Hommas!

Luke is obsessed with trains.

Any trains will do, but Thomas the Tank Engine is a particular favorite.

I made the mistake of buying Luke a Thomas DVD last week and we've watched it 234 times since then. Fortunately, it's a moderately educational show. There are shapes and numbers, and wonderful morals about hard work and honesty. Luke is learning so many things!

Meanwhile, my brains are leaking out of my ears.

It's not that I hate Thomas (although, like may be too strong of a word.) It's just the repetition that gets to me. Every time I try to take a break from it, Luke is there...

"Hommas Twain, Mommy!"

"Do you mean Thomas Train, Honey?"

"Hommas?"

"No, Tuh - Thomas."

"Hommas."

"Luke, say toy."

"Toy."

"Good! Now, say Thomas."

"Hommas."

Finally, the other day, Chris got out the electric train set we've been keeping in storage. It's not really appropriate for little kids, but this is Luke's first real interest and we want to encourage that. Fortunately, the train set was a gift....since I happen to know from experience that there's no quicker way to get your kid to lose interest in a hobby than to invest good money into it.

The problem with getting out the electric train set (other than the massive effort of keeping Diaper-Clad Godzilla away from it) is that, eventually, it must get put away.

Luke has a meltdown every time.

"Oh-no, Choo-choo TWAIN!!"

Chris (in all his adorable naiveté) tries to reason with the boy.

"The train has to go night-night, Luke. We'll get it out again tomorrow."

By now the waterworks are in full force while Luke watches Daddy put the train into the closet. His little hand flops a sloppy goodbye and his crying takes on a mournful pitch.

"Niiiiiight-niiiight, Twaaaaiiiiin!"

He's been doing that a lot lately...talking through his cries. Our personal favorite, though, is when he sings through them.

This might sound hard to believe; but, sometimes when we put Luke down to sleep, he takes exception.

Crazy, I know.

To distract him from the crying fit, Chris and I have started singing right in the middle of it. Before we know it, Luke is singing/crying along.

"Jesus uh meeeeeee...(deep breath)....dis I knoooooow..."

After a while, he's doing more singing then he is crying and, eventually, he's forgotten why he was upset in the first place. It's a strategy that can't possibly last but we're enjoying it while we can.

But the best (non-crying) version of Jesus Loves Me came from Luke's Elmo doll. I was singing along with Luke as he laid in bed one night and, about halfway through, he suddenly held out Elmo and raised the pitch of his voice a few octaves.

"Yessss! Jesus uh me."

Motherhood might occasionally diminish the brain...but it swells the heart beyond capacity.

Head Case

Evie fell and bonked her head a record number of times today. Nothing says "good parenting" like the sound of a baby's soft head striking a cold, unforgiving, tile floor.

I'm not really sure why she fell so many times, though. I suppose it's possible that the first fall caused a concussion, which threw off her sense of balance and caused more tumbles...thus adding to the severity of the concussion and likely causing permanent brain damage.

But I'd like to think that she was just having a clumsy day.

The most recent incident occurred when she was standing on a large box of Easy Mac, trying to reach the forbidden third shelf of the pantry. Oh, have I mentioned she's a climber? I half expect to see her with rappelling equipment next time.

I truly can't take my eyes off that girl for a second.

This is what Evie can do (if allowed) in 30 mins:

• Pull out diapers from the pantry and spread them across the house (which would actually be convenient if it weren't so messy looking.)

• Pull out bags of brownie mix from the pantry and attempt to chew holes in them.

• Find and open every unlocked cabinet in the kitchen. Empty the contents.

• Crawl under table to "graze" breakfast droppings.

• Turn over laundry basket and spread plastic hangars across the living room floor.

• Remove DVD's from entertainment center and chew on them/toss them aside.

• Wander into the play room just long enough to tear apart Luke's carefully laid train tracks like some diaper-clad Godzilla.

You might be wondering why I would ever allow such a terrible baby-rampage. My husband certainly does. What he hasn't figured out yet is that it takes me only twenty minutes to put everything away that Evie has torn apart during the course of the day. Twenty minutes versus an entire day of hyper-vigilance....of following my daughter around the house with my back hunched over, my index finger outstretched, and my lips permanently shaped into a "NO!"

