A Shower of Blessings

Yesterday, I hit a wall. Quite simply, I just felt like crud. My allergies were bad, while hot flashes, and a scratchy throat added to the uncomfortableness of my rotunda-ness. I had to prepare for leading my Women's Bible Study over the next two hours, despite my exhaustion and overwhelming desire to lay down. All of the voices inside my head were having a lovely pity party. The voices are familiar, and I know my weaknesses reveal themselves at about this week in my pregnancy. Knowing that it is not uncommon to hit that emotional and physical wall helps, but it doesn't remove the cruddy consuming feeling.

A couple of hours before Bible Study, I received a phone message from another leader stating that our study would be delayed a bit due to the church building being sprayed with insecticides. After an emergency order of pizza (I just couldn't do the grocery shopping that day), I headed into church. Feeling a bit better on a full stomach, I waddled into the building, praying that the smell of pesticides wouldn't knock me to the floor. A few deep breathes with my super sensitive prego nose, proved I was safe from sensory overload. I was surprised that I couldn't detect any chemical smells. Rounding the corner to meet the girls, my eyes quickly fell on the stacks of bags and pink tissue paper, along with all of the Women's Group surrounding an amazing spread of food. They all shouted a sweet, "Surprise!". I had been completely duped with the insecticide set up.


When you're on your fourth little one, you expect to have walked into the "Automatic Shower Exemption" zone. Especially when you were thrown a shower just less than two years ago, by the same group of ladies. I was completely surprised. After all of my preparation for the day, we never cracked open our books to review the week's lesson. Instead, I opened blessing after blessing for my little Hope. Some of them, homemade and knitted with love, works still in progress.

While I left the church that evening still feeling sluggish and yucky, my heart was at a full swell. And I was also entirely humbled. The Lord led me to this particular group of ladies four years ago. They have had such an immeasurable impact on my life. Rather than bringing me into an inner circle of my peers, He led me to a group of beautiful women beyond their childbearing years, with decades of God and womanhood under their belt. I have been soaking up their wisdom and experiences ever since. What a privilege it has been to grow and glean from the cream of His crop.

Ready Or Not?

For those of you who don't see me waddling around throughout the week, you may have wondered if my one week of silence meant the early arrival of Baby Hope. If that were true, it would have radically changed my position on global warming. True global warming might be the only thing that could successfully kick my cooker into microwave gear.

Most pregnant ladies have lovely convection ovens to bake their little buns. Some ladies, are lucky enough to have state of the art microwaves. I have been blessed with grandma's indestructable stainless steel slow cooker forever stuck on the "Low" setting. {{sigh}} You can't break me. You can't rush me. I don't even know how long the light would stay lit on my slow cooker without Pitocin.

The chickens and I are having a contest. We are both due to lay our egg in the same week. It's me against twelve chickens. Cheep entertainment around here.

I have been tempted this go around to see how long I actually would go. Just to see, you know? But by about this week in the pregnancy with just three weeks left to go, the pelvis begins to shudder. I may have a uterus of steel, but the rest of me is not bionic woman material. Each evening this week has tested my tolerance of pain. Everything hurts. By 5:00 pm, whatever junk is strewn around the floor (and there is a lot of that) gets an automatic pass. All I can do is growl at it or kick it.

I whine that Mama is ready for Hope to come out now. When I see little babies nuzzled close to their mothers, I surprise myself with how much I long for those days again, holding another beautiful blessing. It is a comfort to know that I still have that deep seated desire to gather up my new little baby girl and love on her entirely. Fully. After three children, the excitement is still new and fresh.

But then I feel a sadness sweep over when I look at the little girl babbling in front of me who is still so much a baby herself. She has all of my heart right now, as she stands on the brink of so many milestones. How distracted I will be in a month. How much our "Mommy-Faith" world will change. Are we both really ready? Faith tries so hard to sit in my lap and fit. She'll lay on my belly with her blanket molding herself around her tiny sister completely oblivious to Hope's kicks of protest.

We can do this. I know we can. All of us. All six of us. Which brings me to the masterpiece I stumbled upon last week. Grace had left this picture on the counter. A picture of our family, plus another unidentified woman that I'll assume is supposed to be Grandma or Nana. I love her drawings. Notice how she identified ME. I'm the bodacious one in the middle with all of the curves! So until less than three days pass before I find my way to a shower, this will have to do for an updated belly shot...

Yesterday I Turned Five

Because when it is your 34th birthday, the rule is you get to pick any age you want to be for that year. I decided, I would be five again. The Queen's Grace asked her mother, "Is that the law?". Of which I promptly replied, "Yes, it is sweetie."

