Cheap Therapy

The Murphy Revolution

2011-12-31T16:13:00.000-05:00

Neels has been reading the Illustrated Classics version of Dickens' A tale of two cities, which introduced him to an exciting new head-removingtool: the guillotine. Naturally he felt the need to build one himself. When I walked out into the yard today, I encountered a revolution:

Devan: Neels, may I chop your head off?

Neels: No, I want to chop my own head off.

Devan: Please! You’ve already chopped yours off severaltimes. May I please have a turn?

(One has to appreciate the civility of their bloodthirsty conversations.)

Neels: OK… just once. But don’t hurt me!

Neels’ head rolls with appropriate sound effects and the look on his face becoming less civilized by the second.): Owwwhhyeeey you hurt me!! Now I am going to chop your head off!!!

Devan (calmly): No… I have a white shirt on. I’d rather you not.

Neels (hot from excitement of having just lost his head): Oh come on! Who cares about a white shirt? (Who does indeed?)

Devan (effectively diverting attention to another victim): Why don’t you chop Martin’s head off?

Neels (taking the bait WAY too easily): OH yeah! Martin!!!!! Come here! Where’s Fritz? He’s next! Pieter? Where are you?

And so, by lunchtime, I had at least 4 headless boys running for food in order to fuel yet another Murphy revolution. But the one with the white shirt… he of course made sure to keep his head. It is called First Born Invented and Executed Democratic Autocracy.

celebrating belonging

2011-12-20T15:26:00.000-05:00

But when the time arrived... God sent his Son...

so that he might redeem those of us who have been kidnapped by the law.

Thus we have been set free to experience our rightful heritage...

fully adopted as his own children...

God sent the Spirit of his Son into our lives crying out, "Papa! Father!"

- Galatians 4:4-5 MSG

J.I. Packer explains: "In adoption, God takes us into his family and fellowship -- he establishes us as his children and heirs. Closeness, affection and generosity are at the heart of the relationship. To be right with God the Judge is a great thing, but to be loved and cared for by God the Father is a greater." [Knowing God]

Therefore this Christmas we celebrate again

Jesus coming

to redeem and adopt

into His family:

Respect your elders or else...

2011-11-18T16:27:00.001-05:00

I was cleaning out some old folders on our computer and unearthed this video clip I received in an e-mail several years ago. Do you remember it? It was funny then, but having reflected on the unstoppable and often sad and lonely reality of aging and the elderly this past year, I find it even funnier now. The consequences for not respecting your elders could be costly - especially for the ego of the arrogant.

redemption

2011-11-14T06:29:00.001-05:00

Conversation with a Surgeon about a Little Boy's Broken Finger.

The finger, he said, is pretty messed up...

We humans, I heard, are pretty messed up.

It's broken, he said, it's worse than we thought...

We're broken, I heard, we're worse than we thought.

There is hope, he said, for healing of course...

There is hope, I heard, for redemption of course.

But growth, he said, may be crooked or odd...

And growth, I heard, refines the crooked'n odd.

And numbness, he said, cannot be ruled out...

but numbness, I heard, afflict even th' devout.

Yet movement, he said, should be fully restored...

There's movement, I heard, when the Spirit restores.

The whole finger, he smiled, is but part of his story...

The whole story, I smiled, is redemption, His glory.

watercolor

(nearly) Fingerless Fritz

2011-10-07T17:03:00.000-04:00

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 tobuffer fall!"

Crash!!!!!!!!!!

"...Uh-o… who wassupposed to cover the hands?!!"

"You were!"

"No, you were!"

"No I wasn’t – Isecured his feet!"

"Not my fault, Iheld his head."
"Oh dear... we better head on over to the ER and make up for this or we might just have our wings clipped!"

But despite our musings about imaginary heavenly panic, we vividly experienced the Lord going before us and holding everything together - specifically the finger and especially the mom:

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 theER, bypassing the waiting room.(!)

Dr. Bryon Frost (a friend) attended to Fritz. Our nurse, Shelley, is a mother of 4 with a little boy Fritz' age (a great comfort to a guilt ridden mom), and Dottie was available to comfort and care for the otherboys at home.

A mere 4 hourslater we returned home with 12 stitches and a boy who... still acts very much like a boy. He lost neither a beat nor a finger. It is his mother who is still missing a few beats... and she sincerely hopes that The Fritz will not find life-as-the-caboose too dull too often...

Update (one week after incident): We found out today that the distal phalange (very end- bone) of the afflicted finger is actually broken... "crushed and kind of split down the middle" our hand surgeon friend informed us. There is also a slight possibility of sensory nerve damage. The good news is that The Fritz' age puts him in the "close-enough-to-creation-to-self-correct" category and the best treatment is to just let it be. The bad news is that The Mom is shaken all over again!

2011-09-24T16:04:00.002-04:00

During a recent visit to the hardware store, our "Bit of Hot Lava" was determined to convince Scott of his need for a new screwdriver. You must understand at this point that this little boy already is was the owner of several screwdrivers. SEVERAL. Being the wise man that he is, Scott was not swayed by the begging, puppy-like brown eyes framed by freckles and a reddish mop of hair. Instead, he reminded Mr. Hot Lava about all the screwdrivers-in-residence waiting at home. To which came the reply: "Well, you see.... I actually do not have them anymore... Mamma took them away."
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.

Mr. Hot Lava in Greek Warrior attire with alternative weapon in hand.

And on the 7th day you will... erupt.

2011-09-19T15:56:00.000-04:00

It isSunday morning. There’s a kind of hush all over the world… all over the worldexcept in the Murphy home. The Tribe is dressed for worship and are supposed to be on the couch, semi-quietly occupying themselvesso that their parents can become suitably clad as well.

The“semi-quiet” part of our instruction to them was apparently sufficiently vaguein nature, resulting in liberal interpretation, evidenced by the cry that soon stormed our way: Daddyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!!!!!!!He hit me in the eye!

Scott(usually the more compassionate parent) responded with little interest or sympathy: Well, y'all are playing roughand that’s what happens when you play rough.

The"injured" boy, surprised and slightly taken aback, replied: OH no, we are not playing rough!! We were just being volcanoes and thevolcano just happened to explode at the wrong time!

Withthat he makes a one-eighty and speeds back to the “semi-quiet waiting area”with a: “Here I come, guys! I’m a bit of hot lava!”

It is Sunday Morning. There’s a kind of hush all over the world…except in the Murphy home where erupting volcanoesare ushering in the Sabbath.

(My sincere apologies to the unfortunate Sunday school teachers who had bits of hot lava on their hands for one long hour!)

2011-09-06T13:47:00.000-04:00

Childproof?

Our home has been childproof for 8 years now. Or so I thought. You see, being a slow processor, it has taken me these last 96+months to realize two seemingly obvious realities:

1) childproof and boy-proof are 2 entirely different concepts

2) 1^st born boy-proof and 5^th bornboy-proof are not comparable ideas

It all started when The Fritz decided to enroll himself inThe Congaree Boys School. Hisapplication was of course denied, but he keeps showing up nonetheless. He has been expelled to his bed on severaloccasions, but some other boy (who is not coming forth) showed him how toescape. So now we have to manage TheFritz ON our school table way too often.

On one of his table expeditions, he got hold of this veryinteresting thing. No-one noticeduntil… until he came to show us his sharpened fingers. HIS WHAT? Yes, he sharpened both hisindex fingers. No cry, no alarm, noconsidering it a bad idea after sharpening the first! Just a mere interested expression of “look at this odd red fluid drippingfrom my most useful exploration digits.”

No (serious) harm done. He still has all the important aspects of his fingers – merely missingsome skin and nails. Judging by the twinkle in his eye and the perpetual bumpon his forehead, I fear a boy-proof environment in this house to be anunrealistic pursuit.

blessed are the jungle dwellers

2011-06-08T21:42:00.008-04:00

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.

Click picture to enlarge.

Oh the things that we'll learn...

2011-03-21T15:59:00.010-04:00

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…

Lazy MinneMazy

2011-03-12T21:49:00.008-05:00

Lazy Mazy was a bird. Do you remember her? Dr. Seuss tells the tale of this bird who laid an egg but was weary of doing what it takes to see it through to hatching. So she convinced the ever kind-hearted Horton the Elephant to sit on her egg for just a little while so she could stretch her wings for a bit.

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.

I sulked. I sniffed. I rebelled. But we respected our faithful Hortons-at-home too much to leave them sitting on our nest ad infinitum. (Though it was a very tempting contemplation…)

Thank you Emily, Nick, Didi and Grandpa for allowing me to be a LazyMazy for a few days! As a result of your kindness and bravery I like my husband, my nest, and my boys better. (And I suspect that my absence was a great source of refreshment to them as well.)

But… I am afraid that I don’t like them quite well enough yet… so… how about you all play Horton again soon… like maybe… next week? Yes??!!

we have a team

2011-01-20T14:21:00.026-05:00

Whenever we go out as a family, we inevitably get the “Oh, you have a team!” comment.(Not being super familiar in American sports, I stand confused as to what kind of team we actually have: some people affirm us a basketball team, some count enough heads for a football team and others declare a baseball team. So either The Tribe moves so much it is hard to get an accurate head count, or many of our spectators are not very familiar with American sports either? I guess the former is more probable.)

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.

The rules were few: do wear shoes and do not throw bricks at each other.
(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... they had tasted victory. They had pumped muscles. Adrenaline was oooozing out of their pores. They were hot and wired. They wanted more. Yikes! Now what Mr. Wick Jackson?

We do have a team: a Demolition Team. They’re good, they are ready, they’re available, they’re free – you want them?

The benefitz of The Fritz

2011-01-16T17:09:00.006-05:00

The older boys often express how glad they are that we have “acquired” The Fritz.

Here’s why:

I have a feeling that The Fritz is equally happy to have been "gained"... most of the time anyway...

a joyful noise

2010-12-14T21:03:00.007-05:00

There were shepherds out in the field, keeping watch over their flocks by night... And suddenly there was a multitude of angels all around them, making a joyful noise!!

Merry Christmas!

Ps: if you are unfamiliar with the unique instrument on the far left, it is called a snorkel.

Never leave a car seat unattended...

2010-10-12T10:57:00.019-04:00

You've seen it (and if you're type A you've probably even read it): the "literature" accompanying a car seat purchase. The (ever thickening) Owner's Manual covers every buckle, clip and strap of the device and thoroughly states all kinds of potential dangers associated with the use thereof. But the version I read (yes, type A) failed to mention that it is absolutely essential, of course, never to leave a car seat unattended in the car port. For if you do, it might just become a homemade roller-coaster, compliments of Graco.

Our Mutt

2010-10-02T20:56:00.014-04:00

The boys are eager for a pet. Unfortunately the low-maintenance kinds (frogs, turtles, ducks) that we have already had do not seem to count. A real pet, I am told, moves about freely on four limbs, reciprocates a boy's playful antics and makes noise.

So we found one. He was rather expensive, but we do intend to keep him for a long time. He is a mutt and we affectionately refer to him as The Fritz. He meets all the specified qualifications* and some more:

moves on all fours*,

responds with joy to energetic boy-action*,

growls, grunts and squeels*

claws, rips and swallows school papers and various craft materials,

chews on books, shoes (Crocs apparently taste best) and USB cords,

hunts for crumbs under the table,

drools and leaves splotches of saliva all over the floor,

has a curly Mohawk to pet,

is adored by all in the house,

and the boys fight over who gets to sleep in his room,

and the boys fight over who gets to feed him,

and the boys fight over who gets to wipe up his drool,

and the boys fight over who gets to watch him,

and the boys fight over who gets to hold him,

and the boys fight over who gets to play with him next...

Ahhhhh what chaotic joy. Four owners. Four personalities. Four better or four worse.

Here's how it is:

Owner#1: Responsible... yet his way is the only way.

Owner#2: Has a different view on life all-together.

Owner#3: Smiles life's troubles away. Beware: smile instantly turns to sword if crossed.

Owner#4: Independent, determined, look-of-innocence (until proven guilty... which he often is.)

Sigh...

At least the Concept of Belonging will not likely be one that The Fritz will seek therapy for in 20 years. He may, however, have to sift through the confusing emotional residue of labels such as "favorite" and "mutt".

grey hair is a crown of splendor...

2010-09-28T14:35:00.008-04:00

A bent-over lady wearing a crown of splendor addressed my children in the Post Office. After making eye contact and exchanging a few words with each one, she turned to me and shared: " I have 9 children. When they were young, people would often ask me: 'With so many children you surely must have favorites - don't you love one more than some?' And I would answer: 'But of course! The one who is gone until he comes back and the one who is sick until he gets well!' "

She walked off with a smile of remembrance and left me with a line to remember and an encouraged heart: she obviously did not merely survive 9 children but grew in wisdom in the midst of it!

The benefit of a brain.

2010-09-28T13:59:00.006-04:00

Neels: Look at my "2"!

Mx: I like it.

Neels: Do you want to know how I made it?

Mx: How?

Neels: I used my brain! It is a great thing to have a brain - and to use it!

dinner dilemma

2010-08-20T12:10:00.007-04:00

“Barbarian!” it rang through the house, “I’ll chop your head off!” I sighed. They were only playing "ancient history ", but the scene embodied more reality than I would like to embrace. Growing up, I pictured the barbarians of old as vicious human versions of pigs. Little did I know then that barbarian blood actually runs thickly in my veins, and that it would manifest itself in all sort of ways in my own home one day...
For one, we face an acute dinner dilemma. Turn up the volume, click this (sic) and close your eyes. Hear my distress as you listen to the sounds assaulting my ears whenever food appears in on our table...

My newest fear is that no girl will ever want them and that I forever will be stuck with 5 big ol' (potentially headless) barbarians around my dinner table!

A Letter To Winter

2010-08-16T14:34:00.013-04:00

Dear Winter,
How true it is that absence makes the heart grow fonder! You’ve been gone less than half a year, and I already miss you dearly.

