Thank You Amy...

If you have looked at Facebook in the last week, you have likely seen
links about the government shut-down, quotes from famous people,
and cute pictures of fall activities.

This morning, I saw something that made me profoundly thankful.
This was my friend Amy's status:

As a mom of three boys... Thank you.

Thank you for being willing to be the "bad guy" and make sure your daughter is dressed modestly.
Thank you for wanting to her mom, rather than her pal.
Thank you for helping me, by keeping your girls modest.

In return, I promise...
To make sure my boys know how to treat a girl with respect.
To not let them think young girls are there for them to ogle and cat call.
To teach them to keep their hands off.
To not let them watch TV, Internet, or any other visual media that makes women nothing more than sexual objects.
To not let them listen to music that demeans or talks about women and their bodies.
To teach them it is NOT just about keeping someone from getting pregnant, but rather it is about keeping someone pure and respectable.

So, to all the moms out there willing to do battle to keep their girls covered up, thank you.
I promise to do my part as a mom of boys as well.
After all, we are all in this together.

So, to Amy, and all the other moms in the trenches ... thank you.

Decisions, Decisions, Decisions...

"I am not sure what I am going to do yet!"

 In an odd twist of irony, this fall, I sent the youngest off to school, and brought the oldest home.
This means I missed my chance for that glorious oddity called, an empty house.
Yes, this could've been my year for WHOLE days of a quiet house, time alone, and, if you read the last post, the ability to pee without interruption.

However, thanks to the miracle that is football practice, three nights a week, there are times it happens.
Micah will take all three boys and all of the sudden,

the
house
is
empty.

I don't really know how to handle this.
I feel like Chicken Little, running around going, "What do I do? What do I do? WHAT DO I DO?!?!?!"
It's akin to that TV moment when that character gets hysterical and can't calm down and ends up getting slapped in the face.
"Just do something woman!" the slapper would say to me.

Do I fold laundry? (the responsible mama's choice)
Do I take a nap? (the tired mama's choice)
Do I read a book? (the bibliophile mama's choice)
Do I scrapbook? (the crafty mama's choice)
Do I read some of the 500+ blogs clogging my feedly? (the informed mama's choice)
Do I dye my own felt to make into miniature acorns? (the pinterest mama's choice)
Do I have a glass of wine and watch Entertainment Tonight? (the honest mama's choice)

I walked around for a solid 15 minutes trying to decide WHAT TO DO?
It was too much pressure.
In the end, a truly calm and well thought out choice was never made.
I lost it all in a moment of sheer freak out crying, "THE HOUSE WILL BE MINE FOR THE NEXT THREE HOURS AND I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT TO DO?!?!" 
I needed that slap in the face.

OR...
Maybe I just need MORE practice at having time like this so I will be better prepared at how to handle the choices and options. Yes, that is it.
I need to do this MORE often.

Honey, are you reading this? :) 

Remembering Tea Time

The weather turned decidedly more fall like last week.
I love it.
The cooler temps mean I am back to my morning cup of tea.

There is nothing like hearing the kettle whistle
and pouring that steaming water into a cup.
Last week, I got out my grandmother's tea cups.
They are dainty, and flowered, and pretty, and...
So full of memories.

My Gramma, whom I wrote about here. used to serve us tea in them a good bit.
Hot tea, sugar, and milk.
Homemade cookies, or if we were lucky, apple küchen.
Watching her move about a kitchen was neat.
She did things "just so" and was usually humming or singing in German.
We loved using the "fancy cups", and despite the fact that I was a tom-boy who
broke things at a furious rate, she would let me use these.
I was always cautioned to "be gentle!"
And then she would often utter "Nicht Noch Einmal!"

So, taking out a cup, just one, was hard.
It made me miss my Gramma terribly.
It brought back the painful reality of death.
The things my boys will never hear from directly from her.
But if we put away these tangible memories,
we miss out on passing along the bits and pieces of the past
that make us, well... us.

So despite the pain, I choose to remember.
And today, I will have tea, in fancy tea cups, with my 11 year old son.
I made cookies and muffins for us yesterday.
I will caution him to be gentle.
I will rebuke him in German, and hopefully,
create a memory for him to share with his own children someday.

One of my very favorite quotes...

