God lift me out of the miry blog

Today our pastor preached an excellent sermon on Psalm 40, which says

I waited patiently for the LORD;
he inclined to me and heard my cry.
He drew me up from the pit of destruction,
out of the miry bog

Only problem was that every time he intended to say "bog", he said "blog".

Which resulted in Walker and me getting a serious case of the Church Giggles.

On that note....some link love.

Speaking of church, I compiled a iTunes playlist of the worship music our church sings.

God said multiply - and did she ever women dies with 2000 descendants. As Walker said, may the Schwartz be with you.

Tips for taking better photos

God bless Texas. And God bless Ronel.

Many of you have heard of the Pearls and their book To Train Up a Child. If so, you must read this.

Podcast suggestion: Removing Excuses from the Bedroom, a talk by Dr. Julie Slattery that was really fantastic. Find out about the 72 Hour Dilemma. Your husband will be glad you did. Go here, click on Filter By: Focus on the Family Daily; then go to December 28 and 29.

And now your YouTube:

Questions from the audience - going from one baby to two-it can be done!

Last week I asked y'all to ask me some questions. Because I am so open and giving like that.

And kind of in a bloggy rut.

So (drumroll)

Random Integer Generator

Here are your random numbers:

11 

Timestamp: 2010-02-26 04:14:23 UTC


And Ginnylou is the lucky winner with this question:

What is your best advice for someone (me!) who's about to have baby #2 (have a 2.5 year old sweetie of a boy to start with)? Time-saver? Best piece of gear? Whatever you've got, I'll take it!

Well Ginnylou, this is tough, because I'm not really into giving advice. Especially about children.

HA!! HAHAHHAHA!

Oh, mercy me, where do I start.

• How 'bout the beginning. When my kids came in to see the new baby, I would make sure I was not holding him or her. Baby was in the bassinet or in someone else's arms. I'd completely love on the older child, let them play with the bed controls, look out the window, all that fun stuff. Then I'd say nonchalantly, "Oh, yeah, by the way, you have a new baby! And guess what, s/he has a present for you!" then pull out some little toy and/or candy and make it very clear it is from the baby. I always love people who give me a present the first time they meet me, don't you?

• Know that your son will be a complete and utter pill. Mine were for about six weeks. Meltdowns over ev. ery. stinking. thing. It's just their way of saying, "you've brought another demanding person into my previously perfect space and it is freaking my narcissistic self out." Just be patient (hard to do after an all nighter with a screaming newborn, I know.) It will pass. Love, love, love your son. Favor him over the baby for the first few weeks. The baby'll never know.

• I remember when Eva Rose was first born, my friend who was pregnant with her second said, "Do you love her as much as you love Shep?" I was honest and said "No. Not yet." That's normal. You have a relationship with your son - this next baby is a total stranger. It will come soon, and just as fiercely as before.

• Your son will hit the baby. Might even climb in the crib and throw him or her out, or turn over the Moses basket. Pull her hair. Hug him very, very tightly. That's why second babies are so tough. And that's probably right when your fierce momma love will kick in full force.
  

• A mom told me once that whenever she nursed, that was Family Reading Time. She would pull her other kids and read them a book every time she fed the baby, so they all looked forward to it. I think that's really super lovely and sweet. For her. For me, nursing time was Family TV Time. Which brings me to my next bullet point

• With only one child, you were probably really good about not letting your son watch too much TV and all that good mother stuff. But you have double as many children now. And guess what? TV IS YOUR FRIEND. Not only your friend, your lover. Crank that thing up until your baby is sleeping through the night. That's why God gave us Noggin!! Plus...
  

• If you strap your son in the highchair and give him a bunch of goldfish and park him in front of the Wiggles, you can lie down on the couch and get a 26 minute nap. And 26 minutes of sleep is often exactly what you need to keep from calling your husband at work sobbing and begging him to quit his job and come home right now really right now because you are going to die really and truly die if you do not get some sleep right now.

• Oy, vey the guilt. You will soon be swaddled in guilt. Guilty over everything. Guilty over not spending enough time with your son. Guilty for not spending enough time with your baby. And what about that big guy, the husband? Let it go. Women used to have 15 kids and milk the cow and hoe the field and their kids turned out just fine. When Eva Rose was born, I'll never forget when an older mom from church visited and I said, "I feel so bad because she just doesn't get half the attention that Shepherd got when he was born" and Gayle said immediately, "And she'll be the better for it."

• Lose those SuperMom expectations. If you make it to the end of the day and all three of you are still breathing, you get an A+. If the bed is made, you get a sticker. Even if you are fluffing the pillows as your husband walked in the door from work, it is wildly deserving of praise. Your house is going to be a complete wreck for a little while, and you'll live on take-out, and that's okay. You wanna know the secret to my good mothering, siesta? Very low standards.

• I scheduled feedings and naps for all my babies and it was honestly and truly what kept me from losing my ever loving mind. Every day was a repeat of the day before. Boring, yes. Nice and boring. As opposed to the endless excitement of a cranky, overstimulated sleep-deprived baby. And her cranky, overstimulated sleep-deprived mommy.

