Pollyanna and Poppycock

One of Lily's (3) morning chores is to make Abraham's and Miriam's (2) beds. This morning she came skipping down the stairs singing, "Mommy, come look! Mommy, come look! I made Miriam's bed a SPECIAL way!"

"Just a minute!" I yelled and finished chopping the red pepper for tonight's salad. A long minute later (no wonder my kids' sense of time is so warped), after chopping the pepper, leaving a message for Mom on her voicemail, and washing up the breakfast dishes, I took my hands out of the dishwater, dried them on my pants, and headed up the stairs to see this newest masterpiece.  

A 3-yr. old's definition of "special" differs drastically from ...well ... mine, so I glanced in the room, gave what I hoped was a convincing "Wowww..." to Lily who was putting toothbrushes away in the bathroom, and turned to take the vacuum downstairs. 

Lily went into her room to re-gaze upon her work, but the shriek that followed let me know she was no longer in awe. "WHO MESSED IT UP? WHO MESSED IT UP?" she started yelling. "I DID A BOOTIFUL JOB, AND SOMEBODY MESSED IT UP! NOW I HAVE TO DO IT ALL OVER!!" 

I gave my best Haley Mills smile and said, "I'm sorry someone messed it up. I'm sure it was beautiful. But you can do it again. Think of it this way: now you have a chance to practice making it your special way. And you can do it a different special way, if you like! You can be glad that you get another chance to do something you're good at!" 

I smiled as I headed back down the stairs. And why shouldn't I? The salad for tonight was ready, my phone call made, the breakfast dishes done, the laundry hung... 

The laundry. I looked outside to re-gaze upon my work, and a snapped clothesline full of wet clothes lying in the grass is what met my eyes. "Ugggggh," I groaned as I slammed the vacuum down. Grabbing the laundry basket, I fiercely swung the door open and stomped out to face my chore with grit. Trying to stifle the rising anger, I attempted to go into automatic mode and just get the clothes into the basket. But with each grasshopper, spider, mosquito, and fly, not to mention (OK, yes to mention) the sweltering wet heat, I found myself getting angrier and angrier. And unlike Lily, I didn't even have anyone to blame, which was more frustrating. 

The closest I could come to a scapegoat was stinkin' Pollyanna. My own words echoed in my head: "You can do it again. Think of it this way: now you have a chance to practice drying them your special way. And you can do it a different special way, if you like! You can be glad that you get another chance to do something you're good at!"

Please. It's not like it's rocket science. It's drying the clothes, for crying out loud. There's no art to it. Practice won't make perfection, it merely makes another load dry -- if you're lucky, that is.  

Pollyanna can mind her own business and start shaking out some clothes. I don't need the Glad Game; I need to not have my day interrupted by wasted time. I'll see your Pollyanna and raise you an Erma Bombeck. 

But even as I mentally raged, I could see the futility of my anger. It wasn't getting any more clothes picked up, it wasn't bringing glory to God, and doggone it, it wasn't even making me feel any better. I grew (slightly) pensive. Ethan and I had been talking about having that heavenly perspective, that view that as believers, eternity has already started. What was this job doing for eternity? Well, absolutely nothing on its own. Having to gather the clothes to re-dry them is not going to mold the future into anything. Then what on earth good is it? It is even lower on the totem pole (to use a thoroughly syncretistic metaphor) than other daily drudgeries; because not only is it something that is just going to have to be done again (like washing dishes and making beds and changing diapers and brushing teeth), it is something that I had already done for this moment in time. I had already hung these clothes to dry! I should not have ever had to gather them to be re-dried! 

But even the phrasing of my question: What on earth good is it? led me to a revealing question. Who cares what good it is on earth? How could it be something good for heaven? The answers that I came up with were not profound or earth- (or heaven-) shaking, but they did give me cause for thought.

First, the very pondering of what possible good this was doing for heaven had already made me think more about heaven than I had this morning.

Second, it was a chance for practice. Not practice at gathering clothes, but practice at cheerfully doing the task set before me (and from the looks of it, I really do need the practice). 

