Respite

I wasn't planning on going. It seemed like too much trouble. Then Lynn called.

Lynn is a precious woman who homeschooled her 2 boys at a time when she was one of the few, the brave, and to most people who didn't even know such an undertaking was legal, the weird. Now, those of us who have taken the plunge into educating our children at home are lucky enough to reap the benefits of those courageous mothers like her who went before and showed the world that it could be done, that homeschoolers could not just survive, but actually excel in the world, and that they don't all wear clothes straight from the latest Little House on the Prairie Fall Collection (I said all which would imply that some do, and for those that do, I applaud the hutzpah they possess to buck the culture. That is not my spiritual gift.) After navigating the treacherous waters of homeschooling 2 boys with a very small support system, Lynn has now committed her life to encouraging moms whose pupils are their progeny. She does this a variety of ways, from teaching a class for moms in the homeschool co-op I 'm a part of, to leading Bible studies out of her home, to stalking young moms and leaving harassing messages on their phones about why they need to come to the Whole Heart Mom's conference she helps organize.

And this is what she did to me . . . and my sister.

Now it is a lot to ask a stressed-out man who has been working his fingers to the bone all week (or something like that) to come home Friday night and care for two raucous boys all weekend long who are too young to put out the back door and tell "Get back 'afore it gits dark, ya hear?" So I didn't. I played Lynn's message for him.

Not only did this beautiful man tell me to go, he willingly agreed to let me stay in the hotel, even though the conference was within driving distance, and to stay Saturday night as well, even though the conference ended late Saturday afternoon. His kind gesture was either a testament to his extreme self-sacrifice or to his extreme fear for his wild-eyed wife's sanity or . . . maybe both.

Sally Clarkson, the homeschool mom of 4 who started Whole Heart Ministries, regularly extols the wonders that "sleeping on crisp, clean sheets that no one else has slept (or ate or puked) on" and eating chocolate can do for a worn-out mom. So my sister and I threw all caution to the wind and did just that. We laughed, cried, dyed my hair, and ordered room service. We also heard some incredibly inspiring and encouraging talks by Sally and a cast of extraordinary women who are human, just like me, and love God. Did I mention that I cried . . . a lot? And yet, I was so comforted and relieved to feel my Heavenly Father pursuing me, calling softly to me, warming my often cold and hard heart, and reminding me that He loved me. He loves me.

I still don't understand why some things are the way they are. I still lost my temper with my precious kids when I got home (apparently, crisp, white sheets and chocolate can only do so much). But I do think I was meant to be at that conference. I think God used and is continuing to use it in my life, and I hope that someday He'll see fit to use me like he used Lynn to be a conduit of his love to a hurting heart, even if that means leaving a badgering phone call or two.

Welcome Back

As the apple (or acorn - depending on what part of the country you were in) dropped at midnight on December 31st of 2009, I breathed a sigh of relief and said "good riddance" to a year that has been one of the most trying of my 29 years on this earth. If you walked through this year with me and know the details of the drama that played out in my life, this is no surprise to you. If you don't, I'll try to make this post relevant to you as well with as few details about the extremely personal nature of what my family is going through as possible. Maybe someday when I know my words will be used to heal and not hurt, and I'm finally able to write with complete abandon and freedom, I'll sit down and tell the story. Maybe I'll be ninety-five then . . . and maybe there will be a happy ending. Maybe while I'm still on this earth it will all make sense and I will be able to sit back and marvel at the priceless work of art that was crafted from a pile of ashes. And maybe not.

It is amazing to me the pain with which people learn to cope and function and go about their lives. There is cancer, the death and illness of loved ones, abuse, financial hardship, mental illness, broken relationships, and __________ (fill in the blank with your own personal tragedy.) There are trials that I've walked through before and even in the midst of them, I could see God's hand and could hear the tiny voice of hope, humming softly - sometimes very, very softly. But lately, I don't hear much of anything.

Don't let me scare you. It's not that I think God's not there . . . or here, with me. I am, after all, really good at being melodramatic. My sister says that on the way to school when we were young, I would often let out a scream of horror that would be so disconcerting it could have easily sent my mom off-roading in our red and silver Pontiac Transport. The scream would be followed by something like, "I left my Hello Kitty Pencil Sharpener at home!" This type of over-reaction was commonplace in my youth, and now I have the distinct honor of being at the receiving end of melodrama from my eldest, Locke. "Mooooooo-ooooom, they forgot to include the stickers again in my lego set!" This completely unfounded assertion happens almost every other time my sweet boy opens a new lego set. To back up his claim, he plunges into a diatribe against Wal-mart and it's evil conspiracy to leave out the stickers from lego sets.
And then I find the stickers.

