"Are You Still Pregnant?"

Friday seemed promising but nothing came of it. Bill started feeling very sick on Saturday with chills and fever so we missed church on Sunday because of this. He missed work Monday and Tuesday as well - you have to shackle and chain this guy to the floor to get him to stay put so you know he's got to be feeling rough when he misses work. So, we're looking at this delay in childbirth as God's answer since we wouldn't want to jeopardize this baby's health in any way.

Today would put us a week overdue but we're actually doing very well. I think it's funny that my little baby ticker is stuck at the same comment, now! Bill was feeling well enough to go to work and I'm getting a few things done before baby arrives and we plan our move into our new house. God is so good to us and we're excited to see His plan continuing to unfold in our family.

Oh, and we would never leave anyone in the dark about our baby's birth so just know that, unless something happens, you probably won't hear anything. Our family and church friends know this, too.

Until then, I'll leave you with the title question...and other silly things that fly out of people's mouths when a woman is pregnant and overdue *and some great comebacks I can't wait to try out*:

Them: "Are you still pregnant?"
Me: "What??? NOOoooo!!! I'm not pregnant!!! How rude of you to think that!!!"

Them: "You haven't had this baby yet?"
Me: "Oh, but I did have the baby. It wasn't the right one, though, so we had to return it. It took us forever to find the receipt, too..."

Them: "When are you going to have this baby?"
Me: "Just as soon as people stop scaring him/her into staying put. Babies are very sensitive to their environment, you know."

Them: "Any news on the baby?"
Me: "I keep looking, honestly, but Foxnews and CNN just don't give much coverage to this kind of thing, these days. Jerks!"

Them: "Have you tried castor oil/bumpy drives/walking up and down stairs/straddling curbed sidewalks/spicy food/sex?"
Me: "Yes, and nitroglycerine/bungee jumping/throwing myself down stairs...do you know where I can find illegal explosives?"

Them: "When are you due?"
Me: "Actually, I'm not. This is really embarassing, for me, but I really just developed an eating disorder because deep down I'm very VERY ANGRY!!!"

Parting the Waters

Everybody keeps telling me I should be resting up. "Everybody" would include my husband, my kids, my midwife, my friends, my neighbors, my grocery checkout lady. Basically, everybody who has even glanced at my very large belly tells me I need to go and rest. Honestly, though, I think they're just tired of looking at me with my full-to-capacity-womb and want to put me out of sight but, of course, not out of mind.

Last night I noticed that I was quite literally waddling, now. I know what genuine waddling looks like, too, because our neighbors have two ducks who hang out together and waddle over lawns and gardens. It looks cute when they do it, but I just look like a very pregnant lady trying to navigate around furniture and between walls and doorways. I have used this to my advantage, and shamelessly so. A couple of Sundays ago I was waiting to fetch myself a cup of coffee, after church, and there were about three men nattering away at the table. Yes, men do indeed natter. They weren't migrating elsewhere anytime soon, either, so I stated, "I'm pregnant and I need coffee." It was like the parting of the Red Sea! What power and authority! Just to make doubly sure, last week I employed the same technique to fetch our kids from their CE classes. And yet again, the waters parted and I passed through, barely needing to waddle and inch!

Bill has discovered that my pregnancy has worked to our advantage in selling our house, as well. At least it would appear that way. We have a couple ready to close the deal and move in, all the while seeing my belly expanding with every visit to our home. They know this birth is imminent so it has seemed that they have been quick and decisive and are not asking us to do much in the way of repairs to this nearly ten year old manufactured home. And we have a house waiting that really appeals to us and will fit into our long-term plans of living in town and raising our children close to their friends. Again, the path is clearing and we are well on our way!

Now, if I just had the same power and authority to part the amniotic waters at will and usher forth this little boy through the canal and into our world. Alas, that task belongs to him and him alone.

Glory

Bragging Rights

I turned my back on Murron for a few short moments and discovered this:I did not teach her this. No one did. She blesses me so profoundly!

Glory

The Home Stretch

First of all, I want to say how much I have appreciated Bill's postings while I have taken my pre-natal mental hiatus. You'll have to trust me on this one; you would not have wanted to read anything I might have posted during this time.

