Date Night

One can of chicken and a frozen 20+ pound turkey. A week or so ago an inventory of my freezer and pantry revealed this was the extent of poultry on hand. The turkey starred in P.W.’s birthday dinner; the can of chicken, I have been saving for an “emergency.” There were no strips, nuggets, patties, portions, or tenders, breaded or otherwise. It was critically obvious I needed to make a trip to Sam’s to restock.

I don’t think I’ve ever shared with you just how much I loathe grocery shopping. It’s right up there with a Pap smear on my list of fun things to do. And a Pap smear is way cheaper. So, I’ve developed strategies to make grocery shopping necessary as infrequently as possible. A trip to Sam’s Club every quarter or so is the cornerstone of my grocery routine.

Any of you who shop regularly at Sam’s know some stuff is a good buy and some stuff isn’t. MiraLax, for example, is a great value at Sam’s (it’s called ClearLax in the store brand). Velveeta is actually a penny higher per two-pound brick at Sam’s than at Wal-Mart. But it’s not the savings or the illusion thereof that lure me into the warehouse grocery club. It’s the thrill I experience at the thought of not having to buy an item again for months or even years! For example, I’ve purchased tin foil once since we got married and coffee filters twice, but only because I lost the first package before later finding it buried in my pantry…no doubt behind 15 pounds of tin foil.

Twelve bars of Zest and four tubes of Crest?…yes, by golly! A two-pack of Lea & Perrins Worcestershire sauce?…sure, throw it in, dear, we use a lot of Worcestershire. A thirteen-and-a-half pound bag of Arm & Hammer baking soda?…hmm, very tempting, but let’s wait until next time to make that capital purchase.

Ok, so like I mentioned, I really dislike grocery shopping, but it always seems a little less torturous if Matt goes with me. At least that’s how it once was. I guess when I schedule these dates I forget that we’ll actually be accompanied by our unrelenting preschooler and our enthusiastic toddler. John & Patrick absolutely love grocery shopping. It is every bit as exciting for them as a trip to an amusement park.

And are they ever helpful! John reads the items to me from the list, or at least he thinks he does, and Patrick dutifully smashes each item to gain maximum space efficiency in the cart. They’re actually very well behaved…at least when they’re out of the car, that is.

This is how Monday evening unfolded:

5:00 pm (or maybe a little later) I look out the window to see Tony (Matt’s pickup) is in the shed. “Wonderful!” I think. He actually made it home early. He remembered we’re going to town.

6:00 pm (or maybe a little earlier) Matt finally comes inside. He’d been doing something extremely important to the driveway with the skid loader. That’s why he came home early. Seems grocery shopping had slipped his mind. He remembered about halfway through the project but had to finish up, or something like that. You may be wondering now why I didn’t go get him and ask when he’d be ready to go, since he was just outside the house. Well, truthfully, I was busy and not really ready to go yet either. I was changing the sheets on John’s bed. He never, ever wets the bed…except during naptime when he lays in bed AWAKE for two hours reading books. Then he wets the bed. Every time, religiously.

6:10 pm We’re about to walk out the door when Matt’s phone rings. Yes, you guessed it…a life insurance salesman. So, I coated, hatted, and booted the boys (had an argument about the necessity of a vest over John’s hoodie…he won) and loaded them and their gear into the gas-guzzling SUV. (a full-size sedan simply does not have enough cargo space for a Sam’s load.) Matt’s still on the phone as we’re driving away.

On the way there we map out our strategy to get the Sam’s chore done by 8:30, closing time at Sam’s. By the time we get to LaBelle, or maybe as far as Lewistown, Patrick is fairly disgusted at the way things are going, i.e., he is strapped into his carseat and has to sit still and has grown tired of incessantly pushing the (loud) honking button on his carseat toy. We decide to get supper for John at a McDonald’s drive-thru and Matt & I will eat on the way out of town after Sam’s and Wal-Mart.

So, John gets a burger and fries and actually eats some of the burger, which almost never happens. Even though it has those nasty little onion slivers on it, I choke down the remainder to keep from wasting it.

7:30 pm We get to Sam’s, do our shopping, check out (spent quite a bit less than usual), and re-load the boys, then go to Wal-Mart, which is also uneventful.

