So what if I'm on the naughty list?

Try to imagine my shock when there arose a knock at the door last night at 7:30 pm and Santa Claus walked into our house.

There he was, in his beautiful red suit, snowy white beard, and black, shiny boots. He had a fist full of candy canes and began passing them out to my children. He called each one by his or her name. He encouraged good behavior. He inquired after their wishes. He explained the presence of his pickup by pointing out that his reindeer were resting at the North Pole. 

He was everything you've read about him and the physical manifestation of all those stupid Christmas specials we've been watching all season. He was jolly. He was kind. He was merry. My children were delighted.

Except for my four-almost-five-year-old daughter.

After Santa disappeared into the cold, dark night, she turned on me like the Mad Hatter on an empty tea cup.

She stamped her foot and narrowed her eyes at me. She was distrustful, suspicious, incredulous. With an accusatory finger pointed in my direction and a hand on her cocked hip, she began the cross examination.

"Mom! You told me he wasn't real!"

Uhhhhhhh. . .

"You said he was just pretend. But he knew my name!" For a second her voice changed from scolding to dreamy as she wondered, "How did he know my name?"

Then she presented the irrefutable evidence. She held her candy cane up in the air and recounted, "He had a beard! It was white!"

Then with disgusted dejection, "Why did you tell me he wasn't real?"

Ohhhhh, dear. 

I turned to my husband. In tones that were panicked and hushed, I begged him to help me out. "What do I do with this?"

Ever the helpful man, he replied, "Nothing. Just leave it alone."

"What?!?" I asked. "But I don't like these wild accusations flying around that I'm the Christmas Killer!"

Taking his own advice to heart, he didn't respond.

I never came up with the appropriate answer. So I just listened to her intermittent lectures for the rest of the night. I swallowed my pride and anger; I abstained from pointing out all the obvious evidence that I am the reason our house is filled with Christmas cheer; I stammered and reddened and fumed all night. 

And then it came to me. It's time to teach her the truth about Santa Claus.

Come Christmas morning, she'll have her Christmas wish wrapped snugly under the tree with a tag on it that says, "Love, Mom". And in her stocking?

Coal.

The truth about Olivia.

Today you had your first baby! Olivia's grandpa sent me a text with your first family picture.

There you are: my courageous, beautiful, tired sister, holding the most gorgeous baby I've ever seen, with her new daddy hovering over you both and wearing a smile--the width of which should swallow his face whole. I swear the picture is illuminated with love and pride.

When I saw you holding your new baby daughter, all I could do was sigh and stare at that perfect little baby girl. She's absolutely perfect.

And I know about baby girls. Each one of mine is as precious and beloved and perfect as the one before. So I'm gonna let you in on a little secret. There is one little problem with her.

She'll grow up.

You can't slow it. You can't stop it. You can't ignore it. She will grow up.

She'll turn nine months and get two teeth in the same week. She won't sleep normal hours, and she'll gush all kinds of snot out of her tiny nose. She'll carry a low grade fever that will keep her from playing like she normally does. But even though she'll feel rotten, she'll take her first steps. And when she takes six in a row, and her parents clap heartily, she'll smile demurely and clap her hands, too.

When she turns two, she'll have her own opinion about everything. She'll call all the shots and run the whole house. She'll talk about nothing and everything and sing about it, too. She'll dazzle you with her giant smile and break you with her giant tears. She'll want jelly beans before she goes potty, and she'll follow you around whining when she doesn't get her way. She'll use your iPad more efficiently than you could ever hope to. She'll crawl into your bed at night because Mr. Grinch ate her. She'll give hugs that heal hurts and kisses that dissolve disappointment. She'll fall asleep at night and be even older the next morning.

At four-and-a-half, she'll teach you all you wanted to know about all you never knew. Her laughter and song will dance off the walls and the ceiling and get under your skin. She'll have ideas about how the rules should be adjusted and at what time the reward should be given. She'll kiss all her dollies many times a day and want you to do the same. She'll draw pictures of princesses and dragons and tell you her brothers are handsome. She'll talk like a grown up and dictate the theories of angels. You'll wonder when she got so big.

It will happen almost every day. Your heart will cry out, "Where are you going? Come back! Come back!" while your voice tells her, "The world is yours! Go on! Go on!" 

At night when she's asleep, you'll tiptoe into her room to check on her. And you know what's weird? When you see her lying there, eyelashes kissing her cheeks and mouth closed just so, you'll remember her as a newborn. You'll see her as she is today--the day she changed your life and your heart by coming to your arms.

So even though you're trying to commit her face and form to perfect memory, the truth is, you'll see her as she is today--with perfect clarity--all the days of her life.

Because she'll always be your baby girl.

Way to go, Mama.

Joy and Life Reborn

December is--without a doubt--my craziest month of the year. I have actually found myself wishing the month and the season was over.

When did I become such a pessimist??

December--and especially Christmas--was my favorite time of year when I was a child. Christmas was always forever away, even if it was coming tomorrow. I'd lie awake at nights and just smile.

Where did all that joy go?

I've been thinking about that. A lot. And the answer I came up with is, I don't think it's gone.

I think I buried it.

Under the shopping, the wrappings, the pictures and seasonal cards, the obligatory gifts, the mandatory meetings, the bills and receipts, and the overwhelming expectations, my childlike joy is hidden.

It's time to bring it back. It's time to rediscover what the celebration is really all about. It's time to reclaim the heavenly joy that was brought to the world, which the world seems so intent on casting aside, forgetting, burying.

In my quiet searching, I found the answer of why those angels were shouting for joy.

It was for ME.

(That sounds very pompous, but bear with me, because it was for YOU, too.)

The worth of one soul--my soul, your soul--was worth summoning all those heavenly choirs and singing the dawn of redemption into existence. The birth of the Babe born in Bethlehem was really the rebirth of souls that He would save.

We were no longer lost! We were no longer buried! We were to be reclaimed, redeemed, and exalted!

(Are you starting to hear your inner child sing yet?)

I am so valued, so precious, so loved, that my Savior came for me. And He came for you. He came for us all.

I don't know about you, but I let that fall from my focus far too often. And sometimes I try to bury it alive.

If I really understood that I am God's child and Jesus Christ died for me, then I would change some things.

I would forgive myself faster. I would treat you better. I would pray to see the potential of mankind instead of seeing only the fog of faults.

And you know what else? I would rejoice more. I would truly rejoice. And no amount of wrapping, meetings, shopping, and bills would soften the volume of my triumphant exultations.

I hope I was in those angelic choirs, singing praises to Him who was born to save souls. But whether I was or not shouldn't stop me from singing now.

Let us adore Him with such clarity and purpose that all will know what the celebration is really about.

"For God so loved the world, that He gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life."

This stuff is BANANAS, yo!

((Puff!))

((Pant!))

((Wheeze!))

((Gasp!))

Dear Shaun T,

I'm writing this letter to you with a bright red face, shaking limbs, and dripping sweat. I've been doing your INSANITY workout, and I think you hit the nail on the head when you named this baby. But I have some points I'd like to bring to your attention since our acquaintance will continue for another 48 days.

First, I want to define our relationship. People ask me what I think about this workout program, and being an honest person, I reply, "I hate it. Absolutely hate it." And then in a reluctant, small voice, I add, "But I really love the results." So, you know where I stand.

