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.

zip zip zip ho ho ho

That's a dumb name. I know . . . you don't have to tell me.

We've moved.

From Wichita to Chanute Kansas.

I know . . . you've never heard of it and don't know where it is. You are uncultured and ignorant. You've not visited the world famous Safari Museum. You don't know the story of the 3 men who conspired to move their families and communities into one so the train would make a stop here. You are unaware of the 7600 people that live in this bustling metropolis.

I will not record my initial response to the proposal of living here. Well . . . yes I will. (My husband says I overuse the 3 dots. I might start believing him if I don't knock it off). After the initial blow up argument, when my husband incorrectly assumed I was overreacting, he said, "let's be rational and list out our pros and cons for living in Chanute."

My eyebrows reached to my hairline as I stared at him in disbelief. "You want to know the single thing on my pros list? IT's NOT HELL."

Two things real quick. Don't stop reading if you live in Chanute and are a new friend of mine. 1. My heart has changed very much about this place. 2. I can see now, that it's possible I may have been overreacting.

:)

Anyway, I realize my blogging is far behind. I have written two lovely posts since my last one here, however, I accidentally recorded them onto the wrong blog that I DON'T use and cannot for the life of me figure out how to switch it over to here. I was very upset about this.

Here's the explanation of the title. We've moved and our property has 9 acres of not very flat and not very open land. Lots of trees, and hills and two ponds. Except one might not be on our property because there is no indication of where one property ends and the other begins. There is a zip line over one of our ponds. The one we know is ours. You would think that the winter would be a bad time to test it out. You would especially think the winter would be a bad time to let your 3 year old son test it out, but my husband would disagree. During the initial testing of small children, Warrick did get stuck hanging before he reached the far side, but he was carefully strapped into a Little Tikes blue swing - the ones with the yellow straps and the red deal that comes up between their legs. I'm sure this is not how Little Tikes intended their infant swing to be used. BUT, carribiners (caribeaners, kara bean hers. I don't know how to spell this.) are fabulous inventions and I actually felt more or less okay about letting Warrick do this. Don't turn me in to SRS. You were not there and did not witness the safety precautions.

And if that's not over the top, tonight my cousin Lisa and family came by. It was well after dark, but Brett managed to drive his beater truck down into the woods so the headlights shone the length of the zip line. And, you guessed it - the big boys all rode it across while all the little kids sat in the truck wondering if the other members of their family would be riding home with them.

So far, human beings and buckets ranging from 25 to 250 lbs have all safely travelled from one side to the other.

You are welcome to come visit Chanute and try it for yourself.

And the ho ho ho. We hosted a holiday gathering for the first time and it was simply splendid. However, I will say that I just think I might not love turkey however it is prepared. I think too much about animals walking around making noises and then about gnawing their muscle tissue and I kind of get grossed out. So . . . if we have to season and prepare meat with such painstaking care in order for it to taste remarkable, maybe we should just eat things that taste yummy without all the hoopla? Like broccoli and grapefruit and chocolate (dark, of course). These are yummy in their own rite and don't need any prodding to be convincing. My opinion, obviously.

Back to Christmas - I am grateful for the family I married into and enjoy their laughing and silliness and willingness to be helpful and serve each other. I feel ever so lucky and sincerely enjoy their company.

I like the family I was born into too. That I can have heart to hearts with my brother about Jesus and how He changes people - especially us. That my sister and family have left everything familiar to give hope and tangible help to the poor in India. That my parents are so skilled at making people feel special and cared for - to the extent that they will travel to India right after Christmas in order to celebrate His amazingly humble birth with my sister and family.

And now, in closing . . . I do need the 3 dots. The dash isn't a proper substitute. It makes me feel rushed.

Inspiring the drag queen

I know . . . . weird post title, but it's true.