So, take a look at this:

That's my darling little pregnancy ticker which, today, should read that I am 2 weeks away from delivering Craig Boy II. Sounds like some kind of sci-fi warship, huh? Well, that's not too far from his movements, of late. Remember the Alien movies, any of them? That would be my tummy. While I was laying on our little sofa, the other day, Elizabeth placed a piece of 8 1/2 x 11 cardstock on my tummy. Craig Boy II started moving around and Elizabeth said, "It looks like a hoverboard!" It did, until I started laughing. Then it looked like the shingles that have flown off our roof during our pacific gale storms. Anyway, the entire family has been entertained by this phenomenon. Even Ulie delights in seeing my tummy and saying, "Baby!" before he proceeds to open a drooling mouth and perform impressive zerberts on his brother's warm dwelling.

So, that's about it, for now. When the waiting game gets really dull and I am deep into obsessing over every pelvis plunge, Braxton-Hicks, hip separation, and abdominal cramp, you might read a new entry or two. Until then, it's all about tummy butter, hot therapeutic baths, and LOTS of good wholesome naps. Those are Bill's orders, anyhow!

Glory

Enticements and clean toilets

We have a new soda machine in the hallway of my workplace. It has one of those environmental sensors on it so it will turn itself off if no one has ventured by in a while. The object of such sensors, they say, is to conserve energy. I think it's an insidious way to tempt one into buying something one doesn't need by honing in on one's other senses...or perhaps by scaring the daylights out of the would-be consumer.

The other day while walking down the hall, I became startled when the machine suddenly whirred to life, blinked on and off and on a couple of times, charged the freon in the cooling chamber and beckoned me to buy an icy cold beverage. After I stopped shaking, I found myself hypnotized and started patting my pockets for change. Fortunately I didn't have enough money that day, but I realized to my shame how easy I could give in to corporate suggestion.

Speaking of scary things, we tackled the master bath toilet over the weekend by replacing the wax gasket underneath the bowl. Who knows how long it had been since that pleasant task was completed. It had to have been several years, at least. I had gloves on, and that was enough protection for the job, but I wondered about that guy (you know the one) who has to replace the wax seals underneath the commodes at the public library, the gas stations or even the bus depot in Seattle. If I see that guy, I think I will shake his hand--provided he's wearing gloves--and buy him a nice lunch.

Perhaps the commode creators ought to come up with a sensor device like their soft drink counterparts. The toilet would know when the gasket needed to be replaced and could blink, honk or make some other noises to let you know. That way, if it scared you half to death, you'd already be in the right place.

Bill

Butlering, Sushi and a bad sun

This week I have played host to nearly two dozen people taking a training class near here to become car seat technicians. I have wanted to have such a class here for a couple of years and finally it's happened. Instead of teaching, however, I have played butler, and that's been a lot of fun. These folks are getting the best out of me: the best lunches, the best breakfasts, the best service; no call-in pizza for me. They get the best, including my wife's gourmet cooking.

Recently, Glory and I watched "Remains of the Day," in which the dutiful Mr. Stevens serves his employers, all the while trying to be oblvious to their shortcomings, politics and mannerisms. Service is the key, says Stevens. Everything else doesn't matter. Sadly, Stevens realized too late that he missed out on many things in life while blindly serving.

While I have been very busy doing my regular job and these extras that have come my way, I find that I couldn't be a Mr. Stevens. There's just too much happening around me not to notice. My little 17-month old boy recently started saying the name of our goldfish, Sushi. "Sooo-shee," he says very slowly. He also gets excited when he sees bananas on the counter. "Naaa-naaaa," he says while smiling and chuckling. What a sad existence for me if I didn't listen to little voices uttering new words. Mr. Stevens would be annoyed hearing little voices.

Our four-year old, while trying to shield her eyes from the sun, remarked suddenly in the car on the way to church tonight, "the sun...is no fun." Glory and I laughed heartedly at that. Mr. Stevens would not have laughed at this. Mr. Stevens probably doesn't see the sun very much.

Then there's our teen, who can talk a mile a minute while covering every topic one can think of. Usually each topic will fold into something about horses, but that's OK. Mr. Stevens would not have children in the house, and would not know much about horses, except that very proper important people ride on them from time to time.

