I'll Be Your Superman

    

Superman: I'm here to fight for truth, and justice, and the American way. 
Lois Lane: You're going to end up fighting every elected official in this country!  

        

     

I think the officials are safe. For tonight, anyway.

   

 

See? I told you they were quick

and now I have beautiful bullets.

   

I guess I really should get back to real life now.

   

Bummer.

  

 

I'm Not Computer-Savvy

and so I have no idea why suddenly I have � instead of bullets in my sidebar and at the bottom of the posts. But I have emailed support today, and they are usually pretty quick at responding and helping my clueless self out.
  
So if it's bugging you . . . I'm working on it!
  
  

Happy Birthday, Baby Sister

     

Nineteen years ago today, my baby sister took FOREVER being born. At least that was my fourteen-year old opinion. I KNEW she was going to be born because the night before, my parents and I had stayed late at the office and then Dad told Mom, "You can have that baby now" and then later that night (early the next morning?) woke me to steal my bed for Mom (they had a birth-unfriendly waterbed). Even so, I opted to find a ride to church (it was Sunday) and then went to a friend's house for the day. When I came home, there was still no baby. It was in the middle of "Columbo" that I heard her cry.

   

She was big, beautiful, and bald. The midwives gave her a teeny pink shirt that said, "Born at Home." Someone called the next day to congratulate Mom and must have asked her what they named the baby and Mom must have been exhausted, because she answered, "Jezebel" and I shouted, "REBECCA!" and Mom giggled and said, "Oh, Rebecca."

   

For a while, the spelling of Becca's name was a mystery to Mom (whose spelling has always been a humorous mystery to the rest of us). She used to say, "Like in the Bible," until one of us all-knowing ones pointed out that the Bible spells it R-E-B-E-K-A-H.

   

From the moment she was born (almost), she was MINE. Because I said so. I begged to be the one to bounce her and take her to the crying room at church. Once I learned how to drive, I took her everywhere. And then I had to leave for college, and I couldn't take her. I cried because I was going far away to college, and she cried because she was going to kindergarten.

   

But I would come home for holidays and summer vacation, and then I came home for good and got married and lived not very far away. We resumed a routine-of-sorts. Every couple of years, she would fix neurotic meals according to my cravings and play with whatever children I had while I waited for the morning sickness to subside. And then it would, and the kids and I would pick her up one day a week from high school and head to the donut shop and thrift stores to see what treasures we could unearth. On the way, we would discuss with disgust the mandatory "Woman of God" class (a misnomer for sure) that she took at the same "Christian" high school I attended. And the weekly chapels provided much fodder for mockery as we tried to make some sense of the heightened emotionalism and irreverent nonsense masquerading as spirituality.

    

But then she left for college. It was good and right and natural. And it was hard, made harder by the fact that my family was also moving many states away. This time, there were no guarantees of summer vacations or holidays. But that's the wonderful part of being flesh-and-blood: you don't need guarantees. Somehow, someway, it will happen. There WILL be a "next time." And no matter where she is or where we are, I will always have her number and can call her at will. If the only reason I have for calling is to ask if she's near a computer so she can mapquest the middle of nowhere for me because that's where I'm driving and don't know where to turn, so be it.

    

It is odd for me to see her grow up. She has friends now that I don't know and whose older siblings are not my friends or even my acquaintances. She can do things I didn't teach her. She doesn't need me to fix her sippy cup or her hair or her toenails. She now influences my children in the ways I thought I influenced her. Unbeknownst to me, just a month ago, my three daughters were taking careful note as she lovingly and gently brushed my matted hair, me laying appreciatively on the couch after being totally wiped out by a shower. And now, they daily offer to brush my hair for me. And they surprise me with their gentleness, a trait that I know they learned from her and that neither they nor she learned from me.

    

While this is a bittersweet reminder of the transience of things, it is so much more sweet than bitter. What a comfort to know that God moves His world without my help! That my family here is well-cared for and others elsewhere are equally loved and cared for. That even when we don't bash the weekly chapel, our thoughts about God's Word and modern trends are strikingly similar.

  

I love watching you grow, Becca-boo -- seeing you flourish and find talents and sharpen your abilities. I love seeing your amazing photographs and watching you patiently put together a wooden boat with Benjamin and play princesses with the girls and laugh at "The Office." I love watching you rib our brother Daniel and watching my oldest son rib you. You are so much fun.

