He's 4

Wow . . . guess I've missed the blogger format change.  Been out for a bit.  We'll get back up to speed soon.  To the point, Warrick turned four today.  Four glorious, grueling, hilarious years with our son.  "Strong and protective leader".  Now, what that actually looks like in real life, prior to his letting Jesus take control of his behavior, is a tackling, aggressive, growling little man.  Yes, he's charming, and yes, he is often not out of control.  However, when there are lots of children are around, I regularly have to apologize for my son's aggressive behavior.

Here's what I really wanted to say, because I don't want to forget this moment.  We celebrated the beginning of Warrick's birthday last night, because he actually turned four last night at 9:27 pm.  He was born in Perth Australia at 9:27 am on the 27th, but Americans were still working on finishing the 26th at that moment.  He was also born in the spring, as we were in the Southern hemisphere.  Kind of fun little fact.  Last night, reading books, then singing happy birthday, I asked him, 'How do you feel?  You are 4 now!"  He got wide eyed with wonder and expectation, sat up on the bed.  Told me, "I want to call Daniel and tell him."  Then he carefully climbed off the bed, never losing that expectant expression.  Walked to the middle of the room and held still.  Waiting.  Expecting something.  Smiling.  Waiting.  Then he spun around and looked at me, shoulders slumping, smile rapidly shifting to near teary disappointment.  "I still feel 3!"  Heartbroken.

Precious boy.  Here's the other funny thing, and I haven't yet decided if I will post the pictures that made him laugh so very hard . . . I will.  They are the most unflattering images of myself, but I figure they will make you laugh about as hard.  I might have to also post a pic that I feel confident about just to make up for it, and maybe to give you some healing after being scarred by the others.  We looked at pics of Warrick as a new born and talked to him and Vera about the day he was born, We looked at all my belly pictures of him growing in my tummy.  You know how you take pictures every week of your growing belly the first time you're pregnant?  I don't think we did that with Vera . . . sorry sissy.
Anyway, Brett was clicking through them warp speed so it actually looked like an animated film of a growing belly.  Got to the end and then went back and forth from the first image to the last.  Wow.  6 weeks and 41 weeks look gross different.  Anyway, Warrick laughed and laughed as hard and long as I've ever heard him so that Brett and I got to laughing so our whole bodies were shaking. 

Here it is.  Gross, I know.  Flattering not in the least.  Laugh your face off.

 

I don't know why I chose to take the pictures every day on waking.  I am not pretty when I first wake up.  Ever. 

But . . . she is.  Beautiful to me all the time except when she whines and disobeys.

Watching the dolphin show at Sea World during our super special family vacation

Warrick wanting to take pics with mom

The dolphins were way cooler.  I'm hot now and Shamu isn't as interesting.

 

Speed.  I.  am.  Speed.  (Yes, he's almost always this intense when he drives).  And she prefers to be driven.

Body surfing with dad.  Actually caught a few waves!

 

 

Fat black snake

Our blueberry netting is working splendidly.  All 8 blueberry bushes are fully loaded with ripening fruit and I am so excited about it.  The other day, we discovered an unfortunate mishap.  A 4 ft. black snake had become entangled in our netting after trying to squeeze through many many of the little holes.  At the ends of our tunnel, the netting is bunched up a bit and somehow it chose that spot to slither around in.  I'm not sure why, but I volunteered to untangle it.  Proving to be more difficult that I imagined, I brought in heavy duty tools.  A shovel.  My son.  I'm still so grossed out.  I don't know that I can detail this one.  All I will include is this:  The snake got stuck because it was too fat.  It was only too fat in a few places.  3 to be exact, because that is how many toddler-ish age birds came out of the snake after I had had to dismantle it in order to disentangle it from the netting.  I can't write anymore.  I'm going to gag again.  How does an animal digest that many feathers and clawish bird feet?  Sick Sick Sick.  Gross.  I love the country.  I love living in the sticks.  The wild things are my friends. Jesus protect us from snakes and thank you for the Neosho Memorial Regional Medical Center and their investment in anti-venom.

losing his eyebrow and my fish hook

So, those of you who have children know that sleeping and night time do not always coincide.  As of late, Warrick has woken in the night completely traumatized by the very real dreams (I assume, as these are not real situations) he is having.  This particular dream is one I so so so very much wish I could actually act out for you.  But alas, you are here and I am there.