Third, as with most unpleasant jobs, it gave me cause to reflect on the fact that heaven will not be like earth (amen!). Heaven will not have wasted time. The time there will be endless, but it will not by any means be wasteful or wasted. 

Fourth, I could rejoice that this was my worst problem of the day. This is almost reason to be giddy. Nobody's life is endangered, nobody's relationship is severed, nobody's family is compromised because I have to pick up wet clothes. 

Fifth, my Robes with a capital "R" are the kind that never ever ever have to be re-washed or re-dried. I can do NOTHING to dirty these clothes. No Spray-n-Wash or Oxi Clean or hydrogen peroxide will wash out the blood of the Lamb. And, ironically, His blood has made my Robes white.

Then one of the elders addressed me, saying, "Who are these, clothed in white robes, and from where have they come?" I said to him, "Sir, you know." And he said to me, "These are the ones coming out of the great tribulation. They have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.        "Therefore they are before the throne of God,    and serve him day and night in his temple;    and he who sits on the throne will shelter them with his presence. They shall hunger no more, neither thirst anymore;    the sun shall not strike them,    nor any scorching heat. For the Lamb in the midst of the throne will be their shepherd,    and he will guide them to springs of living water,    and God will wipe away every tear from their eyes."  (Rev. 7:13-17)

Fourth of July

I am always slightly irritated by the Fourth of July. I think a lot of it has to do with trying to find 1) something that makes it worth being out in the heat that 2) small children will enjoy but 3) without a long wait. We have a hate-hate relationship with humid heat. Ethan's Alaskan blood and my ... well, heat-induced crabbiness tend to embrace winter holidays but sprawl in the air conditioning during the summer ones. Fireworks are always iffy -- they start much later than my children's bedtime, and the majority of my kids spend the time with their hands over their ears saying, "Too loud! Too loud!" (violating limitation #2). Plus, the fireworks in this area are frankly rather puny (violating limitation #1), but to go where they are spectacular in the mountains involves a 1 1/2 hour drive (violating limitation #3). 

 

The past few years we've abandoned fireworks altogether and bought a package of firecrackers (and here in Virginia, you're pretty much just paying for birthday candles on steroids) and sparklers to do in the front yard. The kids have been duly impressed, but we were itchin' to do something a little different.

  

In order to ensure a perfect Fourth, we planned. Absolutely nothing. Well, we planned to plan, but somehow the Fourth came and we had ... no idea what we were doing with it (and to state the obvious, five kids in five years shows that we have never been strong in the planning department).

   

So when Ethan came downstairs yesterday morning and said, "What are we going to do?" I scrambled to think. The only thing I could come up with was a weak, "Ferry Farm is having a free thing today."

 

"Great! Let's go." FREE is one of our favorite words, but we understand that you sometimes get what you pay for. So I went into this with low expectations, thinking that it was only a 15-minute drive if things went haywire.

 

But I have to say that this was my favorite Fourth with kids so far. (My favorite Fourth sans kids was the year after we were married and we went to Seward, Alaska, and watched the fireworks over the water and then camped and watched the Mt. Marathon race and the mini-Mt. Marathon, but that is a rabbit [moose?] trail that I won't follow here.) SOMEBODY had done their planning, and the Ferry Farm activities were perfect! There were free cupcakes and crafts, demonstrations and games. Lily made a corn-husk doll with her squaw instructor while Benjamin and Abraham checked out the deer, fox, raccoon, and otter pelts a painted Indian was displaying. Benjamin made a beeswax candle, joining a circle of children who dipped their wicks rhythmically in a bucket of wax, then a bucket of water, then a bucket of wax, then a bucket of water, bending almost in time with the musician playing the penny whistle. At the crafts table, we made tri-corn hats for the boys out of construction paper, feathers, staples, and glue; and the girls wore mop caps made from coffee filters with ribbons laced through holes punched around the edge. There were all sorts of colonial games -- bocce, lawn bowling, burlap sack racing, toss the oh-so-colonial inflatable beach ball on the oh-so-colonial parachute, hoop-and-stick, bean bag toss, etc., etc., etc. They signed their names with a quill pen to the Declaration of Independence, and Benjamin practiced carrying a musket around. A gunsmith showed the boys how they used to make bullets (it must have improved your aim dramatically to have to make your own bullets!).

