you decide if that's a joke or not), it is also where all of the confiscated toys that have been used inappropriately (mostly as weapons) are banished before mysteriously disappearing.

Your children have a propensity to spill an entire sandwich baggie full of shelled peanuts on the garage floor, break a beaded necklace on the tiled kitchen floor, or drop anything else that requires the use of the vacuum cleaner to prevent your one year old from feasting on tiny bits as you head out the door (a) when you're actually on time for once, and (b) when you're the latest you've ever been.

You feel a little bit guilty for not realizing sooner that all of the wooden pieces that were stacked precariously by your creative six year old on your work-in-progress playground project were actually nothing but hazardous projectiles sitting there waiting for the perfect opportunity to fall on said six year old's head.

You subsequently discovered that your son's hair is so thick that it is impossible to ice top-of-the-head goose eggs. After twenty minutes of sitting in a recliner with a baggie of ice on his skull, his scalp was still hot underneath that mop of hair. (I guess we can give all of his knit hats to his younger siblings, clearly the hair is doing a good enough job.)

Every once in a while your bird-of-an-eater daughter cleans her plate without objection. And when this happens, you totally take her picture. (And vow to make chicken tacos at least once a week.)

You don't actually hate Barney. In fact, you greatly appreciate Barney for his part in your childrens' blossoming intelligence.

Thanks to Publix and their free cookies for kids, you find that instead of complaining about having to go, they ask to go to the grocery store. Not only that, but by saving the free cookie for the end of the trip, you have an excellent bargaining chip to hang over their heads the whole time. (i.e. - "Stop touching each other or I'm going to eat your cookie.") It's a can't-lose situation. Thank you, Publix. From the bottom of my heart.

Despite repeated attempts to convince your three year old they're called "servers", she still refers to all waiters and waitresses as "Kitchen Boy" and "Kitchen Girl".

You are willing to bet that 100% of your one year old's accident reports at daycare involve her running as the reason she got injured.

You panic when you discover your three year old's bed empty in the middle of the night, only to find that she has been sneaking into your six year old's empty bed while he's off for a week at Grandaddy & Grammie's house. In reality, you know she's probably doing it because he has flashlights and other cool things to play with in there, but you also like to think it's because she misses him. And that's sweet.

The Worthiest of Causes

I know that becoming a mom made me lots of things. It made me a milk factory, a nurser of wounds, an encourager of dreams, a maid, a referee, a broken record (I mean really, how many times do I have to remind my kids to go to the bathroom before we leave the house?). The list goes on and on.

But there's something else that being a mom makes me.

Emotional.

I am touched more deeply than I used to be by stories about broken homes, ailing families, homeless babies, sick children, and what I can only imagine is the ultimate sadness in the life of a parent - the death of children.

I am a part of a large online community of moms that have impacted my life in a huge way. I never imagined that I could develop close friendships in an online setting, but I am here to testify that it is indeed possible. (Though I suspect some of you reading this will have your doubts.) I have come to think of these women as confidants, best friends, family I've never met.

Through these many interactions and developed friendships, I have borne witness to countless joys. The births of babies, milestones, brag-worthy moments in the lives of our children, job promotions, new homes, new marriages...just to name a few. But I have also been by the sides of many who have experienced pain from severed marriages to the death of parents to miscarriages at various stages of pregnancy to the death of precious newborn babies at the hands of horrible diseases.

I have been blessed with three healthy babies. And every time I read a story about the loss of a child, I am reminded of that blessing. I try to imagine the pain that those parents must be feeling, and I know that I can't. Not even when I am moved to tears and sobs. I know it's not even a fraction of the grief they must be experiencing.

Earlier today at We Aren't Perfect, I read a beautiful, heartwrenching blog post about the worthiest of causes, the TEARS foundation that provides support for bereaved parents. I encourage you to check out both of those links, and to consider donating in the form of money, prayers, or by sharing this with others who might be moved to help out.

To the parents who've suffered losses, my heart and prayers go out to you. May you find some comfort in that God knows exactly how you are feeling.

And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus. Philippians 4:7

Thank you, as always, for reading!

I will be back tomorrow with some more of this stuff: How to Know You're a Mom

Choose Your Own Adventure

I was reminded of this book series the other day. Just the mention of it brought a smile to my face, along with a rush of warm fuzzies. I loved these books.

For some reason, when I was a kid, it seems that we only ever went to the library in the summertime. (Most likely for the summer reading program that awarded us with our very own personal pan pizzas from Pizza Hut, but I digress. Already.) I was a huge bookworm when I was little. I'd walk into the library, hang a right, and pour over the shelves grabbing the next four or five books from all of the series I was reading: Nancy Drew, Babysitter's Club, Fear Street, and the highly exciting Choose Your Own Adventure series. I'd finish all 10+ books in less than two weeks and return for more.

I could talk about the merits and/or drawbacks of sitting inside all summer reading by the air conditioner vent, but that's not what this blog is about. (Not today, anyway.)

It's just that the more I reminisce about this little book series, the more the sheer genius of it hits home.

