Farwell Old Year

2008 in Review

Shoes and Stuff

An Open Letter to Those Giving Abigail Gifts,

The next time you see a potential gift read the box. This part of the gift is a wealth of information giving many specifics about the gift. Important things such as the appropriate age range of the children playing with the gift, the size of the gift and the quantity of pieces within the gift.

Let me offer an example.

The kitchen food set with 8000 pieces will find itself all over the house. The plastic hot dogs will be chewed on in church filling with saliva which will subsequently be spilled the following day on said child's mother. Stale spit falls in the gross category and explains why the box is marked 5+. In addition, the miniaturized, semi-realistic cardboard boxes masquerading as food packaging cannot withstand the rigors of life strung about our living room, bedrooms, kitchen, and playroom.

In addition to reading the box, look inside. Are there a number of small parts, parts that will be unmanageable for little child fingers and will require near constant adult assistance? I am not saying that I do not want to assist my child in learning and playing, but during bill-paying and checkbook balancing, will this toy have captured the child's attention to the point of obsession thereby requiring child's mother to continually stop to help child amid pleas couched in, "Mommy, you know, I love you. Will you. . .?"

I will provide another example.

The dolls with removable clothing will have to share outfits. A three year old (little less than 37 months to be exact) cannot

1. remove the clothing and shoes,
2. dress the now naked dolls, and/or
   
3. keep dolls in the same condition for more than 2.5 seconds before finding a reason for a change.

Please note: the number of shoes contained in the package is directly proportionate to the number of wardrobe changes that must be made to satisfy a girl's fashion whims.

The box will say said dolls are appropriate for 3+ years old. The box lies. It is a marketing ploy designed for only one thing--the total breakdown of the parental mind as said child asks parents continuously throughout the day to change shirt, pants, shoes or dresses. The miniature nature of the clothing further maddens the parent as they fumble with tiny bodies, hands and clothing.

Most especially, to those laughing your way through the checkout line with visions of parental insanity as a result of your gift choice, remember that Abigail is the first and we will have hand-me-downs of whatever you bring to our house. And the day will come when we will chose gifts for your child. Can I say 11569 pieces of fake food and doll clothing littering your house!

Sincerely,

The Mother who fished fake hot dog dripping drool out of child's mouth and changed clothes on dolls 789 times between 2:00 and 4:33PM.

Christmas cont.

Merry Christmas!

For I am confident of this very thing,

that He who began a good work in you

will perfect it until the day of Christ Jesus.

Philippians 1:6

And there is something about this tree that parallels our experiences with God this year. Everything was falling into place. We knew what our family was to look like and where we were going to call home. Life was under control.

We were going to be permanent residents of “the Avenue” community. We were going to be the givers of the second grandchild to both sets of parents, and this child was going to share not one gene with any of us. We shared in the joy of a growing family as both Chris’s brother and my sister got married (not to one another, though). We rejoice with Chris’s brother and sister-in-law on the birth of their first child, a son, sharing a birthday with Abigail. We finished mounds of paperwork to begin waiting for a baby to find that I was pregnant, expecting a baby in April. The adoption process is frozen until such time as we feel God moving us in that direction. Finally, we left a big house with a little yard on “the Avenue” for a little house with a big yard (and considerably less updating to do) a few minutes’ drive away.

The corners of our hearts were cleared for the plans we had to fill them. Manageable plans fit easily into that which already existed. We could get our minds around those plans, understand their purposes, and see wisdom and opportunity in those plans.

But God spoke His plans into our lives. And our circumstances changed. And our hearts grew as we struggled and worked and changed; I should say our hearts continue to grow. Though we will be waiting till April to see the result of all of God’s revised plans for our family (for this year), those plans promise to yield beautiful, one-of-a-kind results designed just for us. And they promise to create in us beautiful, one-of-a-kind hearts designed by our Creator and able to give Him great joy.