I like to think I have a balanced view of things. I hope that as I get older I don't get so wrapped up with work that I miss out on what's really important -- things that can never be captured and experienced again.


Bill

Hide and seek

Most of the people with whom I associate have at least three phone numbers -- work, home and cell. On any given day, one should be able to contact them at their domicile or their place of employment or virtually anywhere else-- the store, on the road, in the bathroom, whereever!

Some of this need to always be at the beck and call of anyone who wants to contact us at anytime, anywhere, is a little annoying, but I guess that's our fault for giving in to demands of being connected and wired to the rest of the societal collective.

I live not too far from a mentality that seems not have given in, and I must take it or leave it.

While trying to get in touch with a colleague who was teaching at a remote training facility in the Cascade mountains, I had a devil of a time trying to track down the phone number. Since this facility is located on property owned by the city of Seattle, I called them. I got put on hold, forever. Then I called another number. No one was there, and the recorded voice stated that all messages would be checked twice a week. I didn't know if one of those checks would have been made on a Thursday, so I hung up. Finally, I called some executive director and ended up with his executive assistant. She didn't know the phone number, and suggested that I call all the numbers I previously tried. When I told her I had had no success, she suggested I call the general store that is about 10 miles from the location of the training facility and, in her words, "see what happens."

The lady at the general store said that, yes, she did have the phone number in question, but it was around there "somewhere." She asked her co-worker for the number. I heard her helpful colleague ask her who it was who wanted to know, and perhaps the caller could call the main training office number in another town. Fortunately, the number was found, and I was in business.

When I finally reached my destination, and before I was able to talk with my co-worker, the lady on the other end said that they don't publish the number. Well, that was helpful.

I think I have gotten used to easy access these days. With a few taps of the keyboard, I usually can track down whatever and whomever I want with relative ease. But if someone doesn't want to be found, it's frustrating.

But, I guess for people who live upriver and up in the mountains, being hard to reach is a skill they seem to have mastered. In one of these upriver towns, though, I know from experience that if they can't be found at home, or at their place of employment or out plowing the fields, they can be found at the local tavern. So, perhaps they aren't trying to hide after all. Perhaps their location just is on a need-to-know basis. And if you ain't from there, and if they don't know you, you don't need to know.

Bill

Recycled memories and new hairdos

The last seven days or so seem to have forced me to remember things from my past.

While riding my Honda Ruckus from work last week, the scent of the air took me back to my high school days, when I would walk home at night after working through the dinner rush at the family restaurant. Pockets of cold winter air would meet a breath of warm air on a certain turn of a dirt road leading to my house. It seemed to bring a sense of comfort after a long day of school and work. Last week's experience was no different.

On Friday, at a bowling alley going away function for a co-worker, the oily smell of french fries instantly took me back to 1983, when I spent Christmas break with my mother. Mom managed a pizza joint at the time in this little Wyoming town of about 300 people, if that. I probably hadn't thought of that memory in a decade or more. A guy named Moose, who had an uncanny resemblance to John Denver, befriended me, and taught me how to play pool while my mother baked pizzas in the back.

Then, Saturday, I clicked on the news on CNN and saw that a certain pop star shaved her head bald. I was reminded of Sinead O'Conner. This particular singer isn't anything like ol' Sinead, so I guess baldness is where the similarities end. Oh well. I never got into Sinead's music too much, but I respected her stance as an artist, and one who didn't want to be in the business just to receive awards and accolades.

Tonight, Glory made calzones. While watching her make them, and inhaling their aroma, I was transported back to 1988, when I was a freshman in college. The university had greasy, cheese and sausage-packed calzones for sale in the evening study hours --and they delivered to the dorm rooms! I don't know if I accomplished much while studying, but I sure accomplished packing on 15 pounds that first semester.

It's interesting what sounds, smells and sights will cause us to remember and reflect. Also interesting is what we sometimes pine away for. It would be great to order up some calzones and invite Moose over for a game of Nine Ball at a tavern somewhere. Perhaps afterward, I could walk home, feeling the warm and cool air on my face, while listening to Sinead's "Nothing Compares to You" on the Walkman.