For those of you who aren't familiar with it, as the reader, we were in control of the fate of the characters. After the basic plot was set up, the protagonist was faced with a decision to make that would be something like, "If you decide to go down the waterfall in the raft, turn to page 3. If you decide to paddle back to shore, turn to page 4."

There would be a lot more choices before the story concluded with finding a big sum of money/saving the day/getting lost in the jungle forever/dying a gruesome death.

Youth literature in the 80's and 90's was hardcore.

The thing that gets me now, as I think back on this delightfully exciting book series, is that it's just one big analogy for this life. Life is nothing but a series of choices...start to finish. And regardless of the choices we make, it's one big adventure. No doubts about that.

Occasionally, I've wondered how life might have played out differently for me if I'd have chosen band over sports in high school, if I'd chosen to stay in state for college versus moving 800 miles from home, if I'd chosen to take one of my other job offers instead of the one where I am today, if we'd stayed in our last house, if we'd chosen a different daycare for our children. The thing is, it doesn't matter. You can't flip the pages back if you don't like the outcome of your choices. Sunshine or gloom, it's our adventure. The difference between these books and real life, though, is that we don't have to wait for a crossroads to make a choice. If the adventure isn't going the way we planned, we have the power to make a choice right now.

For me, I'm absolutely thrilled with where my decisions have gotten me. I also know that I was not alone in making those decisions. In fact, the times in my life when I had the hardest decisions to make were the times I had the most peace, because I prayed, heard, and actually listened to what I was hearing. I believe God speaks to us through the Holy Spirit. I believe the Holy Spirit speaks to me in the form of gut instinct. It's a powerful thing and, so far, hasn't steered me astray. There have, however, been times when "my gut" told me the right choice, I ignored it, and, as a result, I ended up in a pickle. ("A pickle" is just a more fun way of saying "a really crappy place".)

But the choices are unending; some significant, some seemingly insignificant, some truly meaningless. Tonight, I choose to go home and enjoy my little girls while their big brother is off having some Grandaddy time. I choose to try to convince my late-working husband to grab a bite to eat with me so I don't have to cook. Tomorrow, I will be faced with more choices. Maybe some of them will be quite serious. Maybe they won't. But the fact is, those choices, all of them, are what make up my adventure.

Here's hoping I choose wisely.

And just maybe I'll manage to have a little bit of fun along the way!

Flashback Friday: Hotter than Georgia Asphalt

You might be familiar with the Alan Jackson song "Chattahoochee" (then again, you might not). No matter, either way. There's a line in the chorus that goes....

Went down yonder on the Chattahoochee

It gets hotter than a hoochie coochie

We laid rubber on the Georgia asphalt

Got a little crazy, but we never got caught

Apart from the apparent obvious and wildly inappropriate definition (in the realm of my family-oriented blog at least) of a hoochie coochie, I've learned that the hoochie coochie was actually a provocative dance made popular at the World's Fair in the late 1800's. Slightly less risque, but along the same vein as the inferred meaning.

And since I'm quite prudish I'm electing not to talk about that any further.

I will mention another phrase in that chorus. That's right. The Georgia asphalt.

If you haven't spent a summer in the South (or some other place that's ridiculously hot), you can't really appreciate the significance of hot Georgia Asphalt. I've never tried it, but I wholeheartedly believe you could fry an egg on it. Shoot, you could probably fry an egg on the white, concrete sidewalk. Despite my penchant for going around barefoot, regrettably, that isn't an option down here in the summertime.

I just walked outside to my van from my office. As I opened the front door, I felt a burst of sticky heat that made me want to retreat back inside where the air conditioner is doing its darndest to keep up. It's not terribly unlike the feeling when you're baking something and you open the over door to peek in at it. Actually, that's an almost perfect analogy.

I'm sorry. I'm dwelling on this. Heat and humidity of this magnitude makes me grumpy.

Really, when the heat index at 8pm is one degree shy of 100, that's just wrong. And this isn't even the hottest, most humid day in the imminent forecast.

Gross.

At least my kids don't seem to mind it as much. Maybe there is something to being born down here. Perhaps heat tolerance is a product of your environment, and it's just going to take me some more time. I have definitely gotten better (though you can't necessarily tell from my habitual whining about the subject).

Sure they get red cheeks and sweaty hair, but they still opt for outdoor play over inside play every time.

Here are just a few "flashbacks" of some of those hot, fun moments. There was that time last summer when we took our babies for a walk on the hottest day yet, in mid-July.

And got back from it looking like this:

Then there was the most beautiful, albeit "warmest" wedding we'd ever attended a month prior to that, where my gorgeous kids were the ringbearer and flower girl dressed in full wedding regalia...and nary a peep was heard from them about the heat. (But it might have helped that Abby employed a battery-operated fan mid-ceremony.)

After the ceremony was over, a clever Daddy cooled his girls off by sitting on the a/c vent inside (with a little help from Uncle Simon and his cardboard box fanning action).

Then there was the recent school fundraiser/fun run, where it wasn't necessarily hot but insanely humid, and my big man ran his little heart out.

And following in the footsteps of her older siblings, here's my precocious one year old playing outside just last night without regard to the temperature, donning the pink cheeks just like her big brother and sister.