Pastor Anderson

A fancy, gourmet meal is memorable.  It makes for a good story and a few nice photographs.  The guests are fed, nourished but everyone knows this type of meals can't be repeated day in and day out.  It is the basic, daily meal that sustains us for life.  At the end of our week or month, we might only remember one or two special meals, but we are alive at the end of that time because of the daily sustenance of quality-albeit, basic-food.

Our faith life is sustained, enriched and encouraged in a similar way through preaching and worship.  We might remember the fantastic worship services or the 'best sermon ever,' but that isn't what keeps our faith alive.  It's the daily sustenance of quality food.  Everyone might have their idea of what quality theological food looks (tastes) like.  For me it is the Gospel preached -the honesty of the cross brought into my daily life.  I like to see the humanity of the one preaching.

Even if it means the one preaching is actually human.

My faith life has been sustained by many a meal, and by countless people who have joined me at the table, but for most of my formative years there was one person standing in the pulpit--feeding me.

He died recently.

The last meal I shared with him was in my sister's basement less than a year ago.  Crackers and cheese, salad and ham after he presided at the baptism of my nephew.  Shortly after this, he would share news of his lung cancer with his congregation and retire from ministry.

I knew I needed to write him a letter.  There was much I should say.  But somehow corresponding with someone when you've never done so before seemed odd.  I imagine he was at peace with the fact he was dying.  I wasn't; and to write the letter meant it was going to happen.  I'm tired of people dying in their 60's--my parents age--and to acknowledge the mortality of one more person dying before I think they should, was too much for my to do list.  So I put it off.

I'm not overwhelmed with remorse or regret that the letter never got written.  He and I didn't have an overly emotional, mentor relationship.  We didn't talk often and I didn't go to him for advice or pastoral direction-either personally or professionally.  I just know enormous parts of my life would have been different if he hadn't been my pastor.

During confirmation he and the associate pastor both started to plant the seeds of ordained ministry in my mind and being.  When I chose a major in college, he would highlight how well it would complement ministry.  When I spoke in the congregation in advocacy of my work with HFHI, he complimented my public presence and passion...noting both would serve me well in ministry.

When I finally gave in to the call he had seen years before, it was the years of sermons and classes that served as the foundation for my theological work.  Many a class would seem to be restating knowledge I already had ...I came to see how steeped in Lutheran theology I had been.  During internship I came to see how my pastoral identity had been shaped by him (both in the ways I would emulate and the ways in which I deviated.) When I began to preach I gave thanks for the countless sermons that had fed me over the years.  He didn't preach fancy sermons or put on a huge show, but the ingredients were of high quality, put together with serious thought and great love.

It might be an unrelated coincidence, but I write sermons like he did too--at the, seemingly, last minute.  Late Saturday night, the Holy Spirit must be the strongest.  Some times as I would be pulling out my hair trying to think of how to get into a sermon, I would picture him sitting at Perkins late at night, sucking down coffee (smoking) and creating his sermon--this image validated my tenancy towards this procrastination style.

I never wrote the letter, but I trust he knew he had a hand in shaping my life.  I'll leave it to God to let him know, while I will never forget his influence.  Carrying on with his ministry as my guide, might be a better tribute than my letter ever would have been.

He had been my only true pastor.  He was friend and pastor to my parents. He was the father of my brother's best friend.  He presided at our wedding.  He said a prayer at my ordination.  He baptized my nephew. 

He fed many--may the nourishment continue.

Books.

I just finished the book, What Alice Forgot by Liane Moriarty.  While it falls under the category of 'light read', it is longer and more thoughtful/thought provoking than many of my 'chic lit' reads.  It is basically a story of a woman who hits her head and gets amnesia.  She wakes up remembering nothing from the last 10 years of her life.  She was 29, newly married and had no kids.  Now she is 39 with three kids and the brink of a divorce.

I was a nice story and managed to enliven some brainwaves and spur introspective thought, as LP and I read at 3am a few days ago.  What would my 20 something self think, if she woke up in my life today?  I came to the conclusion that my 10 year old self would think my 20 year old self was pretty cool.  But this past decade...no lying, it has been one you'd have to live through to understand.  (and even then, thinking about it would keep up at night...or, maybe that was LP.)

Next up is Jodi Picoult's latest novel:  Sing You Home.

Second Ring

During the first two pregnancies, when my wedding ring no longer fit, I just stopped wearing a ring.  This third time, I ended up taking it off fairly early in the pregnancy. (my fingers started out a bit larger than they had been...)

One day BB, EG and I were browsing through a local department store when we passed the costume jewelry section.  I stopped to try on one of the rings...just for fun.  BB took one look at all the shiny goodness before him and he hatched a plan to make one of them his--well, sort of his.  BB decided he would pick out a ring for me to wear since I "wasn't wearing Daddy's."

There were three trays full of "gem"stone rings.  Many were made to look like traditional wedding/engagement sets, others were pure fiction.  Still others were basic cocktail style rings.  He had me try on each and every ring.  With each one he would take my hand and move it closer to his face.  He'd inspect the ring.  Look back at the tray and contemplate which would be best. (All the while EG was trying to take a ride up the escalator by herself.  She had no interest in this process.)

He has pretty gaudy taste.  (in my opinion.)  In the end, I narrowed down the field to three rings and let him choose.

This is the ring I wore for a few months during my pregnancy.  I have to admit it is a pretty fun ring to wear.

Now, five weeks after giving birth, the ring is too large. (plus the mammoth 'diamond' is a bit dangerous around a baby)  But sadly, my real engagement ring and wedding band remains too tight for me to comfortably wear.  (along with my pants, shirts and a whole lotta my shoes.)

When I was first given the real ring, twelve years ago, I remember standing out on the end of my parents' property and staring in wonder at my new gift.  I had just said 'yes' to my husband's marriage proposal. Then I promptly began to jump around and shake my hand to see how easily the ring might come off.  It stayed put. (but with lots of room for movement.  sigh)

And, I look forward to the day I put it back on...

Keeping it Calmer in 2012--election that is.

I think it is a sign that I really need to enter a 5 K race or some other (appropriate) competitive event in order to full fill a life long need to 'be first.'  (or rather have tangible proof that I am 'right', 'ok', 'complete', 'good'...pick one.)  There is nothing like a good election cycle to get me hopped up and jazzed.  But over time I've realized very few people share my zeal for this rite of American culture.  (and, where I live I have very few comrades.)  Plus, I am getting older...my heart may not make it around this go.

