An Autobiography, written and illustrated by rising young author Eva Rose

One day there was a good girl who just be a mean girl she threw a big fit she said NO to her parents

Yup.
It's been a rough day.

Y'all might should take note

From the Naptime archives.

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 the whole Spring Break, but I might not can now cause we're fixin to go to Sea World. If you had just called me last week, I might would've been able to, dadgumit."

"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?

Adoption Update and Doncha Want to Drink Some Coffee Wearing a Cute Tanktop?

We are waiting on the I-171H. I think that's what it's called. It's when we go down to Immigration and get fingerprinted, and they send our fingerprints off to Homeland Security, then Barack Obama himself looks at our prints and says, "No, Missy and Walker are not a national threat" and then we wait....and wait....and wait for them to send the form back claiming our lack of non-national-threatness. Threatyness?

Okay, okay, you got me. Barack Obama doesn't really do that. He's much too busy playing golf dealing with the BP crisis to look at our paperwork.

And it's a good thing, after that comment, eh?

Anyway getting the invitation to come get fingerprinted was a VERY BIG DEAL. It's like the last hurdle in the dossier process. We showed up at the amazingly efficient UCIS office in Houston and I got 'er done very quickly.


I've been waiting and praying for the green piece of paper to come for so long, I would have cried, really. I did get teary. But then I got way too distracted by the cool digital fingerprint machine. It was so Jack Bauer.

I am getting to be a little bit technologically devanced. Okay, yes, I am turning into my mom. My first clue was last year when I was so impressed by the iPod kiosks at the airport, remember? Well the other day I was telling Walker that I needed to go to Kinkos to print off our family photos and also copy our passports. And I couldn't figure out how to get the documents saved onto a CD or one of those stick thingys.

To which he replied, "Why don't you just upload them to Kinko's from your computer and go pick them up?"

To which I replied,

So, right now, almost all the paperwork for our dossier has been completed, we're just waiting on Obama. Thirty-six days and counting. Once we send it all in, it will be authenticated in Washington DC, then sent to Ethiopia. But the day it goes to DC, we are ON THE WAIT LIST.

The wait list is currently 9 months for a baby (ironic number, huh?) So if we get on the wait list by July (please Obama??) then we should be getting a referral in April. An Easter bunny!

When you get your referral, someone from Gladney calls and says, "Go to your computer!" and then they email you a photo of your baby. And you cry. And take pictures. And post it on your blog, like the Bottomlys.

Will we do that?
Is the pope Catholic? Is the pope of the PCA Tim Keller? Is the Gulf coast economy devastated?

Then it is taking about two months to go meet her and go to court, then another two months to bring her home. Which would make it August.

Here's the tricky part. Ethiopian courts close for six weeks at the end of the summer due to the rainy season. So if we don't pass our second court before the closure, we will have to wait longer. And we will have already met her, held her, loved her, and left her by then. So the extra six weeks would just about kill us.

Could y'all please pray with me that we get over there before the courts close??

We are also fantasizing about taking Shepherd and Eva Rose over with us on the first trip. Problem is, that would add another 3K or so to the bill. But as Julie says, "if God's will, it's God's bill." Don't you love that?!

I am also hoping it is God's will for me to get my hair highlighted.

The Cashola Conundrum

I told Walker yesterday, "Guess what I'm thinkin, if we get all the money raised for this adoption, then when our tax refund comes, we can just apply it to the NEXT adoption!!" He rolled his eyes.

To ring in the obnoxiously hot Houston summer, we now have tank tops for sale! Yea! You can order one here. I really love mine and have worn it everywhere, even with a cardigan over it. But that was like 30 degrees ago.

Sheesh, it's hot.

And this, my friends, is why I am not a supermodel. (Well, that and the fact that I am ridiculously short.) (Plus lots of other reasons.) (Lots.) Because in the first batch of photos we took I looked like I had lost my arms in a horrible turbine accident.


Even though I am only vaguely aware of what a turbine is, I am aware that they can hurt your arms if you, like. Um. Stick your arm in one.

We have also signed up with Gobena Coffee. They sell fair trade coffee (that means the coffee farmers are paid fairly) as a fundraiser for adoption. All you have to do is click here, and order some coffee, and we receive $5 for every bag sold. I have been told that the coffee is fabulous!

The best part of waking up is Baby Bethie in your cup, y'all.

A couple of months ago, our family drove in a new Chevy Tahoe to the greatest family vacation EVER at Great Wolf Lodge.

Please pop over to my review page to read all about it!

Opening the doors to Ethiopia

Once upon a time, Walker and I decided we wanted to move across town. We had great reasons: the move would make us much closer to both sets of grandparents and to church. And to all our friends. And to the Galleria. And to lots of other cool stuff.

We listed our house. For 11 months, it sat on the market. Did it show? Oh my word, did it show. This is where I should mention that I had a 1 year old, a 2 year old, and was preg.nant. And trying to keep a clean house for all those dang showings.

