a fairy, a fall, and something stinks

So, last week our small group was going through The Story of God, and discussing the realities, allegories, and implications of it all.  In varying detail, we told the story of a beautiful, wild and tropical place, complete with happy neked people spending time in the company of their good Creator.

Earlier that evening, one of my friends was sharing her desire to have "loads upon loads of laundry" like I do, at least in that she longs for marriage and children.  While she & I chatted, I was struck by two things: first, how even the mundane chores of my life can be coveted blessings for another person.  Second, I caught myself trying not to be jealous as she described her building's laundry facilities, with multiple machines and times when she could sit in quiet and do all of her (two weeks') laundry at once.   It sounded like fiction - like the "laundry fairy" who works magic in our house.

The two conversations, it turns out, are quite connected.  The neked people eventually had to put on some clothes, because they made a couple of choices that put them at odds with their God and changed their perspective on what He created.  Not only that, but the consequences of those early choices changed the course of history for all of us.  Specifics, of course, depend on who you talk to, but our small group had quite the lively conversation on the topic.  Every choice has its consequences, big or small.  In my house, the laundry fairy went truant for several days, and now she's facing her own penance.

See, I just put a fourth load of laundry into the washer.  It was cloth diapers, so it is set to a delayed start (to hit lower energy use time for its several cycles of scalding hot water).  When I wake up tomorrow, I will be about halfway through the piles of laundry here, and that's if I stuff a bit more than I should into the "colored" loads.

Then again, there's an odd stench wafting from the coat closet, and I'm reminded that the boys' afternoon playtime outside in the garden (dirt) and clubhouse (with puddles) means I need to wash their coats and shoes before things get too rank around here.  What's more, I recently resigned my own coat to the laundry, after my youngest son walked his cute almond-butter fingers up my arms.

Okay, I'm probably not halfway done.

Am I horribly ungrateful to secretly wish for a laundry "facility" with multiple machines, wifi, and time to sit quietly and chat with friends online?  Perhaps the real blame is pointed at those first people - the ones who decided it was shameful to run around neked all the time.

While it may not be the most serious plague of our time, I'm pretty convinced that one of the most tangible results of the "fall of mankind" is the piles of laundry around my ankles.

noah's wife

In the familiar story of Noah, his wife's name is never mentioned. She's just "Noah's wife." In our house, we call her "Yesah." Anyway, I've been thinking about her a lot today.

First, in case you missed the news, we got a dog this weekend. He's a lovely 5-year-old spaniel and wonderfully laid-back... a good fit for us. Oh, and yes, Wesley is a "HE" dog, so I'm even more outnumbered. Last night, Mr. Kenobi and I were day-dreaming about buying a house in the country, where our kids (and dog) could run around outside and I'd have a big vegetable garden and lots and lots of wonderful "farm" animals, like chickens, sheep and maybe a cow.

We smiled wistfully at the thoughts of a farm house... a rambling road to our place... wood-burning fires and home-canned jams... me knitting and baking whole-grain breads and planning out homeschool lessons. The boys making tree-houses and fishing in the creek. Mr. Kenobi chopping firewood and tossing hay into the barn, just like Pa Ingalls. Everyone just happy as can be.

Ahem... back to reality today.

I have two mouse traps set, one on each side of my piano. I also have a bruised finger from getting it caught in not one, not two, but three snaps of the trap. Thanks to Mr. Kenobi for talking me through the process over his cell phone, as I cursed at that stupid trap and thought about selling the house. He kindly offered to come home from work, but I really didn't want to wait (and risk that mouse going anywhere else). I will, however, definitely let him do the "man's work" of taking the (hopefully single, dead) mouse out of our house after he gets home. Please pray that it does its work.

The fact that I'm only setting traps at 11 am is a bit disconcerting, considering I thought I saw a black flash on the floor when I was nursing the baby several hours ago. I tried to look around, but figured I must have just had a weird angle from the side of my glasses and a reflection. Not sure how long this visitor has been in our home, but I'm going to try not to think about it.

Oh wait - life even gets better...

Obi-2, Wesley, and I went out the front door (Obi-3 is sleeping upstairs) to play a bit in front of our house. Turns out Wesley is definitely a cat-chaser, and Bill (the spunky cat next door, in a house approximately 25 feet from ours) is not excited about the new neighbor. Perhaps I can plant daisies in my garden instead of forks next year? Wesley practically tore my shoulder out, so we went back inside.

As I turned on the front hall light switch, I saw a swarm (yes, swarm) of ants crawling all over the front wall (inside) of our house. One is even inside a picture frame. How does this happen!?!? They are covering the soccer ball, the shoes, the bench. It's disgusting. I sprayed down and cleaned everything with tea-tree oil cleaner and baking soda, which is supposedly toxic to ants. All of this while trying to keep silent so as not to spook the mouse out from the piano, and keep Obi-2 from opening the door (thus letting more ants in, and Wesley out to find Bill). I scrubbed the front hall walls, then the floors, and I'm still not confident that this is over.

I'm not sure I can stay in my own home today, even though it's pouring and forecasted to keep raining all week. If one more animal invades my space, I may turn in MY resignation. :-)

grinchy

With only a week to go before my due date, I'm ready to meet Baby Fig. People keep asking Mr. Kenobi if I'm "nesting." While the inner pits (a.k.a. inside our house) could definitely use some cleaning, I have been ferociously working (and delegating) outside work. This has led to some crazy moments that should be chalked up to "nesting" - or something other than sanity.

Take, for example, my beautiful gardens. The newly planted flowers and greenery are actually surviving. This is a miracle unto itself, but the fact remains that I may actually get some blooms and vegetables on this shady property. Of course, much could still go wrong on this plan, but at least we've made it home with plants, put them into the freshly amended soil, and covered with what seemed like acres worth of bark dust. It looks nice, and things are growing.