So, I can't promise that I will fulfill any of these 13 goals--but they seems like a good thing to at least consider.

From the website of Rachel Held Evans:
While I can’t avoid 2012, I figure I can keep it from making me crazy by deciding on 13 things I won’t do this election season: 

1. Threaten to move to Canada if my candidate doesn’t win. 

2. Engage in lengthy political arguments on Facebook with people I don’t even know that well. 

3. Scarf down an entire bag of animal crackers while nervously watching a debate…(not that this has ever happened before).

4. Donate to a campaign.

5. Allow polls to dictate my mood. 

6. Write five blog posts a week about how the Republican Party has co-opted the evangelical culture to the point that the two are indistinguishable….(not that this has ever happened before). 

7. Rely exclusively on cable news for my information. 

8. Rely exclusively on John Stewart for my information. 

9. Avoid my conservative friends.  

10. Get so preoccupied with the power struggles of an earthly kingdom that I forget my first allegiance is to a heavenly kingdom that expands through patience, love, mercy, and grace. 

11. Assume that God is on my side or that a single vote can represent my "Christian values" to the world. 

12. Let anyone convince me that I should be afraid.

13. Check Facebook on election night.

He's a What?!

Last night the kids were eating tacos as I cut up peaches for dessert.
BB:  Mom, what's a veterinarian?
Before I could answer, thinking to myself that he knew the answer, EG jumps in.
EG:  It's a doctor that takes care of animals.
BB: (realizing he got it wrong, laughs and curiously says)  No, no...one of my friends in class is one.
Me:  A vegetarian?
BB:  Yeah, yeah...that.  (pauses and then very serious) What's that?
Me: A vegetarian is someone who doesn't eat meat.
EG: (to herself mostly, totally deadpan as she pops a grape in her mouth.)  Well, yeah...he shouldn't need to be in Kindergarten if he's a veterinarian.

Making Grapes

The memories come to me at seemingly odd moments.  Often, oddest of all, they have often come to me in a grocery store.  Perhaps, because I am alone while shopping.  Or it may be that she made even grocery shopping special.  While I lived with her, we shopped at a memorable grocery store.  Carpeted and hardwood aisles.  Wealth, along with 'fancy' people roamed with us, pushing their carts or holding their green baskets over a crooked arm.  Imported cheeses.  Fancy olives.  An in store pastry chef and dietitian. Organic before organic was something you had to have.  Any ingredient a home chef would search for.  All of this made our grocery list laughable.

We were there for prepacked frozen dinner items, bags of snack foods, anything deemed 'low fat' and diet coke.

(I have no earthly idea how I survived the summers that I lived with them.)

But the shopping trips were events.  Much like shoe shopping, my godfather and I would banter back and forth as she vacillated between being in charge of the trip and being confused as to why we were there in the first place.  She'd have a diet coke can in her hand...usually one she grabbed from the grab and go beverage cooler at the front of the store.  She'd finish it early in our trip and then just hold on to the can until she handed it to the cashier at check out--"Ring this one up, too, please."

I have memories of my godfather trying to move the trip along, and her insisting we take our time and consider the offerings of each and every aisle.  Looking back on it, I'd bet money on the fact their trips went faster when I wasn't along.  Now, as I consider our relationship, the fact I was with them was precious to her as well.  She might have known her 20-something god-daughter would not always find time to grocery shop on a Friday night or Saturday afternoon.  It was also time to listen to my idle chatter and together, my godfather and I provided more attention and humor for her.

So these days, as I grocery shop, these moments come back to me.  I pass diet coke.  I see chocolate milk.  In the frozen food aisle I hear her proclaiming her microwaved cuisine "delicious" as she replayed her day to us over dinner. I see her strolling the prepared food aisle and delighting in the processed and ready to eat salads, sandwiches and reheat-able meals.

I toss a few raisins on my salad and think of making dinner together.  The bowls lined up around the kitchen island.  The various (and gross) low calorie dressings she'd offer.  The yummy croutons that were arranged on each salad.  I pass kielbasa sausage and fresh packaged pasta and the list of stand-by "cooked" meals comes back to me.

Recently, as I took grapes off of the stems and tossed them in a bowl so that they would be ready for my family to grab and eat...I found myself smiling through tears.  I was the "grape maker" in the household with my godparents.

As dinner assignments were being handed out one night decades ago, I must have said, "I'll make the grapes."  and it made people laugh.  It made her laugh.  From then on, she would ask me to "make" grapes whenever they were brought home.

***

As it goes, the grief is less palpable this year.  My emotions bubble up in other ways.  Anger here.  Frustration there.  A quiet tear.  Everything is masked by a postpartum lens.  But I know missing her is real.  While eased by time and space and survived days, grief remains-ever at the surface.

She's with me in spirit and, to those who knew her, in the oddest place of all, grocery shopping.

But they Have TV?!

The quote, "99.6% (of people considered poor in the US census) have tvs." made me think about the comments I had to endure while I worked with HFHI in West Virginia.  I wrote about my experience in West Virginia, here, as well.

Most of the people I led were high school or college students at the affiliate for their spring breaks.  Well meaning people.  Hopeful.  Often, this was their first encounter with poverty.  For many of the high school youth the basic bunk beds, communal bathroom and lack of cable TV, combined for their first taste at "roughing it."  All ages often came thinking they were really doing "something."  And they were, I don't mean to minimize their efforts.  Their money and time could have been directed towards many other spring break options.  Their time, talent, prayers and sweat made a difference in the lives of many...and often times changed their own lives forever.

Mixed with this beneficial effort, was a sense of self importance.  Their sense of "I'm really making a sacrifice" led many to make pretty harsh comments on the lives of the community members.  It was as if their sacrifice gave them the permission to teach others how to sacrifice.

The comment I heard most often was on how many satellite dishes people saw on the homes we drove by.

This is an area of our country that would shock most everyone in my day to day small city/suburban life.  It resembles third world poverty.  People living in boxes.  Homes without windows.  Twenty year old trailer homes with walls of cardboard or sheets of plastic and duct tape.  Outhouses and water pumps.  Dilapidation and refuge.

So, yes, the satellite dish on the roof was worth a mention.  It was an odd juxtaposition in a place that seemed to transport its visitors to an America most of us never knew existed.  But there was no cable TV in the area and the mountain terrain made basic TV reception nearly impossible.  The volunteer center staff had made a conscience decision not to have access to TV in the volunteer center but the affiliate Executive Director had a dish.