It showed almost every stinking day.
And I mean stinking quite literally, because once it showed when I had left a dirty diaper in the middle of the kitchen floor.

During the entire time, we only got one second showing. (Not the dirty diaper people.) (By the way, during the showing, I kept the video camera running under the bed so I could hear the potential buyers' comments. Walker thought I was the most immoral reprobate he had ever married. I had zero guilt. Still don't. And I learned that they really wanted one huge walk-in closet.)

Once, during this frustrating time, over lunch with Walker's uncle I complained that we were so sure that God wanted us to move, we just couldn't understand why He wouldn't send us a buyer!

And Dan asked, "Why did you think that God wanted you to move?"

I just stared at him and sputtered. Why had we thought that? Um. Because we really wanted to move? Because it made sense? Closer to church, had he heard the closer to church part? Because we had prayed about it and when lightening had not immediately struck our home following the amen, we decided it must be the will of the Lord?

Dan continued, "Usually when God is willing you to do something, the doors will just open."

And then he quit talking, leaving me alone in my confusion to grimace at my broccoli salad.

Dan's words have been repeating in my brain recently.
When it is God's will, the doors will open.

Last summer, we finally decided to start the adoption process. We chose Gladney as our agency, did the initial application, and began collecting the 3,489 trees of paperwork. In November, I pulled out the info from Gladney and realized that in order to take another step, we would need at least $4,250.

Problem: we didn't have $4,250.

Due to the terrible economy, Walker received a paycut last year - which we considered a blessing while friend after friend lost his job - but it had hurt. Every little bit hurts when you're feeding six mouths on one paycheck. In addition to that, he hadn't received an end-of-year bonus in 2008, which used to account for a large part of his salary, and he seriously doubted he'd get one this year. We'd lived throughout the year hand-to-mouth.

Late at night, while Walker slept, I stared at the $4,250 on the fee sheet, plus the $760 required for immigration papers. My stomach dropped. We did feel that now was the time to finally begin our dream of adopting. My husband felt it even stronger than I did, which is exactly how submission typically works in our marriage. But how?

I prayed, God, we can't do it. I don't know when we're going to be able to do it, but we can't do it. I'm sad, God. It's all up to you. {deep sigh} Amen.

And I went to bed.

The next day, the VERY next day, did you hear me mention that it was THE NEXT DAY?, some of you received this email from me:

Y'all, I have to share a praise with you - a BIG one!!

We want to begin the process to adopt but have been stymied by a lack of funds. It takes around 5K to even get to the homestudy phase. Just last night I pulled out the paperwork and worked on some of it but thought, well, until we find an extra $5000, this is just going to sit here, probably until at least February when we can get our tax refund.

Walker just forwarded me an email from work that said that not only would he be receiving a bonus, BUT, his company will also compensate all the employees who received the pay cut by reimbursing what we were withheld!!! WE HAVE OUR MONEY FOR THE HOMESTUDY!!!! We should receive it by mid December!!

Several times lately I have been tempted to "work" the situation, I have eyeballed those checks that come from the credit card company, we have toyed with the idea of taking money out of our retirement savings....but I felt God saying, no, just wait, I'm on it. Just in the past few days I have been in lots of prayer about this. And HE HAS PROVIDED.

Praise Him, Praise Him, Praise Him!!!!!!

Did you hear a creak?
An open door.

In April, we received an email saying that we were Gladney approved. I had no idea what that meant, but by the congratulatory tone of the email I knew it was a big deal so I celebrated Yea! We're Gladney Approved!

The same email also said "You are expected to pay the remainder of your Program Fee ($2250), Post Placement Supervision Fee ($1200) and the Post Placement Administration Fee ($450) within 30 days from the date of Gladney approval." I'll do the math for you: $3,900.

We had raised $3,400 from tshirt sales, a garage sale, and a book that Walker sold on ebay. Then on May 7, my birthday, a friend handed me a birthday card with a check inside for $1,000.

Creeeeeeeeeaaaak.

God has provided nearly $11,000. In six months.
None of it, believe me, none of it, came from us.

When I initially thought that we would need $22,000 to bring home our baby, and then when the travel requirements changed and I realized we would need even more, I had no idea how that was going to happen.

I just ran the numbers tonight and realized that we have about $13,000 more to raise.
I still don't know exactly how it is going to happen.
But I know Who's gonna make it happen.

Do it, Lord. Open those doors. Bring Your baby home.
Oh, how I praise You for open doors!!
Amen!

Walker's Surefire Interviewing Tips

When a friend of Walker's emailed this morning asking for prayers before an interview, this was Walker's response.

With friends like this...

Walker’s Surefire Interview Tips

#1 Make an effort to show up early. Shows commitment and dedication. I suggest the week before. Stake out a bivouac outside the corporate offices. Build rapport by grilling breakfast burritos for future colleagues as they walk in over the days ahead.

#2 At the conclusion of every statement during the interview execute a deft, exaggerated pursing of the lips.

