Friday, April 20, 2012
missed millimeters and miles of grace
Saturday, April 07, 2012
BIG mess... BIG sweep
And so deep and so tall,
We cannot pick it up.
There is no way at all!"
- Dr. Seuss (The Cat in the Hat)
For to sweep the Lord’s house clean...
"Yes I’ve come to wash and clean
From this floor, the stains of sin
Sweep high, sweep low
Sweeping clean as I go."
I bowed down low and bent my head
for the King did sweep and now I'm clean...
adapted from
Bow Down Low
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
pirates-on-tap
Our Little Bit of Hot Lava has sparked an interest in pirates.
He has pestered the (very patient) librarians for every book even remotely affiliated with
pirates – and brought them all home. (The books, not the librarians.) While nouns and verbs makes his eyes roll, and math facts bore him to death, he
comes to sudden life when studying information essential to health and wealth, such as
the fact that pirate weapons generally include axes, cannons, fireballs, muskets, flintlocks, and cutlasses. (Whatever those are… but please don’t make the
mistake of suggesting that pirates simply use SWORDS and GUNS. Also remember - for your own safety - that Barbary Corsairs are in a different category all together, for they have been suspected to swing scimitars, not cutlasses.) It is important to know that Captain William Kidd did not start out as a pirate, yet became a pirate, but without the Jolly Roger. He was eventually hung. (Should you desire to hear more, Pirate Hot Lava will gladly share the gory details.) Your head spinnnnnnning yet? Welcome to my world! Yet most
essential to life-at-present is to note that Buccaneer Henry Morgan ultimately became a knight – an attractive career path our own little pirate intends to
follow himself.Oh indeed. Pirate-producing-rum-on-tap, flowing freely from my kitchen faucet. I think we are in trouble.
Monday, March 05, 2012
Grumpy: redeemed.
Monday, February 06, 2012
When dwarfs share a ladder... hobbits grow beards.
Due to one boy's interest in riddles, our offspring recently found themselves immersed in the adventures of the most excellent Mr. Bilbo Baggins. Thus our home, once occupied by a tribe of boys, now is The Shire - filled with barefoot hobbits. But these hobbits tend to unexpectedly convert into a horde of trolls, a party of elves, gory goblins or a company of bearded dwarfs on a mission in Middle-earth.
- Two
boysdwarfs - One bunk bed ladder
- A body-floor collision
- A gaping chin
- Lots of blood
- One hollering dwarf
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| Photo and transportation-to-ER credit: Uschi Jeffcoat |
Saturday, December 31, 2011
The Murphy Revolution
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
celebrating belonging
Friday, November 18, 2011
Respect your elders or else...
Monday, November 14, 2011
redemption
The finger, he said, is pretty messed up...
Friday, October 07, 2011
(nearly) Fingerless Fritz
I'm not sure what it is with Fritz and fingers, but it appears that he is determined to lose some. And I guess being the last of five boys, he considered being the first to visit the ER a worthy contribution to a rather dull (:-o) family life.So while investigating the extreme limits of a rocking chair's "rock", he actually found that vital tipping point... to the detriment of a fingertip that bore the brunt of the impact and thus burst open(!) Skip the next 2 sentences if you have a vivid imagination and are sensitive to graphic descriptions. Devan described it afterwards as resembling a pull-tab soup can - half opened with the contents spilling out. To me it resembled a weeping 3-petal tulip, and all I wanted was for those leaves to close back up and be bulb-like again!
If indeed angels are assigned to individual human beings, I suspect that boys need at least 2 of them at all times. Our friend Chris chuckled with Scott and me (after the dust had settled and the blood had dried) as we imagined the possible conversation between Fritz' winged guardians yesterday morning:
"Angel Alert! He’s going down! Every wing in position to buffer fall!"
"Oh dear... we better head on over to the ER and make up for this or we might just have our wings clipped!"
We unknowingly ran to the wrong ER door, (it actually was the ambulance door), but as we realized our mistake and changed course, an EMT took pity on us and ushered us right into the heart of the
ER, bypassing the waiting room.(!)
Dr. Bryon Frost (a friend) attended to Fritz. Our nurse (mother of 4 with a little boy Fritz' age) was a great comfort to this guilt-ridden mom. Dottie was available to comfort and care for the other
boys at home. 
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Wise man: "Well, I am sure she must have had a very good reason for taking them away...?"
Hot Lava:" Wellllll, it all started when I used that one screwdriver as a dagger to attack Devan."
No Comment.
No new screwdriver either.
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| Mr. Hot Lava in Greek Warrior attire with alternative weapon in hand. |
Monday, September 19, 2011
And on the 7th day you will... erupt.
Tuesday, September 06, 2011
Wednesday, June 08, 2011
blessed are the jungle dwellers
Blessed are those who live in the jungle, for they will not have sewer trouble. They may have other troubles, but no congested sewer systems to explode into (yes into) their homes.
Blessed is the jungle dweller because he does not have a concrete driveway on which a child can mar his face. Though they may bust their heads on many other things, concrete it will not be.
Blessed are they who rely on their feet with no other options of transportation. Not only do they benefit from fitness as a natural state of being, the absence of the expectation of an available and operable vehicle eliminates potential locomotion discontentment.
Blessed are those who set traps, hunt and wholly live off the land. While it is true that dinner may not exactly present itself to be killed and cooked when hunger strikes, they are at least likely to creatively fill a tummy without need of a grocery store - and a vehicle to get there.
Blessed are those without watches or calendars, for they are not slaves to such cruel taskmasters.
May I just say: This week I desired to be a jungle resident.Monday, March 21, 2011
Oh the things that we'll learn...
Parenting is a strange season in life – you learn the most unusual things. And I refer to those things that the books don’t even mention - probably intentionally. For who would be “fruitful, multiply, and fill the earth” if we knew all these things ahead of time?
Had there been a booklet: Essential Secret Information – Read This Before Considering a Family, it would most certainly include a section on bunk bed ladders. Experience has taught us that the cute ladder that comes with a bunk bed often causes more distress (for the mom) than it ends up being an avenue for getting a boy into his bed. Be sure, however, that the mother’s anguish is not ignited by the customary climbing of the ladder. (Bunk Bed companies do post all kind of bizarre warnings - on an equally silly sticker that will not come off for anything in the world - about how to climb a ladder.) It is the unorthodox use of the ladder that makes her banish the thing eventually.
You know what I am talking about: the removable ladder doubles as a fire truck, serves as a barricade (and all that comes with the need for such barrier – think war), becomes part of unwanted construction projects, and is propped up against all that is breakable in the house – for gymnastic purposes.
So you will understand that this mother was elated when The Experienced and Esteemed Mr. Wick Jackson (experienced and esteemed especially because he is one of 4 boys) came up with an ingenious plan to reduce motherly ladder-induced stress. He designed a built-in bunk bed (so they cannot tear it down) with a built-in ladder (in order to end and prevent any unsolicited use of such equipment.)
My heart was at ease… but not for long. The unmovable ladder did not meet boy-needs anymore, so they kindly introduced me to another section of the unpublished booklet: Boys and Heights – The Unquenchable Need and Ensuing Deed.
After capturing this clip, I was casually informed that Neels recently flew from the top bunk. I have no difficulty believing it. I am sure it is in the section: Boys and Flight – An Innate Trait. Oh the things we are yet to learn…
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Lazy MinneMazy
So Horton the Elephant sat… and sat… and sat… through various trials and tribulations, waiting patiently and loyally for Lazy Mazy to return. Well Lazy Mazy did not just stretch her wings a little bit – she stretched them far and she stretched them w i d e. She went off on a glamorous vacation and stayed and stayed and stayed, shirking her duty, avoiding responsibility, basking in a liberated life… only to return moments before the egg hatches.
(click picture to enlarge)
Ugghhh - such a devious bird Mazy was. Such a bad mom. Who wants to identify with her?