After a few months of the volunteers commentary, I wanted to yell..."They have no education, no job, no hope of a job, no medical care, no teeth, barely enough food, plastic walls, and it has been this way for a generation or two...so they don't really know how to change it, but you are most concerned over the fact they have a satellite dish so they can watch the news or tune out by watching a sitcom?

I got it.  Part of me wondered, too.  Wouldn't the money used towards the satellite dish be better used towards food?  (especially when, as many would say, the greater community/government is paying for your food.)

But not many people who visit my life ask me why I grab a coffee at Starbucks or lunch at Panera when that money could be better saved towards my kid's college fund or saved so we would need less of a home loan.  Even my Christian brothers and sisters rarely push me to give more of my money to those with plastic walls.  While people may think snarky or judgmental thoughts (myself included), no where in my middle class life are we free to actually comment on people's spending habits as if it were our born right to butt in.

So yeah, they have satellite dishes.  And yes, they even have refrigerators.  My real concern is that, too many think, this is the problem.

Then he Hugged me

BB started Kindergarten this week.  

The photo above is from his first day of preschool two years ago.  

He took the same backpack...it just fits a bit better this year.

From these photos, the physical growth is apparent.  And, I have a touch of sadness over the passing of time.  There weren't any tears over this transition.  At least BB and I didn't shed any as we toured the classroom or said good bye the first day.  I didn't break down in the car or hide in the bathroom once I was safely home.  I didn't feel sad.  I'm proud of him.  I am also pleased when we step forward into greater independence.  I am excited to hear the stories he brings home.

That was the paragraph I knew I would write.  The big-tough-Mama paragraph.

Then he had his first full day of school.  He was obviously tired, and spent, from processing way more than he could ever articulate to me in the car ride home.  Even knowing this, I still peppered him with questions.  I gleaned a few tidbits as we covered the mile or two back to our house.

Then we pulled into the garage.  EG was fussing, LP had to be brought in from the car.  Bags and bags of stuff had to be shlepped in.  How the four of us can create such chaos I'll never understand, but entering the house is quite a crazy event.  After some time passed I realized I hadn't really hugged or acknowledged BB's arrival home after 8 hours away.

I sat down in a chair and called him over.  He crawled up into my lap, his legs wrapping around the back of the chair.  Long legs dangled down behind me.  He threw his arms around me and I wrapped myself around his solid back.  I let him stay for as long as he wanted and when I realized he was staying put...tears began to fall.  Both of us acknowledging that something important had happened.  This little baby--the one who first made me a mom--was moving further away from me.  I may appreciate the growth and the forward movement, but he missed his mom.  And, it was important to let him know that she missed him.  

More than she ever realized she would.

My real gifts...

Yesterday's weather was as close to perfect as it can come.  Perfect day to sit around and hold hands.

On to the 40th Year...

 

Today is my birthday...

...phone calls

...cards to open

...delivered coffee, bagels and scones

...coffee gift cards

...hugs from friends
...the joy of FB greetings

...one friend offered to have the older kids over for a play date (leaving me and LP to hang out and blog this morning)

...yesterday, I picked out my own gifts--thanks to the generosity of various family members.  One gift is in the photo above.  My husband joked that he has a vision of me clutching it like a prayer bead...

I am so immensely grateful for this life! 
Thank you, thank you.

July 21-August 15

Recap:
I was in the hospital.  I came home.  LP was starving and screaming.  Finally, the kid got some food and I started up the ole pumping machine.  He returned to his calm, sweet and sleepy self.

My parents came.  The help, company and built in entertainment was priceless.  They left.

A friend took my two oldest kids away each morning to VBS.  Another friend came, she brought crafts and attention for my kids.

Many friends brought us food.  It was very appreciated.

We've ran some errands, met up with friends and in general are finding our rhythm.  

And then there were three...

Wednesday, July 20
9 lbs, 6 oz   19 inches long
A little baby boy was born.

His arrival evens up the genders in our household.
1 Dad, 2 sons.
1 Mom, 1 daughter and 1 female Labrador Retriever (who, apparently, count in the gender tally.)

He shall be know here as, Little Pooky or LP.  This is the name his older brother has given him.  It makes me laugh every time BB says it.

Pressed Against the Fence

We live on a postage stamp sized lot.  Our backyard backs up to our neighbors and looking east and west you can see the backyards of our neighbors.  After nearly seven years of living in this house, we have a comparable forest in our backyard.  We are among the only ones who have planted trees or shrubs in their backyards...it makes a wide open landscape.  And free roaming for the neighborhood kids.

Which is apparently how many people like it.  I haven't read the book Free Range Kids nor am I frequent visitor to her blog, but I am familiar with her basic theory:  that we micromanage our children too much and that the world isn't nearly as dangerous as our culture likes to think it is.

While I can't visualize a day where I would just let my kids out the door in the morning and tell them to be home by super time, the problems over our back fence are more related to basic civility and common sense manners.

Last summer two new sets of neighbors moved into to the houses to our west and south.  One set is a great match for our kids and everyone has a grand time playing together.  The family is beyond kind and generous.  Their generosity is actually the problem.  They have a play set in their yard.  A smallish one with a few swings and a rock wall with a fort on top and a slide down.  It is a novelty in our neighborhood.  I don't know what invitations they made to the neighbors around us or if they meant to open up their backyard to the entire subdivision...but as time has gone on, that is what has happened.

Especially since we have new neighbors catty corner and next to the play ground.  The yards are small and with no fences to distinguish between lot lines, I understand how kids don't know the difference between one space and the another...especially when one space has a fort.  It is also obvious that their parents aren't interested in pointing out these imaginary property lines to them.

On any given hour you will find the 'other' kids playing on the equipment.  They even bring friends over.  Some of the kids in the family are older and thus the conversations aren't appropriate (or understood) by the children whose yard it is (or my kids, their friends who would like to play with them.)

As time has gone on, the neighbor has opened up to me about her frustrations.  The garbage left in her yard, the shoes, headbands, clothing, books, toys and miscellaneous other 'stuff' left behind from the neighborhood kids.  My own kids express their frustration many days--mostly because I won't invite the whole gaggle of the kids over to our yard and I won't let them play with their friends if this older family is playing there. (and, they are always there.)  But also because BB has a sense of "that's not their yard."  He has, of course, heard me talk about these kids and their behavior.  He also knows he needs to ask to leave his yard, he needs to check with me before  inviting friend over, he hears us tell him to 'let Adam and Dave play with their parents.'  He has heard Adam and Dave say that they can't come over because it is family time...etc. etc. etc.