#3 In the middle of a particularly long statement, excuse yourself, then pull out a silver flask from your jacket pocket. Pour some dark, amber liquid into your coffee mug then continue.

#4 Wear an eye patch. When asked about it reply, “Schenectady, baby” and wink, as if that explains it all.

#5 Show your concern for good, rock-solid facility management by asking, in deadly serious tones, “How often do you guys clean out the men’s rooms?”

#6 Insist on starting your interview with a 30 minute presentation on The Protocols of Zion.

#7 No matter what his or her name is, address your interviewer as “Monsignor X” or “Duchess Y”.

#8 Mix a huge thermos of high-protein, muscle-building shake during the interview. Make a big production out of it.

#9 At the beginning of the interview place a large stack of crisp $100 bills on the desk in front of your interview. Then state to no one in particular, “I am comfortable putting that money there. Yes, I am. Totally comfortable. Are you?”

#10 When asked about your previous job state darkly, “No comment. Don’t want to get into lawyer talk. Next question.”

#11 Rip a huge {toot} in the middle of the interview. Before your interviewer can say anything, look aghast and reply, “Sir, that was rude and unprofessional.” Use HIS shame and embarrassment to YOUR advantage.

#12 First thing you should say: “Man, you got some hotties working here. Yes you do!”

#13 No matter what the question bring it back to discussion around “team building exercises”. Comment relentlessly how much your enjoy team building exercises.

#14 When asked about your weaknesses reply, “Well, if little things start disappearing from the office…”

#15 Make wild promises. Chances are they won’t remember them anyway. “I can solemnly promise you that I will single-handedly increase company revenues by 820% in my first year. 850% if I can get a corner office.”

#16 Wear a Victorian-era cravat or ascot with your suit. Top hat and tails don’t hurt either.

#17 Start menacingly folding origami monsters during the interview. When each origami monster is done slowly crush the creation in your palm. When asked about it say, “The competition…”

#18 Show your worldly sophistication by using a faux European “Continental” accent during the interview, ala, how actors talked in the movies from the 30’s.

#19 Constantly pepper your comments with the phrase “Meet and exceed”. “Yes, I’ll take a coffee but please make sure it meets and exceeds my expectations.”

#20 Make it seem like it would be an honor for THEM to hire YOU. Make statements like, “It’s amazing your guys have even kept the lights on around here without me.”

#21 Wear a dozen Blue Tooth devices all around your person. Have friends constantly call and buzz you. Shows you are in demand.

#22 Say noble and pious things like “I don’t work for money. I work to make an impact” and “My job to me is simply some small way I can help to better my fellow man.”

#23 Make hard-carved, fire-tongued business cards crafted from exquisite paper thin sheets of whale bone. Hand them out like Chicklets.

#24 No matter what, tip the admin assistants. Make a show of it. Shows your generosity of spirit.

#25 No matter what the interview always end it with, “I’ll have my people call your people.”

My favorite is #14

And I have no idea what the Protocols of Zion are.

On the topic of interviews...once when I was about 24, I was interviewing for a job as a volunteer coordinator or something or other at St. Joseph Hospital. The girl interviewing me was just awful - reading the standard HR questions straight from the paper. But of course I was still nervous.

She got to the question that everyone asks - if you could change anything about yourself, what would it be?

Perhaps I hadn't practiced the standard baloney answer, "well, I am just such a perfectionist, I work so hard, it so hard to be me" blah blah.

Because that is not what came into my mind.

As I stared at Miss HR with a completely blank yet aghast look on my face, inside my head a tape played over and over that said only, My boobs would be bigger...My boobs would be bigger...My boobs would be bigger....

I didn't get the job.

Nor the boobs.

Got an interview horror story? Lay it on me.

Awesomeness

Dad Life from Church on the Move on Vimeo.

Bringing her home one dollar (fifty cents? you take fifty cents?) at a time

It's midnight and I have been up since 5am so why in the world am I blogging?

Cause I'm an idiot, but we've established that in prior posts.

Why have I been up since 5am?

Because we had ourselves another Operation Bring Bethie Home Garage Sale this morning. And all day. At 3:00, as he hauled everything back into the garage with literal salt trails from sweating on his shirt, I saw them, they were white, and they stunk, Walker pointed out, "You realize we've worked ten hours on this garage sale, right?"

$820 later, it was worth it, my friends. Because in all my career of female dominated jobs, including my currently held position, I ain't never made no $82 an hour.

(Sometimes I like to go a little crazy with bad grammar and double negatives.) (Excuse me.) (It's the only rush I get from sinning anymore.)

I announced a couple of weeks ago that we were going to have another garage sale and I guess I caught everyone right when they were in a serious early summer-cleanout/nesting/if-I-don't-get-rid-of-some-stinking-toys-I-am-going-to-lose-my-mind mode because oh my skull.

This is not a still from an episode of Hoarders.


This was my garage. And this before Amy brought over 4,573 children's books and 868 stuffed animals. And Mardon brought over her recently gone to Heaven, very fashionable mother-in-law's wardrobe.