I mentioned before that I had the supreme privilege of getting my sister to myself (sort-of) for three days. I had a weekend road trip with her during her one week stay in the States, to the lovely town of Fayetteville. Oh, that I could live there someday and hike and bike and like like like. Anyway, on Monday morning Mel had 3 meetings starting at 6:30am. ( I was still asleep . . . but please, let me tell you this one mortifying detail. AJ and Sarah - dear friends and super easy to be with - let Mel and I stay in their house. They gave me the master bedroom with my little Vera. They slept in their son's room. Sons's. they have 3. Seriously . . . so nice. In an effort to keep my daughter from waking the whole house, I nursed her at some odd hour and she still wouldn't keep quiet so I cuddled with her and we both fell back to sleep. When I DID wake in the morning, I realized I had forgotten to cover the milk source. The door was open enough that someone passing would have seen much more than they wanted. Oops.)

Back to Monday morning. I, instead, had one lovely long meeting with my dear old friend Erin. We went to little Bread Company, I think it's called. Also one of my sister's favorites. As I was getting out of the car, this unusually thin, swanky man, with a long cigarette between his spindly fingers and a very very serious swagger says, (and forgive me, but you have to read this with your best gay man voice), "Oh my, sister. LOVE the hair. WORK IT GIRL!" Reminder. I'm not at a bar, it's 9:30 am on Monday morning and I'm with my friend and small children at a bakery.

Moments later, when little ones are in hand, he loudly says this as he squares up to us in the middle of the street, "You've inspired me. Tonight, I'm going to be YOU." I wait for the explanation. " I'm a drag queen. You know what a drag queen is?" I smile, he continues. "I have all sorts of wigs. REAL hair. I get them at this place up north of town." He gestures with his whole skinny self. "You ever been there?" Do I look like I need a wig? At one point in my life, my hair was the widest part of me. "Anyway, tonight I'm going to be you. I have a BIG wig that looks just like your hair . . . . " etc... etc.... "21 inch waste, working real hard on it." etc..... etc..... something about silicone injections. Lord thank you that my child doesn't understand that kind of English. I didn't know about all this stuff until college.

Anyway. An unusual encounter. Noteworthy. He also thanked both of us for loving our kids cause he lost his mom when he was 6. I was sad for him. And thankful for my hair at the same time.

Another shorter noteworthy incident. I nearly seriously injured myself last night trying to rescue a baby bunny from my mother-in-law's cat. I have no idea what possessed me, but I was unwilling to watch it, or to let my son watch "Mookie" eat this sweet baby bunny. I literally was tackling and diving all over the yard and yelling with fury at this animal. You would have thought it was trying to eat MY baby. I didn't rescue it the first round. Warrick started screaming crying out of fear. Probably because he'd never seen me move like that. I almost started crying. My sister-in-law, Val, also never having seen me move like that, probably thought it was the most ridiculous display of violence . . . . maybe it was.

BUT, I did make the rescue and took the bunny, after several little pets from Warrick and Whitley, to a more remote part of the neighborhood and let him go. Definitely had some surface wounds, but all four tiny legs were definitely hopping strong.

Okay . . . . last thing. I mentioned this before on Facebook, but someone told me to document it a little more permanently. I guess that's what this is . . . .

Warrick and I are in the baby food aisle at the grocery store and I'm counting 6 carrots and 6 green beans and so on (I made all Warrick's food. Sorry Vera) For whatever reason, I thought it logical to let Warrick get out of the cart and "walk". Really??? Brilliant, Bets.

Up ahead, Warrick and I see, at the same time, some downed items in the middle of the aisle. He goes to inspect and I wait and watch. For the record, moms with boys, never say to your son when you clearly visualize what he will do next, "Warrick, don't kick the maxi pad packages." Also for the record, I DID NOT say this before he actually did it. I have a vivid imagination and don't need to pass on all of my great ideas to my children. Unfortunately, they can think up enough silly things on their own. Bless 'em.

So, one kick. Giggles and turning to look at me. "You saw that I did, Mom?" "Don't do that again, son." I'm getting up, but not fast enough to prevent the second kick . . . . .. or the third. All the while coaxing him unsuccessfully to obey. I was kind of laughing until I realized he was actually going to kick it into the highly trafficked area right in front of the check out lanes. Which of course, he did, effortlessly landing it right in front of an employee coming in from break, looking the other way, and then nearly tripping on the maxi pad package. Quizzically looking at the package, then the child, then the mother who cannot hide her smile.

It's funny, right? You can't control your kids half the time either, so . . . . lighten up. . . .

And the pictures.