  

It was fantastic. We left, wandered around the newly-renovated mall (my favorite part is the huge family bathroom -- I can change diapers and have the olders use the restroom without having to work shifts!), and came home to prepare some red-and-blue treats.

  

And in a few minutes, I'm off to gather some corn husks from the field next door to whip up another doll to replace the one that is now guarding that family bathroom at the newly-renovated mall.

 

You Have a Great Memory

That's what a friend put in an email to me. Here, I'll copy and paste it so you know exactly what it looks like:

   

 (you have a great memory!)

  

She was saying this because I remembered the last name of some of their friends who will be visiting them in July. Of course I remembered it! The section of my brain that contains trivial, nonessential, inconsequential information is rather empty. There are only a few items in there, and I actually find it fun and gratifying to occasionally retrieve one of these items. You know, things like if you freeze an envelope you can open it without destroying it, Trader Joe's and Aldi's have the same owners, one bulky yarn is the same thickness as two worsted (thanks, Jamie!), and if you wet a penny and press it to your forehead for three seconds, it will stay there (I don't have a link for this but it's not too hard to test for yourself).

 

These facts are fun but relatively unimportant to my day-to-day life. Facts that ARE important are much, much harder to retrieve. Facts like

• whether I already put water in the espresso maker


• whether I ever took out the old coffee filter from when I used the large coffeepot two weeks ago


• whether I ever changed the wash over to the dryer


• whether I hit "Start" on the dishwasher before I went to bed


• whether all of my children have made it into the car before I pull away

  

Yes, this last would be the reason for this post. I did the stereotypical mom thing yesterday, and I am still in shock that I did it. We were at the weekly morning prayer meeting at a friend's house. She has four pre-teen girls who are great at watching/caring for my children during the meeting (apparently a little better than I am...). So afterwards, I loaded everyone into the van and then remembered I hadn't retrieved the drink cooler that I brought. As I was turning to get that, Lily said, legs crossed and bottom wiggling, "I have to go potty! Ooooh, I have to go potty!" So I told her to hurry and go back into their house while I got the cooler. I shut the van door as the A/C was running, got the cooler, opened the passenger's side front door, threw the cooler in, shut the door, and drove off.

  

As it was so close to lunchtime and I had nothing ready, I headed for the local McD's. We were almost to the drive-thru line when I said, "Lily, chicken or hamburger?" [SILENCE.] "LILY, CHICKEN OR HAMBURGER?!" [SILENCE]. "Ben, turn around and ask Lily whether she wants chicken or hamburger." Ben: "Lily, do you want...SHE'S NOT HERE!!!"

  

My heart stopped. Now, I have to be perfectly honest about this. My shock and heart stopping had nothing to do with guilt or fear. It had everything to do with total disbelief. I could not BELIEVE I had done that. I don't do things like that. I forget the sippy cups or an extra diaper or to have my husband put his church shoes on when camping; I don't forget children. Normal mothers forget children. Normal mothers think it's hysterical to tell of their horror upon leaving little Johnny or Christie, their racing back to get them, the sorrow and pain on their lost child's face... I am not normal. I don't DO things like this! And if I do, I certainly don't tell about them....

  

I am losing the battle from all sides. So we turned around, Benjamin laughing incredulously and blurting out through his snorts of laughter, "You LEFT her! You ACTUALLY LEFT her! That is so funny! Do you think she's scared? Do you think she's running through their woods trying to find us? This is so funny! I have to tell Papa! You ACTUALLY LEFT her!" Can it, kid.

 

When we got back to their house, my friend's children had to call her on her cell-phone, as she had already left to bring Lily home. So she turned around and came back, and I got out of our van sheepishly to get Lily.