It is August and your sister, Summer, is in the midst of her annual visit. As always, she brought her customary gifts of delicious fruits, vegetables, green grass, pretty flowers, shady trees and fluttery butterflies. We are very grateful for her kindness. But… she also brought her pe(s)ts. Her visit would be so much more enjoyable without the presence of Mosquito, Fly, Roach and Ant. If only they could be exclusively outside pets… but they are pretty sneaky creatures indeed. This sister of yours is very generous with her warm embrace and I’m sure she means well, but I experience her to be a tad stifling at times. If only Cousin Breeze would come with her more often… he knows how to temper her strong personality to our benefit.
But in all honesty… I much prefer your cold kisses and unobtrusive hugs. You kindly leave it up to me to decide how much of your embrace I care to receive. I suspect you barely blink when I turn a warm blanketed shoulder to one of your icy squeezes. Winter, you are welcome here.

Oh and then there is the laundry catastrophe. Sister Summer is not very tolerant when it comes to laundry, now is she? I made the mistake of neglecting a load of laundry (it sat in the machine for just a few extra hours after washing) and she promptly reprimanded me by adding a moldy smell to the lot. Now how mean is that?! My clean load of laundry all smelly and in need of another full cycle. I mean really – so wasteful (not to mention inconvenient.) But you, on the other hand, are much more gracious – even helpful – when it comes to the laundry monster. Should I forget about a load for an hour and a day, you preserve it nicely and icily without any nosey reminders or reprimands. I like you.

Though your complexion may lack the vigor and color of your sister’s, your spaciousness sets you apart. My children in particular must feel drawn to this simple beauty of yours, for they stay outside persistently during your visits. (Presently I find them under my feet inside much, too often – I suspect Sister Summer and her pets are a little overbearing out in the yard.)

There is also the issue of bedtime… Maybe I’ll appreciate the gift of extra daylight more when our boys are older, but right now Sister Summer stretches the hours of activity beyond my ~~comfort~~ energy zone. Little boys have a hard time heading to bed – never mind actually falling asleep – when the sun continues to smile at them till 9pm. We wind down much quicker and easier when your cool darkness falls on us in late afternoon. Ahhhh, I cannot wait!

But just yesterday I spotted a hint of orange on a persimmon... a sure sign that you will indeed return despite the present persistent blazing temperatures. You and your hot teas and soups, blankets and socks, fire logs and… rats. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about your pe(s)ts… Could I be so bold to ask that you… er… come without them this year? We’re kind of crowded here since boy #5 arrived… so if you kindly would consider it…

Looking forward to you visit,
Affectionately,
me

it takes a village...

2010-08-08T22:00:00.008-04:00

Fritz was baptized this morning. For the 5th time, we publicly surrendered a son to our Covenant God, praying that by grace he will some day recognise his desperate need for a Savior and turn to and trust in Jesus for his salvation. As the entire tribe gathered around the baptismal font, Chris, one of our pastors, pointed out that according to Scripture, Scott qualifies as a lucky man, for he has a quiver full!

As we stood there, affirming our faith and promising to raise Fritz accordingly, I panicked. I can’t do this! I have neither the wisdom nor the p a t i e n c e required to raise this little boy – never mind the legion surrounding him – in a way that would glorify God and show them Jesus. I looked out into the congregation and wondered who would see straight through me and notice my internal faltering… But what I saw was a great comfort. There they were: a host of friends who walked with us through the “Dark Ages” of our turbulent courting days, several who promised at our wedding to encourage us and hold us accountable sat in the pews once more, and my eyes connected with quite a few who have been faithfully accompanying us on this joyous yet unsure journey of parenting. Maybe they understood my hesitation?

But my heart settled into a grateful peace as they all rose to their feet and promised to undertake with us the nurture of this child. I am so thankful and relieved that we’re not doing this alone. Jesus has provided all we need in Himself and on top of that He has gifted us with the privilege of a covenant family. He knew it would take a village to raise a child… and a tribe to raise this mom!

My mom is visiting from SA - she is the one who looks like she could be my sister. Fritz is named in part after her late Father.Our friend Nigel was the elder at our side. He and his family has been at our side for many years... in fact, had it not been for his very organized wife who took us under her wing, our wedding would have been utter chaos!

The difference of a syllable

2010-08-02T14:25:00.006-04:00

An authoritative source declares July 3-August 11 The Dog Days of Summer. So if you live in the South, you may rejoice with me that the draining heat is almost officially over. (Wat seker beteken dat die Suide van Arika se koue kloue eersdaags ook die pad sal vat?) Never have I been more excited about the approaching change of seasons. The Fearless Tribe (who tend to run around outside shortsleeved and barefooted when snow flakes descend) has been taking cover INSIDE for the last month. Hence the current definitions on our bulletin board: If only a situation was as easily (ex)changed as a syllable!

Anatomy 101

2010-07-21T22:02:00.010-04:00

I loved anatomy in college, intently studied the books and cadavers and frankly thought they taught me well… but “they” apparently did not know it all. I recently learned a new anatomical fact: did you know that (some) boys have a button on their ears that they must push before they can hear (a mother's instructions)? Well, one of ours has discovered this button, kindly alerted us to its existence and proceeded to declare his button (unfortunately) out of order!

And I bet you did not know either (or maybe you did) that God made nostrils for the particular purpose of housing fingers. But I was shown - by yet another boy - that the benefit of these convenient holes are not fully experienced unless a third finger is added to the mouth.

Oh those anatomy books are in desperate need of revision - they are apparently SO lacking in essential and useful information!

after watching a duck family...

2010-07-06T15:25:00.026-04:00

You need to know that I really love my life. But as my friend Queen Latifah (aka Cheryl Lovejoy) so accurately pins it: there are "moments when the cup of boyhood seems to runneth over and the cup of grace seems to runneth under!" So allow me to blow off some steam - I'm not quite over our most recent adventure yet.

(Many of you wanted to know where we went and what possessed us? Well, Scott had to attend a TradeShow in the beautiful, artsy, cooler Greenville, SC with the Reedy River running through downtown (click for pic). So naturally I reasoned (mistake #1) that going along would be easier and more fun than staying home "alone" (mistake #2).)

So here is Part II of our adventure (thanks for listening - I feel better already):

Reflections of an exhausted, temporarily “overcast”, human mother.

On the Reedy we watched a show:
“The McQuack Family On The GO!”
Mother duck so calm and cool
leads her eight(!) boys to the pool.

Now mother duck –
she has some luck
keeping her big soled boys in line.

So very unlike me and mine…

Duck boys (naturally) keep close to mom
She calls - they (naturally immediately) do come!!
Must be ‘cause ducklings have no soul
Thus temptation they do’ know…

Oh mother duck
– you are in luck:
your soulless boys stay in line!

So very unlike mine

who not so well behave
because to them the Maker gave
a way to know (t’is the soul)
the irresist'ble charm of temptation
(hence stepping out of line an option)

On the Reedy they watched a show:
“The McMurph Family On The Go”
A chaotic fest – contained typhoon at best
Exasperated mother aimlessly behest:
Observe!
Swerve!
Conserve!
Preserve!
Incurve!
Subserve!

(sigh)

Oh mother duck, you are in luck!

five is a crowd

2010-07-04T16:54:00.026-04:00

Yes, it's been a while... either because life has been so dull at our house that nothing worth writing about has happened in several months, OR because too much has been happening. Whichever the case, I now somberly submit:
15 reasons not to take five little boys on a "hotel-sleepover":

1. even if the hotel room is ballroom size, it will be too small not make the walls shake, earning the family some not-to0-friendly looks when boarding the elevator... (at least a large family tends to fill the entire lift, leaving no room for Mrs. Raised Eye-Brows to join you for an awkward journey to the lower level),
2. the baby will not like his (very cute) bed because, it being a third the size of his regular sleeping quarters, will inevitably yield either a smushed face or two too long legs escaping the cozy confinement,
3. one boy will have a fever which (despite the comforting presence of our friend Tylenol) will put him out of sorts deep into the midnight hours,
4. another little man will be unable to sleep due to a pillow that is too big, forcing his head into the "stay-awake-posture",
5. someone will find a hole in his underwear – and who can sleep with a hole in his underwear?
6. yet another will fall out of his bed with a big bang and resulting waiiiil!!! at 2am,
7. the baby will wake at 4am –and so will the rest of the room,
8. 7 am will come 3 hours too late for the children and 3 hours too early for the adults,
9. the sole intent of a complimentary breakfast is of course to give the queen-mother a break from the regular routine - no cooking and especially no cleaning up... except when a yogurt volcano unexpectedly erupts to cover the breakfast room rug and windows with some under-appreciated abstract dairy-art,

10. during emergency volcano clean-up, the baby will spit up into the queen's clothes and a gravity assisted sour milk trickle will seek out her flip-flops,
11. beware that hotel employees apparently have not been enlightened regarding The 10-Second Rule and will kindly reprimand the queen-mother should she attempt to rescue toast off the floor in order to feed it to a boy,
12. the boys will turn more than just a few heads by arguing VERY LOUDLY about the purpose of the position of the cherry picker parked outside the (now dirty) window,
13. a curious voice from the tribe will demand to know (TOP VOLUME): "why does that man eat so much when he is already so fat?"

14. in the midst of all the breakfast commotion, the baby will start screaming, a big boy will need the loo "very badly", and the Tribal Chief will "unfortunately have to leave" the scene in order to make a timely appearance at a scheduled meeting,
15. as the mother of the circus, your face will default to a deep shade of red and be framed with constant sparkly drops of perspiration for the entire stay.

Now some of you know that I have on occasion pensively lamented Fritz’ lonely disadvantage in life due to the sure(?) absence of a (younger) brother to share his room. Well, nothing like a hotel-sleepover to (at least temporarily) cure any such crowded musings! (When traveling) 5 boys are plenty!

Five Fabulous Boys

2010-04-07T14:30:00.009-04:00

The tag (nommerplaat) of our family bus contains the letters FFB.
It just happens to be an abbreviation for

Five Fabulous Boys

and here they are!

Martin(2), Neels(5), Devan(6), Fritz(10wks), Pieter(3)

pride exposed

2010-03-06T11:12:00.004-05:00

The following letter was read by Steve Brown (if you don’t know him, you should!) during a conference at The Cove several years ago.
It is a letter by one Samuel Lopez De Victoria, written to his friends.
These are words that have greatly humbled me... I owe them to most people I have ever encountered; whether in the checkout line, on the side of the road, in the community, in the church, or in my house. In fact, I owe them to YOU:

I’m so sorry I didn’t understand your pain… walking through fire has opened my eyes.
I’m so sorry I didn’t see your love for God, I’d rather impose my way on you.
I’m so sorry I tried to fix you; I didn’t realize you just needed a friend.
I’m so sorry that I hit you with God-talk, making you feel so unspiritual. I misused God’s sword and hurt you instead of being an agent if release and healing.
I’m so sorry I implied that you’re out of God’s will… God’s will is bigger than both of us.
I’m so sorry that I pulled back and abandoned you… I was hiding in the shadows of silence.
I’m so sorry that I did not pay the price to enter your world but blindly insisted mine as the only valid one. I have much to learn and much to appreciate.
I’m so sorry that I recklessly assumed that you had a bad attitude; I was masking my own insecurities.
I’m so sorry that I believed that there was a crack in your armor, dear brother [sister, child]; it was lint in my own eye.
I’m so sorry I acted like I was the better person because I was obeying God… I [thought I] looked successful and you didn’t.
I’m so sorry I didn’t extend to you the same mercy and grace that God has given to me. Amazing grace I have not shared.
I’m so sorry that I was not willing to admit that I’m just as needy, if not more! The Savior Himself said: The sickest think they are healthy.
I’m so sorry that sadly my non-verbal communication influenced others to think less of you. 93% of our communication is non-verbal.
I’m so sorry that I contributed to your agony instead of being a breath of fresh air for you… I discovered a fly in my perfume.
I’m so sorry that I demeaned you by taking away your honor and making you feel flawed. I am the true leper.
I’m so sorry that I made you feel ashamed of yourself – I am now ashamed of myself.
Please pray for me, and if you find it in you heart to have mercy on me, a poor wretched sinner, then I beg of you to please forgive me…

The End…

2010-02-28T20:21:00.006-05:00

Caution: This post contains material that the sensitive eye (or heart) may not find agreeable.

You will be elated to learn that we’ve (hopefully and finally) come to the 4th and last chapter of our Rat Story.

Scott came home last night with a brand new rattrap. With a snarling eye on the contraption, I gave the purchaser a speech about the inadequacy of these black crocodile-teeth traps to capture whatever-it-is underneath the house. He silenced me kindly (yet only temporarily) by sharing a morsel of unwelcome information: on a recent late night trip to the kitchen he, the insulted purchaser of the trap, had an accidental meeting with a furry thing on the kitchen floor. The Thing (with a tail) rapidly scuttled across the floor and vanished behind the dishwasher.

At this point in the conversation, I freaked out completely and threw an appropriate estrogen-induced tantrum: “Wh…WHA… WHAT?????!!! You’re kidding right? NO??? No! NO! NOOOO! He invaded us! I cannot, will not have That Thing in the house! He’ll eat the baby! He’ll bite the boys! He’ll get you – he SHOULD get YOU! Off with his head! Off with yours too for that matter! Etc.etc.etc…”

My explosion was adequate fuel to ignite the boys’ hunting instincts and they cheerfully joined the “conversation”:
“I’ll sneak up behind him and grab him by the tail!” planned Devan.
“Ja, Ja, Ja!” chimed in Martin.
“I’ll chop off his head and cut his tummy open!” exclaimed my ever bloodthirsty Neels. (I knew I could count in him to join my be-heading campaign.)
“Ja, Ja, Ja!” supported Martin.
“I’ll catch him in THIS!” announced Piekie, holding up an egg carton – his favorite toy for the day.
“Ja, Ja, Ja!” followed Martin.
“I’ll set up the trap in the kitchen tonight” Scott offered calmly.

So he did.
It snapped.
It beheaded the vile creature.
It was a rat.
It was dead.
Victory!!
And Scott walks away as my forever, never to be insulted again, hero. (He told me to add this line.) Epilogue: So you may wonder with me, how did the trap under the house fail TWICE? “Cockroaches on steroids” the hero of the story explains. He’s seen ‘em. They’re huge. A whole army of ‘em. Crawling around in our crawl space. Ughhhhh. I feel a(nother) tantrum coming on…

The plot thickens...

2010-02-26T18:21:00.013-05:00

Scott checked the trap again and... it was snapped! As in BROKEN BY the vicious, hideous creature!
I am seriously beginning to doubt that it is ol' Templeton’s work (even if he had Nolan’s cheese for dinner)...

