Happy New Year

Guys. I have some great news.

I haven't eaten ANY sugar. This. Whole. Year.

And I've exercised. Every. Single. Day.

Also, I've been patient. Loving. Faithful. Industrious. 

It's just the best year of my whole life. And it's going to get even better. Know how I know that?

Because while I'm typing this, there are only six minutes left until our homemade pizza rolls will be piping hot, fresh from the oven, ready to be consumed.

And there's a one-year-old who is kissing my shoulder with her puckered, blueberry yogurt-covered lips. Even the pizza rolls don't hold a candle to that.

And there's an unborn baby poking me, forcing me to pause and think about the sanctity and miracle of life. I know I can change my future. This year, I'm going to act like it.

And best of all, I've ushered in enough new years to know that I will most assuredly fail this year. But that doesn't matter; as long as I keep moving forward. Every day can be a new start. 

Here's to becoming my best self in the best year ever.

...So far. 

Night Watch

Men and women are just plain wired differently. I love this about us. Some women think we should be equals.

Not me. 

I like how we're programmed for different tasks. It's better off this way.

Allow me to illustrate with the, "Who's Turn Is It To Wake Up?" routine we've been doing almost every night for the past eleven plus years.

The baby (whomever it is at the time) wakes up and needs to be rescued from the crib.

Mickey brings the baby to me for a feeding, and goes back to sleep.

The toddler bursts into our room just one hour after we've fallen asleep, shivering from fright, and needs to be cuddled. I pull that toddler into bed beside me and whisper confident reassurances.

Mickey takes note, and goes back to sleep.

The five-year-old is done sleeping for the night by 4:30 am. I awaken with Sweet Girl (read: Dream Thief), treat her like she's the best thing I've seen all day (instead of like the only thing I've seen all day), make her breakfast, and watch cartoons with her.

Mickey misses this entirely.

But when there is a small scratching on the window, whether it's an intruder or a branch scraping the pane, Mickey is instantly awake, patrolling the house with a firearm and double checking all windows and doors.

I sleep through all of this. In fact, I would never know he was up at all, except for his groggy walk and droopy eyes the next morning. They always tip me off. And then I just feel guilty. I mean, what kind of "partner" snores through a life-and-death situation?


This girl.


This is our unwritten agreement. We've never discussed the terms, talked through the division of the tasks, or held a meeting to work out the details. We just inherently know our individual part. (Incidentally, we dance like this, too. He leads, I follow, we have no planned routine, we laugh at each other's antics, and the judges give us fourth place out of three hundred and fifty couples. It's how we keep our marriage exciting and fresh, I guess.)

I had no idea how oblivious I was to all of this until Mickey went away on a business trip. We were living in Baltimore at the time, and I awakened to a loud noise. Since all the children were sleeping in my room, it made no sense for me to leave them and go to investigate.

Also, I was waaaay too scared to do that.

So I just tiptoed over to the closet, pulled out my shotgun, slid the chamber open and closed, open and closed several times, walked over to my top drawer to retrieve my bullet, and then sat on our bed, crossed legged, staring at the bedroom door, gun at the ready.

(On a side note, Mickey's wiring has helped me fine tune this defense tactic. Now, if I have to dispose of an intruder in the middle of the night, I can use a suppressed firearm with a laser and night vision. He has a point: there's no need to wake up the children with all that noise. Who wants to be cleaning up blood and coaxing the children to go back to bed? That would just be a nightmare.)

Another time when Mickey was away, I awakened in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, but I had to hold it until dawn because there was a strange blue light coming through that little crack under the door, and I was terrified that aliens or some such thing were waiting in ambush should I open my bedroom door in attempt to discover the source of the eerie glow. Instead, I pulled the gun out of the safe, strained to hear any noises, prayed my dogs were alive, counted the heads of my sleeping children, and texted my husband so he would know where to start the search should he come home to find his family missing.

If we get technical about it all, my night watch is more frequent than his, but I'm okay with it because I'd rather address a crying baby than an armed thief--any day or night.

Every so often, we put into play another unwritten maneuver. If I have had several sleepless nights in a row, I become so tired that I will sleep through everything--even the crying baby. I stay in the same position all night, and when morning comes, I'm refreshed and ready to assume my night watch again. Also, I give Mickey a nap this day.

One night last week, I awakened refreshed, and oddly, Mickey was, too. I was wondering aloud that everyone slept through the night when he cleared his throat to cut me off. He explained that our sons had come to our room in the middle of the night, afraid because they had heard loud, suspicious noises.