I am in the kitchen cleaning up and hear the beginnings of drama from the other end of the house.  Brett goes to rescue him and I listen from where I am.  "WHERE IS IT?"  crying.  panicking.  "WHERE IS THE OTHER ONE?"  "I CAN'T FEEL IT OVER HERE."  more crying.  more panicking.  I hear Brett's calming voice and then, "WHERE'S MY OTHER EYEBROW?"  immediately I turn off the water and put down the dishes.  I gotta hear this.  This is hilarious.  Already thankful it's dark so I can hide the fact that I'm laughing at him.  I'm so sorry . . . . but sometimes you just really cannot empathize.  I go in and kneel by my husband at the side of the bed.  Warrick is sitting on his folded knees in the dark, completely distraught and searching, feeling, pulling at his forehead in search of the eyebrow that seems to have gone away. I squint in the dark at Brett's face to see if he finds it as funny as I do.  Thankful that I am not alone, I steady my voice to help our son rediscover the eyebrow that has been there all along.  Sweet dreams Sonny. 

My second funny thing was actually a lesson to me in how much I still want to explain myself to strangers should they find my behavior abnormal.  I was in Kansas City for a funeral.  The night before, in the shower, I got my washcloth caught on my nose stud and then accidentally ripped it right out of my nose.  You are lucky, in this situation, if you are not in too much pain.  You are magical if you actually find it again.  I am not magical.

I don't have a replacement stud but really want to keep my piercing and so begin the search in my mom's bathroom for something to hold the space.  Unfortunately, she's like me - we like dangling earrings instead of tiny hoops.  My hair is drying and that's bad for curly haired girls if you haven't put any product in, so I grab a random dangly for the time being.  Black square dangly covered in rhinestones.  It's going nuts as I lotion up and get my hair tamed.  Definitely not going to be able to sleep without an injury.  Try another earring, no better luck.  Eventually dismantle the hook part from one of my less fav earrings and try that out.  The poky end comes aggressivly through my nostril and the other part sticks straight out across my cheek.  Now, I realize that little piece of your earring often goes unnoticed when it's in your ear, but sweet friends, when it's in your nose, it looks like you had a serious fishing accident.

Have to drop my dad off at work and end up meeting his pastor while he is making crosses out of wood.  Shake hands.  "this is not what I usually do, I'm going to get this taken care of next thing."  Unwanted encounter number 1. Second stop in the A.M.  Wal-mart.  Trying hard to be inconspicuous and quick.  Wait in the jewelry department for 10 minutes.  Have to alert someone at check-out in order to get assistance.  Unwanted encounter number 2.  Older woman, on being summoned disgruntledly says, "Well . . . we're right here."  I say, accidentally kind of rudely, "I asked her to.  I've been waiting for a little while here.  Do you have nose studs?"  She notices the issue.  Based on her age, no offense, I'm convinced the hole in my nose, even with a classy tiny stud, is already offensive to her.  Unwanted encounter number 3.  "Well, we have these!"  "Is that it? I'm going to a funeral and obviously do not want to be wearing this."  gesturing at the ridiculous protrusion.  I didn't add that I was not interested in the thick psychedelic ones and was going to a FUNERAL and not a BULL FIGHT.

Have to run home to my parents to pick up both children so my mom can get to an appt.  Target.  Please come through for me Target.  OH . . . the drama.  The tantalizing dollar section.  You have seduced my children again.  Revamp.  Get a cart to contain children.  Trying hard not to treat my kids any differently than normal. Trying really hard not to make eye contact with anyone and hoping to continue to hide under my hair.  We make it to the jewelry section.  A sweet young girl is doing inventory at the counter and looks up at my "Hi."  She immediately starts laughing. Unwanted encounter number 4 "I know.  That's why I'm here.  Please tell me you have nose studs."  She can't stop laughing but is able to tell me that Claire's in the mall should have them.  They open at 10.  Unfortunately 10 is 30 minutes away.  And unfortunately, I actually have some returns to make and some shopping to do. 