And isn’t that what we celebrate at Christmas, the Messiah, King of Kings, entering the hearts and lives of man in a most unexpected, unmanageable way. Coming to give us gifts unimagined in ways unfathomable. Creating a people of His own who are able to give His Father great joy. I hope this past year has found you surprised, changed, and perfected by God, and that this Christmas you can rejoice in His gift of servant-savior.

Christmas

Merry Christmas!

For I am confident of this very thing,

that He who began a good work in you

will perfect it until the day of Christ Jesus.

Philippians 1:6

I look into our Christmas tree trying to find a way to, a way to capture this last year, I can’t help but be reminded of the ways our plans have changed throughout the year. Something about the enormity of the tree in the corner reminds me that God’s plans are bigger and often times very different than I can imagine.

The Wednesday before Thanksgiving, we went traipsing through inches of snow to pick a tree from the Christmas trees at the Opel Tree Farm. Abigail, thoroughly unhappy, was insulted that she was expected to walk though the snow’s powdery coldness. Chris preoccupied with plans of deer dressing and a safe trip home for his family. And me on the verge of frustrated at the unhappiness and preoccupation interrupting my plans of a fun little walk. We went Christmas tree hunting. Looking through the trees, we picked one marking it with baler twine. Dad and Mom were bringing it to us on Abby’s birthday. A Christmas tree looks deceptively small covered in snow with a big blue sky as the ceiling and surrounded by trees far too large for Christmas ornaments in our house.

We were happy thinking we had a manageable tree. We had the perfect corner of our living room picked out for our little tree. But, this tree wasn’t little, nor was it manageable! Chris struggled to get it in the door. It wouldn’t fit in the tree stand without a fight that only ended by tying it to the curtain rod to keep it upright. The entire corner is taken by the tree requiring large furniture to be moved to accommodate it. But decorated and at home, the tree is beautiful and though not what we thought at first and wrought with complications, it is the tree for us.

Spanking

We are fighting sleep in this family. Well really only one of us is fighting sleep. She has gotten good at it. No more moments like this:


Nay, rather moments when I am falling asleep serenaded by Patty Cake and questioned about breakfast and smooches and reading the next day. In my dreams I am winning and I am competent to know how to win. In real life, the scenario goes something like this.

8:30

Me: Abigail, I expect you to go to sleep. Elmo and your dolls are very tired and they need you to help them sleep. I love you. Good night.

Abigail: Ok, I love you too. Good night. . . . Mommy (shouted from the bedroom) will you set the timer to give me smooches? ( A method developed to keep her in bed and not screaming a month ago. It was supposed to be phased out by now by adding minutes to the time. We are up to 45.)

I answer in the affirmative as I trudge to the microwave to set the timer for 45 minutes. Maybe, I have trained a long good night with this timer. I realize now as I type.

8:47

Little feet pad to the living room.

Me: Why are you up?

Abigail: Can I have some water?

Me: Get some from the bathroom in your cup?

9:15ish

The timer goes off and I walk to Abigail's room. She is in her bed with Elmo.

Me: Chris, come here. He comes to see the child. Why is your hair wet?

Abigail: I wanted to.

How did your hair get wet.

Because, I did it.

Making a mental note to not let children get their own water from the bathroom.
Me: Abigail, you must go to sleep.

Abigail: But I don't want to.

You must. I expect you to go to sleep. Now lie down. If you get out of bed once more you will get a spanking. Could the threat, no, promise of a spanking keep her in bed. I have my doubts, but am running out of options.

Back on the couch,

Mommy. . . Mommy.
Chris goes to see what is wrong. I think he fears for someone's life at this point. He returns reporting that she was concerned about the condition of the timer. It was running; he reassured her.

10:45ish

Preparing for bed, Chris and I check in for one last time. It has been quiet and I assume sleeping will greet me. I am wrong.

She looks up from her bed, keys in hand. Keys that were not near bed when last we were there.

Me: Abigail, where did you get the keys?

Abigail: I just wanted them.

Where did you get them?