There is no major theme or great thought going on here...except the questions that came out of my conversation with my neighbor the other day.

She was stating the parenting challenges of this situation..."I can share my things" she said.  "Why does this bother me so much?"  Neither of us really 'like' the kids that come over, but we both recognize that they aren't "bad" kids or doing horrible destructive things to the property.  They aren't exactly who we would want our kids to hand around with, but again, they aren't a horrible influence.  (I have the added pleasure of their father working with my husband--loosely--so I feel that social connection.) 

I was having the same thoughts about what is the more important lesson to teach my kids...Sharing the communal nature and lost art of neighbors/neighborhood or modeling manners and care and respect of other's property.  I know there's some middle ground in there...it is just so flipping flapping much work to find it, and communicate it and model it....

In my next house, I will gladly look for neighbors in their 70's or 80's...surely they'd be easy to get along with, right?

End Times...

A friend asked me today if I had begun thinking about life in terms of "this is the last time life will be this way."  The last lunch out with just EG and BB.  The last bedtime with two kids.  The last time we fit in a booth as a family.  The last time heading out without a diaper bag.  The last day with no diapers.  The last...
I haven't really begun to think like that.  It feels a bit different.  Life is a lot busier and frantic than it was when I transitioned from one child to two.  Or perhaps it doesn't feel like anything is going to change because here, where I am, in denial--all is well.

But a number of years ago I wrote about this feeling, and I repeat that entry today.  It is similar to what I wrote a few posts ago about my heart expanding.  I'm not so much 'sad' this time around.  There have been no tears for weeks--and they weren't about Baby #3.  Sadness was months ago.  Panic was months ago. I am pretty serious about my state of denial--I have to pinch myself to remember all this physical pain, list making and frantic planning is being done for an actual reason.  I have to mentally remind myself that there is another person coming to live with us.

I could also point to this as growth.  I've leaned back on God's grace a whole lot more since this first entry was written.

And here I am.

Life has indeed come out of millions of tiny, and some enormous, deaths.  Perhaps my mental state right now isn't denial so much as a matured faith life.

Or perhaps life is just way too comfortable here in Denial and I've lulled myself into all sorts of delusion.

Either way, so far I am staying sane in these End Days.

Monday, February 25, 2008

The Week Before...

Today as "Baby Boy"--my son's name for himself in these baby-crazed days--started out on our errands a strange sadness fell over me. I don't 'do' change well, anyone who knows me knows this--and change is a commin'.

This is the last week of my daily routine involving just Baby Boy and me. Next week we add another person to the mix and life will never be the same. Maybe because it is Lent and the shadow of the cross is around me or maybe it is just because I am so thoroughly rooted in the ideas that "out of death comes life", I tend to really mourn the changes in my life. It is my pattern. I also don't like being caught off guard. So I like to cut the sad feelings off at the pass, getting to them before they can sneak up and tie me down. I'll admit sometimes I go a little over board with drama in regards to how big of a change it will really be or how realistic it is to anticipate a particular change. Once in a while I get all sad over a change that isn't even on our radar (oh, it will be so hard to leave these people--when we have no plans to move or a place to go) ...it is just one of those "what ifs." or "might happens." But usually I reserve some really good grief for the "big ones."

My husband doesn't quite understand the profound anticipatory grief I feel about life. "Why are you sad now? It (what ever 'it' is) hasn't happened." But for me it is how I process life...I have to anticipate the change and process the 'death' in order to be ready to accept the joy and new life that is surely to come.

I am also absurdly honest about how I feel through these changes. I'm sure when Baby Boy was born my admission that he seemingly, "ruined" our perfectly good routine, felt a bit severe for a new mom. And I still give any new mother around me permission to express sadness over what she has lost while gaining this new joy. I am not shocked when they whisper complaints or question what they have done.

Change sucks...in any form. Of course the changes I had no choice in or the events that I never saw coming throw me but even the ones I created get to me--maybe even more so. Moves, I wanted to make. Jobs, I wanted to take. Deaths, I saw coming. People, I wanted to marry and love more than anyone. Career choices, I alone made. Babies, I am overwhelmed to hold and blessed to care for. All of it, at one point just sucks, and I have learned to anticipate that feeling. Anticipating it actually makes things easier.

So as Baby Boy and I ran completely ordinary errands today, it didn't shock me when mid-stroller push, on a sidewalk we travel many times a month, something told me I should take this moment in deeply. I realized for the first time it was to be among our last. Next time we are here, someone else will be with us. And I don't know much about this little person. The unknown. Change.

I stopped the tears from falling then, but let them fall freely right now. I love hanging out with this little guy. I love the 'Mom and Baby Boy show'...we have a blast talking about the world, chatting with the store clerks, getting in and out of the car, giggling over the amount of goldfish in in car seat, stopping to check out this or that. Sure errands are slower but I have someone to talk to and apparently from some recent outings I have taken alone (and glances made in my direction), I talk to myself a lot.

My annoyance with all things 'change' has taught me to fall back on God's promise of new life. After all, there was a day about two years ago when I was sure we'd made a huge mistake and I so wanted a time machine to go back start over. I know it involved crying (both parent and baby) some bodily fluid (baby) and a whole lotta tired (all involved). It was a day when I was sure my life was over.

And it was.

But it was replaced by this wonderfully chaotic one, the very one that I now grieve. Next week we'll start again--welcoming a new person to this crazy mix that is our clan and I will shed some tears this week in anticipation of the change. I will lament the "last times" and "it will never be this easy agains" and I'll grant myself a moment to second guess our choice. But I will also give thanks for what I am grieving--through it, I am able to give even greater thanks for what is to come.

When I Grow Up...

Life goals were shared over lunch the other day...

BB:  "When I grow up I'm going to move to Minnesota and be a MN Twins baseball player."
EG's earnest response was, "I'll try my ever best to not go to jail, Mom."

The Problem with Pregnancy Part 3

3. Expanding Heart
Along with hearing someone's personal labor and delivery story, every woman experiencing her first pregnancy must be told--"Your life will never be the same"  Or some variation of that sentiment.
While this is true.  It is an annoying mantra that is usually uttered with a certain amount of smugness or dry/dark humor.  (you have no idea what you are in for...)

But then when the subsequent pregnancies (and babies) come along, you do know what you are in for...mostly.  Most of the edge has been taken off of this particular learning curve.  Each pregnancy and birth is as unique as the child you give birth to, but the initial shock wears off.  Except...except for that growing heart.

