Three women down, about a million to go

1. I learned that Google has preference settings.

Did y'all know that? I did not know this. I did not know that you can set your preference to be G rated or X rated.

I found out the yucky way.

2. I learned how to get images of p*rn out of my head.

I found that out the yucky way too.

Here is what happened. I needed a motheryish photo for the mom carnival on Friday. So, around 6am, still half asleep, I googled "women" and hit images.

And oh. Ohhhhhhhhhh. I got me some images all right.

Well, that woke me up before I had even a sip of Folgers.

I assumed we must have a virus. After going here to download several free virus scans, and all of them assuring me that my computer was clean, I did some more googling to the effect of "help disgusting p*rn images are coming up on Google" and that is when I learned about ye old preference button.

It's immediately to the right of the search box. Clicking Preferences will open a list. One category looks like this:

SafeSearch Filtering	Google's SafeSearch blocks web pages containing explicit sexual content from appearing in search results.
	Use strict filtering (Filter both explicit text and explicit images) Use moderate filtering (Filter explicit images only - default behavior) Do not filter my search results.

click Strict.
Trust me.
Strict strict strict strict strict.

That cleared up the problem with the images appearing on my computer.

Now, if only I could get them out of my head.

For some reason, I have a heart for women who are involved in the sex industry. I know a thing or two about childhood sexual abuse and I believe that if I sat down and had a long talk with an overwhelming majority of these women, my heart would tear in a thousand pieces. So aside from the fact that three images were ingrained in my mind - and they were bad, y'all - I just kept wondering what these women might have endured when they were the same ages as my daughters are now that caused them to be so disrespectful to their own bodies.

The whole thing made me sick to my stomach.

Three hours later, after dropping the kids off at school I still felt that way. Just could not shake those images or that feeling. I sat in my car and prayed that God would take the images away.

He answered. And here is how he did it.

First, after trying all morning to forget, God led to remember each image, to fixate on it. Then I prayed specifically for her, whose name I did not know, but whom God did. I prayed that she would cry out to him and that he would answer her so loudly and supernaturally that it would rock her world to the core. I prayed that she would ask for forgiveness, and be healed, and restored, and live the rest of her life to the glory of Christ.

And as I did, I pictured her naked body being clothed in white robes of righteousness. And those are the images that come to my mind right now.

I wondered if I was the only person in the world praying for each woman. I bet I was. And you know what? I no longer felt nauseated, I felt honored. I actually thanked God for allowing me to stumble across them.

Weird. What a weird and wonderful Lord.
To him be the glory.


Click to Musings of a Housewife for more.

Giveaway winner

The lucky NEW winner is Mrs. Naz at Becoming Me!

But for Haagen Dazs, maybe

Just now, I was lying in bed and felt a "kick" from within.

Trust me, it was not a kick. Womb service is still closed, y'all. But this "kick" was strong enough to make the bible on my stomach move a little. My bible.

That's some impressive tummy rumblings. I know, you're jealous.

I hear phantom babies crying, and I feel phantom fetuses kicking. I wonder how long this will last? A vision comes to mind: ancient Missy, lying in a nursing home, grabbing Walker's skinny wrinkled hand and resting on my expansive waist and saying through toothless gums: "You feel my baby honey? Eh? He's busy today!"

Which may or may not be nothing more than an evil ploy to get him to run to KFC at 10pm and buy me some mashed potatoes and brown gravy.

Which is almost worth getting pregnant again for, come to think of it.




Nah.

Giveaway winner

Random Integer Generator

Here are your random numbers:

56

Timestamp: 2009-03-28 18:45:43 UTC

Number 56 is: Laura

Congrats!

Laura, I don't have any information for you, so be sure and shoot me an email!

itsalmostnaptime @ gmail.com

Mom to Mom

Okay, mommies, bring on your wisdom for our first Mom to Mom carnival!

The question for today is: What is the best parenting advice you ever received?

Here is one of mine:

The way they treat you at 3 is the way they will treat you at 13.

I don't remember who told me this but it runs through my head pretty much daily.

For instance, Maggie is in her Terrible Threes. And Maggie is also about the cutest thing on the planet. So when Mags crosses her arms, sticks out her lower lip, closes her eyes, looks upward, stamps her size 7 foot and says, "NO!" I want to laugh. It's just cute, that's all there is to it.