The problem lies with neighborhood animals. Or perhaps, just perhaps, the problem lies with my present condition. I'm not admitting any intolerance, but have to confess to insisting that Mr. Kenobi string up makeshift fencing with stakes and bright pink twine to keep passing doggies from tromping through the itty-bitty plantings. My hope was, of course, that these fences would also restrain the mysterious kitties who frequent my yard as a litter box.

The fence has kept dogs off the gardens. That, and perhaps I'm biased, but it seems that most dog owners are more aware of their pets' activities, since dogs are usually on a leash while moseying about the neighborhood. Cats, meanwhile, seem to roam unsupervised, especially at night.

I have a problem with this. First, if you're a cat owner, please know that I love you (if I know you) and even like your animal. I'm allergic to him or her, so I probably won't ever be a "cat person," but I am an animal lover in general. However, I also recognize that your beloved animal is put at risk when you open the door, shoo him outside, and wait until morning to welcome him back for a can of tuna. There are predators, cars, and other dangers that, in my opinion, are reasons enough to keep a litter box & pet indoors or supervised on leash. That, of course, and municipal codes requiring your responsibility.

Ah, but yes. Cats like to roam, don't they? Well, then somebody is going to be unhappy: you, me, or your kitty. See, maybe it's pregnancy brain, but I have come to the conclusion that your cat's right to roam ends where my mulch begins. Especially when cat poo is a known risk for health. In particular, my health and little Baby Fig. Herein lies where I'm toeing the line of becoming the neighborhood crazy lady.

Let me be clear: I like animals, and don't want to harm anyone or their pets. So, I've looked at humane, kind, even loving ways to keep the kitty poop out of my gardens. I've used spray bottles and shower settings from the water hose. I've tried cayenne pepper. (Incidentally, this does work, but cayenne must be purchased in bulk if you ever water things and/or have more than a few square feet of garden space.) I've had Mr. Kenobi put up fences, both with string and stakes, as well as fully fencing the back yard. I've even tried - gasp! - directly telling neighbors that I don't like the cats roaming about.

Still, kitties and their souvenirs pepper my flower gardens, scratch up baby blooms, and generally annoy me. I used to have some measure of perspective, but the recent season of allergies (intolerable, especially since I can't take any real medications right now!) and daily growth of my tummy have somehow diminished my sense of humor. Recently, a friend recommended an eco-friendly, creative solution: plant plastic forks, handle down, in the soil. Evidently, the forks won't hurt the cats, but discourage them from littering about in the gardens. I'm game to try anything.

So, (and yes, this is where "crazy" and "nesting" start to flow into the same sentence), I have planted dozens of forks around hostas, impatients, roses, and petunias. What once looked like a nicely manicured garden now looks like a curiously planted picnic remnant. And I, the once patient and well-humored lady next door, have plastic forks planted amid flowers, in hopes that I can deter my neighbors' cats from doing business in my gardens.

Lovely. When Baby Fig arrives, perhaps my patience and perspective will return. In the meantime, I'm hoping the kitties will make some new habits or at least we can all laugh a bit at my version of "nesting."

beautiful mess

The pressure of writing to "catch up" has kept me from writing at all.  Our life is a wonderful adventure, and sometimes it leaves this mama with more experiences than commentary.  I've also had so much work to do on my computer lately, I just haven't wanted to sit and update the blog.  Oh - but I've wanted to write out my thoughts and memories, as they are so much fun!  So, today I'm sharing a little moment of motherhood that I hope to treasure a while...

Baths, in the Kenobi household, happen at least once a week.  Some families do this ritual daily, but in our house it seems that it's an "as needed" occasion.  The boys have been a little stuffed up lately, so I decided to put them in a steamy bath this morning.  They were less than thrilled with the idea.  Obi-1 and Obi-2, it seems, wanted to do something messy.  Thus, a compromise arose which was entirely fun and photogenic.

I taped pieces of paper to the walls of the bathtub, and got them down to their skivvies before setting them in the (empty) tub.  The hot steam vaporizer was turned on to quickly warm the room, and I filled four plastic bowls with finger paints.  They were a little incredulous that I would let them paint on the walls or in the tub, but quickly and joyously started creating.  While I watched and snapped photos, they painted masterpieces (or at least painted) with increasingly messy hands & environment.

I can be known to be one of those moms who resists messy art projects, because... well... they're messy.  In this case, I embraced it!  By the end, they had filled several pieces of paper with their designs.  We had all laughed and enjoyed the moment.  When the art was cleared, I simply filled the tub with sudsy water & bubbles, gave them two clean washcloths to "clean" the tile, and let them play.  Within moments, everyone (and everything) was sparkly.  

It's ten in the morning, and I'm updating this blog, enjoying a latte and admiring some small things:

1. Squeaky-clean boys before lunch.

2. Boys who can take deep breaths through their nose.

3. Tile and tub that's cleaner than when the day started - and I didn't have to do it.

4. Beautiful pieces of childhood art.

5. Fantastic (mostly unpostable, due to the skivvies) photos of childhood.

Here's what I want to remember about this season of my life:

Sometimes you get discouraged,

because I am so small

And leave my little fingerprints

On furniture and walls.

But everyday I'm growing

And soon will come the day

That all those little fingerprints

Will surely fade away.

So here's a little handprint

Just so you can recall

Exactly how my fingers looked

When I was very small.

(I don't know the author of this poem.  It was on a project I did in nursery school...)

mirror, mirror

We have this mirror.  It's large, with an ornate frame.  It weighs over 100 lbs, I think.  Once part of Mr. Kenobi's grandparent's home, the mirror accompanied a dining room set we inherited just after we got married.  For better or worse, it is part of my life.

Truth be told, I don't love this mirror.  It's not my style.  Because of its weight and size, it can only go in certain places of our home.  I'd paint it or get rid of it, but it is a family heirloom.  You don't mess with an heirloom, right?

I've managed to make the mirror fit, sometimes better than others, with my decor.  When we moved here, I had Mr. Kenobi hang it above our fireplace.  On the mantel, I displayed the various pieces of crystal we received as wedding gifts.  With the sunlight sparkling off the glass and reflecting from the mirror, I started to like that mirror.