I have a theory about your intentions on the days you wear your long sleeve Under Armor with the white chest-stitching. You want me to think you take off your shirt because you are warm. I know the truth. And it's not because you want everyone to see your chiseled chest and six pack. Let's call a spade a spade. You want to see yourself without your shirt on.

Were you referring to something besides my grave when you scream, "Dig deeper!"? Because a big, black, gaping hole is all I can see from about the three minute mark on.

I don't understand why you refer to yourself in third person. Furthermore, the updates you give in third person really go without saying. I can see the perspiration falling off your face; I don't need to hear, "Shaun T startin' to sweat!" Also, the third person narration is contagious. 

Worst words of the day: "Jack it out, right now."

I have never met a more arrogant person in my life. My whole life. But the truly insane thing is, I still think you're entirely likable, which is why I keep letting you back in my living room day after day. Thanks for coming.

When you say, "Stand on your right leg for the quadricep stretch," you say that like I have the ability to use my legs at all any more. I find myself yelling out, "Nat G startin' to fall!"

I despise Globe Jumps. Could you find a suitable substitute exercise? Also, I pity the poor foo' who stands behind me when my jiggle starts doing Football Sprints. Just sayin'.

What does, "Take a break, but keep going," mean??

Have you noticed that every time we start the One, Two, Three Heisman move, you say, "Boo! . . .Hah!" Let me be clear. I'm not logging a complaint here. I actually think it's hilarious. It makes me smile every time. I've started to say it with you.

When you ask the cast how they feel during an exercise, and they curse at you, it's not a joke--even though you laugh. It's a measure of how they truly feel. Show some respect.

Can you speak with the camera people and tell them I don't want to see so much of Tania? I haven't decided what it is about her, but I could use a lot less of her in my face while I'm struggling for breath.

Whose idea was it to turn interval training on it's head? Was that you? If so, you are insane. Ingeniously insane. Are you a glutton for punishment, or just a pursuer of crazy results? Maybe I don't want to know the answer to that question.

I think that's all for now, except to say, thanks for today's workout. It was bananas, yo.

Your INSANITY trainee,
Natalie

For you're a jolly good fellow

I wanted to be the first to wish you a happy birthday, so I waited up until midnight to post it on your Facebook account. There's just one leeetle problem.

You still haven't accepted my friend request. 

But I know you are my friend, and here's why:

You forgive me immediately and forget just as soon
You love my mother
You have given me encouragement and council at the most important moments of my life
You write me letters with funny poems and compassionate wisdom
You let me be your breakfast helper
You provided everything I needed and wanted
You pray for me
You seek my opinion and listen when I give it
You demonstrate the importance of loving everyone
You teach me to stand up for myself
You dance with me
You speak simple, powerful expressions of your faith in me
You live your beliefs
You sound the alarm
You laugh at my jokes (and at my mom's)
You are constant in righteousness
You are true to your core
You encourage my husband and cherish my children
You gently urge me to change
You sound happy to hear my voice when I call
You fill my heart with beautiful memories
You are careful where you step because you know I am following
You gave me life
and
You are my dad.

And I
feel profoundly blessed
to be yours.

Happy Birthday!

P.S. When you post party pictures on Facebook, I won't be able to see them since we're not friends....

The Pants

It's been a life long struggle for me; "Mein Angst", as it were.

I just cannot find jeans that I love. In truth, I wear jeans only when I'm going out to run an errand or something, because exercise pants (code for, "pajama bottoms") just seem too casual, like I've given up entirely. Like that man who strolled onto the Lido deck the last day of our cruise in his "Holland America" bathrobe and flip flops. Really? And my follow up question is, perhaps he's figured out the secret of life?

But I digress. When I come home from running errands, I pass by the emergencies waiting for my return and face none of them until I am in my comfy pants again. 

I use the following list of musts from my Jeans Bible when I'm shopping for new denim. (I'd rather scrub toilets. Literally. And I know what literally means. I don't mean figuratively in this case.)

1. Must have high waist line so I can tuck my muffin top in. I'm way past low rise, ladies. Trust me.

2. Must have "short" written on the inseam description. Must. All 5'5" of me is in my torso. My eleven-year-old sister has longer legs than I.

3. Must not look used, a.ka. "faded", "distressed", "pre-washed". Add any one of those descriptions to my daily mommy badges of spit-up and toddler love prints, and I look like I run a day care. Even though I kinda do. I just don't want to look it.

4. Must not make my bum look like it belongs on a fifty-year-old. I'd like to look as young going as I do coming. At least for now, anyways.

5. Must possess magic powers that make me look ten pounds lighter than I am. 

These five absolutes make it impossible to find jeans I love. Impossible! (And I know what impossible means. I don't mean improbable in this case.)

In a recent conversation with my husband, Dr. Always Wear Jeans, he told me how much he loved, loved, loved, at the very least really liked the jeans he was wearing. Naturally, my curiosity was piqued. Don't we all want to know the secret to fame, money, beauty, success?

So he faithfully divulged his list of musts from his Jeans Bible.

1. Must have a lot of pockets. A higher number of pockets means a higher level of satisfaction in the function of the jeans. That is to say, five pockets pants equals “Lame Sauce Pants”. Ten pockets pants equals “Those'll Do Pants”. Twenty-five pockets pants equals “I Could Totally Stunt Double for Chuck Norris Pants”.

2. Must be one of two colors: dark wash, or camouflage. Dark wash for special occasions. Camo for all other occasions, including grocery shopping, four wheeling, impromptu hunting, running basic police drills, and scheduled x-rays at international airports.

3. Must have the right fit. And for him, there is only one fit. Straight leg. Always. My man won't be wearing skinny jeans.

4. Must be able to carry a concealed weapon in comfort for the entire day. (And this is the big one. I actually heard him sigh, "You know, I felt really comfortable with a gun in my pants all day.")

Well, no wonder I'm up the Jeans Creek without a paddle! Too many pockets clashes with all of my rolls, I have no chance of making camo invisible (even to an elk!), there is no such thing as a universal women's fit, and I couldn't carry a gun comfortably in my pants to save my life.

And just so I thoroughly embrace my defeat, I'll confess that I'm typing this in my "exercise pants", I have no plans for accomplishing errands any day soon, and my hand gun is a comfortable distance from my person. 

Ergo, I do not wear the pants in our family. And we're all better off that way.

'Tis better to give than to receive.

THE best things to give:

(I know because I've received all of these,
and it has made all the difference to me.)

a second chance

a foot rub

a scrumptious, nutritious dinner

encouragement

a hug

kindness

an opportunity to learn truth

a listening ear

a compassionate heart

and

enduring love

But it you ask my beagle, he'll tell you the best thing to give is food. 

Black Friday

I'm going to point out something that I think is pretty obvious.

If something has the adjective "black" attached to it, you should consider it an omen. That is to say, Black Friday madness is NOT worth the thirty dollars you save. You'll spend more in hand sanitizer alone, trying to recover from being bowled over by thousands of people who have slept on the sidewalk all night and spent zero seconds on personal hygiene before crowding you.

There is one exception to this rule. If you go to Tai Pan with your sisters and mom at 8 am Back Friday morning, you will have a fantastic time. I'm, like, ninety-nine percent sure of this. (Unless you don't like your mom and sisters. Then you should borrow mine for the outing and I'll offer a one hundred percent satisfaction guarantee.)