• Two words: White noise. Every bedroom in our house has a white noise machine or a box fan turned on high. It blocks out doorbells and temper tantrums in a fabulous way.

• You absolutely must let your husband share in the burden, and the joy, of raising the children. Walker and I struck a deal when Eva Rose was born that stuck: I got up with the baby at night Monday through Friday, and he got up with them on the weekends. Usually he would even go sleep upstairs so I could get a really good night's sleep. And we still have the arrangement that once he comes home from work, he's on duty. Walker bathes the kids and puts them to bed all by himself every night. (I had to bathe Shep once when Walker went out of town, and I didn't even know how to do it - and I think Shep was 18 months old.)
  

Going from one to two might be really hard for you. Or it might not be. Every mom has her threshold. For some, it's one to two, for some, two to three. For me, going from zero to one kicked my behind so badly that #2 was a piece of cake. And #3. Number four was challenging but still not as bad as #1.

I can guarantee you one thing - you will enjoy this baby so much more. Remember how nervous you were about hurting the first baby? Remember how distraught you would get when he screamed? Now you're an old pro! You know that if you let him cry for two minutes so you can go to the bathroom, he will survive. You know she will fall off the couch and just bounce, that burping is overrated, and clean pacis are a luxury not a necessity. You know that Newborn Hell does have an end date. You know that you will want to have sex with your husband again, eventually. And you know that babies just get cuter and cuter and more and more fun with each day that passes.

It is going to take you a period of adjustment to figure out the basics - how do we get out of the car, how do we do baths, how do I get them both fed in the morning. You will figure it out, through trial and error, and after a few months life will start to feel kind of normal.

And then, you'll get pregnant again :)


What other tips do you have for Ginnylou, ProMommas?

"I would love to adopt but my husband isn't on board"

I can't tell you how many times I have heard a woman say that to me. She always says it with a very wistful look in her eyes. It breaks my heart every time.

I was blessed to know I wanted to adopt for years before I was married. Soon after engagement, I told Walker, "If you marry me, we're going to adopt, either from China or foster care, okay? Whether we get pregnant or not." He shrugged and said, "Sure. That's cool." Which confirmed for me that he was, indeed, my Ton O'Bricks.

But I was a weirdo. The normal woman probably doesn't think of adopting an orphan until she is already married and has experienced motherhood. Then her heart cries out for children who don't have a mother to love them in the same overwhelming way that she loves her babies. She imagines her own child, alone in an orphanage, and that thought keeps her awake night after night. She knows she can't go get them all, but maybe she could have just one. So she brings the idea up to her husband. At first, he just thinks his wife saw something on Oprah when she was PMSing. But then she keeps bringing it up. No matter how many times he says he's not interested, she just won't let it go.

This is the woman who whispers to me, "I want to adopt so bad, but my husband..."

I look back at her and shake my head and say, "I hear that a lot. I'm so sorry."

And then I fantasize about grabbing her husband by the collar and shaking him and screaming "DUDE! MAN UP!!" in his face.

Which probably wouldn't be very effective. Not only because I am only 5'1 so unless he were an extremely petite man, if I could reach his collar I seriously doubt I could even jiggle him. But also because one thing I have learned in seven years of marriage is this (y'all might want to grab a pen now and write this one down): A shrieking women generally isn't a very persuasive woman.

Trial and error, girls, that's how we learn, trial and error.

Maybe if I were a man, I would be able to reach men about adopting. Not just a man, but what if I were a football coach!! THEN I would really know how to get inside their big ole man heads! I could make a video and put it on YouTube about what a blessing adoption is, saying that I understand their fears about money and all that guy stuff. I could even tell them that they could email me or hey, call me if they had any more questions.

If only I were a man...like Scott Oatsvall...then I might could reach them...





I might even throw in a beautiful little Chinese girl with a Tennessee accent, as a visual aid, to remind them exactly what it's all about.

So, so proud

Really, what more can a mother say?
Except that

the nut

doesn't fall far


from the tree.

I'm not just fat, I'm pregnant!!

On paper. (Honestly, did you fall for that?)

Since I was an incubatrix for so long it is impossible for me not to compare this adoption to pregnancy. And I should make it clear that I am not one of those, "Oh, I just love being pregnant!" types. I never loved being pregnant. I saw pregnancy as a very painful, very inconvenient means to an end.

Sure, the idea of growing a child inside of me was very cool, for a good 15 minutes or so. And I loved feeling the kicks, so long as they were not aimed at a bladder. But the other 98% of my gestation vocation?

I'll compare it to a nine month long upper lip wax. Something that must be done, and the result is most certainly worth it, but you'd have to be flat out psychotic to romanticize the physical sensations associated with it.

The worst part of pregnancy is the first trimester, when I felt like pure dog, but that was the only evidence of a coming baby. Looking fat, but not pregnant. Puking. Exhaustion. Aching. Crankiness. Essentially a three month bout of stomach flu.