Then, on the 4th of July last year, we heard a great crash from the living room.  With no explanation, the mirror fell from its hardware, cascading every piece of crystal onto the tile and hardwood floors below.  We rushed in to see shattered crystal everywhere.  Thankfully, nobody was in the room, so only "stuff" was damaged.  Still, it was my stuff.  I liked that crystal.  I had hoped some of it might make heirlooms for my own family.  As we swept and vacuumed, I was sad at the loss of all of those irreplaceable pieces.  

The odd thing was, there were no pieces of mirror anywhere.  As Mr. Kenobi moved the frame from the hearth, we realized it was completely intact.  The mirror had survived, with hardly a scratch.  Grrrr....

We put the mirror in the office, waiting for new hardware.  And waited... and waited...

Because I waited for Mr. Kenobi to fix the mirror, and he didn't think of it (unless I "reminded" him), it never got done.  Eventually, I went out and bought hardware, installed it according to the directions, and quickly realized I am a weakling who didn't want to lift that thing over my head and hang it again.  So I waited for Mr. Kenobi to hang it.

And waited... and waited...

Today, I had waited enough.  I hauled the mirror out, lined up a step stool, and lifted the mirror, carefully, while huffing & puffing, to the mantel.  There, I fiddled with the wires, trying to keep both connected with the hooks.  My step stool was just a bit too short.  So, I lined up a sturdy chair and tried again. Once I finally got the mirror hung, I realized something I really, really, should have double-checked:  the wires were slightly too long.  The giant mirror set on the mantel, instead of hanging from the hooks.  Grrrrr, again.

So, I started to lift it, carefully, off the mantel.  I stepped back off the step stool - oh, yes - the step stool.  I wasn't standing on a step stool, anymore, was I?  No, I had traded that handy stool for a chair.  A chair with a back.  A back which, when slightly leaned against, went tipping backward.

As I fell, I had enough time to think, "Seriously?!?  This mirror is going to crash and break with me on top of it after all of this?!?"  My knee caps hit the floor first, one on the edge of the tile hearth, and the other firmly on the wood floor.   The mirror, held in my hands, crashed to the hearth, and the side of my head slammed into it as we landed in a heap.

You might have guessed it - the mirror is fine.  All except a giant smear where my ear & face careened against it.  I think my kneecaps are swollen twice their normal size, and my elbow is bruised.  As is my ego.  But the mirror was none the worse for its second fall from the mantel.  After laying on the floor and testing all of my joints for a while, I finally got up.   Again, I lifted the mirror to the mantel, but propped it against the wall.  I hope we do not have an earthquake tonight, as I've officially given up doing this myself and will wait for Mr. Kenobi to return tomorrow. 

If ever there was a reason to get rid of an heirloom, I think this mirror has earned its departure from my home.  On the other hand, it's starting to have its own unbreakable place in our family.

silver lining

When we moved, we lost our silver.  

It was an heirloom set, albeit incomplete, passed down from Mr. Kenobi's grandmother.  We had carefully packed it in its wooden box, but as we unpacked items in our new home, it remained missing.  I couldn't fathom somebody stealing it, especially since I carefully labeled the box without indicating valuable silver inside.  No items seemed to be missing, but that silver was never found.  In any case, silver place settingsis not something we can afford to replace right now, so we've had a few holiday dinners here with our fine china and everyday mismatched silverware. 

It felt odd losing something, without choosing to let it go.  Still, that loss has sometimes empowered me to send other things (often of less value) out of my home.  If I can do without 3-generation silver, I can do without a Johnny Jump-up, right?  

Today, I felt like purging things from storage.  We had some baby items that need to go.  While I'm not claiming to be done having babies, I don't think I need to keep everything we've had - especially if some things remain basically unused from the first two Kenobis.  We were typical first-time parents, and purchased or received tons of bottle supplies, plastic plates & "sporks" for little hands.  Not only did many plans and ideas change, but Obi-1 turned out to be quite resistant to bottles.  In fact, most of our collection of this stuff remained unused.  

So, I decided the baby bottles and other similar stuff should go to somebody who needs it now, and I'll worry about replacing or borrowing items if and when I need them some day.  I was tempted to take the whole thing to a charity or friend, but thought better of it and went through items to make sure I didn't give away something I actually wanted to keep.  I hauled out the box labeled "baby kitchen items," and started loading a paper bag with things.  Suddenly, I looked into the bottom and saw a familiar wooden box.  Our silver.  There, under rarely used baby cups and plastic ware was rarely used sterling silver.

My aunt used to tell me to look for reasons to use my nice dishes & silver.  "Make a celebration, if you need to," she'd say.  "Just use that because you'll feel good about it and good about the reason you're celebrating."  

It's good advice.  Perhaps finding the box of utensils can be my reason this time.  Maybe it's the fact that I'm finally moving forward and letting go of baby life.  Maybe it's because my baby is turning five next week.   Whatever the reason, it's time to bring out the nice dishes and make a new recipe.  What was lost has now been found.

hired help

"Mama, be careful on the stairs."  

Hmm?  I absentmindedly responded to Obi-1 as I tried to find the best way to fix ribs for this evening's dinner.   Then, as if from far away, he said it again & caught my attention.

"Be careful on the stairs.  We just washed them."

This echoes the things I tell the boys when I've just finished scrubbing the hardwood stairs.  My mind races to track back through the conversation we had minutes ago...

"Boys, Mama needs your help.  We have friends coming over and I need to finish the recipe and get things cleaned up before Daddy gets home..."

I was sure I asked them to pick up their superhero costumes.  Sure of it.  Perhaps I did, but they decided to "help" by scrubbing the stairs.  I think they're wearing the superhero capes, which means they did  pick them up.  And the stairs undoubtably should be scrubbed, though they weren't on the urgent last-minute cleaning list.