Originally, I had decided I wanted to be nineteen again. And since Daddy had turned thirty-four this year too, the children wanted to know what age he picked...naturally the grown man picked the blessed age of retirement, sixty-five. After some thought, it seemed wise to claim another, less believable, age for myself, in case the kids went around spreading the news that their Daddy was 65 and their mother was 19.

I had a lovely birthday on Sunday, in which, I chose to do absolutely nothing. I sat on my tail, on a couch for half of the day, and it felt great. Daddy changed two messy diapers yesterday, made our dinner, and together the kids and Dad baked a fresh cake complete with sprinkles and bonfire equipment. While I sat on my duff, enjoying my new tender age of five.

Had I not been also celebrating one month left of pregnancy, I might have been a more exciting birthday girl. But since roller coasters, beautiful hikes through the wilderness, and go cart racing were out of the question, I went for the "sit on the couch and watch some long missed football" option. My Fantasy Football husband, could hardly conceal his agreement in this decision. The evening was filled with invented party games like who could keep their party horn unfurled the longest with one breath.

Just when you think getting older isn't exciting anymore, your kids and husband remind you that they still think having a birthday is pretty special. From morning till evening they plot little surprises and whisper secrets. And even when you choose not to, they count down the days for you, until your big birthday day. There is a sweetness in that love, that exceeds all of the cake and ice cream one pregnant thirty-four year old can eat.

The Storm Before The Calm?

You know when you are trying your best to get organized over something, and how for a moment (or months in our case) things look even worse than when you had started? That is exactly where we are with this moving in and onto the farm process. And honestly, when you are gaining on a month away from delivering a new baby, the aisles of piles can start to make you a little crazy. I am so tired of trying to feel my way through mazes of unhung picture frames in the dark, just so I can get to the loo in the middle of the night. I should be wrapping up my nesting now for the little one, and instead I am inching my way around endless piles of wood and unfinished business.

We ARE making progress. It just doesn't quite feel like it yet. For instance, we have made the farm safer, by having a number of giant, but sick or dead trees felled. We had a magnificent 50 year old pine growing right by the side of the barn, but it was clearly ill, and would have squashed our barn and whatever else into mere splinters if it had crashed down on its own. In addition, there were already about 15 large logs piled up on the property. The pine has been cut into campfire sized seats, but as for the rest of it, we are surrounded up to our ears in bad wood. Mr. Incredible and I have dreams of hosting an October bonfire with friends, but alas, there will be no bonfire with a burn ban that threatens to last until 2010. So here it all bakes in 100+ temperatures.


Everyday, I have to walk by this ugly mass on my way to the barn, and I'm starting to think to myself, "And who lives here? I wonder what small animals are multiplying or slithering under that pile? The very same pile that was here before we moved in, but we continue to add to it...":


Walk around to the back of the pile, and it is a crying shame. Beautiful cedar wood from the sauna that the previous owners decided to build in our master closet. We tried to take it apart gently, but it was no use. The wood is gorgeous, and smells wonderful, but we really have no idea what to do with it in this state. And so it sits threateningly on one of many burn piles that encircle the property.

Inside the house, we have encountered an entirely new monster. Disgusting carpet and walls in need of TLC means new carpet and new paint. Sounds lovely doesn't it? However, putting the plan into action is an entirely different beast. Everything we put away when we moved, gets pushed back out to paint.

And then, me and dreamy self decide after all the painting is done, that it sure would be nice to have the closets painted as well. "I mean, now is our chance Honey. Our closets will feel so nice! It will help me want to organize. It's now or never." So I talk my patient Tom Builder into "Now", sweet man that he is, and all Closet Maid stuff has to be unscrewed from all of the closets so we can paint the walls of the closets. We were going to have to tear apart the closets anyway, to get the new carpet installed, so my pleas for painted closets weren't entirely ridiculous. However, the interim result is the center of our house gets stacked 5 feet high with pressed wood, along with everything in every closet. But the empty freshly painted closets are beautiful. :)


And here we sit. Waiting for our carpet to arrive that was at our house two weeks ago, but had to be returned due to a color mix up. This really would be fine and dandy, if it wasn't for the giant reminder in front of me outside and inside that the place is a disaster. And the other reminder that occasionally contracts into a hard beach ball, telling me that it is almost game time. Everytime I pull into our drive, I am in humble awe over the property the Lord guided us to. A tree filled treasure we now call home...even with the piles of junk everywhere. But for a moment ladies, I JUST WANT TO NEST LIKE A PREGNANT HUMAN. Instead I feel like the animal that must be trying to multiply under that burn pile outside.

Bible Thumping

When it comes to Bibles, I'll be the first to admit that I am a complete dork. But really, can you ever have enough Bibles? I love old ones, new ones, those filled to the brim with study notes, slim lines, wide margins, etc. Between Mr. Incredible (who is moving toward my dork side) and myself, our Bible stash might lead one to believe we were seminary graduates. Which we are NOT. So I hide them and the numerous volumes of study companions, shy a few, behind closed cabinet doors to avoid drawing attention to the obvious dorkdom in this house.

