And Now We Are Eleven

Because I would hate to forget how beat up delivery can make one!

Ada Gwen Allison

March 23, 2012 @ 1:41 PM

9 lbs., 12 oz.

21" long

Our tiebreaker is finally here. The girls are officially ahead.

And this little one is a real winner. Her birth was as pleasant as could be expected (which, for us, means natural and over quickly) and her siblings are deeply in love with her.

Not to mention her Papa and her Mama.

Her name is a slight variation on the biblical "Adah," dropping the "h" because of the inevitable "U-DAW?" we didn't want to hear every time someone read her name. Her middle name, Gwen, is Ethan's paternal grandmother's.

And this is how you explain her name to a 3-yr. old.

(3-yr. old): "Do we call her 'Chubby'?"

     (Me): "No, her name is 'Ada.' "

"Does that mean 'chubby'?"

     "No, it means 'ornament.' "

"Does that mean 'chubby'?"

     "No, it means 'decoration.' "

(3-yr. old, exasperated): "But does THAT mean 'chubby'?"

More pictures will be coming, which will no doubt confirm Jonathan's description of her. We are tired, we are happy, and we are blessed.

      
(And also, we are chubby.)

Taking the kids on an outing, or Why Even Bother

My brother Daniel is a mystery to me. Not a total mystery, mind you. I get his dry wit (usually), disdain of government, and general desire to avoid baby-sitting and cats.


But I don't get his love of congestion.


Recently I was waxing contentedly about where we live...mountains all around, countryside and farms everywhere, a quaint bustling downtown with local food and musicians.

He visibly shuddered. "Ewww," he replied, his teeth set on edge. "I KNOW! I hate going to visit you. The hills through every neighborhood! The boring fields after fields! Give me skyscrapers! Give me traffic! Give me box stores!"


If I didn't know better, I would have thought he was joking.


But he wasn't.


There are only two hours of travel that physically separate us.  But those two hours bring a change in terrain, a change in population, and a change in life's pace. All the things I hate and that make me stressed -- shopping, traffic, building after building after building -- he loves and finds beauty in.


Don't ask me how.


Ethan reminded me that Daniel is not, in fact, a thirty-something mother of eight. Rather, he is a twenty-something bachelor, and that probably figures heavily into the equation.

But I still feel like we're speaking different languages. What does he MEAN he likes traffic? What on earth does that even MEAN? Those words don't even make sense together!


This post is not for him.

We recently took a family outing. For years I've found wisdom in Edith Schaeffer's advice to seek the natural for a retreat. Get away from the buildings, the merchants, the reminders of man.


For our family, this works best. Being out in nature means many stresses are removed. If a kid has a runny nose and no tissue? Find a leaf. If a kid is fussy about not getting a turn with the play phone? Play with a leaf. And even if you can't find a leaf, there are no crowds to disdainfully watch the drama called "This Is Our Life" unfold.

I know there are those who enjoy museums and libraries and malls and galleries. I know there are those who take their children, and a good time is had by all.


I am not one of those.


Oh, I enjoy the library (sometimes), sans children. But I am a closet museum-hater (maybe too many field trips in my youth?) and never really got into the gallery scene. And the only good mall in my opinion is one with an Orange Julius near the entrance.


I do seem to be rather uncultured.

Still, a good outing does wonders for the family's morale. Just getting outside ... of the house, and of the normal ... can make coming home a restful, welcome thing. Leaving the chores and the chickens (but not the children!) for a quick retreat is a good reminder that we do more than share dirt and duties. And a good outing for us is usually defined by these things:

1. Can we take the dog? I guess this could also be called factoring to the lowest denominator. If we can take the dog, then surely the 2-yr. olds will be tolerated.
2. Can we get there in an hour or less? We do take more extended trips, but these are very very rare. For a day trip, an hour is about all we can handle. After that, kids are fussy, adults are tired of answering questions (or saying, "No more questions!"), and there is always the thought that we will have to make the return trip after trying to muster up enough energy to enjoy whatever it is we're there to do in the first place.
3. What'll we do about dinner? Sometimes it just works best to bite the bullet and hit the dollar menu. Or actually enjoy our food and hit a different haunt. I understand it's such a faux pas to admit that we do drive-thru, but I've already admitted to being uncultured. And the reality is that the hour it can take to prepare a lunch (even a simple one, like sandwiches and fruit) for ten people is sometimes more than can be handled in the middle of trying to make sure everyone is clothed, pottied, wearing the proper shoes, and has seen a hairbrush in the last week. I figure the money we save in not paying for parking or a membership to wherever can be safely allocated here. And then I don't worry about it. Or I do, and it takes us forever to pass out food in the van, the kids complain about whatever I've fixed, and we all end up hungry anyway. All I'm saying is it's best to just go with your gut (ha!). If I'm up for fixing something, fine. If not, fine. But be prepared for the stop for food, and don't get all bent out of shape about it. Just chew and don't think.
4. How much is the destination going to cost? Here, I am talking about the actual destination, not gas or drinks, etc. I know there are those who never go anywhere because of the cost of gas, but we've chosen not to let that stop us. It may shorten the trip, but if the alternative is staying home forever and going crazy, I'll pay for the gas. But here I am talking about the destination. Is there an individual/family/car fee? Because if there is, and it's hefty, we may want to skip it. At this stage in our family, we can't guarantee we'll last longer than fifteen minutes (especially at the types of places that require payment), and the money will have been wasted. On the other hand, the drive can still be pleasant. Even whining can be drowned out by Johnny Cash.
5. What about naptime? For some of our babies, this really didn't figure into the equation. If naptime came, I would sling them or stroll them (the ones who liked the stroller) and it was no biggie. However, there have been those children that make the entire outing miserable if it happens during their normal naptime. Both sets of twins have been notorious for this. So for them, we plan for the trip to be a shorter one and we adjust their naptime accordingly.
6. What do we have to do when we get home? Are there going to have to be baths, cleaning for company, etc.? Is tomorrow Sunday? Since Ethan is a pastor, we pretty much try to stay home Saturday afternoons. This gives me time to help children find clothes for Sunday, get Sunday's lunch semi-prepared, and do a general pick-up. The children can all have their baths, and Ethan can spend solid time in sermon preparation.

So that's our informal checklist. As with most things that I've written, I'm not sure what the point of it is, except to clarify in my own mind that, "Hey! This IS what works for us, and that's OK!" I'm not saying it should work for anyone else, but if it does, you're not alone.

And if it doesn't?

You're not alone, either.

There's always Daniel.

"The heart of man plans his way,

but the LORD establishes his steps" (Prov. 16:9, ESV).

Being mother to a large family comes with its share of paradoxes. There is joy in the exasperation, love in the frustration, and wealth in the empty wallets. There are nights when you sit, shell-shocked, in front of "Frasier" on Netflix and wonder, "How are we going to survive all these children?" or even "How are all these children going to survive us?" and nights when tears are shooting out of your eyes in laughter over the day's antics. There are times when you wonder if it's even worth it to make that trip to buy milk/cheese/meat/lip shimmer if it means loading everyone into the van, and times when the only remedy to the chaos in this house is to load everyone up and get the heck out of Dodge for a spell.

There are times when it's all you can do not to smack the mother in the organic baby aisle extolling the virtues of jars of pronounceable ingredients as her chubby cherub looks innocently from his spot in the Ergo carrier.

It's not that she's doing anything wrong. It's just that she's skinny and pretty and doesn't have varicose veins and can afford trendiness and doesn't have seven other children touching everything on the shelf and picking their noses and squirming to go potty and complaining that she never lets them get anything and why couldn't they just stay home.

I love my lot in life. I didn't set goals or plan towards having a large family. I did, as a little girl, say I wanted a dozen children but that was before I got married and therefore gets lumped in with saying I wanted to be a jockey and an actress when I grew up. We didn't examine our bank account and then plot children on a graph of years to come. We simply loved, and from that love came one child, and then two, and then four, and then five, and then six, and then eight.

This is math at its finest.

I hear newlyweds discussing their family plans...how many years they are planning to wait, how many debts they are planning to pay off before dealing with children. I hear parents instructing their grown offspring in the virtues of having this-that-and-the-other completed before dealing with children.

I hear it. Sort of.

Mostly I hear my mother's premarital advice: "Get married and stay married!" and her prenatal advice: "You're afraid you won't have enough love? That's how love works! It multiplies with each recipient, not divides!"

And she's so right.

And daily I fail at this trial called motherhood. Daily I scold and sigh and sometimes even cry. But even in the midst of the mayhem, I know I am severely blessed.  I know all of this does more than define me. It refines me, and it's not all by fire.