In about two seconds I had raced into the front hall to survey the project.   Obi-1 held the special washcloth I use to scrub my face, a bit sudsy and dripping from his hand, and there was a puddled trail down the stairs and through the hall.  The stairs were thoroughly soaked from wall to rail, including the landing at the top.  Obi-2 held another washcloth, similarly drippy, and pointed to the stack of videos that were barricading traffic from the freshly washed stairs.

It turns out they used my (expensive, of course) foaming face cleanser for the project.  They dutifully filled washcloths with water, squirted a generous amount of cleanser on top, and trekked down the stairs to wash.

I must admit, they are clean now.  It took only a quick mop with a towel to clear the puddles, and a fresh scent of hypo-allergenic, anti-aging cleanser now greets my guests.   I'm sure it's a good thing for those 97-year-old wood floors. 

Considering the cost of this hired help, I can't complain.  

do it yourself

My grandpa, always known to me as "Bampa," was a hard-working, do-it-yourself sort of guy.   After growing up on a farm in the early part of the 20th century, there was little he couldn't figure out or do for himself.  As a young entreprenuer and later a very successful businessman, he knew how to work with others to get his ideas accomplished.

As I grew up, Bampa would often hire a young guy from the local high school to work with him on his farm.  By that point, Bampa was in his 70's, but slowing down wasn't his style.  The teenagers' parents talked about the great benefits of hard work on their sons.  Those boys would learn from Bampa, helping in the things that were too labor-intensive for him to take care of alone.  My older cousins had all done stints in that "intern" job, and it turns out Bampa was pretty infamous for his work ethic.  As one cousin said, "there's two ways to do a job: the wrong way, and Bampa's way."  

My mom was also a frequent laborer for Bampa.  One summer, around the time Bampa was 80 years old, he and my mom (with a little help from my brothers) laid concrete pieces along the shore of the creek and Missouri river that adjoined Bampa's land.  It was literally hundreds of yards of shore, many feet deep, and Bampa had a particular style of rip-rapping: each piece of concrete was hand laid, just so, until it fit like a giant tetris game.  

The result still stands as a wonderful feat of "DIY" engineering; the shore no longer erodes into the river, silt doesn't collect and cause flooding issues at the end of the creek, and the current property owners enjoy a view of the river without losing their lawn.

I tell all of this because I know my grandpa and my husband always got along.  I just wish Mr. Kenobi would have had more time with Bampa, because they are two peas in a pod.  Yesterday, Mr. Kenobi decided it was time to do our "project" of breaking up a long stretch of unused driveway.  We plan to plant grass and some planter beds in the new area, to increase play area and green space in our backyard. 

The concrete was 4-6 inches thick, but he rented a jackhammer and chiseled away at it.  It turns out, that was the easy part.  He then had to lift the pieces out, load them and place them on the other side of the house to form a new path along our property.  I tried to help, but he had a real system to his project.  Each piece was chosen carefully, loaded into a wheelbarrow, and placed along the path line in an intricate puzzle.  Then, loads of smaller gravel and dirt were hauled and scooped into the path, filling in the spaces until it was sturdy and stable.  Finally, the whole path was hosed down and brushed with a broom until it was clear and even.  I eventually got to help a bit (once I'd heard and seen exactly how he wanted it done).  

It is beautiful.  That path will last a very long time, just like that bank of the Missouri back at Bampa's farm.  It was also amazingly hard, labor-intensive work, and my husband is particular about how such work is done.  There is a wrong way, and a Mr. Kenobi way, to do things.  Sort of reminds me of another great man...

            

no having fun

What can you accomplish, in your home, in 15 minutes?

Throw some laundry in the washer or fold a load from the dryer?  Prep a meal?  Write a quick account of your family's antics?

If you're like me, you can accomplish a little, but not nearly as much as your children can undo in the same amount of time.

I had planned a fantastic meal today.  Mediterranean-style Tilapia, with tabbouleh from Brother Juniper's Sacramental Magic book.  I was excited to try the recipes, which seemed relatively quick and simple (not to mention tasty & nutritious).  The prep time called for about 15 minutes for each piece - so I counted on a "30 minute meal."

While you laugh at that, I should also disclose that we have some seriously high piles of laundry.  Obi-2, now fully three years old, has decided he does not want to wear diapers or pull-ups to bed.  I'm happy to encourage my big kid, but not so happy at the heaps of extra sheets, mattress covers, pajamas, etc. that are added to our already overflowing hamper.  If one can drown in laundry, I'm barely staying afloat.  I determined to wrangle control back from the laundry beast today, so I spent time sorting & washing, hanging and drying, folding and stacking.  If nothing else got done today, at least I could look at the laundry and know I finished a project.

I was making good headway before I began dinner prep.  Two loads were finished and folded (a major accomplishment), another was nearly done spinning in the wash, and towels were in the dryer.  After accepting defeat in my quest for nap time, I instructed the boys to play together in their playroom for a few minutes while I got dinner going.  Fifteen minutes - that's all I needed.

That's all it takes, my friends, for things to go from normal, albeit a little tired, life to Mama's-posting-her-resume-and-looking-for-boarding-schools life around the Kenobi homestead.

I smiled as I chopped garlic toasted bulgar wheat.  My boys, sweet guys, were giggling with each other and playing happily.  Then it hit me.  "That giggling sounds like it's not in the play room.  No, it is definitely coming from the laundry room.  There is nothing fun about the laundry room!"

I raced down to find this:

Two boys.

One spray bottle, filled, but with a lid only partially on.

One giant pile of laundry, wet and dry, dirty and clean, where three dirty piles had once stood.

Two open doors on the now-empty washing machine and dryer (we have front-loaders).

A clean, fresh scent of hand soap in the air.

Giggles fading from two young faces.

Turns out they had found my new spray bottle and filled it with foaming hand soap from the downstairs bathroom. This required removing the lid from that soap dispenser, pouring from one bottle into another, and of course, refilling both bottles in the sink.

They took the soapy concoction into the laundry room, and began to do some "cleaning."  Sweet dears.  They want to clean, and needed some towels for the task.