Yeah, that would be great.

Bill

Super Mutant Hero Family

I think our family could be one of those super mutant hero families that we watch on screen and try with which to identify. But those celluloid freaks got nothing compared to what we've got going on.

Forget Rubbermade Man, or whatever his name is. Forget Recycled Number 2 Plastic Girl. Forget the Amazing Blow Torch Boy. We've got the Super Mutant Hero Family that puts all to shame.

In our supersecret hidden lair headquarters, our army of six stops crime and even ordinary everyday life with our superhuman arsenal of superhuman strength and superhuman abilities.

Superamazing Juggling Pregant Chef Ladymom: This woman defies imagination with her superhuman ability to manage a plethora of skills, all the while managing the home with feats of agility and grace. Her belly expands by the hour with a Superhuman Baby Boy who wants to leap from the womb more than two months early. She soothes everyone's supertempers with her supertalented fingers on the piano. Possessing a superkeen mind, Superamazing Juggling Pregnant Chef Ladymom is a walking encyclopedia and dictionary that freely dispenses information to The Superamazing Confuser, The Superamazing Organizer Imagination Pixiegirl and the Super Superamazing Devours Everything Yelling Boy.

The Superamazing Everywhereman: Everywhereman is, well, everywhere: at home, at work, at church, at the gym, teaching classes, not teaching classes, paying bills, taking the mutant family to doctors, dentists, midwives, friends, neighbors and everywhere and everyone else. His 1986 Olds is an on-the-road miracle of motoring by being able to take Everywhereman on his and the mutant family's quests for employment, health, recreation and nutrition. Everywhereman also battles ridiculers and scoffers on his Honda Ruckus Superamazing Scooterbike when on quests for fuel savings.

The Superamazing Confuser: Able to blister the cognitive abilities of all in her path, the Superamazing Confuser shreds her opponents by keeping them off balance through a barrage of questions and comments using her patented multi-tiered attention span system formula approach. She is effective in rendering her targets helpless by causing them to wonder what they were asking her in the first place. It is expected that Superamazing Confuser will soon possess superior eluding skills, matching her verbal ability to do the same.

Superamazing Organizer Imagination Pixiegirl: Don't let her petite, doe-like features catch you off guard. Pixiegirl lives in the world of rigid organized imagination. When she asks her hapless victims to play, they play HER way. Forget about playing regular Horsey. Forget about playing the usual game with dogs, cats and bears. No no. There is a certain way all is done, and those in her clutches won't know how -- even if they ask. Oh, and pick up those toys, or she will do it for you. And be sure to keep the night's water glass on her dresser, just so.

Superamazing Devours Everything Yelling Boy: The Boy is a whirlwind of teeth and lungs. No banana is safe. No ear is immune. He specializes in making his presence known and remembered. Often noticed for his pleasant features, The Boy rubs it in with charm, but then asks for payment in food and attention. He also has the ability to amplify his demands by a factor of 10 decibels with each passing minute.

Superhuman Baby Boy: Has not yet arrived, but if his moves in the womb suggest anything, he will put everyone in the Super Mutant Hero Family to the test.


Bill

Post Op Blues

Our little girl had her tonsils removed two days ago. We already can tell she's breathing a lot better as her tonsils were very huge and were blocking a part of her airway. It was a long wait to get them removed, but we're grateful now it's all over.

It was a little rough in the morning of her surgery, having arrived at the ENT's office at 7 a.m., and watching our little girl go through what she had to in order to get better. I do hope our other kids don't have to go through anything similar.

When we were leaving the surgeon's office, our girl groggily said to me from the back seat, "I don't want to see a doctor!" I told her that she wouldn't have to again (for that, anyway.)

The good thing about surgeries is the food! On the first day, she enjoyed eating her share of applesauce, ice cream and yogurt. It didn't take too long for her to realize, however , that something wasn't quite right. She was being hustled. It became reality when she saw her brother eating a banana. She wanted one, too. When Glory whipped it up for her in the blender, she cried bitter tears.

"I don't want a banana like that!" she cried. Poor girl.