Mickey retrieved his Glock 27 from the safe in his night stand and then talked through the search plan with the boys. (He actually might have done all of this with hand signals; I'm not sure.) Then, they proceeded to do a search of the entire premises, Mickey at the front, boys "watching his six" and making sure the bad guys didn't double back.

I picture Mickey wearing his pajamas, rocking his bed head, his Glock at perfect aim, peering around corners, and trusting that our bare-chested, young sons have got his back. I see the bathroom door flying open from a well-positioned kick, the boys running in from behind, and giving the "Clear!" call. Mickey then wordlessly points to his eyes, uses one finger to point at the eldest, two fingers to point at the second son, then gives a quick double-wave, stiff fingered motion before they all move on to the next room. I'm also betting the boys were suppressing war whoops while Mickey wore a smirk.

But since I was sleeping, I can't be sure how it all went down, and I can't criticize his fathering style. He's very good about snatching up those spontaneous teaching moments. He's also a brilliant strategist to let me sleep while he's training his heirs on the intricacies of a thorough manhunt.

However, I think I'll sleep even better if I buy my boys those bullet-proof vests I've had my eye on since two Christmases past and make them all sleep in black pajamas and ski masks.

Also, I'm starting to wonder if my dream last night about a S.W.A.T. team on the roof wasn't really a dream after all....

In the Moment

It's just about lunch time. The four loaves of whole wheat bread I made fill the air with their warm, hearty goodness. My seven-year-old wants a piece now, but concedes to wait until the bread isn't too hot. My five-year-old passes the minutes until lunch by looking at the bread, her eyes just clearing the top of the counter. She exclaims her awe over the beauty of the deliciousness.

My eleven-year-old is sneezing on the couch, worrying that his allergic, red eyes make him look silly. He wears sunglasses to abate the embarrassment and plucks out "Pirates of the Caribbean" on his guitar. My baby is dancing to his music, stealing his sunglasses, and stomping to the beat that she feels deep in her soul.

She toddles in to me, tripping over the big, pink sneakers she's been wearing all morning. She has her own shoes, but her sister's are infinitely more desirable. Her tummy is full, since she just snacked on leftover waffles and shared them with her beloved doggie. She whimpers for me to hold her, and when she refuses a drink, I can tell it's time for her nap.

I lie down with her and sing her lullabies. Today we are only interrupted three times. My five-year-old is tattling on my three-year-old, who has put sparkly smiley stickers all over the back of the piano. She agrees to help in the removal process, and to whisper and tiptoe if she needs to come back in. Her hair is wild and gorgeous, a fitting top to her carefree, fun-loving soul.

My seven-year-old wants to make homemade juice pops. This is his biggest dream. I don't have molds for that. I have to get creative and solve this problem. I'm grateful his wish is one that I can make come true. Someday I won't have the answer. But for today, I am enough. And that feels good.

My husband calls. He needs to hear my voice. That makes me tear up. His voice encourages, soothes, grunts understanding, expresses love. Clinic is over in just one hour. I can't wait to be held in the arms that belong to his voice.

While I type, I beg my three-year-old to brush my hair. She tugs out the hair band, and then goes to get her purple comb. While she combs, her narration is continuous. Her voice is sweetly scratchy, and I listen to her thoughts. She starts with the things that matter most, and then moves to the extras.

"Mom, Jesus died on the cross. But now He's resurrected. I have my purple comb. You have a lot of hair." Her comb gets stuck in the gnarly mass; she leaves it and runs outside to play in the sunshine.

Is this one of the reasons we should be more like children? They know the fundamentals and place them first, filling in the gaps with the things they love the best, moving along at a pace that is great for them--regardless of anyone else in their world.

How do I adequately express my love for my family? Do they know how much I love them? Have I told them enough today? They fill my heart with what matters most.

I have to record these seemingly insignificant, precious moments that fill my life. They will expire too soon, like that quart of spinach artichoke dip in my refrigerator that I keep forgetting about.

God is so very, very good to me.

Happy Father's Day

There was a baby boy. He was gorgeous. Mom and Dad thought he was perfect. They couldn't kiss him enough, hold him close enough, sing to him sweetly enough. This baby was loved.

He grew to be a toddler. He was still gorgeous, but mischief began to gleam in his beautiful baby eyes. He didn't want to eat his vegetables. He emptied all the folded clothes out of drawers. He colored on walls. He fell and skinned his knees. Mom and Dad thought it was a good thing he was so cute.

