Currently, summertime equates more than your fair share of pictures

It's official. The lazy days of summer have arrived.

I'm sitting on my living room floor during nap time in my favorite comfy sundress, typing on ye ol' laptop, sipping ice water and watching mindless television while our beloved beach breeze cools the house. This morning involved a free summer movie at the theater near the pier and much popcorn munching. Yesterday was filled with such difficulties as conquering a morning kickboxing class followed by several hours in the kiddie pool and playing with turtle-shaped sprinklers.

I know. What a life.

Of course, keep in mind this is a blog. I'm telling you only what I want you to know and refraining from telling the things I don't. So yes, life with my three guys here is wonderful, but I'm choosing to pretend summer is still as lazy as it was when I was 15 and spent all day on my twin bed devouring my latest book, and leaving out the reality of the laundry tumbling in the dryer right now, the sound of the dishwasher, the floors that need mopped and the dinner that still needs to be made tonight--you know, all the things the mom does when you're a book-obsessed summertime teen. Things change when suddenly you realize that, HELLO, I am the mom. (Oh, and also, that ongoing Situation is, well, ongoing.)

So anyway. Our days are just kinda full o' the fun right now. Lots of books are being read, swimming being done, and beaches being visited. And you will all be simply thrilled to know that for the first time in five years, my pasty white legs actually have some COLOR to them. And without help from Coppertone or Neutrogena. I KNOW. Somewhere out there, pigs are flyin' and they're flyin' HIGH.

(John DID take a picture of the baby hand print, since you all begged. But I'm still working up the guts to actually post it.)

Speaking of visiting beaches, since I'm just sitting here crunching ice cubes while my children pretend to nap, I've been looking through the pictures from the anniversary getaway John and I took this past weekend. And because you're my helpless victims, you're now going to be subjected to every single one of them. Or not. But still, a lot of 'em. Because I have TIME, people.

It's summertime, after all.

Thanks to some dear friends and my mom, we were able to go away overnight for our anniversary--the first time we've been away, just us, since we've had children.



It was dreamy. Truly dreamy.



We stayed on Coronado Island--although not in the famous Hotel Del Coronado (above). We stayed right across the street from it, in a beautiful old Spanish style hotel with a view overlooking the adorable little main street and the ocean. We did tour the Del the evening we got there and it was as beautiful as ever. I kinda have a thing for this hotel, for a myriad of reasons.



We also ate ice cream. A big ol' thang of ice cream:



I told him to "look crazy." (For the blog, of course. He didn't need to be told.)

He acquiesced. Clearly.



Yes, it's true. We kinda like each other.

You'd THINK, that when we have the chance to actually, you know, SLEEP IN on a Saturday morning, we'd take it. Except for the fact that we're parents. Who have early risers for children. And our internal clocks don't realize when they aren't with us. So, despite having every intention of sleeping in on Saturday morning... we couldn't. We were up with the sun.




Beachcombing. Wading through tide pools.



And kissing. Cuz we do kinda like each other.





The beach was just breathtaking. We spent over two hours walking in the surf, talking, shell seeking, laughing and being kinda crazy.

After breakfast at a cozy little diner, we rode cruisers all over the island. I tried to get John to race up the non-hills, but he wouldn't take the bait. What with my tad bit of running and little gym classes and those 130 miles a week he logs on his bike, he knew I'd totally CREAM him. The poor guy.



And THEN came the real fun. We rented a jet ski.



We did some serious white water kayaking on our honeymoon five years ago, so we thought speeding over the ocean on a water-propelled THANG and the flying off the crazy apparatus into the ocean qualified as the "this-time-we're-parents-and-must-have-fun-while-thinking-more-highly-of-staying-alive" version of thrill seeking.



It WAS insanely fun. Especially for two people who haven't been on one of these things in ages. And ESPECIALLY when we turned too hard at a high speed and flew into the water. I don't remember when we've cracked up that hard, and we can do us some serious laughing now and again.



See that look on his face? That's his "I really, really love this girl" look. And I'm always thrilled when it's captured on camera... we caught it several times that day.



We sat on the beach until the sun set, before heading home to the little boys we were missing so much even after only one night.



You know what? We kinda like each other.