Then suddenly, right at about twelve weeks, the nausea ended, the the fatigue let up, and along came a cute baby bump for all the world to see. I always had Week 12 marked on my calendar as a reminder that the misery would soon abate.

And now, we've entered into Week 12 on the adoption journey - we've completed our homestudy.

Whoo hoo! I'm showing!!

Last Sunday, on Valentine's Day, Bethany, a social worker from Gladney came and spent the afternoon with us. Our homestudy was originally scheduled for Friday, but a very unusual snowstorm in Dallas canceled her flight (insert global warming commentary here.)

Sunday was fine, except for one large thing - the kids don't have school on Sunday. Ike would nap, but the other three would would be here. All afternoon. Keeping themselves occupied. While the grownups talked. Uninterrupted. For several hours.

See, my kids are really into attention of the Mommy variety. They can be pretty hornery. They also rarely go twenty minutes without someone whacking someone or calling someone a dumbhead or destroying someone's Lego creation or pinching someone's arm or throwing a Polly Pocket in someone's face. Or just stripping naked.

And while I know that Gladney is not looking for "perfect" families, I also knew that if my children chose to be completely obnoxious during the homestudy, it would stress me out in a really really large way.

My Valentine heart had palpitations at the thought of it.

Therefore, we had a slew of folks praying for us. And the prayers were answered mightily.

After church, I gave the children a small Valentine gift based on need and limited funding resources: a whole pack of printer paper to share and each their own set of markers. That turned out to be nothing less than inspiration of the Holy Spirit. For four hours y'all, Shepherd, Eva Rose and Mags played in the playroom with their new markers and paper. No one fought. No one tattled. No one even got naked. They only interrupted us to bring in cute and slightly precocious drawings of our family with the words "I love you Mommy and Daddy" written across the top.

It was a St. Valentine's Day Miracle!

Bethany asked us a ton of questions about why we want to adopt, our childhoods, my own adoption as an infant, how we will deal with the complications of adoption, how our extended family feels about it, how we discipline, how we spend our time, and who we think will win Project Runway. She talked to us together most of the time and then briefly individually. Then the kids were asked what they thought about it, and Shepherd relayed his preference for a boy from China. (Maybe next time, kid.)

She asked a lot of questions about our marriage, including, "When was the best time in your marriage?" I was honest, and a little surprised, when I answered, "Right now."

It is. In seven years, we've had our hard patches. We've been through 148 weeks of pregnancy and Newborn Hell four times over. Two bouts of post-partum depression. A sick baby in the NICU. Inlaw issues. Job changes. Big fights. Painful words. Betrayals. Shattered dreams. Sickness and health. Richer and poorer. And poorer.

I know that there will be even harder times ahead in our marriage. But for now, we're good. And it feels good to be good.

After our tell-all interview, she told us we passed! Walker and I high-fived and Bethany took a picture with our ridiculous family


and we escorted her out before she changed her mind.

Before she was in her rental car, all four kids commenced to shrieking and hitting and falling apart. Walker and I high-fived again.

So what now? I still have a goodly forest of paperwork to do. My fantasy is for it all to be finished by Easter, to get a referral by Christmas, and to bring home Bethlehem (Bethie? Bessie? Betsy? Betty?) by next Easter. As Bethany said, that's kind of a lofty goal - but not for the God of printer paper and new markers.

Wait -- did you just feel her kick??

If your fish died tonight, would he go to heaven?

Originally posted 5/31/09



Last Wednesday Shep's sweet loving teacher sent an email that said this: "Dear moms - as an end of the year gift, and to coordinate with our ocean unit, I want to send all the boys home with a goldfish. Please let me know if you would prefer not to have one for some reason."

Who, me? Me prefer not to have one more living creature in this household to clean up after, feed and care for?

Oh, little goldfish, how I do not love thee, let me count the ways.

Images ran through my head of Shepherd in his classroom, watching all the other boys receive their fish, a solitary tear running down his face as his chin quivered - and debated whether or not to say no. But, as my goal in parenting is to avoid any of my own children starring in their own personal after school special, I bit my fingers. And sighed. And emailed all my friends instead, asking, what do I need for a goldfish?

Oh my word, the fish horror stories that filled my inbox! Stories of fish ending it all by flopping out of their bowls! Stories of gills turning black! Stories of preschoolers dumping a whole can of fish food in and killing all the gluttonous fish in the aquarium!

Oh wait, that last one, was not a story. It was a personal memory. The fish were my grandma's. She handled it very well.

I began to get less and less excited about the newest member-to-be of our family.

Friday, when I picked Shep up from his last day of school, he proudly held up the ziplock of water in which swum his pride and joy. "I got a fish, Momma! Look!"

"Awesome, Shep!" I feigned excitement. "So cool!" I faked some more. "What's his name?"

"Buxton."

"Pardon?"

"Bux. Ton."

"How on earth did you come up with that name?" I asked.

"It's cool. I like it. That's how."

"Ahhhh, gotcha," said the woman who named her sons "Shepherd" and "Ingram".

