An interview with my hooligans

Marcus is nine

Weston is seven

Esther will be five next month

I interviewed my kids one at a time (the other two were out of ear shot) and these are their perceptive and entertaining answers (all in their words).

What is something mom always says to you?
Marcus: “I love you.”
Weston: “I love you.”
Esther: “I love you.”

What makes mom happy?
Marcus: Me.
Weston: When I do stuff for her.
Esther: When I do this. (she says I love you in sign language)

What makes mom sad?
Marcus: I don’t know
Weston: When somebody is being mean to her like in a time when someone gets in a fight. Or, you could erase all that and say, when one of her friends die.
Esther: I don’t know

How does your mom make you laugh?
Marcus: Her stories make me laugh.
Weston: By smiling
Esther: By saying what you just said, because that made me laugh. (apparently, this question is hilarious)

What was your mom like as a child?
Marcus: bad
Weston: I remember her doing something bad.
Esther: I don’t know.

How old is your mom?
Marcus: 31? 32? 31.
Weston: 31?
Esther: 14. (definative)

How tall is your mom?
Marcus: I don’t know
Weston: fourteen feet (he used his feet to measure me)
Esther: (shrugs her shoulders)

What is her favorite thing to do?
Marcus: Play on the computer
Weston: Doing computer
Esther: Play on the computer

What does your mom do when you're not around?
Marcus: How would I know? I am not around!
Weston: Lays down on the bed.
Esther: Do work.

If your mom becomes famous, what will it be for?
Marcus: There is nothing you do that is so good you would be famous.
Weston: Doing the computer. Dadahdauhduh: the famous person who is good at computers! Yay, a person who knows how to do the computer! DunDunDuh!
Esther: I don’t know.

What is your mom really good at?
Marcus: writing.
Weston: Doing the computer (he breaks into hysterical laughter)
Esther: Playing that ball game

What is your mom not very good at?
Marcus: You are good at everything. But... not so good you can be famous.
Weston: Not loving people. She is so bad at that. She never not loves people.
Esther: Candy Bash. The hard Candy Bash. With the bean. When it says stuff.

What does your mom do for a job?"
Marcus: Watches me
Weston: Teach us
Esther: Working

What is your mom's favorite food?
Marcus: Pizza
Weston: Pizza
Esther: Salad

What makes you proud of your mom?
Marcus: I can’t think of anything.
Weston: That she is a good mommy!
Esther: When she gives me food that I like.

If your mom were a cartoon character who would she be:
Marcus: She would be a good character but no one has made her yet.
Weston: Princess Leah on Star Wars
Esther: princess Leah.

What do you and your mom like to do together?
Marcus: We just like to hang out.
Weston: Cuddle
Esther: Say “I love you” together

How are you and your mom the same?
Marcus: There are many similarities...well...in looks. And in behavior.
Weston: Our noses are the same. At least I think so
Esther: We are not.

How are you and your mom different?
Marcus: Well, you are a girl. I mean a woman. I am a boy.
Weston: She is bigger. I am littler.
Esther: Cause she does work and I don’t do work very much.

How do you know your mom loves you?
Marcus: Because she says, “I love you”. I don’t believe that she is lying.
Weston: Because she loves me! She does love me. I know she does. Or why would she do all those fun stuff for me if she didn’t love me?
Esther: Cause she always says I love you.

What does your mom like most about your dad?
Marcus: I don’t know.
Weston: He does work and she doesn’t have to do anything. All she has to do is lay down. Except when mom has to do a lot of work. But when she doesn’t have to do a lot of work then dad can do her work and she can CUDDLE with ME! I like that when my dad does work my mom can lay down and cuddle with me. What was the question?
Esther: His hair.

Where is your mom's favorite place to go?
Marcus: To Tara’s house.
Weston: Tara’s.
Esther: To the store. Clothes store. To buy clothes for a present for somebody. Me! and sometimes herself, and Weston, and Marcus.

Things I learned about myself: I am on the computer FAR too much. And...I am rather good at loving.

