ONE MORE DAY to win $100!!

Hop over to my reviews page here to see how you can start off the new year with a MasterCard MarketPlace $100 gift card!

Got some Chinese tonight.

Got a fortune cookie.

Got a fortune.

Got confused.

Got a clue??

Linkys ring, how they glisten

walkin in a winter bloggyland.


From my old friend Pam, who is Jewish, and seems to get the true meaning of Christmas more than a lot of Christians I know: Why We Don't Celebrate Christmas

Joseph is Broken

A Christmas Story

For the Holiday, a  Gift of Joy

Why a True Christmas Might be Painful

My first crack at a Christmas epistle

Why are we writing a Christmas letter this year?

Because we are officially old. Missy turned 40 this year, and while Walker is <40, he is Old By Proxy. And old people write Christmas letters. I know this, because my mom gets an entire basket of them each year. So I figure I should get y'all hooked in before our annual letter consists mainly of detailed descriptions of our 2-for-1 hip replacement surgeries and hilarious stories of Walker's outlandish senile induced comments. Wait a minute...

The biggest question of course is, should Missy write this Christmas letter in the third person. Considering she is used to this mode of conversation from twitter and facebook, she is quite comfortable with the procedure. So let's start with Missy. Who turned 40 on May 7. FORTY. 4-0. Ie, closer to 50 than to 30, as her mother was so very kind to point out on May 8.  Her 40th year was brought in with many friends celebrating at a Wine and Stinky Cheese Party. Thus far, Oprah was right, and her 40s have rocked. Also Missy would like to share the secret to looking good at 40. Lean in. Are you ready? Lots and LOTS of makeup. You can be cute at 40, but not accidentally.

I can't do it third person anymore. I tried.

Back to me, my favorite topic. When I'm not bossing around my children, researching the best stain fighting formula or feeling guilty over the amount of high fructose corn syrup they consume, I'm writing on my blog which actually led to me being asked to speak at a couple of women's conferences this year. Yes, I'm getting paid to talk. Wonders never cease.

Walker has begun a new job in sales. Which means, the happy go easy life of a marketing manager has come to a close and he is traveling much more. Hopefully I will soon be able to wipe away my lonely, single mom tears on the stacks of dollar bills this new opportunity will provide for us.  When not lauding the glory of computery things, he and a friend have begun writing movie screenplays. But the cool thing is he actually got an agent. Yes. Walker has an agent. One step closer to his goal of Hollywood Mogul!

Shepherd is in first grade and is brilliant - this is a Christmas letter, so of course my kids are all bright and shiny. He has a very pretty teacher this year so that takes the sting away from painful four-square defeats. I'm sad to report that his marriage, conducted last year on the kindergarten playground, did not survive summer break, but he rebounded well.  His latest obsessions are anything military - I simply avert my eyes from the camouflage fashion don't list - and Cub Scouts. Between the 14,000 events scheduled every month, both Walker and I have sought treatment for CSITSD - Cub Scout Induced Traumatic Stress Disorder. Most of our tics have subsided but navy blue polyester still sometimes makes us reach for an inhaler.

Eva Rose is six and in kindergarten. She is reading great which has put a damper on our ability to spell out secrets in her presence and type emails in front of her. Literacy can be hard on a parent. She is by far the tallest girl in her class, ie, a mutant. Her hobbies include art, dramatic acting involving evil queens who boss around smaller blonde princesses, tattling when the small blonde princess doesn't do what she says, and lobbying that 65 Barbie dolls are not adequate for a child of her position.

Mags will be 5 on December 14. Maggie is our artist-in-residence. Her hobbies include dodging Ike, wearing her shoes on the wrong feet, torturing her sister by laughing at her and then insisting she was laughing at something else, and stickers. We've scheduled an intervention and are enlisting the help of a 12 Step program for her sticker addiction.  

Ike is three and a half and has fully committed to his quest for science. As the youngest of four children, he applied for and received a government grant by which to test his hypothesis that blunt force and volume are the most effective means for creating a reaction and achieving a desired response. We've sacrificed many breakables and our eardrums in his endless pursuit of knowledge. We're very proud.

It appears he is branching out in to other sciences, as today conducted a physics experiment involving a nutcracker soldier and a toilet. Which enabled us to brush up on our finance and economics skills.

The most exciting thing happening in the Dollahon household is that we've decided to add another child to the chaos. This place is a zoo, what's one more monkey? Much of my year was spent sucking on papercuts and asking perfect strangers to notarize incredibly personal documents as part of our dossier - a fancy word for a fat lot of paperwork - so that we can adopt a baby from an orphanage in Ethiopia.

Walker and I planned to adopt since before we were married, and are thrilled that our dream is finally being realized. Ethiopia is a country with approximately five million orphans where one in eight children do not live to see their fifth birthday. Only half of children attend school, and only 12% attend high school.

We expect to bring home a baby girl, already named Bethlehem, before our Christmas cards go out in 2011.