I fear we’re most likely dealing with a Minotaur(click for story). And as Spring is approaching in our hemisphere, my worst nightmare is that this cretan (no pun intended) will take a wife and we’ll end up with a family of 5 little bullheaded boy-like monsters in the duct work labyrinth underneath the house...

I declare: it’s time to call in
a professional…

To be continued…

Why SNAP didn't get the RAT

2010-02-22T17:05:00.006-05:00

Scott went to check the trap today: it snapped! But no rat... Here's what we think happened:

by John Nolan

For a bigger screen click here.

(Thanks Ilse, for sharing this video!)

Scat, Rat!

2010-02-21T17:00:00.007-05:00

You may remember him – Templeton – the rat in Charlotte’s Web of whom E.B White writes: “ ‘Why does he have to stay up all night, grinding his clashers and destroying people’s property? Why can’t he go to sleep, like any decent animal?’…The rat had no morals, no conscience, no scruples, no consideration, no decency, no milk of rodent kindness, no compunctions, no higher feeling, no friendliness, no anything.”

Well, that same Templeton has come to live under our house – and he is on a mission of revenge. You see, a cousin of his dared enter our home last autumn and I, bloodthirsty Queen of the Murphy Clan, mercilessly ordered his head to be chopped off by the rat-guillotine.

While Templeton knows better than to stick his filthy nose into my territory, he is sparing no effort in making me miserable. He knows my location at night and makes sure to alert me to this unwelcome fact. How he knows that I ordered his cousin’s execution and that it was I who declared eternal war on any and all free-range-rodents, blows my mind. But he knows, for he does not even attempt to wake Scott at night. Rather, he loudly and belligerently scratches, scampers, chews, chomps, crunches, munches, gnaws and grinds on who-knows-what right underneath the floorboards on MY side of the bed. I’ve stomped my feet at him, knocked on the wall, spoken harsh words to him at 1AM and given my (poor innocent) husband an aggravated do-something-about-this elbow-in-the-ribs at 3AM, all in an attempt to make an end to the stubborn creature’s nightly romps. To no avail. I keep hoping the neighbor’s cat will get him (another whiskered cousin met his Maker thanks to the most welcome secrets services of the nextdoor feline) but that has yet to happen.

So since these nightly visits have been going on since before Christmas, I actually welcomed new born duty: leaving the racket of my corner of the bedroom at 4AM in order to nurse (and nap) in the peace and quietness promised by the comfortable chair in the nursery. A crying baby (easily silenced by feeding) is a welcome middle-of-the-night noise compared to the dissonance of rat pitter-scratcher-patter at the same hour.

But oh, Templeton knew the plan. And he interfered. The very first night I snuggled down to peacefully feed Fritz, guess who moved with me… Oh yes, Mr. Beady Eyes directly scuttled his way over to the nursery foundations and started gnawing (laughing?) under my sacred seat.

Well, it can’t be helped. The (now quite moody) queen has finally (after 2+ months of enduring his obnoxious of mocking) ordered: Off with his head! The creature must die. By means of the Rat Guillotine. Tonight. Not sure whether PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) protect rats… if they do they have till sundown (less then 60 minutes) to come to his rescue. For if I can have my way, I hope to hear a “snap” between 1-4 AM tonight. Bloodthirsty you remark? You bet.

Tribal statistics

2010-02-20T14:45:00.010-05:00

GI Joe came to visit us this week – but we were on the wrong side of Joe. He turned out to be the evil (GastroIntestinal) enemy and our tribe the brave military unit – but several of us went down in battle. Hence we have some new record statistics to share:

3 boys getting sick in one night
1 bathroom to share
1 couch cover hit by GI (over)activity
4 days (and counting) for washed pillows to dry
20 (and counting) sheets/blankets changed and washed in the last 7 days
5 rugs paying the price for being en route to the bathroom
5 residents infected to date (only our fierce tribal chief and his most recent clone has managed to escaped the fiery arrows of our invisible yet violent enemy. It has been much like guerilla warfare: comes and goes haphazardly, unexpectedly, repeatedly and seems to have no end it.)
7 stuffed dogs, cats, hippos and monkeys infected (I mean affected.) (If only it was as easy to rid humans of viruses as it is our stuffed friends: just toss in washing machine, add soap, H2O, whirl and spin, hang in sun to dry and whallaahh! Healed! Hmmm… maybe I should consider trying it… Martin will still fit quite comfortably in the top loader… No?)
4 meters – the height of the (now clean yet unfolded) laundry pile. (Ok, it is more like 1 meter, but it FEELS like 4 and right now what I feel IS what IS.) (And if you happen to not understand that statement, you must not be a woman.)
14 hours of parental sleep lost due to GI’s visit to the children

(?) number of melt-downs the walls of this house have witnessed in the last week. Exact number to be released at a later date… and it is no secret that they are approaching tripple digits:-/

But it is worth mentioning some happy non-GI related record statistics too:
24 days since Fritz poked his head into this world to make his voice heard

24 days I’ve been on vacation because Scott has taken charge of the tribe’s morning rituals (and left me blissfully sleeping or else feeding/cuddling with a sweet new born)
8 hours of sleep this particular new born gave me last night. (However, this lucky number also brought my holiday to an abrupt end… by default I found myself on the front lines of this morning’s wake-up chaos again:-/
24 days (and counting) I have not had to cook due to the loving generosity of friends who have provided the most amazing and sustaining meals. (So maybe the vacation is not quite over yet – it merely morphed into an early rising vacation… I can handle that… I think. But first, Joe’s got to GO!)

Tribal Questions, Comments and Conversations

2010-02-02T13:49:00.006-05:00

We have had much fun at our tribal meetings in the days since Fritz has joined us. Whether assembled around the table, around the crib or around the fire (yeah, we do this “calming” fire-inspired tribal dance every night before going to bed – something akin to the traditional NZ haka (click for video) - OK, just kidding but not impossible at all:-0) the discussions have been along these lines:

Does the baby have hands? [show hands]
Does the baby have feet? [show feet]

So why doesn’t he play with us? (Pieter)

What kind of tools did they use in the hospital? (Neels)

Mamma, why is your belly still so big… is there another baby in there? (Pieter)

So when are we going to get a baby sister? (Neels)
Well… we’re not. Fritz is our last baby. No more babies in this house. (Scott)
Why not? (Neels)
Because we’re not planning on having more. (Scott)
Well, that’s what YOU say, but what YOU think really does not matter. It all depends on what JESUS says and He may just decide otherwise. (Neels)
Wow…uhhmm…yes. I would say that’s good theology, Neelsie! (Scott)

Mamma, your belly is getting smaller! (Devan)
Yeah, a little, but it is still really fat. (Neels)

Why does the baby wear pajamas all day long? (Pieter)

Baba slaap? Baba slaap? Baba slaap? (Martin) (Translation: Baby asleep AGAIN????)

Oh, He has eyes! He has eyes! (Pieter)

Fritz is so cute! (Devan)

Can we keep him? Until Christmas? (Pieter)

Yes, I think we’ll keep him:-). Today, I think we’ll keep all of them! (Be sure to ask me again tomorrow, though.) Our cup overflows in every sense of the word, and I declare: we love it!

No kidding, it's a...

2010-01-29T15:09:00.009-05:00

big blue boy! “This is the Lord’s doing; it is marvelous in our eyes.”

– Psalm 118:23

Fritz

was born in the evening hours of

January 27, 2010

(and unlike my dream - see previous blog - I was VERY aware of every detail of his birth.) As he emerged, he instantly offered an acceptable explanation for the persistent maternal sacral discomfort mentioned before: 9lbs 11oz of chubby cheeks attached to 21,5 inches of pudgy all-boy body parts. He seemed to make a “state-of-the-tribe address” with his mere stature: “I may be the youngest in the tribe, but at birth I beat you all by weight and size. Beware.”

His full name is Friedrich Wells Murphy. Yes, of course we would choose a tricky pronunciation! It is not FREDerick. Rather it is the Afrikaans-German version, pronounced “Freed-reek” – or you would be even more correct if you can substitute the “k” with a guttural “g”. (This was my German-South African grandfather’s name. Fritz is the German nickname for Friedrich. So to avoid all confusion or a tripping tongue, just call him Fritz.)

Wells comes from Scott’s side of the family. We were attracted not only to the sound of the name, but also to the story that accompanied it. In short, the family was a big resourceful “tribe” and the little bit we know about them makes us identify with them. On the tombstone of one particular Wells were inscribed these words:

“Resting in the hope of a glorious resurrection.”

And this reflects our prayer for Fritz throughout his life: that early in life he may come to know and love Jesus, in Whom is found the hope of a glorious resurrection. Please join us in praying for him!

It’s a... it's a… pink SHE?

2010-01-23T19:30:00.004-05:00

“She came out all pink!” the nurse informed me.

I was shocked. I had no recollection of the birth – like a polar bear waking up after a cozy hibernation, finding that she had birthed a cub in the meantime. And to make the whole thing even more traumatic – it was a SHE! A very pink SHE… and I am not referring to her skin tone. She was dressed in hot pink leather pants (leopard print) and a lace-adorned shirt... lipstick... pierced ears... This is uncharted territory!

But she’s here, she’s mine (how on earth…?) and I have to deal with it (I mean with her.) So I ventured into the most universal, cross-gender activity common to all babies: eating. In our house that means (for newborns) nursing. She opened her mouth wide – traditionally a good sign! Except… her intentions for that open mouth was not to eat… it was to speak!

“I will not nurse” she declared.

WHAT? That she came into this world already dressed (in pink) was one thing, but now to already possess an unprecedented vocabulary and a questionable attitude was just a little over the top. It took me several minutes to find both my breath and voice. But when I finally did, it was with every bit of “oppositional personality” I’ve been labeled with in years past and every inch of hormonal fire I could muster (quite easily) postpartum.

“Well, little girl, if you will not nurse, you will not eat. That’s the only food available to you” I returned. (I wanted to add: “EVER!” But Scott always reminds me not to utter a threat I cannot or will not follow through on.)

She stuck to her resolve: “I am not little and I will not nurse.”

Not good. She was only a few hours old and we had already arrived at checkmate.

“O.K.” I shrugged, “then I’ll just be on my merry way and go home without you.” (This statement was of course a mean manipulation and supposed to send her crying into my arms with a “please don’t leave me!” plea. Instead she shrugged back with a nonchalant: “O.K., see ya!”

So I left the hospital without her.
And then...
I woke up.
Still pregnant.
No hot-pink-leopard-laced baby to argue with me.
Still time to work through my pink fears…
Photo courtesy of Tim&Annette Gulick

Oh BOY, why not STOP and ask for directions?

2010-01-22T20:00:00.007-05:00

How can I be so sure it is a boy, you ask? Because he is obviously lost, yet refuses STOP and ask for directions! For the last several weeks, he has been using his in-utero jackhammer to (unsuccessfully) force an escape route through my sacrum. (God must have a sense of humor to provide little boys with build-in tools like that!) A girl would have had a much simpler, more comfortable (not to mention effective) approach: she would have consulted her genetic code and (thicker) corpus collosum for directions on “the best way out.” SO that’s how I know for sure it is a boy.

Now we won’t hold it against the little man. It is after all not his fault that his (thinner) corpus collosum and general genetic makeup lacks the “asking for directions” gene. But I will be glad once he (literally) turns around and pops out to say: “Oh of course I knew where I was going! I just felt like taking a little scenic (sacral) detour!”

A Toast to the Invasion!

2009-12-24T11:55:00.003-05:00

Webster’s defines in vā΄zhen as “the entrance or advent of anything troublesome or harmful”. So when Scott mentioned that he was pondering “The Invasion”, naturally my thoughts went to troublesome “things” such as the entrance of little muddy-toed boys into a freshly-mopped house. But as always, my husband’s ponderings are deeper than dirt and instead of telling you the mud-saga, I will share Scott’s worthy Christmas thoughts:

This is the time of year that Christians celebrate what C.S. Lewis termed The Invasion...

“Enemy-occupied territory--that is what this world is. Christianity is the story of how the rightful king has landed, you might say landed in disguise, and is calling us all to take part in a great campaign of sabotage.” (Mere Christianity, C.S.Lewis, Chapter 7: The Invasion.)

The triune God invaded this territory - putting on flesh to secure peace.

Cornelius Plantiga explains it well:
“The webbing together of God, humans, and all creation in justice, fulfillment, and delight is what the Hebrew prophets call shalom. We call it peace, but it means far more than mere peace of mind or a cease-fire between enemies. In the Bible, shalom means universal flourishing, wholeness, and delight- a rich state of affairs in which natural needs are satisfied and natural gifts fruitfully employed. A state of affairs that inspires joyful wonder as its Creator and Savior opens doors and welcomes the creatures in whom he delights. Shalom, in other words, is the way things ought to be. (Not The Way Its Supposed To Be, Cornelius Plantinga, 1995, p10-12)

A toast to our King, who has, does, and will fight for the peace of his kingdom…"the webbing together of God, humans, and all creation in justice, fulfillment, and delight…Shalom".

A toast to the hope of reconciliation, redemption, PEACE...

a toast to the Invasion!

Dethroned… or free?

2009-12-05T19:28:00.004-05:00

The Queen has either been dethroned… or set free!

On the rare occasion that we run errands as a whole family, sharing the “burden” of who takes who has never been difficult. Until he hit 6, Devan has been a Mamma’s boy and opted for my hand, while Neels came out of the womb asking for daddy – or any man with tools for that matter. Now that Devan is entering adolescence (oh yes, according to him he is on the brink of being a teenager and his attitude reflects this non-reality), giving him over is no struggle.

So when the family took a trip to the hardware store and the adjacent hobby store last week, splitting up the boys seemed like a no-brainer: Scott gets the vocal #1&2, while I get the mostly non-verbal #3&4. Except that #3 became very suddenly very vocal when he realized that he was being separated from “The Men”. In an unexpectedly clear: “I go with Daddy” he declared a new arrangement in the “family-errand-structure.”

I, of course, was smiling on the outside and chuckling on the inside – the testosterone scales were shifting in favor of The Queen’s freedom.

So I proceeded to take Martin out of his car seat. Well, little Scott-Clone #4 realized that something was going on and proclaimed that he was not about to miss out on siding with the majority vote. He flung his body into rigor status and added a determined ear-piercing: “Da-ddy! Daaa-ddyyy!!”