Married in June

Five years ago today I was standing in a church, facing the man I loved with all my heart, vowing, covenanting to love him, honor him, obey him, and be faithful to him until death. We stood hand in hand on the platform, with so many dear ones watching, knowing this was the start of forever for the two of us.

But this wasn't exactly how it was planned. Oh no, we weren't supposed to be in that church at that particular moment. If you had asked us the day before, or even that morning, we'd have told you we'd be joining our lives before God that day in a breathtaking outdoor setting, with a back drop of snow-capped mountains, shining lake waters, surrounded by majestic pine trees. But God, in His wisdom, had other plans.

It started the evening before the wedding, with the rehearsal dinner... (Read the rest of this post at YLCF)

Just call me the lobster--I'll be fine with it

You know that part of Peter Pan where the Indians sing, "What makes the red man red?" ("Alli-alli-bomba! Alli-alli-bomba!")

(Clearly, I have toddler boys. I'm not ashamed of my Disney lyrical knowledge.)

I believe I've found the answer.

Three hours (only three measly hours, people!) of un-sunscreened sand castle building will make for a red man. Or woman.

Woe is the mother who takes her children to the beach as usual, but this time, forgets her sunscreen, and is much too desirous of a wee bit of sun-kissing to wear the 60 SPF she puts on her children. No, she thinks to herself, it's cloudy enough and we won't be staying long today.

Again, woe upon her. The sun shows no mercy and is not content to gently kiss her oh-so-fair-shoulders and the tip of her little nose, but instead it will EAT HER ALIVE... and get a good laugh out of the whole thing when her toddler puts his 60 SPF-ed hands on her back, and then his arms around her shoulders, and she is thus proclaimed as "MOMMY!" to everyone who sees (and thinks they have to comment on) the burn. Because nothing shouts mommyhood quite like five tiny white finger prints on otherwise tomato red skin.

What baffles me is why the entire top half of my body could be needing salve and bandaging and yet the bottom half (the part that's uncovered, at least) is still as pale as the puffy white clouds that fooled me into thinking I'd be okay without sunscreen. How exactly does THAT work, I ask you? I haven't had tan legs since the summer I got married, and even that was just a tinge of color and might have had some help from Neutrogena. I'm thinking perhaps my legs were made with built-in SPF. Perhaps they should share with my shoulders.

And also? The part that makes me really upset is when I realized, whilst standing in the checkout line with aloe vera last evening, that we're going to be in a prime nearby vacationing spot this weekend and nothing shouts "TOURIST!" like a really bad sunburn and white legs in a sundress. I'm thinking a sign around my neck that says "I LIVE here!!" might do the trick. It might also distract from All The Redness, dontcha think?

But, ANYway. We've been so busy with all the sand castle building and pool going and such that I've just about plumb forgot this here ol' blog. Okay, not really. Not at all, actually. I glance at my lonely laptop about five times a day and cast a small wave at her and all the active online people she houses.

Really, though, how many times do you want me to tell you about the three year old who dives and rolls in the smallish waves, then runs from the big ones, screaming "Jasmine! Jasmine!" despite the fact that we neither know anyone named Jasmine, nor has he ever seen any movies with characters of that name. (Again, I have toddler BOYS. Not girls.)

Perhaps the waves are all named Jasmine? I dunno, but I'm telling you, the whole beach is probably wondering along with me. The child has some lungs on him, and they get even more effective when he's overcome with excitement.

I'm sure the rest of the beach go-ers are also probably wondering if I need a lesson on the dangers of skin cancer. Or at least some gift certificates to the tanning salon for the benefit of the white legs. Just know that if you're at the beach in San Diego and see a girl with a small white hand print on her left shoulder surrounded by skin that matches her red tankini top? You might want to ask if she forgot her sunscreen.

Please tell me I'm not the only person with an early summer burn. Or who has white kid prints. Or maybe you should just tell me the name of your favorite self-tanner.

All Hail the Power of the Carpet Shampoo Machine Thang

Y'all are FUNNY. Hilarious, in fact. I loved, loved, loved and adored reading your answers to the lovey dovey quiz and am quite relieved to find out that I'm not the only one on this green earth who can't resist answering a question relating to love and such. Or any question, for that matter.