I needed to pway with them.

Abigail, where did you get the keys? Could I be getting a little testy now?

From over there. She points across the room.

I ask, What did I say would happen if you got out of bed?

Two spanks.

Yep, I'll meet you at the chair. Because giving spanks on her toy littered bed is just too hard.

Abigail saunters over to the chair while I mumble something about this being entirely ineffective if she doesn't care to receive the spanking. Chris leaves us to it.

Trying to be all James-Dobson-correct-your-kid right, I started to outline the problem, Abigail, Mommy told you to stay in bed. Did you obey or disobey?

Disobey. She answers confidently and unapologetically.

Then you will get two spanks. I punctuated two by holding up two fingers.

Completely undaunted, Abigail takes my two fingers in one hand and says without a hint of fussing, begging, or pleading,
Mommy, be nice. (Go ahead, laugh, I know you want to. Feel no pity for me. Enjoy it.)

Chris dropped to the floor laughting hysterically, and I was left to start all over.

She went to bed with her two spanks unfazed. I went to bed wondering if the past three years have been a ruse to lull me into a false sense that my child was more compliant than strong-willed.

She started chattering, loudly. Abigail, stop talking and go to sleep. I implored. Then feeling guilty I added, Good night.

Before resuming her chatter in a lowered voice, she responded, You have good night too.

Vacation Day

Dear Chris and Abigail,

I am writing to inform you that I am taking Friday off. It is my vacation day. I plan to do what ever I want, alone. This does include showering, perhaps I will find the time to shave my legs uninterrupted before Goliath claims my ability to see my legs ever again. Also included in this is eating a meal without blowing, cutting or helping another human being with theirs at the expense of warm appetizing food.

As I have been in an exceptionally crummy mood lately, I am sure you can understand and maybe even rejoice in my day off. Upon my return, I will resume my normal tasks including finding items put in their proper place, ignoring comments regarding my apparent lack of knowledge regarding the finer details of life--such as when we are seeing our friends again, and praying for nap time.

Prior to Friday, please revise your to-do lists, ask all questions necessary, and supply me with a list of items you need but have disappeared into the unknown world of put-away, as I will be unavailable for comment.

Thank you,

Sarah Jones
Household Management

P.S. Please note that this has nothing to do with feelings of anything less than love for my family. Sometimes for the sake of that love, time must be taken.

Have You Noticed

That sometimes, often-times, the difference between a whiny, uncooperative child and a stressed out mom who wants to run away is a few minutes of playing on the floor followed by monster tickles.

Belly laughs--the cure for too much to-do list and hurried, harried children. Perhaps.

16 Days Belated

Happy Birthday, Abigail!

Our little girl is three,
no hints of baby left,
little touches of toddler.
Mostly child.

I love getting to know you more and more each day!

With Thanksgiving

Hands on my cheeks for a grinning "Wook at me!"

Little arms hanging on tight for an extra hug.
Soft little cheek smooched against mine with and "I wove you," thrown in.


Feet galloping from room to room in search of fun.
Dimples full of lunch leftovers.
"May I pway for a little while longer."


Maimed nativity figurines
Well loved, and
Taught Patty-Cake

Trials (in Small Packages)

Consider it all joy, my brethren,
when you encounter various trials,
knowing that the testing of your faith produces endurance.
And let endurance have its perfect result,
so that you may be perfect and complete,
lacking in nothing.
James 1:2-4

Because of Abigail

I still remember the feelings I was experiencing when I started this blog. I tried so hard to come up with a title that was all me and no Abigail. I was almost a year into this motherhood thing and was grasping to get my stride and to feel something of who I was before Abigail. I was somewhat miserable, wallowing in the changes of motherhood and feelings of being lost. And I blamed Abigail for a large part of my misery. I don't know how it affected my mothering, but I am sure it did.