And I'll even go so far as to say that it's really just better to stay in all of Black Friday.

What can you do instead? One thousand things. Like, take a nap, make turkey soup, eat said soup, go for a walk, write a thank you card, paint your toe nails, watch a movie, or. . .organize your toy closet.

My children are innocent to the whole Black Friday event, but it still proved to be an ominous morning when, after feeding them a large, scrumptious breakfast, I announced that we were organizing the toy closet before we were playing. You say, "Black Friday"; I say, "Win My Sanity Back Friday".

To their credit, my children did not complain. To my credit, I did stop to feed them a light snack before moving on to organizing the entertainment hutch.

At about 2 pm, I ran out of Tupperware containers. I considered using Amazon Prime to get some to my house by Monday, but that was no good. Once I start a project, I don't stop until I'm finished. Otherwise, it never gets done.

So I took a deep breath and went to face the crowds.

Sure, I live in a small town, population 3228. But in the end, it's all about comparison, right?

I walked into Ace Hardware, selected my containers in about 15.6 seconds, and walked up to the cash register.

Normally, the cashier greets me with a smile, asks about my family, logs into my Ace Rewards account without asking for the number, tells me about their last dental visit to my doctor husband, and finishes my order (with an enormous helping of customer service) all in about two minutes.

There's never anyone in line. I never wait. Round trip, it takes six minutes.

But not on Black Friday.

On Black Friday, I was the third person in line, both registers were opened, and I had to wait eight minutes before my turn. By the time I got home, my children wondered what had taken me so long.

Serves me right for ignoring a perfectly obvious omen.

Bird is the word.

I made a fatal mistake. I decided to forgo the ten hour trip to my mom's house this year and make my own Thanksgiving dinner for my husband and five children.

It turned out we couldn't have gone anyway, since we all had strep throat for the whole holiday, but that's really a side note to elicit sympathy from the reader.

I decided to be prepared for the inevitable Thanksgiving surprises by over-preparing for the feast.

Sunday, I gathered my necessary recipes and created a "Thanksgiving Recipes 2011" reference guide. I also made the menu and printed individual menus for the diners, complete with color and gratitude quotes.

Monday, I "cleaned house". I also had to make a surprise appearance to the city council of chambers.  And somewhere in the midst of cleaning and scrambling to put together a defense for the city council, I went grocery shopping and procured the remaining ingredients I would need.

Tuesday, I was supposed to make the pies and the cranberry sauce. Instead, I made an impromptu visit to the doctor's with a sick son, picked up his medicine, and "cleaned house" again. I went to bed resolved to enjoy tomorrow, which would need to be a full day of cooking.

Wednesday, I knew I was in it for the long haul; I just didn't know how long that was. At 9:30 am, when I discovered the 20.5 pound turkey had been frozen instead of refrigerated, I had a small inkling.

After googling "how to defrost a turkey in a hot hurry", I put the bird in a five pound bucket with cold water. Then I took a deep breath as I committed to changing the bird bath every half hour until 10 pm. 

Next, I cooked up a storm. But with all the interruptions to wash hands, change diapers, pour milk, answer the phone, resolve conflicts, wipe spills, make meals, nurse my baby, and give love, the "storm" was more like a mild spring zephyr. 

By 9 pm, I had made an apple pie and a pumpkin pie (both with crusts from scratch), the dough for our dinner rolls, sweet potatoes, corn casserole, the sautéed vegetable for the stuffing, and the brine for the thawed bird. 

I took a break to nurse the baby while my husband gave me an hour long foot rub. I actually cried while he did that because I had no idea how badly my feet hurt until he took off one of my socks. 

At 10 pm, after placing the bird in the brine with gallons of ice water, I started cleaning the kitchen. And by 12 am, I headed to bed.

This morning our children came into our room shouting, "Happy Thanksgiving!" in their merriest, most contagious voices, and after gathering them around for prayer, we started our holiday.

With great execution and precision (and a hearty helping of husband assistance), I pulled off the roasting of the turkey, the cooking of the stuffing, and the baking of the side dishes. Remarkably, everything was ready to go at the same time.

But then I got a surprise from the bird. When I took his temperature, he read 181 degrees. But when we cut him open, he was still bloody. Deflated and starving, we put him back into the roaster for another ninety minutes. Meanwhile, I watched my sides go cold and tried to keep my children from eating treats and/or their fists.

In the end, I can say that this Thanksgiving was the best one I've ever had. But I've learned a valuable lesson.

Next year, we'll start with pie, end with mashed potatoes, and give the bird the bird. 

The rebel in me.

I went to City Hall tonight. I had to meet with City Council because I was a citizen of interest. Butterflies were bouncing violently around my insides. My husband held my hand.

When we sat down, we were given an agenda. There was my name--and my crime. Though it was in the same font, size, and color as the rest of the agenda, I felt like it was in neon lights. It tattled, "Natalie Nelson planted six trees in the right of way."

"Oh, sure," my husband whispered. "When you put it that way. . ."

I'm with George McFly; I was never good at confrontation. I take zero risks. I always obey. I hate the feeling of being under scrutiny. I never want to inspire disappointment or criticism. Accordingly, I chose my husband to be our spokesperson for the night.

And me, personally? I just wanted to run and hide and forget all about my long love affair with trees.

But really, how could I not love a Prunus cerasifera, no matter what its variety? Those abundant pink blossoms in the spring, that perfect canopy, those lush purple leaves in the summer, the lack of messy fruit. . . (sigh!)I just love the whole tree, bark to branches! And when I had the chance to plant six of them and effectively cut out the view of the "house" just north of me, I had to take it.

When the local nursery came this morning to (finally!) plant my trees, I was ecstatic. When they stopped midway, I knew something was up. When I was told we needed to have the city's blessing before we planted those trees, my heart sank. When I saw the nursery team burying those trees anyway, I sent my husband out to tell them to hold off until we got the final word. And when they continued to plant those trees, I knew it would come back to bite me.

Our city's council chambers is an unassuming, outdated, forgettable room. The members of the city council are about the same--average looking people from varied walks of life whom you would probably just walk right on by without noticing if you passed them on Main Street. But staring down at me from their raised podium at the front of the room, my neighbors transformed into seven giant bulldozers with the ability to uproot my arboreal dreams with one bored, "Nay".

The ceremony of the whole meeting caught me completely off guard--someone reading minutes, another making motions, another seconding the motions, the whole council giving their, "Aye" in unison, and the mayor asking for any opposed. It was all acted out with the utmost decorum and formality. I haven't been in that formal a setting since. . .well, never.

I sized up the panel. Who would be my biggest opponent? Who had the loudest voice and the hardest questions? Who saw only a tired, blonde woman without any fight in her? Would the only woman on the council be my enemy or ally? My apprehension grew. I should have done my homework! I should have found out where these people live and delivered fresh cinnamon rolls this morning.

And then, horror of horrors, Mayor moved our tree issue to the top of the business list, suggested I be the spokesperson, and called me to come to the stand at the front of the room. I immediately panicked. I seriously considered running from the room, retrieving my trusty spade, and digging up those fifteen foot beauties as penance for my tree hugging ways.

