Fun With Black and White

I know I've been TERRIBLE about updating this blog. Believe it or not, my biggest excuse is that the kids are doing too many cute things to keep track of. Luke is talking so much now (when did he become a real person??) and we're having such hilarious conversations all day long...I just haven't taken the time to write it down when it happens. And by the end of the day, it's completely slipped my mind (which is rather crowded with adoption information right now).

So, I'm making a solid promise to start blogging with more frequency. I'll start by letting myself off the hook a little bit and realizing that every post doesn't have to be Pulitzer worthy (har-har)....or even all that wordy....to be good entertainment my readers. That's right, I'm talking to all two of you.

I'm going to start doing what I wanted to do from the get go. Write about and post pictures/videos of my beautiful, amazing children.

I promise to flex my writing muscles every now and again with long, thoughtful/goofy postings...but I want to start filling in the blank spots a little with some eye-candy.

So, without further excuses delay, here are some photos that I recently played with on a free editing web-site. Most of them are recent but I think there's one of Evie that's a little older. See if you can spot it!

Enjoy!










For some reason, this one just looked better in color....

Jesus Loves Me

There are times when my heart overflows with love for my children. Well, scratch that...my heart is always overflowing with love, there are just certain times when it's gushing like Old Faithful.

I tucked Luke into bed tonight and sang a few songs with him. Watching his little face light up as he recognized each new tune...it just took my breath away. And he's really learning the lyrics now, as well. Where I once used to hear, "Yesssss, Jee-suh wuh muh..." I now hear nearly every word of the song with clarity.

And what a precious song it is.

It's funny how differently you look at children's songs when you become an adult. I don't think I really ever put much thought into what I was singing all those years ago. Sunday School, Church Camp, you name it...I simply belted out the tune without the slightest bit of appreciation for what I was actually saying.

Jesus loves me, this I know.

What an amazing concept. Mind-blowing, when you think about it. The Son of God, The Creator of All Things, The Beginning and The End.

He loves me.

ME!!!

And not with a love that I can understand. No, my love is a watered down imitation. A copy of a copy of a copy, a degraded reproduction.

But Jesus loves me with a perfect love. Selfless, flawless, and timeless.

Little ones, to Him belong.

And they do.

I've always believed that Jesus holds a very special affection for children.

"Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these." And he took the children in his arms, put his hands on them and blessed them.

"Whoever welcomes one of these little children in my name welcomes me; and whoever welcomes me does not welcome me but the one who sent me."

We are all born sinners, and yet children retain such an innocence of spirit. They haven't yet been poisoned by this terrible world...haven't been stained by the desires of the flesh, the joys of hatred, or the cravings of wealth.

And they belong to Him.

Long before my children were conceived in my womb, they were conceived by Christ. He has known them and loved them since the beginning of time. And He will continue to love them...long after they outgrow their innocence.

They are weak, but He is strong.

If I didn't know it before, I know it now.

Children are weak.

Vulnerable in every conceivable way and dependent on others for their very survival, they are completely at the mercy of the circumstances they were born into. Wealth or poverty, love or neglect...they have no say in the matter.

And yet...

He is strong.

As a newborn baby is weak, so our God is strong. A shelter in the storm, a light in the darkness, a peace that passes all understanding.

And in a world so filled with evil and despair, Jesus is our only hope.

Yes, Jesus loves me. The Bible tells me so.

Jesus would rather die on a cross than live without us. He took on the sins of the world, from ages past through today, and suffered so that WE may live!

What must that have felt like for Him? The perfect and holy Son of God, bearing the vile sins of all mankind. His own Father unable to look upon Him, unable to tolerate such depravity for even a moment.

How could He love us so much that He would willingly submit to this?

And then I think of my sweet babies...and I know.

As a parent, I've been given a small taste of God's love for His children. Just a taste, and I'm nearly overwhelmed.

My prayer is that my children grow up truly knowing their Savior's love. That Jesus becomes more to them than a name in a song. My greatest desire is that Luke and Evie someday have a deep and personal relationship with Christ. That God is more real to them than anything else in their lives.

I want nothing more than for my kids to have a hunger for God's Word, a desire for God's will, and a thirst for God's peace.

And as I tuck my son in and turn off the light, I pause at the doorway and gaze at him in the soft glow cast from his night-light. He's curled on his side, his sippy cup and his Elmo doll tucked securely against his chest.

He realizes I haven't left yet, and lifts his head to smile at me in the darkness.

My heart contracts painfully and a new song plays through my mind.

Jesus loves him, this I know....




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Excrementus Maximus

Let's talk about poop.

No wait...come back!!

Take a deep, calming breath. Good.

Now sit back down and let's rationalize. Poop is a normal part of life...no different than sleeping and eating. We all do it, so why the embarrassment?

Oh, sure...there was a time in my life when feces used to bother me. A time when the thought of excrement being rubbed onto my fingers/knuckles/arms would have me huddled in a corner, rocking and humming quietly to myself.