(By the way, have you ever heard me ramble? Oh, no, you haven't? Word to the wise: never ask me a question. Unless, of course, you have three years to sit and listen to the answer. And never ask me to tell a story. That would increase the time to about ten years. But I AM trying to practice restraint, even if you can't tell. You know, this one time I was talking to my mom and she asked about something and I started to tell it and about four hours later... oh, wait, restraint. That's right.)

But all that to say this: tonight my knees are red and rather sore.

But not because of my carpet or because I spent so many hours telling God the story about my need for restraint. It's all the fault of that ridiculously stupid stuff called GROUT. Why people lay tile--which always involves this thing called grout--on floors is beyond me. Especially floors of houses wherein live small children.

See, here's the deal. Every other month some of the ladies in our church have a little get-together. We hop around from house to house and the whole deal always involves a few small morsels (which we all tell each other we shouldn't be eating because, oh, the hips! the thighs! the waistline!), some sort of fun activity and, of course, just a whole lotta talking and laughing and such, which is all ladies' activities usually are anyway.

I've been saying for two years that I wanted to have one of these at my house, and was, in fact, supposed to host the January get-together until unforeseen circumstances (ahem) got in the way. But now the time has come, and if you're a keeper of any home, you know that sometimes having a special activity is just the kick you need to finally tackle that mental to-do list which grows faster than even our children.

Wipe handprints off the walls.
Take a magic eraser to the scuff marks on the doors.
Wipe the walls of the stairway from the floor to about two feet high. (Certain tiny people can't reach the railing and use the wall instead. Those certain people don't always have clean hands.)
Take a magic eraser to those crayon marks in the corner. (Where was I when that happened? IS that even crayon??)
Clean out the pile of magazines two years high sitting beside the couch.
Do something about them two-story-high cobwebs. (Cathedral ceilings are pretty, but impractical.)
Do something MAJOR and INTENSE about the carpet. (Who puts white carpet in a rental house?)
Wage war on the grout.

So. I spent Saturday morning tackling most of that to-do list, knowing that by Friday I'd still have some light cleaning to do, but at least the BIG stuff would be dealt with already. You know, like the crayon marks.

But today... TODAY was The Day of the Carpet and Tile and Grout--the horrible invention. I started off the whole schebang by going to the gym. I figured it wise to work out my frustrations in advance. I don't know if it helped. Necessarily. Then I came home, told the boys they'd be spending much quality time with Winnie the Pooh and Veggie Tales today, and proceeded to pull out The Beast, otherwise known as the Bissell ProHeat Deep Carpet Cleaner.

Let me just state now, for the masses ten of you who care that I have witnessed a modern day miracle.

There were spots on that white carpet that I'd worked on for the past two years we've lived here, and I was certain would be the cause of me single-handedly losing the safety deposit we put down on this rental. Can anyone say, hello, Mr. New Carpet Installer Man! And, goodbye, safety deposit!

But that Beast did it. It took them out like magic. MAGIC, I tell you. IT is the one who single-handedly saved that deposit.

Oh wait--it took out all the stains except for the turmeric stains that appeared last week, courtesy of a very small hand doing some very sneaky work. Turmeric, in case you aren't familiar with the spice, is a relative of curry and, when in contact with fibers of any sort, basically becomes a dye. Which is all, of course, another story for another day. (And a story it is, too, because it combines with a couple other things that were all a little crazy, but as my friend told me the day one of the things happened, it's called HAVING BOYS.)

But, unlike God, who actually DOES do miracles, my Beast's hand is a bit slack when it comes to tile and grout. Apparently there's some sort of attachment needed for that job, and I didn't done got the thang.

This was where the battle truly began. On my knees. On the tile. With a bucket of Oxy solution and a scrub brush.

Let me tell you, people, the flooring in my house--both carpet and tile--hasn't looked this good since the day before we moved in. It was a team effort, that Beast and me. We did it together, we did.

You want to know what my biggest payoff is here? What another friend told me when I mentioned this undertaking.

"You know nobody would have noticed if you hadn't done any of it, right?"

Yes. Yes, I do, thankyouverymuch.

But I notice. It's worth it to me to know my floors are sparkling and stain-free (almost--not counting the turmeric). I know how hard I worked for that level of CLEAN. I know.