But when this arrived on my doorstep yesterday, I couldn't help but embrace my dorkiness for a moment:


When coffee recently spilled on my favorite compact Bible, sealing all of Genesis until the end of time, which is completely unacceptable, my first thought was..."It's Bible time!" It didn't matter that Mr. Incredible offered up one of his exact same Bibles for adoption. The itch needed to be scratched.

I went from my tiny purse sized NASB to a mammoth yogurt carton sized parallel Bible containing NASB, NIV, KJV, and the Amplified version. And then counted the days until it arrived. Drop this thing on the coffee table and Richter scales around the world are displaced. I'm only hoping that the Bible cover I have coming to ehm...conceal my neon nerd sign...will cover this big boy.

Checking In On Hope

It's official. I have just about two months of pressure cooking left for our fourth baby. And that is including the allowance they'll give me beyond my due date before we need to make induction arrangements. Which we WILL end up doing. Oh me of little faith.

As of my doctor visit today, I've gained a whopping 30+ pounds (which is right on target for me and my pack-on-the-weight pregnancies). I've learned not to freak out over the weight gain though, as nursing requires every inch of that extra weight for energy and reserves. It always amazes me how smart our bodies are. We know exactly what we need months before we even need it.

Hope is growing out and forward in similar formation to her sister Faith. We might have another petite baby pea coming. She is beginning to make her presence much more noticed with an increase in movement, kicks and hiccups. The old ribs at the top of the "Sphere of Life" are quite sore by days end. Hope is facing down and I'm measuring right where I should be. In short, all is well. And I am very thankful that this pregnancy has gone so smoothly in the midst of the chaos of moving around us. I'm only now starting to feel some pain and pressure in the pelvis which is a blessing, considering it came at around four months with Faith.

I'm getting very excited over meeting our newest member of the family soon. One more arrow! Now if I could just talk to someone about the excruciating heat index around here. I've held my tongue and endured this convection oven for weeks. I'm already cooking from the inside out, do I really need to be cooking from the outside in too?

What's Under The Hood

Retreat! Retreat! There are times when a woman needs to crawl inside herself for a couple of days and inspect the engine...so to speak. I can't tell you the last time I've ditched the responsibilities of home in order to attend an all-girl, all God, sleepover weekend. All I know is that I was in need of a tune up. We're talking 1,100,198 life miles beyond the date of service due.


This past weekend, was a fabulous treat! A number of gals from my Women's study group got together to attend the Women of Faith Conference in Atlanta including an all day Pre-Conference event with none other than Beth Moore herself. She was outstanding. {sigh} I've packed at least six of her life changing studies into the last four years of my life, and it was a privilege to listen to her speak in person. Once you do one of Beth Moore's intensive studies you'll never look at Bible Study the same again. She has certainly become the most influential teacher in my life.

After getting a complete soaking in the Word among godly women for 48 hours, my insides were utter mush. I was more than pumped up to experience another event of a lifetime...the tangible end results of a 3 year church building campaign. On Sunday, our church moved into a new facility that blows the socks off our old campus. I've never been a part of something that took three years to plan and contribute towards.

If it wasn't for a mailed flyer and a year long unsuccessful search for a church six years ago, I never would have entered our old building for worship. I didn't realize it until we were pulling into the parking lot for the first time on Easter Sunday, that my own stereotypes regarding what a church should look like had kept me at a distance. I had passed by this church numerous times. But what lay tucked underneath the hood of that bland exterior was the very treasure we had been searching to find. I often wonder how many others have driven past our church and dismissed its worth on exterior alone. And how often I've done the same with people.

We have memories at the old building. We experienced real spiritual growth within those walls. We came to know and appreciate the need for a church family in our lives. We've built more friendships in that place than in all other places put together. Tom Builder and I were stretched beyond our comfort zones into areas of leadership and participation. So I suppose I shouldn't have been too surprised to find my own face awash in salty tears on our last day there.


On Sunday, our family walked into a church that would have captured my eye. I would have given it the chance it deserved a long time ago. All I could do was raise my hands in praise during worship, and thank the Lord for the extra kick in the pants I needed to get my tail to squish through the doors of a much duller structure six years ago. How much I would have missed. How little I would have been stretched. How much more ready I am now to be on the inside of those new doors looking out, waiting for an unfamiliar face to walk in and meet the body of Christ.

