We're beginning the long process of getting our house ready to sell.
And by beginning, I mean beginning...as in thinking a lot about getting started, searching for a storage unit for all our junk, freaking out about it, and praying that all the clutter will somehow magically disappear.
So far, no luck.
I'm not good at cleaning. I'm not good at organizing. I'm not good at accomplishing anything in a timely manner, or without becoming completely overwhelmed and crazy. In fact, I'm not good at the whole motivation-thing in general.
What I am good at is singing, song-writing, decorating, writing, getting lost in books, loving on my kids, laughing, mooing at cows, making other people laugh, not worrying about anything, poetry, scrapbooking, being spontaneous, loving Jesus like crazy and having fun.
None of which will help me sell a house.
I'm basically just a great big, hands-waving-in-the-air ADHD ball of creativity and silliness.
And you know how God often seems to match up crazy, unorganized, spontaneous people with spouses that are normal, organized and predictable? Well, unfortunately for our home-selling endeavor, my husband is basically just like me, minus the ADHD and scrapbooking. But man, do we have fun. I've even got him mooing at cows now.
So what do I do when I look at my horribly cluttered home and want to cry because I have no idea how I will ever get started or even where I should begin? When I know I have to start somewhere but am so overwhelmed I can't possibly even function? Know what I do then?
I get distracted, I snuggle my kids, I bake cookies, and I don't worry about it, even though I should.
And then I sit down and write about it.
On a completely unrelated matter: is anyone looking to buy a really really messy house? I know where you can find one.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
The Past Eighteen Hours
In the past eighteen hours, I've bathed a child by moonlight whose feet and face were covered in vomit, I've mopped half-digested lasagna from my bathroom floor as my husband sponged the hallway carpet, and I've rescued sweaty strands of hair from being drowned in the contents of a blue tupperware bowl, affectionately known as the puke bucket.
I've also massaged swollen gums where tiny teeth refuse to break through, and I've administered pain medication and soothing whispers and kisses and cuddles. I've slept fitfully side-by-side with a little patient who has no comprehension of why his mouth hurts whenever he nurses...or sucks on his binky...or rolls over in his sleep.
In the past eighteen hours, I have taught math and writing and phonics to a handful of children, answered several ridiculous questions with obvious answers, and laughed at, joked with, reprimanded and redirected various small people in their tasks for the day. I've analyzed behaviors of Attachment Disordered kids, tried to heighten and not hinder the bonding process, and both marveled and lamented the progress we're making. I've also checked over assignments done with half-effort, dealt with less-than-savory attitudes from pre-adolescents that know mostly everything there is to know, and spent a good deal of time teaching a three-year-old to distinguish a "D" from an "E" and a "G".
I've laughed a lot, gotten frustrated a little, and lost my temper for at least a few moments. I've sung no less than fifty stupid little songs about cute babies and arguing and being patient and going poo on the potty and getting out of bed and having a good attitude, and spent the better part of an hour online trying to figure out how to download treats for my son's virtual pet.
In the past eighteen hours, I've made a pot of coffee and three square meals, doled out snacks of gingerbread marshmallows and oreos and milk, and bathed another child who lost a battle with a milk jug. I've changed a half-dozen diapers, wiped little backsides, and constantly reminded a toddler to use the potty, handing out high-fives, gummy bears and stickers when he's been successful. I've loaded four kids into the hugest van ever to retrieve the aforementioned pre-adolescent from school. I've put kids down for a combined total of five naps, and never did manage to take one myself, even though (with all the puking and the teething) I've been running on only a few hours of sleep.
And now, all but the baby are in bed. Sleeping, I hope, but at the very least tucked away for the day. Unless someone gets sick, that is.
I'm really, really tired. And I have a confession.
This Mommy-thing doesn't come easy for me.
I'm a selfish person. I love to spend time on myself, doing what I want, not being forced to do anything else. Anything icky. Anything out of my comfort zone. Anything that makes me work harder or give more or be more Christlike than I ever thought I would have to be. I rather enjoy thinking about me.
But the strange thing is this: the more children our home is blessed with...the more I am forced to give of myself...the less selfish I become...and the happier my life is turning out to be.
Kinda opposite from what the world tells us, don't you think?
I've also massaged swollen gums where tiny teeth refuse to break through, and I've administered pain medication and soothing whispers and kisses and cuddles. I've slept fitfully side-by-side with a little patient who has no comprehension of why his mouth hurts whenever he nurses...or sucks on his binky...or rolls over in his sleep.