“It is often said that something may survive of a person after his death if that person was an artist and put a little of himself into his work. It is perhaps in the same way that a sort of cutting taken from one person and grafted onto the heart of another continues to carry on its existence even when the person from whom it had been detached has perished.” 
                                                                                                             -Marcel Proust

I'm selling my buttocks...

That title may sound like a think a lot of my own booty.
However, it is not appearances that I am speaking about, rather ability.

You see, I apparently have a magic butt.

The moment, yes, the very moment my derriere hovers near the seat of the commode,
my children magically appear.
Every.Single.Time.

I have stopped summoning them via normal methods.
Why call for them?
I can simply go to the bathroom
and before you can say, "Thomas Crapper"... there are my beloved offspring.

In this crooked old house we live in, there is but one bathroom for all of us.
One potty.
Four boys.
One girl.

Can you see what I am up against?!?!

I admit, I routinely covet when people have multiple toilets.
When my friend bought a new house this spring, I stopped counting at three.
I asked her "just how many toilets are in this house?"
"Um... five." She replied sheepishly. "But one doesn't work right now!"
"Five?" I practically fell over. "I don't know if we can even be friends anymore, I
am coveting so much!" I moaned.

I mean, with five toilets... we could each have our own!
Can you imagine, the glorious luxury of you very own commode?
Well I can't.

Back to the sale of my gluts. I began to realize that I shouldn't keep this amazing new discovery to myself.
I mean, the general masses might just want need what I can offer.
So, I am thinking of testing the marketability of my magical rumpus... as a tracking device.
Lost kid? Hand me that 32oz slushy, and they will be home before dusk.
Need to call a family meeting? Give me a hot tea and 20 minutes, they will all be assembled.
Gramps wandered off? Hand over the venti size cappuccino. He'll be here for bedtime.
Maybe the NSA would even be interested?

So, lest you think I wrote all this because I love my own tush, I don't.
It's no longer the rump of my youth, and if I wore those track suits with labels across the booty,
mine would read "Pinot" and "Grigio". But, um I would never wear those, because they should
technically be illegal. Like skinny jeans for men. I digress. Sorry.

Send your patent lawyers my way asap, and don't judge me too harshly... 
I am just a mom looking for a way to market her (apparently) best skill set.
  

Glutton of Grace

As I shared last week, we have had some stuff going on.
Hard stuff.
In the midst of all of that, there have been times of peace, and times of tears.
One night, at a hotel in West Virginia, I had a knock down drag out with Jesus.
I think there is a country song in there somewhere, especially since we ate dinner
at, no joke, Bob Evans.

The boys and I were driving a long distance, and had stopped to spend the night.
After subjecting them to countless hours of HGTV on the hotel cable, we went to bed.
What? We don't have cable, and I think my boy TV quota has been fully met.
I mean, I have seen "Food Boy"... more than once.

Well, I couldn't sleep.
So I went to the one place I could turn on the light and read.
The bathroom.

That is where my battle ensued.
I started to pray, and seek answers to things I didn't understand.
I was asking all kinds of "why's".
But then, it was as if the Lord grabbed me by the nape of the neck,
pulled up a curtain, shoved me toward a bright and painful light,
and for a brief second I glimpsed what I am...

I am a glutton of grace.
And gluttony benefits one person... me.
I want to sit at the table of grace and have more and more and more.
I want to empty the cup, scrape the bowl, and then lick the plate clean.
I don't want to leave a single crumb or speck of grace...
I want it all.
For me.
Table for one.

And that last part was what He wanted me to see.
If I love grace, but only when it is served to me,
I have no idea what grace really is.

And that was when He softly whispered...
"What about grace for others?"
"No, Lord."  I begged.
It's too soon.
It's too hard.
Not them.
Please, just for me...

I was asking God to play favorites, and pick me first.
Only, God doesn't play favorites when He gives out grace.

God's grace is not for my happiness. It is for His glory, and the moment we
ask him to only extend it to us... it's not really His grace. 

It was a long night.
Lots of tears.
I think I even uttered the line "Pick me. Choose me. Love me."
Which, is technically a line from Grey's Anatomy.
I have never been good at flowery prayers, and the fact that
I quoted a show that we all know is ER's poor reincarnation, proves it.

So, by all means, pull up to the table of grace, and have your fill.
but please,
leave room at the seat next to you for others...

 "We should give as we would receive,
cheerfully, quickly, and without hesitation;
for there is no grace in a benefit that sticks to the fingers"
~ L.A. Seneca