Their search evidently took them to the washing machine, but upon emptying it they found only wet, soppy sheets just out of the spin cycle.  These would not do, so they emptied the dryer to find fluffy towels, which could easily mop up the spilled soapy water in the bathroom, as well as help "clean" the laundry room floor.

But one can't clean the laundry room floor with three piles of laundry (sorted by color & wash temp).  No - they figured the best solution was to combine all of the laundry.  While they were at it, why not just throw it together with the wet sheets from the washer?  Oh, and once the towels are thoroughly soaked from "cleaning," toss them in there, too.  Somewhere along the way, they realized that making a clothes pile is fun - so they took everything off the drying racks and added Daddy's dress shirts and Mama's delicates to the mix, too.  Then, just for good measure, they jumped in it.

The jumping was where the giggles began, and the giggles led MamaToo to investigate.  My investigation ended the fun.

They saw a cleaning project turned into a soft landing pad for flying superhero leaps.  I saw a truckload of laundry, decipherable as clean or dirty only by the sniff-test (eew!) and dampness (again, eew!).

I wish I could tell you how I smiled sweetly and said, "Oh, dear.  Thank you so much for wanting to clean.  That's really sweet."  It didn't even cross my mind to say, "Wow - fun!  A jumping pile!"  I wish I had the grace of some of my friends, who always seem to immediately see the gentle spirit of helpfulness in the midst of mischief.

I didn't.  I started to yell, and then with every last ounce of energy I started repeating to myself, "the fruit of the spirit is...."  This exercise is all that keeps me from yelling, basically because when I finally speak, I'm holding my breath and saying in a very stern, growly voice, "Get. Upstairs. Now!!"  

They whined, "but we don't waaaaant to go upstairs!" I was not in the mood to discuss it further.  I picked up Obi-1 and carried him, flour-sack style, up to his room.  Then I went back downstairs and got his brother.  Setting both together on their launching pads (a.k.a. bunk beds), I sternly advised: "Do. Not. Move. until I come back here to talk with you.  Do not giggle.  Do not play.  Do not get down and get toys or books.  NO HAVING FUN!"

Fifteen minutes passed.  I was not cool, I was not calm, and I was not collected.  My dearest Mr. Kenobi walked in the door and knew something was amiss.  He barely uttered, "What happened?" before I burst into tears and mumbled the story of "pounds of laundry" and "nothing else done" and "spray bottles all over"  and "can't even turn away for 15 minutes!" I also changed the meal plan on the spot - we would have leftover, cold chicken with our tabbouleh, the only piece that was complete.  I then repeated my dramatic announcement: "There will be No More Fun in this house!"

Fortunately, our family believes in forgiveness.  We get a chance to apologize.  We get to work together to sort things (even wet, stinky laundry) out and start over.  We get perspective, even if it takes more than 15 minutes.  And, in spite of ourselves, sometimes we get to have fun.

We also believe in Daddy doing bedtime, which is what he took care of immediately after dinner.  Now that the boys have been asleep for a while, I finally have 15 minutes to reflect.  It turns out that is about what I need to get the story told and begin to smile at the memory.

finding things

I'm working on a project many years old. Over the past ten years or so, I've had a couple storage drawers that held various "office" supplies. Once organized, they've long since deteriorated into "stuff drawers," and the collection has grown beyond pens and paperclips.  This week, thanks to my little dive into artistic endeavors, I decided to let go of the collection and sort the drawers. Who knew a few gallons could hold so much? My past has tumbled out in the contents. Here's a glimpse of a few (actually, thirteen) things I've found...

1. a hackey sack. Yes, my own. Once upon a time, I was part of a first girls' soccer team in my hometown. This thing seemed neccessary for that sport. :)


2. no less than three-dozen colored pencils. Nice ones - the kind I used for design projects in college art classes.


3. magnetic poetry. Romantically themed, no less. Who knows when I bought that little box of words, but I do remember many rhymes and prose decorating a refrigerator - long before the current array of VeggieTales drawings.


4. no less than 10 highlighters. Ever a note-taker, these have helped me focus my thoughts, whether in physics classes or scripture studies.


5. floppy disks. And labels for these disks. Does anyone's computer use these anymore?


6. ticket stubs from some wonderful dates with Mr. Kenobi. Among the treasures are memories of a B.B. King concert and Mariners' Game. Perhaps I saved them, hoping to someday start scrapbooking. I won't rule it out, but let's all admit that's a long-shot.


7. a "year 2000" candle from our wedding, on the eve of that year. What a sweet moment, and the start to the best partnership I could imagine.


8. altoids. Are they still curiously strong? I'm not testing that.


9. no less than 5 forms of white-out. I may never lose all of my perfectionism, but perhaps I'm getting better.


10. tapes for answering machines. Like the floppy disks, I'm not sure these will ever be useful again.


11. slides. They carry images of my design projects from architecture school. On a related note, I found my acceptance letter into that program - evidence the slides must have been pretty decent at one time.


12. a ski pass. Not my own, but belonging to my dear husband, Mr. Kenobi, from a family outing in 1989. How it got in my stuff is evidence that what's mine is his, and what's his is mine.


13. business cards. Mostly, they were my own, with titles like "Marketing Director" and "West Coast Manager." It has me thinking about making up a title and cards for my current job- if only that description could fit on a little 2"x3" piece of card stock.

i'm not nesting

I had a toddler, and I was about 9 months pregnant.  My friend called and asked how (and what) I was doing.  "I'm scrubbing the grout," I explained as I cradled the phone between shoulder and ear.  Obi-1 was taking a nap, so it seemed a good time to take care of spring cleaning.

There was silence on the other end of the phone.  My dear friend, newly married and enjoying a new promotion at work, paused for a cautious breath.  "Um... do you think you might be nesting, MamaToo?  I mean, not that cleaning tile isn't important, but... you're scrubbing grout with a toothbrush?!"

Nesting?  Surely not.  I just wanted to get this floor clean before I was too uncomfortable (or too busy) to do so.  I was tired of seeing discolored grout.  So, I had an old toothbrush in hand and cleanser in a jar, and I was scrubbing the tile.  No more to it than that, I assured her.