This adoption will cost almost $30,000 and our money tree was blown down during Hurricane Ike, dangit. However, the Lord has been incredibly faithful to provide the money to bring his little girl home, much if not most of it provided through the generosity of friends and family. Recently we were blown away to receive a $4,000 matching grant from Lifesong for Orphans and Kingsland Baptist Church in Katy. If you would like to be a part of Bethie's story, we would be forever appreciative. Donations to Lifesong are tax deductible and can be sent to Lifesong for Orphans, PO Box 40, 202 N. Ford Street, Gridley, IL 61744, and put Dollahon #1473 in the memo.

We hope that you will follow the story of our adoption - and the other crazy antics of our family - at my blog, www.ItsAlmostNaptime.blogspot.com. And I am thrilled to answer any questions you may have about adoption - or reality TV suggestions, decent crockpot recipes, whatever - you can email me at itsalmostnaptime @gmail.com.

Walker, Shepherd, Evangeline, Magdalene, Ingram and I pray that 2011 is a year of joy and peace and uneventful doctor visits for all of you, and that we might actually connect with you in an old-fashioned, non-virtual way!

Joy  to the world,  the Lord is come!

Much love,

Overwhelmed

I thank my God upon every remembrance of you, always in my every prayer for you all making request with joy, for your fellowship in the Gospel from the first day until now

Philipians 1:3-5

Fa la la la la - MasterCard MarketPlace $100 giveaway!

Interrupting my bloggy break to tell you to hop over to my reviews page here to see how Santa can bring you a MasterCard MarketPlace $100 gift card!

My Christmas gift to you

I'm going to sign off on the blog until - inhale exhale - 2011. There, I said it. Unless, of course, something truly phenomenal and blogworthy happens. Barring phenomenal blogworthiness, I shall see you in the new year when Maggie Week will continue. Which will make it more like Maggie Three Weeks. Which is okay because it's my blog and I make the rules. Or break the rules. Whatever.

But I must leave you with my Greatest Find of December 2010. Last week I went to a cookie swap - can I just say I want to give a very tight hug around the neck to whoever invented the cookie swap? This terrible baker SCORED and I hereby apologize to the other ladies who definitely got the short end of the stick because despite my attempts at Betty Crockerdom my cookies were so very mediocre, as they always are, because I am a cook, not a baker. And I'm over it. Mostly. Anyway. The hostess served this at the cookie swap and I have to say that it was one of the most delicious concoctions to ever cross my lips and go straight to my hips. I halved the recipe and served it at Maggie's birthday party yesterday and I am using the leftover in my coffee. You need to give yourself a Christmas gift and make this for Christmas.

SANTA’S EGGNOG

1 gallon of peppermint ice cream, softened

1 quart eggnog

1 quart of Club Soda or Sprite, chilled

That's it y'all. JUST THREE INGREDIENTS TO GLORY.

Then if you want to be really fancy, you crush up some candy canes, and dip the rim of the cup in cream then candy cane, like margarita salt.

You're welcome.

Merry Christmas.

It's 3am.

I am insane.

Good night.

Maggie Week Day 4 - As I re-evaluate the dress code

from December '08

Thursdays are our Pyjama Days, aka, Stay at Home and Look Ugly days. Shep is the only one with school, in other words: 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 almost 3 year old little girl with hair in a That Should Keep It Out of Your Breakfast do, in a too-short top showing her tummy.
  
• Another 4 year old little girl in rather hideous purple flowered pants, also barefoot
  
• And one 5 year old 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 her 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 operate on a guilt-aversion basis, 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.

Birth stories

Last month my dear friend Carol brought her third son into the world. She did so two months after witnessing the agonizing death of her father from cancer (and only a year after losing her best friend to a brain tumor.) While praisefully baby Trent is healthy, her natural labor and delivery had some frightening moments.

On the day of his birth, as she shared the details with me, I remarked, "Wow, it just sounds so...violent." She replied, "Yes. Birth is violent. And death is violent. Having just experienced both, I can't stop thinking about the parallels between the two."

Two weeks later, her words still echoing in my mind, I stood before x-rays of my own bones. Aghast, I stared at my incredibly swayed spine and marveled at how much higher one of my hips is than the other. "Your pelvis is not only lopsided, but it was thrust forward," the doctor explained. Which explains why, almost three years after birthing my last child, I carry a little pillow with me everywhere to support my back, why I can't stand for more than five minutes, and why everyone still keeps asking me if I am pregnant. I know those injuries were caused by my pregnancies and childbirths.

Then we looked at the x-rays of my compressed and already degenerating neck, which has caused me daily pain for as long as I can remember. I wondered how it got so messed up? He shrugged his shoulders, "Who knows. Maybe it was a birth injury."

Because birth is violent. And death is violent. And we live a life of violence in between.

Recently a friend recounted the story of the unintended home birth of her daughter. Loralei described the pain and terror associated with giving birth in her bathroom after being sent home from the hospital. Then she added, "And oh my gosh, the blood. There was blood everywhere."