  

Happy Birthday, even if you did take your time coming. "Good things come to those who wait," I guess they say. And you are definitely a Good Thing.

    

photo: Rebecca pausing from photographing Elkhorn Ghost Town, taken by Ethan

     

 

We Are Not THAT Family

     (image credit at bottom of post)

I am not a bumper sticker person. I mean, occasionally I enjoy the rare well-worded, witty sticker humoring me on the back of a car at a red light; but for the most part, I avoid car decor that says more about us than "We vacationed in Maine" or "We know what Mako's Water Taxi is" (which means we have family in Homer, Alaska).

    

Even if it's a cause I firmly believe in or a group I whole-heartedly embrace, I shy away from accepting even a free sticker and conveniently lose it before it can be affixed to any bumpers.

   

Maybe it's because I'm too judgmental and I figure everyone else is, too. I immediately pigeonhole the driver of the bumper-stickered vehicle. For instance, in the above "guardian angel" example, the driver fits into the "irritating wishy-washy-watered-down-theology-if-any-at-all woman" category. (Because of course it's a woman. I mean, the sticker is pink, and who knows any guys that would publicize the word "angel" without referring to a Harley?) The more I look at the sticker, the more irritated I get. Why are Guardian and Angel capitalized? How are "guardian angels" different than regular angels? Angels have a flying speed limit? AARGGH! And if it's a long red light and then the light turns green and we happen to turn into the same shopping center and park right next to each other and I see her face, there is absolutely no way we will end up in the same checkout lane. The thought of having to watch her flip through inspirational women's magazines while she waits and then see her pull out her "What's Missing in Ch___ch? UR!" pen to sign her "God Answers Knee-Mail" check in her leather "Fireproof" checkbook . . . I don't think I could remain civil!!

   

See what I mean? Now, I don't personally know of anyone who owns this bumper sticker, so I'm not talking about anyone in particular, so this is not meant to offend YOU personally, but . . . if you happen to own this bumper sticker, you are probably offended. You are probably nothing like what I described (or you are exactly like what I described and are confused about why I would be annoyed).

  

And I don't want to be stereotyped like that. I don't want your presuppositions of what such-and-such a person is like to taint your notion of me. I don't want to enter into a conversation (or a checkout line) with you and have you distort whatever I'm doing or saying to fit your incorrectly constructed niche.

   

Which leads me to the point of this post (you wanna talk about rabbit-trails?).

   

A multitude of siblings has the same effect as a large-print bumper sticker.  Large families, especially ones where the children are not conveniently spaced so as to be mistaken for aunts or uncles or parents or baby-sitters, etc., are easy prey for pigeonholing. If you add in to the mix that you homeschool and the father is a pastor, well. You might as well just forgo all makeup, women's haircuts, and non-denim clothing. People instantly fit your family in with every other "religious" large family they can imagine. They avoid eye contact, so as not to catch your rampant fertility or be proselytized into renouncing seminaries and embracing the home church community.

    

Or the opposite happens. A "quiverfull," split-ended, jumpers-only, clip-on ties even to Walmart, home-churching, seminary-bashing, cloth-diapering-because-it's-godly, homemade-lip-balm-only-if-it's-not-tinted-and-your-lips-are-bleeding family makes a bee-line over to you to ask if you, too, make your own yogurt and grind your own wheat. And you want to say NO but have to say yes but OF COURSE qualify that by saying that you have been doing this since before half of your children were born and it's really more of a hobby than a conviction and really you DON'T think your wearing of capri pants has any kind of negative impact on the spread of the gospel and  the last four kids' names are "Oops," "Oops Again," "No Way" and "Are You Kidding Me" and, oh, yeah, MY HUSBAND'S A SEMINARY GRAD AND WE BELIEVE IN ORDINATION!!

   

That usually stops them cold.

       

All of this is to say, we've been pondering how to handle outings with our family, especially since another set of twins is on the way. It's not realistic nor healthy to expect that we will stay home all the time. We will not. None of us would survive that. So how do we plan to do family outings but avoid the inevitable spectacle?

   

It came to my husband and me in the van as waited for the crossing guard to drop her stop sign so we could continue. Like a ray of sunshine, it was.