It was before my friend Sue brought me over an entire girls' bedroom suite with gorgeous 22 month old Josie, who came from you-know-where. And before Stephanie brought over half the inventory of Toys R Us, or perhaps it was her playroom.

It was after Mary Grace gave me three golf bags, a TV, and a PlayStation 2, and Stacey drove across town to bring me a highchair, but before I had to tell Jen that I can't even come to pick up the crib and stuff because a) we don't have time and b) my husband is about to kill me for sending him all over town in his cool black pickup truck fetching various items from strangers' 100 degree garages.

So bright and early this morning, at the buttcrack of dawn, we hauled the loot onto the drive and they soon arrived with dollar bills in hand, ready to haggle me down from $2 to $1. And while we're on the subject of buttcracks. I saw more than my share today.

None of my 'clientele' appeared to share the same philosophy as I regarding the concealment of the muffin top, you know, the roll of fat that pops out above your jeans. No baby doll tops or mom jeans for them, un uh. In fact, they were flat-out flaunting their muffin tops. They had earned that muffin top, and they were proud of that muffin top, and they were gonna make sure we were proud of that muffin top.

Clearly, I need to switch cultures.

Talking to Garage Sale People is one of my very favorite parts of garage sales. At one point today I looked around at the very elderly woman buying white yes white Birkenstocks, to the nice lady who was DEEEEELIGHTED to pay $5 for the box of ugly doorknobs that my friend Hazel couldn't bear to keep in her new house, to the man who asked me if I had any casino chips, because he collects casino chips, all kinds of casino memorabilia in fact, and thought to myself, everyone of these oddballs reflects the image and likeness of God. And I giggled. God is so cool.

And after I took one of those best-hot-showers-ever and counted up the proceeds of the ten hour sweat fest, I was really realizing how cool God is. And how blessed we are by friends who are so delighted to help us bring our baby girl home.

If I only had about 19 more of these, this adoption would be paid for!!

Now, I'd be insane and my husband would no longer be speaking to me, but the adoption would be paid for!

Aaaaaaand I have to be at church in eight hours.
Night night.

Adoption is not Plan B.

Run, don't walk, and listen to this sermon by John Piper: Adoption, the Heart of the Gospel.

'When people embrace the pain and joy of children rather than using abortion or birth control simply to keep children away, the worth of Christ shines more visibly. Adoption is as far as possible from the mindset that rejects children as an intrusion. Praise God for people ready to embrace the suffering—known and unknown. God’s cost to adopt us was infinitely greater than any cost we will endure in adopting and raising children.'

Blessed to be a blessing

Some can sing arias, some can dance a beautiful ballet, some can paint masterpieces.

I, Missy, have been graced with an amazing and rarer talent, one that was not bestowed upon anyone else in my family.

I can take an empty toilet paper roll off the spool and throw it in the trash. But wait there's more! I can then refresh it with a brand new roll.

What can I say. The Lord gifts us all in different ways.

What are your special gifts?

Crack open my coconut and this is what spills out

Last week we went to a Gladney Family Association party at Noah's Ark pool. An ark full of weirdos. Awesomeness!

Where my sad attempts at a loving happy family photo came out like this:


Why, why, why do I bother.

Afterwards we decided to go down the street and try and Ethiopian restaurant called Blue Nile. In our bathing suits. Kause we're klassy with a kapital K. K? K.

To my sheer delight, all the kids enjoyed the food immensely

every one of them


every bit of it. Eva Rose said that the injera - a spongy, slightly sour tasting flat bread that Ethiopians use to scoop up their food - felt like a nice warm bed she wanted to crawl into.

Which was slightly odd, but sweet.

Kinda like this family.


Well, let's get real, we're more than slightly odd.

True to her Texas roots, Maggie treated it like a tortilla and made herself an Ethiopian fajita.


And I have to say that I am truly happy that my child is coming from a country that rocks the kitchenbah. I am lovin the Ethiopian food.

While we were waiting for our beautiful waitress to bring us some glory, five year old Eva Rose and I had a conversation. It went like this:

ER: Mom, are there only poor people in Ethiopia?

Me: I'm sure there are some rich people.

ER: Well, are the rich people Christians? I mean, like, do they worship the true God?

Me: Yes, most Ethiopians are Christians, so I am sure a lot of the rich people are Christians.

ER: (with a look of disgust on her face): Well then Mom, if there are Christians in Ethiopia who are rich, then WHY ARE THERE ANY POOR PEOPLE IN ETHIOPIA? Why aren't the rich Christians taking care of the poor people? Why aren't they doing their JOB, Mom?!?

Me: (slightly amused and very impressed) Well, honey, there are lots and lots of rich Christians here in America, and we have poor people here too.

ER: What?? Mom? What the freak?!?!

Okay, I made that last line up. She really didn't say what the freak. If she had I probably would have washed her mouth out with the funky Ethiopian mead that Walker was drinking because I am a parental hypocrite like that. Speak as I say, girl, not as I say, er, speak. Say. Speak.