We educate

Weston is learning the value of money. For a school project we set u a play store (with real food) and Weston received 35.00 to shop for the family.
For lunch he bought pancake mix and all the ingredients that went with it.
Then he bought peppermints for desert.
Dinner was noodles and sauce. No meat. He ran out of money after spending it on a gigantic number of salad ingredients and a box of chocolate granola bars.
"We need meat Weston. Maybe you could put the granola bars back and then you will have enough for meat."
Weston looked at me quizzically.
"Is it my money to spend however I want?"
"Yes, but your daddy does not like spaghetti with no meat."
"And I don't like peas." he responded.
I thought to ask him what his dislike for peas had to do with the cost of meat or granola bars, but then I realized how many time daddy had made him eat peas.
He made his purchases, all very thoughtfully, including his steadfast decision to forego the meat.



when daddy came home, he said

"Where's the meat?"
"You made Weston eat too many peas," I responded.


And, I assumed incorrectly that this little activity taught him a good lesson about the value of money. What it really taught him is, that if you run out of money, you can just cut some out of paper.
And a previous activity, which had explained that you need to earn money, by getting a job, to get the things you want and need?
He took that lesson and learned that if you don't want to do a job, you can always pay someone else to do it.
He tried to pay his father SIX dollars to unload the dishwasher for him.

And of course, if he doesn't have six dollars, he can always make some more. But, not by working.

A boy's point of view

Here's a tiny tad of a conversation I heard on the long (9 hr) ride home from Christmas in OH.

As we pass the Indiana sign, Dustan hollers to the kids, "Hey, We're in Indiana now. There's the sign."

And Weston pipes up.
"Yes. Indiana. That is the place where Indiana Jones was born. Only his real name is not Indiana. They just call him that because he was born here. And it's not Hans Solo either. I just can't remember what it was."

Great stuff. And I am recording it all here because I will forget to tease him about it when he is a teenager.

Here are some more Westonisms in case you get bored:
Meet Albert

A really weird conversation from a couple of years ago


A little something to melt your heart

And my own personal favorite glimpse inside Weston's head:
Bad Thinking

Come visit Death Island

For those not in the know- I homeschool my demented children. The title of demented is well-deserved, as you shall soon see.

The curriculum that we use is Moving Beyond the Page. At the end of each unit, there is a big final project. This unit was on the land and for his final project he had to create a tri-fold brochure about an Island that he created. he had to include landforms, weather, location, natural resources, and all sorts of other interesting facts. And when I say "interesting", what I mean is, "demented".

We used ipages to create his brochure and he has a blast playing with the fonts.
Here is Marcus' third grade project on our "Land" unit.

Read it and DIE!!!!
PS, it's a tri-fold, so you have to imagine how it would look folded up.

Death Island Brochure

Publish at Scribd or explore others:

I sometimes take dictation for my children,

Especially for my oldest who loves to write stories and poems, but hates to actually WRITE them down.

Today was the first time that Esther asked me to type something up for her.

"Mommy. I have a book to write. Can you type it for me on you puter?"

Me: Sure baby, what is it?

Her: Well, it's a book has a title. Type this up now. "Kids know everything, and adults know nothing"

Me: Umm, I don't think so. That sounds like a not so nice book.

Her: See. You don't even know what a nice book is.


I kind of feel bad for nipping it off at the title. Maybe it could have been one of those shrinky dink self-help books and been a best seller. What do I know?

Apparently, nothing.

A Day to be Grateful

I am going to repost an old one. It was originally written in July, 07 but I think it has some nuggets that are worth reviewing.

As and update for the following post: We are now over a year outside of the "Rice Event" and I must say, it is still a resounding success.


RICE: GOOD FOR GRATITUDE :

I left my camera at a friend's house (after a tea party) and since I hate blogging without pictures, here is one of my three children, right after Esther's birth. This is before they became spoiled brats. Did I just call my children brats? Why yes. Yes I did. See how sweet they are here? Little Esther was content to nurse her days away and Marcus thought we were heroes just for sharing our french fries. Weston was always a bit of a whiner, but lately, oh my! Lately it has snowballed into something very unpretty.

If I give them a cookie, Weston will cry, and call me a liar, because he will say that I did, in fact, promise him ten cookies. Which is completely untrue. Esther will cry because her cookie only has three billion chocolate chips and she wanted fifteen gazillion chocolate chips. Marcus will pout because...well, actually, I have no idea why Marcus will pout. He has been in a constant state of poutiness lately.

If I fix their favorite dinner of grilled cheese sandwiches with granny smith apples, mayo, and green olives (don't mock it, they LOVE it), Weston will complain that his has a brown spot on it, Marcus will cry because I only had enough to give him four full sandwiches, and Esther will suddenly decide she hates bread.

If I take them to the park, they will throw a fit because I ask them to put on their shoes, because we have to walk, and because I didn't know they wanted to go to THAT OTHER PARK.

