Friday, January 29

Circle, circle, dot, dot. We really need a cootie shot.

   One of my finest, most inspired moments as a parent was the day I ransacked the innernets to find replacement, just-in-case-something-horrible-happens lovies for my kids. (*Note: until the Bunny was born, I couldn’t stand the word “lovey.” I thought it was too precious and gaggy. But, calling her comfort object The Pink and Green Piece of Cloth with Ducks on It didn’t quite work. So. Lovey it is.)
   Pooter has Lucy, a puppy he got from Nana and Pop for his first Christmas as a B-kid. Ladybug has her Baby, a gift from Granny when she was born. And the Bunny has her Lovey. Lucy, the Baby, and the Lovey are all incredibly important and, to the kids, irreplaceable None of my kids can sleep without their beloveds by their side, or under their head, or covering their eyes, as it is.
   One day shortly after the Bunny made it clear she would never sleep again without her Lovey over her face, I scoured eBay and Amazon and every retail outlet with a web presence until I found replacements for the irreplaceable. As it turned out, Pooter’s Lucy was actually a Ty Classic named Scooter, but was retired, and the Bunny’s Lovey was from a company that had seemingly disappeared. In the end I found them all and spent way too much money on these items, only to shove them in a secret box hidden deep within the wild lands of Under the Bed.

The Bunny's Lovey
The Boy's Lucy

Ladybug's Baby

And I am SO glad I did.

Because all of them have emerged to see the light of day this week.

Because their counterparts, the originals, have all been thrown-up on. Multiple times.

Also? I should have taken stock in Tide and Downey and Chlorox and Lysol a million years ago.

It started Wednesday night when my Ladybug asked her daddy if she could leave the dinner table to go to bed. She NEVER does this. A few minutes later I went to check on her and found her covered in vomit. And then she didn’t quit throwing up. For about 9 hours. I tell you, holding a dry-heaving-limp-noodle of a girl is something I could have lived my whole life without experiencing. At some point, I sent the Bunny (who had puked 3 times the last two days) and her brother to bed while I sat up with B2 and rinsed her yak bowl every 20 minutes. Ladybug and I stayed up until around 2:30 Thursday morning, when she finally fell asleep on the couch. (On the bright side, I got a TON of laundry done between her barfs.) (Also, there are lots of words for vomit.)

Jeremy left for work around 5:30 yesterday morning, then at 7:15 my own misery began. Jeremy’s mom took Pooter to school, I put the baby in her crib and Ladybug on the couch, and commenced my own up-chucking. At 9-something I sent Jeremy a pitiful email begging him to come home from work, lest the baby stay in the crib all day, and the girl on the couch, and me on the bathroom floor.

He came home. I took meds. He took care of the girls. I slept. He picked Pooter up from school. I puked. He did everything. I did nothing. I ventured out of my sick room last night only to hear, “Pooter just puked.”

I put the girls (and Jeremy, who, turns out, had been sick too, but with, um, other ailments.) to bed and tended to the boy. I tucked him in with a puke bowl and a glass of water and instructions to come get me if he threw up. Which he did. Three times. Each time I asked if he wanted to relocate to the couch and I’d sit with him, but he just wanted to stay in bed and try to sleep.

So, here we are. Friday morning. Full of pathetic.

It’s a snow day, and Pooter can’t even enjoy his day off. He is feeling better though, because he cried when I told him he could only have Sprite and Saltines for breakfast.

The Bunny baby is super-chipper, 100% better, and annoying us all.

My Ladybug woke up, asked for water, walked from her bed to her Bubby’s bed, crawled in, and promptly fell back asleep. She’s woken up once, just to tell me to turn the light back on. “I don’t wanna take a nap,” says she of the heavy eyelids.

Pooter has ventured out into the snow ice once, as if to prove its existence, and has now settled on the couch with his Didj.

Jeremy woke up early to drive to work in Little Rock, although I know he is exhausted, and still not well.

I am up and trying to move as little as possible.

Everyone on facebook is being so sweet and sympathetic, saying that we’ve had a rough winter. To recap: since October we’ve had strep throat, H1N1, pneumonia, mono, regular flu, double ear infections, mystery fevers, dehydration, and now, a nasty 24 hour bug. Yep. It’s been rough.

But, we’re forging through. Because, really. What else is there to do?

Sunday, January 24


After a few months of hemming and hawing and flat out procrastination, I'm done with my first book. Granted, it's not the first book I started; the one that'll take years to finish.

But it's a good one. It's a book for (and based on) my sweet Ladybug.

She is so much like me, so much like her daddy, but so so much her own person.

My Ladybug is the kind of gal who demands pink fingernail polish, only to ruin her new manicure while digging in the dirt. She's the kind of gal who puts babydoll dresses on her dinosaurs. She's the kind of gal who marches around the house in clacking high heels and a hard-hat.

That's my Ladybug, and that's what her book is about.

And, for now, that's all I want to divulge. My husband is probably more excited (and maybe more impatient- if that's possible) than I am. My mom is tickled that I've actually finished something. I'm just glad to be done with it, and anxious to being waiting. Yep.