At the customer service desk, I place my return items on the belt.  Ooh, I'm so lucky. She doesn't look at my face yet.  She starts scanning.  Asks for me to scan my card and looks up.  and YES, she's seen the fish hook.  "I know.  It fell out in the shower last night and I don't have another one."  "No no no, girl, I know what it is.  I think it's awesome.  I used to make jewelry and I never thought of that. "of course not.  the pitch of her voice continued to get higher.  She's trying so hard to be nice. "well, I'm glad you think this is a good idea.  You are too sweet.  I think it's obnoxious and embarrassing and absolutely not appropriate for a funeral."  She was so sweet about it, also started chuckling a little.  unwanted encounter number 5.

Tried on shoes, purchased hummus and crackers, carrots, two bug catching nets, a thong (no wait, that was a different emergency trip to Target where I brought only black or patterned unders with white jeans to wear to a shower).  Make purchases and finally are closing in on the 10 o'clock mark. Put away cart and try to get my two sweet children to be discreet as they run down the main aisle with me towards Claire's, one waving a blue bug catching net and running it into people's carts and the other one, whose white hair turns heads every where I take her, is dragging and waving her green bug catching net. Unwanted encounter number 6,7,8,9, etc.

Seriously.

Mick Ratliff and the Copper Headless

While you might be thinking this is a radical name for a band, I assure you it is actually a true story. I feel like I've documented my interaction with Mick Ratliff prior to this evening, but it bears being repeated.

We had lived in our home in Chanute but a few weeks when a white city truck came rolling down our driveway. Lucky for us, our shared drive is long and gravelly, so we can hear folks coming for a while - usually even before we see them. It's early and I'm not expecting anyone and don't even know much of anyone yet, so I step onto the front porch to welcome the visitors.

After the appropriate introductions, and I did hold myself back from asking, "Mick Ratliff? . . . that your real name? Are you a bonafide red-neck cause you sure sound like it?" I would soon find out that the question needn't be asked. He was eager to show me himself.

"Came out to fix your light. Noticed it was blinkin' a little bit." Pause. As I wonder how he would know it was blinkin' a little bit. "Actually, I live just over the hill and it's drivin' me nuts, so I'm just gunna fix it fore ya."

"well, don't let me stop you, it's drivin' me nuts too."

After they finish, and jeez, don't I wish I could demonstrate this whole drama for you, Mick Ratliff and the other guy stand in the front yard and here's what unfolds:
Looking down, arms crossed, deliberating - when you know there is still something left to be said. Stares at the yard of small children's outdoor toys and then looks soberly back at his sidekick. "I feel like I oughta tell you this . . . . Oh, maybe I shouldn't. . . . .(long pause for effect) . . . Well . . . . . Do you have little kids? . . . . I don't want to be the one to tell you (looking around and then staring at his feet. Obviously begging me to ask him) . . . . . I hate to tell you this, but we kind of have a bit of a problem out here."
Seriously, the guy deliberated so dramatically, you almost think he might be having spells or something.
I ask, " OK. I'm listening. You have to tell me now." Finally he makes eye contact. I think he didn't want to miss my reaction. After all the build up, I was convinced he wanted me to be terrified.
"We have a bit of a copperhead problem out here." Pause. Are you waiting for me to faint?
"Well . . . what do I need to know? Boots? Shovels? Guns?"
"You probably oughta get a gun."
The week following, I ask some of the neighborhood moms, who have gathered for a brunch to welcome me if they've talked with Mick Ratliff. IMMEDIATELY eyes are rolling and heads are shaking, "Did he drag the copperheads to your house already? You wouldn't have believed the stunt he pulled last spring. 17 dead smelling copperheads in the back of his pick up and he made all the kids in the neighborhood get a good look at them so they would know what to stay away from."
Up until then, none of the moms had ever really seen one. Angie found out later that the "snake" her husband found in the kitchen one day was, in fact, a real live copperhead. But other than that . . . .
This evening, we burned a brush pile in our back tangled jungly woods. I can't say back yard, cause it's just not tame enough for that. While I was carrying over the last of the sticks, what should I meet crawling up the hill next to me?
You got it.
The real deal. Not huge, not angry, not fast, but too close for sure. Brett took care of it while I watched on. The kids were just up the hill obediently sitting on the blanket. We made sure they looked long and hard at it and told them carefully and repeatedly what they needed to do if they ever saw a snake. Brett had been on the phone with his mom and had quickly shoved it in his pocket when I said, "copperhead babe!" She never hung up, listened to the whole thing.
The things you teach your kids when you live in the sticks. Heck, Vera isn't even 2 and thinks it perfectly normal to pee outside. Who knew.