At this point my inner chuckle erupted in loud self-satisfied external belly-bouncing laughter. Wonderful! Absolutely marvelous! Not only will I have alone time in the hobby store, my dear husband will also taste the realities of taking 4 squirmy boys into a store – alone.

(Dear Husband was too flattered by the unanimous vote to argue. Or maybe he was composing a letter to the Child Development Guru’s who declare that children shake “mother-attachment-and-identity” around 10-12 and then the “father attachment/identity” take over. These well-learned individuals need to know that in an all-boy home those statistics radically change: #1 will attach to dad at age 6. #2 will follow at age 5 (except if #2 has the name of Neels and then he will attach at birth). #3 will declare independence from mom at age3, #4 will do so at 20 months and #5, well that remains to be seen.)

So I had a stunningly unattached half hour to myself, but did allow a moment of pity to think of Scott struggling through the isles with 2 boys tied down in the buggy and two wildly running around, touching and dropping merchandise – probably a whole gallon of paint, a glass something-or-another and maybe a gaudy blown-up Christmas display will come tumbling to the floor with a boy excitedly tangled in the fabric. Poor guy. But you know, that’s my life and insight into my reality will just bring greater understanding and harmony into the marriage.

Chuckle-chuckle, smile-smile.

It must have been guilt that made me exit Hobby-Paradise to walk over to the hardware store to find them. Or, ahem, maybe I just wanted to witness Scott’s quandary – to empathize with him of course! Finding them would be no problem: I would just listen for the noise, the crying, the commotion.

Well… well... well...

I walked into the store with my smug smile, ears wide open. To my surprise it was actually very quiet in the store. Not only that: the first picture that met my eyes was that of this cute guy somewhere in his mid-twenties with 4 little boys calmly crowding around him. No buggy. No crying. No arguing. No mess. No disaster. I looked twice (for the man was really worth looking at) and admired his effortless skill with his tribe. They all seemed faintly familiar, but I did not know them. They actually mildly resembled the hooligans occupying my house… except that this unusual group was self-controlled, serene, civilized and gracious in their manners.

It was only when one of them gave a polite little hop and sang: “Oh, there’s Mamma!” that I fully recognized the litter (and man) as mine.

I was dumbfounded. Gone the self-satisfied smile and conceited inner joy. I managed a (defeated?) smile, complimented the (my) man on his well-behaved children and then blurted out: “How do you do this?” He gave me this blank look as if to say: “Do what? Isn’t this normal?”

Sensing my quiet pouting (actually it was very obvious) Scott endeavored to gently encourage me in the car: “Just think, in a few years you can have a whole weekend to yourself and I will take all of them backpacking!” As I was weighing the pro’s and con’s of missing out on a backpacking trip and having a self-indulgent weekend to myself, one of the backseat boys (they have unbelievable hearing when it suits them) piped up: “Oh no, Mamma needs to go backpacking with us! She needs to cook for us!” Before I could fully process the insinuation of that comment, another tribal member offered: “Yes, we have room for her - she can sleep in the vestibule of the tent. The men and the boys will sleep inside.”

I crawled inside myself – deep there inside where no one knows that I am really actually a Queen - and stayed there for a day, pondering whether “dethroned” and “freedom” could indeed be synonymous...

watermelon business

2009-10-20T23:07:00.002-04:00

While we do not typically buy into the "bigger is better" propaganda, the phrase (in my opinion) does and should apply to all surprises: the bigger the better. A surprise before it is ripe is like opening a Christmas gift before Christmas! Unheard of! But since recent local polls show that my opinion is not necessarily popular opinion, I have to ruin the fun for you prematurely:

Remember that big belly Neels verbally assigned to my body several months ago… it was NOT big (in my humble estimation) at that time. But… things certainly have changed. In Dr. Seuss language: my tummy “keeps on biggering and biggering” by the day. The prognosis is that, in a few month’s time, the dimension of said body part will have increased to prize-winning-watermelon size. Deflation likely (with a bit of luck) to occur (ever too slowly) after (sweet-smelling, screaming, huggable, non-sleeping) prize received into arms. Desperation for sleep expected to override any remaining vanity about misshaped, flabby anterior aspect. Watermelon business will at that point be closed until further notice.

Actually… Farmer Murphy informs me that this is further and final notice: watermelon business will be closed forever – no fine print, ifs, ands or buts. Produce section shutting down ad infinitum. Sigh…

A well hidden treasure

2009-07-23T21:38:00.006-04:00

Warning: this post includes a good dose of gross reality.

So where would be the best place to hide a (stolen) treasure from a brother… Well, if you are a boy, naturally you would hide it in your mouth! And to make sure that your rival (and original owner of the treasure) will never ever again lay hands on the item in question, you would swallow it (accidentally of course) and store it in your tummy!

But since I am not a boy, such actions are far from my imagination and comprehension. So when my most reliable tattler panted into the living room reporting that Neelsie swallowed his fishing “bait” I barely blinked an eye. “Fishing bait” sounded like a worm to me and (not because it is rational but because I have learned that it is completely possible) I assumed that Neelsie had ingested an earth worm or caterpillar. Well, frankly, that was his (gross) problem. Little did I realize that it would soon become my (gross) problem.

A few hours after receiving the initial report, Neels mentioned with pride and laughter in his voice that he swallowed his brother’s “fishing bait.” “Tell me about this bait, Neelsie…” He barely got started when older brother interrupted with his superior knowledge: “It was mine! I picked it up in Jefferey’s Creek. It was really dirty and was this big and very heavy. He just put it in his mouth and went ‘gulp’”!

Oh-oh… the fishing bait appears to have been a fishing weight…a lead fishing weight.

Two of our most trusted Physician friends offered their professional advice: Lead…needs to come out…probably will pass… if not out soon, he’ll need an x-ray. And of course, only one way to know whether he has passed it…have to examine his bowel movements. Thoroughly.

So our parental love was launched into a deeper level of sacrificial love. Overnight we have turned into Professional Poop Inspectors. Sure we have been changing diapers 6-12 times daily for the past 6 years, so facing little boy waste is no newby to our repertoire of parental undertakings. But let me tell you: this falls into a whole different category.

After a few days of unsuccessful digging for the treasure (and 2 unfortunate missed opportunities to score) it was X-ray time. You have to know that our dear Neels has been blessed with hypersensitive senses: textures, smells and noises that are barely detectable to most of us, cause great distress in his body and mind. (Now if this sensitivity could just be coupled with sensibility, we’ll be in great shape! But alas... not yet.) We dreaded his response to the unfamiliar environment and (barely notable) sounds of an X-ray room. But thank heaven for daddies. Neels secured Scott’s hands firmly over his sensitive ears and could thus marvel in protected silence over the “big camera” with it's multitude of pipes and hoses. (It qualifies as a tool. Tools are good and comforting.)

With phase 1 of the drama completed, we entered phase 2: the X-ray results. Our greatest concern was that they would see a solid white spot – evidence of a lead-leaking mass trapped in the offender’s body. But grace upon grace: no foreign object detected. It must have passed during one of those missed opportunities mentioned.

Oh Boy Brain (x4), I will never understand you. Your treasures are such a very important part of boyhood… and protecting and/or playfully pilfering them takes precedence over rationality. But I am coming to expect the improbable and impossible. (No, I am not yet OK with it, I am just expecting it.) It seems that you are likely to live through most of it… it is questionable, however, whether Mamma will.

Lessons learned from a Fly

2009-05-23T21:54:00.009-04:00

A fly was struggling in vain to obtain freedom by buzzing against the closed window.

Devan observed: “That fly is so frustrated, he is throwing a tantrum! Listen to him! He kind of sounds like me when I get frustrated. Like : ‘aaaaahhhhhgrrrhhhhh…’ He just says it differently: 'bzzzzzbzzzbzzzzbzzz' "

[The fly stopped struggling and was quiet for a moment...]

Devan sighed: “Now he is content again. I am so glad he stopped complaining. I didn’t like it. It was unnecessary noise.”

(I confess that I have wondered at times why God made flies... Now I know: where my teaching fail to impact their hearts or behaviour, the flies will take over. How very humbling...)

Haiku by Scott

2009-05-13T14:05:00.006-04:00

Resourceful boy
builds beautifully.

Disaster appears imminent.

Random Dinner Conversation

2009-05-13T09:49:00.006-04:00

Neels: Mamma, why is your tummy so big?
Me: Wha? Neelsie! That is not a very kind thing to ask a woman – or anyone for that matter. Tummy sizes are private matters.
[And what are you talking about anyway?? Don’t you know that this tummy has housed 4 healthy man-babies in the last 6 years? Give me a break!]
Neels: Well, but I just wanted to know, because it is big. Is it because you eat too much?
Me: [Did he not hear a word I said??] Neels, I...
Neels: And why do you eat?
Me: What do you mean?
N: Well, I eat so that I can grow and become a big grown-up man. But you already are a grown-up, so why do you eat? So you won’t die?
M: [That’s at least a little bit of logic worthy of discussion.] Well, yes, eating is essential for life, and…
N: So why are some dresses pretty and some are not?
M: [quite confused] uhmmm…well, it depends on individual taste.
N: Yeah, like this food tastes good. Can I have some more?
M: [head hurting] Sure!
N: And why do we taste dresses…
M: And why don’t we play the quiet game for the rest of dinner.

[Ahhhh…silence… the most beautiful sound of all…]

Pieter [who, despite his limited vocabulary, tends to repeat everything his big brothers say]: Ma-maaa, why y’ tummy tho big?

M: sigh…

letting go...

2009-05-12T20:52:00.005-04:00

We are officially duck-less. Yip, the girls are GONE. They are now happy ducks -in-residence at Boxwood Plantation.

Mother's Day was drop-off-day. (Oh, and just for the sake of redemption, may I mention that this year's mother's day came with bells, whistles, boys and a hammock! And get this: I did no thing all day long. No cooking, no diapering, no looking for lost boy-shoes before church... so they went barefooted I noticed... no nothing. It was great. But wait… isn’t that the definition of SABBATH? Thy shalt do no work... not even if thou happens to have "mother-status". When did observance of that commandment get changed from once a week to once a year for mothers??? Something's not right with this picture.)

But back to the ducks: so we left them. Just like that. Bye-bye duckies! They watched in dismay as we left them to be big girls all by themselves. Naturally it was a sad occasion and many tears were shed. Surprisingly all the tears came from one pair of eyes: mine. Yes, I cried all the way home, all evening at home and well into the next morning. All I could think about was: if it is so hard to let ducks go… how hard will it be to let BOYS go? The tears dried a little when Beth Marchette - their new host - called to report that they survived their first night in the country AND attracted some additional duck-friends! (Are they good friends? Will they show them great and wonderful ponds they do not yet know? Will they challenge them to play chicken with coyotes? Or with duck hunters??? Or will they share wisdom and tell them to stay put for their family will want to come see them and the Marchettes will feed them??)

We went to visit them today. They were there and they were happy. They looked different, though… less familiar... more like a family, but less like our family. It was obvious that they didn't mind our presence, but they also did not need our presence. I did not cry. It was good.

Maybe…just maybe… the boys will grow into a different look… a different familiarity… a different way of relating… and it will be good…

The Ducks are in the DogHouse

2009-04-22T21:57:00.010-04:00

The Ducks (previously fondly referred to as “The Girls” in our house) made a bad move. They lost their main allied on the “let-the-ducks-stay-here-forever” committee.

Guess who cleaned up after them when they turned the driveway into a loo and their “compost” got stepped into the house? I did.
Guess who defended them when those same excretions interrupted a basketball game? It was destined to happen: the ball picked up some “goo” which ended up on a boy’s hands and then on his brother’s hands and then on coach Scott’s hands…ahhh…not good. But I defended them.

I supported their innocent anatomically constructed clumsiness when their big flat feet got blamed for leveling some of our master gardener’s favorite border grass. (That was 2 strikes against them by the head of the house… the girls were in hot water.)

I winced but forced a smile when those same webbed feet smashed my daisies (I had to feign a careless attitude after my fervent defense of them in the border grass incident.)

I did chase them when they started nibbling my pansies. This time Scott clamly reminded me that Pansy season is almost over. No great loss.
BUT
When they devoured our blueberries bushes, they lost my vote and sympathy entirely. They ate the berries – that was bad. Very bad. But they did not stop there! They happily proceeded to take off all the leaves! ALL of them! Then they literally attacked –with some enthusiasm – the already bare boughs!

That did it. I am not on their side anymore. I switched committees. I am now on the “In-who’s-yard-are-we-gonna-let-them-loose” committee.

Mr. Jack, your pansies and roses look particularly sweet this year!!

Die seuntjies sê...

2009-04-22T21:39:00.002-04:00

Devan is amper 6. Met die ouderdom gaan die geheue ook:
Devan: My geh…geh… my brein se batterye is pap. Neelsie, jou brein se batterye werk goed vandag! Dis seker omdat jy so jonk is!”

Hier in Amerika is daar verassings om elke draai:
Neelsie: “Sjoe maar daardie hoenderhaan brul darem hard!”

Dinge moet darem sin maak.
Neelsie: Mamma, ek het ‘n vraag oor die posboks.
Ek: Bedoel jy die posBUS?
Neelsie: Nee, ek bedoel die posBOKS. Die een waarin ons briewe kry.
Ek: Ja, ons noem dit die posBUS.
Neelsie: Dit kan nie wees nie! Hy het dan nie wiele nie!

Elke aand wanneer hy in die bed inkruip gee Pieter sy kombersie aan en vra:

“Sal Mamma my asseblief opmaak?”

Martin sê nie veel nie, maar hy geniet darem die eende se kos!

in memoriam

2009-04-09T14:11:00.011-04:00

Every morning we would go into the laundry room and pronounce him… dead. He was all wrinkly, displayed an odd color and had not changed position for days. Definitely dead.

And then he would move his leg!

OK, not completely gone. But surely tomorrow we’ll have a funeral for Hopper.

Next morning, after being pronounced dead once more… he would move his limbs – ever so slightly – but enough that we feared burying him alive. This routine continued for about 2 weeks and finally we could handle the stress of being frog-hospice no longer.