For years I have collected nativity scenes. I must have 20, 25 of them, from all over the world. All different materials, all different sizes. Each has Mary, Joseph, a swaddled baby, and a star. Some have angels and wise men. But you know what, not one of them shows any blood.

We have this image in our mind of what that first Christmas was like. Yours is perhaps similar to mine: under a great big twinkling star sits a stable. Silent Night tinkles in the background as snow softly falls. Inside are two or three calm, fragrant, and softly lowing animals. Mary, dressed in blue, reclines peacefully, smiling as though she had just received the most divine epidural. She grimaces slightly, and then, voila, a beautiful clean baby appears with a halo floating above his soft curls. Mary wraps Jesus in swaddling clothes, taking care not to muss the halo, and lies him in a manger.

This is the image that we receive from the snowglobes we're given in Sunday School. But we're grown up now, aren't we?


As a result of the sinful, violent world that we live in, because of the curse upon us since the beginning of time, there is pain - violence - in childbirth. Even the easiest childbirth is never easy, never without suffering. Mary fell under that curse as surely as I do. So I believe it is safe to assume that on the night that Jesus was born into this cursed world, she suffered.

The bible doesn't give many details about Jesus's actual delivery. I think the lack of details lends credence to the theory that Mary's labor and birth was ordinary for its time. Unremarkable in its similarity to every other woman's birth, then and even now. Drawing on my own four births, the births of my friends, and some ancient history, I can imagine our Savior's first birthday.

There was a young, frightened girl in a dirty, stinky cave in an overcrowded, noisy town, trying not to think of her friends and relatives who had died in childbirth. She was probably surrounded by women who had also made the trek to Bethlehem, some of whom she knew, some she might not have. Some who loved her, some who judged her and the suspicious circumstances of her pregnancy. Most who traded their own birth stories as her labor progressed and offered their advice. All of whom were witnessing her at her most vulnerable. But as her contractions came closer and closer together, the only thing Mary knew was that she had never experienced pain like this in all her life.

There was no whirlpool bath. There was no birthing ball. There was probably not even a birthing stool. There was probably a woman, perhaps even her mother, seated behind her to hold her still, rub her back, press on the top of her abdomen, and say repeatedly in her ear, "Miriam, you're doing great, good job, good girl, you're doing great."

There was no background music of a children's choir singing Away in a Manger. Instead there were probably grunts, and tears, and desperate prayers, and terrified cries of "Get him out! Please get him out!" and "I can't do this!" while the women soothed, firmly, "Yes you can, sweetheart, you can. Push!"

And then there were a few minutes when Mary thought her body was on fire, and she closed her eyes, and she panted, and she moaned, perhaps she screamed, and then he was out. And the women said, "He's here! He's beautiful! Look at him, Miriam, look at your son!" And he cried. And Mary opened her eyes, and she cried, and tried to move her exhausted body to see her baby. He was red, he was wrinkly, he was screaming, he was covered in vernix, but he was alive, and, at least to his mother, he was beautiful.

And there was blood everywhere.

He came into this world in violence.

He lived a violent life. As an infant, he screamed from gas pains. As a toddler he was covered in bruises from learning to walk. He skinned his knees. He caught viruses. He experienced the pain of losing his earthly father. His brothers scoffed at him. He wept when his friend died too young. His best friend rejected him when he needed him most. He suffered, both physically and emotionally. He empathized with others on a level we will never know. He knew the pain of being a human. He knew what it was like to be us, to be well acquainted with sorrow and sin and curses.

And he died a most violent death. He was arrested, accused of a crime he did not commit. He was flogged with a whip until his body was unrecognizable from the cuts and the bruises and the swelling. His beard was probably ripped out. He was stripped naked, and then his body was tied to a cross. A crown of thorns was pressed into his already mutilated head. Nails were pounded into the flesh of his wrists and his ankles and he was raised up. And as he slowly suffocated to death, he watched the anguish and horror on the face of the woman who had bore him, all those years ago, in that stable in Bethlehem.

And there was blood everywhere.

And because his Father deemed his tortured, bleeding body to be a worthy sacrifice, you and I have access to the throne of Heaven. For by that very blood, we have been washed clean of the curse of death. By that blood we are made righteous, by that blood we are justified, by that blood we are redeemed. By that blood, the blood that was everywhere, we are each reborn a child not of the curse, but a child of the living, loving God!

O, holy night!

Hark

Carol of the Bells // The Franz Family from ColdWater Media on Vimeo.

Unfathonable public humiliation for your entertainment

From July 11, 2008

Walker's best friend is named Dave (whom you may or may not have seen on TV. Wink.) Dave and Walker are those kind of friends who tend to regress about twenty years whenever they are around. Your husband probably has one too - suddenly anything that would have been funny to a 15 year old is funny to them.

It's pretty goofy. And sometimes annoying. Being so, they have a habit of, whenever someone asks to take their picture together, posing as though they are, er, more than friends. If you know what I mean. And I think you do.

Let me state, for the record, that Walker is straight. Just, you know, for the record. Ahem.