On dying

I know . . . that's a heavy title. And I'm not an expert, obviously. Just been a bit reflective today on this Palm Sunday - thinking about Jesus' choice to surrender to death for me. Weighing in on the implications of it, the reality of how horrible, how gruesome, how betraying and degrading the whole thing was. How phenomenal His love is. How mind boggling. How silencing and confusing.

I cannot do this. Cannot love like this. Cannot love people as they insult me, are unkind to me. I cannot. I cannot comprehend His self-control in His silence. I want my heart and mind to be fully PRESENT this week as we prepare to celebrate Easter. About 8 years ago, my sweet Jesus really changed me. Gave me a tangible hope. Redeemed me in heaps of ways. SAVED me from myself. My response to His resurrection now is much different than it used to be, because He has raised me up too. My redemption is real and I am not who I was . . . this is so worth celebrating to me.

So now, instead of singing calmly, "He lives, He lives, Christ Jesus lives today." I have to restrain myself from throwing my head back, driving my fists in the air and screaming my fullest, purest victory cry. Instead I stand there and my tears start to pour out of every orifice and my nostrils flare and I start sweating. One of these Easters, I will shout a warrior's praise.

My Jesus has conquered what no one else ever will. He has beat death for me. Where O death is your victory? Where O grave, is your sting? Where, Deception, Depression, Defeated and Beat down Woman, is your victory? Where, Hopelessness, Faithlessness, Doubt is your sting?

It's gone. You've been beat. Someone called "My Strength" has fought for me and won.

So tonight, with a fighter rising up in me as I think of Jesus, I think also of my friend, Matt Nagel, who is staring death in the face, whose body is fighting to retain the fullest part of himself, to not suffer loss and I beg Him, O my Strength, to beat death for Matt. To find a way to be glorified without this sweet family suffering any more loss. Jesus, this is not hard for You.

You are the Victor, there is none Stronger than You. And no one loves with Your fierceness. Beat death again in us. Beat out our selfishness, our pride, our doubt. Beat out our sickness and our weakness.

And Lord, whatever broken pieces we carry to the threshold, whatever sufferings, losses, disappointments you allow for us, help us to stand and shout a victor's cry for you STILL.

Look at this

We've had lots of wonderful visitors at our new place. This is our good friend Kent. He and his wife Tiffany were neighbors of ours in Wichita. We first got acquainted because Warrick was so interested in his motor cycle and I was pretty uncomfortable with my son's lack of personal space and his intent staring at this particularly close range. So, of course, I introduced myself. Was surprised when this young man replied to my request on my son's behalf - to look at the motor cycle from 2 feet away - with a "yes ma'am". They became fast friends and some of our kid's favorites

More rockin' visitors. We had an incredible weekend with a visit from our sweet friends, Katie and Dustin and their boys Charlie and Oliver and overlapping their time with Christian and Nicole and William. Both super special to us and sharing milestone adventures and journeys. We treasure them.

Good morning!