Then this phrase runs through my mind and I have an image of a 15 year old Maggie, looking like a Bratz doll, looking me right in the face and saying "NO!" and you know what? Not. Cute. Not even a little bit cute.

Would I ignore backtalk from a twelve year old? Nope. Then I can not ignore it from a two year old. I'd rather nip it in the bud with a toddler than try and change a ten year habit with a teenager. And end up on SuperNanny.

This phrase has given me the strength to discipline one of my children many a time when the urge to blow it off ran deep.

So, what about you? Either leave a link or a comment.

Can't wait to hear what y'all have to say!

1. Sincerely Anna 2. Stephanie 3. Amy @ MomsToolbox (Panel of Mentor Mom advice) 4. Katie

5. Bobbi @ MomE & Loving It 6. Stacey@Not for Profit,but for Joy 7. NIcole @ Life in Progress 8. Carmine@Heilig Family Journey

9. Amy 10. Stephanie @Life with the Ralphs

Powered by... Mister Linky's Magical Widgets.

Giveaway time!!

This one is awesome, y'all.

First I have to tell you who these peeps are.

I have a real friend named Amanda. Real as in, I get to see her almost every Sunday, which is a blessing because Amanda is the coolest. Amanda has a real friend named Gillian. I got to bloggy-know and pray for Gillian last year before her son Joseph, who was Eva Rose's age almost exactly, went home to Jesus. Lately Gillian and I have been emailing a lot, and now Gillian is a real friend. One that unfortunately I don't get to see. And one who happens to be pregnant and for that I am THRILLED BEYOND BELIEF, even if she is so fatigued she can't see straight.

Gillian has a sister, Lynn. Lynn sells stationery and other cute paper products here. And that, my invisible friends, is where you come in, because Lynn has a giveaway!! (insert Oprah-esque squeals and applause!)

Lynn is giving away 50 calling cards (as shown below) or 50 mommy cards, your choice. The calling cards make great gift enclosures (you can get kids' names on them too.) Mommy cards are business cards for mommies, so that when you meet that other cool mom and you want to give her your cell, you don't have to set down a squirming toddler and two lunchboxes and a nap mat and your keys and dig in a diaper bag for a crayon covered with Desitin and the sticky remains of a cough drop. You just whisk out a cute card with all your stats, and for a brief and shining moment look like One of Those Mommies Who Has It All Together. I have some myself and, when I remember to put them in my purse, they are fantastic.

Here's what you get to choose from:



Could those be any prettier?

Y'all might should listen closely to these instructions:

Go here to Lynn's Store,

Browse a spell and then come back and leave a comment that says what your favorite item is.

I will select a winner on Saturday.

Have fun!!

What I learned this week.

Musings of a Housewife is doing this new carnival called What I Learned This Week. You can go here to play along.

Here's what I learned this week.

One day, I learned that famous movie stars can fall skiing and suffer a seemingly minor head injury which will soon lead to a tragic death.

The next day, I learned that if my almost two year old child decides to throw a tantrum on a driveway and in doing so hurls his body back and WHACKS his head on the concrete, even though it appears to be minor, I will completely freak out.

Here's what Ike learned this week: Grass soft. Concrete hurt.

Everything you always wanted to know about parenting but were too overwhelmed and exhausted to remember to ask

Y'all enjoyed the advice from other moms so much during our "Older wink wink Mom" carnival, and the sense of community was so sweet, that it got my brain a-churnin. I have an idea that you might want to play along with.

On Friday, I am going to do another Mr. Linky with a question involving parenting. I am not sure just how this will play out, how often (I am telling you, I cannot stand the pressure of a regular blog feature. Fit Fridays just about sent me into anxiety attacks. Really. So it will not be regular regular. It will be spontaneous. The same way I do everything, from cooking dinner to conceiving children.)

(Could I ramble a little more? It's late. And I just got back from a fairly deep bible study.)

(As opposed to a shallow bible study. Do those exist?)

(Ok, speaking of. Can I tell you how DISAPPOINTED I was to see the Osteens on my surrogate grandparents' TV show today?? Oh, girl, don't get me started.)