8:45 pm We’re Steak n Shake drive thru bound now (no way are we unloading and reloading again). Matt & I order our food. John doesn’t want anything except for one of those paper cars they give little kids at Steak n Shake. Fine. Whatever. The drive thru lady is very accommodating and gives him two (no charge).

We get on the road and John asks for his cheeseburger. Mommy then has to admit guilt. “Mommy ate it,” I say, “I didn’t want it to go to waste.” You have to understand that in the last year or so, John has never eaten more than one, possibly two bites of any cheeseburger, McDonald’s or otherwise. Now, there is much whining and waling (P.W. has long gone to sleep.) I get the brilliant idea to give him a piece of my Frisco melt wrapped in the McDonald’s wrapper we still have. Does he object? Of course! But not on the grounds that this is not “his cheeseburger from McDonald’s”. He objects because “it’s broken!!!! Fix it Mommy! Fix it!” Having no idea what is wrong with it, I ignore him and continue eating. He’s content for a while to take over eating my fries. We continue on our merry way when John announces he has to pee. It’s 30 degrees by now with a stiff breeze. So we pull over on the west end of West Quincy and Matt gets out to help him pee. No pee. So we load him back up, and as I re-buckle him, I get a sneaking suspicion there has been at least some pee leakage.

I finish my sandwich, and we continue driving along. About Durham John announces “I have some pee ready now!” So, we dutifully pull over, and this time I get out and help him. He must have released a half-gallon of pee. I am once again amazed at the volume of pee that boy can hold. We load up and no sooner are we on the road than John says “Mommy, I want my cheeseburger.”

I explain that I ate both cheeseburgers…the one he didn’t want to finish at 7:30 and the one he was not interested in (due to some sort of burger malfunction) at 9:00. I explain that there is no way we can get it back and I didn’t eat it to be mean or selfish and I would have to puke it up for him in order to get the cheeseburger back. I tell him at this point that puking the cheeseburger up is not a viable option.

This sets off what we refer to as a “self-destructive rage spiral”. During this rant, John screamed/whined at varying levels of decibels and intensity “Mommy, puke it up! Puke up my cheeseburger! Puke it up! You have some puke ready for me! Puke up my cheeseburger and give it to me! I am your baby bird and you are my mommy bird! Puke up my food!” All our attempts at logical argument fail, and my heart aches for his frustration at his mommy and daddy laughing at him during this formative crisis in his young life. Mercifully, he falls asleep just east of Knox City.

As I finish this post in the wee hours of Tuesday morning, I am praying "Dear Lord, please don't let him ask for his cheeseburger for breakfast."

Home Decor, Aunt Lucille Style

What I Learned from Aunt Lucille (a small sample)

“Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful.”—William Morris

As clutter encroaches when cabinets and closets abound with things I might use, I seek Mr. Morris’s advice to find inspiration to purge my reserve supply of stuff. Morris was a British writer and artist of the 1800s, instrumental in English Arts & Crafts Movement. He was also a socialist, but I’ll have to forgive him for that I suppose.

In matters of home décor, this is my guiding principle.

I really think too that the second part of this bit of advice…the “believe to be beautiful” part must have been the cornerstone of Aunt Lucille’s decorating philosophy. Her home was filled with beautiful items passed down to her and collected over her lifetime. To a young girl, I can imagine no place more magical. China dolls, lacy Victorian-era dresses and parasols, delicate dishes and tea sets. Window sills jam-packed with all things adorable and angelic. Bibles, crosses, and scripture verses on coffee tables, walls, and beside beds.

And then there was her powder room. Far too fancy to be called a bathroom, if I’m remembering correctly the carpet was purple. In my mind’s eye, something in there is purple velvet, but I really don’t remember. I know there were beautiful combs, brushes, and mirrors, and fancy soaps.

She was a gifted pianist. Aunt Lucille, seated under the soft glow of the sun through the purple windows of the Plevna Christian Church, played the familiar hymns of my childhood year after year. Of course, one couldn’t really see her behind the piano, and I don’t know how she reached the pedals. “In the Garden” comes to mind now.