It is a common concern for parents to wonder how they can love a second (third, etc.) child as much as their precious first born.  Articles and columns fill the parenting webpages with this topic.  Miraculously, we discover love isn't as finite as we once thought.  Our view of our own parents, siblings and Creator expand.

Love, and our ability to love, is larger and more pliable than we knew...
but I have to admit, I wasn't just done with diapers and 2 am feedings, I was pretty sure my heart had stretched as far as I wanted it to.  I didn't feel like learning if my heart could expand further.  I had had enough...

*enough fear, worry and analysis of how many mistakes I was making in raising the two kids we already have.
*two felt like enough people to keep a handle on--physically, mentally, spiritually--enough care taking.
*enough energy spent discovering who these little people are--dissecting what is ME, from what is THEM.
*wondering how I can weather the bumps and bruises life will throw at my kids.  Never mind, "How am I going to help them weather life?"
* enough grace.
      Perhaps it is my Scandinavian roots showing, but we've been pretty blessed so far.  Our kids are healthy,  bright, well behaved...etc.  There is this nagging thought that surely our luck will run out.  Why push it.  This train of thought takes my brain down theological pathways that I don't even believe, but there I go...down a dark alley thinking God's grace and love is conditional and fickle.

* enough joy or awe.  This is pretty good, could another child live up to the two we live with now.

I'm not sure my heart can take much more.           But I also know that isn't true.

Obviously, a woman can grow and change through a variety of experiences, but part of why I didn't want to go through this again was I felt I was done with some of it. 

Lessons learned.  Check.  "What's next?"  Whew, no need to face my feelings of helplessness, vulnerability or these particular fears again.  Done working on lack of control. (or the feeling that finally I can regain control of, at least, my body.)  No need to engage in mind numbing pregnancy chatter.

but that isn't true.  There is much more for me to learn and the lessons are processing and percolating within me as I type. 
Slowly at times. 
Too fast and furious at other times. 
So, I wait. 

Knowing that I am no longer who I was, and in a few short weeks, I will be changed all over again.  My heart will expand and I will be given another glimpse of how grand and expansive God's love for us is.  I will be reminded that no matter who shows up in my arms, God will bring new life--even through my own darkness, fear and no matter how much I resist. 

It is a love so strong that it is continually shaping us...in ways we never expected, with lessons we wouldn't have thought of and by little people we never dreamed of.

Problem with Pregnancy Part 2

2.  I Learn Things I Didn't Need to Learn about People.  (and share things I didn't want to share.)

There is also an odd dance between women once you enter the world of pregnancy.  It is a waltz between helpful information and over sharing.  Obviously, we each can fall victim to either ditch in any area of life.  Over sharing is over sharing--regardless of the topic.  From personal experience and from what I have observed, pregnancy and childbirth leave many women with a need for some post-traumatic counseling.  Seriously.

For generations the way we handle our battle scars is not by actually heading to a mental health professional, but by processing the whole event with another pregnant woman.  Sometimes, for some women, any old pregnant woman will do.

I remember being overwhelmed by how many women *needed* to talk about their pregnancy and childbirth experience with me with my first pregnancy.  There was no way out of the conversation, and that first go around, I couldn't always see it coming.  What seemed like an innocuous conversation about bibs and baby drool, became a lesson on someone's anatomy or a fear based story complete with the blood and guts.  Whether they had given birth last year or last decade, many people had a story that needed to be told.

This third time around, I'm ready for it.  I go to my internal happy place, put a smile on my face and mentally sing...  "la, la, la..."

Part B of this subsection:  the topic of How Babies Are Made.  (This overlaps with my comments on feeling vulnerable.)

When you are pregnant, people know you had s-e-x.  (shhhh)  And, likewise as women are sharing their stories, I know they had s-e-x.  Often, we learn when a couple is "trying" to make a baby as well.   This information, as a visual learner, is a huge 'eeew' for me.

This time around many people knew we weren't planning on a third child so a whole new area of discussion was broken open.  I could watch people try to figure out our birth control method.  Now granted they were probably wondering out of fear for their own "planning," but from my mom, to acquaintances in my mom's groups, I watched the wheels in their heads work out how they could ask 'the question' (how'd this happen?)  without getting too personal.

(sorry, folks, once the story brings s-e-x  between two people who you actually know, into the conversation, it is too personal for church coffee hour or Christmas dinner.)

The Problem with Pregnancy

I'm not a fan of pregnancy.  My feelings on the state of being pregnant have no relationship to my feelings about the children I've given birth to (or the one to come) or even to the early stages of having a baby.

In fact when I first found out I was pregnant this third time, the thought of a new baby brought me initial joy. (my husband was just glad to hear I didn't have cancer.)  The idea of going through the phases of babyhood again were even ok with me.

Then I remembered the 38 wks between peeing on a stick and holding the new baby.
I Was. not. filled. with. joy.  Or anything resembling it.

Pregnancy has a few major themes that fill me with dread and force my personality beyond its comfort zone.  Over the next few days I will share them with you.

1. Vulnerability. 
Pregnancy is this weird dance of making decisions that will protect a baby and coming to terms with the fact you have no control over your own body.  Your body will do what it will do.  The genes have come together to make a new person, and once set in motion, you've got limited impact on who this baby becomes.  Birth defects, special needs, eye color, gender, size..most of it you are powerless to control once the process has been set in motion.

For many of us, pregnancy is the first time we fully come to terms with the fact we are not in control.  Even of our own bodies.  We must trust ourselves--our bodies and our instincts.  We put our trust in doctors and medical professionals.  We take a deep breath and settle back into the arms of God in a whole new way.

Also, under 'vulnerability' is the more humorous way society interacts with pregnant women.  The fact strangers feel an overwhelming need to comment on my body bothers me.  It draws attention to me in ways I don't like.  It forces me to interact with people when I really don't feel like it.  Details about my life become fodder for elevator conversation.
(blessedly, no stranger has ever come close to touching my belly...there is a good chance my face radiates with a glow that says, "Don't even think about it.")

With pregnancy comes an acknowledgement that much of my public persona needs to be exposed.
I have to let go of so many standards:
*fashion
*personal cleanliness--keeping food off the front of me.
*house cleanliness--letting the dust bunnies procreate seems on topic.
*cooking--reaching the handles on the water faucet, keeping my stomach away from the burners...
*breathing--I stopped preaching a month earlier this time because when I get too excited, I can barely breathe.
*generally moving from room to room with grace or ease
*doing things for myself.  Equally annoying is having to admit I just can't do something.