In between protecting Buxton from his oooing and ahhing new aunts and uncle, I decided to wage a preemptive strike. I explained to them all that I had heard some sad stories about fish, that they often don't live very long, that if Buxton died in a week, we should not be too disappointed, because that's just how it goes with fish.

On the way home, Shepherd stated, "Momma, I want to take Buxton to church on Sunday."

"To church? Why?"

"So he can learn about Jesus. If he dies, I want him to be in Heaven with me. So he needs to come to church."

"That's very sweet, but you know," I explained, "he doesn't need to come to church to hear about Jesus. You can tell him about Jesus, Shep!"

Shep chuckled, shaking his head. "No way, naw. He needs to come to church."

Note to self: discuss evangelism with Shepherd. Evidently he doesn't know what it means to be a fisher of men, much less a fisher of fish.

So Buxton was welcomed into our family, and Shepherd showed him around his new home before leaving him in his room while I scrounged around for some kind of impromptu fish bowl.

A few minutes later, Shep left his Legos to check on his new pet.

Then I heard the screams.

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!! HE'S DEAD!!!!!!! BUXTON'S DEAD!!!!!!! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!"

I raced upstairs to find, there on the hardwood landing, a very cold, very stiff Buxton, his little plastic starfish scattered about him, an empty ziplock tossed nearby! Surveying the crime scene, I interrogated the bystanders. "Who did this? Who dumped him out?"

"Not me!" Eva Rose cried. "Unnhhh," Ike grunted. And pointed. Because that's what Ike does most, he grunts. And points.

"I di it!" Maggie announced, with her speech delayed way of talking that makes her sound like she should be asking if you want a pedi with your mani. "I yet him ou!" she admitted. Proudly.

"YOU KILLLLLLLLLLLED HIM!!! MAGGIE IS A FISH KILLLLLLLLLER!!!!!!!!!! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!"

"Maggie," I explained, "fish need water to live. They can't live unless they are in water. When you let him out, he died."

"Ohhhhh. He die? Ohhh. I sowwy Sheh," she patted him on the back. "You get nodder one."

Problem solved.

Then Maggie put her hands up by her shoulders, and hopped around, her head bobbing, and said, "He go yike dis."

At which point I almost died on the same cursed hardwoods in trying to suppress my giggles.

Shep was still screaming and crying hysterically in my arms, Maggie was hopping her dying fish dance, Eva Rose was running up and down the hall, wailing in grief, and Ike was grunting and pointing. Something had to be done. I kissed Shep's tear stained cheeks, looked into his eyes, and said softly, "You wanna flush him in the toilet?"

A look of excitement instantly replaced the tears. "Okay!" He hopped up and cradled Buxton gently in his hands. "Bye, Buxton." He slid him in the toilet, his siblings echoing bye, Buxton, and Unnnnnh. Then he slapped his sister's hand away, "No, it's my fish, I get to flush him." Just like I knew he would.

And Buxton swirled out of lives.

"Momma, I want to go to the pet store and get another one, okay? Please?"

I exhaled. "Of course we will, honey."

"And this time I'm gonna put it WAY UP HIGH where NO BABIES can get him!"

And next time, I thought, I hope you give him the gospel immediately. Because fish, they just might not make it till Sunday.

Grace at the Costco

Yesterday I took the girls to one of our favorite places on the whole wide planet - the Costco. Oh, how we love the Costco, from its smoothies and gigantic Diet Cokes to its big ole tubs o'hummus. And the samples? Oh, glory to the samples! Free lunch at Costco!

I was especially enjoying just having the girls out by myself, which doesn't happen very often. It's fun to be a "normal" mom of just two kids every once in a while.

After chatting with a neighbor over the new pancake mix in a aerosol can (and it's organic!), I preceded to the checkout lane. The palpitations commenced and receded over my always huger-than-intended bill from the Costco - because 30 rolls of toilet paper and 40 AAA batteries do add up.

Then I noticed that my giant tub o'organic spring mix looked a little sad and ucky. I asked a smiling Costco employee to exchange it for a fresher version, pulled my buggy and my daughters off to the side, and waited.

During this time Maggie committed the egregious sin of stepping a few feet away from me, and stood about halfway between me and a flatbed cart that was on her other side. I looked up to see that there was a woman who could not get around her, due as much to the large flatbed as to my tiny daughter. My tiny daughter who, along with her sister, had garnered at least a dozen smiles from admiring Costco shoppers and sample ladies during our shopping.

I said, "Oops, come over here, Mags," and Maggie obeyed.

Then the woman, who had been delayed by this point an unconscionable eight seconds or so, said loudly, "Could you please control your children? This is a public place you know!"

Oh, the tempest this caused in my brain!
Hello, Rude Costco Lady, these kids are controlled beautifully!
These are only half my kids, and trust me, you want to see uncontrolled kids? Come over any afternoon between four and five pm!

Instead I said the only coherent words I could assimilate amidst my shock, which were, "Wow. I bet you are really fun to live with."