The way she spoke made the ordinary beautiful too. As I child, I remember her giving me a dainty Japanese parasol, which I treasured for years. Calling an umbrella a parasol makes it seem about one hundred times prettier. After mom died, I found she had saved it in her cedar chest. And Aunt Lucille didn’t sit on a couch or a sofa. Nay! She (just like my Grandpa Jim, her brother) she entertained company on her davenport. Yes, I think I’d rather have a davenport than a couch.

I don’t mean to suggest that Aunt Lucille was impractical.  It may seem to the un-schooled in the school of Aunt Lucille that this abundance, even excess of what some would blithely refer to as “knickknacks” is not useful. But such a person would be missing the point. Perhaps the use for these items was simply to be beautiful. Beauty in and of itself…beauty for the sake of beauty…is indeed practical.

Perhaps I would amend Mr. Morris’s musing to say “Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful or believe to be useful for the use of being beautiful.”

Having spent over 93 years on earth perfecting the art of appreciating beauty, I can only imagine her thrill as she arrived in Heaven, greeted by not only by Jesus, but also by many adoring fans who earned the privilege of walking with Him ahead of her.

In the Garden

I come to the garden alone
While the dew is still on the roses
And the voice I hear falling on my ear
The Son of God discloses.

And He walks with me, and He talks with me,
And He tells me I am His own;
And the joy we share as we tarry there,
None other has ever known.

He speaks, and the sound of His voice,
Is so sweet the birds hush their singing,
And the melody that He gave to me
Within my heart is ringing.

I’d stay in the garden with Him
Though the night around me be falling,
But He bids me go; through the voice of woe
His voice to me is calling.

Words: Charles Austin Miles (1912)

Thank you, Aunt Lucille, for teaching me what you taught me. You probably didn’t even know you did.

Let Them Eat Cake!

We wish you many happy returns of the day.
May sunshine and gladness be given.
And may the Dear Father prepare you on earth
For a beautiful birthday in heaven.

Today, as we celebrated our baby’s first birthday on earth, Aunt Lucille celebrated her beautiful birth day in Heaven after 93 birthdays on earth.

Lucille Montague was my great-aunt. My mom’s aunt, my Grandpa Jim’s big sister. Though she was short in stature, she was long on grace. She was one of the most influential people in my mom’s life. My mom’s favorite aunt joined her in Heaven this morning. It seems so like Aunt Lucille to die on a Sunday. It just seems the ladylike thing to do.

There's cake in heaven, right? (just indulge me...you don't need to criticize my theology)

As I mentioned above, today was Patrick’s FIRST birthday party. I cooked a turkey. That’s right. A chicken last month, a turkey today. My culinary repertoire is vastly expanding. Fortunately, my family pitched in with hot rolls, noodles, mashed potatoes, and a shamrock birthday cake. And, of course, my specialty, homemade super-duper chocolate ice cream, made with a quart-and-a-half of heavy whipping cream, 9 egg yolks, and an insane amount of chocolate. (it was good)…John watched me crack the eggs. He said I was hatching them.

Patrick had a fabulous time experiencing his cake and ice cream. We had practiced Tuesday with an angelfood cake topped with fluffy meringue frosting and conversation hearts, so he knew he had to pace himself, less he re-experience the sugar shakes. But I think he experienced his first brainfreeze, nonetheless. Our little daredevil missed out on blowing out his candle, though. He grabbed the flame and extinguished it before we could show him how to blow it out. We weren’t brave enough to re-light it after that.

He thoroughly enjoyed the day, and loved all his new toys, but he especially loved the birthday cards. He gets such a kick out of getting something new that is “just his” but, of course, that doesn’t last, since John is anxious for P. Dub to “share” with him. (translation: John takes all the toys, using the excuse “No, P. Dub, you’re too little. You might choke on it.) He would say that about a basketball.