A little less than a week later, Obi-2 arrived in our lives.  I think back on that moment and think maybe, just maybe, I was nesting. 

Today, I went into the bathroom and looked at the tile.  Life has not been kind to that grout, quite frankly.  The boys were happy and busy, so I grabbed an old toothbrush and set to work.  Folks, I know it sounds like I'm living in a notably clean, organized house, but let me assure you that I am not.  That said, I figure the bathroom is the only place where my housekeeping has a captive audience.  

As with last week, my tip is finding a new use for an old thing.  An old toothbrush gets into grout easily - along with any other tight spot for cleaning (hinges of the toilet seat, anyone?).  With the recent wave of sickness in our house, we replaced old toothbrushes, which means my cleaning supply got a new boost.  Baking soda and water form an effective, safe paste to scrub all your bathroom's history away.  It sounds awfully domesticated to share this tip, but an old toothbrush and a jar of baking soda bring a little dose of order into a joyfully busy household.

I'd like to say it's perfectly clean, but that may never be the case here.  It is, however, much cleaner than it was earlier! Whether you are nesting or not, a little bit of clean can make you smile.  It may also, as I've found, give you a chuckle at yourself.

Happy Wednesday, and check out other tips from Shannon's list.

you can't legislate common sense

Blueberry juice should be banned.

Come to think of it, so should white shirts for toddlers, and use of crayons during snack time.

Like the coffee cups that say, "Caution - this beverage is hot," blueberry juice jars could boast a little disclaimer:

"This juice stains clothing, table cloths, and area rugs.  Juice should be handled with caution, especially by any boy who might want the green crayon that his brother is using and be willing to reach across a cup of juice to get the crayon.  Mothers who do not want to stain-treat white turtleneck shirts should not dress their boys in white shirts, nor should they give their boys blueberry juice."

Of course, mothers could supervise their children and put lids on juice cups.  

I'm just in the mood for legislating stuff.  It's an election season, you know.

o christmas tree

My mom is a true pioneer woman.  She hunts every autumn (seriously - we're eating venison thanks to Nani).  She grinds her own whole wheat flour to make bread.  She... let's just say I could (and maybe will) write an entire post about her many pioneering attributes.  The true irony is that she's spent a lifetime of dancing and teaching ballet.

 

I admit I'm no pioneer woman, but every once in a while I want to be like that.  This year, our family decided to take advantage to living in an area known for its evergreens. Imagine a first for us: tree hunting with saw in hand, bounding through snow to a glorious spot.  Finding our Christmas tree deep in the forest and hauling it home in a one-horse-open-sleigh.

Okay, it wasn't quite like that.  We went to a tree farm.  In town.  True to our lovely climate, we trekked through mud in the rain to find just the perfect evergreen... and then another... and then another...

The boys reminded me to see beauty in non-conformity.  I reminded them to pay attention to details.  They looked at trees their height, stringy branches reaching out to poke their cheeks. I found tall, handsome tannenbaums.  They found trees with holes from thin branches scattered unevenly.  They pointed to ones whose spines had bent against the northern wind a bit too much to stand straight.  I found ones full of even, neatly spaced bows and tall, straight trunks.

In the end, we found two trees we could agree on.  The first was at the bottom of the hill.  To take it home would require a very long hike to the top of the hill.  Wisely, we decided to wait on that one and see if there were any lovely trees nearer the top. 

 As we hiked into the thick of nobles, we found IT.  There (in a very convenient place) stood a gorgeous, full, healthy tree.  At about 8 feet tall, it was magnificent.  They boys shrieked with delight, and I sighed at finally finding one we could all agree on.  There we gathered, smiling, imagining it covered in lights... 

But enough of that.  There was a saw in my hand, and I needed to get that tree out of the forest - er, tree farm - before the rain thoroughly soaked us.

We posed for a few photos, and then I set the boys to stand back so I could cut our fresh, "live" tree for Christmas.  A few tugs back and forth on that saw, and I was huffing and puffing with very little to show for my effort.  Mud covered my cute, plaid boots and squished up onto the cuffs of my jeans.  My ski hat caught a branch, pulling my hair with it.  Without work gloves, needles were painfully sharp on my cold fingers.  Obi-2 started wandering away from the safe spot where I'd placed him to see the action up close, and I started to envision my 2-year-old crushed by a wayward falling Christmas tree. 

I finally admitted I was over my head in this adventure.  Would I be like a pioneer and cut our own tree, or head to the Boy Scout's stand and purchase one?

Well, I did neither.  Instead, I transformed from pioneer woman to damsel-in-distress.  I pulled out my cell phone, made a call to my knight in shining armor (whose office was minutes away), and begged him to take an early lunch.  Thankfully, he obliged, and cut the tree at its base with swift, strong motions.  He also made quick work of lifting, tying, binding, and securing it to our van. I only had to hand our friendly tree-farmer some change and sweetly chirp "Merry Christmas!" before we were on our way.

So, folks, there you have it.... the story of how we got our Christmas Tree. 

O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree,

How lovely are your branches.

healthful snacking

We try to eat rather healthfully around here.

Some friends and family think I'm a little too stringent with the kids' diets. Who's to say? My opinion, is that healthfully can be loosely translated to mean

NO SNACKING ON BUTTER!





And now, a word from our should-be sponsors at Cooking Light. :)

leaf cookies

We just did the sweetest autumn project. Delicious and fun, messy but a teeny bit educational... we made leaf cookies! I found the idea in BHG magazine, and made some changes so it worked for us. Here's the project:

1. Make sugar cookies, cut into leaf shapes. I found cookie cutters on sale (the Thanksgiving stuff is on clearance because Christmas stuff is in the stores already!). (I used ATK's "Christmas Cookie" recipe, but you could use any plain cookie. I was tempted to make a chocolate one, and I still might... but today's batch was pretty simple. I suppose store-bought dough would probably work, too.) :)

2. Make icing. Here's my recipe:
3 Tblsp whole milk, plus more to adjust consistency
1/2 tsp vanilla
2 Tblsp cream cheese, softened
2 C confectioners' sugar
Whisk together milk & vanilla. With a hand mixer or by hand, mix in cream cheese. Once liquid is thoroughly combined, add sugar a bit at a time, whisking vigorously. Continue to mix it until it reaches a smooth consistency. (For this project, you want the icing a bit runny, which is why I use a bit extra milk.)