  

Was she scared? Was she sad? Hardly. She was thrilled that she got to ride ALL BY HERSELF in a pristinely neat 12-passenger van. I don't think she's ever seen that much van floor in her entire life. Where were the sippy cups? Where were the popcorn pieces? Where were the Sunday School papers? Where were the camping supplies that you keep in the van at least two weeks after you've gone camping?

  

I just need to see that a few more times:

  

(you have a great memory!)

(you have a great memory!)

(you have a great memory!)

 

Just so I don't forget.

 

Camping

We did it. We completed the long-awaited first trip with our new camper.

  

The camper is not new, just new to us. We purchased it recently from some friends, and we have been anxiously awaiting our first trip in it.

  

So when Ethan was asked to preach as pulpit supply to a church in southern Maryland, we readily accepted. He has preached there several times before, and they are a very very warm and welcoming congregation. It is a beautiful area, and we have commented several times that it would be fun to camp there. As it is only an hour and a half away, we could easily abort ship camper if something horrific happened.

  

And then, in an incredibly generous gesture, a family from that congregation heard we wanted to camp and offered to get us into Solomons Navy Recreation Center (you have to be in the Navy -- or retired -- or in the Department of Defense to get in). We looked it up online and talked excitedly about all the amenities and splashing in the Patuxent River.

   

In true Allison fashion, we opted for making every decision as difficult as it could be. The morning we were to depart, Lily (3) came crying into our room. "I'm going to throw up!"

  

Ethan and I gave each other grimaced smiles. "Oh, honey, maybe you just have to go potty." "You got up too early." "Go lay down until you feel better." (This last was obviously Ethan. I would have said, "Go LIE down.")

  

Despite our efforts at ignoring her complaints and pretending she hadn't said anything, she did throw up. Three times. "Maybe she's just too tired." "Maybe she overdid it yesterday." "Maybe she'll be better once we get outside."

  

Then Abraham threw up.

  

That was it. I would stay home with the four youngest, and Benjamin and Ethan would go camping. I was, well, sad. I talked in a too-cheery voice to Benjamin, who was absolutely thrilled with the new arrangement and insisted on hugging me goodbye before the van was loaded, never mind the camper not being hooked up. The entire week of planning outfits and kitchen utensils and activities to do with the kids and finding swimsuits seemed wasted. I am terrible at hiding my emotions, so I don't even try anymore. "I don't want to talk about it!" I sniffled to Ethan.

   

Lily came crying up to me through gray lips, "Benjamin says he and Papa are going camping, and I have to stay here with you! I'm not sick! I feel better already!"

  

That was sad. Too sad. Against our better judgment, we decided to go anyway. What was the worst that could happen? If they were sick, I could just stay in the pop-up with them. (This shows an incredible naivete and refusal to deal with reality. The worst that could happen would have been an absolute nightmare in a pop-up.)

 

But God was merciful, even against our better judgment. We left a few hours later than planned and stopped at a Burger King for medicinal refreshments. (The way Ethan worded it was, "Do you feel like cleaning up Dr. Pepper throw-up or chocolate milk throw-up?" This had an obvious answer. If you're sick, you need the Dr., right?) The children slept on the way and woke up when we stopped to call our "sponsors" (the people who got us into the Rec. Center) for directions. We arrived at the campground and sat on a big blanket while Ethan unfolded and popped up the pop-up.

  

And the time there was wonderful. The kids ran and played and giggled and "swam" (if your belly-button is submersed, you're swimming) and ooohed and aaahed at the string of Pier 1 lights ($3 at the thrift store) we hung outside the camper and thanked us multiple times for "having this idea." Edee (almost 5 mos.) began a pacifier addiction, which was very convenient; and Miriam (2) had her first joke (arms folded, "Umm....Goodwill cheap. Hooray!" and clapping hands. OK, so it doesn't translate well, but I promise it's hysterical in person. Really. It has nothing to do with being her mother...). Abraham (2) sang various songs at the top of his lungs, all of which had the word "Hallelujah" (or "How-way-woo-wuh") in them. Benjamin (5) was the game organizer and kept his siblings occupied while making sure Edee still had her pacifier. Lily kept busy washing dishes and tables and pop-up step and anything else she could find.