But unlike Locke's lego stickers and my Hello Kitty pencil sharpener, this has been a bonafide, life-altering trial. It's not only changing the future, it changes the past, as odd as that sounds.

We've been studying the book of Ruth at church, and it is such a beautiful story of hope and redemption, of God taking the worst sounds imaginable - the most heinous screams, screeches, banging, clanging, hacking, and moaning, and using them in concert to make the most beautifully awe-inspiring symphony ever written. What has happened to me personally is no where near what happened to Naomi or Ruth. It's just that some days, that whole "bitterness" thing that Naomi talked about makes a lot of sense, and I walk around with this fear or dread of what other things God might see fit to allow to enter my life, and sometimes I wonder if I know who God is at all.

I know this is where you want to tell me to hang on. I know exactly what you want to say, because not only have I said those things to other people in similar circumstances, sometimes, I can even say them to myself. Not to mention the fact that God has given me so many blessings, like my husband and these two precious boys, that I'm ashamed for complaining at all.

So where does that leave me . . . or for that matter, this blog entry? I have to have some sort of satisfactory concluding paragraph that outlines the next step I will take or explains why, ultimately, it will all be okay. And we both know that it will. God is still God. Our time here is so short. One day it will all make sense. But today, it doesn't. And I think that's okay too.

Sheppie (yes - we actually call him this)

So I've already failed my own challenge. But I'm not giving up. Tonight I told my spouse that "part of life is killing plants." Perhaps the same applies to blogs . . . or something.

Shepherd is adorable. He is at such a wonderful stage. He is crawling everywhere and pulling up on everything. He watches his own little chubby hand in wonder as he turns his fat wrist to wave (in my family we refer to this as rubber band wrist). It's as if he is discovering that that this thing at the end of his arm is connected to him and he just might have some control over it. In fact, he reached into the toilet recently and pulled out his first wad of dripping toilet paper. Yes, I know, he's a genius.

He and Merle the girl are becoming buddies. She is immensely patient with his "petting," and he has learned to scrunch up his face as tightly as possible when she comes near, which offers him little defense against the licking that ensues. We often look at the two of them and can't believe there's so much cute in one house.

Shepherd is a lover of music. When he decides he has had enough running errands for one day and wants to politely let his chauffeur (ahem - mwaaa) know exactly how he's feeling by giving a healthy wail, he can usually be calmed down by some well-chosen tunes.

He is babbling away. His vocabulary includes "ba ba ba," "a ba" "ma ma ma" and "da da da" as well as a cacophony of other non-phonetic sounds that I think are found only in Swahili.

Locke is a wonderful big brother. He is very helpful, usually kind, and has only once or twice told me that he wants to trade Shepherd in for a girl. He is anxiously awaiting the day when Shepherd is old enough to engage in a little brotherly wrestling. Locke's attempts at making this happen thus far include him laying on the ground holding Shepherd on his chest while Shepherd cries. WWF - here we come. Shepherd does, however, love to grab those curly locks. In fact, he loves grabbing pretty much any hair. Friends have joked with me that instead of a security blanket, I should give the kid a wig. My hair ends up twisted around his fingers and has even made appearances in his diaper! Apparently, hair makes a lovely appetizer.

I took him outside recently to try to capture some moments for the camera that seem all too rare with the second child, but after my "little buddy" ate approximately a pound of grass, I realized outdoor baby photography is a two-person job. About the only thing we got out of the shoot were some very dirty socks.

My boy is reading. It is beautiful, really. I never knew that I would be so enthralled by Mutt, Pup, Tag, Rag, and their gang of monosyllabic friends. I am slightly embarrassed to say that he is actually "Hooked on Phonics." This reading program always seemed like some sort of practical joke - a commercial legend that existed solely for the purpose of snarky t-shirts and comedic catch-phrases. Who knew that any parent so-inclined can actually head to the local Wal-Mart and pick up a little kit that will literally change their child's life. It really works, and it's been fun.