There Are Good Layers and Bad Layers

I'll admit, that when I decided we should start out our farm with chickens, I didn't know a thing about chickens. I was in the department of thinking that in order to have a chicken lay an egg, you needed to have a rooster. How many of you non-chicken people knew that wasn't true? Thankfully, no roos are needed. Mrs. Layer does all the work herself. That's the good news.

The bad news is that Mrs. Layer is only really good at egg production for the first 1-3 years of life, despite the fact that she can live into the teen years. And really, after two years, you are better off...ehem....culling them. Which means that if I'm a smart farmer, I'll be slaughtering my chickens in two years, and starting again. I wasn't ready for that news.

I am practical in things, so I agree that it is not worth the price in chicken feed to keep a chicken around who is down to laying an egg a month. I've just never killed anything before purposely, especially where it is necessary for the animal to "bleed out". But I decided that at least I would know our chicken had a good life free ranging on a farm, as opposed to the anonymous headless chicken I buy at the grocery store that someone killed for me. But there is also the children factor. The children needed to know before they started holding baby chickies that one day, the mama hens wouldn't lay eggs very well, and we'd need to kill the mamas for the meat. BUT we'd get to have baby chickies again. Jack, my softie, wasn't liking that news much at all.

So I compromised. I ordered 10 baby chicks...nine of which are excellent layers and most of which can be used for meat production. And then I ordered a baby pet chicken. Kid you not they are the silliest chickens I have ever seen. More of an ornamental chicken really. And known for their unusual docile pet like behavior. Behold, an example of a White Silkie Chicken:


She looks like Elvis in a white polyester suit, doesn't she? What a hoot. I hope and pray that the Silkie chicken will survive and thrive, as she will be the one who is allowed to maintain her coop beyond her two year internship at Knucker Hatch Farms. Personally, I am excited about my rainbow of egg layers, who should be gearing up for their first laid egg in late fall/early winter. The funny thing is, aside from cooking with them, I rarely eat an egg. It just sounded like a good and easy place to start with our farm on the cusp.

Now, one more thing I bet you didn't know about lady chickens. You can usually tell on someone's farm who the good layer girls are. Why? Because they look worn out. In fact they go through a bleaching process in their skin that moves throughout their body depending on how many eggs they have laid. A pretty chicken, is probably not a dependable layer.

And something about that whole life analogy really works for me right now. Lately, I feel like the lady chicken who continues to lay the eggs, and to show for it, I'm looking pretty frumpy. Not much pizzazz going on in the feathers, but in the chicken world, that is a sign of a hard worker. There is something reassuring about that --- if only I were a chicken. However, I do admit that I am looking forward to a decade from now, when I might just have a little more time to turn it up a knotch and strut my stuff with the decked out Silkies!

A Man's Anniversary

Under normal circumstances, anniversaries are froo-frooey. Let's face it squarely: Anniversaries are for the ladies. We're the ones that in fifth...er...tenth grade started creating anniversaries for our unsuspecting beaus. Our anniversary dates could be anything from your first date, to your first kiss, to the day you first shared a PBJ.

But men, if you hold out long enough, there is at least one anniversary out there that is custom built just for you. Hang in there with that marriage, and by the time you reach eleven years with your one and only, you've earned it. The gift of steel. Arrrrrgh. And like most men, the men in the Knucker Hatch house, love their steel toys:


So, the traditional gift for your eleventh wedding anniversary is steel. How bout that? It sure beats the 10th year of tin and the 12th year of linen. Whoop-dee-do. But STEEL...now, that has possibilities. Tomorrow, Tom Builder and I celebrate ELEVEN years together. And as has become tradition over the last couple of years, the one and only tradeshow we attend for our business, falls on the week of our anniversary. Which has truthfully been a bit of a bummer, since I stay home with the kids and he works his tail off in Kentucky for 4-5 days.

But back to the topic of steel. If I was a really cool wife, I'd have that Bobcat he's been talking about getting, waiting for him on the driveway. THAT's steel baby! (But then that brings back memories of when I tried to surprise him with a fantastic stainless steel grill that I couldn't even get out of the back of the Explorer. I had to nix the surprise, and have him help me get the 200lb box out of the truck, and then he had to put it all together. You'd think I would have got a clue when it took three men to get the box in the car. Lame.)

Sometimes I wish I could be a man, just so that I could surprise my man with manly gifts. I fear that my poor faithful man is going to end up with something light and girly like a fresh new box of Brillo pads.

A Gaze Back and A Glance Forward

Seven years of motherhood. Sometimes I think to myself, "Is that it? Has it only been seven years?", and other times I wonder at just how much water and how many children have passed under the motherhood bridge in such a short time.


As the children get older, The Queen's Grace and Sir Bugga-Lot now take the time to wish me a Happy Mother's Day in their own special ways showing genuine excitement over the day. The Queen's Grace saved a small chocolate bar from church as a gift for me on Sunday, however, when she discovered it still on the counter this morning she asked if she could eat the chocolate she gave me. I laughed, and said "Yes", thinking those are the occasions of motherhood. Real life motherhood.