If I take them swimming, the sun will be to hot, or they will be too cold, or we will stay too long, or we will not stay long enough.

If I bake them a surprise cake, someone will cry because they wanted lemon, not chocolate.

And on and on and on to kingdom come. Do I sound as if I am complaining? My dears, I don't know any other tone of voice. I have been surrounded by whining and complaining for so long, I have forgotten how to converse any other way.

BUT. But, I found a solution. It hit me one night just like a lighbulb turning on and illuminating the deep recesses of the parenting brain I had shut off. We were in the van listening to Weston and Esther whine because we were not going to the restaraunt THEY wanted to go to (which happened to be two different ones). Marcus did not whine. Rather, he gave this deep sigh and rolled his eyes. the sigh ended with a deep disgusted grunt.
Something inside of me snapped. I am not sure when the last time I have heard my children say thank you, but I can gaurantee you it was so long ago that we might as well consider that they never said it. I told them, "you have this weekend to learn gratitude because by Monday, if you haven't learned it, I am going to start feeding you rice with every meal. I am going to feed it to you until you will bow down in gratitude to just see a boiled egg.
Let me just say that their response was... Well, I don't know how to describe it. Bad. We are talking screaming. And kicking. More screaming. Calling us names. Remember now, that I have only threatened this course of action. I look at Dustan, he looks at me. The looks says, "What did we do wrong? How did we raise these monsters?"

And so we went home. We did not go to any restaraunt at all. We had rice. No one said thank you. So we had rice at dinner. Weston gave me a very feeble "Thank you for the rice, mommy." By breakfast, Marcus, who can't stand rice at all, and who has now missed two meals, tells me that he "will be grateful for whatever I feed him." I say, "Good, cause we are having shoes." Marcus says, "Thank you for the shoes mommy."
I feed them all their favorite cereal. I recieve three hearty thank yous and some help in cleaning the kitchen. These children do NOT want another meal of rice.

But I have the container sitting in the middle of the counter- just in case. I think the visual reminder will be enough.

"Mom, I have a lot of guilt."

That's what Marcus told me yesterday.
I bet you will never, ever, in a million years guess where his great burden of guilt came from.

Did he perhaps cut my apron strings?

Or maybe he broke into my hidden stash of dark chocolates and devoured them. (impossible, because that crime had already been committed by me.)

No. What he really did was to break into Esther's webkinz account and steal her really good stuff and sell everything else. He completely wiped out two of her rooms.

How do you deal with a child thief in cyber form? He is grounded from his own account. He has to play on her account until he earns her enough money to re-furnish both those rooms, and he has to send back the rare item he stole, plus an additional one.

I feel kind of bad for the guy. He committed his first crime and was so burdened by the guilt of it that he confessed before anyone even knew there was a problem. But, saying "I'm sorry" does not make restitution, and even though it seems like a silly thing to us adults, those little webkinz worlds are quite important to our children.

So, anyway. In case I was ever wondering if Marcus had an active conscience (and I was, I had a foster sister with Reactive Attachment Disorder) I need no longer to fret.
At dinner, he asked to pray.
"Dear God. Please heal my body (he is sick)
But most of all, I think I need you to heal my heart.
Amen"

Nine Years and three days ago

I found myself trying to squeeze into a booth at Denny's. "Auugh<" I said to the waiter. "I don't think I can fit." Which was the truth, and a great embarrassing shame. I had recently gained 77 pounds and was fatter than fat could even be. My poor feet were pouring themselves out of the only pair of househoes I could find to fit.
The waitress moved us to a table, which was good because I could scoot the chair back. Way back, in order to fit.

Just a few hours later and I found myself in the hospital; victim of labor induced pre-eclampsia. It was a good day to be expecting a child. Sept 21st, my sister-inlaw's birthday. My water broke and we began to expect the birth of our first child.

Sept. 22nd. It would be a good day for this little boy to be born. On Sept 22,, 1990, I decided to follow Christ. It was, in a sense, my re-birthday. What a lovely day to give birth to my first child- a boy I had already named Marcus.

Sept. 23rd. All I can remember thinking was that, if this child was waiting to be born on his father's birthday just three days more- I would KILL him. And speaking of KILL. Dustan thought day three of labor would be a good time to munch down on donuts. And the doctor finally decided that a c-section would be an option. And he and Dustan quarreled. I had not, afterall, according to the father of this ever patient baby, been in labor for three days just to have the baby cut out of me. I had pushed for EIGHT hours, and all I could think of was strangling the both of them.