So Scott and the boys took Hopper to the creek to relieve him of his misery: he was released in hopes that he would become a delicious turtle or snake dinner. (OK, that does not sound like a gift to him, but it would at least be to some animal.) On release he mustered some energy and moved deliberately towards the water. There he sat. There Scott and the boys sat...

Finally Scott initiated a “Good Bye Hopper…” The boys echoed “Good Bye, Hopper.”
The boys repeated: “Good Bye, Hopper.”
"Good Bye Hopper..."
"Good Bye Hopper..."
"Good Bye Hopper..."
And again… and once more… until Scott at last pulled them away. Neels kept looking over his shoulder: “Good Bye, Hopper...”

For at least 2 weeks now we have continued to hear prayers for Jesus to protect Hopper “since we had to leave him at the creek - all alone.” Well, I’m sure he was not alone too awfully long. Though he might not have received any offers for friendship, our hope is that grace manifested itself in his life by him becoming an opportunity for a hungry creek creature to “say grace." For when it is all said and done, it is dust to dust… or (respectfully) frog to foodchain!

2009-03-17T22:03:00.006-04:00

Disclaimer: This post may not be appropriate for or appreciated by all viewers.

The ducks can stay.
The boys have to go.

After 4 days of cold, rainy “insideness” (spell check tried to convince me to correct it to “insaneness”), I am at the end of my nose - I mean rope - about many things, but most desperately concerning the most basic of natural processes. The way the ducks handle nature’s call is much less stress provoking (to me) than the sincere efforts of my aimless boys. Consequently, I have decided that Pieter and Martin will not be potty trained. Changing diapers is much less messy, more hygienic and

less labor intensive than the aftermath of

upright target practice.

So, if in 20 year’s time your precious, cute little girl/niece/cousin happens to fall in love with my then tall, dark(?) and handsome son, it will be up to her to potty train him – or not. Do all you can to warn her of the perils that a potty trained male will bring to her powder room, for I have a suspicion that aim does not necessarily improve with age…

Anas Platyrhynchos: a common, almost cosmopolitian wild duck

2009-03-14T20:33:00.005-04:00

So it happened: Martin started walking. Life as we know it has changed forever. But then again… life as we knew it had changed at least 3 times before - when the other brothers started walking. Collectively that is enough times that it has had an addictive effect on us. So now we eagerly grab every opportunity to “change the way we know life”. That is why we adopted 4 ducklings. (Susan Lucky Duck Whitehead had so many children she knew not what to do…and since they would not all fit in a shoe… we joyfully accepted a few.)

Leaving them outside would not have had a tremendous impact on our lives, so we brought them inside to experience the changed life more fully. (You remember the camping opportunity I mentioned in the previous post? It’s getting all the more authentic! Nature’s sounds, nature’s aroma – it’s all yours to experience comfortably inside our house. Better sign up!)

The boys have all named their ducks: Peeper (Devan’s), ZZ (Neels’), HooHaa (Pieter’s) and Aabie (Martin’s). Now I know that it is not nice to slaughter named live stock (and unless the economy drives us to that extreme, we won’t) but surely it is acceptable/desireable to return them to nature. Our (Mx&Scott’s) plan is to release the little qaucklings onto a pond in about 8 weeks. Unfortunately the boys (especially Devan) have brighter visions for them: a happy duck family taking up residence “for ever and ever” in our yard. Martin is attached too –he takes them for “walks” on sunny days by pushing their container like a stroller through the yard. Pieter shares his stuffed animals with them and Neels guards the backdoor with a sword in case the neighbor’s cat should sneak in.

Though we are not fundamentally against their desire, the last couple of cold rainy INSIDE days have not helped to promote the idea to us. But these little men are passionate about their ducks! I fear they may just blame their entire future psychological disturbances on this single event to come: the release of their beloved ducklings. Are we as responsible, loving parents willing to take the risk of having socially and emotionally maladjusted children due to the heartless action of duck liberation? Absolutely. Friends, Romans, Countrymen: lend me thine nose and thine sympathies will be ours!

finally a family

2009-03-14T14:01:00.012-04:00

While discussing the concept of “FAMILY” with his family last summer, our friend Blaine Carter remarked: “But we are not a family. We don’t have a dog.”

Well, the Murphys are happy to announce that after 8 years of “not being a family”, we have finally gained family status. While it is not a dog that promoted us to this rank, I assert that it still counts: we are the proud owners of one indolent African Tree Frog.

“Hopper” (though he does not hop at all) was a hand-me-down pet from the Moya-Mendez’. And just in case you're tempted to speculate about his future: no, we do not have plans to dissect him – I promise. We would of course never dream of dissecting an amphibian with a name – that would be cold blooded murder. He is also too great an object lesson on slothfulness to put under a knife. Seriously. He climbs – with great effort – into his water bowl, and rests there for 2-24 hours. Then – with even greater effort – he slowly (and I mean s l o w l y - a process of several hours) climbs onto his “tree” (a slanted tile.) There he sits - or gradually slides down – for however many days it takes to slide all the way to the bottom. Subsequently he moves -in his timely fashion- into his water bowl again and the (weekly) routine starts all over again.

Hopper “hunts” live crickets - that we kindly store in a cute cage for him. NO, we don't beat the bushes for crickets - some looney (at the bait and tackel shop) does and we conveniently buy them. But you can imagine that our house now sounds like a swamp! So if you desire "the more luxurious" camping experience, bring your sleeping bag and come have an indoor outdoor experience in our mudroom. You can even observe our frog stalking his prey: wait…wait…wait some more… a little longer... until we (desperate for his survival) drop a cricket into his mouth...gulp…sit…sleep…slide… until the next unfortunate insect delivery.

Oh Hopper (and young men of mine): go to the ant, observe him!

Losing (clean) ground

2009-02-19T14:16:00.014-05:00

Some weeks are just so overwhelming. Last week was one of those…

This week, Monday was threatening repeat pandemonium, and intervention was desperately needed. Something had to be done. Anything! So when Martin decided to take 3 steps on Tuesday, I promptly tripped him. (OK, I’m kidding, but I was relieved when- after 3 brave steps- his padded bottom descended with a “thud” onto the rug.) You see, I am just not quite ready for the transition of power to an “All-Male(s)-Run” household. I know, I know. It is inevitable and I live in utter denial: I have been outnumbered ever since Scott-Clone#1 arrived. But while (I think) I can successfully deceive myself, I will continue living in my pseudo state of rule – i.e. while Clone#4 is still lacking mobile autonomy. When he starts walking I will be consigned to Guard-Of-Disaster-Zone, Professional-Upheaval-Observer-And-Pacifier, Demolition-Controller and Futile-Shielder-Of-Mishaps. But the real kicker is that I will instantly lose my Swiffer-In-Residence! Oh no, no, no!!!

If I can facilitate it at all, “we” will not trade the horisontal for the vertical posture until… until… until I really cannot do anything about it. Which may be tomorrow…. Sigh.

Elves, Exodus and Exegesis

2009-02-04T23:25:00.005-05:00

While “reading” his (very unusual translation of the) Bible this morning, Neelsie inquired of our Wise-Man-In-Residence: “Daddy, was Pharaoh bad?”
Wise man: “Yes, he kept Israel in bondage.”
Neelsie: “Daddy, did he get in trouble?”
Wise man: “Yes, he did.”
Contemplative silence…
Neelsie: “Daddy where does Santa keep his sleigh?”
Wise man: “Uhhmmm… well… I…”
Neelsie: “Where does he, daddy? Like, when he comes back to the Elves. Where?”
Wise man exits room to get more strong black “thinking juice” (i.e.coffee) to help him transition from Pharaoh to Santa.
Neels seemed unaffected by this move and kept on reading, semi-audibly: “Mumble…mumble…mumble… and th-e-n… something… something…mumble, but Pharaoh got no presents!”
End of story.

2009-02-04T22:03:00.010-05:00

We woke up to SNOW a few weeks ago – at least what we Southerners would call snow.

It was thick too – about 2 whole inches! The last snow we saw was before we had children, so there was GREAT excitement in our quarters. The experience was so delightfully intense that I was too exhausted to even download the pictures to share. (Man, how do people up north handle all the getting-dressed, getting undressed, doing LOADS of muddy laundry and keeping the melting snow from getting tracked all over their floors and carpets!?) But anyway, this morning we awoke to another unexpected gift of snow dusting! But it is (sadly) melting fast, and I feel compelled to chronicle these historic events now before both the reality and memory fade:

We went sledding with our friends the Carters,

we made snow angels,

we ate snow-ice… snow–cream (whatever it is called) - buckets and buckets full till our mouths were painfully cold and so stiff that no-one hardly said a word – it (the silence) was great.

We were thankful that we are not birds and that our baths would be hot, (but then our hot water heater broke and we were not, after all, in much better shape than the birds!)

We cried - we were so not prepared for how cold snow really is.

We giggled because Martin shunned me when I had my hat on – he just seemed to insist that his mamma does not have a thing like that on her head.

We threw snowballs at each other and at the back door (can't tell you why some of us thought that would be just soooooooooooooo funny - must be a boy thing) and created a treacherous exit down the back steps.

We enjoyed other people’s very creative snow men.

We marveled that snow can make even a trash can look pretty.

But all good things have to melt of course.
When the sun broke through, we were sad that the snow did not last longer, but glad that we do not live up North.

Exiting Angel Season

2008-12-29T14:58:00.013-05:00

Angels. They were everywhere this month: they could be found hugging lamppost - lighting up the way into town (or at least into our town), they adorned Christmas trees, they hovered over nativity scenes. Children turned into cherubs with halos and all as they sincerely echoed the song of the heavenly hosts at Jesus’ birth. We thoroughly enjoyed them.

Our home also vibrated with some angelic activity this Xmas season. Early one morning, Scott was surprised to find an angel in a 5-year-old body adoring our Xmas tree. It was a real angel – with white wings and… completely n u d e. He turned into a boy when he realized he was discovered.

Another angel swept through the house as a mighty warrior. I mistook him for a boy running around with a sword, destroying my delicately placed Christmas décor. (Nothing stays “placed” for very long in a house with 4 boys anyway – why was I so ridiculously meticulous in my placement anyway?) I tried to convince the sword-bearer that angels do not carry weapons: they’re cute and sing - quietly. I was (more than) willing – for the sake of a moment’s peace - to endorse the current popular depiction of angels as cute chubby cherubs quietly and orderly fluttering about. Ahhh but he quickly reminded me that angels often instill fear and probably look more like this:

Another error I made regarding angles came in the form of our (cute chubby) youngest cherub, I mean child. If you know Martin at all, you know that he is probably the sweetest, cuddliest, best natured, most charming, easiest baby yet born to the Murphy household. His angelic personality has the potential of challenging the doctrine of depravity! But… to protect me against faulty theology, he recently (not so graciously) shed the angel image: with the event of pulling up to standing has come random, annoying ear-piercing expressions of... dissatisfaction? (Judging by his crimson breathless countenance, I am pretty sure it is not JOY he is communicating.) It seems like he found his legs, got a taste of freedom and (blame it on Adam) his wantonness surfaced.
During the day I can still handle his demanding shrieks: ignore it or pick him up (which usually results in The Return Of The Dimpled Smile.) But when he decides to rise at 4am and upset the entire household because it is stand-up-and–scream-time, no amount of remembering “the angel” helps to restore him to his previously suspected innocent status.
Oh, and then there is the “let’s-bite-a-chunk-out-of-mammas-shoulder” (recurring) action (which he does with a roguish smile.) Not deserving of a halo at all.

So as we lament the exodus of lights, decorations and angels, we at least enter the New Year with a fresh dose of reality: chubby (male) cherubs inevitably grow up, lose their wings and halo’s and become… bamboozling mischievous noisemaking (yet enjoyable) boys!

ps: Scott wants to know if the loss of Martin's wings is incentive and evidence enough NOT to have yet another chubby cherub? (sigh)

The Do's and Dont's of Nasal Peanut Extraction

2008-12-15T23:03:00.008-05:00

Do not try this at home.
Do not let the Desperate Parent Syndrome cause you to grab “helpful equipment from the tool shed”.
Do not use a shop-vac (neither with a duct taped-straw attachment, nor with sophisticated computer-cleaning-attachments that can fit into the affected nostril. Though it qualifies as resourcefulness and will eventually make for a great story, it is likely to accomplish little more than temporary emotional trauma to all parties involved.)
Do not have a concerned 4-year old nearby (he might freak out - fearing that the affected nose will be sucked up – or worse – that the affected nose’s owner might be sucked away completely like: “schluppp! ”)

Do consult your wise pediatrician. He is likely to know a “Professional Peanut Extractor” and prepare the way for you to see him – promptly.
Do ask friends to pray.
Do have gracious friends that will offer to keep you normal-nosed children while Peanut-Nose is being checked out.
Do eat an extra helping of protein for breakfast in order to effectively hold down a kicking and screaming 2-year old while the NoseExpert evaluates the problem.
Do appreciate the 2 nurses who help to keep the Nut-Nose semi-still.
Do be in awe of the VERY specialized precision tools in the ENT’s office. (No shop-vac here! )
Do admire the ENT’s patience and skill (even excitement?) as he attacks, I mean extracts the bean.
Do be grateful when the “I’d rather not take him to the OR…” comment of the specialist goes out the window with the emerging peanut.

Do enforce a no-peanut rule with the discussed 2-year-old when a dialogue like this occurs:
Mom: “So will you put a peanut in your nose again?”
He (sweetly): “Ja!”
Mom (rephrasing the question): “Do peanuts belong in your nose?”
He (sweetly): “Ja!”
Mom (one last desperate attempt): “Did it feel good to have the doctor dig in your nose?"

He (With a big grin): “Ja!”
Do revisit this conversation with earnestness. Soon.

only a (humbling) day

2008-12-13T22:10:00.003-05:00

Today Pieter stuck a peanut up his nose – wayyy up there. It is still there. I suspect it is going to take more than just a big sneeze to get out. And since his nasal obstruction violates the peanut-free environment in Sunday school, I guess he is staying home tomorrow!

Today I was irritated and aggravated with Neels’ imaginary earache and his staged general malaise – until he turned green and threw up. Several times.

Today, while I was on the phone, Pieter stepped on Martin’s head – with a big grin and obvious intention.

Today Pieter threw a rock hard “wobble-man” at Neels, which produced many tears and a notable bump on his eyebrow.

