It's All About The Shoes

Ok, so it’s been way too long. We got back from the conference Monday night, but I took Tuesday as a writing day to catch up on the girls’ prayer book I’ve been working on (I finished the text! Yay! Now I just have to edit…). Anyway, that’s my excuse for not posting. I have this secret urge to go watch Super Nanny right now and learn how to parent (or not parent) my kids, but I wanted to get in a word or two before we hit the road AGAIN for an overnight tomorrow.

The conference, by the way, was insanely good for me. It reaffirmed why I got into youth ministry in the first place, and why I can’t just “get out” of it – ever, really. I just have this passion that won’t go away, and I have a feeling that’s for a reason. I must confess that I’m in a strange place in life right now, though, where I feel torn between being a mom and wanting to be more involved in ministry. Mom is where I am and should be, but sometimes it’s hard not to go deeper with the other.

Alright, so enough babbling already. I believe the topic I was going to catch you up on was my shoes. My wrong shoes, as the case may be. Let me explain:

A couple of weeks ago I had a dream about getting married again and being at the ceremony. I assumed that I was remarrying Shane for some reason (he was in the dream, after all), but it turns out that I was wrong about that. Anyway, I was the bride in the wedding, but instead of being in my dress and ready to walk down the isle I was standing with the congregation singing praise songs wearing jeans and a tee shirt. At some point I turned to my mom and said that I should probably be getting ready since I was scheduled to walk down the isle any minute, and then I went to find my dress.

My dress was the same one I wore in real life when I got married, and it was just casually thrown over a table. Under it was the real shoe box my wedding shoes are still stored in. When I opened the box, however, the shoes inside were black strappy heels instead of the ones that went with my dress. I didn’t panic, I simply turned to my mother and said that they were the wrong shoes. I can’t wear heels (bad knees), and I certainly couldn’t wear black on my wedding day. Her solution was to go barefoot. I agreed, and about that time was when I woke up.

I kind of laughed about the dream and told it to Shane, but I didn’t think much of it after that. Then I was sitting in Bible study (Beth Moore’s Daniel study…it’s amazing), and Beth (I like to pretend we’re on a first name basis…it makes me feel special) said something that ripped right through me taking everything it could with it. “This is the time when the bride is supposed to be getting ready for the groom,” she said. All of a sudden it occurred to me that my dream wasn’t about Shane or any other man. In that dream I was marrying my Holy Husband, and I wasn’t even close to being ready.

I spent some time praying about it after the study and felt Him saying to me, You’re not getting ready for Me… I searched for clues in the dream and asked for wisdom to understand what I was being told when I remembered the shoes. I had just taught the youth about the shoes of peace in the armor of God the week before. Then it began to make sense! I have on the wrong shoes! I’m somehow missing my peace!

It made sense, but then again it didn’t. I didn’t feel like I wasn’t peaceful, so what did it mean? I didn’t really get a chance to think about it again until the solitude retreat, and I was thankful for the space to talk to the Lord about it.

At first I argued with Him. What do you mean I don’t have peace? I feel very peaceful, thank You very much! But, you know what? Arguing with the God of the universe usually doesn’t get you very far. Before long He was bringing things to my mind that I wouldn’t have thought of otherwise. It was like He was saying, Oh yeah? Well, what about this? Or that? Or her? Or these guys? Still feel peaceful? I didn’t think so…

He was right. Of course He was right. I had become so comfortable with my lack of peace that I was mistaking it for peace itself. I wasn’t peaceful in my heart about any of those things. And then He gave me the greatest gift ever: freedom.

One by one He brought those things back to my mind. As they would enter my thoughts and my heart would quicken, He’d simply say, I AM.
My kids? I AM.
Money? I AM.
My fear of being abandoned yet again by people I care about? I AM.
All of it was answered with the same two words: I AM.

All at once I realized that in those two words I am completely, unashamedly, 100% free. It was like He was placing His cupped hand over my life and saying that it all belonged to Him. He is bigger than anything and everything in my heart. He can take care of anything that comes my way. I don’t have to fear or worry or be consumed by anxiety because He is the great I AM. It covers all of it! I’m free to just be! Oh what a gift! New shoes! Peace that I can stand on and even walk down the isle in! Praise be to I AM!