Willing my feet to make the walk forward, I felt my face redden. I darted terror-stricken glances back to my husband. I jammed my hands deep into my winter coat pockets; my fingers nervously twisted a piece of lint. I wished for a meteor to crash to the earth and abruptly end the meeting.

When I got to the stand, I was a deer in headlights. The room was totally silent. The council's fourteen eyes glared down at me. I gulped.

And then, miracle of miracles, I found my voice and told the truth.

"Your Honor, this is the most rebellious thing I've ever done."

The man sitting in the middle of the council panel snorted. The mayor smiled wide. The woman on the end laughed out loud. The rest of the room chuckled. I forced myself to smile back and opened myself up to be shot down dead.

But it never happened.

Sure, there were some close calls. Like, when the woman pointed out that the trees were already planted while she gave me a , "Tsk, tsk, tsk!" look. Or, when a man sitting on the side of the room started to list his concerns about my insurrectionary trees. And best of all, when at the prompting of my husband, I sprung the issue of expanding our driveway on a now very flustered mayor. Those were really nothing more than near misses.

Because in the end, we get to keep our trees--if we attach some document to the house deed so the next owner knows the parameters of the trees in the right of way. No big thing.

But, there might be something to this rebellious life after all. My fire for the insurgent life has been ignited.

Tomorrow, I think I'll put on some bright red lipstick and put a letter in the mailbox without lifting up the little red flag. Then, I'll buy a bullet bike and some leather pants. And then. . .who knows what else I'll do?

I've never been this rebellious before.

Gun Salute

Let me go on record by saying that I pity the potential intruder of our familial domicile.

We have some protocols in place that will preserve our safety and possessions in the event that a bad guy breaks into our home. Luckily, each person has a very different plan. Where one plan falls short, the other is strong.

Together, we have built the Nelson Fortress of Love. . .and Pain.

My plan is what you'd expect of any average American housewife. I've always relied heavily on dead bolts and window locks. I bought a dog with a loud voice--like, the kind of loud where the whole neighborhood knows when the Fed Ex man is approaching our door. I don't answer the phone if I don't recognize the number on caller ID. I look out the window before I answer the door. I close all our blinds and curtains at dusk. We have flood lights surrounding the perimeter of our home. My neighbor has our house key. We are friends with the local police officers.

But when we lived in Baltimore, I perfected my safety protocol.

Maybe it's because Baltimore isn't exactly the safest American city, or maybe it's because one of our good Baltimorean friends was a hunting guide for President Eisenhower. Either way, I have Baltimore life to thank for my total embrace of the Second Amendment.

For my birthday one year, my husband gave me a hand gun; for Mother's Day that same year, I got a laser sight for it. I started to receive other weapons for other various celebrations. I discovered that my shot gun is my weapon of choice, with the MP5 being a close second.

In accordance with these gifts, my husband also had me run drills. You know--basic usage drills, where I had to change the mag, load the gun, and aim in a matter of seconds. He also took me to the trap shooting range, where I received shooting tips from the old timers who lived there. I became comfortable with my guns. I felt a power in my ability to defend myself; I found out my weakness is cordite.

All of these developments were important, because in Maryland, you must warn an intruder that you are going to shoot them before you discharge your weapon.

Whaaaat?? You mean someone breaks into my home with the intent to hurt or steal, and I have to politely issue a warning? I don't believe in warnings; my children don't even get them. Counting to ten before I act? ((Snort!)) You know the rule; don't test me! The sound of my shot gun getting some buck shot in the chamber and my competitive, "Pull!" would be your warning.

Let's just say I feel prepared to face a bad guy.

My husband has also done his part to defend our Fortress of Love and Pain. Each passing year increases the number of weapons in our various gun safes, all of which are strategically located around the house. His arsenal would make a small country worried about a Nelson Invasion. He's stocked up on ammo. He's obtained a concealed carry permit. He practices his shot at the shooting range. We watch every episode of Top Shot. He's best friends with my Uncle Assassin. His right to bear arms will not be infringed upon. He will protect his posterity for as far as his muzzle will reach.

Oh, he's ready.

Put us together, and our genes dance around a bit until we get two smart, capable, ingenious boys. Their safety measures consist mostly of muscles and...school supplies.

My oldest is growing like a weed. He lifts weights. He flexes daily and measures the growth. He reads "How to do Judo Moves" and other self defense books. He tries out his strength on siblings; he scrimmages with his dad. He climbs door jambs for overhead attacks. He practices stealth mode for sneak attacks. He's a deliberate thinker with strategic maneuvers in place.

Today he told me that if a bad guy comes, he would punch them in the stomach. After the wind was knocked out of Bad Guy, he'd grab a pen and color on Bad Guy's cheeks. After knocking Bad Guy completely out, he'd grab a Sharpie and in big, bold letters write "I LOVE UNICORNS" on the intruder's forehead. And with a final, debilitating blow, he would scribble, "My Belly Button is Fatter than Yours" on Bad Guy's gut.

He laughed maniacally/hysterically about all this.

So did his younger brother.

Son Two has basically the same muscle-building regimen as Son One. This summer, when other children were playing on the homemade slip-n-slide, Son Two was building his body. He's only seven and his physique is already impressive. I expect he'll register his arms as deadly weapons in a matter of not many years.

In addition to his brute strength, his Nelson Fortress Protection Plan also includes supplies from his backpack--sharpened pencils, to be exact.

This boy's patience and diligence are unmatched. He can sharpen the same pencil for hours. Patiently, with all manner of persistence, he hones that pencil tip into an exquisite point that would make Chuck Norris flinch.

Today, after one of his sharpening sessions, he held up the pencil tip for me to see. It glinted in the glow from the kitchen can lights. He twirled it ever so slowly and said, "If a bad guy comes, I'll use this in his eyeball. . .or his bum!"

I was like, Ouch!

Our daughters have not yet planned out their actions in the event of a habitation intrusion, them being female and all. But I spend a lot of time with these chicks, and I'm pretty sure I know what they'd do.

In a Charlie's Angels-esque way, acting as a triple threat, Daughter One would start in on a long narration, full of questions and commitment snares, thus confusing the bad guy with her innate ability to cripple by chatter.  This would happen while Daughter Three would cry at the top of her lungs, rupturing Bad Guy's unprotected ear drums and debilitating better than a taser. Then with curls bouncing and eyes dancing, Daughter Two would skip onto the scene and kill with her insane cuteness.

Individually, any one of these would be effective defense mechanisms. But put them all together, and Bad Guy would be dead before he even knew what was coming.

All I'm saying is, the preservation of your family is worth every preparation you can make. If you don't have that natural killer instinct, turn to your family. They will probably have some great, original ideas, and you'll find out for yourself that united, you stand strong!

And if you're a bad guy, all I'm saying is,

"PULL!"

Hello, Operator?

My understanding of the power of communication was turned upside down when I saw that episode of "Saved By the Bell".

Maybe you saw that one, too, where Mr. Zack Morris was in some sort of self-inflicted trouble, and needing to get out of it in the next twenty minute episode, he pulled out a cell phone.

About the size and weight of a brick, Zack's phone allowed him to make a call in the middle of Bayside High's hallway. He didn't even have to obtain an office phone pass. He could talk to whomever he wanted, whenever he wanted--all with his magical, communication brick.