Locke has been asking for some time to be "hooked on phonics." He even told me that when he turned 5, he would "be able to do phonics gooder." Oh the irony. My sister used the program for both of her boys, and she graciously passed down the cardboard box to me, filled with colorful little treasures called HOP books and a slightly worn bright yellow workbook that is so self-explanatory, Locke may be able to use it to teach Shepherd the ins and outs of phonics. Of course, we may not have to teach Shepherd to read.

Last week, my grandma, who, incidentally turns 84 tomorrow and is always on the cutting edge of pretty much anything, presented me with a set of videos and flashcards called "Your Baby Can Read." The premise is that after watching a series of 20 minute videos for several months, your diaper-clad darling will move on to perusing the New York Times. Okay, well, almost. Our first video-watching session was less than successful. Shepherd fussed, looked around the room, then fell asleep. I think Locke was secretly relieved. "Shepherd's too young to read," he informed us in his best big brother voice.

I haven't given up yet. Although I must say that if my baby really does start reading, there might be a small part of me that's sad. I've discovered that parent types don't just say "they grow up so fast" to have something to say. There is the idea that trite sayings are often overused because in them lies a profound truth that we feel compelled to share, and I have to agree.

The aging and subsequent independence of our children makes us yearn for the days when they needed us, when they relied on us for everything from feeding them to wiping their bottoms, and when we could spell words around them like "C-A-K-E," "B-E-D-T-I-M-E,' and "M-O-V-I-E" without them having a clue as to what we were saying. Locke's new found skill will change way we communicate around here. Spousal disagreements in front of the youngsters are made significantly more challenging when you can't spell things out, so this may be the dawn of a new spiritual exercise for me - learning to shut my yapper. Good thing my Spanish is sub-par.

Blogophobia

I refuse to chalk up this blog to the list of abandoned projects in my life. There is a mandolin that was going to aid me in world-blue-grass domination that looks very artsy on top of the book shelf in the study, but hasn't had its strings plucked in, er, a while. Then, there is my too-expensive camera that was going to make me the next Anne Geddes. It recently sacrificed its batteries to one of Locke's robotic playthings. Unlike the other electronic devices that actually get utilized in the house, my camera's batteries were fully charged (besides, I "borrowed" the batteries from one of our remotes a few weeks ago for a lifeless toy, much to the chagrin of my husband.)

I have blogophobia. I can't write just a little. I am extremely critical of what I do write. The two little hobbits (not to mention the giant) who live with me don't give me ample amounts of time to sit around pontificating about my next post. Therefore, I do not write. And no, procrastination has nothing to do with it and neither do any of my other personality flaws.

I am exceedingly envious of my friends (most are also mommies) who have tons of posts on their blogs. They put up a recent picture of their child doing something adorable and praise-worthy, write an interesting, informative, and succinct paragraph, and move on to other momerly duties (I think I just invented a new word), while I'm still trying to come up with a title that conveys the perfect mixture of humor and angst. I'm sure, with them, there is no rough-drafting, re-writing, nail-biting or other nonsense going on like there is with some of the, ahem, other obsessive people I know. These blog-happy maniacs even have multiple posts in a month!

So as therapy, I am beginning a challenge for myself to post weekly, even if it's just a line or two or just a picture of my child doing something adorable, praiseworthy or heck, something not that exciting at all. I will do this for 3 months.
"Jessie," (this is where I talk to myself).
"Are you sure you want to do this? You're just making this decision on the fly. You haven't counted the cost, weighed the pros and cons, or even imagined what failure might feel like."
"No, self." (This is where my more optimistic self answers my pessimistic self.) "I will conquer my blogophopia. I will post. Yes, I will post. (Cue dramatic music.)

Shepherd Lane McLaughlin

Well, he's here! And no, he's not a month late (talk about a nightmare!), I'm just a month late posting! It seems the past 4 weeks have been high on hectic and low on sleep.

Our sweet Shepherd arrived 9 days early on Thursday morning August 21st at 6:50 am, weighing in at 6lbs, 15 oz at a length of 20 and 1/2 inches. I told Rhett on Wednesday that he should finish up everything that had to be done at work, because I thought our boy was planning on coming into the world very soon (he had been asking me to hold off on the whole labor thing so he could tie up some loose ends, and I kindly obliged until absolutely necessary.) I laid on the couch all day and my sweet sister took Locke. Every time I got up I felt enormous pressure. When Rhett got home that night, I sent him to vacuum out the car, since every baby deserves to come home in a freshly vacuumed car.

For some reason, I have this fear of going to the hospital too early, so it wasn't until around 4:30 in the morning that I told my husband we needed to go . . . and then I made the bed.