I can’t tell you what an intimate, safe feeling it was to sit with Jesus and hear Him invite me into this place of freedom, and then to express my fears and then not be afraid of them anymore. It was truly like sharing my heart with the safest husband and friend ever. I think it was the first time I ever realized that I really have two husbands – Jesus, and the gift of Shane that He chose to share with me physically on this earth. It was really a blessed feeling!

As I sat there feeling the warmth and comfort of my new shoes, I felt Him saying something once more. I AM, and that’s truly enough. Now that you’re safe in that, there’s something I’d like to bring up. Let’s talk about the temple…

But that’s a story for another post.

A Post-It Note on My Way Out

I’m back from solitude, and pretty much literally heading out the door for a ministry conference in Cincinnati, so I don’t have much time to write the kind of post I want to (I rather feel like I'm leaving you with a Post-It note on the fridge..."Hi, it's me. Had to run, be back soon. Leftovers are in the fridge..."). I thought I'd at least check in, though.

This solitude time was very different for me than the last one I took in November. I guess you could say that it wasn’t as emotionally intense. Instead, it really was like an intimate getaway with my Holy Husband. We took walks, watched the snow fall together over a cup of hot chocolate, slept some and chatted quite a bit. It was really just a sweet time away to reconnect with the Lord.

He did deal with me on two very important things while I was there: my shoes and the temple (metaphorically speaking, of course). I can’t wait to tell you what those things are and what He spoke into my life, but I guess I’ll have to. The road is calling, and so are the clothes I’m supposed to take – I haven’t even packed yet and I’m leaving in an hour (yep, there goes Old Lady P32 again). So I’ll have to get back to you on Tuesday unless I somehow find a computer at the conference.

Sorry I’ve been so scattered in my posts lately – it truly has been a bad week or two for writing. I’ll get things back on course soon, though. I’ve gotta run for now – pray for us as we drive through the ice and snow!

The Other Sister

Sorry I haven’t posted lately – it turned out to be a bad week for writing. I thought I would have some time at least on Saturday, but the littlest guy had pink eye and so both birthday parties we were invited to as well as Parent’s Night Out (aka “My Writing Block” since Shane was out of town for the day) went unattended. Oh well. We made a good day of it anyway.

I was reading Wendy Pope’s blog this week in which she confessed to the world that she is indeed not the Proverbs 31 woman as some might be tempted to think since she works for Proverbs 31 Ministries and seems to “have it all together”. She posted pictures of her house as “proof”. It made me smile and it also got me thinking (it’s ok…you can say “oh no” at this point…)

Anyone who truly knows anything about me knows that I am certainly far removed from the actual Proverbs 31 woman. In fact, I’ve rather come to reason that I must be more like the Proverbs 32 woman – P31’s unattractive, socially awkward older sister (I say older only because it has all too often been taboo throughout history for the older sister to be undesirable and hard to marry off…think of Rachael and Leah). I believe the reason we don’t know anything about P32 is that Solomon – in his infinite wisdom – left her on the cutting room floor (so to speak), lest any of us domestic slackers get any crazy ideas or find any solace in her description.

P32, I imagine, is a lot more like me. Perhaps her intentions are good and well, but she just falls short of the mark her perfect little sister has set. Sure, she cooks for her family, but it most often involves something out of a box that usually involves instructions for use in the microwave. She tries to keep her house, but winds up managing appearances for scheduled guests rather than actually cleaning things (such as the mildew hidden behind the nicely placed shower curtain).

Bringing in income for her family has less to do with crafting things and growing vegetables to sell at market, and more to do with coupon clipping and bargain hunting (not that there’s anything wrong with that…by the way, I got Tostino’s Pizza Rolls for $0.19 a box last week…AND they go in the microwave…). She certainly does “laugh at the days to come”, but I don’t think it’s for the same reason that her sister does. After a while the sight of piled dirty dishes and mountains of laundry becomes funny on some level…especially when you realize it’s going to do nothing but grow until you do something about it.