I think I had one of the best Mother's Days yet yesterday. An afternoon of sun and pooling around with the entire family for a couple of hours was perfect rest after hours and hours of moving related activities. Mr. Incredible picked up take out that afternoon, and in the evening, the children and I enjoyed reading our night time stories underneath a setting sun at the barn. It was an all family day. Something we haven't had in a very long time.

Mother's Day had a 24 hour extension this year. Today was the all important mid term ultrasound of Number Four. A day the family has been waiting to approach for weeks. As the weeks have passed we have collected our votes, changed them, expressed wishes and doubts, and everything in between. Without question, Mama was the most certain about my intuition...75% sure this little one was a boy. The children wavered between what they thought the baby was, and what they were hoping the gender of the baby was. In the end, the final count was Mama and children placing boy ballots, and Tom Builder going against the odds with a pink ballot.

We had an incredibly clear ultrasound this go around, and we are very happy to report that our little one passed inspection with flying colors. No longer will this child be known as a number. Our baby will be known by a name I have been saving since before Number Three, if you remember this post. This child's name will be Hope. The Knucker Hatch family will be welcoming a sweet little baby girl home in October. The weddings are adding up!

Hope was a joy to watch on the screen. In a playful mood, she walked up the walls of the placenta, played with her fingers, and experimented with opening and closing her mouth. Her pictures didn't do justice to the ultrasound. I wish we had received others, but we were able to videotape the ultrasound, which is a treasure that we didn't have the privilege of keeping with the first two children.

Meet the newest member of our family, Baby Hope...


As we waited for the doctor to come into the room after the ultrasound, Tom Builder and I toyed around with middle names at Hope's expense. What about Hope Forthebest, or Hope Leslie? Hope Leslie might end up marrying a wonderful man named Dev Oted Tuyou. One thing is clear, and that is that owning six bathrooms might not be as bad as it seems in the future with our growing gaggle of girls. Jack might stand a chance of finding an available shower still. Speaking of Jack...he took the news in stride. He's going to make an amazingly patient husband. Just like his Dad, Mr. Incredible.

I can't think of a better name for a little child entering our lives at this time. Hope. She's a perfect fit. As for Mother's intuition. I give up. I'm 0 for 4 on the gender game. That's just shameful.

Penny For Your Thoughts

What is a penny really worth to you? I find myself facing this question every time I am trying to declutter, or clean, or in today's case, pack up the playroom for moving. I'll find a single penny, and pick it up. And I stare at it in my hand for way too long.


I glance at the trash bag which is much closer than the two ton kitchen coin jar that never seems to get emptied at the bank. And my first urge is to toss the penny in the trash. But then my second thought is, "Isn't throwing money away illegal?". (I have no idea why I think that.) And then I'm always faced with the third thought, "One day, you may look back and find yourself penniless. And you will remember days like this when you tossed money away out of convenience." And then the last thought will enter my head as I begin mental calculations of how many things worth a penny I have just tossed in the trash...googlie eyes, 5 colored puff balls, a Happy Meal toy. Endless items.

The whole inner conversation goes on...But a homeless person couldn't pay for a stick of bread with 25 googlie eyes...they'd need actual pennies. And so on. In the end, I can never make myself throw the penny out. Because it might appear that I wasn't thankful for every penny earned in this household. And then the heavens above might decide it was time to teach that penny tossing woman a lesson.

But. BUT. I don't pick pennies up off the ground that have been left behind. Because that penny is someone else's penny. Who, I know, will never see that penny again. But I still can't do it.

Utter silliness. Now, really.

Hard Lessons Learned This Week

Numero Uno: Don't leave your seven year old daughter alone with a brand new gallon of paint and a paint brush. Even if she has asked sweetly if she can help you paint the room, and she seems mature, and nods her head that she understands the process fully. Even if you opt out of the roller and give her the safety of a trusty paint brush. And even if the only thing you have allowed her to paint, is the inside of a closet, carefully lined with plastic. Because what you don't know is that children think dunking an entire hand into a gallon of paint has much better coverage on the walls after their wrist begins to ache from using a paint brush.

Numero Dos: Listen to that nagging voice in the back of your head when you run a washer you don't know a thing about in a used house for the first time. The voice that says, in a Suessical tone, "You should not be doing this when your husband is out. You should not be running the washer right now." Do not feel safe, even after you supervise the wash cycle and all is well. Because what you don't know is that the spin cycle is deadly with a broken pump. A pump responsible for draining a full drum of water BEFORE the spin cycle hits.