Today Pieter whacked (the by now feeble) Neels over the head with a ridged plastic container. Neels was not happy. Neither was Pieter when he was sent to bed. Neither was I listening to one crying pitifully and the other screaming in protest.

Today Martin was playing in the laundry room behind the back door when an unsuspecting brother busted through from outside and smashed the baby’s fingers and face.

Today Pieter yanked the humidifier’s cord from the wall outlet, bringing the machine down with a great crash and splash. It is no more.

Today I found Martin chewing on a Ziploc bag – one that contained a dirty diaper only hours before. I’m not sure which is worse – the plastic or the poop. Surely the plastic.

Today, after telling Devan that I could not possible answer one more question, he (very sweetly) wanted to know: “What exactly is it that has made Mamma so tired today?” Today, as I was cleaning up one of the unfortunate “spills” of the day I was grateful that this was a (humbling) day, rather than every day in the life of the Murphys.

concrete thoughts

2008-12-13T14:54:00.004-05:00

Neelsie was a little suspicious when (a very congested) Didi came to pick up (an equally congested) Ouma : “Didi, where are you taking Ouma?” His apprehension increased when Didi answered: “We’re going to the steam room to open our heads up.” With wide eyes he ran to Scott and announced: “They're going to open their heads up!! They are going to open their heads up!!”

A eulogy to Lucy

2008-12-12T19:36:00.004-05:00

Gone. Just like that. One day she was there, the next day her web was empty. She has been part of our lives for a 1/3 of this year and has become part of the family. Though I knew that she would inevitably leave (die) with the first frost, I was still shocked and sad to find that the time had come – way too soon! Her curious mask and masterfully designed home gave us daily delight – not to mention the entertainment of feeding her flies or watching her wrap a catch (sometimes much bigger than herself) with amazing skill. Unfortunately Edmund (you will recall he was the persistent male) jumped ship a month or so ago and there will be no little spiderlings in the spring to continue Lucy’s legacy. Aaaa… her place is empty… she will be missed. I guess this is what would be called: “Empty Web Syndrome.”

It all goes back to the garden of Eden…

2008-11-07T21:35:00.008-05:00

After (not-so-accidentally) breaking something (again), our Neels was asked the usual (useless) question: WHY???
To which he answered with some contemplative wisdom: “Adam got me.”

logic

2008-11-07T21:34:00.004-05:00

Devan: “I know exactly where my shirt is... I just can’t find it right now.”

cleaning service

2008-11-07T21:23:00.006-05:00

After 5 ½ years of wishing for a housekeeper to do my "dirty work", I finally have acquired a cleaner. His name is Martin and he is our “Swiffer-in-Residence.” With a full-front-terrycloth-bib he buffs the floors as he slithers with happy squeals through the house. He is so thorough in his work that he sometimes even eats the dust! Cleaning out his mouth is like emptying the (wet)filter of a vacuum cleaner. And hey – he is free! (Well, kind of- if you can ignore the birthing-cost and the fact that he is now fully competing with his brothers in the ever-endangered food chain… I mean food line.)

In a Concrete Random World...

2008-09-11T21:13:00.056-04:00

For my Concrete Random child – because he may one day wonder - or maybe he already does…
For those of you with whom I discuss my frustrations, inadequacies and failures to train and love him in a worthy manner and may also wonder…
For myself - to remind me that I actually do love and appreciate him very very much…

Dear son,
I seldom appreciate your creativity [randomness/unpredictability] on the spot…

But 2 days (or 2 months) later it is almost always is hilarious.

Like when you bit a hole in the toothpaste tube last night and left toothpaste footprints all the way from the lid of the loo to the kitchen floor – oh and I still tasted it in your hair this morning when I kissed your head. Remember I lectured you yesterday (after another toothpaste party) about not touching the tube (ever again). I did not realize that in your mind biting is a whole different action and thus permissible. (I'll have to be more specific.)

I didn’t really want a bold red permanent marker worm on our wooden peg-board, and told you so in no kind terms, but after hearing your explanation and expression of love behind your randomness, I now love it. (But one worm is enough, ok?)

Sticking your muddy toes into Martin’s mouth was, well, infuriating. I understand now, that because you love Martin, you only wanted to share your joy with him – you did so enjoy the feeling of it squishing through your toes and thought that he would also – through his teeth (which he does not have yet). Your love towards him, I have noticed, is truly genuine.

Poking holes in my tablecloth with a fork and inviting a brother to join in was not funny at all. I was mad. You saw some humor that evaded me, for you could not wipe the smile off your face even in the midst of paternal reproach. It was like sniggering in church: you just can't hold it in how ever hard you try. I looked at that hole today, remembered your face and bizarrely got the giggles also. But please, your fork must under all circumstances be either on your plate or in your mouth. (I hope that is specific enough...)

And when you yanked the knitting needle out of a friend’s evolving masterpiece, dropped all her stitches and proceeded to cut her yarn into a million pieces… Oh I wanted the earth to swallow me – and you, and leave you there. I marvel now at the speed with which you can make things happen…for better or for worse. In years to come we may all appreciate your skill.

So the banana peel you planted on your brother’s head was actually pretty funny. I am sorry that I was too dazed so early in the morning to acknowledge the humor. Had I taken the time to chuckle, even the victim’s complaints would have dissolved into laughter.

(It is hard to believe that most of this happened within 24 hours. Then again, why would that be hard to believe? Yours is a concrete random world. How I fit into it is the mystery...)

I had no words to guide you during discipline today. (I'll spare you the details of the offense. But I was fuming.) I sat on the bed staring blankly into nowhere – at first lost in me usual desperate prayer: “HELP!" But somehow I soon digressed to wondering and wandering aimlessly, angrily and frantically in my thoughts. I was startled back to reality by an act of sincere random love: you carefully crept closer and unexpectedly propelled yourself into my lap, knocking me over (literally and figuratively) while declaring your unreserved love and thanking me from the bottom of your heart for being the very best mom you have ever had!

Well, since I’m the only one you’ve ever had, you probably don’t know what you’re missing, but I would say that my “HELP!”-prayer was answered today in a very concrete random way.

I suspect one of your callings in life is Operation Mamma's Sanctification - and what a kind and delicious way of being made holy! You are indeed the very best YOU that I have ever had. And I do look forward to our journey together (though some days I forget to say it... or even think it... and yes, I may even deny it if asked). May we both continue to grow in understanding, love and grace!

Lucy, Edmund and the Monster Moth

2008-08-31T13:58:00.033-04:00

Meet Lucy. She is our 7 legged Golden Orb Weaver that has taken residence in our azalea bushes. We’re not sure whether the 8th leg never developed or if she had maybe lost it in combat against the White Witch or some similar struggle. (Can you tell in which world and books Devan resides nowadays?)

I never thought these words would cross my lips regarding a spider, but: SHE IS BEAUTIFUL! She is indeed a great source of entertainment and education to us. (She is also the only bit of female company to me on our premises and therefore deserves my special interest and applaus.)

A few weeks ago Lucy wasn’t feeling very well. She had lost a lot of weight and was barely hanging on - literally. She neglected to repair her web, didn’t eat, didn't move. Call me weird, but I was preparing to mourn the death of a friend.

BUT
then she fortunately caught this unfortunate MonsterMoth in her web and after she feasted (and instantaneously gained significant weight) she returned to her be her spunky spidery self.

Now during her period of low energy, there was this little annoying brown spider that kept bothering her. At first we thought that it was a (her) spiderling. No, we’ve not seen an egg sack yet and the prediction is that she will have hundreds of babies (brave woman.) Then I thought it was a cannibal spider coming to devour her in her vulnerable state :-/. Well, we came to find out that it was actually the male!!! She did her best to shoo him (Devan says his name is Edmund) away with her unpaired leg, but he was persistent!!!

Well, since the event of the moth and since she has regained strength, Edmund is much more cautious. He keeps a respectful distance and approaches only when summoned (OK, I made that last part up)

I’m not sure what or when Edmund eats, but he never even attempts to have dinner with Lucy. I think he knows better – some sources suggest that he might end up being dinner himself! But this moth was so big that he went to hide on the other side of the moth for a stolen bite.

Here Lucy is eating a fly (Scott hates flies in the house and they drive him nuts, but now he delights in feeding them to Lucy.)

Now I must make it clear that I love Lucy in her web. Should there be any attempt by a boy to relocate her into the house, I will surely freak out. In this house there is space for only one queen, and it is me. Sorry Lucy.

A close-up of Lucy's Amazing Web. I did not appreciate it until we watched her do some home improvement. An accomplished craftsman she is indeed!

martin on the move

2008-08-30T22:29:00.010-04:00

It is at once wonderful and terrible: Martin is on the move!

He is not very rapid in his caterpillar-like commotion, but that makes it all the more disconcerting. While I think there is time to leave him on the blanket and unload the dishwasher, I come back only to find that he slowly but surely maneuvered himself all the way to the other side of the room, sweeping the floor clean with his ever-exploring mouth – or leaving a trail of curdled milk spots to map his route.

Don’t get me wrong: I am thankful for the evidence that neurons are connecting and proprioception is developing. But life just got a lot more complicated…

disgust and delight

2008-08-30T21:53:00.008-04:00

WARNING: this post contains some graphic material that may upset the sensitive stomach…

Disgust and delight met today as we dissected a frog together with our friends, the CarterKids.

Scott came across this humongous amphibian on his way to work one day this week and smuggled it into the store’s refrigerator for us. It was dead but undamaged. Truly a gross but beautiful thing.

As the children opened up the abdomen, excitement reached it’s consummation, for Mr.Frog had no less than 2 monstrous undigested crawfish in his tummy! Oh I wish you could have been here.

family picture

2008-08-22T20:03:00.019-04:00

We don't have many of these. Taking a familiy picture is up there on the list of stress inducers. Just to have everyone in the picture is a huge ordeal. We've given up on hoping for anyone smiling and/or looking at the camera. (So how did Scott and I both manage a smile?)

from the left:

Devan(5)could not wait to get out of the fake posing position (he hates pictures), Me barely holding on to a sliding Pieter(2) , Scott holding Martin(6mo) who is thankfully still calm and oblivious and Neels (almost4) demonstrated his thoughts on listening in general.

more pe(s)ts

2008-07-10T14:15:00.015-04:00

Neels has moved on.

Yes, that’s a roach. Your eyes are not deceiving you. “She’s my little girl-pet” he announced.

:-o !!!! “She” escaped his BugBox and is now on the loose in the house. True, we have always provided a dwelling of sorts for “her” family members, but unintentionally and unwillingly so.

Devan has followed suit with Japanese beetles.

I stepped on something that crunched today. It was not crumbs. It oozed. Sorry to be graphic, but that’s exactly what it did. And yes, I was barefooted. The seemingly dormant volcano in me that I so cautiously guarded for the past few “bug weeks” finally erupted and I spewed wordy anti-bug lawa while evacuating all boys and bugs promptly.

The boys were allowed back in after Mount Smoldering Mamma had cooled down a bit.

The law now reads: absolutely NO bugs whatsoever, whether slimy, crunchy, smooth, scaly, male, female, common, unusual, cute, friendly or lonely are welcome inside our dwelling. NONE!

I think it’s time for us to consider a dog.

our pets

2008-07-10T13:28:00.007-04:00

Worms. I like them. Outside. I do not like them on my kitchen table. I do not like them on my salad plate. I do not like finding them on the couch or in my drawers in all sorts of random cups and containers. The problem is, Neelsie does.

At first I excitedly encouraged his worm interest – the Cool-Tomboy-Mom image appealed to me. Then I happened to step with my bare feet on one particularly gooey thingy. Yuckgghh. I just knew that it was part of an earthy friend. But it turned out to be only a piece of a blackened banana. Yet after that unfortunate mushy incident, it did not take me long to move to forced worm-tolerance. My forbearance evaporated when an earthworm was left in a Tupperware filled with water – left to be “washed” – but it stayed there until doubled in size from soaking up water and then… POP! It was not a little gross – to me. Neels declared: “But my worm likes to be in water!” I (not so sympathetically) explained that there was no more worm, just soaked worm remains, at which he lovingly picked it up, said: “Come little worm”, and laid Little Worm on my countertop. Right there I lost all Tomboy-Mom ambitions and stated it to be illegal to bring any slimy pet into my house.

Well, the law was not extensive enough and apparently lacked fine print, for now I find dried worms (“100% natuurlike” droëwors) in random spots. Or are they some of the worms that made it inside before the law was put into effect and I am just now finding them? Makes me wonder what else I can expect to stumble on in days to come. :-/

don't pity me

2008-06-13T20:28:00.005-04:00

So I don’t have people stopping me in the grocery store anymore to tell me how great boys are. (see blog post: Thursday, May 17, 2007: The Club.) Now they stop me with this look of disbelieve and/or pity asking questions like: “All boys? 4 of them? No girl?” Then they shake their heads and walk away with a muttered “Lord have mercy” or something similar, probably wondering what I have done to deserve all these.

I never have a proper concise response on the spot, but many thoughts have accumulated in my mind on the subject. Maybe I’ll print them out and carry them with me to hand out to those who ponder my “misfortune”.

Yes, they’re all boys – 4 of them
But don’t pity me - it’s great!
Four is a crew
and sometimes I do
forget a name or two.
But they quickly re-direct me
because you see,
they know who I mean:
“Surely she means not me
but one of the other three!”

They’re busy - it’s true.
Destructive too (!!)
And they race from first light till night.
Thus our dwelling might
not be a pretty sight,
but don’t pity me – it’s great!

They’re innovative and care free,
they test the laws of gravity
from the topmost part of a tree.
They make sure for every action
to elicit a (my) reaction
(I suspect they enjoy it just a fraction…)
but don’t pity me – it’s great.

Oh they love to make noise
with body (:-o) and/or voice,
Jericho’s walls would not stand
against such a strident band.
But don’t pity me - it’s great.

The gifts they bring
are rather interesting:
dead flies, dried worms and rocks
random hugs, flowering weeds, dirty socks.
Oh don’t pity me, it’s great!

Little boys smell…
Well… like outside.
In that they take some pride.
But then they don’t think
that I stink
with no shower 4 days straight.
So don’t pity me – its’ great!