I gazed lovingly at my sweet girls' faces, completely perplexed at how anyone could not see them as precious and adored and as cute enough to eat as a spinach tortellini on a toothpick. Instead of the way Rude Costco Woman obviously did: as uncontrolled inconveniences.

Was she blind??

But I was also embarrassed. Very embarrassed. Was I really not controlling my kids? Did all the other shoppers think so? Were they all silently cheering Rude Costco Woman? Had my neighbor heard her say it, thinking, finally, someone told Missy what we've all been wanting to say for years?

I told myself over and over, why do you care what complete strangers think??

But I do. I care.

Later that night I laid in bed still thinking about Rude Costco Woman. I wonder how she came to consider herself an officer with the Criticism Police, handing out verbal tickets with her barbed tongue? If she had no compunction with criticizing a complete stranger in the middle of Costco, can you imagine what it must be like to be her husband, or her daughter or - oh my skull - her daughter-in-law?

How can she dare to talk like that to someone she doesn't know from Eve? Is it not obvious by the ages of my children that I am new at this whole mothering thing? From whence might she suggest that I get my Child Control Certification? Is there an online course she could recommend?

Has she never been around a small child? Does she not understand that children are free agents, often flat out impossible to control?

Since when does a perfect stranger have a right to demand that I be the perfect mother?!?

And then The Voice, the gentle whisper of the Holy Spirit, said to me, people who don't know grace --- don't show grace.

I got it.

I have made every single mistake in mothering, three times over. I have done everything that I said I would never do and hardly anything that I swore I would. I have broken every rule. I have become frustrated. I have been impatient. I have criticized my own precious children, as harshly as that women criticized me.

I have been on my knees in the dark asking my Father why on earth he thought I could handle four children in three years and begging him to make me into the mother they deserve.

And every single time, every single day, my Father has given me grace. My Father has forgiven me and encouraged me and provided me with wisdom. My Father has given me so much grace that I am drowning in it.

I pray that Rude Costco Woman will discover that grace herself.

And if your child is having a meltdown in the grocery store, or throwing a tantrum in a restaurant, I promise that all you will get from me is simpatico. If you lose your temper, I will pray for you. If you need help, I will offer it.

I promise I will never, ever purposefully humiliate you in public for not being perfect. I get it, Momma, I get it. And I will show you grace.

Because I know grace.

I don't want my children to be happy

Dear Shepherd, Sissy, Maggie and Ikey,

Recently we were told by people whom we love and respect why they oppose our plans to adopt. One of the reasons given was that we would not be able to pay for your college education.

It's true.

You all have college funds - college funds which recently took a terrible hit - but "they" say that by the time you're 18, college will cost anywhere between $200,000 to half a million dollars each. You might as well know now, we won't be covering that. I'm telling you now, babies.

The people said that the day would come when you would look at us with resentment because you had to apply for school loans while many of your friends got a free ride from their parents.

Maybe you will. Maybe you'll resent us. I really hope not. But maybe I should tell y'all now why your dad and I have decided to do what we are doing.

I know you're going to think I am going off topic (I do that a lot) but several years I saw a story on a TV show about how the latest trend was for parents to give their daughters boob jobs for high school graduation (I don't know what they gave their sons.) When interviewing one of the moms, she said, "I just want my daughter to be happy." And as I tossed a throw pillow at the television, this really huge thought occurred to me: I don't want my children to be happy.

My goal as your mom is not your happiness, sugars. In fact, I spend at least half my day making you unhappy. If I had a nickle for every tear that falls in this home on a daily basis, we wouldn't need to worry about college tuition at all.

Happiness is fleeting, sweet babies. That means it doesn't last. It's a quick feeling that comes from a funny movie or a heart shaped lollipop or a really good birthday present. It's great. I love to be happy. But happiness is a reaction that is based on our surroundings. And our surroundings are so very rarely under our control. Even when - especially when - we think they are.

So no, I absolutely don't want you to spend your life chasing something that has so little to do with your own abilities. You'll just be constantly frustrated.

There are two things I desire for you, precious loves. There are two things that I spend most of my time as a mother trying cultivate in you. Happiness ain't one of them. (This means, sorry, no boob jobs for you.)

The first is, I want you to be content.

Being content is so much different from being happy. Being content is not based on your surroundings. Being content comes from within. Contentment is a spirit of gratitude. It's the choice you make to either be thankful for the things you do have, or to whine about the things you don't have.

Being content and grateful leads to consistent joy.

As you know, because I've told you lots of times, Paul talked about being content. Paul said that he had "learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want." And Paul was in some rotten situations, kiddos, really rotten.

How could Paul be content whether he was in prison or if his life was literally a shipwreck? Because Paul was constantly seeking to be in the will of God instead of his own, was constantly sacrificing his own comfort for the sake of the gospel, and was constantly being confirmed, strengthened, and blessed by God because of his obedience. He was given a supernatural power - that means something kind of like magic, God magic - to do things that most other humans could not do. And guess what? The bible tells us (in Ephesians 1) that God will give you the exact same power! If you want it!

Which leads me to my second desire for y'all.