Well… come to think of it... I do! And so I did. Weary of sitting on a bouncy nest, Scott and I flew off this past week after having implored at least 4 kind Hortons to guard our 5 eggs for a few days.
Now, at the time of departure, I had every intention off doing my duty and returning as promised … but within the first deliciously quiet moments of our escape I changed my mind: I was never, under any circumstances, returning to reality. LazyMazyness was my new real. Only a CrazyMazy would return to a nest brimming with 5 always-about-to-explode boy-eggs after tasting the emancipation of a place where no-one bickers, no-one leaves clean clothes and mud tracks on the floor (and if they do it certainly is no care of mine), and no-one wails because his banana is not served fast enough.

LazyMazyness afforded the unconcerned freedom of walking into a “breakables” store without having to fear the inevitable CRASH that would be caused by someone in my party, the luxury of soaking up colors while slouching on a couch in a favorite gallery, the serenity of reading a novel in a coffee-garden while sipping sweet caffeine because I want to, not because I need it to get through the day.
With LazyMazyness also came the joy of conversing uninterrupted with the (rather cute) man I married 10 years ago, discovering with some relief that we indeed still have a lot in common – other than those 5 eggs in the (by now forgotten) nest.
It was bliss. It was beautiful. It was… time to go home.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
we have a team
I, however, usually inform the observer that what we really have is a Demolition Team. My comment is more often than not met with blank stares: A what…? Surely these sweet boys would never… They are too small to swing a tool of mass (I mean much)destruction… Destroy what…? I never explain. If they have not seen or experienced it, no words will convince them. Because you see, our boys do not need tools for mass destruction. They are born already equipped with hands and feet… and that 3 ½ lb thing balancing on top of their shoulders that is occasionally consulted - to determine who wins the “did-most-damage” trophy of the day.
Now in their defense: I do not think they typically plan the demolition. It seems to me that they just find themselves in the midst of it – not knowing how it started, why it started, or who started it. Because put a tool (and I use the term very loosely for anything in their possession is likely to become a tool) in their hands, and you have potential ruin.
Our friend, Mr. Wick Jackson, understands… and he is rooting for our Team! He assures me that this natural tendency towards shattering and scattering [stuff around] is a good thing. It is “By-Design”. It is their job. So he took the title of Team Manager upon himself and volunteered to direct the accustomed higgledy-piggledy demolition into constructive destruction.
He gave them a coach (Coach Glen Head,)
he gave them equipment ( hammers)
and he gave them a playing field (an old brick chimney hiding in the walls of our house.)
The aim of the game was simple: destroy it.
(click picture to enlarge)I watched with a smile – the first time ever I watched with a favorable facial expression - as they devastated something. I smiled because my assessment has been right on (and, ahem, it is good for a mother's self-esteem to be right sometimes, regardless of what she is right about): they are professional Obliterators. And I smiled because they were really good at it. And I smiled because it was obvious that they were created to do this. And I smiled because they loved it. And I smiled because the men coaching them enjoyed it. I smiled as they knocked and hammered and banged and thumped and bashed and slashed that chimney down all the way to the dust of the foundation.

And then I stopped smiling.
Game over.
No more chimney.
No more playing field.
Big Problem...

