Eleventeen

I swear Warrick grew two inches last night. Two weeks ago I noticed that he could wash his hands in the bathroom sink without standing on the stool. He helped me mix peat moss in the wheelbarrow/wheelbarrel (which one is it anyway? barrel makes more sense to me). He helped me put together a map of the United States this evening. He is actually starting to instinctively protect his sister ... in parking lots and near stairs and water (my, haven't I prayed for that one. I am SO over the bodyguard role for Vera). He's just growing up. Everyone tells you, "Enjoy it while they're little - it goes so fast." Crazy how some days can seem like forever and then WABOOM! they have another birthday when you feel like you just got rid of the packaging from last year.
We are manual labor freaks right now at the Olson estate. My husband is worth 5 strong men when it comes to getting a job done well and in record time. I wish I could remember the phrase his own dad used to describe the way he works . . . "killing something". And to my OWN dad, his work pace is nothing short of dumbfounding. On Saturday, he dug 13 fence post holes and set the 10 foot hedge posts in lime, which, of course, he shoveled in and tamped down himself. All this before noon. Set two 4x4 posts in two other holes. Should I add that these holes are like 2 feet plus deep? Mixed concrete for other two holes. Hand dug 10 other holes in clay ish dirt and then shoveled probably 25 wheelbarrow fulls of dirt and delivered. He's a monster. I love it.
We have our garden nearly ready. Sort of. Will deer proof as best we can, coon proof, rabbit proof and kid proof. Have blueberry plants in. Have strawberry bed nearly ready. Landscaping off to a great start. Rain run-off redirected to pond.
Check.
Full weekend of crazy work. So satisfying.
And the kids... as I mentioned before. Growing like crazy. I want to remember when I am older and they don't want to crawl all over me anymore, that for a time, I was the greatest person in the world to them. Well, to Vera, at least. Warrick definitely prefers his dad, and for that I am thankful. I would be completely at peace with him if he grew up to be like his dad in as many ways as his personality and the good Lord allow.
And my little chicken - SHE has nicknamed herself that when she gets up in my arms and snuggles my neck with her hands tucked in to keep warm - still steals my heart and the show daily. Although, I must add, she seems to be taking a liking to throwing her food on the floor with every meal. Even with discipline. Even going hungry for a bit after. She still thinks it funny. Do I? Seriously . . . YOU scrape rice crispy nastiness off the tile and try to get it out of the grout every day. Then call me. It's stupid.
BUT, she is the sweetest, toughest little white haired black eye sporting girl. Both kids love to read right now. They make each other laugh really hard. He tells her she's so cute and she plays with his hair. They can feed themselves with almost identical skill and can count to almost the same number. It goes like this:
"One. Two. Four. Five. Six. Seben. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Eight. Nine" That's Vera
"One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Eighteen. Thirteen. Eleventeen. Thirty-nine." Her brother.
Love them. Want another one. Maybe two. At least one. Praying that my husband will see the light on that one. For sure need his cooperation.

Bonkin' Bonko

I get off the phone this evening to find Brett playing rodeo in Warrick's room with both of our small children. When I exclaimed, "Yeah! Playing rodeo!" I was quickly corrected.

"NO! We're playing Buckin' Bronco!" (said by the largest of the three who was playing the part of the animal) (my husband)

"Yeah!" Bonkin' Bonko!" (says the rider, Warrick)

Of course I laughed. That's hilarious, right?

But goofier/weirder still was when he was bonked off and wriggled himself under the bonko's chest and said, "I'm drinkin' milk from the daddy bonkin' bonko."

That's funny.

This pic, Jami Nato, is what most of our property looks like.

on going country, part 1

E v e r y t h i n g s l o w s d o w n.
I'm beginning to really enjoy the pace of things. Beginning to enjoy the SPACE of things.


A few weeks back, on a slow Saturday, as Brett and I had our usual conversation, "what sort of project should we take on today?" we decided to try to burn the brush pile. We had tried once before - actually, it was to be the crazy-thing-the-brothers-do-for-their-christmas-activity. That was after we made everyone, including my mother-in-law, ride the zip line. Over the pond. In not so warm weather. BUT, the pile would not burn at our Christmas celebration. Just the wrapping paper and the boxes and the gasoline.