  

It was absolutely beautiful. The water and the rocks and the trees and the sunset and the stars and everything just made for an incredible scene.

  

We woke early Sunday morning, gathered all the children, made sure all bows were in place and shoes were tied, and made it to church in enough time for Ethan to prepare to preach.

  

Unfortunately, we did not make it in enough time to go back to the campsite and trade Ethan's Teva's for preaching shoes. Fortunately, he was wearing black socks so it made it a little less obvious that he hadn't put his church shoes on after coming back from the camp showers in his Teva's. But as one churchmember told me, "I just thought he was getting a little earthy."

  

Ah, well. Somehow, trying to stifle my giggles at the vision of him behind the pulpit with his feet well hidden seemed to lighten the load of keeping five squirming children quiet during the service.

  

And then it was over. We stayed another night, packed up (oh, how quickly that can be typed and how S-L-O-W-L-Y it actually happens!), and headed for home. Bedtimes were early, and laundry was late.

  

And the sight of dirty fingernailed hands pudgily folded under sleeping sunkissed cheeks was delightful.

 

 

Summertime Drinks

Here are some drinks my family enjoys during the summer:

3-2-1 Lemonade
3 lemons
2 cups sugar
1 gallon water

   

Thinly slice lemons in the round. Add 2 cups of sugar and stir to coat. (We usually use the potato masher and mash it all; this brings out the flavor.) Wait 10 minutes. Add 1 gallon water and ice. Stir. This is a delicious, refreshing, and stinkin' easy lemonade. If you are going to be storing any leftovers (huh?), remove the lemon slices.

   

Mock Orange Julius
1/2 frozen concentrated orange juice carton (I literally cut the carton in half)
1 cup water
1 cup milk
splash of vanilla extract

  

Put all in blender and blend. If you want it extra frothy, add ice and blend. (Note: do not add ice if you will be putting this into sippy cups. The tiny ice chunks just plug the valve.)

   

Lime Rickey (or, as my husband insists on calling it, Rickey Martini)
Juice of 1/2-1 lime
1-1 1/2 oz. simple syrup (boil 1 c. sugar with 1 c. water; store in fridge)
6-8 oz. club soda

  

Stir lime juice and simple syrup together. Add club soda and ice. Stir gently. My mom likes to drink this and reminisce about her childhood in Boston.

  

Iced Tea
6 regular tea bags (or 8 decaf)
3/4 c.-1 c. sugar
1 gallon water

  

Bring tea bags and sugar to boil in pot with water. Add cold water to pitcher. Dump contents of pot into pitcher. Add enough water to fill gallon pitcher. Stir, add ice, stir.

  

Tea aficionados will tell you never to boil tea blah blah blah. But this is the way my family has always made it, and my mother is known for her iced tea at potluck (or, in my denomination, potprovidence ). Of course, my mother would never submit to the 3/4 c. sugar. It has to be a full cup.

  

We really don't reserve these drinks for the summer. But they definitely do cool you down and taste delicious and summery.

  

Happy Birthday, Dad!

My dad is one of those people that sticks out in a crowd. He is 6'4" with an open face, blue eyes, and quite the hoary head of righteousness.

  

On this day in 1951, as Grandma was giving birth to her only son (and Mozambique was becoming an overseas province of Portugal), I wonder if she had any inkling that his birth would make possible the births of my two brothers, who carry on the family name...and the births of my two sisters and me, who carry on the family grammar (don't even THINK about saying "irregardless" in front of one of my sisters!).

  

My dad is a lawyer, and I have never wondered why. He can defend ANYTHING (I almost said he can defend anything to death, but that just sounds morbid). He can defend the Westminster Confession and its specific phrasing. He can defend J. Gresham Machen's position on independent missions boards. He can defend his choice of bike, golf club, and furniture refinisher. He can defend well because he has thought things out well. I love disagreeing with him but hate debating him because I get tired before we're done. I like things for their intangible likeability; he likes them for their performance rating/history/impact on the future.