On my Mind-Language, Children and Cleaning up our Act?

One of the blogs I read on a daily basis stirred up a bit of controversy over the past few weeks and has been stirring in my mind since I first read the article.

You have to do a bit of reading to get on board....and to proceed you probably need to be a bit thick skinned about foul language...the *F* word in particular.

You need to know something of this book.   Go the F* to Bed   
When it first made the rounds on Facebook, I could resonate with the title--or the sentiment behind the title.  I don't think I "shared" the link but I might have "liked" a post or two about the book.

Then I read this post on Karen Spears Zacharias' blog.  You need to at least sample the comments on the CNN site (link from her blog) to understand the harsh and disturbing commentary she received.  (or the comments on her own blog.)

I admit from a first read of her first post, I wasn't completely with her.  Some of the leaps and connections she makes between a book of "humor" and child abuse/neglect/oppression, didn't immediately connect for me.

I thought about it more and read more comments...and then, some of her comments convicted me.

Of course I heard the title of the book through my own filter.  A filter that is much tamer than many families across the country.  I may have *thought* in exasperation, "Just go the 'h-e-double hockey sticks' to sleep already,"  or had the emotional reaction that went along with the sentiment of the title...but I don't know I have ever felt the visceral hatred that comes across in the words beyond the title.  And, laughing at the title on Facebook feels different that sitting down with the book (if only mentally) and picturing myself reading it in response to my reaction to my kids...           um, that doesn't feel as funny.

There is a second post in defense of her first post.  I found this more clear and actually a better attempt on her part to make her original point.  (this one quotes a bit more of the book...which is where I realized I don't find it all that funny beyond the title.)

I think I have written about swearing elsewhere on this blog, about how swearing one of my only rebellions.  It also "protects" me from being seen as too 'holy" or "un-friendable due to religious convictions" or I (misguidedly) have thought it made me "cooler" than I am in real life.  And sometimes, sometimes, it is just really how I feel and what I want to say.

But as I read over comment after comment, the crassness of our current culture hit me hard.   (the fact this all occurred the same time the jacka** "star" died in a car crash, and because I daily read a blog by the jacka**director's wife, the news, and her reaction to it, sucked me into just a titch of the jacka** culture.  (talk about a crass/gross/beyond my understanding) All these combined posts and comments probably have a lot to do with my dismay at the state of our cultural dialogue and what is deemed funny.)

Never in a million years do I want my children to communicate with one another as the discourse displayed in these comments suggestions many do.  Maybe I need to ponder a little bit more why I feel a need to express myself (even in my head) with this type of anger towards my children.  Or maybe the mild thoughts I have are natural...honest.  Maybe the conviction I felt comes from the fact my own communication style is lacking some days and it was a reminder to myself to "grow the cuss up" (or keep the anger, frustration and selfishness a little more in check)

 I offer all this as food for thought.  An insight into my brain.  I'm not surrounded by many adult conversations these days, certainly not deep ones, so I thought I'd use this blog for its intended purpose---unload my thoughts so I can form new ones.

This Post Brought to You by the Letters 'E' and 'H'

It's a big job.

Bending over to reach the floor is becoming increasing a) painful b) impossible c) unwise--lest I just fall head over heals to the ground thanks to my odd center of gravity.  This is not good for our general house clean up.  We went from nearly perfect clean up every day (for showings) to disaster zone status in just a week's time.  I am ready to string Caution tape around the whole living room.

I have two perfectly healthy children who are capable of picking up.  They don't.  Either because they don't want to or they apparently don't hear me.

But something had to be done last week so I made it my project to get them working.  Delegation is always harder than just doing it yourself.  I spent much of the day handing out small detailed pick up projects to each child.  Before they could enter another Land of Make-Believe, they had to leave the previous Land clean and put away.

At bedtime my husband was getting the kids ready for bed and was continuing the clean up process for the night.  Dad was carrying clothes from the bathroom (BB's) to the laundry hamper in BB's room.  Then he was picking up some Legos left in the hallway. 

Then as he went to pick up the remote control car, he said, "BB, this is your stuff, why am I picking it up?"
 BB--"I didn't put it there.  My sister did."  (Which I might as well stamp on his forehead right now.)
Dad--"Well, I seem to be the one picking it up..."  muttered a bit under his breath as he finished up.

The kids were both naked.  Hopping and slipping from the bathroom to the hallway.  (I was reading email at the computer.)  Then they were giggling and running between their rooms--doing everything to not be focused on picking their pjs and books for bed.

From BB's room we hear BB call back to my husband, with a voice full of five year old wisdom and a little lilt of emerging humor--"Being a dad's a big job, Dad.  It's a biiiig job."
My husband and I caught each others eye as my he plopped another handful of Legos in the box, and busted up laughing.

"Yes, it is.  Yes, it is."  he called back to BB. 

Holy Vacation

We celebrated Easter this year on the beach--the South Carolina coast.  It was a multi-family reunion, a few years in the planning.  We shared a large house on the beach.  The organization and planning was done mostly via email and facebook.  It was a week that started (for a small few) with a sunrise Easter service on the beach, for a few others by racing to worship at the local Lutheran congregation and for others by sinking their toes into the damp sand.  We had an egg hunt on the beach and ham for dinner.

The rest of the week is a blur of sand castles, wave jumping, beach games, and cooking/eating.  The weather was warm but not oppressive.  An ocean stretching out before you is humbling and powerful.  And there is nothing more calming than the sound of the ocean waves.

When we returned people asked again and again..."Did you have a good vacation?"  Most of them meant it as passing, idle chit chat.  Me being me, can't do idle chit chat well.  Every time I smiled and said, "Good.  We had fun."  I took note of the slight hesitation in my answer.

It was good.  It was fun.  I wouldn't describe it as a vacation.

It was time away from the daily routine and there is a regenerative property in that.  When I'm not engaged in chit chat over coffee, I describe the time differently.  I say it was 'holy.'

The week brought together my Dad and one of his two brothers.  My siblings were there with spouses and children.  My four cousins were there along with their families and 'significant others.'  Our cousins grew up, and live, in the South.  We grew up, and, for the most part, have lived our lives in the North.  Together, we have a handful of common memories.  But we share one story.