It's going to be two weeks of pureed food for our little patient, and all of us will be quite happy when this fortnight is over. I promised her I would buy her a double cheeseburger in two weeks. She loves "bubble" cheeseburgers. That seemed to brighten her spirits for a couple of seconds.

I must say one of the hard parts for me is being told by the nasty nurse before the surgery that I couldn't hold my daughter's hand when he gave her the gas and put her to sleep. I know the staff have their reasons, all of them valid, but I was not too pleased being told I had to stay in the post op room while they carried our crying and frightened little girl to the OR. It's like having your kid being ripped from your arms by complete strangers. Someone should look into things like PST for children who have had surgery. I'm sure it's more common than people realize.

But now things are fine. It's just 12 more days of soft foods for our little girl. I hope she can be patient for that bubble cheeseburger.

Bill

Memories of cats

It's hard to know sometimes what I like more: my kids being small or being older.

I do like them small, but the disadvantage is that they have little memory. It's always sadened me to think that they would not remember their family members should something happen to any of us.

So when our little girl started relaying stories some time ago, incorporating events that had actually happened, we knew we were at the point that she would remember things important.

Last night while we prepared to go to bed and were ready to pray, our three-year-old mentioned Mona.

Desdemona, our white feline, and Othello, our black cat, were part of our household until last spring when we gave them away to an acqaintance who lives on a farm. Though we liked our cats, we didn't like the fleas they brought with them from the outside. We also didn't like the jealousy that Mona displayed through peeing on everything after our little boy was born. With little kids, the price just became too high to have cats in the house.

So it was a sad day last spring when we dropped off the cats at the farm, or Hell's Outhouse, as we have called it. As soon as I carried him out of the van, Othello spied the farm family's big Saint Bernard charging out of nowhere toward us. Othello leaped from my arms, leaving me resembling a scratching post, and bolted toward a cattle pen. He ended up getting trapped between the gate and the fence. We retreived him and petted him and he calmed down. Too soon afterward, Othello and Mona were left to settle into farm life as we sadly drove away.

The cats have come up in conversation from time to time, so it doesn't surprise me when even our little girl brings them up. But last night was particularly sweet.

We started to pray, and our little girl asked where Mona was. I reminded her that Mona was living at a farm with all sorts of animals. I told her Mona was having lots of fun with the cows, horses, pigs and dogs.

She wanted to be sure that the cats were OK, and asked other questions, like if the cats were warm and if they are being held by someone. I assured her that the cats are being cared for by someone who loved them. That someone is one of our oldest daughter's friends.

"Is she nice to them?" she asked.

Oh yes, she's very nice to them, I told her.

"Is she careful?" she probed further.

I again told her that the cats are in a good place. We then prayed for the cats and for everyone else, too, before going to bed.

Today she asked again about the cats and prayed for them at lunchtime.

The cats played an important part of our kids' lives, so I am sure we will be hearing about Mona and Othello for years to come.

Bill

Confessions from a power line underdweller

We live underneath a power line -- a BIG power line -- and I suppose that residing under such a life-sapping monstrosity would result in a lot of things bad for the Haven Five: nervous tics, uncontrolled swearing, groceries already microwaved and ready to eat within seconds of pulling up the driveway, rotting flesh, etc.
Fortunately, nothing of the kind has happened in our almost three years living in Electromagnetic Hell.

That's good.
But I wonder if some of the 20-odd house hunters who have even remotely considered our house their next abode believe that is what's in store for them and their loved ones should they decide to relocate here.
Through the fall and winter we have been treated with compliments on our lovely property: "Nice home," one has said. "I love the layout," said another. "Do you like having the firepit in the backyard?" queried a nice gentleman who likes the odd backyard barbecue. However, four out of five "satisfied" clients who ended up passing on our house have commented that they don't like the power lines. It's frustrating, considering that one can see them from a mile away. It's not like our house conceals the power lines as people drive up, only to shock and surprise the otherwise contented buyers when they scope out the backyard.
"Whoa! You didn't tell me you had power lines out here!"
"Sorry."
I really don't know what the big deal is, though. Like us, most of the folks in our neighborhood have families, and so far I haven't seen any of our children sprouting third arms or an extra eyeball or two. Even the pets seem normal to me. That chicken we caught last week didn't smell even slightly broiled. But my sense of smell has been off lately. I could have been mistaken.
Well, anyway, as we enter our fourth month as motivated house sellers, we will continue to put the smile on our collective faces and try our best to convince that one lucky house hunter that this already is his or her home sweet home.
But we may have to steer them into the master bath to have a second or even third look at the huge garden tub they can't live without when they begin asking about that buzzing coming from the backyard.