When we arrived at the hospital, the nurses told me that I was only 1 cm dilated, and that they could not admit me. They would let me walk around to see if I could get this thing going. All I knew was that I was not going to allow them to send me home, and that I wanted that epidural.

Then my water broke. Suddenly I was 6 cm and my contractions were . . . well, let's just say, painful. The nurses called the anesthesiologist and my doctor, neither one of which made it in time. I told the nurses that I needed to push. They grabbed some guy from the hall who they said was a doctor (he was awfully quiet for a doctor) and tried to get my shocked body into the baby-having position. This is when I started the yell. This was not a high pitched "there's a spider in the bathroom" scream, it was a guttural, almost tribal call, like I was about to jump off a cliff, or kill a wild beast, or as Rhett said, "be in a head-on collision."

At some point it hit me that they have classes for this stuff and maybe I should have taken one, and that perhaps my vocal gymnastics were scaring all the other women on the floor. But these were just fleeting thoughts, so I continued the yell.

Later, after we introduced ourselves to our second offspring, my wise husband told me that he thinks that my natural childbirth experience was not only the more entertaining of our children's births, but that it is more indicative of what is happening, in that a person is coming into the world. The birth of a person, should, in his thinking, be accompanied by some "fireworks" i.e. screaming, and oh, wasn't I happy that I could now identify with the 99.9% of women throughout history who have had a child this way?! I'm so grateful that after watching 2 births he has come up with an exhaustive theory on the pros of natural childbirth. I, however, remain unconvinced.

What I am convinced of is that God has given us the unfathomable gift of being stewards, otherwise known as parents, of a precious life. I am unworthy and ill-equipped, but God is full of grace. The Good Shepherd "gathers the lambs in his arms and carries them close to his heart; He gently leads those who have young . . . (Isaiah 40:11)."

Welcome to the world baby Shepherd. With every day that passes, may you grow to know and love the Chief Shepherd. We love you like crazy.

Our New Addition Has Arrived!

No, not baby #2 . . . our dog.

Of all the things I've wanted to get or get done before our little guy makes his entrance into the world at the end of August, a dog didn't make the short list . . .or the long list. In fact, if a person had told me at the beginning of this year that I would be bringing a canine into our home right before our baby was born, I can only imagine that my answer would have been accompanied by denial, disgust, horror, tears and some sort of physical violence against the messenger or myself. What could possibly make someone with such an aversion to dog ownership take in a good-for-nothing mutt?

One seemingly benign word - Rosie.

My parent's 8 year old dog went and got herself pregnant. I've always known the dog had it out for me. They got her right after I left for college and I couldn't help but to have that eerie I am being replaced by something half as smart and twice as cute feeling (okay - a quarter as smart.)

Throughout the years, in spite of Rosie's all-too-often neighborhood frolics, she never came home with a bun or uh - dog biscuit - in the oven. We thought she was either content with the single life or just unable to bear offspring. Apparently though, the right man never came along, until . . . Sparky.

If you ran across Sparky in a dark alley, you might think he was rabid, which would be frightening, except for the fact that he's slightly larger than a squirrel. On the other hand, nobody likes a rabid squirrel. Needless to say, he's a ferocious little Chihuahua/Terrier mix and about half the size of our Heinz 57 Hotdogish tramp, Rosie. And so, by some act of Divine intervention or sheer meanness on Rosie's part (she just couldn't let me be the only pregnant one) and never to be outdone, she became pregnant at 56 years old with 4 little hybrids (what I've been told is the 2008 version of the mutt). My parents were made aware of her delicate state only after the vet told them that she was sick and going to die. The doctor called back the next day to say that she had simply misread the x-ray.

Now here I sit, 8 months pregnant staring at a little fury 4 legged creature asleep on my white couch. This couch has made it virtually unscathed through 4 and 1/2 years of Locke McLaughlin, and yet I'm not sure it will last 1 month with Merle. That's right. I said Merle. She was named after my husband's all time favorite artist, Merle Haggard, who happens to be one of the few musicians for whom we don't share an affection. And although I don't love the man (Merle, that is, not Rhett), the dog, Merle The Girl, has gone and used her big brown eyes to make me fall head over heels for her. In fact, learning to deal with fleas, doggie poo, and chewed up, well, everything, might be just the therapy an OCD girl like myself needs to loosen her up before the birth of her second born.

But I'm still mad at Rosie.