I don't want you to be happy. I want you to be holy. That means, I want you to seek that God-power to make you content. I want you to want the Kingdom of God more than your own kingdom. And that's hard, babies, that is so hard. And that usually means passing up a lot of what the world considers happiness. But it means that you will achieve blessings directly from God that most of the world never dreams of because they are too occupied with the achieving the perfect birthday present!

This means you may be poor, 'in want' as Paul said, and that's okay. It will never, ever be okay with the world for you to be poor. So you'll be up against the world. But not your dad and me, loves, because it was never our goal for you to be wealthy - at least not in the way that the world considers wealthy.

Darlings, we love you so much. You will never even grasp how much we love you until you have children of your own, and then you'll get it, and then you'll apologize for the ways you treated us ;) But our goal is not to please you. Our goal is to please our Heavenly Father. And nowhere in the bible does the Lord command that we save our money to send our kids to college.

But the Lord does command us to care for the orphan around fifty times. He does tell us to care for the poor around 300 times. He does tell us that when we care for the neediest, we are caring for Jesus Himself. And in chapter six of the book of Matthew, He tells us to seek His kingdom first, and let Him worry about the rest, like college tuition. Because it's all His anyway.

They said that one day y'all would resent us for using 'your' college money to go and get your sister out of an orphanage in Ethiopia and bring her home to you.

But I know my babies. Even at your tender ages, I know your hearts, and I have already seen you weep for the least of these. I know the prayers I offer up to God that He and not the world would shape the desires of your hearts. I am trusting Him to answer those prayers.

So, sugarbears - I just don't believe those people.

Love,
Mommy

For more info:
Ethiopia Adoption Q&A
Our adoption timeline
The Theology of Adoption
God does not hate Africa
Spiritual attack against those who adopt
Blessed to be a weirdo


For a copy of this post:
I am thrilled that this post is being shared so much over the internet. To God be the glory! If you feel called to share it, please be so kind as to link back to my blog, instead of copying the post itself. Or email me at itsalmostnaptime @ gmail . com with "permission" in the byline for a .pdf document of the post. Thank you!!

Valentines

Bless you, my darling,
and remember you are always in the heart -
oh tucked so close there is no chance of escape -
of your sister.

~Katherine Mansfield

Haitians Rejoice

Haitians Rejoice from Five One Films on Vimeo.

I didn't mean to leave you hanging! I will be back soon I promise.

Until then, my friend Jill Ann in Haiti has a blog up - if y'all could pop over and leave her an encouraging comment to let her know you are praying for her, I know it would bless her.

Thanks!

On marriage and adoption and God talking inside my brain

I have mentioned before on the bloggy that I was one of those girls who had her wedding planned by the time I was twelve years old. Then after college I worked as an event planner so I really had my wedding planned. I knew what caterer I wanted, where I would get my tablecloths, and what my buffet stations would be. All I was missing was the guy in the tux.

I have a little bit of an obsessive personality (who, you, Mis?). So I was very preoccupied with the whole get-married thang. During the Obsessive Years, God gave me some very strong messages that I needed to be still and know that he was God, ie, large and in charge. I can think of three very distinct times that this happened and I shall share one today that I call The Garden Experience.

And I call it that somewhat facetiously because said garden was the backyard of my little house, where I was sunning myself in a bikini, kicking bugs off my legs and waiting for the kitchen timer to tell me it was time to flip over.

I was also reading the bible study Experiencing God, which had a profound impact on my then rather immature spirituality. Something in that book caused me to stop and pray and my prayers turned to what they usually did - "God, I am soooooooo ready to be married, what is the hangup?"

And then I heard God's voice.

Now, my Presbyterian Friends just gasped a little and blinked really hard because many of my Presbyterian Friends (including my Presbyterian Husband) do not like it when people talk about things like Hearing God's Voice and respond by either stammering or rolling their eyes or looking for a paper bag to breathe into. To those peeps, I have this to say: a) I was still Methodist at the time and b) I know what I know. So drop the Institutes and back away slowly.

It was a voice inside my head, but it was not my voice. It was in the brain but not of the brain. It was God (put your head between your knees, sweetie.)

And, like both my parents, God calls me Melissa.

"Melissa," He said. Firmly.

And I said, I mean, what else? I said, "Yes sir?!"

And then He said, "Do you want your marriage to be holy?"

And then I said, "Um, pardon?"

And then He said, "Do you want your marriage to be holy?"

And then I said, "Um, well, yes!"

And then He said, "And what does holy mean?"

And then I said, "What?" (I am being verbatim here. God was patient with me.)

And then He said, "What does 'holy' mean?"

And I said, "It means it belongs to You." Which was a definition I had never really thought of before right then.

And then He said, "Well, if it belongs to me, then don't you think that I am going to take care of it?"

And then I cried. And that was the end of the conversation.

And then I had perfect peace and faith and never worried about getting married ever again.