In the past eighteen hours, I have taught math and writing and phonics to a handful of children, answered several ridiculous questions with obvious answers, and laughed at, joked with, reprimanded and redirected various small people in their tasks for the day. I've analyzed behaviors of Attachment Disordered kids, tried to heighten and not hinder the bonding process, and both marveled and lamented the progress we're making. I've also checked over assignments done with half-effort, dealt with less-than-savory attitudes from pre-adolescents that know mostly everything there is to know, and spent a good deal of time teaching a three-year-old to distinguish a "D" from an "E" and a "G".
I've laughed a lot, gotten frustrated a little, and lost my temper for at least a few moments. I've sung no less than fifty stupid little songs about cute babies and arguing and being patient and going poo on the potty and getting out of bed and having a good attitude, and spent the better part of an hour online trying to figure out how to download treats for my son's virtual pet.
In the past eighteen hours, I've made a pot of coffee and three square meals, doled out snacks of gingerbread marshmallows and oreos and milk, and bathed another child who lost a battle with a milk jug. I've changed a half-dozen diapers, wiped little backsides, and constantly reminded a toddler to use the potty, handing out high-fives, gummy bears and stickers when he's been successful. I've loaded four kids into the hugest van ever to retrieve the aforementioned pre-adolescent from school. I've put kids down for a combined total of five naps, and never did manage to take one myself, even though (with all the puking and the teething) I've been running on only a few hours of sleep.
And now, all but the baby are in bed. Sleeping, I hope, but at the very least tucked away for the day. Unless someone gets sick, that is.
I'm really, really tired. And I have a confession.
This Mommy-thing doesn't come easy for me.
I'm a selfish person. I love to spend time on myself, doing what I want, not being forced to do anything else. Anything icky. Anything out of my comfort zone. Anything that makes me work harder or give more or be more Christlike than I ever thought I would have to be. I rather enjoy thinking about me.
But the strange thing is this: the more children our home is blessed with...the more I am forced to give of myself...the less selfish I become...and the happier my life is turning out to be.
Kinda opposite from what the world tells us, don't you think?
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Only By the Grace of God
For the briefest of moments, I was forced to wonder if one of my children might be dead.
There. I said it. The one thing that I've been thinking since Monday night, when a teenage boy pummeled into the back of our van, pushing us into the car ahead. The thing I almost dared not to voice, for fear that actually saying it out loud would somehow make it something that could have happened. That almost happened, even. But by the grace of God, didn't.
Only by the grace of God.
We (me and all five of my children) were running a projected five minutes late for my husband's annual Christmas Program. I was approaching an intersection, getting into the left turn lane, when the car in front of me stopped very suddenly, forcing me to slam on the brakes. I thought for a moment that we were going to hit him, but managed to stop the van with not a whole lot of extra space between us. Relief set in, but my silent prayer of thanks was cut short by the impact of a car slamming full-force into us from behind.
The moments that followed were some of the worst of my life. It was dark. My three oldest children, who were sitting in the backseat, were screaming wildly, and I had no idea how badly they had been injured. The baby, jarred awake by the blow, began screaming at the top of his lungs, too. And for the briefest of seconds, I thought that something dreadful might have happened to one of my children. There was confusion and terror and panic and sobbing, and when I cried out to them to find out if they were hurt, they insisted that they were.
Quickly, I scanned them over. I saw no blood, no protruding bones, and everyone was awake and alert. In fact, they were far more alert than usual, although understandably shaken. Somehow, I got everyone calmed down enough to tell me that they were not seriously injured...just bumped and bruised and whiplashed...and then my relief came down in torrents.
I was able to pull the van off the road into a parking lot (the same was not true for the car behind us, as it was missing its entire front end). I checked each of my five kids over inch by inch, hugged them to me one by one, and then sobbed out a prayer of thanksgiving to God for protecting us.
The next hour passed in a frenzy of cell phone calls, blinking lights, sirens, firefighters and police officers. I answered countless questions, rattled off birth dates, and shed a thousand tears. I was a bit in shock over what could have happened, yet even now I could go on and on with all the details I collected from the scene: who said what, how each person was feeling, who was crying, who came to help, whose phone number I misdialed in all the confusion, the damage our van sustained, the sorrow of the boy that hit us when he realized he'd put five children in harm's way.
But the truth is, none of that is very important.
What's important is that after anxiously waiting for a solid hour for his family to arrive at his program, with no way to be contacted and with no choice but to go on with the show, my panicked husband was able to look up and see all six of us coming toward him. We were all safe.