But now...

Now, I'm a mom. And poop is just another mess to clean.

All moms come to this realization rather quickly. There's even some prenatal training on it, I believe...or there should be. Maybe even a chapter devoted to it in "What to Expect When Your Expecting."

For as long as a baby takes in, something must be taken out.

At this, I am an old pro.

I was changing Evie's messy diaper the other day and, the second I undid the tabs and lifted her legs, the little stinker made a grab for it. Before I could say "undigested raisins," she had pulled the diaper out from under her bottom and was about to get a handful of....last night's dinner.

But the past two years have honed my reflexes (move over, Jackie Chan) and I snatched up the other end before she was able to touch anything gross.

Then, the tug of war began.

We were pretty evenly matched. Me only having the use of one hand (the other was busy holding Evie's legs and trying to keep her poop-caked bottom off the carpet) and Evie....well, let's just say she was determined.

On and on went the stalemate....until, finally, I gave one last desperate tug and my (bionic enhanced?) daughter lost her grip.

My moment of elation was short-lived.

You see, there are laws out there. "Laws of Physics," if you will.

It turns out that when you forcefully yank an open, soiled diaper from the hands of a toddler, the sudden release of energy will cause said diaper to whip backwards, flip over, and land on your arm....poop-side-down.

But I am a mom.

So instead of screaming hysterically and jumping (fully clothed) into a scalding hot shower, I simply sighed quietly and finished changing Evie. Then, I calmly removed the worst of it with a wet-wipe, and scrubbed off any invisible "residue" in the sink.

You see? No big deal.

Just another day at the office.

But let us examine for a moment what my reaction would have been if Evie had actually succeeded in her diaper raid.

There might have been some screeching, and possibly sobbing....maybe. And there's a remote possibility that I would have picked her up, held her at arm's length, and run around the room in a blind hysteria.

I know it seems counterintuitive, but poop on my kids bothers me WAY more than poop on myself. You see, I know that fecal matter is to be avoided. And, should I have some on my hands, I know to keep them away from my other body parts....say, my face or....my mouth.

I can't be certain that Luke and Evie will exercise such discretion.

And, unfortunately, poop fascinates young children.

Maybe it's the "forbidden fruit" concept, or maybe it just looks like a good time. I don't know. Whatever the reason, poop can be more appealing to toddlers than a roomful of shiny new toys.

And poop in an actual toilet has to be the pièce de résistance.

Luke has been going to the bathroom by himself (at home, anyway) for the past several months. He doesn't need to be reminded, he doesn't need to be helped. Except for hand-washing and the occasional help with getting his pants back on, he is completely independent.

But every once in a while, he lets his curiosity get the better of him.

In the past, I've gotten suspicious and barged into the bathroom to find him in the following positions:

• Sitting with his feet in the toilet bowl.
• Standing in a suspicious looking puddle next to the toilet.
• Leaning over the toilet seat and dipping his hair into the water.
  

You may be wondering why I continue to allow him unsupervised toilet trips. Well, other than the fact that I'm fundamentally lazy (and pooping can take a really long time), I suppose you can say I'm just a gambler at heart. For every bad move I catch Luke in, there are at least twenty "smooth transactions" that take place.

Those are pretty good odds, really.

And besides, it's just some dirty water. What's the worst that could happen? A quick trip to the bathtub for some vigorous scrubbing and voilà...good as new.

Of course, all that changed when I walked in on Luke last week. The child was bent over the toilet seat with his hands down in the bowl, grabbing around for his poop like it was some elusive prize in a cracker jack box.

Some days, even I've reached my limits.



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Evomition

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No one ever told me that becoming a mother would, at some point or another, require me to cup my hand in front of my child's mouth in a vain attempt to capture as much vomit as possible and keep their clothes intact.

And they certainly didn't tell me what to do with a handful of vomit once I had it.

But one learns quickly in the school of motherhood. It's a sink or swim, dog-puke-on-dog kind of world.

And, over the past two weeks, there's been lots of puking.

It started on the ill-fated drive home from Iowa and it didn't stop for nearly eleven days. No wait, that's not true...the puking stopped after six days.

Then the explosive diarrhea began.

No hand-cupping there, thank you very much.

But there was lots of hugging and comforting...all done a little too close to "ground zero," if you know what I mean.

Poor Luke had it the worst, I think. Or maybe he just complained the loudest. Either way, it wasn't pretty.

"Mommy, I hurt," became his pathetic mantra.

And there wasn't a thing I could do for him.

Evie was no better, really. My little ball of flaming energy was nothing more than a limp noodle for several days. And that was after she vomited her way across America in our SUV.

I've watched my kids suffer before, but never like this. Both of them slept more than they did as newborns...which would have been a nice break had I not been constantly checking on them to see if they were still alive.

They both went to the doctor...more than once...but all that did was make them even more miserable.