HA! Let's just say I understand how all those yahoos in the Old Testament could hear straight from the mouth of God one day and be all stressed out the very next. God had to come to me a couple more times, both in very cool ways, to remind me to chillax. It was five more years before He provided the most perfect man in the world for me, just like He said he would.

And this entire adoption process has reminded me of that story more than once.

Part Deaux manana. (I am so trilingual.)

Things are tough all over

Just got back from packing up about a million "hygiene kits" that our church provided. My dear sweet precious gorgeous friend Jill Ann, that's Dr. Jill Ann, is headed to Haiti with Mission to the World tomorrow. She'll be there about two weeks or so. Please pray for her protection, both her body and her soul. Jill Ann's a pediatrician and I know she is going to see some things that will break her heart. I am so proud to call her friend and oh, how I wish I were going with her!

Plus, her hair is quite fabulous.

Speaking of doctors. And hygeine.

Driving home, I saw this.



Now, am I crazy because I just wouldn't care to go to a downtown-doc who used this means of marketing? Seriously?

"Stop the car!! I been looking all over for me a new gy-no! Write down that number before the next storm hits and blows it down!"

Or is it just me??

It occurred to me that you might have questions that you (gasp) don't want to tie your name to, so for a brief spell I am allowing anonymous comments.

99 balloons

Keep it clean, people! Keep it clean!

Y'all, my house is so dang cluttered that I expect the phone to ring any minute and the A&E people to be on the other end asking me to be on the next episode of Hoarders.

I'm just a few dead cats and one trip to Costco away, people.

If you don't watch the show that previous sentence was probably incredibly confusing to you.

Walker is away at his Thursday night bible study/accountability group/steak grilling/Russian card game playing/intervention/excuse to hang with his buddies thing and I do want it to look a little bit nicer when he returns. So.

I had this cute i-dear. Or at least it seemed kinda cute the other day when I thought it up. It may go down in blog herstory as one of my dumber ideas, but here goes.

Hit me.

Not literally, we do not hit in this house, I mean hit me with some questions. In the comments. Ask me anything. Anything at all. Be as nosy as you wanna be. My world is your oyster.

And then next week, I am gonna use the random number intergerneratorer thing to pick a question from one of the comments! And answer it!!

DOESN'T THAT SOUND SO STINKIN FUN????

Mark set go!!

All those years ago

My sister-in-law Laurel sent me a picture today of my new nephew Linc's first smile (yea!) and that got me looking for photos of my kiddos' first smiles and that got me looking back to four years ago this month.

Care to stroll down Memory Lane?

(If Walker were here he would make some joke about Mammary Lane because he is mature like that.)

In February of 2006, Shepherd was two and a half. He was hysterical and, as all his mothers' day out teachers kept telling me, "All boy. 100% boy."


His new baby sister had kicked him out of his crib and into a big boy bed


He absolutely adored "MY bebe" (sitting in the sunlight to work off her jaundice suntan)


And he was learning to play air guitar.


Seriously. That's what he's doing there. At two. All boy. 100% boy.

Eva Rose was 17 months old.


She had a new baby sister, and while she loved playing mommy to her (she still does)


some days it was hard to adjust (it still is)


She was absolutely beautiful and talking like crazy (at 15 months, she had told her daddy, "Daddy. I see a bug" and led him straight to a dead cockroach, like a good Texas baby.)


and the diva side of her was already in full swing.


Maggie Belle was almost two months old, the easiest baby ever born, who never cried, and was just starting to give me those sweet crooked smiles

I thought she was the most beautiful baby girl

even though most of her pictures still turned out like this

She was nursing like a champ - the first (and last) baby to do that for me, but not sleeping through the night yet, so we were very, very tired.


As for me, I was doing okay. Mostly.


About as well as could be expected considering I had a 2 year old, a 1 year old, and a newborn.

Saying that now sounds positively absurd to me.


The only thing more absurd was that thirteen months later, I would have a three year old, a two year old, a one year old, and a newborn.


Yeah, we're freaks.


But we're blessed freaks.

What I lack in organization I make up for in irony

Walker and I have a bit of a cottage industry selling our old books and whatnot on Amazon.com. When we first got married and merged our media (bow chicka bow bow) we made a small fortune. Nowadays it's just a small trickle but a small trickle is still a lovely trickle. We never turn down a trickle. A trickle is a trickle no matter how small.

I must be tired.

Recently did the math and if I were to read nonstop between now and the time I am about 84 years and two months old, I just might could get through half the books sitting on my shelves right now. Calling my name. Beckoning me....Miiiiiiiissssssyyyyyy....Miiiiiiiissssssyyyyyyy....ignore themmmmmm.....read ussssssss.....

Upon this revelation I purged a little and listed some more books on Amazon. This morning I had about six SOLD SHIP NOW emails awaiting me. So tonight I got together my stamps and my envelopes and my packing tape and my little digital postage scale (prized possession, y'all) and my Sharpie and my scissors and got to work in that old Proverbs 31 way o' mine.

One of the books I had listed and sold was this one.


I went to look for the book and...

I don't have to say it, do I? Y'all aren't going to make me say it, are y'all? Are y'all?