   

We are going to have the children wear all of the same T-shirts. The same color, the same design.  My husband and I will wear matching blue polo shirts with "Mr. Ethan" embroidered on his and "Ms. Rachel" on mine. I know, I know, so far you're thinking we are not deviating too far from the conventional stereotype.

     

Here is where we swerve. Ready?

  

The children are each wearing a bright yellow T-shirt with a large black-outlined sun on it. Inside the sun are the words, "Sunshine Day Care."

   

See? In an instant, all comments about "Your own reality show," "Are these all yours?" and "Are you mormon? catholic? on fertility drugs? insane?" are OUT THE WINDOW. Gone. In a flash! If we can just teach the kids to walk single-file. . .  not talk incessantly about their latest Mystery of History lesson . . . occasionally pretend like they are happy to be together in public . . . and get the babies to use the codeword "bottle" when they want to nurse . . .  I think it could work!

   

***But just as insurance, I am getting a salon haircut (SHOCK!) tomorrow and my EYEBROWS waxed!***

   

image credit:

 

A Note to My Youngest Daughter

    

EDEN . . .

   

If someone says to you, "Boy, Edee, you sure look different with your haircut. I really LIKE that," the correct response is NOT to point to her head and say, "YOUR hair is sticking up. It looks funny."

  

Especially not when it's a nice lady from church.

   

Because you never know when a Nap may strike YOUR head.

     

           

 

Three Pictures

    
           

             
This first picture is from early July, when my parents and one of my brothers and one of my sisters came to visit (which is a topic for a whole other post). Edee decided to pal around with Grandpa at the Elkhorn Ghost Town. She also palled (is that the past of pal?) around with Grandpa at Murdock's Ranch Supply, where she loudly declared, "THAT'LL PRO'LLY FIT ME!!" about every. single. item. they passed. Grandpa hurried her to the children's section, where they found a pair of cowgirl boots that did indeed fit her. And a cowgirl hat. And boots and hats for all her older siblings. Whew!    
    
***********************
   
This next picture is a good example of what happens when you ask your husband to please take a picture of Edee's haircut so you can show your parents.
     

   
   

The man hustles. Right then, right there, toothbrush-in-mouth. That's what Edee's haircut looks like when she's brushing her teeth. (And we don't always match her hairbow to her pajamas. Or her sister's pajamas, which are what she happens to be wearing.)
     
***********************

   

This last picture takes a bit of explaining. Or in my case, explaining and re-explaining and re-explaining.
   
In June, we found out I was pregnant. I cried. Ethan was shocked and then his usual level-headed unshakeable self and consoled, "We're already outnumbered. What's one more?"
   
I cried more.
  
My parents and half of my siblings came to visit. I was bummed that my morning (ahem) sickness was greatly restricting our activities, but there was really no restricting the cuddles and silliness that the children shared with their grandparents and aunt and uncle. And that's all they really wanted.
  
My parents and brother left. My sister stayed on for another week.
  
The day after my parents left, we cleaned the house for a showing and then went to a park while the Realtor showed the house. I stayed in the van (sick) and then realized I was gushing blood. I called Ethan and said we needed to go home right away and I thought I was miscarrying.
  
My sister stayed with the kids while we went to the Emergency Room. We saw a nurse (not a doctor like we were told we would see). She did a pelvic exam, said, "Yes, that's a lot of blood. Yes, it's a miscarriage." When Ethan asked her if they could do a sonogram, she said, "No, it's too early. A sonogram wouldn't show anything. But you should be done miscarrying within a couple of days."
    
We went home, told the kids that the baby had died, and started googling "miscarriage" to see what to expect.
   
The first thing we discovered was that that nurse was either shockingly ignorant or a blatant liar. A sonogram is the first thing usually done in a suspected miscarriage, and the baby's heartbeat can be seen at six weeks. I was nine weeks along.
   
The next thing we discovered, after a few days of waiting, was that a lot of the "usual" things that happen with miscarriages were not happening with me. Suffice it to say, I was still sick as a dog with no cramping or other miscarriage signs.
   
After talking to a friend who urged me to find an OB and go there "just to know for sure," I talked it over with Ethan. I told him I thought I was coping very well with denial and maybe needed a break from the whole idea of being pregnant. He told me I wasn't being very realistic and was still ACTING very pregnant, and he hated denial. So I made an appointment with an OB and then became very excited at the thought of knowing FOR SURE.
   