Numero Tres: Have more than two towels available in the house you are moving into for water related emergencies.

Numero Quatro: Expect to give your left leg in labor and parts over a washer. $240 equals two minutes of labor and a replacement pump. Um....that's almost a brand new washer. And I'm not even past running the stupid thing beyond a minute into the spin cycle. And this was AFTER Tom Builder pulled a disgusting rotten piece of God knows only what piece of clothing it used to be out of a pipe in an attempt to fix it.

Numero Cinq: Woe to the pregnant woman who must choose paint colors. That's in the Bible somewhere isn't it? I love painting, but choosing paint colors will be the death of me and Tom Builder both.

Numero Six: When a little one year old girl comes to visit your church nursery for the first time, and she has an unusually beautiful name like "Jahdia". Be VERY careful to rehearse this name over and over again in your head, lest you accidentally call her "Jihad". Oh yes folks, I DID.

Bloop.

Number Four is no longer a quiet orb of life that makes my belly swell. Number Four, is making a presence known. We've started the blooping.

Lots of people talk about flutters. I've never understood the flutter description. It has always felt like a "bloop" to me. At an early 14 weeks and 4 days (plus the additional week and 2 days that passes before we evict my children), the bloop is still occasional. But every mother would agree that babes that go bump and kick in the day, are a great relief to a pregnant mother. A confirmation that life inside her belly is as it should be. This is the point in my pregnancies where my relationship with my unborn child begins. Since 8 weeks, Number Four has listened to the conversations of his mother. And as the weeks have passed, I have started to listen for my child. A language of bloops is developing. These are his first words to me.

It is something a mother can hardly explain. How she already knows so much about her child, before the child is born. The activity of the child has spoken to her. Revealed much to her, about the personality that has developed within her. It is a language that takes experience to learn. When the child is your first, everything is new and embraced, but it is difficult to distinguish uniquenesses in the child, because the pregnancy is all you know. But then your second comes along, and the differences in utero between the first and the second reveal themselves. A third child, amplifies differences, and hones your skills to distinguish the individual dialects of your childrens' language.

Faith, my third child, had an unusual amount of activity. She was full of spunk. A movement that was different than my first two. More determined. She exuded a strength that was missing from my other two children. I knew before she was born, she would be my active child. I also knew, with little doubt, she would be my first child to cry when she left the womb. I already had a sense, that she would be demanding. Her language in utero, prepared me for the year ahead. Gently showing me, that this child would be a challenge. That I would need to match her strength. And I did.

Number Four is growing big enough to make his words heard. The conversation is beginning. Legs, elbows, arms and hic-ups choreograph the personality of the fresh soul inside of me. I am a captive audience of one, wrapped around a foreign body, whom I love. He will learn my language. I will learn his. Before we study each other's face for the first time, we will already have the peace of knowing each other's spirit. The color of our souls. The part that never fades and withers away with age.

So It's Not ALL Ugly

I love my birthday camera! For years, I have been trying to take pictures of my gardens that birthed beautiful flowers every year. Instead, I always ended up with a blurry mess. My old digital just couldn't hack the close ups, and many times I was entirely frustrated with the unobtainable.

I've found inspiration zooming in on God's creation. My new Panasonic (and the words of my daughter) have prompted me to tackle the gardens again and get my hands dirty this fall. Ken spotted me with a stack of gardening books and design plans and voiced an "Oh, Oh."

Oh yes. My resolve to stay in this house will be nursed by raiding local plant nurseries -- I"ll admit it. But who can say no to these beautiful blessings?

Celebrating Thirty-Three

On Saturday, I turned a whopping 33 years old. I expected it to be no biggy, but I gradually began to realize that my kids were not going to settle for just another day. I'll be honest, kids make having a birthday exciting all over again.

It started the day prior when Grace and Jack realized my birthday was the following day. In minutes they were in a football huddle on the deck outside with a pencil in hand filling out a paper full of ideas and drawings detailing how they were going to surprise me on my birthday. The cutest part was that they were crouched under a bright green umbrella to keep things secretive. Later that afternoon, my daughter came in and announced that she had shouted out to our neighbor that she was invited to my birthday part tomorrow. (Not that I was having a birthday party.)

Disappointed and in complete disbelief that Mom was not having a party (what's wrong with her), I quickly tried to make ammends by suggesting that we could all bake birthday cupcakes today...and all was well again. We had a blast together.


I awoke on Saturday to my children at my bed side with a cardboard box in hand. They smelled like the early dawn, and had spent time combing the backyard in their PJs as they sought out gifts outside like gathering manna in the morning. Inside the box was a mushroom, a bright zinnia, crepe myrtle berries, and a zinnia bud. In Grace's words, the zinnia bud represented the new year before me. Isn't that sweet?