But make no mistake: While her children may not rise up and call her blessed, they still call her “Mama” every day. About 532 times every day, in fact, and quite often followed by some whining request or tattle-tale complaint about their sibling. But she’s still their Mama, and they still love her.

So, in a manner of providing my own “proof” (and in the spirit of confession and being real inspired by Wendy), I decided to take a few pictures of my own of what a P32's Saturday looks like at our house.

This is what a P32’s kitchen looks like:

But... this is what it can look like after 45 minutes of “company’s coming” disaster control…

…after which the P32 stretches out on the couch and watches a movie/takes a nap. The movie of choice this particular Saturday was “Miss Potter”, which my husband dismissed the other day as “Oh, that movie about the girl who wrote Winnie the Pooh. Her husband dies or something…” I reminded him that Miss Potter wrote Peter Rabbit and that she isn’t even married in the movie. Oh, and by the way Honey, I'm pretty sure Winnie the Pooh was written by a man. But thanks for sharing.

Then, what does the logical P32 woman decide to do after she has cleaned? Invite her children to a “mess party” of course!

While they happily play in a mixture of cornstarch in water (“Alien Glue” they call it), she nukes some pizza rolls and makes a ham sandwich for their dinner. All the while she takes pride in knowing that “Alien Glue” goes on the carpet wet, but dries to a very vacuumable powder in minutes, and has cost her less fuss than the much bigger carpet threat of Play Doh. So her children don’t necessarily play with “normal” toys. They don’t know that….

Then she sits them at the hearth to eat off TV trays while she cleans up the mess party (which is not left for later only because Dad will be home soon):

After some arguing about staying on the hearth and finishing their exquisite dinner, it’s off to the bath:


And then downstairs for a snack and a movie…but not before, of course, she utilizes their tiny little hands as a bit of slave labor to clean up the play room.

By the time Dad comes home, though, at least the kitchen is clean, the boys are “fed” and washed and she looks like the her P31 sister this poor, unknowing man thought he was marrying. All he has to do is walk down the hallway, though, to discover that behold! It’s still Leah, the not-so-desirable sister…the laundry is still mounded and lurking in the corner of their ridiculously dusty, cluttered master bedroom, and the mildew is still colonizing in the corners of their nearly condemnable shower.

So there it is, proof of the P32 woman’s existence (in case you still needed proof…). I’m so thankful that my husband either hasn’t memorized Proverbs 31, or that he at least doesn’t seem to mind that I don’t quite fit the bill. I love him and I’m so thankful that he sees fit to love me too, flaws and all.

Well, in typical P32 fashion, it’s 10:32 on Monday morning and we’re all still in our pjs. I’m off to run errands and then I’ll come back and post this later (what, you didn’t think I was “together” enough to write and publish a post with pictures all in one sitting, did you?). Tomorrow I’m leaving for another solitude retreat, after which I’m sure I’ll have something worth writing about. Until then, happy slacking my fellow P32ers, and good luck to those of you who are measuring up to the “perfect” sister’s image…if you have any great pointers, toss them my way. I’m sure I’ll get around to reading them sometime, and they might even fuel my laughter for the days ahead…

****Added Note:
Notice it took me almost 12 hours to publish this post. Yeah, I’m on top of things.

One Fish Two Fish, Dead Fish Eeww Fish...

Our oldest son got a “let’s try this again” re-start on his fish tank for his birthday this past December. The tank and one red beta with a slight purple hue named Purple Haze or “Haze” for short, was originally a gift for his birthday the year before, but had been retired in the fall when Haze committed suicide by swimming down the filter hose and getting stuck (which I guess answers the age-old question, “Can fish drown?” Apparently, yes, they can).

Well, we stocked it this time around with fancy guppies and a little sucker fish to take care of any algae. We should have known that we are in the wrong pet business when the first two guppies left this life very shortly after purchase. The second two – Siggy and Thiggy (note that “Thiggy” is pronounced with a v-like “th” at the beginning, like in the word “Southern” as said here in the South…note also that these are the kind of names that result from letting your five year-old have free reign with proper pronouns) – well they were doing great. Until the other morning, that is.