On that note, we are certainly learning many things about living in the country by trial and error. For instance, sometimes gasoline can kind of explode when it ignites. Thank you Jesus, no one was hurt. Another instance, oppossums don't necessary die when you shoot them twice point blank after you have caught them in a borrowed live trap on your front step. (They do, however, die quickly if your husband chases them down and beats them. I hated this, but felt somewhat better about this than the first method that didn't work). I'm sorry. I know we live in the country. I know that Mick Ratliff, our neighbor who thinks we have a severe copperhead problem and provided all sorts of drama to me because of our small children, thinks I should get a gun and learn to shoot snakes.

But, we're not very good with guns. We seem to be better at chasing things down or chasing them away. I don't like guns. I DO like to run.

About that, I'm fully convinced I ran off a bobcat a few weeks back - thinking it was a middle sized fluffy dog with a short fluffy tail that was really fast, but that was trying to eat Jacks, our cat, and was moving his kennel bed all over the porch. When it turned around, under a light, I was shocked to see that this medium sized dog had the face of a large cat. I stared after it as it bounded through some tall grass and when it turned to look at me again I thought to myself, "that is not a dog. that is a very large cat. I am certain of it." Granted, it was night time, but let's be honest, we pay the city 27 dollars a month for 3 bright lights on tall telephone poles. It's not exactly pitch black out here.

Can I self-elect myself as the queen of rabbit trailing?

Back to the error of our trials. It seems important that I record our biggest country dumbness to date. On the particular Saturday we tried to burn the brush pile, we instead burned nearly 2 acres of forest ground. When we realized things were perhaps on the edge of getting out of control, Brett quickly raked a 2 foot swath of dirt around it. I was chatting on the phone with my friend Taryn when I came back to real time from her story to see that a cedar tree had caught on fire, and right after that, the grass. The wind was such that it was moving quickly in the direction of the house. Not very close, I am thankful, as I was right by it when it happened, but I was shocked to see how quickly grass can spread a fire. I kept thinking to myself, "at what point do you ask for help?"

That night, we prayed with lots of faith that we would not catch fire as we slept. There were three places that were still smoldering when we went to sleep, and consequently, still smoldering in the morning.

I am thankful that our sweet Lord protected us in our ignorance. Although, I think Brett actually handled the situation pretty well. The ignorance may have just been mine.

I am still surprised that the brush pile will not burn. It is probably the size of our first home and has parts of probably 20 trees we've cut down. Well . . . . that Brett has cut down. I watch from the window and make sure our children don't get smashed.

There will be more bloopers soon, I'm sure, as we ready ourselves for garden planting and stone wall building and animal proofing our plants. Some of them might not be funny to me until years from now, but I'll write them as if they were funny so you can laugh at me if you want. :)

The hardest thing

I know this is probably consistent with parents across the board, but doggone it if if just feels like you are not making ANY progress sometimes. You teach, you discipline, you hug and read books and tell stories to illustrate the character you want to see grow in your kid. You try as many different approaches as can be tried to communicate your love and "the best way" for your child to live. (real life time - Warrick just slammed the laptop lid down on my hand. How many times have I told him that this is a TOOL and not a TOY?)

So, when it comes to discipline, I just have trouble seeing that what we are doing is actually helping. Time outs? He doesn't care really. Go to your room and play quietly? More lego time. No chocolate? That will move mountains for him but then you have to discipline him more for the tantrum he's throwing on account of his initial punishment. Go to bed all by yourself? Not sure it's worth the lack of sleep for the rest of the family. Who's getting punished? Spanking . . . that's a whole nutha can o' worms. I realize that many people don't spank their kids. I got spanked plenty. More than my sister for sure, and less than my brother for sure. Did it help?

I remember one particular time when my brother and I were wrestling in the living room, were threatened and asked to stop, but continued our match and consequently knocked over a tall lamp. I don't know if we broke it or not. What I DO remember is that my mother quickly gave me 4 spankings. I should add . . . I thought the whole thing was funny. This gets me into trouble sometimes. Seems I take some things too seriously and need to take other things MORE seriously. Anyway, I was still laughing at the whole thing after the first four spankings when she asked me, "Do you think you have learned your lesson?" I intelligently replied, between giggles, "I don't know, mom." 4 more. Really. 8 is a lot of spankings when you have a scrawny rear.