3. Color the icing. We used red, yellow, and green. We also ended up making orange, to demonstrate red + yellow = orange. (See? I said it was educational.) Divide the colored icing in separate spaces of muffin tins or juice glasses.

4. While sugar cookies bake & cool, spread out wax paper on a table or counter. Put smocks or aprons on everyone - this is going to be sticky! Distribute clean (best if never-used) paint brushes, and place the "paint" (icing) within reach.

5. Paint leaves cookies with icing. We tried several methods:
a) Brushing icing directly onto the cookie. (This leaves a very thin glaze of color and blends the colors together.)
b) Dropping blobs of icing onto the cookie, then swirling them together with a brush.
c) Dropping blobs of icing onto the cookie with a brush or finger, and finger paint the cookie.
d) Dip the cookie into the icing, then let the colors drip down the rest of the cookie.

Beautiful, tasty results:

So, this project worked for me this week... accomplished many fun things, some necessary things (a friend asked me to bake cookies! Seriously - what a friend!!), and some kind of I-didn't-think-I-was-that-cool sorts of things. Lots of other very smart, quite cool women do things that work, too. Check them out in this list...

while you were out

I try to carefully hide our true names online, out of a (probably overly sensitive) concern for privacy. That said, I will tell you who I am not...

I am not Phillip Schmidt.

I don't know this person, but I take a lot of calls meant for him. Usually these calls come at naptime or dinnertime. I assumed, when we moved here a year ago, that we had received his former number. Perhaps he had moved and not yet switched his records. Oddly enough, when I've tried to find Mr. Schmidt, I've experienced the same thing as the many callers who've pursued him at my home number. Apparently he has disappeared. Sadly, the calls have not ceased.

Mr. Schmidt, several companies would like to visit with you. Many of them try back week after week and month after month. A few have actually received this number from you in recent months, which I'm hoping was just a simple mistake in filling out paperwork. However, these folks would like your new information. Consider this your opportunity to correct the error, and please let them know that your receptionist has given notice.

it is too hot to sterilize china, but...

it had to be done. I'm pleased to announce that now, my china & crystal and entire dining room area is clean. You must be wondering, why did she need to sterilize her china? Ahh... no, there was no fun dinner party at the Kenobis. I wish it were so, but I'm afraid not.

Yesterday was another in several hot days we've enjoyed (and by hot, I mean, um, 90+ degrees). I like hot, summer weather. Mr. Kenobi was miserable, though, and decided it was time to put our AC unit into the dining room window. We use this window, mainly because it's easiest to get to & gives us the most space for cool air to circulate. Also, the thermostat is in that room, so it gives us the illusion that our house is not over 85-degrees. :)

(Side note: I do not like the window AC, mainly because it's loud & only cools that one area, and it uses a lot of electricity. That said, I don't like Mr. Kenobi to be miserable, either.)

In order to put the unit in the window, my china hutch had to be moved. In order to move the china hutch, all of the china & crystal needed to be removed and set on the dining room table until we could reload the hutch. Then, Mr. Kenobi got the AC unit out of our shed, and hauled the 100+ lb bulky machine into our dining room & placed it carefully in the window. After plugging it in and turning it on, we (and everything in the room) were sprayed with dust, fuzzy pieces of lint, and these little charcoal-looking bits.

At this point, I kept trying to remember Llama Momma's recent comments about grace in our homes. So, we pulled out the vacuum & started cleaning out the vents. As we did this, large chunks of fuzzy batting-like material was coming out, and I commented that it looked like somebody (or something) had stuffed it in there. Mr. Kenobi didn't seem concerned, but then again, he was very hot.

After sufficiently cleaning the filter & every opening we could find, he plugged it back in & turned it on. Again, dust & debris sprayed us & all of the dining room. Remember, my china & crystal is sitting there on the table beside us. Mr. Kenobi went back to the shed to find something, and came back quite shaken.

There were - and I caution you, please stop if you're squeamish (like me) - two dead mice in our shed. Those little "charcoal" bits were mouse-droppings. The mice had evidently gotten into our shed, made little homes for themselves in our AC unit, and then met their demise trying to leave.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!

Everything in my house, especially that room, has now been sanitized & scrubbed. Including all of that hand-wash-only crystal & china. Over a very hot, steamy sink on a very hot, steamy day. When the boys decided they were NOT interested in napping. I am so grossed out and tired and frustrated that I had to just come write this for some sympathy. So feign sympathy. Or laugh. Whatever.

So, here's the real ticker for me: every day, I clean up cat poop from our yard & gardens. Every Day. I even have to install a lattice system around my deck, rather than use the space for storage, because it is a favorite neighborhood litter box spot. I do not have a cat, and never have, actually, although many of my dearest friends do have cats. Don't misunderstand, I love them & I don't mind their animals.

I truly try not to get frustrated with my friends and neighbors (whom I LOVE) who let their cats roam free to do their business in my yard. I often think of the grace I've received, and figure it's is the least I can do for the neighborhood.

Except this: if I'm going to provide litter service for the neighborhood, can't the darn cats keep the mice away from my AC unit?!?

Thank you. That was me, MamaToo, ranting. And now I will return to a nice tall glass of ice tea while I soak in the kiddie pool.

finishing well

This morning did not start well. It was rough, from breakfast to getting dressed, right through church and past lunchtime. Things did get a bit better after naps - all of us seemed to have hit the "reset" button on the day. We even took a family walk (with the boys on bikes!) to try flying Obi-2's new kite this afternoon. And then, of course, the kite broke. So we came home and had dinner.