We woke to find Siggy “sleeping” on the bottom of the tank (upside down, mind you) and Thiggy not looking so hot. “Sucker” – the only one who didn’t get a proper name but really, really needs one since we have at least one child who struggles with saying “F” instead of “S” – was doing just great, oblivious to the anguish of his two roommates and still busy trying to suck the fake algae off the plastic rock formation (he’s not a genius…maybe we should start calling him Einstein for fun…).

I should mention that up to this point we thought Thiggy had some sort of fish scoliosis. Since the time he moved in our house, he had grown a hump and developed a slight curve in his tail. Now, though, that curve had bent him into a complete “S”, he had grown some kind of white coating on his fins, and he was struggling to stay at the surface like he was bobbing for air. You know it’s got to be bad when the fish want out of the tank. Poor guy…if only Haze had left a note or something maybe we would have known…

So we scooped up a water sample and took it to Pet Smart. I described Thiggy’s condition, and do you know what Marcus the Fish Guy said? He said our fish was stressed. I’m not kidding – the fish is stressed. All I could think was, Oh yeah? Well me too my little scaly pal – me too! Then he tested the water and said that our water conditioner wasn’t working. Apparently Siggy and his two fancy guppy predecessors had suffocated to death because there was too many nitrates in the water. Again, I’m not kidding – the fish died of suffocation. I know…you learn something new every day.

So what’s the treatment for a stressed-out fish? Well, basically a spa bath. New, clean water with the right conditioner added, a teaspoon of aquarium salt, and a drop of medicine that makes the water turn a very relaxing tropical blue. So now Thiggy is well on the mend, with his complexion clearing and his tail straightening more and more by the hour. I, in the meantime, am left buzzing with the irony that I just spent $12 on a facial and salt bath to rescue the stressed little life of a $2.45 fish. Hmmm….

I feel I should mention that Sucker (perhaps soon to be known as Einstein) didn’t fair as well through the treatments. I had to chase him quite a bit with the net to set him aside for the water change, and he consequently has a bit of paranoid schizophrenia about him now (hey, if they can drown, suffocate and get stressed, why can’t they be schizophrenic to boot?). Last night when I walked by to check on him he must have heard me coming because he took off and shot around the tank like a high bounce ball in a stairwell. When he finally calmed down and landed he was actually panting – it was very odd. Oh well, hopefully he will find the subsequent salt baths that are now scheduled on a weekly basis beneficial.

Can you believe, though, that we’re set to buy two new roommates for Thiggy and Sucker next week? Oh the lessons we never learn…

Me and My Big Mouth

You know what I wish sometimes? Sometimes I wish that out mouths came with word processing software. You know – like the software on your computer. There would be this little screen that popped up in your mind the minute you thought about saying something, and it would allow you to edit the words before they came out wrong. Maybe it would even have those little green sqwuiggly underlines to tell you that something needed a little attention. You could mentally right-click on the phrase highlighted and read a message that would say: “Caution: this content might be a little offensive to others present. Consider revising.”

I’d love it if it had a feature that would allow you to recall what you had just published, too. A simple “ctrl+Z” and zip! All that garbage that just flew past your lips would be instantly undone. Maybe it could even include sounds like the critical stop on your computer that beeps or dings at you when you’ve gone too far into dangerous territory. The critical stop on my computer in college was set to snarl like an angry lion…that would be entirely appropriate in this scenario, don’t you think?

In a way I guess we do have a version of this software – it’s called the Holy Spirit. I need to check out the “Holy Spirit for Dummies” from the library, though, to learn how to use it right. I have a habit of turning it off (so to speak) because I often don’t understand why it prompts me at times to speak up and at other times to keep my silly mouth shut. I’d do much better if I tried to understand it a little more, and if I’d at least try to obey it even when it doesn’t make any sense to me.