(This is what is called Webbing. We learned that in the Love & Respect conference. It is when women jump from topic to topic and don't get to the point. Men don't do that and tend to hate it when we do. My ribs were just about bruised from you-know-who's elbows during that part of the video.)

Where was I?

Yes. I was thinking that on a quasi-regular basis, I would do a Mr. Linky involving parenting advice. Just what has worked for you. Because after reading 2736 books on parenting, I have learned 90% of my best tips from other mommies.

So this Friday, I am going to ask this question: What is the best advice about parenting you ever received?

I like this question because you can answer if your child is 4 or 40.

On Friday, you can either link to your blog post answer, or leave a comment.

Sound fun? And if you have any ideas for future questions, leave me a comment here.

Ok, I am going to go torture my husband with some webbing now. Because I am the original SpiderWoman.

Night!

I'm over at Lisa's today.

A little Sabbath link love

My friend Amy will send you a bookmark to read through the Bible in a year: click here.

Amanda gets very real here.

And while we're on the topic of getting real,
Sandy is discussing her experience with depression in a series here.

This is made me laugh out loud.

Jo-Lynne tells how to design your own blog button here.

Elizabeth's giving away a book here
(and I will have a cool giveaway this week - keep posted!)

And admit it - when you were a little girl, to be one of these was your greatest dream.

Reflections on...maggots

I'm back y'all!
With about the weirdest midnight post I've ever written.


Quite a few years ago, I was single still and owned a little house. I threw lots of parties at that little house and one of them was a goodbye barbecue for our friend Dave, who was moving to Dallas to attend seminary.

The Tuesday after this party was trash day. I intended to roll my big black City of Houston trashcan down to the curb before I left for work. Before I did, I glanced inside at the trash bags collected from the remnants of the barbecue. And crawling among my trash can were lots of little maggots.

"I'm okay," I told myself as I got in my car. "It's okay. I am okay." And I almost was. Until I remembered that scene from The Lost Boys when he looks into the Chinese takeout rice he is eating and sees maggots. About two blocks from home, I pulled over, opened the car door, and threw up in a vacant parking lot.

I remembered this story tonight as I was reading A Marriage Without Regrets. Kay Arthur tells a similar story that happened when she was 14. Now, Kay was 14 about sixty years ago. And yet, sixty years later, the memory of those maggots "makes her skin crawl."

Just what is it about maggots that has this effect on us?

They are not the grossest looking creatures. They are just little and white - not nearly as disgusting as the giant Texas cockroaches I encounter on a far-too-regular basis. At the time the trashcan incident happened, I wasn't even positive what maggots were (fly larvae, fyi). Or what they did. But the very sight of them made me revisit my breakfast.

Now I know this is a gross topic but it is incredibly intriguing to me because, as much as I utterly deplore and am terrified of cockroaches, I have never once thrown up at the sight of one. But we all have very visceral reactions to maggots. And if I am anything like Kay, my stomach will still churn at the memory of Dave's barbecue maggots for another fifty years.

Something deep within our soul reacts to maggots, in the same way that I believe we are intrinsically frightened of snakes and spiders.

We should be thankful for them. Without maggots, animals would die and just - stay there. Dead. The roadsides of Texas would be littered with millions of armadillos.

And maggots have other redeeming qualities: scientists are use them in medicine to clean out wounds, because maggots only eat the decaying flesh and leave the healthy flesh alone. After that fateful day, I googled "Help! I have maggots in my trashcan!" and came across many websites saying if your dog gets maggots in a wound, leave them there (ugh.) They are much more exacting than a surgeon's scalpel. So, technically, maggots are a blessing.

So, why are repulsed at the mere thought of them?

I have a theory: it is because deep down, we know why maggots exist. Even if we aren't completely conscious of their ecological purpose, in our hearts, in our souls, we know what they do.

They eat flesh. Decaying flesh.
They rely - they thrive - on death.

I believe God has written on our hearts that maggots are a sign of the Fall - they are only necessary because there is decaying flesh all around, and that decaying flesh is a result of Adam and Eve's sin. Of my sin. Of the same sin that ate the fruit and nailed the Son of God to a cross.

When we see them, squirming around as they binge greedily on a once living creature, our souls confront mortality, and our souls recoil.