Bill

To Catch A Chicken

I made my way through the front room of our house to the kitchen when suddenly I heard a rustling outside the room window.
Wind? I wondered. It has been a very windy and rainy month, but through today it was calm.
I glanced to the window and looked at what could have been causing that racket.
"Bang! Bang! Bang! Screeeeech!"
A bird! It was huge. I saw a blur of it fall below the window sill.
As I looked for a flashlight, Glory made her way to the window, as did our kids.
"It's a chicken!" she said loudly.
A chicken? What in the world..?
Our neighborhood is known for the presence of eagles or hawks, not chickens. This was something I had to see.
I went outside, and sure enough, the reddish-brown chicken was flapping away, tangled in our rhododendron bush by our window. Gently, I reached down for the poor bird, talking in soothing tones as I did. It fluttered away from me, going deeper into the bush.
Glory came out with a flashlight and gloves.
Glory grew up on a farm where she was in charge of the chicken chores. Surely she'd know what to do, I thought. I asked her for her expert opinion.
"Do I grab him by the legs or what?"
"Yeah, you can, but you have to be careful," she replied.
Glory handed me the gloves so as to not get my hands scratched. She manned the flashlight. Cautiously, I pulled away the branches and revealed the quiet cluck, probably scared to death.
As I grabbed it around its body, the chicken seemed to wail or scream, calling for help from anything within a mile...or two.
"SCWRAAAAAAWWWWWWKKKKKKK!!!!!"
I pulled the frightened beast close to me and stroked its little head, telling him/her it was going to be OK. The chicken calmed down.
Then we promptly took him inside.
We were hungry.
No, no, we looked around and figured it was one of our neighbor's chickens we have seen in their yard. Glory and I took the bird to the neighbor and knocked on the door. After the customary greeting, I got down to business.
"Is this your chicken?" I asked.
He seemed befuddled, dumbfounded or something. He stammered out a yes, and asked where we found him. We told Jarod the harrowing story. We all had a little chuckle. Gingerly, Jarod took his chicken to the garage. We shook hands and bid each other goodnight.
Glory and I congratulated ourselves for saving the bird, and we thanked God that we could help that chicken.
For some reason, I felt like crying.

Bill

Reflecting and waiting

It will be a quiet Christmas at the Haven.

That's fine by us.

There will be the kids with their gifts. Holiday treats will abound. We'll watch a few movies, probably over and over and over again.

And we'll likely think about this year that has passed. And what a year it has been, filled with sadness, excitement and adventure: my grandfather died in January; our brother-in-law passed away in the winter; Glory, our little boy and I too a trip to Texas in April; and we enjoyed an eventful excursion to the wind-swept canola fields of Saskatchewan that ended in the Cascades spectacularly 60 miles from home when our van lost its transmission. Yes, we've had our share of memories.

Now we're in a hold pattern.

It seems that the watchword for the fall has been "wait." And wait we have: waiting for our house to sell, now going on three months; waiting too see if I still had a job while the powers that be crunched the numbers to determine if it could afford me; waiting for changes in our church family.

And now waiting for our littlest addition to arrive in the spring.

We've been given closure on some issues but we're still waiting for answers on others. I still have my job, which is good for everyone. Our church is holding service in a hotel conference room, but that's been good for many reasons. Our house hasn't sold despite being shown nearly two dozen times, but that, too, has been good because it forces us to keep the house clean and appreciate that we even have a place to call home. And when the baby comes, he will have a warm place to nestle with his mother.

With waiting comes expectations, and we're expecting great things to come in 2007. We have our plans and dreams, but, powerless at this point to bring them to pass, we're just waiting and praying, wanting to be on the same page with the One who ultimately determines whether we can indeed have them.