....where's the Cancel Order button....

I am not a bad driver. I am disabled.

My first car was a red 1980 Chevette. My parents got it for me - notice I said got, not bought - when I was 17. They did not get me the Barbie pink VW bug I wanted. Or the nice sorta new Toyota I had my eye on. No. They showed their love to me in the form of a 1980 red Chevette.

One evening they took me outside to the driveway and presented it to me as though it were a Porsche wrapped with a big red bow. I said, "Oh...is this for...me?"

"Yes!" They beamed.

I nodded slowly. "You bought this for me?"

My mom smiled hugely. "Someone owed your dad some money don't you like it say thank you!!"

I slid my behind onto the red vinyl seats and my feet onto the red carpet and checked out my red AM radio. Which was glaringly lacking a red cassette deck. I sighed. And grimaced. My automotive dreams shattered on the concrete of our freshly repoured circular driveway. "Thanks."

Now, before you start saying what an ungrateful brat I was at the age of 17, I need to make one thing abundantly clear: I was an ungrateful brat at the age of 17.

My parents later said that they believed that that car would build character. And it did. My whiny, self-conscious, covetous character grew by leaps and bounds.

Soon, however, I began to appreciate the fact that my car was what it was - and wasn't what it wasn't. Not only because it could get me and my friend Marcella to Galveston and back on only $4 of gas as we competed in the Great Summer of '87 Tan-O-Thon Slash Cancer Quest, as the jambox in the front seat busted out Cure and Erasure songs on our mixed tapes.



But more so because my driving skills were frequently called into serious question. Even by, well, especially by my friends. All of our teenage cars were lovingly and thoughtfully christened: Tony's was the Gumbymobile, Rosann's was the Bootymobile. Missy's?

They called it the Deathmobile.

There was a hint of this before I even got my drivers license, on the day that I backed my mom's prized 1985 Champagne Oldsmobile Delta 88 right into the side of her friend and coworker's car.

It became more apparent as my Little Red Chevette drove off to Austin for college and soon became covered with dings and dents and scratches from backing into poles and trees and people etc.

Yes, yes, whatever, I backed into a people once on the UT campus, trying to parallel park in an alleyway by Dobie. He was uninjured. All of him. Especially his middle finger part.

I also backed into my ex-boyfriend only a couple of weeks after he had broken my heart into 48,672 pieces. It was truly an accident - I honestly did not see the boy. I was so, so glad he was okay! Not because I wouldn't have taken delight in his being just slightly injured, say, a broken femur, perhaps an ulna. No, I was relieved he survived only because I felt quite certain that not a jury in Texas would believe that his vehicular homicide was completely unintentional. He did deserve it, after all.

After the Chevette finally fell apart, I received a much nicer car just in time for graduation - a 1992 Mitsubishi Eclipse. It had a tape deck and my word, that car was fast! I mean, supposedly it was fast, I wouldn't know myself, being a Law Abiding Citizen. And it was beautiful. And I really wanted to keep it that way.

Problem was, mailboxes and poles and yes, other cars still had this nasty habit of jumping out behind me when I was trying to back up. The poor Eclipse was soon Missified.

After one particularly bad week when I backed straight into the tree in the middle of my Aunt Martha Ann's driveway (why would you have a tree in the middle of your driveway?!? Especially when I was coming to visit?!?) and into a parking lot pole the very next day, my good friend Stephen decided that it was time for a heart to heart.

He sat me down. He held my hands in his. He looked into my eyes. "Missy," he began. "I have been thinking about your driving and I have come to a conclusion."

I sighed and pouted a little bit. He continued.

"You are not a bad driver. No." My face lit up slightly. "You, Missy, have a disability. Therefore, whenever you are about to back up, you must stop, and say to yourself, 'I have a disability. I must be very. careful.' Then you may proceed."

It was genius, y'all. Absolute genius. I would repeat my mantra every single time I slid into reverse and and I think I only backed into like, three things over the next six years. Which was a beautiful record.

Having kids, of course, instilled an intense paranoia in me, so not only did I become much more careful but when we bought the momivan I had the backup sensor installed. Now if any object real or imaginary comes within a couple of feet of my back fender my van freaks out and beeps herself apoplectic. She is very neurotic, and Mommy like it like that.

Considering my disability, I positively loathe driveways. Ours is rather long and not straight. There was a tree along one side of it and yes I hit it and chopped that sucker down. But since we have lived here seven years, I have mastered the fine art of backing out of my own driveway, never with full confidence, but without incident.

Until about six months ago.

When for WHATEVER REASON, I suddenly and inexplicably began to veer slightly off to the right, into the grass, which caused me to bottom out on the curb, and severely trench my own yard!!


Now that the trench is there, it is retrenched and my already neurotic momivan is bottomed out on about a weekly basis. Walker even does it now!

It is the most frustrating thing in the world, and I admit when I do it words expel from my mouth that refute any character building that may have been achieved since I was 17.

I need very desperately to revive the mantra.

My name is Missy.
I have a disability.
I must be very. careful.