On Friday, I'll have my red, aching knees to happily remind me from beneath a skirt just long enough to cover them.

And now, I'm falling--yes FALLING--into bed. John rode his bike over 53 whole entire miles this morning, and I've tried all day to convince myself that one hour at the gym plus a day of hard labor house cleaning was about equal effort. So far that logic isn't working. To make up for it, I told John to get me up at 5am when he's up so I can be running by 5:30, but I have to say that right this very moment, my knees are complaining they don't like the idea.

Build a bridge and get over it, sore knees, or else I'll find someone else's grout for you to scrub.

I'm going to hit "publish" and not look back because, my word, THIS IS LONG

Most of you know I'm not real big on the memes around here. Not because I don't like reading them--I'd actually be happy to read memes filled out by my friends for hours--I just don't usually DO them.

(Which would, of course, explain why, if you've tagged me for one, I probably haven't done it. It's not because I don't like you. Honest.)

Occasionally, in this great and vast interweb world, there is found a meme so wide spread, of such great proportions, so exceptionally grandiose, that it would almost be blogger sin not to complete it.

No, I'm not talking about the "25 Random Things About Me."

The only other time I've done a meme in the history of this bloggity spot, it involved random things and while we all know I could certainly pull 25 MORE out of my fuzzy head, I'll spare your sensitive hearts.

And besides? You want your fill of Random Things? Just log in to Facebook and you'll read approximately 76,500 random things and ABC's about everyone and their cousin, brother, uncle and long-lost childhood best friend. That'll keep ya busy for a while and fill your need for The Random.

(Of course, if you actually log in to Facebook more often than once a week, you probably aren't quite as overwhelmed with the number of Random Things out there as those of us who are members of the group "I'm a Facebook Slacker and Proud of It!")

So ANYway. Now that I've talked about nothing, lost your interest and been completely RANDOM, I'll get on to the meme I was planning on doing here.

(Clearly, I'm all about following the rules of writing and blogging today. Rambling, random-ness and memes. Notice a theme emerging?)

So all that to say I'm sure you've seen the Love/Spouse/Significant Other meme going around the past couple months. I mean, who hasn't?

Oh. I'm the only one who's seen it 50 billion times? Oh well. Humor me.

The truth is, I just feel like talking about my guy. Because I love and adore and fall head over heels for him every single day.

(And he went on a 44-mile bike ride this morning--BEFORE WORK--and he lived to tell about it and I'm so stinkin proud of him.)

So. THE MEME/QUIZZY thing. That's right. That IS the goal here.

(Warning: the one or two word answers you're used to on these things? Don't expect them. Come on, people, this is me, the Queen of The Ramble you're talking to. Keeping with The Theme and all that.)

♥ What are your middle names? David and Marie. His parents just liked biblical names. (I think. I'm totally making that up, but hey, his dad's a pastor and all their kids have biblical names, so, you know. It fits.) Mine first belonged to my grandmother and great-grandmother. For years when I was little, I actually planned to name my daughter completely after my beautiful great-grandmother, whose name was... wait for it... Mabel Marie. My Gram, great aunt and my mom eventually talked me out of it. I know--what's wrong with these people?

♥ How long have you been together? Together for over six years and married for four years, eleven months and 16 days.

♥ How long did you know each other before you started dating? Weeeeell, if you want to be technical, we first met when I was 14 and he was 21. But, ya KNOW, there wasn't much attraction there because, well, HELLO? The age difference. Being that I was indeed 14, wearing jean jumpers and oversized tennis shoes with my glasses and straight hair to my hips (all my own sense of what I called "style"--not my mom's--she just paid for the clothes) John didn't exactly remember me much that first meeting. So when we "re-met" several years later, it was only about a (gulp) month or so before we were officially "together."

♥ Who asked whom out? He said, "Um, what would you think if I talked to your dad about beginning a serious relationship with you that could lead to marriage?" You figure it out.

♥ How old are each of you? Okay. You're not allowed to laugh. Well, maybe you are. Anyway. I'm 23. And John is old. I won't say just how old, but just know that as of a couple days ago, he left his twenties. I know. Discreet.