"Come now, you who say, 'Today or tomorrow we will go to such and such a city, spend a year there, buy and sell, and make a profit'; whereas you do not know what will happen tomorrow. For what is your life? It is even a vapor that appears for a little time and then vanishes away. Instead you ought to say, 'If the Lord wills, we shall live and do this or that.'"
-- James 4:15.

Bill

Mr. Trash's Christmas

From the day that we moved into our house our little girl has been intrigued by the Waste Management trucks. She loves to stand by our window or sit on the front step waiting to see how they collect our garbage and take it away. Week after week she would do this. She had her second birthday, then her third, but almost without fail she would watch this scene unfold every Tuesday.

The guy who picks it all up has pretty much been the same guy. He noticed our shy little waif, usually still clad in pyjammas, and started waving at her. She would run away from the window or just stand there with her fingertips tucked between her lips. It would be a bold step, then, when one day she raised her little hand up just slightly and attempted a wave back. This brought a beaming smile from "Mr. Trash" as he had come to be called. Not long after, she would smile back as she waved a little more confidently each time.

She knew the sound of the trucks, she knew when a substitute driver was there, and she would be upset if she missed it altogether from sleeping in or just not being near enough to the window.

So, today, she had a very special job that she knew was hers alone to do. Bill had picked up a gift card from Starbucks, and I tucked some candy canes and chocolates into a little sack, then attached a card and a bow. Our little elf got dressed and stood with her hand ready to open the door at any time. She heard the truck, she walked up to Mr. Trash as bravely as I've ever seen her, and handed him his little gift. He said something sweet to her, then he was gone.

And this mommy has never been prouder.

Glory

Happy Birthday

It has come to my attention that there is a birthday girl in our midst.

I have been priviledged to know Trinka since August 2003. We have been at MeetChristians longer than we have been blogging, which is a long time.

This fine lady is a woman of excellence in all areas of her life. Reading her blog is challenging and motivating every time. I love her insight and wisdom and hope to know her for a long time to come.

Have a fabulous birthday, Trinka, and God's blessings for another year!

"RoyalBlue"

Names -- Where the behinds are

Our precocious three-year-old wanted to play Barbies and stuffies with me yesterday. With the weather here of late, I have had more time than usual on my hands to get into our children's world. That's been fun. And Educational.

She was playing with her large plastic white stallion. I had the pink "My Little Pony" pony. As the little pony, I asked the stallion's name.

"He doesn't have a name," our girl said.

"How come," I asked.

"Because he doesn't have a name on his bum," she replied.

I paused.

"What?"

"He doesn't have a name on his bum," she said again, matter of factly.

She showed me. True enough, there are characters printed right on the underside of each toy. Barbie has a name. So does the My Little Pony. A little, ugly lizard we found on the street last year has a name, too.

But not the stallion.

If only identifying real-life people and animals were that simple.

Then again, I'm glad it's not.

Bill

“All the way home I’ll be warm…”

On Saturday morning we woke up to a soft layer of snow on the ground and lightly dusting the evergreens around our home. It didn’t last nearly as long as Elizabeth would have liked. She is the most snowsick teen I know. She prays for snow every autumn and carefully examines every bit of sleet that hits the ground on colder fall days. This day it had turned to rain and by late afternoon she had gone on a tirade as only 13 year old girls can. Her eyes – that already have an eerie unknown color - were crackling. It wasn’t pretty.

Sunday after church we had some friends coming over for Thanksgiving Leftovers Lunch. It’s a sort of ceremonial event where we finally consume the rest of the turkey, gravy, stuffing, and other seasonal delicacies with friends to help us. Elizabeth kept glancing outside in hopes of catching any stray flakes falling into our yard. She was entertaining her friends as best she could but I knew her heart was elsewhere in the stratosphere of ice crystals and clouds. The sky responded and by the time the light had begun to dim there was enough snow on the ground for the kids to make a modest snowman and throw several snowballs at each other. Our porch was quickly laden with snow packed gloves, hats, coats and shoes. That night Elizabeth fell asleep under four layers of blankets and sleeping bags with the curtains drawn and the window opened widely letting the chilly air caress her face as she slept. Bill stepped in and closed the window tightly and pulled the curtains shut.