Ken gave me a morning off as he and the children hunted down gifts with price tags. But I OH SO LOVED them: a new laptop (mine officially died) and a brand spankin' new digital camera which I am completely stoked over...all the better to blog with.


My day got better and better by the hour. My lovely sister-in-law (above), who I will be blogging about later on a different post (oh yes...I'm blogging about you girl!), offered to give Ken and I our first night out sans children since pre-Faith era. Those were two delicious hours with my handsome husband. How I have missed date nights.

The evening was topped off with the first disc of the second season of LOST. Does a birthday get any better??? I'm really liking thirty-three. :)

Standing In the Shade of God's Shadow

We're on the Enemy's radar screen. I know it, and Ken knows it. It wasn't until about four weeks ago that we voiced what we were both thinking, and realized, we both knew it. Ironically, it was about two months ago, that I checked out a book by Charles Stanley called "When The Enemy Strikes". I only reached the third chapter, before having to return it back to the library. But it was enough. It is clear that at least in my case, the Enemy wants to steal my joy.

This is a time of weakness for me. I have been unable to attend my Bible studies for six months, and I am isolated with a little baby. The weakness isn't in temptation, but more along the lines of feeling "down" or inviting depression. In the last two months I have watched the helpless little creatures around me get picked off one by one in our household. I have a deep heart for the little guy, and the Enemy knows that he can make me twist in the wind on this. And he's not just striking at the heart of a Mom, he's striking indirectly at my children.

For a month we agonized with Maggie, and watched her pass two weeks ago. During that last week, I didn't post it, but one of my four beautiful giant goldfish that I've had in our front yard pond for 2 years disappeared. Nothing to cry over like a dog, but a noted scratch. And then today, after saying good morning to the family gerbil, Marly, I noticed a giant bloody scent gland tumor. After consulting with the vet, he needs to be euthanized as well.

I cried. More than once. Not as much for the gerbil who's led a good life, but for my children. It was only two weeks ago that we buried our dog, and now I had to tell the kids that we also had to put down their 2 1/2 year old gerbil. Grace said, "After that, we won't have any pets left." And it tore my heart strings to watch that familiar tension in Jack's face as he tried to say something happy while fighting off tears, "I bet Gully (Marly's deceased buddy) will be happy to see Marly again. They'll be wrestling with each other and playing." But I can see it. The wounds that were healing so well have been ripped back open.

During this time, I have been praying for protection over our family, and recently over even extended family, as I have seen the Enemy fan out over us. Ken has been dealing with his own spiritual warfare, in addition to what has been swirling around the home. My prayers have been especially fervent over Ken. I am certain that all of this warfare is over Ken. It was two months ago that he was approached by his mentor on the topic of moving from being a deacon in the church to a possible elder position. Ken's plate was already full to the brim, working 80 hour weeks as his technology company ramps up, but he agreed to consider. And that is when the Enemy decided to strike, adding distractions, upon disappointments, upon pains.

But after a rough two months, and coming to a mutual realization that the Enemy was trying to swoop in over our family, Ken decided to forge ahead despite the work load and "Stick it to him". Tonight we received word that the elders in our church unanimously voted to add Ken to the board of elders. And so it is. And the will of God has prevailed.

I think the whole family is a little beat up and bruised. It has been an emotional battle. But when I take the time to look around me, my joy is renewed. There is a new "closeness" in the house, and more conversation. We pulled together as an army for God. We held our ground. And where we stand, falls the shade of God's long shadow. A reminder of His protection and Holy presence over this house.

The Dog Days of Summer

How many tears can one shed over a family dog? Our ol' girl is in such a bad way. Her bounce back over chicken has gone and left. And we've tried to pull her out of what appears to be a dark depression. We're back to vomiting, not eating a lick, and the tremors. This morning, she lost control of her bladder.

Her eyes tell me she's ready to begin her walk toward Glory. I'm not so sure I'm ready for it though. I wish I knew how to help her. How to best comfort her as she prepares for this journey. For some reason we've been kept in the dark on what ails her so, since all of the tests came back showing nothing. This would be slightly easier if I knew she was riddled with disease.

I've prayed over her, spent hours at her side, and asked the good Lord above to shower her with His warm lovingkindness and gently take her home. It is so hard to pray that kind of prayer. The miracle believer in me still holds a white knuckle grip on faith that the Lord will restore her back to health if it is His will. The very idea of euthanizing her is paralyzing. The last thing I want to do is drag her once more to the vet to lay in a cold sterile unfamiliar room. I want her to be surrounded by the warmth of home. Both sides of the coin feel cruel.

The tears just keep flowing fresh...
This is definitely not an eye makeup day. Blah.

I'm So Tired.