I had mentioned to a client a couple weeks ago that Patrick would soon be one. She had asked me if my baby turning one made me sad. Truthfully, it did not, and still doesn’t really, even now that I’ve pondered the question a week or two. But I know it’s supposed to make me sad. You know, childhood is fleeting and so on and so forth. Is it that I haven’t taken time to think about it? No, it’s not, at least not now, because I’ve thought about it a lot since that person asked me that particular question. I think it’s a combination of a few other factors:

(1)   Though I desperately love my boys, I severely dislike the chores of motherhood. I try not to completely snap at a request to drop everything and fill a sippy cup. I have a love-hate relationship with breastfeeding (which incidentally, brings me back to Aunt Lucille, whom I remember telling me how much she “enjoyed nursing her babies.”) I have weaned Patrick, but that’s the subject of another post. Strangely enough, though, dirty diapers don’t really bother me. Probably because, given my boys’ steady dependence on MiraLax, dirty diapers are cause for a party in and of themselves. Every birthday gets my boys closer to my reward of seeing them enter adulthood as responsible, faithful, thoughtful young men. Young men, who (in this particular fantasy of mine) still say “Mom, you’re the best ever. You’re the best ever mommy.”

(2)  When John was diagnosed with cancer, I feared we would not see him celebrate his first birthday. He has celebrated not one, but three fabulous birthdays since his diagnosis. Though Patrick has never suffered a life-threatening illness, facing this with my firstborn perhaps makes me a little more aware just how much every birthday is a gift. A marker of the passage of time to be celebrated, not lamented.

(3)  Patrick will almost certainly not be our last child. Maybe it would be more bittersweet if I knew Patrick would be our last baby. I doubt it. Unless perhaps in this hypothetical situation he slept all night long consistently…

 I read once in a magazine that parents should not make a big deal out of children’s birthdays. I cannot fathom the logic involved in this advice. I enjoy reciting in my head the role call of “Lynda cakes” my boys have had: a rubber ducky, a blue M&M, Buzz Lightyear & Woody, and now, as of today, a shamrock. Now, I’ll admit in my head, the party always goes a lot more smoothly, probably because all of the children are patiently seated around a table, wearing party hats and their unspoiled Sunday best, politely awaiting their share of cake and ice cream with no objections as to a perceived shortage of frosting, or corner vs. edge vs. middle piece, position of the cake on the plate, degree of pre-cut-upness of the cake, cake touching ice cream vs. cake on completely separate plate/bowl, or fork or spoon, or color of fork of spoon.

And then, when it’s time for the presents, all the children (including siblings of the birthday boy) quietly and attentively watch said birthday boy unwrap his presents and perhaps, much later, politely ask if they may have a turn with the new toy.

And the birthday boy himself? Well, he quickly and methodically (but also patiently and reverently) opens each present, but only after opening the card and thanking the giver before opening the present, with which he is thoroughly and sincerely thrilled.

That’s why I plan every detail…just on the off chance that it might one day go how I planned.

I think that’s a good place to quit for the night.

Precious Lord, Take My Hand

It’s been a long time since I’ve posted…right at a month, I believe. Yes, I’ve been busy, but that’s not really the reason for my absence. I try to never use “too busy” for an excuse for anything. I firmly believe that a person makes time for the things that she wants to make time for. It’s been more a lack of inspiration, than a lack of time.

Oh, there have been plenty of things I could write about, but nothing that I got excited enough to write about. And, I figure if it doesn’t interest me to write about, it probably doesn’t interest you to read about. Or if I did get excited enough to write about it, it was something that was beyond my boundary of comfortable sharing.

But today, my baby turned one, and it occurred to me if ever there is a day to document, it would be such a day. So, I’m taking the opportunity to document this day. And, I’m taking the opportunity to document this day one year ago, since the poor child still has no completed (or started) baby book. In fact, the closest I have gotten to documenting his growth progress is small scraps of paper tucked in the top drawer of my dresser.

So, let’s start at the beginning. May 2009. Surprise!

Me: (sobbing) “I’m pregnant” (I really don’t know what I said exactly, but I think this is an accurate paraphrase.)

Matt: (half-asleep) “What? You’re kidding!” (not sobbing)

Me: (uncontrollable dramatic wailing)

Matt: (clearly disappointed at my reaction)

Ladies, here’s a tip for you. It turns out it really doesn’t do a lot for a guy’s ego to have their wives throw such a fit over a surprise pregnancy. So, when faced with this situation, feign excitement, or at the very least, pretend you’re crying because of something sad you saw on Fox News.

There were a number of really good reasons I did not want to be pregnant just then.

(1)   John was still in therapy for his cancer, and we were not yet sure if more treatment would be necessary.