The morning of the appointment, Ethan stayed home with the children and I drove into the doctor's office. On the way there, I kept praying, "Dear Lord, please let them do something TODAY to confirm either way, and please let me be satisfied with whatever result it is and know that it is for Your glory."
       
At the doctor's office, I explained that I wanted to confirm a miscarriage. I gave him the history, and he wheeled in a sonogram machine. He and his nurse set it up and turned the screen away from me and towards them. Then I heard him say, "Oh."
      
"Are you ready to see this?"
  
"I guess so," I answered.
  
Then he turned the screen towards me.
   
I was not ready.
   

      
   

Now sonograms ALWAYS look like hurricanes to me. I can NEVER see what you're supposed to see. So I looked at the screen and said, "I don't know what I'm looking at."
   
"Well," he said, pointing to that blobby looking thing on the left, "THAT is a perfectly healthy-looking, big, 12-week old baby . . ."
   
Then, pointing to that blobby looking thing on the right, "right next to a perfectly healthy-looking, big, 12-week old baby. Congratulations and congratulations!!"

  

For the second time in my life, I was stunned by a sonogram showing twins. The first time, I was stunned because I had no idea what was ahead. The second time, I was stunned because I had a good idea of what was ahead.
   
Oh, my.
  

The doctor was thrilled and then made idle talk as he waited for me to come to my senses. "You could have your own reality show!" he said. Reality show? Are you kidding me? We're not even going out in public together! We'll take separate vehicles to Walmart! We'll go to separate Walmarts!
   
Fortunately, shock was not the only emotion at the time. There is something so incredible about seeing two babies (once you've had them pointed out to you and have stopped trying to figure out their weather patterns) that I don't think you can help the joy. There was joy. Much joy!
          
When friends found out what had happened (mostly through our last church's e-newsletter), a common comment was, "Wow. What an emotional rollercoaster for you!"
  
Honestly? Not really.
  
I mean, before I found out I was pregnant, this is how I felt: OVERWHELMED.
After I found out I was pregnant, this is how I felt: OVERWHELMED.
When I thought I was miscarrying, this is how I felt: OVERWHELMED.
When I suspected I might not have miscarried, this is how I felt: OVERWHELMED.
When I found out I was carrying twins, this is how I felt: OVERWHELMED.
  
Rollercoaster? Not so much.
  
It wasn't the thought of eight 8 and under that knocked me flat. It was the thought of six 4 and under.
  
But in God's providence, Ethan has been preaching through Ecclesiastes. The Sunday before the miscarriage drama, we sang this song, and the refrain has been coursing through me ever since:
 

Whate’er my God ordains is right:
His holy will abideth;
I will be still whate’er He doth;
And follow where He guideth;
He is my God; though dark my road,
He holds me that I shall not fall:
Wherefore to Him I leave it all.

     

Whate’er my God ordains is right:
He never will deceive me;
He leads me by the proper path:
I know He will not leave me.
I take, content, what He hath sent;
His hand can turn my griefs away,
And patiently I wait His day.

       

Whate’er my God ordains is right:
His loving thought attends me;
No poison can be in the cup
That my Physician sends me.
My God is true; each morn anew
I’ll trust His grace unending,
My life to Him commending.

        

Whate’er my God ordains is right:
He is my Friend and Father;
He suffers naught to do me harm,
Though many storms may gather,
Now I may know both joy and woe,
Some day I shall see clearly
That He hath loved me dearly.

     

Whate’er my God ordains is right:
Though now this cup, in drinking,
May bitter seem to my faint heart,
I take it, all unshrinking.
My God is true; each morn anew
Sweet comfort yet shall fill my heart,
And pain and sorrow shall depart.

     

Whate’er my God ordains is right:
Here shall my stand be taken;
Though sorrow, need, or death be mine,
Yet I am not forsaken.
My Father’s care is round me there;
He holds me that I shall not fall:
And so to Him I leave it all.

          
*****************************
THE. END.
  
***Well, almost. The doctor believes the bleeding is due to a subchorionic hematoma, a relatively harmless condition that should resolve itself in a few weeks. We have a more thorough sonogram on Wednesday to find out more.