♥ Do you have any children together? Troy, three and Merritt, one. And two little ones waiting for us in heaven.

♥ What about pets? Fat Cat, otherwise known as Gracie. Our Australian Shepherd went to live with her Border Collie cousin when John was deployed and I lost my sanity, what with the two babies and wild dog. I needed help.

♥ Which situation is the hardest on you as a couple? The one we're in the middle of right now. But you know what they say--what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, and we're definitely--DEFINITELY--stronger and closer than ever because of it.

♥ Did you go to the same school? Heh. Being that I was starting kindergarten when John was in junior high... nope.

♥ Are you from the same hometown? Me=California desert. Him=the tip top of the Rocky Mountains. Opposites attract and all that. I also like to say I married him for his hometown. It's my personal happiest place on earth.

♥ Who is the smartest? I'm not saying I'm stupid or anything (hey, my grandpa--an engineer for Boeing--used to send me money as congrats for my standardized test scores. And I did graduated with a 4.0. Not that I'm bragging. Of course.) but, BUT, John is the brains around here. Like, as in, SERIOUS brains.

♥ Who is more sensitive? Ha. Haha. HAHAHA. Me.

♥ Where is the furthest you two have traveled together as a couple? Alaska. Honeymoon. Heaven. On. Earth.

♥ Who has the craziest exes? Can I plead the fifth? There are people we know in real life who read this blog. And they are all laughing right now. Cough. Cough. Choke.

♥ Who has the worst temper? Being that John doesn't have one--AT ALL--and, you know, opposites attract... ahem. Let's just say that when we let God work, He does great things. (Although it is all relative--there aren't many true temper tantrums around here. Well, if you're only counting the grown-ups.)

♥ Who does the cooking? Typically me. But John loves to cook and, if he's around, is right over my shoulder trying to help, smelling the food and taste testing. And taking over if given the opportunity.

♥ Who is more social? Social Butterfly meets Mr. Epitome of Quiet.

♥ Who is the neat-freak? We're both pretty neat, but, wait, do you see that stray shoe over there? Twitch, twitch. And, um, someone left out a cup. And, oh my word, DID YOU SERIOUSLY JUST EMPTY YOUR POCKETS ON THE TOP OF THE PIANO?? Complete convulsions begin.

♥ Who is more stubborn? I just love these questions. It's always pleasant to think about how good both of us are at holding our ground. The truth is, there is one of us who usually, you know, LISTENS TO THE LORD and SOFTENS HIS HEART first. And it's not me.

♥ Who hogs the bed? Hey, it's not my fault. He was in Iraq and I got used to sleeping diagonally.

♥ Who wakes up earlier? 5:00am. Every day. He's downstairs with his Bible and his tea. I know. The crazy guy prefers his focused time with Jesus to sleep. What's up with THAT? (i.e., the sound of that alarm=conviction to me.)

♥ Where was your first date? A hike in nearby desert hills. In the guestbook at the top of the trail, we wrote, "John and Ash--Day One." Everyone together now. Awww.

♥ How do you spend the holidays? With the fam. And lots and lots and LOTS of tradition.

♥ Who is more jealous? One word: ME.

♥ How long did it take to get serious? If you count the first time we met, it was two and a half years. If you're going from when we "re-met" it was (cough and choke) about a month.

♥ Who eats more? John. Unless it's ice cream we're talking about.

♥ Who does/did the laundry? I do, typically, unless John remembers at the last minute that he needs work clothes washed and we're about to head to bed and he (sweetly, kindly) sticks his own load in the washer.

♥ Who’s better with the computer? Being that he gets at least one or two phone calls a week from friends or family needing "technical support" and he, you know, keeps the Marine Corps' computers and networks running FOR A LIVING, I'd say he is.

♥ Who drives when you are together? He's a man. It's his job. Except when we're on an eighteen hour trip. I take a shift here and there, though he usually can't sleep when I'm driving because he's afraid I might be driving along and watching the road, and the cars, and the people in the cars, and the scenery and... oh, pretty flowers...

♥ Who is the romantic one? It depends on whatcha mean by romance. I'm the mushy one, but he's pretty fantastic when it comes to melting my Jane Austen-raised heart.