Lately I've begun feeling the same stirrings. Feeling like everything is changing and I am losing whoever I had become. And I had become, and I was comfortable, and I knew what I was doing (or could at least fake it.) As my shape shifts and my hormones dance about in abandon, I am left feeling out of place. As Christmas inches closer, I long for the fun of the season, the expectation, the quiet of knowing He who came.

But it eludes me. Hidden in the nativity strewn about the living room floor instead of placed neatly somewhere. Crushed by the dried beans that seem to find their way into every room. Smothered by the questions of what we have packed away for baby and what we need to have ready come April. And somewhere, regardless of how irrational, I blame the people I love most. I blame Chris. I blame Abigail. I blame the baby I refer to as Goliath. Knowing full well that God is working on something in me, and in them, at this moment, I hold up the process. I blame and I don't become. I harden the heart God wants to soften. I become inflexible. I become the discord I blame my family for.

So this week coming, instead of wallowing in being lost, I want to laugh and learn and bend and grow and revel in being lost . . .because of abigail.

Goals

Behind, far behind. I haven't yet began to form a routine for our new house. Something I'm sure to do with the boxes beckoning from all sorts of places and birthdays and holidays and pregnancy and three-year-olds. I realized how very off I was when visiting with another mom at the library today. She was talking about how overwhelmed she gets with art/craft projects her son makes and insists on keeping. We have played with play dough once since moving. Another mom asked if we were settled. I just commented that we are to the point that I only look in the boxes if we need something. But with boxes milling about the basement, standing guard over the paths somewhat like the troll in the Billy Goats Gruff, I can't seem to create the relaxed, we-know-what-happens-next (and who does it) rhythm I dream of.

There is some part of planning involved. Some part of discipline necessary with following that plan. Something deliberate in going about the day. Today though, I just want one thing:

All of our laundry--done. I want to wake up tomorrow with all loads of laundry finished. No dirty clothes greeting me from the floor of the bathroom, or scattered about Abigail's room (She has a basket, but reallocates it for other things like buttons, dried beans, drums or a hat), or from the basket in our room. I don't want to wish for clothes I know I have but wonder where they are in the cleaning process. All will be clean.

I hear the dryer beeping telling me that another load is done. Off to folding I go!

Note: I do realize that the act of putting our pajamas on creates laundry. There is no need to remind me. Laundry taunts me!

Picture This

For the Record

Before we moved my deep freezer was a very organized place. I could when I looked in it know what foods we had.

Now. . . let's just say that moving created a mess. A visit from my parents yielded a disaster. And the death of two deer--well, if we eat out every day for the rest of our lives, you'll know why.

The thing needs dealt with soon--and it is winter. Whine!

Christmas Gift Lists

This is the first song on a CD of Christmas songs I bought right before Thanksgiving. It made me cry the first times I listened to it. And this video again makes me cry still.



And I question God in this. We were a couple, a family, ready. We have one amazing little girl. We struggled though pregnancies lost. Our hearts settled, excited, and praying for a new little one from the millions needing families.

But along came another pregnancy. Based on ultrasound and my ever-expanding girth, Goliath is a healthy (92nd percentile huge) baby of unknown gender. (I refer to baby as Goliath based on size.) We rejoice! We are exceedingly glad of this new little life. This little life is loved and cherished and so very wanted.

Still, I wonder over the child that could have been. The one we were expecting. I wonder if his mother found a family she felt good about. I wonder if she is in a family who looks like her. I wonder what happened. And I wonder about these children waiting. With this new one coming, it will be even longer before one of these older ones could join us.

Our paperwork lies in a moving box, completed, approved, waiting. The dream deferred. My heart breaking still for these motherless ones. I wonder what work is mine on their behalf. So I pray and I wait. And I invite you to prayer for these whose Christmas doesn't include mother-hugs and rough-housing with dads before a tree carefully decorated with ornaments homemade, celebrating family love.

Mean Ol' Mommy

She is three. She is at times defiant.

I am thirty-one. I am at times defiant.

She says, "You're a mean ol' mommy."

I say, "Why me, God."

I guess we're even.