This afternoon I watched the movie Blades of Glory. Now, this is one of the dumbest movies ever. And oh, how I laughed. I don't believe we have watched an adult movie while the children were in the room before, but they were this afternoon. The movie is fairly innocuous and I figured they would laugh at the ice skating. What I didn't factor in was the cursing.

Blades of Glory's curse words are not on the varsity team - only the d-word, the h-word, an occasional s-word. Shepherd and Eva Rose were half watching, half playing but when the characters cursed, my eyes would dart to them to see their reaction.

They didn't look up, they didn't even flinch. I realized it was because they just didn't know those words. They've never heard the a-word. They didn't even realize it was bad.

Oh, what innocence, to not even flinch.

Then it occurred to me that, were my children not in the room and thereby making me hyper-aware, I wouldn't have flinched either. I hear these words often enough - and yes, even sometimes say them - that I have become oblivious to them as my children are. But not because of innocence, oh, no.

When did I begin flinching?
And more telling, when did I quit?

Tonight, for some reason Walker and I began talking about when I first came to orientation at the University of Texas. All of the freshmen received a AIDS prevention brochure in from the University about safe s*x. In this brochure, there was a list of "safe activities" and "unsafe activities." The unsafe list had terms that I had never, ever heard before.

My roommate and I discussed the strange unsafe practices, consulted with friends, then guffawed when we were "enlightened" at some of the bizarre (and unsafe, according to this brochure) things some people do in the name of s*xual pleasure. God's beautiful plan for loving, married couples perverted in the most absurd and obscene ways. I giggled as a little of my innocence - already holding on by a thread by the age of 18 - was lost.

Some of the things on that list still repulse me to remember. Some of them, however, I don't think would, these twenty years later. I've heard it all again since then. I've heard even worse.

When did I stop flinching?

When did I get so blase when confronted with wickedness?

When did my soul cease to recoil at sin that leads to death?

When did I quit even noticing it?

When Jesus sends his disciples out to save the lost of Israel, he said, “Behold, I send you out as sheep in the midst of wolves. Therefore be wise as serpents and innocent as doves."

Wisdom and innocence is a very delicate balance. How can I know when to recoil, and still be wise? How can I remain innocent when the world around me constantly bombards me with depravity? How do I keep a clean heart and a pure mind in a world that glorifies evil?

I want to reject the sin that devours the decaying flesh around me. I want maggots to be unleashed in my life for medicinal purposes. I want them to eat away at the flesh of my old self, the flesh that wants more than anything to jump on board with the world until I am so immune to sin that I never, ever flinch.

Yet I want my soul, the soul that seeks holiness, to remain. Cleansed. More precisely than a surgeon's scalpel. As precisely as a double-edged sword.

Dear God, show me how to be in the world and not of it. May my sin and the sins that surround me, the evidence of death that feasts on my soul, repulse me so much more than those maggots.

Snips and snails and lizard tails

It's Almost Naptime is on Spring Break.

And when it's over, we're gonna party like its 1999.

We are young

No one can tell us we're wrong.


Searching our hearts for so long, both of us knowing:
Love is a battlefield.

Thing 965 that Fourth Child does that never ever occurred to the other three not once not ever

Bites the heads off of bats while singing "Crazy Train."


Ok, not really.
What he does bite off are marker tips, which then causes them to explode all over his face and clothes.


And then get real irritated at his mom when she tries to take a picture.

Usually he is is sweet enough to do this right when we are about to leave to go somewhere. Because I just love to change his entire outfit and try unsuccessfully to wipe away the fake blood when I am already fifteen minutes late to wherever I am going.

Thoughtful boy.

(pardon the blurry shots, my camera has PMS)

Y'all might should take note

A friend in my neighborhood playgroup sent a message out on one of the 18 yahoo groups of which I am a proud member asking if anyone wanted to go to the Houston Livestock Show. Now, it is Spring Break, aka, A Week of Desperate Mothering. Getting out of the house is priority one. And my kids would love looking at all the gigantic steer and baby chicks and not be at all concerned that their mom was holding her nose and screaming "Don't step in that!" between offers of Purell squirts.

If I went, I might have to take all four which would be both nerve wracking and potentially dangerous (an image of Ike being kicked in the head by a longhorn comes to my paranoid mind.) But if I were with other olfactory assaulted friends, it might be easier, and anything is better than staying at home - oh, the decisions one must make in mothering. All a mom can really do in such tenuous circumstances is remain non-committal. So I typed, "I might could do Friday" and hit reply.