Clarification: "scrawny rear" applies solely to the time period of the above incident.

And so, after the 8 spankings, I think I was repentant. At least I knew I had committed a violation and was guilty and was not too happy about my punishment. I was done laughing. Although, when I remember it now, it's funny to me again.

So, coming back to the parenting gig . . . I have been questioning whether or not spanking our child (we have two, but I haven't yet seen fit to spank the younger) is actually effective. He certainly doesn't like it. In fact, the other day when he knew a spanking was coming, he stole a spoon out of the cooking utensils drawer, ran to our bathroom, stuck it down my tall black Keen boot which was well placed on the bathroom floor (of course), placed a large hardback book over it and then sat on it and waited. Two small errors here. 1. We have lots of other wooden spoons in the drawer and 2. He immediately told me he was hiding the spoon in the black boot when I walked in and showed me his careful hiding spot.

Prayed last night, a little more intensely than I sometimes do, for God to make it clear what Warrick needs. For wisdom, for patience, for vision. To not take offenses personally, to not get discouraged, to not be reactive, to trust God. To trust God.

This morning, I accidentally open right to this verse. "The rod of correction imparts wisdom. He who spares the rod hates his child." Wow. Now, I would like to offer that I pass no judgment on parents who choose not to spank their children, as I think the "rod of correction" can look like lots of things. But I DO believe this. Discipline should be a time of teaching, reconciling, correcting and it should also be painful enough (somehow) that the child doesn't want to commit the crime again because he associates it with bad nasty no fun stuff. The fear of the Lord, after all, is the beginning of wisdom. I also believe that you should never deliver any kind of physical punishment - flicking the hand or a spanking - if you are angry.

The seal the deal though, and remind me that we're really just doing our best and trying to serve our kids and obey God as we think He's instructed us to, Warrick says to me this morning - hang on. Seriously, he had been awake for maybe 20 minutes, and was sitting in the bath (cause he peed the bed) and looked me straight in the eye - we weren't talking about any kind of discipline, we were talking about matchbox cars riding on his big military boat that was squishing him out of bathtub space - and says, "You are a really good mommy if you give spankings."

I'm not kidding. He said it with the sweetest voice and crystal clear. So, maybe what we are doing is working. Maybe God wanted to remind us that we HAVE tried to approach it humbly, cause let's be honest. We don't know what we're doing and need all the help we can get. We don't take it lightly and try to be selective when we use this form of discipline. But really? I kind of think that was God just reminding me to stay the course and pray my face off. Parenting is really really really hard work. The hardest thing I've ever done, hands down.

Again - I don't pass any judgment on other parents for their choice in this, although I think it's something that needs to be considerately thought through. And my kid was saying this to ME and not to some other mom and it was after I prayed for wisdom and clarity. So . . . there. A little encouraged today. And it has been a really sweet one with Warrick too. No spankings even. :)

booger prayer

Sometimes Warrick drives me absolutely nuts.
Sometimes he is unbelievably delightful and I laugh my eyes out.

Tonight I was praying for him, over him, begging God for him. I really felt such a strong sense of the Lord's presence and vision and plan for him and was passionate about it and excited. And then . . . . Warrick wiped his booger on my nice black shirt.

All my immature, reactiveness drowned out my sweet God passion in that moment. I caught my breath (bit my sword tongue from saying, "What's the matter with you? Do you want me smearing boogers all over you? ) and then calmly asked Warrick if he, instead, would like a kleenex. Except I felt like sneezing in his face. I DID ask him not to wipe boogers on me. It's just not nice to wipe boogers on people or their clothes. Even if it's their rattiest messiest play or work clothes.

Anyway, I'm thankful for the quick reminder that I need as much guidance and change in my life as he does. If I can almost so quickly fly off the handle for getting a boog from my son, what would I do if someone really actually did something horrible to me?