Monday, January 18

Blogging elsewhere

Even though she knows I am terrible at updating my own blog, my wonderful friend Becke' invited me to be a guest blogger over at Moop and Saba.

She asked me to write "anything that points to God's glory." So, naturally, I wrote about my kids. And Jesus.

I met Becke' at a parenting/Bible study class, and immediately said, "I wanna be her friend!" She is the momma of three rowdy (and really cute) boys. I am in awe of the grace and mercy she displays in through her marriage and as a mother. She is so funny, and fun to hang around.

We don't get to see each other often, but when we do, I always wonder why it's taken so long.

Thanks for having me, B!

Tuesday, January 5

"Breathe on me, breathe oh Breath of God"

*title from Newsboys, "Breathe (Benediction)"

I found this today. I wrote it almost three years ago on Palm Sunday. It stemmed from a visit to a local church during a time I felt spiritually low. While our family has since found a (phenomenal, Spirit-filled) church home, the same nearly-bottomed-out feeling hits every few months. Thankfully, mine is a God of provision, and I am always reminded that my hosannas are heard.


Today I went to a church that felt more like home than any other has in recent months. I went back to my roots, my heritage, my heart. My Praise, my Call to Worship, my Confession, my Assurance of Pardon, my Proclamation, my Doxology, my Lord's Prayer, my Lord's Supper, my Benediction.

As I walked into the annex, I saw the children lined up holding their palm branches, too excited to hold them still... even they had a sense that today is something important. The children, accompanied by the choir, walked into the sanctuary waving palms and singing "Lift up your heads, ye mighty gates, behold the King of Glory waits; The King of Kings is drawing near; the Savior of the world is here!"

During the children's moment, the pastor read the verse that says "I tell you, if these keep quiet, the very stones will shout out!" He held up a Ziploc bag full of small rocks. He asked the children, "What if this was the stone that Jacob used as a pillow in the desert?" Picking up another he implored, "What if this is the one Moses used to write the 10 Commandments? What if this was David's stone that fell the giant? What if this rock was crushed when the stone rolled away from Jesus' tomb?" Giving his questions a moment to settle in, as much with the congregation as with the children, he finally said, "What if we leave it to the stones to shout?"

It is much debated within churches whether it is acceptable to clap during worship. Today as they exited to Children's Worship, kids and adults alike were instructed to clap and shout, "HOSANNA!" and, "HE IS COME!"

I don't know how I've gone 23 years without knowing this, or maybe I knew but have forgotten, but "Hosanna" is not a jubilant cry welcoming a rightful King. It is a desperate plea- "save ME, help ME, rescue ME!" The people who met Jesus on the road knew. They knew who He was, what He could do; so they shouted, they beseeched Him, "Me, Lord... me."

As is tradition in most Presbyterian congregations on the first Sunday of the month, the Sacrament was shared this morning. There are times throughout the liturgical calendar (Advent, Christmas, Epiphany, Baptism of the Lord, Transfiguration of the Lord, Lent, Palm Sunday, Holy Week -Maundy Thursday and Good Friday-, Easter, Pentacost, Trinity Sunday, and Christ the King/Ascension Sunday) that I don't take communion. I don't take communion on Christmas and I don't take it on Easter. No one has ever told me not to, and some don't understand why I don't. I personally decided years ago that I didn't want to share the sacrament- the equivalent of His body and blood- on the day we celebrate His birth, or on His resurrection. However, I have sorely missed communion for a long long time. Palm Sunday is a day of bittersweet hope, it is Passion Sunday.

We continued through the Order of Worship.

Praise God from whom all blessings flow;

Praise Him, all creatures here below;

Praise Him above, ye heavenly hosts;

Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost. Amen

"Holy, holy, holy Lord, God of power and might, heaven and earth are full of your glory. Hosanna in the highest...."

I have been having some heart-struggles the last few weeks. I needed cleansing. Communion has always had a restorative affect on me. As I held the bread- my Lord's body that was broken, bruised, and buried- I bowed my head, asking Him to take my heart- not broken, but plenty bruised- and fill it up with the bread of life. That He use this symbolic wheat and yeast to patch the growing holes.

"Breathe on me, breathe oh breath of God" Then again I bowed my head when I held the cup- His blood, spilled and shed for me- asking Him to use that liquid to wash away the anger and pain that I had been holding onto for far too long.

"Breathe on me, till my heart is new." Most of my prayers are requests that I lay so meekly at His feet asking in a very small voice "Hosanna, Lord. Help me"

"Breathe on me til I love like You do" Today I was filled with His body, cleansed with His blood, made ready to face the week ahead.

The preacher reminded us how easy it is to skip from the hopeful anticipation of Palm Sunday to the joyful proclamation of a Risen King on Easter. I hope that this week I do not skip the hard parts. There is no use in Easter, in fact there would be no Easter without the pain of the Last Supper, the stab of the betrayal, and the misery of Good Friday. But there is hope and there is joy and there is redemption. My Lord has stood in death's place for me. He has Risen and He reigns.

That is why my most lowly Hosannas are followed by incredible forgiveness and an unfathomable future with Him.