But I must say my heart was overflowing. My girl is passionate. She always has been. For years we have prayed if only You would harness that passion for good and not evil, Lord! Because Prissy Lou is one of those take-over-the-world types. She could be Mother Teresa, or she could be Madame Tsao. Some days girl's both. Some five minute increments, girl's both.

But she had a point. A big, stinking, ugly point.

I am well aware that the situation of poverty in Ethiopia is incredibly complex.

And I am well aware that the situation of poverty in America is incredibly complex.

But the question, I believe, is still valid. If the rich people are Christians, then why are there any poor people??

Because 99.999% of you reading this blog are rich. Don't believe me? Click here. And here.

And God only commands us to take care of the poor people, like, oh THREE HUNDRED TIMES or something.

I'm also aware that American Christians do more to help the poor than anyone else in the world does. So am I saying that it's not enough? Eeeeeeee-yup. That's what I am saying. And guess what I am learning - sometimes our good intentions not only aren't enough, but they are actually detrimental.

Last week our church recommended that as a congregation, we read a book called When Helping Hurts: Alleviating Poverty Without Hurting the Poor...and Ourselves. This book has kept me up past my bedtime every night this week. I've read quite a few books on poverty lately, and this one is so refreshing and informative, I cannot recommend it enough, to all Christians - from those on the mission field to those who wonder if you should hand a dollar the guy on the corner with the cardboard sign.

And then tonight Kristen posted about something similar that her daughter said at dinner, and she got some negative comments, one in particular saying that she only posted about poverty in Africa to give a guilt trip to her readers. (To which I respond: And your point is...? Because we all reek with the stench of guilt. Take a trip. A long trip. Bring some beef jerky. And a moon pie.)

On top of all that, last week Melissa Hill (if you don't read her blog, you are so missing out) posted this quote from David Platt's book Radical (so on my wish list) that I just can't get out of my head:

We take Jesus' command in Matthew 28 to make disciples of all nations, and we say, "That means other people." But we look at Jesus' command in Matthew 11:28, "Come to me all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest," and we say, "Now, that means me." We take Jesus' promise in Acts 1:8 that the Spirit will lead us to the ends of the earth, and we say, "That means some people." But we take Jesus' promise in John 10:10 that we will have abundant life, and we say, "That means me."

In the process, we have unnecessarily (and unbiblically) drawn a line of distinction, assigning the obligations of Christianity to a few while keeping the privileges of Christianity for us all.

OUCH to the OUCH SPOT.

Yeah. My mind has been churning this week.

Tell me, sweet invisible friends. What's on your mind this week?

I did something last night I haven't done in ages - I deleted a blog post. Sigh.

So all I have to offer y'all today is this:

HELLO, SUMMER!

Insomnia, nosebleeds, and gas, oh my

Since my very first pregnancy, I have suffered from insomnia. That year I was pg (can I say pg? And pretend we are just emailing?) was pure hades, because my main symptoms were insomnia and nosebleeds. I remember trying to sleep one night, tossing and turning, and feeling the familiar warm nosebleed rush in the middle of the night, of course right when I had dozed off. And then I had to go teach the next morning! Those poor little second graders. Who are now kids on facebook with statuses (statusi?) like "in a relationship." Oy vey.

Okay, while we are talking about being pregnant and teaching. As many of you know all too well, when one is pregnant, and when the ole relaxin gets released throughout the ole preggo body to cause the birthin' organs to relax, all the organs relax. The esophagus relaxins, which is why I got heartburn so bad I thought I was going home to Elizabeth (if you are too young to get the Sanford and Son joke, well, you are just too young) and why I would burp the entire twenty minute drive to school. It also causes the downtown muscles to relaxinate and do the ole downtown burp.

If you were Maggie, it would make you say, "My heinie just burp-ted."

And if you have been married a mere three weeks before you got pregnant, your husband finds out way too much, way too soon.

Anyway. Back to the heinie burp-teds (now there's a sentence that has never been uttered before.) I got pregnant in December when I still had months to teach before I sleeped (ba bom cha) and I was petrified that I would do a heinie burp in front of all my little students. I held out - well, held in, actually - all the way to the very stinkin (no pun intended) last day of school, y'all.

That day they had turned the parking lot into an obstacle course and the kids had brought their bikes and roller skates and other wheeled contraptions. They were all hyped up and dying to get out there and tackle those crazy orange coned obstacles.

I said, in my best teacher voice, "Okay, listen up, here is the plan for today." All the kids got quiet and all eyes turned on me, paying very close attention.

"We're going to get our (HEINIE BURP-TED) (make that a LOUD, LONG HEINIE BURP-TED.)"

NIGHTMARE! HAPPENING! ON THE LAST! DAY! OF SCHOOL!

Yes. Yessssssssss.