It is the retelling of that story that made the time 'holy.'  Every family has a story--of where they came from, what their grandparents and great, great, great grandparents' lives were like.  Some families care more about genealogy than others.  Some families share the story so often they seem to be living in the past.  Others are content to live firmly in the present.  All of us alter the story along the way.  For some there are real scars or chapters in the story best left untold.  I know families that embellish the story making every person or moment grander, more impressive than it could have been.  And, with today's technology and ability to simply 'delete' a photo or video, I often wonder if we are leaving out parts of our own stories...maybe it is only the bad hair days.

Like most people, my siblings and cousins love to hear stories about ourselves.  We delight in watching old home videos of the earlier reunions.  First of all it is just good old narcissistic fun to see how cute you were as a kid....or how delightful your cousins were...or how much the house has changed.  But we are now old enough to take note of the passing of time as well.  Some of us are nearing the age our parents are in the videos.  We mirror the life stage and we take note of who they were and who we are at a similar point in life.  Seeing ourselves as kids--when we still often feel like one--places our own mortality before us.  Reminds us to be grateful and to savor the passing days.

We also watched videos of complied photos from our Grandparents lives.  Theirs is a story, hallmarked by my Grandmothers strength, determination, and her dedicated love to her sons.  My Grandfather died at a young age, leaving behind my Dad and a wife pregnant with twin boys.  It is a story that could easily be retold a number of ways--tragic, romantic, incomparable...   Probably depending on who is retelling it, I have heard it shared a variety of ways over time.  Each variation adds a layer to the story that weaves in to my own story.  Some of who I am is actual genetic DNA from these people, some is the result of a shared purpose, familial code--the story shared from generation to generation.

Story sharing, in all its forms, is holy.  It is what we humans do best, tell a story in such a way as to create a common bond, purpose and direction.  It is how we tell another human who we are and where we come from.  I'm a story teller by professional training, and with nearly every fiber of my being.  Storytelling is essentially the way God's children have remained connected for thousands of years.  It is the primary purpose of our congregations, today.  It is how we create meaning and purpose.  By retelling our past, we create a future.

It is what I want to know about you...not the idle chit chat but the actual story that brought you to this point in time.  If I know that, then I am more comfortable hearing the minutia of your day.  What I often need to be reminded of  is, that it is the seemingly unimportant details that create the larger story that will be told about us decades from now.

This is what I thought about as I sat on the deck watching my siblings, cousins, and my own small family playing on the beach.  I listened to my parents talk with my aunt and uncle--some of it idle chit chat, some, in more hushed tones, was deeper in content.  I am sure they looked out at their kids playing on beach with a certain amount of relief, pride and thankfulness--they are the parents who know the actual stories beyond the snap shot that others might see of people playing on a beach--taking a moment to be grateful to have raised them/us to this point.  "The boys," my Dad and Uncle, joked about people from their past, adventures they shared as kids, memories of my Grandma....

All of the noise, laughter and unsaid words mingled together like incense floating up to God.  Permeating our hair and our clothes.  Sneaking into our luggage.  Coming home with us again.  We breathed it in and added it to our ever growing story.

Moments like this are holy.

Balance

Visit msnbc.com for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy

It has been said before,**elsewhere and in better ways, but I so respect and admire Meredith's career path.  A woman of such talent, poise, humor and ability, who has shown a generation of women (albeit on a very grand scale) what balancing a family and a career can look like.  That a career path doesn't have to have one trajectory.  That it is painful to leave one "family" for the other.  That parts of you from each role you fill, come with you in to the next one.  It isn't done without sacrifice or tears or thoughtful consideration, but it can be done and done well...but mostly done in your own authentic way.

I was a crying mess over breakfast today as I watched this.  Of course, I'm hormonal.  Plus, whenever anyone cries...I cry.  And, I love a grand gesture...so these tribute shows always get me.

 **  Elsewhere...here,   here,   here

Update

Went on vacation.
Came home.
Showed house.
No one bought it.
May 31st, took house off market.
Process of rearranging house so we can live in it.  EG now has a bedroom.  We are getting ready to make BB's room "fancy."
Five weeks until The Baby arrives.  We hope to be ready...

That's the update.  I am hoping to have more posts, especially as the summer heat begins to sizzle and need to stay inside more often.

That's the Signal.

I have been bothering BB all day long.
1. I can't seem to arrange a play-date with his friend.  (we have one set up, but I haven't told him about it yet.)
2. He only got to watch one tv program today.
3. I made him share his remote controlled car with EG.
4.  He had to eat dinner. (and come inside to do so.)

Now dinner is over, and I was checking my email in the office.  Just a few hours ago he gave me a lovely speech on how he had gotten too much fresh air today and it was making his head hurt.  (he wanted to watch more tv.)  Now he has come in to whine and pester me into submission so that he can have *more* fresh air.  (new friends are outside now.)

As he was hovering near my left shoulder, he let off a little gas.  I leaned over and told him that perhaps he should head to the bathroom.

"Oh, no Mom.  That is just a little gas.  It is a warning that I need some fresh air...that you should let me go outside, is what that means.  What it means, MOM, I don't need to go to the bathroom,  because that will be the last one of the night...(he is cracking himself up by now--smiling and coming really near to my face to kiss me) that is just the signal that I need to get more fresh air." 

Indeed.  More fresh air.

Falling Close to the Tree

The scene begins as a mother says to her three year old daughter and five year old son.  "I'm working in the kitchen right now so you have to play in our yard."  (not play with the neighbors in their yard.)  An hour passes and each of them ask a few more times, just in case the mom has changed her mind or forgotten their request.  Finally, the five year old settles into realty.  He's not playing in his friend's yard today.  The three year old has another game plan.

After standing in the kitchen doorway crying for a bit, she decides to change shoes.  On her way back through the kitchen, "Mom, I changed my shoes now can I go in Simon's yard."
"No, EG."
She stands in the the doorway and begins to cry again.  Then suddenly shuts off the tears and looks at her mom.
"Mom, I'm stubborn."  Stomps her foot and sets her face to stone.
"Yes, you are."  her mom is internally smiling.  "Do you know what stubborn means?"
EG ponders for a moment.  Quietly she says, "No."
"Maybe you shouldn't use words when you don't know what they mean."  A pointless remark.
There is a long pause.  EG relaxes a bit.  Her face and voice soften.
"Mom, what does stubborn mean?"
The mom finishes washing some pots and pans from last night's lasagna. 
"Stubborn means that you don't change your mind very easily.  It isn't always a good thing.  But you know who else is stubborn?"
"Birds?"  she asks.
"Well, maybe, but I was thinking of your dad, your brother and me.  Sometimes it is a good thing, sometimes it isn't.  Did you notice that BB is playing and you are standing in the doorway crying?  Who's having more fun?"
She looks outside.
The mom gets out the dishwasher soap and fills up the soap cups.  Closes the door and turns to start dinner.
A few minutes pass.  With a mixture of defiance and resignation, "I'm having fun, Mom."
"hummm...Well, EG, my answer isn't going to change."
"Cause you're stubborn, too?  (quick pause)  Did I use stubborn correcdidly, Mom?"