And someone replied back to comment/laugh about my use of "might could".

Now, sweet Yankee friends, y'all don't say "might could" or "might shouldn't" or "might would" or "might better" or the best one of all, "might hada oughta." And it's a pity - almost on the level of your lack of the most glorious contraction of all: y'all.

But since it seems that the entire country has finally seen the light and does use y'all at least on occasion, it seems proper for me to give you a lesson a the glory of the double modal.

I first learned that this even had a name when I done goed to kollege and took some linguistics classes, most notably one called Language and Gender which was hard as heck but fascinating. We discussed some aspects of Southern speech including the double modal. Let me share y'all in my learnin.

Modals belong to a category of auxiliary verbs that includes would, ought, must, should, and have to, and the double modal is used almost always as a "softening agent". It's the Downy of Southern speech. (It is also almost exclusively female. The only masculine example that comes to my mind is this one: "You might should ask your momma before you...")

So we Southern females use it most often for two reasons: 1) to remain non-committal, as in my Livestock Show example, and 2) when what we have to say might could be a little hard to hear and bless your heart, we don't want to hurt your feelings. It's an imperative disguised as a gentle suggestion - but we all know what it means. Ignore it, and a prayer chain might could get started starring you.

Some examples:

"You might should go back to your hairdresser and ask her to please just cut your hair again just a little tiny bit right there maybe."

"You know, if you ate a teensy bit less bbq pork rinds, you might could get back in your skinny jeans."

"Sweetie, the Lord has layed it on my heart that we might should better pray about whether you ought to do that Song of Solomon interpretive dance at the nursing home visitation."

"Oh, I'd love to watch all four of your kids for all of Spring Break, but I might not can now. If you had just called me last week, I might would've been able to, dern it."

"Precious as they are, you might had oughta wait until after Easter to wear those white shoes, else the fashion police might could give you a ticket. (And might should.)"

See what I mean? Beautiful and oh so utilitarian.
How in the world does the rest of the country sweetly boss each other around without it?

Five years later, the dream has yet to be realized

This picture was when Shep was seven months old. And so stinking adorable it almost makes me cry to look at that picture.

And this one.


And this one.


Oh, he was SO CUTE.

One weekend about this time Mimi offered to take him to her house overnight. All night. Keep him all night long. Overnight.

What, we asked? You mean, go to bed with no thought of being awakened in the middle of the night by little cries? And not watch Shep do his 1am comedy routine on the video monitor? No 6am wakeup call? No amazing amount of absolutely necessary baby gear to pack in a diaper bag for the two hours we would be at church? No worrying about forgetting a bottle? You mean after seven months, we could wake up, drink some coffee, get ourselves dressed and just...leave?

And then, since we only had our own grownup bodies to take care of, could we possibly....oh, could it happen...dare we dream....could we actually be on time to church for the first time in seven months?

Yes ma'am, we told Mimi. He is all yours. I packed up the amazing amount of absolutely necessary baby gear required for an overnight visit, kissed his chubby cheeks, and feeling slightly sad but only slightly and Walker not one bit, handed him over to his adoring grandma.

Sunday morning we awoke all by ourselves after a wonderful sleep. I did not mash any bananas. Just coffee beans. No formula. Just cream. I dressed myself. Walker dressed himself. No one needed my help to do anything.

We sang tunes to each other across the house, "We're gon-na be on time to chur-uch". Mine had a Broadway vibe, Walker inserted beat boxes into his rap, singing "We're gonna be on time to church, yo yo" as he did the PCA gangsta sign. Then early, with moments to spare - I grabbed my purse, just my purse, and we walked out the door, joking about how we felt like we were forgetting something.

On the drive there we discussed the possibility of our pastor having a heart attack when he saw us walk in early to church.

Arrived. Parked. Entered the building lugging not one bit of absolutely necessary baby gear. Beaming from ear to ear, we high-fived each other as we walked into the sanctuary and - stopped. Exchanged very puzzled looks. We watched our fellow believers go forward to partake of...communion? But communion is done at the end of the service - ?

And then it hit us like a grandfather clock.

Happy Daylight Savings, y'all.