"What is this wonder?" I thought. Just when I thought Zack Morris couldn't get any more popular or cool. . . .

My next experience with cell phone technology was when I started dating the boy next door. He had a cell phone. It was always with him, which meant I could always get ahold of him. We had a lot to talk about. And after three weeks of talking, he became my fiancee.

When we were married, he would call me from his car during his commute to school. I remember answering the phone in my cubicle (the one with the looooong cord) and hearing his voice over the loud roar of our car's powerful engine. He told me about his classes, his aced test, his old friend he ran into, and the ill-eduacted fellow drivers on the road with him. He told me he wished I was in the seat next to him. I loved that phone.

When we moved to graduate school, I got my first cell phone. He got a matching one. They doubled as a walkie talkies, and I could talk to him on his phone for as long as I wanted to, without any monetary penalties. I clipped my phone/walkie talkie on my belt, where it was always accessible. We had a monthly bill. I felt like a real adult.

Nine years and six cell phones later, my current phone is a whole new species. It has the date, the time, its battery life, its signal strength, and a picture of my offspring always visible. When you call my phone, your number and picture is displayed. I can kill zombies, solve word puzzles, check email, post my facebook status, buy things from amazon, text a grocery list, read a novel, photograph my children, edit images, watch my favorite movies, and listen to my favorite music--all with a phone that is small enough to fit in one hand.

The money for my yearly contract could be used to feed a small country.

But instead of viewing it as a communication wonder, I feel my cell phone is subpar--even if it does have a sparkly, bright pink case that snaps into place. Also, I think Zack Morris is a arrogant and irresponsible--even if he does have a nice smile and perfectly styled hair.

I want my phone to be drool proof and shock proof, have infinite battery life, reject phone calls I don't want to receive, be the size and weight of a credit card, never get lost, allow me to teleport my children to Grandma's, and make me look twenty pounds lighter.

My brother tells me that his cell phone puts mine to shame. He actually inherited my dad's old phone. Naturally, it is pre-programmed with my Dad's extensive, outdated contact list. My brother brags about how he can call neighbors who have been dead for several years. Their phone numbers are in his contact list, and all he has to do is push a button. "Do you have Mr. Smith's number?" He taunts. "Mrs. Smith would pay a small fortune for my phone."

Who's all Mrs. Fancy iPhone Pants now?

Keeping it real.

I don't feel so glamorous today, even though deep down, I know I am. Somewhere in there, I'm still a happy, thankful, beautiful girl.

It's been a hard week; nothing huge in and of itself, but pile them all together, and I feel the reality of life in my veins and my wrinkles. I wouldn't trade my experiences for anything. Growing can be painful, but it's growth that I so desperately want and need.

My toddler had the chicken pox this week; if Baby doesn't get them, I'll know it is from the intervention of God. I know He can deliver me. I know that for myself.

My bone and gum graft is healing, but my smile isn't quite itself yet. No big deal, I guess. People who love me notice my dancing eyes when I smile, not my recovering gums.

My oldest daughter asked me why I had chicken pox on my face.
Not chicken pox, I told her. They are cancerous lesions in the process of being removed.
Well they just look like chicken pox, she told me. And lots of wrinkles.

My basement flooded five weeks ago, and having half a house--with no smaller fraction of people and chores--presents its challenges. I deal with it by ignoring the upheaval and laying on the small parts of the carpet that are showing. Best part of my day so far: when I laid on the floor on my belly and made a tower for my grunting, squealing, cooing infant.

My husband was away all weekend. I missed him. But the missing made me enjoy his presence today even more. Our bed was full of three little girls this morning, but they belong to him and me, and that was worth smiling about. So was his good morning kiss.

My soup needs some help. I can't just go impromptu like that all the time. Culinary liberties are for the super chefs. And in this case, my super chef was buried too deep to pull it out in the thirty minutes it took to make lunch. My toddler ate two helpings. This is unprecedented. I feel triumphant.

My mother was out of the country all week long. My whining couldn't reach her ears. In my imaginary conversations with her, she told me that I was expected to do hard things. I had to be grateful for the good, diligent in my duties, and certain of her approval. I wanted her to tell me I should go back to bed, but she never did. When I called her this morning, she answered her phone. She was anxious to talk to me; she had been praying for me. I had heard her encouragement, thousands of miles away, in my head and heart. My mother is an angel whose heart beats for me. I matter to her.

Tomorrow I'll start over on my chores. I did them last week, but they need my attention again. There will be new battles to fight, new growth to make. I'm pretty sure it will hurt. I'm too overwhelmed to think about that right now.

For today, I'll rest in the Sabbath Day. I am not forgotten. My prayers are heard. I am eternally loved.

Today, I live a glorious life.

Thank you forever.

When I asked my mom why her daddy hadn't been to war, she explained how it wasn't from lack of trying. Though afflicted with severe diabetes most of his life, all 5'5" of him had gone to enlist--and had passed all the tests. His wife, angered by the whole charade, had to march down to the office and tell them they failed to catch one important thing about her husband's health. Grandpa died before my mom was 15. He left a young widow who had only her faith and work ethic. I couldn't understand why a man would sign up to give his life when his days were already numbered. 

My dad's dad was the only grandpa I had as a small child. He was a wonder to me, and oh, how I loved that man! His white hair, giant smile, singing voice, and endless love for adventure won my whole young-girl heart.

I remember the first time I noticed a large bump in Grandpa's calf. I asked him about it. He explained he was in WWII, and it was shrapnel. Then he proceeded to show me other places where the shrapnel had lodged itself in his limbs. He showed me how the bumps were somewhat mobile, but that they didn't hurt him. I was fascinated. I wondered what kind of man could survive bombs exploding all around him. This confirmed my suspicions that he was a man among men.

My mom is the youngest of three children, she being the only girl. One day when I came home from elementary school, she was sitting in the living room with her brother. The feeling in the room made me feel immediately reverent, and I watched closely to see if I could figure out why I felt that way.

Uncle Mike was in uniform. I had seen him in that uniform in many pictures, but it was different this time. Today his uniform was covered in awards. My mom was crying, listening intently to my uncle's hushed words. 

It turns out, when Uncle Mike was testing scuba gear in Puerto Rico fifteen years earlier, he wasn't really testing scuba gear. He was a Navy Seal Assassin and had been in the very depths of war's dark abyss. But the giant "T" scar on his chest and abdomen wasn't from his secret missions. It was from the drunk driver who hit him shortly after he came home. I tried to comprehend that a man could survive secret missions and disemboweling crashes and live to speak of God's mighty power in preserving His life.

When my cousin left for war, he was a handsome, muscular young man. He returned from Iraq bent over, walking with a cane, and remains severely crippled for life. When I thanked him for his sacrifice, he quickly brushed the compliment aside and humbly replied about his job and his privilege. What kind of man can be so quick to sacrifice his life, and though crippled by war, not be poisoned by bitter resentment?

Today, my dear grandpa lives on a hill with his wife who is losing her mental capacities. He walks with her, brings her medications, fixes her meals, and can't imagine what he'd do without her. His surviving friends still talk with awe about his integrity. In all their years, they've never met anyone with such high moral standards. 

He fights the battle of life with virtue.