I know this is horrible of me to blog about, just coming off of a vacation and all, but it is so true. Truth is, nursing gets to be very hard on my body at about five months. I remember feeling like a walking skeleton after 8 months of nursing Grace. I'm a few pounds shy of my pre-pregnancy weight, and while this is great news in some respects, I can feel my body beginning the desperate search for reserves. And then there are the hot flashes, and the loss of hair in biblical drain clogging proportions as my body goes through pregnancy withdrawal.

This past week, I feel like I have aged by 10 years. It is the hardest it has ever been for me to wake up and start the day. As soon as my feet hit the ground they feel like they have been walking all night. My shoulders ache and my eyes refuse to let the light in. Meanwhile, Faith is ready to hit the ground running with her toothless grin, and froggy kick. God bless her.

This past week, Faith has decided to be an early riser, speedy napper, and a night owl. It is nine by the time she feels like turning in. And I am SO SPENT! Faith, is still waking up for at least one night time feeding, which isn't helping the recouping, but her smile certainly helps to ease getting through the morning sludge.

I'm trying to keep things in perspective knowing that 5-8 months is the hardest haul for me physically with childrearing. It won't always be like this. I'm passing the time this week daydreaming about starting my little girl on solids soon. And as if I'm not already crazy enough, I'm leaning toward making my own baby food for the first time. I must be nuts.

I guess the only other thing I need to start doing to be in the same place as the "far righters" and ironically the "far lefters" is begin cloth diapering. Don't hold your breath...
I can still remember the stomach turning smell of the diaper pail in the nursery from my childhood. (Nothing can undo that horrible olfactory memory ingrained in my brain cells.) I'll stop at the homemade baby food, thank you very much. That's as gran-nutty as I get.

Friday Wrap Up

I feel like I have a thousand little loose ends to tie before leaving on this two week vacation. I've a bunch of cliff hangers from this week on the blog too, so here they are:

The cyst burst this week....lovely. But at least I know it is a cyst based on its contents. (I hope you've already eaten.) Unfortunately, I wasn't able to squeeze it back to normalcy. Ok, now you're gagging. But it looks better, and I shouldn't be as self conscious on the beach (minus the skin hanging from various locations.)

Which reminds me. I wasn't able to stick with my workout program as my knees became incredibly tender from the running. I did stick to including a yogurt a day in my diet. The working out I did, must have jostled my metabolism, as it moved me past my plateau weight, and as of today, I am one pound away from my goal nursing weight. I'm very tickled about that. Nursing has its perks --- well, until you stop nursing, and then those other super perky things, shrink to almost invisible.

Ok...moving on to the three moles I had removed. Guess what? Two of them really needed to be removed according to the test results. Mild dysplastic nevi. Nothing super serious, but considered pre-cancerous. So after vacation, I scoot back in for the doctor to take two more deeper chunks out of my skin to make sure they got everything. Not so glad about the holes in my body, but I'm glad I went in.

Maggie. My sweet fiddle player, has a giant scab over half of her tail as it mends. And she has managed to clear out almost every piece of chicken in the fridge. She's doing much better, but continues to boycott all pills. I can't tell you how thankful I am for her recovery, and now the sighting of those giant tail wags again.

Now...drum roll please....WE GOT THE TOURING ODYSSEY!!!! I lurve it!!! Sagebrush exterior, black and tan interior. It is SWEET!!! I was poking around in it with Ken at midnight last night, and it felt like we were sitting in an airplane with all of the nifty controls and lighting. Ken already admitted that he enjoyed smoking another car off of a light change on the way home. (How ridiculous are we?).

Lastly, my baby girl slept through the night. And as of 10:00am, she's still snoozing. Whoo! Hooo!! Poor girl must have been so worn out from car shopping. I couldn't have asked for a better little shopper yesterday.

And so, the rest of my day is a frazzled mess of last minute errands and packing. The kids are so excited they are almost down to counting hours. This family has so needed this vacation. As anyone who owns a business knows, vacations are so rare. So are true weekends. Ken and I were just discussing yesterday, that if it was just us, we would have canceled already. The downside of owning your own business or in our case businesses, is that working never ends. It has been too long. I thank the good Lord that we have a small gaggle of kids to force us on a vacation, or we'd really be boring sticks in the mud.

It's a happy day. :)

When Things Were Simple

I was going through some pictures tonight and this one made me smile and my heart ache. That's me. My grandfather's on my right, and my grandmother is on my left. I was their first grandchild. We all look so happy. And tan.

Faith is just entering the stage where she tries to grab your nose and take it off for a closer look. But I still have the silver bells on the shoes to look forward to.

Right now I feel baptized in molasses with motherhood. I can't even begin to imagine grandmotherhood. What is it like to hold the child of your child? It must be incredible.

I really miss her.