The pediatrician wanted a urine sample to see if Evie had an infection. And since my daughter isn't yet capable of voluntarily peeing in a cup (as far as I know), they had to do a catheter.

The nurse and her two lackeys assistants came in and helped me hold my 20 lb little girl spread-eagle on the table. Evie just laid there and stared at them all. Naturally, they were all taken with her and smiled ear to ear the entire time.

I'm pretty sure my second-born has never had so much attention in her entire sixteen months of existence.

Fortunately, the nurse was proficient and Evie hardly twitched during the entire procedure. Afterwards, we all let go of her and she just kept laying there...all spread out. One of the assistants commented that she'd never seen a baby NOT cry during that procedure.

That's my daughter...freakishly tough.

Of course, if they had any idea what the poor girl put up with from her brother on a daily basis, they might understand her high pain tolerance.

Luke's visit was just as memorable. I took him to the after-hours clinic located in the mall because he was complaining of abdominal pain.

He was also vomiting.

I knew this as I buckled him into the car seat...and yet, in my first display of utter stupidity that evening, I failed to grab a change of clothes.

So of course he threw up on the way in.

I cleaned him off as best as I could, hurriedly carried him into the office, and then pleaded with the receptionist to give me five minutes to buy him a change of clothes at the store next door. She said that would be fine, so we ran over there and grabbed the most decent outfit I could find on the sale rack. Then...being the classy, dignified mother that I am...I ran him back to the clinic and changed his clothes in the (momentarily) empty waiting room.

The outfit was huge on him. The shirt collar hung down over one of his shoulders and the shorts fell to his ankles the moment he let them go.

I considered putting him back into the soiled clothes, but I figured baggy and ill-fitting won out over wet and stinky any day of the week.

We got through the appointment without incident but Luke started to get really hungry.

"Eat, Mommy. Eat, Mommy. Mommy, eat!"

I knew he would probably throw it all up, but what was I supposed to do? The kid was hungry! Surely that was a good sign, right? And he'd been such a champ in the doctor's office. So, we sat in the mall food court and I fed him chicken nuggets and half of a chocolate chip cookie.

Moment of stupidity number two.

I was actually hoping that if he was going to lose it, he'd wait until we made it home.

Yeah....right. Because that's just the kind of lucky thing that normally happens to me.

No, I'm afraid that the chocolate-chip-chicken made an abrupt reappearance.

I instinctively held my hand under his mouth and tried to divert the flow away from his new clothes, but I was only partially successful. I thought for a split second about going back to the store for a third outfit, but I didn't want to face that sales lady again and try to explain why I have my son out in public when he's clearly ill. So, I picked him up and scrambled out to the car as quickly as I could.

A long trench coat might have come in handy then...along with some dark sunglasses. I could have been like the Ghost of Christmas Present and hidden my little sickly child under my skirt.

In retrospect, though, I'm glad that he threw up when he did. I was thinking of taking him on the new carousal after we ate. Potential moment of stupidity number three.

It's almost a shame, though. I think that might have actually topped Evie's 2008 "Vomit Across America" tour.

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Nurture vs.Nature

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There is an age old debate regarding the human condition...

What makes us turn out the way we do? What defines our personalities? Our likes and dislikes? Our sense of humor?

Were we born with these traits? Destined by our DNA to become exactly who we are today?

Or are we born as blank slates, influenced solely by those around us? Nurtured or neglected, loved or reviled....does the environment in which we are raised dictate the people we become?

I don't pretend to know the answer to this...a little bit of both, I suspect. And, of course, the entire scope of the question changes when we consider God's omniscience and His eternal plan.

But I do know one thing...I wouldn't be who I am today without my family.

I recently read a blog written by a social worker. She spoke of children in the foster care system that are literally starting "from scratch." They have no real family, no support system, not even the fond childhood memories that you and I take for granted.

She asked the question...can a person start from scratch? Can a child's life be rebuilt on such a weak foundation?

Which makes me think of Luke and Evie. I think of my love for them, how brightly it burns. I see it in Chris' eyes as well whenever he looks at them. Then there are the grandparents, the great-grandparents, the uncles and aunts, and all the cousins.

A tapestry of love.

Oh, how blessed they truly are.

And that love can be traced back, generation upon generation...crossing over decades and sometime even family lines, in an intricate pattern of grace.

As a thread is chosen and examined, one might see a man on his knees in prayer...tearfully giving his life to Christ and promising to love his children, showing them the way to God's heart.

Another thread might reveal a young boy at church camp. Hearing the message of salvation and feeling the pull of the Holy Spirit, he stands and walks forward in what is to be the first stitch of his very own tapestry.

I was born into a Christian family.

Wrapped tightly in their loving hearts, how could I not see God? How could I deny the Creator of their love?

And how could I not share that love with my own children?

So the tapestry continues.

Oh sure, we each put our own unique patterns in there...some more unique than others. Every quirk and every passion influenced in some way by those before us, we become everything that we were created to be.

And the Great Weaver is pleased.



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