Walker also has a bad habit of embarrassing himself at work in ways to rival Michael Scott. Horribly, humiliatingly, hysterically.

 

He's been away all week on bidness. Today I received this email from him. And when I was given permission to share it, my heart filled with overwhelming joy.

A gift for your Friday, my bloggy friends.

The email:

Date: Thu, Jul 10, 3:33PM

subject: RE: Unfathonable Public Humiliation: The Walker Chronicles, Volume XI

Friends,

Once again I have suffered a humiliating disaster, epic in its power.
 

This morning I was in Peabody, Mass (pronounced 'Pee-Did-Dee') for work.

I was about to kick start a product briefing and demo in front of a room of about fifty trusted customers and partners, colleagues and friends, when my introducer, Jeff, suggested that I pop up an image I had shown him the night before of my two year-old daughter Maggie angrily tugging on a roll of duct tape after Missy and I had taped shut her diaper. Maggie had been in the recent habit of 'pulling a personal Picaso' on her crib sheets after taking off her sodden diapers in the middle of the night and we had started taping her diapers in an effort to stop these disgusting finger painting exercises.

Jeff said, 'Hey, why don't you start with that funny picture of your daughter? You know, the one with the duct tape on her diaper?'

Below is the Maggie Duct Tape Diaper picture I wanted to show:

He suggested that this picture would be a good illustration of the concept of 'a tool for every problem', something to bring a nice roll of chuckles from the audience and give me a nice spring-board into my discussion of how {Dunder Mifflin} products are good 'tools for every problem'?

Nice, huh?

How could this go wrong??

Well, as my laptop was connected to a huge projector showing my display, everything I was doing in trying to find Maggie's picture was being shown to the room. I keep a folder called 'Personal Pix' where I have stashed over the years random family pix, friends pixs, neat images, etc.

I find the folder and double-click on it...

What is the first image that is blow across the enormo-screen in front of me??

It's the one that my friend Luke Bolton calls 'Dave and Walker Celebrate Closing on Their Cute Little Duplex in the Bay Area'....a photo taken years ago when I was celebrating my 30th b-day, enhanced by Missy with soft edges and warm glow:

Nervous and awkward, The Office-like titters broke out...I had to soldier on with my presentation...I am sure that my wedding ring and comments about my kids later in the presentation utterly baffled them.

-Walker

Maggie Week Day 2

from July 2008. Tomorrow I will post Walker's unbelievable, potentially career ending experience that stemmed from this photo.



Because if I have to clean poop - LOTS OF POOP - out of a crib one more time...

Mags is on a terror lately. A. TER. ROR.

Anyone else dreaming of baby Prozac on this lovely summer's day??

So far, this week, Maggie has

• scratched her baby brother's little back SO bad with the back of a table. Yes, a table.
  
• spilt an entire container of raisins - expensive, organic raisins thank you - on the floor
• pooped all over her bed (three. times.)
  
• ruined one of my favorite lipsticks
  

• spilled an entire bottle of baby shampoo on the floor
• rubbed toothpaste all over the bathroom counter, and
  
• used a tub of butter as hair gel

So far.

It's only Tuesday.

I swear I supervise her. I do. But she's One of Those. She's QUICK. Stealth. Silent but deadly. And I can't watch her every single second because, have I mentioned I have three other kids? But one second is all it takes for Mags to cause some catastrophic damage.

Walker calls her our feral child - like one of those kids they would find in the woods who had been raised by wolves, or gorillas. Or evil little elves.

She constantly does things the other two never even dreamed of doing. Like this, for instance.


And this.

And the problem is...she's recruiting. And holding training camps in covert locations, like the pantry.


Oh, it's a good thing for her she's so stinkin cute.


Because cuteness covers a multitude of messes.

Pink surprise

Four years ago tonight, I was big as a cow, my bags were packed, my Christmas shopping was accomplished, the nursery was ready, the closet was full of wittle bitty blue clothes.

Because I was having a boy. I knew I was. I had known Shep was a boy from the get go. I had known Eva Rose was a girl from the get go. My self-gender-predicting-abilities were obviously some sort of sixth sense. Evidently God had gifted and talented me in this area, because hello, I was two for two, and those were unbeatable odds. So when I said that Baby 3 was a boy, then Baby 3 was a boy. Because I always knew the gender of my babies, from the get go.

And, come on. How could you walk around for nine months with another person inside of you and not even know what it was? Women who did that, well, I wouldn't say it out loud, but. They were less intuitive than I. Which made them less of a mother, truth be told.

But I did not want to know what this baby was, officially. I wanted it to be a surprise. Just like Shep was a surprise, except he wasn't, because I knew he was a boy. From the get go.

One might think that the very fact that I was humongously full of fetus even though precautions had been taken would be surprise enough for 2005, but I guess I hadn't gotten my fill.