Then we got out the ice cream ball.

If you have not experienced the ice cream ball, I highly recommend it. We got ours here, but they're available lots of places. I'm not usually one for saying you need something, but this may be the exception. The ice cream ball looks a bit like a big glass or plastic soccer ball. It has a cylinder in the center, where you put cream, sugar, and vanilla (or other flavorings & additions). After capping this end off, you turn it over, open the opposite end, and fill the outer shell with ice and rock salt. It's great for taking to picnics, camping, or just making ice cream outside.

The key is to keep it in motion.

We kicked it, rolled it, and tossed it down the sidewalk to the neighbors' yard. We rolled it up and down the slope of our yard. We recruited neighbor kids & parents to help us. Pretty soon we were all giggling and cheering the progress. Making ice cream is an exercise in patience, and even with the ice cream ball, it takes time. This method, of course, also requires a lot of running around!

When it was finished, we sat in the yard and enjoyed delicious ice cream. We even got to take a bowl to our elderly neighbor who can't leave home, and she loved it. We slurped down every last bite, and finally, I thought the day was really ending well. I had no idea it would just get better.

Mr. Kenobi hosed down the ice cream ball and emptied the remaining ice. Obi-1 grabbed an ice cube and tossed it at his daddy (he has great aim). Mr. Kenobi fired back with a squirt from the hose. Pretty soon, both boys were throwing ice cubes, and daddy was hosing them down, in a full-on summer water fight. I laughed, safely spectating from the porch, until Obi-1 got ahold of the hose and sprayed me. That brought me down to confiscate the hose and chase all three boys (grown-up included) around the yard, drawing piercing shrieks of laughter.

After finally drying off, the boys were changed into pj's, teeth brushed, and into bed in record time. In our tradition, I hugged each goodnight and prayed with them. Obi-1 asked to pray, too, and how sweet it was to hear him say thank you to God for having us worship Him today. I left the room, and could hear Mr. Kenobi singing "Alleluia" (a rendition of the doxology) with the boys - a chorus of boyish voices mingling with their daddy's lead.

And then I realized, it really is all about finishing well.

that's it. no more washing hands.

At least not unsupervised, that is.

I began writing this post to update you on Obi-1. Yesterday, he went up to wash his hands while I cleared the breakfast dishes. This is perfectly common in our house. Hand-washing, followed by eating, followed by hand-washing. Both boys have become very self-sufficient in this practice; so much so, in fact, that I have become comfortable sending them upstairs (or downstairs) to wash their hands before or after a meal.

But yesterday, Obi-1 tipped the stool a bit after finishing at the sink, and hit his mouth on the counter, knocking his front top tooth loose. I ran upstairs, of course, to find him crying, and his mouth bleeding. Mom-o-the-year award #250.

A quick call to the dentist set us up to find out the extent of the damage. However, this all happened at 8:15 AM, and the soonest we could be seen was 11:45. He calmed down and the tooth seemed relatively okay - just barely wiggled when I touched it. So, I let him go to VBS camp for the morning, and I even wrote a note so his teachers would know what happened and help him remember not to chew on any snacks.

At the dentist, x-rays were taken and a quick exam completed, and Dr. Dentist assured us both that his tooth was not broken at the root (our initial concern). He thinks it will probably tighten back into place within a few days.

So... good news. Obi-1 is more careful on the stool, and we're back to normal.

This evening, the boys were instructed to go downstairs to wash their hands before dinner. They complied, and we enjoyed a wonderful steak, potato, and mixed salad dinner together as a family. I think it was the first real sit-down meal we've enjoyed all week, since we've been working so hard on the church nursery facility lately.

After dinner, the boys had Mama's highly efficient bath time, followed by generous stories and songs with Daddy. While he handled bedtime, I set in to finish the curriculum I've been working on. I then remembered that I have laundry to do (always), and decided not to put it off over night. So, I headed down to throw in that Bob-the-Tomato shirt and other favorite clothes so they'd be ready to wear tomorrow.

That's when I discovered that we had water on our (basement) laundry room floor.

Water of, well... sizable proportions. Let's just say I'm expecting pairs of animals to show up at my door any time.

Turns out the boys had left the water running in the downstairs sink, with the drain pulled closed. For the entire time (hours) since they had washed their hands before dinner, water had been running full-speed into, and out of, the bathroom sink. A bathroom which is conveniently located next to our laundry and storage areas. Laundry and storage areas, which in my house, are rarely well-organized spaces with clear floors.

This, from the house where Mama says, "turn off the water while you scrub your hands" and "turn off the water while you brush your teeth" and "save some water for the fishes!" because I'm just that OCD about water conservation.

Yes, this same water-conserving nutcase had over two hours worth of water running in a bathroom sink. I had a couple of inches of water covering my basement laundry room. Soaking the rugs. Drenching the pile of laundry on the floor. Endangering the camera. (Why was the camera in danger, you ask? What's that - you don't keep your camera case sitting beside your ironing board? Oh. Well, um, neither do I... anymore.)

We have now spent nearly all of our fun, boys-are-in-bed-now-we-can-finally-relax-together time wet vacuuming the basement floor, clearing soggy items, and generally getting frustrated beyond our exhaustion with the whole situation.

And now, I'm writing about it. To share. To decompress. To let you in on the little chaotic mess that my life can be some days. And, I hope, to have this recorded so I can laugh about it someday... way, way, way, into the future.

learn something new every day

Things I learned today:

1. Sticky tac & silly putty look alike.

2. Sticky tac & silly putty will combine well together, and cannot be separated.

3. Sticky tac & silly putty are not equal.

4. Sticky tac is very useful for displaying the Sunday School craft project of "Joseph's Coat" on the wall.

5. Silly putty gets very gooey on hot days, and melts into a mess.

6. If sticky tac is mixed with silly putty, the combination will not hold crafts on display.

Turns out, we had silly putty in our house. I didn't know that when I put all of the "sticky tac" I found in various places into one large, accessible lump to use for displaying craft projects.

Now I know.