Did you make it to the end? I heartily applaud you. Now, purty please and if you feel like it, pick the two questions that correspond with your birthday (i.e.--mine is 4/1, so I'd do question 4 and question 1) and answer them in the comments. And if you aren't married or don't feel like obeying my orders, go ahead and tell me to cut out the narcissism and STOP WITH THE TYPING ALREADY.

Loudly Sing Cuckoo

Summer is a-comin' in...

Because an 18 hour drive is always better with a bit of "event" thrown in

A couple weeks ago John found out he'd have an opportunity to have some time off work, so he said, "Hey, I'm gonna have time off."

And I said, "Hey, let's go to Colorado."

And he said, "Hey, that's a good idea."

So we did.

What can I say? There's no better place on earth in either of our minds, and a chance to run away and pretend nothing, you know, DIFFICULT is going on in our lives, combined with the sudden influx of "Enjoy Colorado!" commercials and ads everywhere we look? It was just God. We had no choice.

Our nine fun-filled days were flanked on either end by that wonderful fact of travelling... you know, the part where you actually travel.

We opted to make the trip from San Diego to the Rocky Mountains in one day each way, instead of staying overnight halfway through like we have the past several times we've headed up there. It would only be about 18 hours total each way, with stops and all, and we figured we could keep the boys occupied if we were creative enough.

The drive up was beautiful. We left at 3am, watched the sun rising over the desert while the boys slept. Okay, well, John watched it. I was curled up in the front seat preparing for my turn to drive. With my eyes closed. And getting a nice crick in my neck that still hasn't gone away. We spent those long hours reading and reciting our favorite children's poems, making it through another chapter of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, coloring on a magnetic doodler, watching Charlotte's Web and The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh, munching grapes, cheese sticks and M&M's.

So sweet! So idyllic!

It was the drive home that decided to reach out it's ugly tentacles and cry with a sinister laugh... GOTCHA!

We were thirty minutes outside town and the boys hadn't gone back to sleep yet. (I don't know what it is about going home as opposed to getting to the destination in the first place, but we always end up heading south with twice as much stuff loading down our truck, and leaving at least two hours later than planned.) We were driving down the famous and beloved Battle Mountain stretch of highway in 31-degree weather with snow continuing to cover the ground on either side of the road. Yes, it was the end of May, but this IS Colorado, remember? A snowy Memorial Day weekend is rather run-of-the-mill in John's hometown of 10, 300 feet elevation.

Anyway, so we were driving along. Merritt, our breakfast fanatic, was freaking out because he'd been awake for a whole half hour by now and hadn't been served a five-course meal yet, complete with pancakes, eggs-over-medium, bacon well done, buttered toast and hashbrowns. Oh, and milk. Lots and lots of whole milk.

We told him a granola bar would have to tide him over for a little while. The poor kid.

While he wolfed down that chocolate and cherry bar (the healthy breakfast snacks of our "to Colorado" trip were long gone, obviously), Troy, on the other hand, was quietly munching his bar, ever. so. slowly. This three year old, contrary to his little brother, thinks breakfast is simply optional. The meal-hierarchy equivalent of Elevenses or Fourth Meal. Unnecessary unless it's really going to be worth his while and he's being served an egg burrito with Canadian bacon and cheddar cheese. The chocolate cherry bar was just a'ight in his eyes.

Anyway, again, we were driving along, when, from where I sat in the passenger seat of our lovely and beloved black Titan, I heard the sound every mother longs to hear when she sweetly pats her unborn child and sings him songs of sugar and syrup. You know, that one sound she knows she'll hear eventually, and spends her days just imagining the preciousness for an entire nine months.

Retching.

Gagging.

Heaving.

(I'll spare you anymore descriptive terms, for the sake of those innocent young women who haven't yet had a child, or at least not one past the age of four months.)

Apparently that chocolate cherry granola bar was going down a little too fast for our 18-month-old and a piece of oat or chocolate or cherry took up residence in his windpipe. But instead of simply coughing out only the offending piece of make-shift breakfast, his little body decided to clear out anything that bore it any resemblance.