My beloved uncle lives on a small farm, growing vegetables and making his famous tomato soup for his adoring nieces and nephews. When he isn't working the night shift at the postal office, he cares for his wife, who has been suffering from Multiple Sclerosis for many years. I've had the sacred privilege of seeing him carry her everywhere on his back, taking slow, measured steps so as not to cause her any discomfort. He pushes her in her wheelchair around the block and reserves the best places for her to sit when the family gathers. He faithfully does her hair and makeup, and she always looks breathtaking. When I saw him last month, he showed me the beautiful winter cloak he was sewing for her Christmas present. The tears in my eyes kept me from seeing the details very well, but his delight was in full focus. The frail frame of his wife will not be feeling even the slightest chill this year. 

He fights the battle of life with love.

My cousin and his wife recently had their third child--a daughter. She was born prematurely and had a lengthly stay in the NICU. And though life has thrown him his share of surprises, he is a happy husband and father, working towards recovery while enjoying his family and friends. Life is good for him, and because of his faith, his future is full of promise.

He fights the battle of life with optimism.

And so, the veterans in my life have taught me the most important measure of a man: 

"Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends" (John 15:13).

To the amazing men in my family who have taught me by example, and to all the men and women who have served--or are serving--our country, 

Your sacrifices have altered your lives, and they have altered mine.

Your unfailing love for your country and fellowmen is tangible, and I feel your love for me and mine.

Your service deserves your country's eternal gratitude. May you know that you always have mine.

Happy Veterans' Day!

Scream

I'd like to think I'm not alone on this one. It's just so obvious that everyone should be deathly afraid. And yet, I see people sauntering around without a care in the world, whistling nonchalantly, whilst I'm holding back blood-curdling screams.

I'm a reasonable person with a fair grasp on reality. I'm not so far out in left field, am I? 

I mean, am I afraid of ghosts? Nope. Werewolves or vampires? Nuh-uh. The basement? Kinda. The impending zombie apocalypse? ((yawn!)) Not even.

But they're everywhere, people. They carry filth and disease, crazy asylum escapees, and flagrant disregard of elementary privacy laws. They. Will. Kill. You! 

I'll illustrate. When we were in the checkout line at Costco last Saturday, my four-year-old came to me and whispered, "I need to go potty." I could hear the "Twilight Zone" theme song increasing in volume as the weight of this request sunk into my soul.

I took a deep breath, quickly considered my other options, and resigned myself to my fate. After handing the baby off to my oldest, I held Daughter's hands and tried to bury my fear in a skip and a smile. And even though I had given in to the inevitable (a shower would be absolutely necessary tonight), I still began to review my basic Minimizing Germs from Public Restroom Exposure protocol. 

Sure you can do your best to avoid the lethal pitfalls, but there's no real escaping the surprise attacks, the explosive dangers, and the gut-wrenching stench of a slow, disgusting death. And when you have to take a toddler potty in a public facility, it's game over on sanitation and health.

As we came to the brick aisle that wound its way back to the "Women's", I hurriedly rolled up our long sleeve shirts to cut back on contamination. Then in a crisp, harsh whisper, I warned, "Do not touch anything in here. Do you understand?" My bulged eyeballs, tight grip, and panicked wheezing all cued her in that I meant business, and she solemnly pledged her strict obedience with a measured nod and wide eyes. If I was transforming into a werewolf at that moment, she wouldn't have looked more alarmed. (And now that I think of it, there were probably some striking similarities.)

It's a good thing I'm naturally limber and do yoga occasionally, otherwise I would have met my death just stepping into the stall. Because all I can think about is the violent spray of the toilet and how many germs get aerosolized per flush, and how much they've multiplied in that confined spaced since it was last cleaned. And how now, they are feasting eagerly on my hair and face, creeping over my skin, and trying to get inside of me and kill me off.

In an act of death-defying grace and agility, I pick up Daughter, rest her on my left hip, push the stall door open with my right foot, scan the toilet for moisture and the floor for soggy paper, and racing the closing hinge on the door, I bend to the right to avoid banging her on the wall. I take a step in, switch her to the front of me, my arms out in front to suspend her over the toilet, do a backbend to avoid the toilet paper holder, the ceramic toilet, and the back of the closing stall door. Before the door bounces back open, and in one swift movement, I stand her in the middle of the small space, grab a dangling piece of toilet paper, and use it to catch the door handle and lock us into our grave.

Next, I grab a toilet seat "cover"; you know--those flimsy paperish things that aren't shaped like any toilet on earth? I have to completely remove the middle when taking a toddler potty or we get more of a puddle on top of the paper. (I learned that by sad experience.) I carefully situate it, taking care to cover as much as I can. Obviously, one doesn't cut it, so I grab another cover, punch out the middle, and stagger its coverage with the other cover to make the toilet "safe". (There's no such thing in a public restroom.) All the while, I'm throwing frenzied glances back to my toddler to make sure she hasn't leaned against the filthy doors or walls, covered in aerosolized toilet germs.

She was perfectly obedient, but my glance back at her proved to be my fatal error. The slight movement set off the toilet's automatic sensor, and now, with a deafening growl and a gurgling whoosh, the flushing water sucks my carefully arranged toilet covers down its monstrous throat and leaves a belch full of moisture in its wake.

Don't worry, though. At the start of the flush, I knew what was coming, because you never forget what it sounds like to be roared at by a demon beast. My adrenalin took over, and with lighting speed I took a deep breath, turned my head, and protected my offspring with as much of myself as was possible. If she dies, I'll never forgive myself, I thought.

So now I'm back at the start, but I know now I'll have to conquer the demon toilet with movements so slow and precise as to fool the automatic flush sensor. Good thing I'm part mother, part ninja.

I repeat the seat covering process, but this time all in grande plie, keeping my head in front of the sensor and as motionless and level as possible. Still looking towards the sensor, I twist my torso around, grab my daughter around the waist, bring her up, over, and in front of me, and set her, oh, so gingerly on the mouth of the gaping beast.

She looks scared. We'll never get out of here if she can't relax, I think. So I whisper encouraging words and try to look calm, ignoring my thighs that are ablaze with exhaustion from holding this squat for three whole minutes.

When the deed is done, my adrenalin kicks in again. As soon as I move her, I know the monster will try to drink her down and shower my beloved child with its vile mist. So ever so rapidly and nimbly, I hold my breath, pick her up, pull up her pants mid-air, twist back towards the door, set her down, and almost shout my defiance in answer to the voice of the rushing waters.

But I was not to leave that stall unscarred. Because when I flipped her up and around and down, her beautiful magenta bow fell on the floor.

I did the only thing you can do when you're wounded to this degree.

I cried.

There in the Costco bathroom stall, I cried.

Then my daughter started to cry, thinking it was her fault, which thankfully snapped me back to reality. I picked up the bow with fingers three and four (because they're probably the most clean), stuffed it in my pocket, and reassured Daughter that she did a wonderful job, and I couldn't have asked for a better performance, and I'm not mad at her, just at the janitors.

We washed with the automatic faucets, using plenty of soap and scrubbing till our hands were red. When it came time to dry our hands, I looked in vain for the paper towels. Instead, I found those automatic air tunnels, where you dip your hands inside and they get blasted dry. There is no way I can dry us both off without touching the sides of the tunnel, I thought.

As Daughter started over to them, I pulled her back and told her we were just gonna shake our hands dry, because it's way more fun. 