Oh Lord Jesus, bring more of Your sweet self into my spirit.

hand foot mouth

I've heard of it before and was shooed away from the YMCA KidZone once in Wichita when there had been an outbreak. Never had it. Come to find out, adults don't get it very often. I'm thankful for that now, as I watch my son suffering and drooling and desperately wanting to eat. Vera was a little luckier. She just has bumps on her booty, her hands and feet. But Warrick's mouth is horrific and his breath would make anyone who is weak of stomach hit the floor. The entire under side of his tongue looks like a giant kanker sore. I don't know how to spell kanker. Or Carribeaner, still.

He can't control his drool, his tears, or his whining, it seems. He can eat peanut butter if he holds it on his tongue for 5 minutes while he musters his courage to swallow. That's about it. We got him a Sonic milkshake tonight. Even then, he had to take frequent breaks. I had to pin him to brush his teeth and it was a sloppy, bloody, crying mess. I was so sad for him.

But one thing has been particularly interesting about this virus.

It has made our son stop talking.

For 2 days.

I could count his sentences on one hand.

Usually, he can talk about anything, faster than his mind has even actually made up what it is he wants to say. Stuttering and lisping in his barely detectable manner. Our house is rarely silent. (Even at night, lots of times, as we have not managed to raise good sleepers). He and his sister can easily fill the walls with their noises.

I'm sure it's a combination of his silence, the New Year, my starting a book called "Kisses from Katie", but it's caused some good reflection in me. Some remembering, really. And some of this has not taken on intelligible language yet, but is still quiet hints and whispers in my soul. But I'm starting to ask questions again . . . the kind that make you either have to change or to resolutely choose what you know full well is not quite right - even though it may be what all your neighbors are doing and what your best friends encourage of you.

So, I'm asking things like, "If God tells us to take care of orphans and widows in their distress, does that make adoption an obligation? A byproduct of really loving Jesus? Am I really taking care of orphans by occasionally giving some money to a mentoring program? I don't want to say obligation, but I used to think people were "called" to adoption. But I keep wondering if that's a bunch of bunk. I keep wondering how I would justify the fact that I've been parented pretty darn well, and loved well and have now been given an incredible husband - a real leader of our family and an intentional father, and also given a home with extra rooms, and land that begs to be explored and run around on . . . How would I justify this to a child that just wants to be held, wants to point at us and call us his family, to a child who can't get enough to eat when I throw away food just from off our floor that could easily sustain another life. What would my reasons be? Do I actually have any? Am I being really selfish to keep all this to our 2 little ones? At the same time, I know full well, that if we were to adopt, I would probably quickly realize that I'm actually the one that needs rescuing, and that instead of teaching someone else about God and holiness, I'm the immature one that is deceived and needs to change.

Another thinking that won't settle down in me. I want a hardwood floor. A light, solid HARD hardwood floor. Hickory or oak, but probably hickory. I could get over 1000 ft for less than 4000 dollars I think. I don't like the floors we have. I don't like the light fixtures or bathroom fixtures or the front door or the storm door or the color of the basement or the drop ceiling or the cabinet finish either. And Lord help me, I really don't like the hallway carpet.

But seriously. I have a warm house. I have electricity. I have warm water. I don't have to pee in a hole in the ground and I generally only sleep with one other person in my room. There is NOTHING really wrong with the floors we have. Except that I don't like it. And I'm a creative person and need to express myself through creative things, blah blah blah. Perhaps I need to get more creative and think of ways I could help people that need alot more help than I do. Remodeling seems like a crazy luxury to me today. And sometimes kind of wasteful and shallow.

I don't know what to do with the battles in my head over these things.

I'm just having a little bit of trouble justifying some of my life. A lot of places in my head are die hard dedicated to a lot of things and thoughts that really just don't matter. And I can feel that it's true. That my life could hold a lot more purpose and that I could stop feeling wasted so often, if I would do something about it.

So, I am writing them down as a means of accountability. Again. So I'll continue to remember.

And then too, I'm asking myself, cause I think the name for this virus is so weird. What are my hands doing to help and love and serve? Where are my feet going to take the truth of Jesus? Is my mouth communicating encouragement, HOPE, vision?

Just using my son's silence as a reminder to me to change.

From the silent, drooling, bleeding, kankerous mouth of babes.