Some of it's by diaper changes and math corrections and grammar lessons and room cleanings and piano practice and sheet changings and cat vomit and the 3-yr. old watching "The Waltons" and then asking, "Is that WHISKEY?" when he sees you and your husband chugging down a root beer. Some of it's by sweet cards to Mama and Pupu and the sway of 2-yr. old hips to a Sesame Street/Feist video and children listening closely enough to a sermon to quote portions of it verbatim on the way home.

I'm glad we were thrust into this craziness. I don't think, had I been given full disclosure, I would have chosen this path. And that would have been my mistake.

I can't imagine a way in which priorities would have been forced more clearly than they are now. Life in a large family is fast-paced. There's always the next meal to prepare, the next load of laundry to change over, and the next room to clean. There is not the luxury of deliberating over non-issues. Only the important things earn time. You learn that for this family the popular magazine mommy debates are moot and not even entertaining.

I can't imagine a way in which I would have been forced more often or more brokenly to the cross and the empty tomb.

I'm not sure what my point here is, except to say that we didn't purpose to be a large family but we are and that is a blessing not to be taken lightly. We aren't here because we know what we're doing. We aren't here because we do more things right than others. In fact, we may be here because we do more wrong. But we are here, and it is good. It is right, and I am sure of this.

Our children have been entrusted to us. Sometimes it's so easy and convenient to forget that there are souls involved and not just smart-mouths. Sometimes it's so easy and convenient to forget that there is a God involved. If all I had to do was ensure that they reached the age of eighteen with few broken bones and a full belly...

I'm not sure I could do even that.

And I know this soul-growing business is not mine. It is God's, and I have to get myself out of the way. I am to love on them and pray for them and read the Bible to them and apologize and correct and thank the Lord always.

And then? We can garden, or not; we can travel, or not; we can host a family movie night, or not.

For more photos of everyday life, visit

Beauty is only skin deep

We may have a tie for first place for favorite Valentine card in this ridiculous family of mine.


Also in the running is one of Lily's early Valentines.


But certainly first place for this year goes to Abraham (6).


Karen is one of the longsuffering ladies in our church (read: Sunday School teacher to 2- and 3-yr. olds and head baby-sitter for 25 children 10 and under during their mothers' book study). She recently had the children decorate Valentines for their craft during the book study.


At the end of the craft, Abraham handed her a Valentine and announced it was for her.


She looked at the front.

("Mrs. Jones")

Then she opened it.

Being an expert at decoding, she read slowly, "Appears to be deeper than the skin of his."


She stopped. "Abraham?" she asked. "Is this something you copied for me?"


"Yes!" he answered. "From the Bible!"


"Show me," she said.


He grabbed a pew Bible and turned until he found the right page. "Right here!" he pointed.


And then she found the source of her Valentine text.

Leviticus 13:3

New King James Version (NKJV)

³ The priest shall examine the sore on the skin of the body; and if the hair on the sore has turned white, and the sore appears to be deeper than the skin of his body, it is a leprous sore. Then the priest shall examine him, and pronounce him unclean.

In all of her years of teaching (and there have been many, many Valentines in those years), this is the


Very


First


Leprosy Valentine 


she has ever received.


EVER.

...And Many More...

I do believe I may have waxed, eloquently or otherwise, about Two being a better age than One.


I should know better.


I guess, like birth pains, the pain of having twin two-year olds is easily forgotten.


I just don't know how.


February 2nd was Groundhog Day. I guess. In our house, that little fact is totally eclipsed by a certain second set of twins having a birthday.

We grilled. We baked. We partied. I fought my usual losing battle with my camera, trying to take indoor pictures at night. We congratulated ourselves for moving them over into the big boys' and big girls' rooms (and out of cribs) successfully before their second birthday. 


And a few days later, I was calling my mother trying to sell them off.


It all started when Jonathan flushed a stink bug down the toilet. The next thing I knew, Gideon and Salem were finding flies and other insect carcasses under baseboard heaters and heavy furniture and wedged in window casings. Their subsequent multitudinous flushings necessitated my leaving the kitchen to fix the toilet.


I should have remembered this chain of events from when Abraham and Miriam were 2. Fix one mess, return to place of origin to discover new mess.


When I returned to the kitchen, I found Gideon and Salem had peeled the labels off the tomato cans. Gideon had his cup stuck in the automatic water dispenser on the front of the fridge (so water was constantly running in a so-fun fountain onto the unfinished wood floor), and Salem had the top off the vinegar bottle.