Walker, however, had. He wanted to know. Fine, I said, satiate your need for gender identity, but keep it to yourself. So when we went into the ultrasound, the tech waited until I sprinted out of the room to relieve my exploding bladder before she told Walker what the test had revealed. As I peed I heard them laughing in the ultrasound room. I was proud of Walker for staying happy. He had wanted to see a hamburger, but I knew he had seen a turtle. He must be so disappointed. Aw, he was such a good sport.

First he only told our closest friends what the baby was. But then the more people asked, the more found out. As for me, one day he would tell me it was a girl, the next day a boy. I argued with him that it was a boy. He said it was a girl. I knew he was just saying that to be ornery, and also my husband is quite gifted in the art of lying. This went on for about twenty weeks.

By December 13, the only people on planet Earth who did not officially know the gender of Baby 3 were me and my mom.

Except I knew, of course, that it was a boy. A boy named Ingram. His little blue nighties were folded in his dresser, ready for him.

I had asked my friend Shelly to go to Lifeway and buy the baby book I had chosen, and then to wrap it, so that I could not see whether she bought the boy or the girl one. Even though I knew she was buying the blue book.

On the evening before I was to be induced to have my second son, the son named Ingram, whose little blue outfits were hanging in the closet, I took the wrapped book out of the Lifeway bag. The book must go to the hospital, to be opened upon his arrival, when his wittle bitty male feet would be stamped upon the page of the blue baby book. I spied the receipt in the bottom of the bag, and I picked it up so I could see how much I owed Shelly.

I read the receipt.

The receipt said:

BABY MEMORY BOOK - GIRL

I blinked, shook my head, and read it again. It still said:

BABY MEMORY BOOK - GIRL

I stared. For a minute.

"Walker! WALKER!! WAAAAALKER!!!!!!!!! COME HERE!!!!!!!"

"What?"

"This receipt! For the baby book! It says GIRL! Shelly bought me a baby book for a girl!"

"Yah. That's because you are having a girl."

"No, I'm not. I having a boy."

"Missy. I have been TELLING you it's a girl. You are going to the hospital tomorrow to give birth to a GIRL."

Pause.

"Nuh uh. You're lying."

"OH for the love of all things pure and holy! YOU'RE HAVING A GIRL."

"But I gave all my baby girl clothes to Lisa! At supper club! You put them in the trunk of her car!"

"No. We pretended that I put them in the trunk of her car. I have been driving around with two trash bags of baby girl clothes in the trunk of my car for two months now."

Pause.

"You're lying."

(Walker beats head against wall.)

"When I see you come in here with two trash bags of baby girl clothes, then, and only then, will I believe that I am having a girl tomorrow."

Walker walks outside. Walker comes back inside. Carrying two trash bags of baby girl clothes.

"Holy crap. I'm having a girl tomorrow."

"I TOLD YOU YOU WERE HAVING A GIRL."

"I can't believe I am having a girl. I'm having a girl! Oh my gosh! I have so much laundry to do!!"

Baby GIRL Magdalene Belle, 12-14-05

From 12/13/09

It's Maggie Week

Pardon me while I completely indulge myself in Memory Lane.

But this baby - this itty bitty thing -

turns five years old tomorrow.

And I'm a little bit of a mess about it.

Because five? Is a BIG GIRL.

In honor of Maggie Belle's five years on earth, this week will be Maggie Week at It's Almost Naptime. You know Shark Week? Very, very similar. Because if y'all didn't know, Mags went through an, um, difficult period.

Difficult for me, anyway. Mags was just fine. It was I who was constantly cleaning up poop and dead fish and carting her mischievous little behind to the emergency room.

Every day I will rerun a Maggie post, starting with the very first surprise she gave me.

If you're new around here, you'll get to know her well.

Which is good for you, because my Mags?

She's pretty special.

(there, I went and made myself cry again.)

WOOTable Links, if you are the WOOTable type, which I am NOT

I am a Groupon addict. Now there is one geared towards moms: Mamapedia
(I'd say WOOT right here but WOOT really annoys me so I won't.)

Okay, have y'all known about Evernote and just not told me? Seriously, I've been looking for this all my life. It's a way to save webpages with one simple click. You make your own categories, like I have a 'recipe' category, an 'Ethiopia' category, an 'if we had tons of money I'd buy this' category, an 'if I were really organized I'd buy this' category, an 'awesome blog posts' category, you get the idea. You can even save an article to read later on your iPhone. And it's free! (insert imaginary WOOT)

Portable North Pole is an adorable way to send a personalized message from Santa to your kids. Also free (yeah, yeah, woot. Ya happy?)

In February, some girlfriends and I are going to the PURE Conference in Austin. If you need a weekend away, girls, come join us! Lysa Terkeurst will be speaking and you know you love Lysa - everybody loves Lysa! And rumor has it that yours truly will be speaking in a breakout session. There is a two for one special that ends December 15 (but if you miss the deadline check to see if they'll extend it for you!)