Oh, I’m just so tired of replaying stupid words over and over in my head. Hurtful things I’ve said to friends…ill-timed comments that have stopped the laughter of entire groups of people…silly, unnecessary exaggerations of the truth… How the list goes on. How many times have people left a room I was in and said to each other, “Can you believe she said that?” How many times have they stared at each other in the awkward, silent wake of my big mouth and lipped the word “Wow” to their friend in wide-eyed bewonderment? Surely more than once. And surely more recently than I’d like to imagine.

Renee Swope wrote on her blog several days ago about the danger of asking the question “What’s wrong with me?” She reminded us that the voice asking that question is never a friendly one – as it is always the voice of our enemy trying to knock us down. I’ve clung to that thought this weekend as I’ve gotten caught up (once again) in the tiring cycle of beating myself up over misspoken words that were either embarrassing or simply wrong to say. Oh how the enemy is trying to use those things to encourage my retreat from fellowship! Oh how he would love nothing more than for me to be afraid to ever speak openly again, whether in sharing my heart, in joking with friends or – especially – in sharing the Word of Christ! But I can’t let him win!

I don’t know if I’m the only one out there who struggles with beating herself up over things that have long since been said or done, but I’m guessing that I’m not. My guess is that a lot of women struggle with the same thing. Why? Because I don’t think the enemy is going to just lay down and forget about using such a powerful and effective weapon any and every chance he gets. Think about it: the invention of the tank was no doubt a huge step in military advancement. But do you think the first time it was seen in action the powers that be said, “Wow! That’s amazing and effective! How wonderful…let’s only use it as a last resort, though – we wouldn’t want to be too powerful.” No way! Tanks are still used on battlefields to this day because they get the job done.

In our day-to-day spiritual war, we are constantly threatened by similarly powerful weapons of guilt and shame, heavily armed and aimed straight at our hearts. You know what, though? We don’t have to take that kind of heavy fire. Sometimes it might feel like we do, because sometimes we feel like we deserve it. Other times we’re so sure that we deserve it, we think it must be friendly fire aiming to straighten us up. But be assured, guilt and shame are never from the Lord. Oh, He may discipline us or lay things on our hearts that need to be reconciled, but He will never beat us up like the enemy tries to. He will never turn on us as quickly as we turn on ourselves when we’re listening to the lies of the other side instead of His merciful voice.

One day there might indeed be a technology capable of implanting thought-editing software into our brains (that’s a scary thought…). I think I’ll take my chances with the Holy Spirit, though. It’s obvious that I need to tune into His voice a little better and listen a lot more before I speak, but I’m taking comfort in knowing that I’m a work in progress. The Lord isn’t done with me yet, and I won’t be perfected until the day He takes me home. I’m bound to mess up. Even if I took a vow of silence and said only three more words my entire life, chances are at least one of them would be wrong – that’s just the way it seems to go with me. But that’s ok. God loves me and my big mouth. I’m sure He’d like to place His hand over it every now and then, but He loves it just the same.

I’m thankful today for His grace and mercy. I’m thankful that the one beating me up isn’t the one who has power over my life. I’m thankful that there isn’t guilt or shame in Christ. And I’m thankful that there’s still a chance that not everyone heard all the stupid things I’ve said lately.

Oh Merciful Savior, rescue me from myself and teach me to hold my tongue. As a matter of fact – could you consider holding it for me? The thought of a spiritual muzzle is kind of comforting…

Mission Impossible? I Can't Say...

So one of my girls at youth last night asked me an interesting question. She had read my blog and wanted to know if I really was giving up complaining for Lent. Then she asked if it was hard to do – to which I replied that I couldn’t answer that question because it would be complaining.

Wow. Yeah, so I failed a few times yesterday. But I’m applying the Proverbs 31 ladies’ principle of “grace, grace, grace”. It really is difficult sometimes to weed out what is complaining and what isn’t (not that I’m complaining about that…), and I’ve discovered that I have a stealthy little way about complaining through making a joke about something. It’s already served a purpose, though – I’ve discovered that I really need to relax about some things.

So I’ve decided I’m going to attempt to stick with it. Every time I’m tempted to complain (out loud, anyway…I still complain in my heart, unfortunately), I think of something to praise God for regarding the exact same subject. For instance, I praised Him several times yesterday for my children, a house that can get so messy, stuff to mess up the house…you get the picture. I have to be careful that I don’t get sarcastic in my praises, but barring that I think this might be a healthy thing for me.