So I said, "Pregnant ladies toot a lot. Ask your moms. So anyway we're going to get our...." and I am sure I looked cool as a cucumber - okay, cool as a watermelon - but I just wanted to die not only because the look of pure and abject horror on the faces of all my little boys whom I had just scarred for life to learn - the hard way, the oh so hard way - that teachers toot but also because dangit! I held out (in) till the very last day of school!!

Okay, why did I bring up my 2002 pregnancy?

Oh yeah. It gave me insomnia. The pregnancy, not the...never mind. Insomnia which never, ever went away (come to think of it, neither did the...never mind.) Which means I pop pills like a Hollywood starlet every night. Except I bet Hollywood starlets go for something stronger than a Benadryl. Anyway, the only upside to this lingering side effect of my womb service is that, knowing I will drug myself sleepy later, I have the freedom to drink a Diet Coke at 10pm. Which is what I am doing right now.

My word, I did not intend to post about heinie burp-teds.

These blog posts take on a life of their own sometimes.

And the Diet Coke just made me burp.

Career goals: ACHIEVED

My boyly boys

Shepherd went for his first sleepover last night. Y'all. This is HUGE. I only let him because his little bestie is moving to New Jersey this weekend. He slept in a tent in Jake's room and he swam in the pool and he survived. And now that can of worms has been unleashed.

Or snakes. Can of snakes.
(Not quite as catchy.)

My baby boy is no more. He is going into first grade, he reads like a champ, he gets in trouble for saying "what the..." and butt. He completed several rites of passage so far: he's been sent to the principal's office, he's lost his two front teeth, and he's lost a library book.

He also got married.
And I wasn't invited to the wedding.

It happened like this. Marissa has been his 'girlfriend' since almost the start of school. Now in pre-k, he had between 4-7 girlfriends at any given time, so I was happy to hear he was giving monogamy a whirl.

One day this past spring he came home and said that Marissa had kissed him at recess. "Shepherd," I answered sternly. "You are not allowed to kiss girls. No way. Not at all. NO. KISSING. GIRLS."

"But she kissed me," he replied, and I am sure it was true, as I vividly remember leaning out of my square on the big blue kindergarten carpet and planting one on Darren Yeager's cheek. And I vividly remember his look of disgust as he wiped it off.

If only my son would be so disgusted.

"Well that's not okay either. Tell her. Tell her your mom said you aren't allowed to kiss girls." Because that will make you cool, Shep, all the way through college.

"So when can I kiss girls?"

"When you're older. Lots older. And married. You are not allowed to kiss a girl until you are married."

A week later, Shep hops in the minivan and announces, "Marissa and I got married today at recess."

So there ya go.

Another kid was the preacher and Marissa carried a lovely bouquet of dead leaves she found by the monkey bars. So I was told. Because I wasn't invited.

This morning, with Shep gone into the vast and scary netherland of sleepovers, the girls and I sat and colored and read girly, not boyly, books and Ike sort of quietly watched Barney and played with his boyly cars and I thought to myself, man, three kids is so easy. The rule is: one less kid than the number that you have is so easy. I am sure when the oldest Duggar boy got married they were like 'Man, 18 kids is so easy.'

Maybe not.

Speaking of Ikey, today little boy learned the hard way that stoves are hot. He has a blister on every single one of his fingertips. It is the saddest thing.

After soaking them in ice water and spraying leftover-from-his-birth Dermoplast on them and the innards of an aloe vera plant (kept in my kitchen for just this reason - it is magic on burns) the only bandaids that would stick were the Tatoos - have y'all seen those? They really do keep on. The ones I had I found on clearance at Target. They have all the characters from Camp Rock on them.


Which was appropriate. And reminds me of


Then Ike put on my sunglasses and started moonwalking, which was just weird.

He didn't cry though, because Ike is tough. Like, ridiculously tough. And ridiculously strong. And ridiculously addicted to tormenting his "big" sister Maggie, who is so petite Walker calls her "unsubstantial."

If Maggie smoked a pipe and had a tattoo, this would be her and Ike:


His latest move is to put his hand over the girls' faces and push back on their heads when he wants a toy that have. It is quite gentlemanly. And yesterday he got written up at the Y childcare for bashing another kid with maracas. To the beat. A Latin beat. Rhythm is gonna get ya.

So today we have been on Bluto Alert. He will come to know the error of his ways.

We have another issue too.

There's something you should know about me: I am a late potty trainer. I deplore potty training with every fiber of my maternal being. It's outright traumatic. I dread it about as much as I dread public restrooms. And since my children seem to be on the Great Public Potty Tour 2010, and I am growing hoarse by screeching DON'T TOUCH ANYTHING! HOLD YOUR HANDS TOGETHER! MAGGGGIE! DON'T LICK THAT!!!! NO! TOUCH! OH SWEET HEAVENS WHY ON EARTH DO YOU HAVE TO PUT EVERYTHING IN YOUR MOUTH???? I would much prefer it that the kid just, you know, go right on there right in their pants and we'll deal with it when we get home.