He kept growing. He discovered the world was his to conquer. As his intellect and talent grew, so did his capacity to make a difference in his world. He found confidence in a job done right, humility in the gift of a second chance, and love in the serving hands that ministered to him.

He could be anything he wanted. Nothing could stop him. Any dream was his for the taking. His hands, when guided by God, could shape destinies and affect change in the future of the world. The magnitude of his potential was incalculable.

He thought long and hard about what he wanted the most. He turned down admiration, applause, and affectation to follow his greatest dream and fulfill the supreme grandeur of his divine creation.

He became a father.

Race of a Lifetime

I received an email from my angel mother today. So did ten other people.

She was feeling sad. Her baby has just graduated from the sixth grade. Do you know what that means?

For "thirty-two consecutive years" my mother has had a child (usually several children) in elementary school.

Thirty-two years!!! Think of it! I'm sure--even with my wild imagination--I don't fully comprehend the long race that represents.

Nightly reading packets to sign, class parties, multiplication memorization, state reports, class plays with poor sound systems, morning rush to the bus, book reports, sack lunches with heart felt notes written on napkins, clean clothes and well-coifed hair before 7 am, after school snacks, states and capitals, parent-teacher conferences, Hope of America, lost library books, teacher appreciation week, spelling lists, geography bees, art projects, forgotten books and lunches. . .

Years upon years of hurdle after hurdle, one foot in front of the other, one step at a time.


And when she finished the race, there were no camera crews, no medals, no cash prizes.

Just eleven children in the stand, cheering, applauding, praising her blessed, blessed name.

For those eleven children, her thirty-two years made ALL the difference.

Her efforts, sacrifice, tears, and love that went into those many, many. . .many sleep deprived years will go largely unheralded by the world.

But isn't that the way of it for angels?

He's turned them all.

Don't get me wrong. I want to be a mother. The pursuit of raising our children to be happy, well-adjusted, intelligent, contributing adults is my life's labor.

Usually my husband backs me up on this. But sometimes, I feel as if Mom's training takes us one step forward and Dad's influence takes us two steps back.

For example, the other night, dinner began with me quizzing the children on the mnemonic devices for the Great Lakes and the planets in our solar system. We quickly digressed.

Faster than you can say "Brains!", our topics went from Lake Huron, to Pluto the un-planet, to the fog on the road today, to the perfect weather conditions for a zombie apocalypse.

"I hope the zombies don't come out," our seven-year-old son said in a grave, somber voice. He had experienced the low and quick-moving fog first hand, and I guess this translated to the inevitable zombie onslaught.

Dad admitted that it would indeed be bad if zombies came out, but snatching up the teaching moment, he assured our young brood with the plain facts.

"With zombies," he explained, "it all comes down to ammo. You have to have enough ammo to hold off the zombie hoard." And with a smirk on his face, he added, "We could hold off the zombie hoard for quite some time."

Oh, good, I thought. Since that's resolved, let's talk about my blooming dahlias.

Our seven-year-old then revealed his zombie slaying protocol. "I would just dress up like a zombie, pretend to be one of them, and then ambush them from behind."

"That would work. . .as long as they don't smell you," Dad pointed out.

Our oldest quickly offered the solution. "Just use zombie oderant."

Wanting to be part of the happy conversation, our five-year-old daughter announced, "You have to eat your bacon, Gilbert."

Poor dear, I thought. She just wants to have a voice. I'm with her. Let's talk about bacon.

Our oldest revealed his tactic. "I would use my bow and arrow."

Dad encouraged, "A bow and arrow is actually a great choice, because you can reuse an arrow to kill more zombies."

Our oldest daughter tried again, "Who wants to camp like a zombie?" But her question fell on deaf ears.

Then our seven-year-old son suggested another plan. "We should use our MAC 10."

"Well, if we did that," clarified Dad, "we wouldn't have it on fully automatic, because that would waste ammo."

Well, let's use some of it and just shoot me now. 

Our daughter offered the final question, "Who wants to eat some Freddy?" At which, my young family joined in a rousing chorus of, "All we want to do is eat your brains!" My toddler and infant daughters laughed heartily at the joy of it all.

My first mistake was trying to raise intellects. I should've seen this coming. Smart brains are infinitely more nutritious and delicious than dumb brains.

So they say. I wouldn't know. I haven't been turned yet.