My mother wouldn't take them.


In all honesty (and all of this has been honest), these two bring us constant laughter. Exasperated laughter, sometimes, but still.


Gideon has this shock of curly hair that I just love. It's funny, this wee bit of his Grandpa Allison that shows up in this house. He has expressive eyebrows and an uncanny sense of rhythm. Like King Saul, he's soothed by music. We're keeping our eyes out for some bongos for this one.


And Salem. Oh, Salem. I've never met a more condescending two-year old. She has the expressions and mannerisms of a forty-year old. Even Miriam wasn't this patronizing. And she loves to sing. She sings to The Head and the Heart, and Gideon dances and beats on the couch.


I am remembering all the other things that happen when you have (or when we have, at least) twin 2-yr. olds. The crayons and markers get thrown out or locked up (by the parents!). Any cups with drinks still in them are hastily poured down the owners' throats before they get discovered by those who have newly learned the joy of moving a chair to get things that are higher than they can normally reach. Toothbrushes are hidden. Silverware is regularly counted, and when it goes missing, floor vents are checked.


Nothing is safe.


Cue the "Jaws" music. And cue The Head and the Heart. I am lost in my mind, and I have no hope of recovery.

(There is a video embedded in this post. Email subscribers may have to click over.)

Three-Layer Corn Bread

Sorry, Dad. This is an incredibly boring post. I am only posting this because tonight's corn bread was a huge hit with the kids, and it was a heavily tweaked recipe in a library book. I can't post my notes in the book, and I don't want to forget what I did. I think Gideon had about 20 pieces.


Three-Layer Corn Bread


1 c. cornmeal (I used coarsely ground)
1 c. whole wheat flour (prairie gold is what I had; it worked great)
1/4 c. mixed grain cereal (but will just use oats when I run out of mixed grain)
2 tsp. baking powder
1 tsp. salt
2 eggs
1/2 c. honey or molasses (I used maple syrup)
1/4 c. oil or melted butter
3 c. milk or buttermilk


Mix dry; mix wet; mix together. Pour batter into greased 9x9. 350* for 50 minutes or until springs back lightly when touched.


It forms 3 layers. The middle layer is sort of custardy. This was a huge, huge hit with everyone. We started out with honey drizzled on top (heavenly), but laziness won over and we ended up eating it straight. The original recipe calls for white flour and bran, but I used what we had (all wheat, mixed grain cereal, etc.) and it was delicious nonetheless.


I doubled the recipe. Good thing.

Number Five Is Five

Her name ... Eden Quinn Mable ...

means "delight, fifth, lovable."





It's a mouthful.


But nothing like what I usually am yelling: "EDEN QUINN MABLE-LIKE-TABLE!" because when my grandmother was telling people how to spell her name, she would say, "It's Mable, like table."


And out of all of our children, this one really does seem to embody the idea of delight and pleasure. I don't mean she is any more delightful than any of the other angelic beings (somewhat, ahem, fallen) that call her "Sister." I mean she finds delight everywhere. She has this infectious, throaty, lusty laugh that wrinkles her newly freckled nose and gets her eyes to sparkling.


Following on the heels of a set of twins (19 mos. after), and the fifth child to boot, she never lost time in paving her own way. And now she's five. Look out, world. (And look out, Mama, because Five is somehow the Official Age of No More Naps in this house.)


What she hates: cleaning, organizing, tidying, neatening, straightening.


Sort of a lot like a certain oldest sister of hers.

What she loves: chuckling, giggling, guffawing, snuggling, looking straight into your eyes and saying, "OK. [Deep breath.] Let me tell you what happened. [Deep breath.]" before launching into an involved explanation of why her best attempts at the aforementioned cleaning, organizing, tidying, neatening, straightening resulted in more toys out and more doll clothes strewn everywhere.

She is a fierce hugger. I worry for the elderly in our church who are the recipients of her love. "Brace yourself!" I wince as I see her headed their way with outstretched arms.


But I never see them wince.


I see them smile, their noses wrinkling and eyes sparkling.


Eden, you are a good middle child. Right smack in the middle of everyone, you defy those that say the middle children get lost, unnoticed in the crowd.


You will never go unnoticed. You will never be lost.


You are a delight to Papa and to me. And, also, to a little more than a half-dozen other children who share our table and your jokes and also, sometimes, your chores.


Happy belated, Eedles Sweetles.