Truth be told? I often wish the same about my own self.

Ike seems to share the same opinion as me on this one. Here's how our discussions on potty training go:

Mom: Hey Ike, wanna go poopoo in the potty like a big boy?
Ike: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!
Mom: You get candy!!
Ike: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!

I'm just not real sure which way to go from there?

He just turned three, and like I said, I am a-okay with him still being in diapers. Problem is that his preschool class next year is not. I have 62 days to get the kid trained.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!

Speaking of growing hoarse.
Ike didn't talk for a long time and now that he finally (sorta) is, his voice sounds like he's been smoking a pack a day since he was one. Very, very raspy. So I took him to an ENT and after using phrases like "that really concerns me" and "could be tumors," you know, the stuff moms loooooove to hear come out of a doctor's mouth, she stuck a camera down his nose (Bluto took it like a champ) and the diagnosis: nodes on his vocal cords.

My three year old has nodes on his vocal cords.
(guarantee you I'm gonna get a google hit for that.)

Did I mention my child was a rock star?


It can be caused by reflux, of which he had a minor painless case - or maybe it was all the brandy we gave him when he was teething. Either way, he looks like Michael Jackson but he sings like Rod Stewart. And he kicks butt like Axel Rose.

My baby, he's on the road to greatness.

So, um, how was your day?

A glimpse into mine, via facebook status update:

Missy: I really hate it when I throw a screaming hissy fit on my husband and then realize I am PMSing. Really, really hate that. Sorry, Walker.

Erica it's those moments you can totally hear yourself being completely irrational and insane but can't stop!! and you see your poor husband with "deer in the headlights glaze" ug! sorry! sadly ...I understand!

Walker My wife is beautiful and charming.

Rachel I saw a couple having a "heated discussion" in the grocery store this week. The woman was holding a box of Midol, and my thought was "silly man, you've been warned."

Walker Ericka, you nailed it with your description. There I am shell-shocked and slack-jawed as a quickly building, irrational RAGE unfolds in front of me...like a grenade going off in slow motion...an unstoppable, remorseless, withering force! BATTEN DOWN THE HATCHES, MEN FOLK!!!

Erica let me say...we hate it too!!! we know! but its like a freight train off the rails!!! no stopping..just wreckage all over the place...its so ridiculous! it just build and builds...then BOOM! just still can't figure out why my husband is always right in the path of destruction when it all goes off!?? :) a spa day make things all better! hee hee! Hang in there Walker! She will be normal again soon!

Cheryl It is comforting to know that my poor husband is not the only man in the world that has to put up with hissy fits. Not only from a 3 year old and a 2 year girl, but alas, a 30 year old girl....

Thanks for the support, sisters. I owe you a venting session and some Midol.

As I re-evaluate the dress code

Perhaps my favorite post ever. From December 'o8


Thursdays are our Pyjama Days, aka, Stay at Home and Look Ugly days. Shep is the only one with school, ie, the only one who needs to even put on clothes. If we do get dressed, it is in the stack of play clothes set aside specifically due to stains or simple tackiness.

I had intended for this past Thursday to be a Crafty Thursday. But alas, I was ill-prepared. So it turned instead into a Please, The Weather Is Nice for Once, Just Go Outside and Play in the Backyard and Maybe By Some Miracle I Can Get a Load of Laundry Folded Thursday.

So far so good. Shep had a pair of scissors and was using them to fell an elephant ear plant that we have. Which was fine with me, because I am less than fond of the elephant ear plant. Elephant ears look like - sit down - elephant ears. Big heart-shaped leaves, and in my opinion, a little too Land of the Lost-ish to be pretty.


This particular one was a remnant of landscaping days gone by and grew like an odd duck along our fence. Of course, since I do not care for it, it grows as though it were lovingly fertilized and sung arias to daily. Cut away, Shep.

I checked on orally fixated Maggie and found her pretending to eat the elephant ear. Warned her "No mouth, Maggie! No. Mouth." She threw it on the ground and smiled at me. I folded some more.

Until a minute or so later when she came running in to the living room. Screaming. And gagging. And screaming, "My mouf! My mouf!"

I ran to her and asked the question I already knew the answer to. "Did you eat the plant Maggie?"

"Yeaaaaaaa!"

"Maggie, does it taste bad, or does it burn?"

"Tate bad! Bun! Bun!"

Locating my personal at home pediatrician and poison expert, Dr. Google, I typed in "elephant ear plant poisonous". And read this:

Intense burning and irritation of the mouth and tongue.
Death can occur if base of the tongue swells enough
to block the air passage of the throat.

Um, death?

One look at her throat revealed her tonsils were so swollen they were almost blocking her throat. Where her air passages.

"IN THE CAR! EVERYONE IN THE CAR NOW!"

At which point I could not find my car keys.

About three minutes and about 38 Dear sweet Jesus please's later, the keys were located on the back of the stove.

And so the Von Trash Family made a little trip to the ER.