At least my christening gown was not white

Loretta is back, my sweet invisible friends.

After an exhausting week, I decided the best way to relax would be to take two children under the age of five on a five hour road trip. Because the drive to Dallas is so invigorating what with all its beautiful scenery (Centerville, Texas, the eighth wonder of the world) and my children slumber so soundly in strange places.

HA!

I had two very good reasons to go to Dallas though, name of Jackson and Grace Anne:


Are those not two of the CUTest kids you have ever seen? Oh, I am in love with these babies in the way that you can only be when dear, dear friends procreate.

They belong to my BFF Jenna. I've blogged about Jenna and how she saved me from great he's-just-not-that-into-you humiliation once upon a time when I had sand in my teeth. Recently we decided it was high time for our children to meet each other.

And fall in love.


Which evidently Jackson did. He showed off all weekend for his new girlfriend by telling silly jokes, running "vewy vewy fast", and generally disobeying his momma. Like all the cool four year olds do when there's a lady around to impress.

When I had told Eva Rose about Jackson on the way up, she asked, "What am I sposed to do, like, marry him?" so she was game. She played along with his affections, only occasionally giving him the Heisman:


It seems to be a good match, even though she has half a foot on him.


My daughter is very tall. I am very short.
That's the story of, that's the glory of genetic mutation.

Do not let the swim suits fool you, because I was once again blown away by the fact that it gets WAY COLDER in Dallex (as Eva Rose calls it) than in Houston. And we never could get that hot tub to heat up.

Oh, if I had a nickle for every time in my life that the hot tub wouldn't heat up, I would have, well. At least thirty cents. It's a recurring theme and I am glad that is just one of life's hardships that my children have now been exposed to, for character building's sake. I just quoted a little Romans 5 at them and we headed out to a McDonald's playland.

There's very little that God's word and a Happy Meal can't solve.

The only problem with visiting girlfriends with children sans husbands is that our propensity to stay up way too late drinking red wine, looking up old boyfriends on facebook and comparing how fat and bald they've gotten, scooping The Real Housewives of Orange County (she had two seasons on her DVR. Color me addicted) and munching on wasabi almonds does not mesh well with my very very early rising children.

Did I mention I was tired last week? Oh, my skull.

How do those rock stars manage to check themselves into a hospital for "exhaustion"? Honestly? I mean you know it's bad when you wake up with a sinus headache and get excited because now you have an excuse to pop some Sudafed.

Actually, I think "exhaustion" might be code for "addicted to a tad more than Sudafed." So, perhaps I should be careful what I wish for.

Speaking of allergies. Congratulate me, five point five years into parenting, I have finally been mommy christened.

No longer will I be able to astound my public with the fact that despite having four whole children, I have never ever once been puked upon. I have enjoyed the honor for a long time. And I know those of you who have suffered through bouts of rotavirus mentally slashed my momivan tires when I told you that. But my kids are just not big pukers. Refluxers, yes. Half my children did their best Exorcist impressions far beyond their first birthdays, but we all know that baby spitup has nothing on real live regurgitated partially digested Stouffer's lasagna and Caesar salad.

Mags' coughing from her allergies was so bad in Dallex that she could only sleep upright in my arms Friday night. Which was actually really sweet, as I had just been reminiscing about how often her little hauled around, third child self took naps in my arms when she was an infant.

So, around 1am, I sat in Jenn's big momma chair, cradling a precious sleeping little girl with one hand, and a remote control with the other, as I zipped with fascination/horror/skepticism/shame through the times and plastic surgeries of Vicki, Jeana, Gretchen and Tamra.

Suddenly Maggie popped up and began making glub, glub, glub sounds. A sanctified mother would have known to run run RUN to a toilet or trashcan. Not I. Like a clueless heathern, I sat mystified, but did instinctively put my hand under her mouth, you know, just in case.

Most of y'all know very well that hands aren't particularly effective in situations such as these. Not. one. bit. Her jammies, my jammies, and Jenn's cute leopard print throw blanket proved much more absorbent. Poor baby moaned, "Yucky!!" Indeed.

The upside was that since her tummy was utterly and disgustingly empty, I could then dose her up on nighttime cough syrup, lie her in her bed, and retire to my guest room. Where there was a TV. And a loaded DVR.

Yawn.