What he doesn't understand, and what I figured out months ago, is this:

That which does not kill her, can only keep her occupied.

And don't worry about the brain damage. I'm sure she didn't get a concussion.

Although...

(searches Google for "signs of concussion")

"Slurred speech, unsteady walking, and poor coordination."

Uh-oh.



_______________

Bathroom Bliss

I was reading about the history of bathrooms last night, when I came across this interesting excerpt from a book cleverly entitled: The Bathroom.

"It is the place of blissful escape where we steal a few moments of precious privacy. It is the place to which we see to make ourselves feel good--to relax, rejuvenate, recharge. Its importance goes well beyond the mundane practical functions of personal maintenance and the rituals of hygiene; it is where we cleanse ourselves spiritually as well as physically."

Really? I always thought it was the place where you did your business as quickly as possible while awkwardly wedging one foot against the door in a vain effort to keep your screaming children from forcing their way in.

No wonder I feel so worn out all the time.

I was pondering on this just the other day as I was sitting in the bathroom -- Evie was standing next to me, happily unrolling the toilet paper -- when, suddenly, it hit me. There is not one private thing in my life anymore. Not one sacred, untouchable thing that is solely my own. Personal hobbies are elusive creatures, fleetingly enjoyed in the few precious minutes between diaper changes, riot control play time and making three meals a day. Showers are taken late at night and in total silence for fear of waking the kids. And even when the kids are asleep, the baby-monitors are a blaring, constant reminder that we are at the beck and call of these two little tyrants.

My deep thoughts are interrupted moments later when Luke comes running in.

"Buzz Yite-ear!"

He was holding his Buzz Lightyear DVD.

"Not now, Honey. Mommy's on the toilet."

"Buzz Yite-ear!!!!!"

"I'll play it for you in a minute, Luke. Now go away and let Mommy finish."

And then he threw a royal fit.....just about the same time that Evie worked down to the cardboard spool.

"That's it! No fits, Luke. Sit in the corner.""

I shoved them both out the door and locked it.

Unfortunately, our "no-fit corner" is located right outside the bathroom. So, naturally, it isn't long before I hear a voice, crystal clear, floating up from the crack beneath the door.

"Buzz Yite-ear!"

And then I see it. The Buzz Lightyear DVD getting pushed slowly underneath the door. A small hand follows it through, shoving the movie as far into the room as possible.

I tried to ignore it.

Then the door handle starts to jiggle.

--Now, you should know that the geniuses who built this house installed door locks that (intentionally??) pop open after a few purposeful jiggles. Luke figured this out five minutes after we moved in.--

Fortunately, I had just enough time to flush and wash up before he popped the lock...and was completely prepared to give him my best "stern face" when he came through. But, as the door swung open, I saw that it had been Luke and Evie pressing against the other side. And they were both looking up at me with the sweetest smiles...as if they hadn't seen me in days.

I'm starting to think that privacy is overrated.



_________________________________

Mrs. Clean

I was in the mood to clean yesterday.

Which means it must have been a full moon. Or Friday the 13th. Or some obscure pagan holiday.

It is a dark and cloudless night when the moon turns blood red. The werewolves howl, the zombies rise...and Stephanie Chandler scrubs her sink.

This just isn't normal behavior for me.

And it wouldn't be so bad if I had actually gotten something accomplished. No, I'm afraid that when I go on a neurotic cleaning binge, it ends up being more neurotic than clean.

So, really it's just a neurotic binge. And that's frightening under any circumstances.

Allow me to give you a time line:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

8:00PM- Gently cleanse glass stove top

8:30- Firmly scrub stubborn food from glass stove top

9:00- Vigorously chisel burned up, permanently cemented food from glass stove top

10:00- Notice scuzzy knobs in front of glass stove top

10:05- Clean scuzzy knobs with q-tips and rubbing alcohol

11:00- Notice grimy buildup along the edge of the stove and in the grooves and corners of the oven control pad.

11:05- Use the sharp tip of a knife to clean out grimy grooves/corners/edges.

12:01AM- Finish cleaning food off glass stove top

12:45- Obsessively wipe every trace of smudges/fingerprints from glass stove top

1:00- Admire handiwork

1:01- Remember the bottle of special glass-stove-top-cleaning-solution left in the drawer by home builder.