(2)  The chemo drug John was on was Accutane, which has been known to cause birth defects when the mother is exposed to the drug. We had to cut open the pills and squirt the contents into John’s mouth. (turns out, they don’t make Accutane in drop form)

(3)  We were exhausted. John, at 20 months, was a very demanding toddler. Almost entirely non-verbal and incapable/unwilling to entertain himself. Plus, there were a number of cancer-related worries that just tend to wear a person down. His daytime napping was non-existent, and his nighttime sleeping pretty much required a parent in bed with him.

(4)  I had started my own practice, and my first solo tax season would be January-April 2010. February would be my busiest month. My due date was February 15. If there is a worse day of the year for a tax preparer to have a baby, I don’t know what day it would be.

We did want another baby, but we had it planned for about 3-6 months later. But our plans were not God’s, and our reasons were not His.

Looking back, it seems that the timing of this baby was providential. Patrick was 8 months old when he lost his grandmother. What if he had been born three months later? Six months later? Three months prior to Patrick’s birth, it became obvious that mom was very sick. By the time he arrived, she had completed a cycle or chemo, or maybe two. But even while undergoing treatment, she was still able to hold him, love him, play with him, feed him, and sew a beautiful blankie for him. This would not have been possible just a few months later.

I think about this and remind myself that I am not in control. And that the One who is in control knows better than I do. This is knowledge is a source of comfort, not a source of anxiety. At least I try to remind myself that it should be.

²⁵ "Therefore I say to you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink; nor about your body, what you will put on. Is not life more than food and the body more than clothing? ²⁶Look at the birds of the air, for they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?
  ²⁷Which of you by worrying can add one cubit to his stature?
  ²⁸"So why do you worry about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin; ²⁹and yet I say to you that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. ³⁰Now if God so clothes the grass of the field, which today is, and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will He not much more clothe you, O you of little faith?
  ³¹"Therefore do not worry, saying, "What shall we eat?' or "What shall we drink?' or "What shall we wear?' ³²For after all these things the Gentiles seek. For your heavenly Father knows that you need all these things. ³³But seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things shall be added to you. ³⁴Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about its own things. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.

Matthew 6:25-34

The Big Day

A few weeks prior to Patrick’s birth, we had scheduled a labor induction for our due date. I was opposed to this in theory, but practicality won out. Knowing my labor history, i.e., lack of any spontaneous labor 10 days after John’s due date, it seemed likely we were in for a repeat. Had I had it my way, I would have definitely waited an extra week, possibly 10 days, and maybe even 2 full weeks past the due date waiting on Patrick to exit spontaneously. But the demands of the season (tax season was in full swing) meant that I needed to be able to precisely schedule my week of leave. I will admit this desire to “do it myself” had less to do with any health concerns for unborn baby Patrick and rather was simply my own pride.

Shortly before 8:00 a.m., Monday, February 15, 2010, we arrived for our amniotomy. Check Wikipedia if you don’t know what an amniotomy is. A few minutes after 8, the procedure had been done and we were waiting for something to happen. The Winter Olympics were on TV, but the picture was so staticky that it was fairly non-interesting. To me, that is. Apparently, when there’s labor going on, black-and-white ski jumping is riveting for other people in the room. Matt.

Finally around noon, things started, labor progressed, and at 4:50, the doctor told me I could start pushing. The song playing was “Precious Lord, Take my Hand,” and at 4:57 p.m., Patrick W Clark emerged, weighing 7 pounds, 9 ounces, and stretching out to 22.5 inches in length. The song playing was “Then” by Brad Paisley. Yes, ladies, that’s right it took only 2 songs, and I didn’t feel a thing. Quite a switch from my first labor experience with the, dare I say, non-effective (or at the very least used-up-by-the-time-it-came-time-to-push-for-over-an-hour-epidural). He was extremely skinny with droopy folds of skin bagging down from his knees to his ankles. Like John, he had dark eyes, though less hair and thinner, shorter eyelashes. We noticed immediately that he did possess the sweet, cuddly disposition that had not accompanied his older brother upon arrival 2.5 years earlier.

Ok, that’s it for tonight. I have to get up extremely early in the morning. I’ll talk about PW’s first birthday in a day or two. Promise.