John screeched the truck to a halt on the side of that mountain road, in a pull-out clearly provided at just the right time by our God who cares about the "little" things--even errant pieces of granola bar. The thing was, directly beside this road was a river. A river which, like all the rivers in those parts right now, has all but broken out of her preset-by-God boundaries. In other words, the thang was a-ragin' RIGHT outside my passenger seat door and Merritt's backseat door.

And remember, it was snowing.

I threw open my door, jumped out of my seat and opened Merritt's door all in one swift move. The poor baby was just losing everything he'd eaten in the entire past week, and all I could do was loosen his car seat harness and try to catch the, ahem, mess in whatever piece of cloth I laid hands on.

Simultaneously, John was hopping out of his seat as if the truck was on fire, and as I looked over at him, my eye caught sight of Troy.

His blue eyes were wide as he watched the scene unfolding in the car seat next to him. To say his sweet little pale face was turning green around the gills would be an understatement.

John opened Troy's door just as an encore presentation began on the set to the left.

He's nothing if not an extremely empathetic brother.

It was 31 degrees. It was snowing. The rebellious river just a couple feet from my OWN two feet was making me a little edgy with it's spray against my back. I was in jeans and a tank top. My babies were both getting sick at the exact same time. In the car. With a full day of driving ahead of us.

Strange--I didn't exactly even feel cold in that moment. They say there's this stuff called adrenaline that sometimes helps with such things.

Call us mean parents, or insensitive, or plain crazy, but once our boys were through with their sad episode and we started the process of cleaning up the rather big mess we had on our hands (quite literally) and both boys decided this was a bit of an interesting turn of events that would best be followed by a period of hysterical laughter on their part... we just decided to join them. On the side of a mountain road. In the late-May snow. In a tank top with a river angrily splashing drops of water at us.

They also say laughter is pretty good medicine. All I know is that it sure seemed to cure our family's momentary tummy trouble.

"Weeeelp." I said to John, craning my neck to look back him from the front seat where I sat with a toddler wrapped in my sweatshirt. Both the back doors were open while John was cleaning the car seats with paper towels and baby wipes, so the heater was blasting on our now-nekkid boys while we waited for a minute to find their clean clothes. "At least it was chocolate cherry and not some sort of acidy fruit. We still have seventeen-and-a-half hours in this car today."

It was a good trip. Really. It was. John just says we've now officially been entered into the True Road Trippin' Families Guild.

Actually, I made that name up. He just said this was pay back for his severe motion sickness that his own parents had to deal with from his infanthood.

Either way, I think it was an honor I'd rather have let slide this time.


Let's just say this road home included a whole lot more Disney movies and electronic toy playing in place of the sweet and idyllic family read-alouds and coloring books that accompanied our first trip.


(And let me offer my sincerest apologies if you happen to love or are currently eating a chocolate cherry granola bar. I probably should have warned you to stop reading at the beginning. Or to at least put down your snack. Sorry 'bout that.)

Choice

"It's your choice."

He's said it every one of the few times I've talked to him.

It's my choice. Whether or not we have a relationship. Whether or not I choose to believe the lies. Whether or not I "accept" the life he's chosen. Whether or not I "take his side" in a battle in which we were all once on the same side--until one person chose to leave the ranks and create his own. A mutiny of sorts. Against his own family... against the woman to whom he'd become one... and against the two who are his own flesh and blood.

He tells me it's my choice. He tells my brother it's his choice. He tells my mom--often--that it's her choice.

But it's his choice. We all know this in our heads. Most of the time we know it in our hearts. It's the times we don't that we find ourselves drowning.

He's my father. He was my daddy. My hero. My big strong fireman in shining turnouts. The one who rubbed the bridge of my nose to put me to sleep when I was a baby, and taught me to do the same to my own babies. When I was growing up and he'd come home from his 24-hour shifts, we'd all greet him at the door and it was my job to take his black bag and put it back in his room, next to his side of the bed. When I was in elementary school we would wake up early on his days off and go for little mountain bike rides together. We were going to start our own guided mountain bike tour business for families--he'd be in charge of the adults and I'd guide the children. We even made business cards on that first old internet-less Mac computer. He liked grilling in the summer. Making food as flavorful as possible was his specialty. He liked two or three ice cubes in his milk with dinner. He could sit for hours listening to me practice my piano, and loved the sound of me stumbling through a new piece, gaining little bits of victory with each measure. Last summer he told me to never visit without bringing music because he missed hearing me play. He literally spent hours and hours knelt by my bedside, talking with me through my teenage drama. Hands folded under his chin, elbows on the bed, always ending with a bemused and caring smile, saying, "Well, Squirt, let's pray." He cried every time he watched Little House on the Prairie or The Waltons. He called me "Squirty" for as far back as I could remember, and rarely called me anything else.