1:35- Apply creamy, white cleaning solution to perfectly clean glass stove top.

1:45- Get distracted by scuzzy highchair

3:00- Remember cleaning solution left on stove top

3:01- Scrape dried up, stubborn cleaning solution from glass stove top

4:00- Remove dried flakes of cleaning solution from the grooves/corners/edges of the stove

5:00- Sweep dried flakes from counter tops and floor surrounding the glass stove top

5:15 - Take a shower to remove flakes from hair and body

5:30AM - Collapse into bed

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And my husband wonders why I only clean during a lunar eclipse...or the Winter solstice.

Wait...isn't this a leap year?






________________

Worry, Rinse, Repeat

It's dark out now. The chaos of the day has faded with the final rays of a setting sun, and peace has descended once more. Sweet, wonderful peace.

And yet, I find my thoughts lingering on the chaos. On runny noses and temper-tantrums, bruised knees and slobbery kisses.

And, suddenly, the house is much too quiet. My heart swells painfully...

I love my kids.

More than I ever thought was humanly possible. I stare at them all day long and dream about them at night. I've committed their features to memory. Every dimple, every freckle, every fold.

I ache for my children.

Even now, as they're asleep in their rooms, I miss them terribly. I feel the phantom of their weight in my arms. I breathe in the intoxicating scent of their hair as it brushes against my cheek. I feel the persistent tug of tiny hands clutching at my clothes, clinging to me.

I would live in this moment forever, if only it were possible. With the kids at this exact age. So beautiful, so innocent, so completely amazing.

I think about them constantly.

Are they hungry, cold, sick? Do they know I love them?

And then, inevitably, my thoughts betray me.

What would I ever do without them?

In the stillness of the night, I lay in bed and imagine a thousand ways they could get hurt or taken from me. The evil in this world is unspeakable. And where there's not evil, there's sickness...disease. Fatal accidents can happen in seconds.

How would I live if something ever happened to Luke or Evie?

It's oppressive, this worry. It weighs me down, grinds me into the dirt and leaves me gasping for air. So, in desperation, I fall on my knees every night and plead with my Savior.

"Protect my children, Father. Please don't take them from me. Please..."

And tonight, in the silence, I hear the echo of His voice.

Give them to me.

I shake my head and start to cry.

"I can't! Don't you understand that they're everything to me? Bad things happen in this world...even to faithful Christians! Why should I expect to be protected from that?"

Again, I hear Him...

Give them to me.

Now, the anger comes. The helpless frustration.

"What if something terrible happens to them? What if that's your will?? I can't take that chance!"

His voice is calm. Sad, even...

Give them to me.

I'm sobbing now. Trembling with pain and fear.

"Oh, Jesus. I love them so much it hurts."

There is silence then, long and painful. Until, finally, I hear a whisper upon my heart...

So do I.

And suddenly, I remember Moses. The man that had an encounter with the Creator of the Universe...and argued with Him.

No matter how many times God reassured Moses that he would not be returning to Egypt alone, the man continued to doubt.

What if, what if, what if?

Finally, I just have to believe that God was fed up...

"Then Moses said to the Lord, 'Please, Lord, I have never been eloquent...for I am slow of speech and slow of tongue.' The Lord said to him, 'Who has made man's mouth? Who makes him mute or deaf, seeing or blind? Is it not I, the Lord?'" (Ex 4:10-11)

And then it hits me...I've been arguing with God as well. Here I am, telling the Savior of Man that I love my kids more than He does.

How utterly foolish...

To think that I can out-love the CREATOR of love.

To think that Christ's nail-pierced hands are somehow insufficient to hold and protect my children.

To think that God Himself, omniscient and omnipotent, would not know what's best for them.

Forgive me, Father.

Bad things might happen to Luke and Evie...I know it and I hate it. But God is bigger than all the evil and sickness in this world, and He is faithful.

And I know that, no matter what happens, there is no safer place for my precious children...than in His loving arms.



"Therefore humble yourselves under the mighty hand of God, that He may exalt you at the proper time, casting all your anxiety on Him, because He cares for you."

1 Peter 5:6-7