Everything else was a blur. The bad kind of blur. The unconscious kind of blur. But. We made it. Both of us. A very wounded mother soon was holding her almost grown 10 pound son. He was so serious. So old, even in those first few moments. And as I held him, as I snuggled him into my breast and smelled his newborn self, I could never have imagined the years that would follow.

I could have never imagined the stress, the joy, the weeping, the call to Social services to pick him up because I "had HAD it", the eventual diagnosis of aspbergers. I could have never imagined that that child would one day have the heart of a poet. passionate, and quiet, Stewing about the world and all it's contents. I could have never imagined that he would struggle to speak and then write songs and stories that would bring my heart to it's knees. I never would have thought that he would be so quick to anger, so slow to say sorry, so afraid to look others in the eyes.

And just a few years later, as he began to grow, and emerge into the child he was becoming, I would have never imagined that at nine years old, I would have a fellow worker in the early morn. Someone to clear the dishwasher as I loaded it up, someone to chatter with me about what would happen "if". "If". The word of his life. Everything in his mind, begins with, "What if."

And his eventual answers thrill my spirit. They come out through his fingers, and his thoughts. Answers beautiful.



Nine years ago today, as I held Marcus Wade King for the very first time, I could not have even imagined what Sept 23rd, 2008 would be like. Beautiful, joyful, and still so very serious.


By the way: This child, who in the past has shunned public exposure, begged for a birthday dinner at Chevy's. He practically fell over with giddyness when they came out singing and placed a sombrero on his head. When we asked him if the reason he chose Chevy's was the hat, he responded, that he just wanted everyone to look at him and know it was his birthday.

I'm kind of proud of him. I can't help it.

Curiosity killed the cat.

Okay, so it's another post about my kids. Sue me. Ever since we put the house on the market, it has completely disinterested me. Who wants to write a post about decorating walls in white paint? Not me.

"Today I painted my walls white. Then I wiped down the bathroom mirror and made sure the garbage cans were empty. Oh, and I made sure the medicines in the medicine cabinet were obsessively lined up, just in case some nosey buyer opens it up to see what ails our family. Midrin, Tylenol, Advil, Aleve, Relepax. Hmmm. It's a headachey sort of family."

See. THAT was BORING. And my kids aren't. Maybe I should change the subtitle of my blog to "Toasty Toes: the adventures of surviving the insanely insane antics of my insane children"

Case in point: Weston just brought me this really cool picture. "Stop typing." he says. "Stop typing and look what I drew."
I took a blogging break and looked. He may need a shrink. I saw airplanes. And people. Very dead, very bloody people. All shot down by the firey rockets that were exploding from the belly of the planes.

How do you even respond to something like that???? "Very cool" just does not seem to do it justice.

Anyhow. That bit of insanity was just an interruption. The real insanity started this morning.

Marcus: What makes the fog?
Me: I don't know.
Marcus: Well can't you look it up? Get off your message board and find out what makes the fog.


Marcus: Wow, it sure rained suddenly. I wonder why? Oh, and what is salt made of?
Me: Sodium.
Marcus: What's sodium?
Me: Salt.
Marcus: You are unreasonable.
Me: ummmm.
Marcus: What does unreasonable mean?

Marcus: What is this? (he hold up a spoon)
Me: (cocking my eyebrow) A spoon.
Marcus: No I mean, it's metal. What kind.
Me: sil... (and the I realize I'm not sure I have even SEEN a real piece of silverware, much less OWNED one). It's just metal.
Marcus: I KNOW. Metal. yeah, Yeah. What kind?

Marcus: Why do we need to know how to write. And what makes the moon look white? And what is dog hair made of? And if I chew this piece of wood up can I make paper out of it? And does farts count as wind? What would happen if I drank pee? When will I die? What would happen if I dropped my pillow out of the window? What would happen if I droped Weston out of the window? What would happen if I rode on the roof of a car? Why do cars have roofs? What would happen if I rode on the roof of a car that did not have a roof?
Me: ummmmm.

Marcus: You are a bad teacher. Good teachers know stuff, or at least want to find stuff out. You are just lazy and don't care what stuff is.
Me: ummmm
Marcus: (Through peals of laughter.) Did I drive you nuts? Did I? Did I? I was trying to drive you nuts with all my questions. Did it work? Did it work?


We will be holding a memorial service for Marcus later this evening. All are welcome.

Oh so random.