Our bedroom alarm sounded Monday morning and we opened our eyes to a magical winter wonderland of thick snow and crusty ice on the pavement. I lazily implored Bill to stay home from work. He scoffed at the idea of this minor skiff impeding his ability to navigate his way to the office. I understood well his thinking: he’s a Colorado native and quite skilled at winter driving. However, not all the drivers are as skilled as he. I checked wsdot and sure enough there were spinouts reported and some roads were closed. After considering this for a few moments and placing a call to his director - who also told him about the spinouts and road closures – Bill decided he would not be going to work.

We all stayed warm and cozy inside all morning and part of the afternoon. While the schools were closed, homeschool was still up and running. Periodically Elizabeth would ask, “Can I be done?” to which we replied consistently, “Not until you’re done.” I baked cookies while Murron and Ulie played with plush toys and Barbie dolls. Bill worked around the house. We were all biding our time, really, until the wind slowed and the snow cleared a bit before we decided to head out and make the most of it.

After Ulie awoke from his nap we all donned our warmest clothes and grabbed a sliding saucer and took to the hill. It’s just a little hill but it has enough slope to get up a nice speed. We all took our turns and eventually Ulie had had enough so I bundled him up, walked back home, and put on the kettle of water for cocoa. Not long afterward Bill and the girls followed. Murron’s rosy cold cheeks told me how she had thoroughly enjoyed herself and would have stayed longer if her dad and sister weren’t coming home.

Elizabeth looked every bit serene and thoughtful. Perhaps hoping she could have stayed longer as well. Maybe wondering how many more days of snow-filled fun she would have this winter. Or savoring this special moment in time when she was in her element with God’s blessing of the flakes, mounds, dustings, and drifts of snow.

A Weekend To Remember Marriage Conference

We finally did it.

We planned, prepared, and prayed for Bill and I to get away for a childfree weekend. The idea was to go to a marriage conference because, as you might have read, our marital bliss is in jeopardy. We wanted to spend the time with some friends who were like-minded - minus the marriage in jeopardy part. As some friends who have attended similar conferences have attested, the sessions are fantastic, the leaders are experts in their field and NEVER argue or disagree in the privacy of their homes, and the people who attend spend wonderful romantic moments frolicking on surf-swept sandy beaches. Surely this was the medicine that Bill and I needed.

As our friends discovered, however, the conference was sold out. AAaacckkk!!! Didn't they realize that WE were teetering on the edge of despair and doom? Wouldn't they make a tiny exception because of our looming demise? Hadn't they room for two huddled spirits seeking safety and refuge in the embrace of their wisdom? We were distraught. Could anyone hear our pleas for help and hope?

Yes, oh, YES!!!

Mark and Karen heard our pitiful cries and intervened as only two friends could.

They booked a suite at a resort and we made arrangements for our children to be cared for by Rudi and Geneva . Then we packed for three days and two nights of desperately necessary coupletime...

IT WORKED!!!

We had fun, laughed, cried, bared our souls, ate five star gourmet dishes prepared by someone else, and God was present in ALL. From conversations in the hot tub to walks along the beach reading Psalm 148, we were being carefully and delicately connected and we know we are incomparably better for it.

So...we're thinking maybe next weekend...perhaps???

Glory

"Four!"

Sleepy times at our house sometimes drag on far longer than they should. Between prayers, kisses, bathroom visits and teeth brushings, this can go on for an hour, complete with nagging comments from Glory and me and telling the kids to hurry it up.

But, sometimes little statements from our kidlets tend to douse the fires of frustration.

Eldest child, while brushing her teeth, saw her 3 1/2 year-old sister tromping into the bathroom, again!

"Go to bed. I'll be there in a minute," she asserted, with toothbrush in her mouth.

"I have to go potty!" our toddler cried.

"What number, one or two?" oldest sister asked.

"What?" she asked, having no idea what her sister was asking.

"What number, one or two?" she asked again.

There was a slight pause.

"Four!" our little one responded.

Yikes! Both Glory and I, while listening to this from the dining room, started laughing.

"No," our teen said. "One or two?"

"Two," our little girl said, still clueless, but playing along with her sister's question.

She didn't go number two.

Bill