On the lighter side of things, I taught the littlest man how to say “That’s hilarious” yesterday. It, in itself, is completely hilarious. Now I make him dance and sing for his chocolate milk (which he is starting to do as soon as he asks for it…I’m so mean…) and I make him say “Dass hiyarweeduhss”. Does life get any cuter than that?

Well anyway, I’m off to go fill my day with praise (hopefully non-sarcastic praise) as I clean up messes all over the house. I’m trying to really get it in order today since I’m leaving my family tomorrow to take a writing day. I’ve been working on a prayer companion for the youth girls in my church, and I really need to buckle down and get closer to finishing it. So I’ll be showing up tomorrow to marathon scrapbooking day with a laptop and a full concordance instead of pictures and albums to fill. It should be fun, and I think I’ll really enjoy the company and the accountability as I try to piece the book together. Wish me luck!

Wah, Wah, Wah...Zip It, Will Ya?

First of all, I have to tell you that my littlest man is being incredibly cute this morning. He’s up early because he’s sick, but today you wouldn’t be able to tell if you couldn’t hear him cough. Yesterday was a different story entirely – sometimes he gets rather mean when he doesn’t feel good. Let’s just say I wound up reinstalling the lock on the fridge, cleaning vanilla coffee creamer out of the couch cushions (move over Fabreeze – there’s a new smell in town), nearly calling Poison Control and finally ditching all my plans for the morning and not letting him out of my site until my husband came home and could share some of the blame – responsibility, I mean. But this morning? Oh, this morning he’s so sweet I just want to hug him all day. “I wub you, Mom-mom,” he told me in the middle of a monologue about Storm Troopers and Curious George. I got airtime when he was thinking about Star Wars! That’s a big deal! And just look at how happy he was about his “pop-tark” a few minutes ago:

Oh, I hope it stays this way today. I do love it when he’s sweet like this.

Ok, so now for what’s really on my mind today. Lent. No, I’m not Catholic, but you don’t have to be to observe Lent. I’ve been thinking about giving something up this year. I probably should give up refined sugar and second helpings (the over-worked waistbands in my jeans would certainly appreciate it), but I have dieting issues that would take the focus off of Jesus and make it all about me. And it’s supposed to be about connecting with Jesus, right?

I got to thinking that I wasn’t quite sure what it was all about, so I looked it up on the Internet. What did the original disciples do without the Internet? Anyway, I found this great site by Beaver Dam Baptist Church in Troy, VA that spelled out everything about Lent. According to their definition (which I believe is the definition), “Lent is a 40-day period of penitence and spiritual self-examination” during which you “spend time in self-examination and spiritual redirection . . . acknowledge[ing] your shortcomings and to seek[ing] forgiveness for where you have fallen in your faith.” Seriously, who doesn’t need 40 days of that in their walk?

So I think I want to be serious about it this year. I need some time of reflection and spiritual redirection. I need to get focused, because the edges are starting to get a little blurry in a few parts of my life. But what can I give up that would bring me to the feet of Christ every single day? Well, my new friends at Beaver Dam say that what you give up for Lent is usually “something that we don’t need but do or use habitually, something that will leave a ‘hole’ in our lives”. I’ve thought about it long and hard, and I think I’ve come up with something, but I honestly don’t know if I can do it. I think I might need to give up complaining.

It’s sad that complaining has become such an ingrained part of my spirit that not only would I struggle to give it up, but I’m also not even sure I can distinguish it enough from my other thoughts and attitudes to be able to target it and pick it out. I complain so much that I might as well give up talking for the next 40 days, but I think that’s precisely why it has to be the thing to go. If I’m looking for spiritual focus, I think this is one indulgence I need to weed out.

It’s funny to think of complaining as an indulgence, isn’t it? That’s what it is, though. It’s a way of pampering your pride – of overfilling your sense of what you think you deserve. Think about it, you wouldn’t complain if you didn’t think you were owed something better than what you’re experiencing, right? People at restaurants don’t complain because they got what they paid for or better, do they? No! They complain when their $25 steak tastes like it came from McDonalds. They paid for better, they expect better, and therefore they “deserve” better.