We can put a man on the moon, but really? We really can't find any solution to this pernicious problem? We have containment units for ghosts, sunlight and garlic for vampires, and buzz (or reciprocating) saws for zombies. And yet, we come up empty handed on this one? Surely clean energy solutions can be put on a back burner until we've got this figured out. 

When we got home, I laid the bow on the granite counter and covered it with half a can of Lysol. Five minutes later, as per directions, I emptied the can on the now limp bow. When it was dried, I put it in the "hand wash" laundry hamper, where it now awaits my courage and laundry prowess to come rescue it. When it's done being laundered, I'll dump it in the trash bin, haul to the bow store, and buy a fresh one.

It's the only way to best the beast.

A pocket full of posies

As this life is for learning, I am diligent in my studies. Some things I catch on to right away; they just make sense. Other things. . .well, not so much.

One of my personal, eternal conundrums is understanding those persons with XY chromosomes. I find myself always in a dither, asking, "Why? Why? Why?!?" Usually finding solutions to interrogative sentences leads to learning. In this case, I dig a deeper and deeper hole in my brain, with no sign of answers--ever.

Since I began doing his laundry, I have been trying to figure out why he puts such random stuff in his pockets. It's a totally foreign idea to me. I don't usually wear pants with pockets, and when I do, the pockets are too tiny, or so full of my own body, that I can't fit anything in there. A popped off button would be a tight squeeze.

He, however, seems to have the equivalent of Mary Poppins' carpet bag in his trousers. I'm telling you!

But to make matters worse, sometimes I jump the gun with my laundering; that is to say, I wash pants on the floor that were "only worn once", so they didn't need to be washed. Other times, he simply puts his pants in the hamper without emptying the pockets, because his mom always emptied pockets to collect tips. Either way, I'm pulling quite the assortment of odds and ends out of my washing machine.

When we were first married, I washed his entire wallet. When he came home from school, the contents of his wallet were carefully lined up on the back of our second-hand sofa, trying to catch the few drafts of warm air that our apartment produced. Flustered and blushing, I defended myself. Certainly he was part to blame.

I thought he had learned his lesson. He thought I had learned mine.

Fast forward eleven years, and we're still unsure as to why the other insists on repeating behavior that ensures a washer full of pocket junk.

The other day, I washed a load of his pants. When I went to move the load to the dryer, I noticed that it looked like I just dumped the kitchen junk drawer into the machine, the items were so random: Otter Pop wrappers, various coins, rare Lego pieces, bits of rope, small tools, soggy receipts, candy wrappers, a cuticle cutter, ear buds, a memory key. . .to list a few. If I went around the house and randomly selected items from drawers, I couldn't have collected a more motley crew.

Yesterday we were taking down the trampoline in preparation for the impending winter months. I was struggling to untie the elastic knots that were tying down the padding. After several minutes, I looked over at my husband, who was making quick work of the knotty buggers.

"How'd you do that?" I asked.

"I use this tool," he returned, holding up a screw.

"Where'd you get that?" I asked incredulously.

"From my pocket," he answered matter-of-factly. "Do you want it?"

"Yes, but what will you use?"

"This," he said, and reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small tool that I had never seen before.

"What's that?" I asked, incredulity mixed with awe.

"A spring tool--to take the trampoline springs off," he explained.

My jaw dropped, I shook my head, and I impatiently thought to myself, "Oh, when will I ever learn?"

Published in the Paper

I was a guest writer for our local paper, Idaho County Free Press. I was featured on the first page of the special section on winterizing, a very important topic in these parts. Since the paper's readership is small and local, I've included my column for your information. I hope you find something useful therein.

At our house, autumn is in full swing and winter might as well be here. The children have made their Christmas lists and a paper chain that counts down to the first snow of the year. I find myself reeling at the thought of snow-bound house days and Christmas shopping; I’m just now raking the fallen leaves on our lawn.

I’ve made a list (and I’ve checked it twice!) that should help me cut back on the winter breakdowns that sometimes accompany raising five small children in the bleak winter months.

First, prepare against cold and flu season. Anyone can schedule flu shots, make sure the children are up to date on immunizations, stock up on Vitamin C lozenges, clean the humidifiers, darn socks, and find missing mittens. But I go the extra mile by duct taping a box of facial tissues to each child’s chest to make wiping runny noses and moist faces that much easier.

Second, install a shoe tree. The incessant pile of wet shoes, galoshes, and snow boots that live at my back door during the winter months has already begun to haunt my dreams. In an effort to cut back on the mountainous accumulation and in a stroke of Martha Stewart-esque creativity, I purchased a small artificial pine tree (complete with lights), hung sturdy hooks all over it, and strategically placed it at the back door. Now when the children kick off their snowy boots and damp stockings, they can aim them for the jolly shoe tree to dry off and add to the holiday cheer.

Third, pack family emergency kits. You should have at least three--one for the car, the doctor’s office, and your master bedroom closet. Include things like hard candy, bottled water, hand warmers, books, and flares for the car kit. Pack tissues, clean underwear, baby wipes, stickers, and video games for the doctor’s office kit. And for the master bedroom emergency kit, include a sleep mask, ear plugs, a small flashlight, and some beef jerky, just in case you need to hibernate in your closet for a good cry or a quick nap.

With these preparations in place, I say, “Let the winter games begin!”

We Believe in Children

Our parental and familial rights are being taken from us. Please educate yourself on the United Nation's CRC.  It is terrible! Children are our greatest gift and their rights to parents and family deserve to be protected.

We believe in the rights of children 

to:

love God

serve others

pray often

ask questions

work hard, and love it

have wishes granted

hear God's word

laugh a lot

breathe in fresh air

play in the dirt

turn up their noses at turnips, and eat them anyway

be heard

sing happy songs

make loud noises

discover God's love for them

read good books

accomplish goals

sleep soundly

feel secure because of boundaries

know they are loved

hear encouragement

receive kisses and hugs

play every day
work every day

learn by curiosity, example, and lecture

have a personal relationship with their Savior

discover their eternal potential

be respected like adults are

give compassion

eat candy

remember where they came from

and

belong to a family.

I love this talk from a living apostle of Jesus Christ. Watch it, and then love your children and the children around you. They need you. We need them!

Why do we do this to ourselves?

We camped in our backyard two nights ago. We should have known better, us being adults and all.

We have a son who's earning his Webelos badge in Cub Scouts, and he needed to finish up his Outdoorsman, so we made it a family event. Why not?

Ah, camping! I love the idea of you, but the reality of you, not so much.

I used to love it before I was in charge of a nursing infant and a toddler-in-toilet-training. Because, really, who wants to spend the entire camp-over in the porta-potty? No one, that's who.

It was pretty much the best of both worlds. I made and cooked tin-foil dinner inside, with the convenience of all my major, modern appliances, and brought already-served dishes out to my family as they were sitting around the fire pit, ablaze in its toasty glory.

When dinner was over, I went back inside and mixed up the pumpkin dessert for the dutch oven. Once mixed, I marched the bowl with the batter outside and dumped it into the ready dutch oven covered in hot coals.

When Toddler needed to go potty, we went inside and enjoyed indoor plumbing, liquid hand soap, and the luxury of a clean, white towel. Then we skipped back outside to play.