Now there is The Loo Issue…
If you really want to shed some sympathy,
here is the place to feel sorry for me.
Little drops are everywhere -
the aim is not always (ever) quite there.
I step in the bathroom door:
on the rim and on the floor
a mess meets my sight
my nose says it’s not right.
I get uptight.
I just cleaned it last night!!!
Yes Pity me – the dilemma is great…

BUT…
My clothes are wrinkled and so is my face
yet they view me thru a lens of grace.
For though my hair is a mighty mess
they declare nonetheless
that I’m Beautiful as can be.
So don’t pity me- it’s great!

There’re 4 of them, and yes, all boys
but don’t pity me – they’re great!
The only thing I’d maybe like more
Is if instead of 4…
We had eight! OK, just kidding. Maybe just one more…?
I heard that! Some of you said we’re NUTS!
I’ll confess – I am. Scott is not.
Though we do have one more spot in the van
to fill it up is not the plan.
Unless we’re blessed with Divine Intervention –
this is it for our clan :-/
(Not to mention, we have completely exhausted our list of boy names!!!)

Feel the love...

2008-05-22T21:54:00.004-04:00

Martin is one well-loved little baby boy. The "big" boys can hardly keep their hands off him! Too bad that, once he is old enough to really perceive and appreciate the brotherly love, it will be expressed in much less tender ways. Recent observation prompt me to predict that he’ll be jumped on, tackled, yanked off a ladder, forced down the slide, encouraged to “fly” out of the tree, bound to a pole with ropes and such things :-/

I guess that’s just the way boys love each other – they have to feel the love. I suspect Martin will instinctively know this love language and return the affection!

the murphy men

2008-05-12T22:00:00.005-04:00

Since several people asked how this Mother's Day measured up to last year's (we will not repeat the matter), I thought I would give a summary: it was GREAT! I was the queen surrounded by a sea of men. (How I wished as a teenager that I would be in such a position... low and behold, the dream came true :-) With no responsibilities (except feeding Martin... Oh, and bathing (more like scrubbing) them all, getting them dressed for church, packing diaper bags and washing wet sheets) it was a day of r&r. Scott was an excellent cook, washed dishes more thoroughly than I would dream of doing, overlooked the dust bunny investation with much grace and made sure to treat me with several surprises throughout the day. All 4 boys even napped simultaneously! Oh yeah, it was a gooooood day. A round of applaus to the Murphy Men!

If only Eve did not...

2008-05-12T21:48:00.002-04:00

My children were playing with their food last night – not an uncommon occurrence.

Devan planted his grape stem in his egg pizza (I’ll explain that one later) and exclaimed: “Look, a tree!”

At this Neels held up his own tree and busted out with: “The tree was in the garden. God said: 'Eve, don’t eat the grapes.' But she ate it all! So Jesus gave her a spanking."

we don't waste any water

2008-03-22T13:56:00.005-04:00

"I'll water it if you'll hold it up!"

ps: they "watered" that little tree so much... it died!

reality

2008-03-10T14:11:00.022-04:00

reality: when, with four boys (all under five, and the youngest just two weeks old), you pay a bill and find the date you write on the check to be vaguely familiar… like it should be important… oh yes! (oh no!)today is our wedding anniversary!

Scott was paying bills at the store when the realization hit. At about the same time I was paying bills at home and discovered likewise that it was supposed to be a celebrated day. He called just as I was about to pick up the phone myself to confess and congratulate. But… uhmmm… neither one of us could remember(without doing the math) whether it has been six or seven years.

Well, we did the math: it has been seven. And boy, it has been seven extraordinary years!!!

RATS!

2008-03-05T21:32:00.009-05:00

Beauty, Creativity, Imagination, Wonder…

Those are words we have been thinking about and believe are particularly important in shaping our children’s hearts and minds. With our tarnished and reality-affected adult brains, Scott and I rely of course heavily on rich children’s literature to nurture these concepts in our boys’ lives. Hence we have found Beatrix Potter and her animal friends to be regular visitors during story time. They are adventurous, witty and from them we (Scott and I included) have learned the word “soporific”! We desperately hope that the stories themselves will have a soporific effect on the boys as we approach bedtime…

However, Potter’s Tale Of Mr. Samuel Whiskers has had the exact opposite effect. Not long after meeting him and his wife Anna Maria, we found that he has moved in with us!

He has a long tail and red head and rearranged (emptied) my pots&pans-cabinet to make space for himself and his loot.
Had his plunder not included one brother’s well-loved puppy and the other’s sippy cup, he may have lived undisturbed in his hole. But he was discovered and attracted two more rats.
Now, the only rat with a tail is Mr. Samuel Devan Whiskers. And a most inviting tail it is! The other 2 rats care nothing to have their own if only they can step on or steal the very delicately attached Samuel Whisker’s tale!
Oh the romp that follows when the tail is snatched… it usually ends up in a very aggravated Mr. Whiskers threatening to make Roly Poly Pudding out of the offender.

And so, stepping over pots and pans in the kitchen, trying my best not to get my (then) very Roly Poly Pregnant Self tripped and sprawled on the floor or bumped over by a rat, I wonder about the whole imagination thing… it would indeed be beautiful if I was not the one who’d have to put away the pots and search for the hidden pillage some boy is bound to cry over when bedtime approaches. If only my creativity was as unsullied and natural as theirs I would have those rats employed in all sorts of advantageous (to me) yet seemingly (to them) pleasurable ways! But alas, to only keep my head somewhat clear and my feet fairly grounded requires all the creativity and imagination I can presently manage. (Indeed advantageous for the rats.)

Oh may I just continue to benefit from their imagination and unblemished sense of wonder… May I even come to enjoy the scattered pots and pans for the beauty of the story it tells.

PS: See that picture of Potter's Samuel Whiskers and Anna Maria making Roly Poly pudding? I feel like it's me being rolled in the dough most days! If not my body, then my frazzled mind... and let me tell you, after Martin's birth it has not gotten any better. If only it could be blamed this time on fun words like beauty, creativity, imagination and wonder... Unfortunately reality has stepped in with plumbing problems, an overflowing washing maschine, a broken microwave, kitchen and bathroom faucet issues, a leak in the roof which we just discovered resulted in a rotting window frame, unsolicited germs and virusses in the older boys, and worst of all - we ran out of coffee one day this week! If you know Scott, you'll understand: that was a BIG problem. The rats have been a welcome source of humor in the midsts of all that :-)

He is here!

2008-02-29T21:59:00.003-05:00

Martin Phillip Murphy

arrived a little unexpectedly, a little early and rather rapidly…
Feb 26 2008 @ 7:25pm

and we sure are glad to have him!

He is a little fellow compared to his brothers at birth and weighed a mere
7 lbs 13 oz and was 20 ½ inches “tall”.

Our hearts are full and our joy deep. And I declare: he is the cutest baby I have ever laid eyes on!

I suspect Jesus had fun making him...

a language lesson

2008-01-03T20:04:00.000-05:00

I was mortified.
Where did he learn such language?

While a friend was visiting one day this week, Devan was playing with a truck at our feet. Suddenly he exclaimed: “Look at the truck’s azs!”

I was stunned to silence.
Even greater was my astonishment when my deeply Southern friend returned the excitement: “ I see the truck’s azs! Those lights look just like azs!”

It took me a confused second to realize that they were actually speaking Southern and that my South African British English trained ears misunderstood that they were indeed talking about “eyes”. The truck’s eyes. I am after all not in a very different boat than Scott – most of his household speaks a language he barely understands: Afrikaans. Most of my household speaks a language I barely understand: Southern. We have an interesting journey ahead of us!

Number Four and BONK!

2007-11-28T20:56:00.000-05:00

So the rumor is true! Murphy Number 4 is on his way. Looks like another cute Scott-nose! And… is that a double chin?

The boys were quite outspoken about the news of another sibling. Devan, as the responsible, nurturing oldest brother, was ecstatic to say the least. With exclamations of joy he declared he wanted another one just like Pieter and name him Pieter as well! (He recently has changed his preferenceto WILBUR and will not entertain any other suggestions.)

Neels, as the more eclectic abstract random brother, stated that he would indeed not love the new baby. :-o His comment was explained later though, when he related to his Oupa that “we’ll have to get rid of Pieter because we’re getting a new baby.” Behind his seemingly unloving comment towards the new baby was a tender heart of love and concern for our current baby! He would like the name “Doedels” best for the newcomer.

Pieter, as our current baby, is still pretty clueless that he is soon to be promoted to “not-the-baby-anymore”. (A promotion that may not be received with open arms.)

Over all, everyone is pretty excited. Devan and Neels got a bunk bed out of the deal (compliments of Oupa) and Pieter has been gifted a highly coveted spot in the big-boy room: the crib with the super bouncy mattress.

Neels currently holds the title of “Champion-Bouncer-At-Bed-Time” – a title and activity that will now (thankfully) be discontinued. Being on the bottom bunk, this highly kinesthetic night owl will have to get creative to continue his delaying tactics for falling asleep. He tried to bounce only once and after his head made firm contact with the new boundaries, Devan giggled and declared:"Ohhhh, now I see why they call it a BONK bed!"

in honor of the 3rd born

2007-07-28T20:21:00.000-04:00

It has been brought to my attention that Pieter has received the usual amount of 3rd-born attention on this BLOG (i.e. too little). SO to make up for this oversight (or normal development of 3rd born rights), here is a picture-rich post dedicated to the one and only: Pieter Hillman Murphy, sweetest, friendliest 3rd born ever. May he find this blog when he turns 16 and mopes about there being no pictures of him up in the house.

Have I mentioned that he smiles a lot?

Occasionally he drops the smile to think... or to eat...

and when he is exhausted, the smile is very much gone.

Now that he is moving, he imagines himself to be one of the BigBoys...

but he still loves receiving the benefits and cuddles afforded only to the smallest bundle in the house.

Be assured that he is well loved by his brothers. They enjoy taking him along on adventures - some of which he would rather not be part of...

He is indeed a great joy to us all. Some would even consider him a toy - a label that he is quickly beginning to kick against. :-)

The toy of all toys

2007-07-28T19:53:00.000-04:00

So who needs expensive, noisy, age-appropriate, brand named, creativity enhancing, intellect stimulating toys if the dryer spontaneously becomes a rocking fort (Devan), a voice amplifier with special echo effects (Pieter) and a fire truck(Neels) all in one day?

trots

2007-07-28T19:41:00.000-04:00

(sorry y'all this one does not translate well into english...)
'n Paar weke gelede gesels ek en Devan oor “trots”. Die slegte soort trots wat sê:”ek verdien beter” of “ek is beter as jy.” Nadat ek so ‘n bietjie “gehum-en-gehaa” het oor die betekenis van trots, vra ek toe of hy verstaan wat trots is. “O ja,” antwoord hy met sekerheid, “dis dieselfde as êrrie tjêrrie TJORTS!”

I'd rather be a...

2007-07-28T19:31:00.000-04:00

While listening to the story of Mary referring to herself as a servant of the Lord in the gospel of Luke, Neels exclaimed: "I am a servant of the Lord!" Amused, Scott nudged him a little: "So do you want to be a servant of the Lord Neelsie?" To which Neels replied: "Well, no, actually, I’d rather be a cowboy!"

The Club

2007-05-17T13:30:00.000-04:00

Today I had a few (unusual) minutes just to sit, and it had me reflecting on Mother’s Day. The Mother’s Day that was this past Sunday. The Mother’s Day that did not quite make it to our house. But that is a story for another day - a story that one particular male member of this family would prefer to leave untold.

As I was pondering this whole mom-thing, I realized that becoming a mother has flung me into an entirely “other” social realm. When I am out in public with one or all of my “attachments”, I can be certain of at least one or two heart-to-heart conversations with complete strangers. But they do not regard themselves as strangers at all. They share the name “MOM” and therefore we are friends - and the kind that instantly can share in deep dark secrets. These secrets are commonly known as The Joys and Horrors of Childrearing. And believe me, they share it all! It is like this implicit MOM-social club that I find myself by default registered and immersed in. A trip to Target affords me more than groceries and cleaning supplies. I leave with a mind and heart loaded with advice and warnings about boy-rearing, condolences that there is no female flower in my household and best wishes for the inevitable fractures, stitches, snakes, rats and other exceptional boy-stuff I’ll encounter.

Among these friends I always find a few who regard me as a particularly unique comrade: a women set apart from all others because she has been chosen to be mom to 3 boys. These comrades all have passed through the fire and rainbows of raising three boys and we have an instant bond with one another. (Strangely enough I hardly ever have a mother of 4 or more boys stop me… maybe they never make it to the public world… maybe they did not make it at all? :-o) The words I hear most often from these extraordinary women (and I love to hear it) are: “Boys just luv their Mama, and they continue to do so even when they become big boys.” These words never fail to encourage me, and on such days I bask in my identity as MOM. That is Boy-MOM to be happily specific.

Then there are the un-MOM-days. That would be the few atypical days (or rather hours) that I am out in public with NO child by my side or on my hip. They are the happy moments when I am totally invisible and unimportant to the world. No one offers suggestions, opinions, warnings or advice. Nobody even looks at me – in fact, even the cashier has a long-distant conversation over my head with her co-worker who is re-arranging the carts. I move as if in a cloud. I hear “mamma, mamma, mamma!” all around me, but I know it is not my name – at least not for the few precious moments I find myself in. These are the blissful moments of having all the benefits of being MOM, yet temporarily unrecognized and unclaimed.

So whether Mother’s Day makes it unto our calendar next year or not, I will continue to appreciate the days in-between, cherishing the sparsely scattered un-MOM-moments and mostly being an established member of the illustrious unspoken MOM-club. It is a source of endless humor, reassurance and encouragement for me – what a club!

The other MOM in this picture is my sister-in-law, Marietjie. She is holding the only splash of pink in our entire family - little Marina. May I add that the boys sat still for this picture for about 2 seconds and that it was captured at all qualifies it as a miracle.

wait a minute...

2007-05-05T01:08:00.000-04:00

He was born yesterday…

Tomorrow he’ll be 4!

Today he told me that he is too old to hold my hand, for he is a big boy now and he is actually very sorry, but big boys actually don’t do that kind of thing all the time anymore…

sniff…

the wild wonderful world of...

2007-05-04T23:04:00.000-04:00

A few weekends ago we visited Huntington State Park where there is an old mansion/castle to explore. Our boys were very true to character in their explorations:

Neels acquainted himself with the surroundings by climbing (the walls) and jumping...

jumping...