  

Which does have its merits. When Dad liked my boyfriend, I knew it was OK to marry him. Dad recognized the strength, dependability, humor, and godliness of Ethan; I just knew he was extremely likeable.

  

But my dad has other merits. He's a good woodworker. He makes a fine church elder. He loves to enjoy my mom. He enjoys my children. He has a contagious laugh. He can clap on one hand.

  

I'm glad that he sticks out in a crowd. It's kind of like having one of those antennae toppers to help you locate your car: he's easy to find, and there's a reassurance once he's spotted. Oh, good. Dad's here.

  

And Dad, when the only other event for June 11, 1951, on Google is "Mozambique becomes an overseas province of Portugal," you pretty much top the list.

 

Happy birthday!

 

Happy Birthday X 2

Yesterday was Abraham's and Miriam's birthday, and I am still scratching my head over the fact that they're 2. Sometimes it feels like they should be about 4, having taken FOREVER at each stage to move on to the next one. Sometimes it feels like they should be about 1, having taken FOREVER at each stage to move on to the next one. Sometimes it just feels like there definitely was not enough sleep in however many years there were.

We had a low-key birthday party, with grandparents and aunt and uncles and good friends that just moved back into the area. We ate outside -- cheapo pizza and iced tea (sweetened -- is there any other way?) and fresh lemonade. My mom made two cakes: the traditional my-side-of-the-family German Chocolate Upside-down Cake with a truck for Abraham, and a Daffodil Cake with pink cherry frosting, sprinkles, and colorful bangles and necklaces laced across the top for Miriam. Abraham succeeded at blowing out his candle and Miriam's.

Appropriate to their age, they each received two presents: Miriam -- a tea set and a horse flashlight that neighs; Abraham -- a large toy truck and a cow flashlight that moos. It was refreshing to watch them get a chance to thoroughly enjoy their gifts without being overloaded with presents.

Even though they are our 3rd and 4th children and we already had a boy and a girl, Abraham and Miriam brought a lot of firsts. They were the first set of twins anyone currently living on my side has had (somewhere way back there, a great-great-great something had twins and triplets; and Ethan's side has oodles of twins, but that's not supposed to matter...). They were my first C-section (and being a loud-mouthed natural childbirth advocate, I forced the attending obstetrician to do an ultrasound when I went into labor at 33 weeks to MAKE SURE there was no possibility of doing this without a C-section). They were the first children we've had to leave at the hospital. They were the first ones to be conveniently scheduled when they came home (oh, how I love NICU nurses!). They were the first babies for me to simultaneously nurse (my advice to anyone nursing twins: forget nursing modestly; just lock the dumb door and shut the curtains!).

I remember the disconnect I felt when I visited them for the first time in the NICU. I wasn't even allowed to hold them. Their combined weight was about the weight of EACH of my others. What would I do with something so small? I didn't even want to take their pictures because it was too depressing. Miriam weighed a full pound and a half less than Abraham, and Ethan's affectionate name for her was "Baby Squirrel." Once I was allowed to try to nurse them, she took to it instantly but Abraham showed no interest. We were convinced he was going to be 45 and taking pizza through a nose tube. But as we looked around and saw the other parents in the neonatal intensive care unit, we saw babies even smaller and in much worse condition. It was a striking thought that some of these babies were so premature that if they would have been in the womb, they could have been legally aborted. I am convinced that if we could somehow show these children to high-schoolers, it would drastically affect how they view "fetuses."

They have stayed true to their NICU personalities. When I first saw the nurse changing Miriam's diaper, she told me, "This sure is a FEISTY one!" and every subsequent nurse informed me of the same thing. She still holds her little opinions fiercely, and her pint-sized body has a stronger will than most. Abraham is your stereotypical guy: food is still his best friend (although he finally did give up the nose tube), and the sight of a GI Joe brings loud gutteral shouts and pudgy stompings.

When we finally were able to bring both of them home, Lily was about 18 months old. She had the same name for both of them, which was a very appropriate meshing of the two names: Mayhem. It has been constant mayhem since they arrived, and I love (almost!) every bit of it.