When clean up time came, I went inside to use the deep sink, the industrial sprayer, the steam mode on the dishwasher, and the left-over shelf in the fridge. Then I went back to the camp fire to sip hot apple cider while Daddy played the guitar and the kids joined in the singing.

We sat in our camp chairs--positioned just so on our stamped concrete--and watched the sun set, the moon rise, and the stars twinkle. It really was so magical. I tried to focus on the moment and store it away in my heart, where it will be kept safe until I need to relive it again in the winter of my life.

But then it was time to sleep.

Let me just say that we have an amazing tent trailer, which means we sleep on a mattress, about three feet off the ground. But even still, I slept the sleep of the waking dead.

I don't do closed spaces very well, and for me, few things are more claustrophobic than a sleeping bag. But put a teething, nursing infant in there with me, and I have to go to my happy place to keep from screaming and waking up the other children.

Then there's the matter of the cold autumn nights. I don't do cold, either. And even though I was wearing my warmest, coziest pajamas, I was too cold to sleep soundly. In fact, I wore my pajamas and my long underwear until dinner time the next day because I just couldn't warm up.

But the worst part was that my husband didn't sleep either. And he messed up his back. So he was the walking dead while I was the waking dead, and we weren't a happy pair, to say the least. Throw five, tired, moody children into mix, and you can imagine how yesterday went.

In between mouthfulls at lunchtime, I studied my husband. He couldn't move his head to either side, his back was tight and caused him to sit perfectly upright, and he had to cast very sidelong glances in order to make eye contact with his fellow diners. Because I was tired, I was pesty, and I decided to pretend I had a back/neck condition, too. I just copied all his robotic movements and shared strained sidelong glances with him.

When he caught on to what I was doing, he snorted and then remarked, "Well! There's nothing so bad that making fun of it can't make it even worse. Thanks for putting this into perspective for me." I laughed with him, being careful to hold my head still so as not to hurt my kinked neck.

When he left to visit the chiropractor, I gave him a sideways kiss. When the coast was clear, I tiptoed to the garage to find our blow torch.

Alas! Our tent is flame proof.

Reminiscing about Retributions

I hate it when my children do something wrong because then I have to come up with a punishment. I'm so bad at that! And I don't really understand why I draw a blank, because my dad and mom were professional punishers. With them, the punishment always fit the crime, always taught a lesson, and was never cruel or belittling, though occasionally unusual.

But I'll maintain for all of my parenting years that Mom and Dad were punishing wizards. Our punishments were lessons, and through them we learned the most important lessons of family life.

We learned team work. To the brothers who couldn't get along, my mom tied them together with string until they could. You try making nine brown-sack lunches tied to someone who is aggravating you, and you'll see how quickly you learn team work. In fact, I think corporate America should start employing this tactic. I predict productivity would skyrocket.

We learned forgiveness. To the older sister who cut the littler sister's hair--accidentally--the Mosiac Law was employed: an eye for an eye, a hair follicle for a hair follicle. Of course the older sister pleaded for mercy, and the smaller sister forgave the blubbering barber. And though she was a few locks shy of a whole head of hair, the smaller learned how to stand taller that day.

We learned justice and mercy. To the sister who mouthed off, two thousand rocks had to be collected from the garden and moved to the adjacent rock piles. Considering you could sell your bowl of Wheatina for two hundred rocks, this was a mighty blow. But everyone paid attention when Daddy helped Sister fulfill the demands of the law. We didn't have to ask why he wouldn't just drop the punishment instead of moving rocks with her; we saw, and we learned.

We learned hard work and then play. To the social butterfly of the family who mostly finished the chore, a life sentence of grounding was given. This was so painful a punishment, it caused the perpetrator to ask in agony, "How would you like it if you were grounded for the rest of your life?" When his siblings' response was uproarious laughter, he cried harder. No matter their insistence that he wouldn't--indeed, couldn't--be grounded forever. When the sentence miraculously lifted, he vowed he'd always put the blankets away neatly before going off to play.

The examples are many and varied, but each proves the wisdom of our loving parents.

Which brings me to the point that I'm trying to be wise and loving. Really I am. But it's clear I'm no parental genius.

I did have a break through last month. When we were driving the ten hours home, I was trying to nap, but no one would let me. In that space between asleep and awake, where everything makes sense (including purple unicorns finishing the weeding in the garden), I announced that someone had to take a nap. And if it wasn't going to be me, it would be them. Presto! Silence and a nap were mine to enjoy for a whole half hour.

But when a child colors the white spots on the dog with pink marker, what am I supposed to do?

Dude, we totally had a pet.

My kids asked me for a hamster, and I was like, "No way! We have two dogs. No pets ever again, as long as we live!"

I hope, in their developing brains, that this translated to, "What a nice thought! But no, Dears, and I love you."

When I was growing up, there used to be a pet store in the same strip as Fred Meyer...when there used to be a Fred Meyer. It was fun to go in there, because I got to imagine how the other children in the world lived. 

I could picture it all in my young mind: a girl goes into the store, looks at every animal for several minutes each, finds the pet of her dreams because it locks eyes with her, she tells her daddy she wants it, and her daddy buys it. Then she and her pet live happily ever after, in playfulness and sweet friendship.

This never would happen to me, I knew. I can't explain why; it was just something I knew, like I knew one day a week we would have Wheatina for breakfast. 

And yet, the impossible can happen, as life continues to show me.

I'm not sure how or why, but one day Ron came home from that pet store with a hamster. And there it was: living, breathing proof that everyone got a pet--but me.

But come on, it was Ron, so he shared it with everyone. Ron named him "Dude", but it was totally the family pet. (Kinda like how Ron earned our Sega Genesis for getting his Eagle, but it was totally the family video game system.)

My memory might be sketchy on the time frame, but it seems like it was just two short weeks before Ron renamed our hamster. It was inevitable. 

Because one day, when we went to his aquarium to give him some food, we noticed that he had nine, naked infant hamsters in there with him. And being the bright children we were, we exclaimed, "Dude! He's totally a girl!" 

Ron just smiled and quietly brought us back to Earth with his calm statement, "I guess we'll call her Dudette."

We were fortunate enough to take part in the raising of several baby hamsters. They were small, and cute, and furry, and sneaky. We had to find them when they went missing and buy two more aquariums as they began to multiply and replenish. Eventually we gave up keeping track of all of them and giving each a fitting name.

Life could not have been more exciting for us. There were two helpings of hamsters for every Guymon child, and there were rarely two helpings of anything for us. It's just basic math.

I can't remember when, but I know for sure that eventually they all passed, because we didn't always have hamsters. I don't think we even had them for a year. 

And now, I can't help but ponder on life's little surprises, and that sometimes, our blessings multiply faster than we can count them. And sometimes, our realities shift completely, and our lives are never the same. 

Because now, I don't want a hamster.

I'm gonna go call my mom again and thank her for being so patient. Also, I'll ask her where she went to hide so she could cry in secret....

Come, sit awhile.

It's inconsequential really, my blog. But it's a blog about life. And life has eternal consequences.

What I write may shock and amaze you, but mostly it won't. Because I'm an ordinary woman, living an ordinary life.

But I'm expecting extraordinary results, the kind of results that come many, many. . . many years down the road.

So walk down the road with me. The miles are easier when you have a friend.

But if you're too tired for the long road,

Come, sit awhile.