And over the last few days, both my husband and I have seen our lives and our children in a new light. We're cherishing the laughs and the ballerina twirls down the hall, the joking around at the dinner table, the brandishing of little swords, and the hugs and snuggles in between. When we're brushing little teeth, or wiping little bottoms, or teaching math lessons, or cleaning up after someone who didn't make it to the bathroom on time; when we're listening to children argue or fuss or even throw tantrums, and when we've been woken up yet again in the middle of the night, we've been acutely aware of the fact that we could have lost them. And we're thankful to be allowed to do even the most mundane of tasks for these precious, irreplaceable people- the children that we love.
A bit of humor, as I can't help but find humor in the ugliest of places:
While waiting for the police to arrive, a bystander picked something up from the ground outside and brought it to us. It was a picture of my husband that had been on the dashboard. He had not been properly restrained and had been thrown from the vehicle.
I remembered and relayed to my husband every emotional and story-telling fact of the accident scene in fabulous detail, except the one thing he wanted to know most of all: "What kind of cars were they?" What do you mean, what kind of cars? Ours is a van, the other two were cars. Two cars, one van. "But what kind of cars were they?" One was red and boxy, the other was tan (I think) and pretty crunchy.
Apparently this wasn't a good enough description.
There. I said it. The one thing that I've been thinking since Monday night, when a teenage boy pummeled into the back of our van, pushing us into the car ahead. The thing I almost dared not to voice, for fear that actually saying it out loud would somehow make it something that could have happened. That almost happened, even. But by the grace of God, didn't.
Only by the grace of God.
We (me and all five of my children) were running a projected five minutes late for my husband's annual Christmas Program. I was approaching an intersection, getting into the left turn lane, when the car in front of me stopped very suddenly, forcing me to slam on the brakes. I thought for a moment that we were going to hit him, but managed to stop the van with not a whole lot of extra space between us. Relief set in, but my silent prayer of thanks was cut short by the impact of a car slamming full-force into us from behind.
The moments that followed were some of the worst of my life. It was dark. My three oldest children, who were sitting in the backseat, were screaming wildly, and I had no idea how badly they had been injured. The baby, jarred awake by the blow, began screaming at the top of his lungs, too. And for the briefest of seconds, I thought that something dreadful might have happened to one of my children. There was confusion and terror and panic and sobbing, and when I cried out to them to find out if they were hurt, they insisted that they were.
Quickly, I scanned them over. I saw no blood, no protruding bones, and everyone was awake and alert. In fact, they were far more alert than usual, although understandably shaken. Somehow, I got everyone calmed down enough to tell me that they were not seriously injured...just bumped and bruised and whiplashed...and then my relief came down in torrents.
I was able to pull the van off the road into a parking lot (the same was not true for the car behind us, as it was missing its entire front end). I checked each of my five kids over inch by inch, hugged them to me one by one, and then sobbed out a prayer of thanksgiving to God for protecting us.
The next hour passed in a frenzy of cell phone calls, blinking lights, sirens, firefighters and police officers. I answered countless questions, rattled off birth dates, and shed a thousand tears. I was a bit in shock over what could have happened, yet even now I could go on and on with all the details I collected from the scene: who said what, how each person was feeling, who was crying, who came to help, whose phone number I misdialed in all the confusion, the damage our van sustained, the sorrow of the boy that hit us when he realized he'd put five children in harm's way.
But the truth is, none of that is very important.
What's important is that after anxiously waiting for a solid hour for his family to arrive at his program, with no way to be contacted and with no choice but to go on with the show, my panicked husband was able to look up and see all six of us coming toward him. We were all safe.
And over the last few days, both my husband and I have seen our lives and our children in a new light. We're cherishing the laughs and the ballerina twirls down the hall, the joking around at the dinner table, the brandishing of little swords, and the hugs and snuggles in between. When we're brushing little teeth, or wiping little bottoms, or teaching math lessons, or cleaning up after someone who didn't make it to the bathroom on time; when we're listening to children argue or fuss or even throw tantrums, and when we've been woken up yet again in the middle of the night, we've been acutely aware of the fact that we could have lost them. And we're thankful to be allowed to do even the most mundane of tasks for these precious, irreplaceable people- the children that we love.
A bit of humor, as I can't help but find humor in the ugliest of places:
While waiting for the police to arrive, a bystander picked something up from the ground outside and brought it to us. It was a picture of my husband that had been on the dashboard. He had not been properly restrained and had been thrown from the vehicle.
I remembered and relayed to my husband every emotional and story-telling fact of the accident scene in fabulous detail, except the one thing he wanted to know most of all: "What kind of cars were they?" What do you mean, what kind of cars? Ours is a van, the other two were cars. Two cars, one van. "But what kind of cars were they?" One was red and boxy, the other was tan (I think) and pretty crunchy.
Apparently this wasn't a good enough description.
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