I thought this was an adorable thing to do with stray mittens: Knit Wits at Family Fun


Quote:
I heard this one from Allister McGrath, whom I got to hear speak Saturday night:
"I believe in Christianity as I believe that the sun has risen: not only because I see it, but because by it I see everything else."  C. S. Lewis

Podcast:
The People Who Missed Christmas by John MacArthur - download or listen here

Book I'm reading and loving now:

And your YouTube:

This baby - who used to be called Baby full time - turns 5 tomorrow. Sniff.

Going Krogering

Attention Kroger shoppers,

In case you were wondering, I don't enjoy hauling four small children to the grocery store.

Their dad is out of town, and we have no milk. Nor tortillas. Nor peanut butter. Nor bananas. I just named the four basic food groups in this home, and they were all depleted. My children were on the verge of starvation.

Not only that, but I was out of Fat Free Half and Half, and my coffee with Fat Free Half and Half is proof that His mercies are new every morning.

Obviously there was a crisis in my home. Otherwise I would have never carted four children to the store right between dinner and bedtime. I would have come by myself, because when I am by myself, I don't beg myself for a car cart, I don't throw a fit over TicTacs, I don't beg for cookies in the bakery, I don't drop my pacifier on the disgusting grocery store floor, and my bladder can withstand the entire shopping trip without having to relieve itself even once.

But desperate times call for desperate measures. So desperately, off the five of us went.

Some of you were nice. To the woman who laughed out loud when Shep and Maggie burst into "You can't always get what you waaa-annnnnt" as their sister cried over my refusal to buy her press-on nails, thank you. My kids are indeed entertaining, and it makes me happy that you shared in a little of my joy.

To the older woman on the detergent aisle, who looked at me with "that smile", I knew exactly what you were going to say before you said it. I have seen "that smile" before. That smile is always followed by, "I had seven (or five, or six) myself." And I don't have to tell you, because you already know, that phrase is about the most encouraging thing you can say to me. Instantly I know, you get it. And you lived to tell! And shop by yourself again!

To the woman who let out a stream of curse words when you knocked over the tampon boxes: I understand that my son caused a hormonal surge in you when he said, "Wow, that lady sure is grumpy." But I'm sorry, you totally had it coming. And everyone was laughing at you, not with you.

To the man who let out an exaggerated sigh when my daughter joyfully pushed her little kid cart out of the aisle and into your way: sorry, yeah, they can be annoying. You were too at that age.

To the older woman in the black jacket ahead of me in the checkout line, you kept shooting looks at me too. You should know that I know what those looks mean, as I am used to them as well. Those Looks always seem to come from certain women of my mother's generation who believe that it should be a crime for any woman to bear any more than a respectable 2.5 children. And if we insist on breeding them, then we should at least be considerate enough to leave them at home and out of your personal space.

I get rather irritated by those looks, and the occasional ugly comments, and I have an urge to look at you with wild eyes and say, "We're not even done. We're gonna have more!! MUHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!"

But mostly I feel sorry for people like you, Black Jacket Lady. And I'd like to tell you another grocery store story.

My friend Araceli was in the checkout lane with her three small boys. The boys were acting like three boys do and Araceli was frazzled and aggravated. Suddenly an elderly woman came over to her, patted her hand, looked her in the eyes and said, "Dear, I'd give anything in the world to trade places with you right now."

I know you don't understand that, Black Jacket Lady. But I do. And one day, God willing, I will be that elderly lady, and I might just say those very same words to an exhausted young mom, and it might cause her to fight back the tears and hug her little boys in the middle of the Kroger checkout lane, just like Araceli did.

So thank you, Black Jacket Lady. Your dirty looks today reminded me how amazingly, amazingly blessed I am.

And my children thank you too, as they scored some TicTacs out of it.

originally published 6/2/09

Sandbox seminary

Four years old. That's when my kids start really thinking about God. The little wheels in their heads start churning, the questions begin, and carseat sermons commence.

From the back of my minivan, Sister Maggie preaches, rather charismatically, for a Presbyterian.

"I loooooove God. And Jesus. And dey love me. They looooove Maggie. Cause I love them. And I hate" - second only in fascination to God and Jesus - "SATAN! I hate him! Him a big ole toopid head. He does noooot love me. He's a big meanie. If I ever saw him, I'd do a big stinky gas on him! AHAHAHAHA!!! He gonna go to a river of fire! But I looooove God. And Jesus. Do you know I love Jesus Mommy?"

"I do precious. He loves you too. So much."

"Yeah. He do." She looks out the window and smiles. Perhaps a little smugly. So she is a Presbyterian...as she continues.

"Mommy? Do God love Satan?"

(Silence from the front seat. Quizzical look on Mom's face.)

"Well do he?"

"You know Maggie, I don't think so. I don't think he does." Quizzical look replaced by surprised look as I discover I, too, am a five point Calvinist after all.

"Dat's what I say. God do NOT love Satan. But Sissy said that God love Satan, cause God love everybody. But I say, No. Way. God do NOT love Satan. Sissy wrong. So wrong. God love me dough. And I loooooooove God. And Jesus. But not Satan."

Later, over Thanksgiving leftovers, her big sister asks, "Mom, does God love Satan?"