Yet when I complain, I’m not rebuking a slow waiter or a sub-par chef. No, I’m being ungrateful to the God of the Universe who has given me all I have. That’s sickening to think about – that I’ve become so familiar at taking His gift of this life for granted that I’m not sure I can think otherwise. Yes, I think I need to give up complaining.

But how, exactly? Where do I draw the lines? I mean, is saying, “My son is sick today” a complaint or a statement of fact? I guess it all has to do with my tone of voice and the attitude of my heart. This might really be a tough one, and I’m hesitating to commit to it because I hate failing with a passion. What if I can’t do it? What if I can’t even last a day? Oh wow, am I that cantankerous already?

So I’ve got until sundown tonight to think it through and make a decision. Some of you who have to live with me on a semi-daily basis are saying “Go for it! Please give up complaining! I’ll pay you…I’ll buy you Starbucks and pastries…I’ll do your laundry for a month! Anything!” I know my husband sure would appreciate it. The funny thing is, though, I wonder if 40 days of not saying it out loud would mean I truly would change saying it in my heart. I hope so.

Anyway, I’m off to contemplate (if you have any thoughts, I’d love to hear them – just post a comment below). I’m going to try hard not to take “Fat Tuesday” literally, but I might. By the way, iHop is changing National Pancake Day (usually on Fat Tuesday, aka Shrove Tuesday, I believe) to next Tuesday, February 12th. They give away free pancakes! Seriously! Check it out on their site by clicking here. That being said, I’m going to go eat breakfast…

Hey Mom, Look What I Did!

Ok, I have to brag for a minute. Last night my family went to couple’s house for dinner and to watch the premiere of “Lost” on real cable (although I must say our recent antenna upgrade makes ABC look almost completely clear – only a few lines to deal with now!). The boys brought along some games and a couple of new toys to occupy their little eyes, but they’ve definitely seen the title screen for “Lost” a million times at home when we’ve watched the DVDs (don’t worry, we’re not accustomed to letting them actually watch the show – but the oldest one has seen enough to recognize it). When we came home the five year old ran to his room and got some paper and a crayon, and to our utter shock and amazement he wrote “LOST” all by himself! I couldn’t believe it, so I took a picture to capture the moment and share it with you.

And I guess if I’m bragging in him it’s only fair that I brag on little brother too, right? Well, he did have at least one grand moment tonight that I can share. My husband was out for the evening, so I had a friend over to eat dinner and hang out for a while. Thankfully she’s the kind of friend who showed up in her pjs, so she didn’t seem to mind the state of my house or the haphazard way I chose to parent this evening (I think both boys ate more chocolate ice cream than mac and cheese for dinner, but it’s all good, right? Just preparing them for dorm life in the future…).

At some point we heard the by this point all-too familiar sound of brother number one telling on brother number two. “Moooommmmm……” It was getting old, so I didn’t even really listen to his complaint much to be honest. The next thing I knew, little brother raced up the stairs, through the living room and down the hall to the bathroom. He wasn’t wearing any pants and he was carrying, wait – was that a chocolate egg? Ummmm, maybe not so much. I reached the bathroom just in time to see him throw the evidence into the toilet. At least he knew where to put it….

I was absolutely mortified. And though she was very gracious about the whole scene (I think the actual comment was “well, you know he has a very active brain!”), I think my sweet childless friend may have gone home and overdosed on birth control. I don’t even have to tell you that he spent the rest of the evening in a crotch-snap onsie and overalls (“timeout pants we call them – it slows him down and gives us a fighting chance to catch him in the act of getting naked. Can you tell we’ve done this before?). I’m not sure this is exactly something I’d say I’m proud of, but it was certainly an outstanding moment in our day. For your sake, though, I didn’t take any pictures of this particular accomplishment.

Oh, the crazy joy of raising boys. You gotta love being a mom…otherwise you will have lost your sanity for nothing.