Yes, I know. It sounds like I'm writing a eulogy. I know things have been a bit morose around here--when I'm even actually here. But you all know I can't be anything but real.

I don't know if it's the fact that, as of this week, it's been six months since the last time I saw the man I called my Daddy. Yes, I did see him one horrible day in December and again the night he packed up his stuff and... left... but that wasn't my dad. Not the dad I've known my whole life. I don't know if it's the fact that yesterday would have been my grandma's birthday--his mother, who would be skinning her son alive if she knew what he's doing. It's probably largely tied to watching him kill my mom's heart a little more every day. Maybe it's that I'm just weary, so weary, of dealing with this and similar situations.

But it hit me hard this past week. I'm talking hard. The kind of hard that had me crying, sobbing, every day, multiple times a day as the week wore on. I was still moving, still going on with normal life at a million miles an hour and running in circles like a headless chicken. It's just that my eyelids were so swollen on Sunday morning that I contemplated just foregoing the whole eyeliner and mascara thing altogether. (I didn't do it, though. At least my vanity is still intact, eh?)

Then yesterday, eyeliner in place and plenty of foundation to hide the eye bags, I drove to church and made my way to the choir practice room. We were doing a new song to open the service and since (all excuses aside) I was just plain flakey and didn't go to practice last week, I needed some music. I glanced at the title.

Blessed Be Your Name.

New song? To me? Not so much.

I was regretting the eyeliner by the time we got halfway through the song.

Blessed Be Your Name
In the land that is plentiful
Where Your streams of abundance flow
Blessed be Your name

That part is easy, Lord. That was my life. It was good... so good. So idyllic.

Blessed be Your name
On the road marked with suffering
Though there's pain in the offering
Blessed be Your name

There is pain in this offering, Lord. How do I praise Your name through this tearing away of the foundations? This extreme ugliness?

You give and take away.
You give and take away.
My heart will choose to say,
Blessed be your name.

Then we pulled out the actual choir special. It was a song we'd done for Easter, very dramatic and full of power. I've probably sung these words seventy-five times in practice by now, but this seventy-sixth time, I finally listened to them.

We choose to bow
We choose to sing
We choose to crown You the King of Kings
We are not God
We say out loud
Only to You do we choose to bow

Choosing. My choice. Choose to bow. Choose to praise. Choose to say, "Blessed be Your glorious name!"

John and I teach our boys to obey all the way, right away, and with a happy heart. No, they don't always do it. When they don't, we tell them to go back and start over. Choose to obey with the right attitude. Obedience comes first... sometimes the heart just follows at a greater distance than other times. But it's a choice.

My dad is right. I do have a choice here. It's definitely not the choice he's looking for--I'm not choosing to succumb to the manipulation, the lies, or an acceptance of this life. I do know this is the choice my Almighty, All-knowing God desires.

It's with yet more tears splashing my keyboard I say...

Though there's pain in the offering

My heart will choose to say

Blessed be Your name.

Beach Walks

You know those blogs filled with amazing pictures, captioned by only a few words, that seem to say more than some other blogs say with ten paragraphs?

I'm going to pretend I'm one of them. Except that, well, I'm not. I have a regular ol' little point and shoot camera and I'm the farthest thing from a photographer.

But because my brain has been elsewhere this past week, I'm pretending. I like pretending.

Bear with me, mmkay?

The unseasonably warm weather is perfect for evening walks in the sand and waves

~Flip flops~

A little unsure at first, but by the end of the evening, he was toddling full speed into the waves. We'll have to keep an eye on that one.

~JUMP~

Forever... and ever...

Sandy diapered bottom

~*~Love~*~

Our pier... beauty.

Hoping all of you dear ones are finding moments of peace in the midst of it all...

...but Sunday's Comin'