Now fortunately these corner emergency clinics have been popping up left and right in my neck of the woods, which, knowing my kids and my parenting skilz, I have considered quite a blessing. Within five minutes I was unloading four children:

• One barefoot baby with a dirty diaper
  
• One little girl with hair in a That Should Keep It Out of Your Breakfast do, in a too-short top showing her tummy.
  
• Another little girl in rather hideous purple flowered pants, also barefoot
  
• And one little boy with a container around his neck. Occupied by a lizard. Who announced gleefully to everyone he saw, "My baby sister ate a POISONOUS PLANT. She could die, you know!"

Plus one frazzled mom in sweat pants and a very ratty headband, wanting to introduce herself as, "Hello, and yes we have an emergency, but first off the bat can I just say today is our stay-at-home-day and I swear we are not as white trash as we look."

Of course Maggie had quit screaming by this point and as she climbed the chairs in the waiting room, I repeatedly peered in her throat, then Eva Rose's throat, then her throat, then Shep's throat, trying to gauge if she was indeed swollen enough to warrant a $100 emergency room co-pay. She was definitely swollen. Her skanky top was defintely wet with drool. And as I parent with a guilt-aversion methodology, I laid out the plastic and we were ushered back into the examining room.

Which was better than a trip to Costco for my kids. Ike had cabinets to open and shut, Maggie climbed in and out of the bed, Shep accepted the challenge of turning tongue depressors into weapons, and Eva Rose blew the latex gloves into balloons.

A sterile preschool Nirvana, it was.

And after the doctor checked with Poison Control and determined that she would live, the joys only increased. Lollipops, stickers, and gloves, oh my!

We returned home. The baby was put to bed, and the kids were put in front of the TV.

And the momma? Well, she started dinner, and counted her blessings.


Follow up: since this happened, I have learned that Maggie naturally has freakishly big tonsils. Like, huge. So the trip was probably totally unnecessary.
And no, we have not changed the dress code.

To know him is to need him

~The hiatus only lasted until one midnight~

My dear friend Leah came last week to perform her babysitting ministry so that Walker and I could attend a party. This is such a blessing to me. There is, however, one problem: Leah and I always stay up way too late talking after I return home.

As we caught up she told me about how recently, a girl whom Leah had mentored had confessed a secret sin to a friend, and instead of exhibiting love and grace, the friend told her she never wanted to see her again. Leah's girl was understandably devastated.

I replied, "That just plainly shows that her friend needs Jesus just as much as she does. Every moment and every action of every day displays either how much we know Jesus or how much we need Jesus."

And then Leah and I both paused and went, "Whoaaaaa."
Amazing what I can come up with at 2am.

Since I said that it has been on my mind. Frankly, it has been haunting me. I've evaluated several of my actions in light of which side I am on at that moment. I have frequently come up needy.

Here's the glory - when it comes to spiritual maturity - my sanctification - coming up needy is exactly where I need to be. When I come up needy is when I realize how helpless I am to do good on my own - and how desperately I need to cling to the Only One who is good, the Only One who can empower me to be good.

Coming up needy leads me straight to the foot of the cross.

Today at Home Depot I turned around just in time to see a mom whack her young son on the behind. His wails filled the plumbing department as his little face registered shock and betrayal. "I told you not to touch anything!" the mom cried, and then set back up the potentially dangerous thing he had just knocked over. It wasn't polite but I couldn't tear my eyes away from this horrible scene - a mother angrily striking her own precious child for acting exactly the way a child his age should act.

Her eyes met mine. I am sure she thought I was judging her as she grabbed his hand and hurried away.

I wasn't judging her. I stood there for a moment, nauseated and almost in tears, realizing that I have been her more times than I would ever want to count. I was mortified not at her sin, but at my own.

Every moment and every action of every day displays either how much we know Jesus or how much we need Jesus.

I'm glad God placed me with a front row view of that mother's failings, because I needed to see it. I need to be made constantly aware of how much I need him.

So this past week, I have been made aware. This awareness has not led me to be the perfect mother and the perfect wife. Far from it. But what I have done - after I have failed - is stop, and pray, and confess, and ask the Lord specifically for help in the area where I just blew it.

What I've done is repent. Right then. Right there.

I haven't done it every single time I've sinned. But it is constantly in the back of my mind. My goal is to bring it front and center. My goal is to remain mortified at my own sin. My goal is to slay it.

Tonight, I've been made aware that someone who has a habit of offending me has gone and done it again. Right now what I want to do is to go lie in bed with my eyes closed and replay all the ways that she is horrible and all the ways that she has ever hurt me.

Every moment and every action of every day displays either how much we know Jesus or how much we need Jesus.

I know him. I know him fiercely. His soul permeates my soul. My name is written on the palms of his hands, the hands that were mutilated for my bitter and unforgiving heart. So. How would one who knows him react?

I ask him. The Voice tells me. Good sense makes one slow to anger, and it is his glory to overlook an offense.

I know him. And because he is all that I need, I will glorify him, tonight.