This time Mom's ready. "Sweetie, I don't think so. I really don't."

"Yeah, that's what Maggie said. But Jesus told us to love our enemies. And Satan is God's enemy. So shouldn't God love Satan?"

Quizzical look on Mom's face returns.

Prayers for Adah

Several months ago I met a woman in bible study named Sara. Sara and her husband Jason were home in Texas on furlough from China when their six year old daughter Adah was diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia - AML. In case you know anything about leukemia, there is a 'good', ie, more curable one, and a bad one - AML is the bad one.

Life suddenly turned upside down for the Morrises. Instead of returning to their beloved China as planned, they have spent the last five months in and out of Texas Children's Hospital here in Houston.  The girls and I went to visit Adah one day when she was able to receive visits. She is beautiful and brilliant. Her mom, Sara, began a CaringBridge site for Adah and her writing is just amazing, so with the encouragement of many, she has begun blogging. Please check out her blog here: Beautiful Addition.

Tomorrow, Wednesday, Adah will undergo a bone marrow transplant with bone marrow taken from her baby sister Claire. Thankful to God, Claire was a perfect match, as this increases Adah's prognosis significantly.

Would you please join my family in praying for complete healing for this sweet girl? And if you feel so led, please leave a comment for Sara and Jason on their blog or here on mine. You can also register to receive updates on Adah via email so that you may be witness to the glory of God as he heals her.

Dear Lord, you are the great physician and we come before you now asking for complete and utter healing for your child Adah. Please make the transplant go smoothly and accomplish the goal of completely eradicating the cancer from her body. Please keep her free from infection during this period and rebuke any rejection issues. Send your peace to this family as they cling desperately to you. In the name of Jesus we pray, Amen.

In a stable

I've been thinking a lot about Mary, being that it is Christmas time and all. Actually since I first became pregnant eight years ago with my son Shepherd, Mary and I developed a kinship - a momship - and she is frequently on my mind.

And as I look at all the sweet, smiling, clothed-in-blue Marys in the nativity scenes, I wonder to myself: what would Mary really have been expecting on that very first Christmas?

Consider this: the girl had the angel Gabriel come to tell her she was pregnant. Mary stared in awe and wonder at the angel. Myself, I stared with awe and wonder at two pink lines on a stick dripping with, you know. Big difference. Mary knew she was chosen by God to bring the Light into the world. Being that she was Mary and not Missy, she did not get arrogant about it, nor proud – she remained humble, as we see in her Magnificat.

The Gospels do not tell us what her pregnancy was like, which I think is a sure sign that they were written by men. Imagine if God had chosen a woman to write a Gospel – how many chapters would have outlined her morning sickness and back labor? But I assume Mary threw up like the rest of us and woke up every hour to go to the bathroom and had sciatica and embarrassing gas moments. Which only makes me love her more.

She knew she is carrying the Savior of the world in her womb. She knew that the baby kicking her right in the bladder was in fact a king who would bring peace to all mankind. She knew this. That big scary angel had told her so. And being that she was human, I would imagine she had some...expectations.

As her contractions increased and she walked the long road to Bethlehem feeling, like all women at nine months gestation, like a big fat cow, I doubt Mary was expecting a gilded room at the palace (I am sure the thought would have crossed my mind, but as I mentioned previously, I am no Mary). However I feel pretty sure that she was expecting God to provide her with at the very least, a room - a private, warm, reasonably clean room to deliver this precious child. Such a small request! She had earned at least as much – suffering through the societal stigma of an unplanned pregnancy, and almost losing Joseph – surely God would make it up to her by giving her an easy childbirth.

The one thing that I doubt Mary expected to be provided by God was a stable. I have birthed four babies myself and I just cannot imagine giving birth in a barn. Non-Mary I would have had some tacky things to say about this particular provision.

What must have gone through her and Joseph’s minds? The Messiah, the Prince of Peace, the Mighty One, is coming into the world in a barn? Surrounded by animals and manure? Imagine how protective we are of our brand new babies – and imagine lying one to rest in a manger that cows eat out of?? Hardly sterile.

Do you think they wondered if they had gotten the message wrong? Did they ask if this was some holy joke? While she was pushing our pure and stainless Lord into the world onto hay and dirt, did Mary keep waiting for someone to rescue her?

Mary had been obedient, she had prayed unceasingly, she was the ultimate woman of God, yet in her time of great need, door after door was slammed in her face, literally, until she was finally given the room no one else wanted for a labor and delivery room. I think she must have been very confused in that stable.

I know so many people who are in a stable right now.

Many of my dear friends are amazing women of God. They pray, they fast, they are so obedient. Some of them even do their quiet time every single morning. They are much, much godlier than I am. They are doing everything “right”.

Yet, we have cried together, a lot, this last year. Things are not going the way they planned.

One of my best friends buried her perfect stillborn son in July. We never, ever expected that. Another friend did not expect to spend this Christmas season in a hospital room watching chemotherapy drip into her six year old daughter's weakened body. Other friends expected to be mothers by now. Some are shocked to find themselves in unhappy marriages or going through divorce. And my heart is especially burdened for a few girlfriends who are in their 30s, strongly desiring marriage and children, but God has yet to call them to this.