Saturday

Our house has been for sale for 10 months.  Did you just stop reading?  Tired of this topic, are you?  Everyone in our life is as well.  I understand.  We are doing our best to change the topic.  But for today, the house is a prominent chapter in our life's story.

It started out as a fantastically unique Saturday.  It was the first weekend in a long time that did not have anything planned for either of us.  I have no weekend church projects for the next few weeks, so I was feeling relaxed.  Friday kicked off the weekend when a friend was available and interested in watching our kids.  We ate dinner at a restaurant in peace.  Ahh.  Of course by 9:30pm I was exhausted and ready for bed.

Which I got to sleep in until 8:00am on Saturday.  Ahh.  BB and I got up and leisurely made pancakes (one of my very favorite things to do and his favorite to eat.)  EG and my husband slept a bit longer.  We ate.  The kids planned a Dinosaur Show.  BB hung signs, encouraging the family to sign up to see his show.  Once the kitchen was cleaned up we headed into BB's bedroom for the show.

We sat in peaceful bliss on the bedroom floor, enjoying a Saturday all together.  The kids showed us their drawings of dinosaurs.  Then EG brought out her dinosaur, named Laura.  They had made a cage out snap blocks and placed a dinosaur family inside.  We had to speak quietly and could not touch the dinosaurs.  After many "mic" checks, BB and EG were ready to preform their dinosaur song up on BB's bed.  At this point the phone rang.

My husband and I looked at each other knowing full well what the call at 10:30am meant.

Someone wanted to see our house at noon.

After we patiently listened to the song and even got to draw a picture of a dinosaur.  We had to sign our names to them and hang them on the on wall.  Then we regretfully shared the news that we had to call the real estate agency back.

All of a sudden our Saturday felt just like every other Saturday for the last few months.  (we want to sell the house, so we know what we need to do...it was just so amazing to be still and hang out.)

Instead of leaving to do something, we decided to park on our street and wait for the showing to come and then leave. By 12: 30 lunch was now on our minds and our house takes about 15-20 mins max to look over.  So, we sat in our cars on our street, outside our own house and chatted on our cells phones.  At 1:00pm, our agent called to say the showing agent was running late.  Could they see the house between 1:30 and 2:30?

I can't actually repeat what my husband said.  It was funny.  Especially, coming from mild mouthed him, but I didn't share it with the agents.  I sighed and said, "Sure."

Our kids hate this.  It has effected their moods in various ways.  They feel as powerless as we do, perhaps even more so, and their frustration manifests itself in a variety of ways.  Screaming.  Crying.  Disobedience.  Fighting with each other.  Mouthing back to us.  My children's mental health was never one of the things I would have listed when I thought of potential house selling issues.

We headed to lunch..out.  (which I love.)  Then home again.

Now we wait...

We did reclaim the weekend.  I took a nap.  My husband took his monthly trip to Goodwill.  The kids watched some tv, played outside and colored some more pictures.  Right now as I type, they are all at the park flying a kite.

I am watching House Hunters, waiting for the pages of this chapter in our lives to turn.

New Voice

Part of the reason I love to read blogs is that I am introduced to people I would love to personally know.  I will probably never get to meet them, or share a cup of coffee, but I am happier just to know they are 'out there.'

A friend of mine needed to have a  book by the title of Will Jesus Buy Me a Double Wide?  (because I need more room for my plasma tv.)  You can see why she needed to have this book.  Just knowing a book with this title is 'out there' made us happy.  Turns out the author, Karen Spears Zacharias, has a blog as well.

Her posts titled: Notes on Japan and What is he waiting around for? made my day.  You'll have to scroll down a bit, because she writes everyday. (unlike others we know.)

I'm Pregnant.

There.  I said it.
When you write about your daily life, but haven't actually wanted to deal with your daily life, your blog suffers.
Sorry about that.

Working with what you've got

Do you see these sad, empty hangers?  All that shelf space?  Yesterday they held clothes.  That did not fit.  I was hanging on to them in hopes of wearing them again one day.

I have two full boxes of summer clothes in the basement.  One box of clothes that are lovingly thought of as 'Memorabilia'.  The dress I wore to my 8th grade Confirmation.  A pair of shorts from college that received favorable reviews.  A few tops that are too cute to give up, but would require major cosmetic surgery to get me back into.  These boxes sit in the basement.

Upstairs my closet was overflowing with sweaters and pants.  Many suits that I haven't worn in years.  Clothes that belonged to my Godmother.  Size, after increasing, size.  On the floor in front of my closet was a pile of the clothes that did fit.  Each day I would look over the beautiful items that I couldn't wear, and grab the few pieces that did fit from the overflow pile and stacks.  It was tiring.  A bit depressing.  And a daily reminder of the ridiculous.

We had a house showing yesterday (so that answers your question of whether the house is still for sale.)  and I realized many parts of my life might benefit from cleaning up my closet.  I took out all of the items that don't fit/can't wear/wrong season and packed them away. 

I am left with this closet.  (note all the fun colors.)

I told myself that come October, I will drag out all the boxes.  All of them.  I'll have a major fashion show and part with my past for good.(ok, parts of it.)  But, for now, it is buried in the basement.  It does make the morning much less dramatic or angst filled to know I can wear everything in my closet.  There is some freedom in living with less.  Peace in having just enough.

Racing to Three

EG doesn't turn three until Friday, but we got the party started early this week. 

For more on how EG has celebrated her birthdays look here.  I realize I didn't do as much for the festivities this year but I'm a bit tired.  More on that to come...

Well, this isn't going to help...

It has come to this.

Hey, friends!  Our house is still FOR SALE.  For Christmas by dear SIL got me this gift.  Today was the day to dig the hole.  It is frozen where I live.  I boiled some water and made a little warm muddy pit to put St. Joe into.  Facing the road, placed head first down.

 I have to admit it was difficult to explain to BB why this statue was going to help sell our house.  We are so, not Catholic, or superstitious.  Well, that was before our house was on the market for nine months.  Now, I'll stick a ceramic eco statue in the ground and even say a prayer over it, asking for help from wherever it shall come.