Devan entered instantaneously into his wild, wonderful imaginary world…

He hid from “The Castle Ghost” behind palmetto trees, in castle alleys, underneath wooden benches, and then abruptly turned into a monster, jumped out from his hiding place and ate 3 random unsuspecting tourists.

:-o

Pieter watched wide-eyed and took some mental notes.

That concerns me…

Among other things, I'm sure he learned that the boy with the most sticks wins… If you just keep on pulling and pushing anything is possible...

And if you see that after all you can indeed not break (or rather "re-adjust") it, there's always the option to conquer through climbing..."

the year 2017...

2007-02-22T14:04:00.000-05:00

Pieter has officially been inducted into the world of Real Food. He grabbed his 1st bite (and spoon) with much excitement.

Receiving his 2nd bite came with some tears and challenges though,
since he has not quite grasped the concept that (sometimes) it is in letting go that we receive. I had to pry the spoon out of his hand in order to scoop some more yummy banana mush for his enjoyment. It took some time for him to calm down and realize that pleasure was waiting at his lips once more. He gobbled it up, with haste and fervor.

As I watched him wolf down his newfound pleasure, I had a vision of

the year 2017:
We have upgraded from a van (once thought to be gargantuan) to an

18-wheeler. We need the space not so much for the boys and their stuff, as for the weekly load of groceries. It takes an entire day to unload the 10lb bags of bananas, rice, beans, bread and cheese (due to inflation, cheese will have to be scratched form the list and replaced with canned...something awful) As I unload - heck no, they can unload! - it all vanishes into ever ravenous, ever stretching boy-bodies...The 18-wheeler is empty. The checking account is empty. The boys want to know: "What`s for dinner, Mamma?!"
End of vision. Phew!

Every time my pregnant belly deflated and the doctor announced: "It's a(nother) boy!", I sighed a sigh of relief that it was at least one more of the less financially draining sex. My dad used to tease me about how expensive girls are - mainly referring to a wedding. (Whether he had the cost of my actual wedding in mind or the sum he would have to pay some guy to commit to take and keep me remains disputed.) But as the vision of 2017 besieged me, I realized that what we will escape in not having to pay for a wedding, we will shell out 3 times over in supplying basic edible necessities for 3 growing boys!

what we fight about

2007-01-26T21:41:00.000-05:00

So here's what we fight about:
books : "I don't want the one with the torn pages!" as they tear another page
trucks: "I had it first!" bonk says a head as the truck hits it
blocks: "You made my tower tumble!" bite
the big loo: "It is my turn to sit on the big loo tonight!" With only one real loo in the house and now 4 people having a need for a seat, things get quite interesting at times. Good thing there are more boys than girls in this house, for Adam has options...

It's been a while...

2007-01-07T22:01:00.000-05:00

so here is some of what has happened since the last post:

Devan and Neels were DICE for Halloween.

Pieter is sleeping through the night, does the 360 degree roll and survived almost 5 months of big-brother-bantering. We think he will survive.

We wish you a Merry Xmas, we wish you a merry Xmas…Well, some were merry some were not! So I decided that getting the “perfect” Xmas picture is over rated, impossible and not worth the consequences – unhappy children and a frustrated mamma. All of you who sent us perfect pictures (or at least pictures where everyone is almost looking and somewhat happy) please let me in on the “how-to” secret. Out of 5O+ pictures, this was the best one. Among other logistical reasons, this is why you did not get a card from us. :-/

Pieter was baptized on Christmas Eve. His friend Wyatt Andrews was baptized at the same time and reached for and held his hand as the congregation sang: “Jesus loves me”. The sweetness of it solicited a choir of ooo’s and aaa’s from our church family, of course. Here Wyatt confirms his love for Pieter by inspecting his ear – the very ear that would later prove to be the unfortunate host of an infection. Wes and Sage (Wyatt’s parents and our dear friends) joined us in formally surrendering our boys to the Lord and claiming His covenant faithfulness in their lives, praying that by his grace they will some day see their need of a Savior and turn to and trust in Jesus for their salvation.

Devan’s big concern this Xmas:
"Were the animals hungry when Jesus laid in their food bowl?"

Neelsie has developed quite an appetite for singing. He is still at that very beautiful non-self-conscious stage and will burst out with “Holy-holy-holy” or “Do-a-deer-a-female-deer” in the grocery store or bank - purely for his own joy and oblivious to his audience. At our most recent Living Nativity he joined the cherub choir with Silent Night as he was climbing the fence to get to a camel – yes a real camel. I daresay those close to the camel heard very little of the choir’s singing as a scene unfolded where Neels was unaware that he was contributing a near solo while Scott did his best to prevent a little-boy-head-first plunge into the camel’s territory.

Pieter is a sweet baby. He smiles a lot and easily. He sleeps well. He does not ask WHY?WHY?WHY?, say NO! or throw tantrums. Yet.

So with much anticipation for what 2007 will bring…

A belated MerryChristmas and HappyNewYear from the Murphys!

Monkey Murphy

2006-09-28T05:27:00.000-04:00

Have I mentioned before that we are unsure of the origin of this boy? We fear that there may indeed be some monkey in him... Whenever he is quiet - too quiet - and I call through the house: "Neelsie, what are you doing?" his default answer is: "Ek klim op!" (I am climbing up!) And so he is -whether it is our bookcases, a tree, a door, the trash can or into the kitchen sink. He is climbing.

Here my brother Loffie is treating him to his preferred position:
UPSIDE DOWN.

But it might just lead him to conquer the world...

When you're 3

2006-09-26T21:27:00.000-04:00

Selective Hearing
Devan se nuutste s^e-ding: “Daar is iets fout met my ore. Hulle is gebreek. So ek kan nie hoor wat Mamma s^e nie!” (m.a.w. ek is nie ongehoorsaam nie, my ore doen net nie hulle werk nie.)

Translation:
Devan’s newest line: “There is something wrong with my ears. They are broken. So I can’t hear what Mamma is saying.” (i.e. I am not disobedient, my ears are just not doing their work.)

Jesus cares about the details
Devan bid nou die dag: “Liewe Jesus, baie dankie vir die lekker dag wat ons gehad het. Liewe Jesus vee asseblief ons neusies af en Liewe Jesus was asseblief ons handjies. Amen."

Translation:
Devan prayed the other day: “ Dear Jesus, thank you for the fun day we had. Dear Jesus please wipe our little noses and dear Jesus please wash our little hands. Amen."

The latest Murphy-Home statistics

2006-09-05T13:28:00.000-04:00

23 - days Pieter has been breathing this world’s air.

5,832 - times a day Devan asks: “WHY?”

0 - amount of paint that gets on the paper when Neels paints. His preferred canvas is his face and tongue.

4 - times Pieter has rolled over since he was born (I used to get excited about babies reaching “mobility” milestones. I thought it was a “good sign”. (Of what exactly I am not sure anymore.) I have since learned that it is a sure sign only of more life-threatening risky boy maneuvers to come - and countless headaches for mom :-/ Confession: we owe these rolling incidents to the once enforced, now forbidden position: prone. But he just finds his thumb so deliciously well when on his tummy! And with the thumb (or is it the tummy?) comes of course the ever-sweet sleeeeeeeep…

9 – times an hour we check on Pieter when in the forbidden position. OK, that was just the first few times we did that. Now we just let him be.

6½ – record amount of hours Pieter has slept in one stretch – he did this actually while on his back. Three hoorays for the little man!

1 - call to poison control center on behalf of Neels who helped himself to an entire bottle of rubbing alcohol. Judging by the flammable aroma and puddle that surrounded him when we found him, he probably and thankfully ingested very little. It was hard to tell whether there was actually a whiff of alcohol in his breath or whether all of the smell came from his drenched clothes and the now disinfected floor. With a bit of luck, the smell alone at least killed the “bugs” that was nesting in his system from the latest cold – the one he gave to Pieter.

9 – days Pieter was old when he got his 1st cold.

10 – times Devan has listened to Pieter’s heart and assured me that he hears “kaboom-boom…kaboom-boom...kaboom-boom” in there.

11 – times Pieter has been lovingly hit over the head with anything from a pillow, stuffed animal, to a book or shoe by a caring older brother.

12 – times a day I am sure that I’ll certainly go nuts in the next 24 hours.

24 – times a day I realize that I am already nuts and that this is in fact the easy part of having 3 boys – while at least one of them is immobile.

7 – days a week Scott thanks me that I am the one who "volunteers" (not always so enthusiastically) to stay home with them.

Oh boy! It's a(nother) boy!

2006-08-14T19:17:00.000-04:00

Pieter Hillman Murphy

Born August 13, 2006 @ 00:35 am
9lbs 1oz 20¼ inches

(Pieter is an Afrikaans family name and is pronounced like the European Peter, i.e. a sharp/strong “t”)

(Hillman is Scott's mom's maiden name)

Intruder! Intruder!

2006-07-31T20:32:00.000-04:00

A sound of unknown origin startled me at 5am this morning. I nudged Scott, anxiously hoping that he would wake up and go conquer the intruder. But the prowler had already made it to our bedroom and uttered a rather loud and unexpected war cry: “Hey Daddy! Hey hey hey, Daddy!”

As a heavy-eyed Scott took Neels back to bed, I envisioned ways to keep the little man in his crib. We have already lowered his mattress to the lowest position and raised the rails to the max. But Monkey Murphy still manages to escape -mostly at inopportune times. (Does this sound familiar or bring back memories to any one out there?)

With thoughts of a chicken wire cage to compliment the crib, a ceiling-high steel frame or padded concrete canopy with a tiny door and latch, a motion-activated recording uttering threats of confiscating his beloved dog and blanket and other ingenious inventions, I dozed off again…
“It-y bit-y Pider up water pout. Down came rain, wat pider out!” it echoed through the sleepy house. SO sweet. SO unfortunate. I glanced at the clock: 5:21am. I’ve always enjoyed a serenade. This one somehow did little to make me want to flash my bedroom lights (a tradition in South African dorms to show delight and appreciation when you receive a serenade at any hour of the night.)

With my mind back in engineering-mode and all prospects of sleep lost to my “to tame a boy” thoughts, I decided to go to the gym and let Scott listen to and deal with the rest of the concert. My contribution would be to go by the hardware store on the way back. Or maybe I'll contact the zoo and see if they need extra monkeys. Now, I know for sure that I did not evolve from a monkey. I have my doubts about Neels though...

KABOOOOOOM!

2006-07-23T14:49:00.000-04:00

That sound is standard background noise in our house. Typically, such racket is produced by a little boy-head hitting a wall/floor/table, or frequently it is a train/truck/stuffed dog being propelled onto some unfortunate surface. We’ve learned to be more concerned about the “post-kaboom” sounds rather than the actual thud: it varies between passionate bawling, minor expressions of “ouch” or exuberant laughter.

This morning however, we heard a KABOOM followed by complete silence. Not good. Seconds before, I was vaguely aware of Neels sailing thru the air – a common sight around here. This time he aimed for and missed a huge stuffed gorilla. His head hit some corner molding.

The next few awfully silent seconds seemed to happened in slow motion. Scott ran to pick Neels up and brought him into the kitchen, where he finally erupted into an acute howl. [Afrikaans: potbloumoord ] Instantaneously a bloody blue knot arouse from his temple. The louder his screaming, the bigger the bump seemed to grow. Did he hit a blood vessel? Is that his brain popping out? Has his eyeball shifted to the side of his head? (No, parents tend not to be rational when their child is in serious pain while simultaneously developing scary looking growths.)

This picture does not do the size or color of that knot justice. It is HUGE and very blue.

Our frantic first aid solution: ice! Yeah right. He put up such a fight towards our sensible treatment attempts that we cautiously predicted that he was already on his way to recovery. After 10 minutes of TLC (most of it coming from Devan who piled every favorite toy, book, bear and blanket on top of his injured brother), we received confirmation that the outward consequences of the accident appeared to be far worse than any internal or permanent damages incurred. Here is what he set out to do while there was still a wet tear on his chubby cheek:

Look ma, no hands! Leaaaaaping fearlessly off a chest.

Thankfully there are pillows in place to buffer his contact with the floor this time.

Now I wonder…would this behavior indicate that there is indeed some internal damage in the cranial area… or is it safe to say he is a quick-to-recover-adventurous-risky-healthy boy?

BIGboyhood...littleboyhood...is there a difference?

2006-06-18T22:13:00.000-04:00

I am flabbergasted! BoyHood just expanded to include age 37. Yesterday, while driving down the interstate, my (usually) very mature, predictable, collected husband displayed some definite signs of being all boy.

We had just purchased a new vehicle to accommodate our need to mash more car seats into a limited space. Although our new car is several years old, it has some features that we never dreamed about “owning” - such as power sliding doors. Since we (and especially Scott) tend to favor simplicity, we did not pause long to admire this luxury at the point of purchase. It just happened to come with the car. (For those who do not know Scott well, he values simplicity so much that he drinks his coffee “straight” (black without sugar), likes cake best without any icing and thinks his wife most appealing to the senses in the absence of any “additives” such as make-up or perfume.) Great was my surprise (and horror) then when this seemingly insignificant “power-sliding feature” brought out some unmistakable boy-characteristics in Scott.

Cruising at 70 mph he all of a sudden babbled: “I wonder if the sliding doors can open while we drive” and instantly started to look and feel for the “magic button”. It took a firm “NO, we are not going to find out” and “Your sons are watching you” for him to reluctantly give up on the idea. I could not believe it! In my mind any such notion is obviously absurd and waaaaaaay to risky. What made him even think of such a thing? Even if he was not entirely serious and even if his responsible self would have brought him to his sense before acting on the thought - the mere idea seems irrational to me. He in turn could not quite understand my bewilderment. In his mind it was a perfectly sane thing to wonder about and experiment with. He added that he actually often contemplates such things…

The journey of raising and living with boys has just taken a turn for the worst. I understand them even less than I initially thought. And a big boy has just been added to my list of “boys to watch”. I have a suspicion that those sliding doors will at some point undergo the proposed “test” regardless. May neither my little boys nor I be present, for I now know enough to predict our reactions to be polar opposites: Mom will be horrified and concerned. The boys, however, will be encouraged in their (lifelong?) pursuit of risk.