You want proof my brain is still intact? Just ask me the names of the Great Lakes.

Dinner on the High Seas

I guess I'll just have to level with myself and admit that I occasionally overestimate our dining manners.

The Vista Dining Room on the ms Westerdam is gorgeous: a sweeping spiral staircase stands in the middle of the room, gracefully joining both the upper and lower levels. Leather-seated chairs with a rich brocade back circle each table. Glimmering dishes, goblets, and silverware are perfectly poised atop their gleaming, white table linens. Each tower of plates has an artfully folded cloth napkin which changes shape every night.

The service is just as luxurious. A long row of hosts lines the entrance of the room, and each one bows to you in welcome. One leads you to your table and ushers you to your personal dining steward, who seats you, places your napkin in your lap, asks what you will be drinking, and sets tonight's menu in your unsuspecting, yet ready, hands.

I'm a mother with five children aged ten and under. I never eat my meal when it's hot. I serve everyone else first. My shirt doubles as a napkin. So do my pants. And my face. We use plastic, colored table wear with mismatched utensils whose prongs are frayed and poking out at the perfect angles to rip up your tongue. Dinner conversation is mostly me trying to convince everyone that your left hand goes in your lap, and you hold your fork like this; you really love this meal, so stop complaining; we don't throw our vegetables on the floor, or on our brother's plate, or on our father's face; cookies are for finishers; I'm not offering my lap as an alternative to your chair tonight; for heaven's sake, will everyone please stop humming!

What I 'm trying relate is, we were a mite out of our league.

But blinded by the pomp of the circumstance, I did not tell this to our steward, Alvin. I should have stopped the procession with a confession about the menu, dinnerware, and state of the diners that we are accustomed to in our Nelson Dining Room, and accepted my defeat by retreating to the buffet line on the Lido deck. But intoxicated by the celebrity of it all, I kept mum and tried my best to act the part.

And heaven bless us, we did our best, but the odds were against us, and I fear we blew our cover.

Wednesday night at table 222 began in the usual way, with my three-year-old daughter pulling the bread basket over to her, insisting on buttering her own piece with three tablespoons of butter, deciding that was gross, throwing it onto her big brother's plate, and finishing her nightly ritual by ripping out the centers of four pieces of artisan bread whilst splaying crumbs everywhere.

Alvin didn't flinch. This was night five, and he was used to her by now. He brought over a silver tool, and with three quick flicks of his wrist, he successfully gathered every bread crumb before he placed her appetizer in front of her.

This left me to enjoy my four course meal in a crumb-free environment, but by course two, I could sense we were going downhill faster than usual.

The girls were whining and thrashing around in excess, and after a closer inspection, I was sure they had contracted a nasty case of conjunctivitis. What could I do but put on a brave face, eat my meal with a whirlwind of knife and fork, and pray that we could get out of there before we spread it any further?

On edge, my eyes darted about the diners at our table, trying to channel my Spidey Senses and catch any infractions before we were caught and arrested for impersonating royalty. When the girls finally settled into their entrees and their whining stopped, I decided I could relax a little.

But by the end of course three, it happened.

My mother, who was sitting across the table from me, motioned to me with a panicked look on her face. I followed her gestures to see my oldest daughter, with a handful of table cloth in each hand, fiercely rubbing her itchy eyes, which were now spewing forth copious amounts of yellow eye matter at an alarming rate.

I leaned over to my husband and in a deliberate whisper I told him what was going on. I was careful not to move my lips so that if other diners were watching (they were always watching!), they wouldn't have any idea that we were living the movie Outbreak.


Scraping together all the parenting wisdom and experience we could muster, we decided that when dessert came, one of us would nonchalantly drip chocolate sauce over the table cloth in a large, glaring arc so as to ensure it would be laundered before the later diners of table 222 came to replace us. For extra measure, we decided one would use chocolate sauce, and one would use strawberry sauce.

We didn't have to enact that charade though. The children beat us to it.

By the end of dessert, one son had dripped his dessert sauce everywhere, the other son had spilled ten ounces of apple juice down the middle of the table, and the youngest daughter had dripped cream all over her dining area.

When I pushed away from the table and stood to leave, it was all I could do to not run from the crime scene. With hot tears stinging my eyes, I had to admit to myself that I was not a celebrity, and even worse, now I was sure that everyone in the Vista Dining Room knew that, too.

As penance for ruining a perfectly good table cloth, when I got to my room, I called room service and ordered a nice big slice of humble pie...sans linen.