This life is not the way it was supposed to go, not what they signed up for. It’s not what they thought they were promised. It's not what they prayed for and it's definitely not what they expected.

And they, perhaps like Mary was, are so confused.

We have the blessing of hindsight to know that the stable in which Christ was born was representative of a very different kind of messiah. A humble messiah, with a message of peace, not the military hero the Jews were expecting (there is that word again.) A messiah who hung out not with kings but with the dregs of society, beginning with the his first visitors, the loathed shepherds.

By ordaining such a humble birthplace, God sent a message from the very beginning that this baby was going to rock everyone’s expectations, and shake their world view, and cause them to question everything they thought they knew. God does nothing haphazardly. There was a purpose in the stable. There was something bigger going on than Mary or Joseph – righteous, yet mere humans - could see or grasp.

I submit that there are purposes in our stables as well.

Usually, we cannot see the reason for the stable while we are in it. Sometimes, God clues us in later, and when it happens that is a real treat. But we don’t always get the blessing of knowledge. In fact frequently God in his infinite wisdom does not clue us in.

I don’t know why the desires of my sweet friends’ hearts are not being met. I don’t know why Christian marriages fail, I don’t know why children die, and I don’t know why my friends who would make such wonderful mothers can’t get pregnant.

I don’t expect to find out this side of paradise, and there is no biblical promise that it will be revealed to me even in Heaven. I only know this – that God is sovereign and God is good.

There have been times in my life when “God is sovereign” has been a mantra I screamed repeatedly inside my brain. And there have been times when I just got depressed and wondered when I was ever going to get out of this dumb stable. But (praise Him) our responses and our feelings and our confusion regarding these stables do not change the fact that God is sovereign, and God is good. And that He is up to more than we can see, that His grand design is greater than our own expectations, however noble they may be – which means, without a doubt, there is a purpose for the stable.

Because God is intimately, unceasingly, invasively, personally involved in every single aspect of our lives. And in Romans 8:28 His word promises that this junk we are currently enduring will all work out for the good -- eventually.

At some point, on earth or in Heaven, we will praise Him for the stable, because He loves you and me as much as He loved Mary – take a moment and grasp that – and He has as much reason and purpose for putting us in our particular stable as He did Mary and baby Jesus. And this should give us hope – And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out His love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom He has given us. (Romans 5:5)

Address Stamp winners

• Lynn wants me to tell you that if you didn't win and want to order one, then the deadline is December 9.

• I want to tell you that I picked THREE WINNERS that did not have emails attached to them. Y'all, if you don't have a blog, you gotta leave an email!!

I also want you to know that I did not type that in all caps, it does not look like that in all caps in my draft, I cannot turn off the all caps, and that every since Blogger switched to a new format IT IS DRIVING ME CRAZY.

Lucky winner number FOUR: 

Random Integer Generator

Here are your random numbers:

67 

Timestamp: 2010-12-03 19:33:12 UTC

Jennifer at M&M! Merry Christmas!

Facebook as a form of fellowship

After my Rehab post, Liz sent me this youtube.

Ouch.

Thanks, Liz.

The rest of the message can be found here. 

Happy December GIVEAWAY!

I am jealous of this here giveaway. But then I always am. But really, I've always wanted one of these. I've thought about ordering one but then we always think we're gonna move. And then we don't move.

(What on earth is she rambling about?)

The fancy pretty round return address stamp. Like this. Because I do so love me a monogram.

Or look how pretty this one is:

Y'all. A TO.PI.ARY. 

Exhale jealous sigh.

Lynn Tootle is aunt to Joseph and sister to sweet Gillian, who wrote this post in August that made all of y'all's hearts break. Y'all should know that I have never actually seen the face of Gillian, or Lynn, or their mom, but I have emailed all of them. I know. God bless the blogosphere and the sweet friendships it creates.

But back to Missy's coveting and your possible win.

Lynn has a darling stationery shop called Paper Concierge that I would order a ton of things from if only I didn't always think we were moving. And Lynn is giving away one of these gorgeous stamps.

I don't have to tell you that address stamps are perfect for this time of year.  If you have already gotten your Christmas cards out, then you can use them to pay some pretty bills. If you're like me, you won't have your Christmas cards out till like December 20, so you're fine! Procrastination pays.

But enough about you - think, girls - the one inlaw you never know what to buy - voila! Beautiful address stamp!

Or teacher gift?

And these are so great for kids' gift enclosures.

These take two weeks to get back to you so we are going to make this a super quick giveaway. I will draw a name on Friday.

Here's how to enter:

1. Go to Paper Concierge and leave a comment about your favorite item = one entry.
2. Tweet this = another comment entry
3. Facebook it = another comment entry
4. Blog it = another comment entry

Make sure you leave an email. May be shipped to US addresses only.
 
Good luck!