I have a jumbledness of thoughts today. Let me vomit them out at you.

We have a new housemate. My cousin Lindsey has moved in after my oh so very successful attempt at matchmaking was oh so very successful. Since she lived two states away from the oh so successful match, she has moved into the toasty toes mansion. It smells in our house, very much like a young lady in love. Which, in case you didn't know, smells like room fragrance and perfume. Add in some hairspray and you have the smell of love. Or, maybe that is just the general smell of teenage/young adulthood.

I have rediscovered the joy of peanut butter balls. The food rage of 1980 government issue food has now arrived at my house. Equal amounts of peanut butter, powdered milk, and honey. Yummy. I was going to take a picture, but my kids ate them all, and besides that, I was feeling to lazy to find my camera.

I have two good friends who are grieving loved ones. Tara lost her doggy, Stan, yesterday to what was most likely a brain tumor. It was heartbreaking.

And my friend Becki, who coordinates the TeenMops group has lost her daughter. Kari was young. My age. With two young boys. It is a sobering thought and my heart aches for Becki, as well as those two little boys. I would ask the question, "Why"? But the answer seems to futile, so I don;t even bother asking.

Esther wants to know when our Heidi dog will die. Weston wants to know if we can wave a magic wand over Stan and make him come back alive. All of them are now worried that I will up and die at any moment.

Homeschooling has resumed, and is no fun at all for anyone at all. I already want to quit. Marcus already has quit. He is a third grade drop-out. I keep reminding myself how many times I was a third grade drop-out myself. And how many times my own mother wanted to quit teaching me. And yet, here I am, with a great education (bad spelling and penchant for sentence fragments not withstanding...) and there my mother is, sitting in Ohio, looking at her vegetable garden and sipping hot tea.
I bet she does not miss the yelling, the constant search for the ever-lost pencils, or the chewed up erasers. I bet she is relived that she will never have to argue the value of multiplication tables or clear steady handwriting again.
Which is reassuring. I am only going to be a teacher for so long. One day I will have my own garden to sit in. one day I will never again have to hear two hours of whining about what would amount to thirty seconds of work.

And when I think of Becki, whose daughter has just gone to be the Lord. i feel guilty for wanting to speed along time. I think about all these random moments of peanut butter balls, new housemates, screaming and crying and ripping out of hair over the requirement of writing two sentences...and I decide to relish them.

At least for right now. At least for as long as I write this post.

Why didn't I think of that?

Remember the "I'm not touching you" game?

Come on, you remember it.
You're in the back seat of a volkswagon rabbit. There's three of you. Far too many to be squashed into such a small backseat. It's summer time and air conditioning either has not been invented yet, or your dad thinks he can save money by not running it.

It's so hot that your legs are slippery and your sister's slippery legs are rubbing up against yours. It's gross, and you realize that she has a millimeter more space than you do.

"MOM" you yell. "She's TOUCHING me."
Mom looks in the rearview mirror and sighs. "Stop touching her." she says.
And your sister gets revenge. She gets so close to your face you can smell her peanut butter breath and she pokes her finger- just almost touching you.
"I'm not touching you." she taunts, just under her breath. "I'm not touching you."

Last time you brought attention to her evil ways, mom took a mad swipe with her backhand, towards the back seat. When mom did that, there was no target. Her backseat handswipe was not punishment- just a point maker. It meant she had all she could take.
In this case, you realize that you would be the closest target and so you keep your mouth shut and ride the rest of the drive home from Mega Market with your sister's finger just a centimeter away from your face, and her continuing to taunt you.
"I'm not touching you." "I'm not touching you."

You remember now, don't you?

Anyhow. This scene played itself out in my van. Weston pokes at Esther's face. "I'm not touching you," he says to her.
I glanced into my rearview mirror, ready to scold him for aggravating his sister.
But she was already past the point of aggravation. I think she has a short fuse.
She walloped him. BAM, BAM, BAM.
All the while, screaming...
WELL, I AM TOUCHING YOU!
WELL, I AM TOUCHING YOU!

Anyhow, I am pretty sure no one is going to play the "I'm not touching you" game with Esther again.

How to make dinner from nothing: and a side of whine

Actually, I went to the store, but didn't plan out tonight's dinner before I went so I was left scrambling last minute to figure out what to feed the family. What I actually wanted to feed them was dogfood. Why?
a. It a kazillion billion degrees hot in St Louis and I didn't want to cook
b. It's not like they would actually APPRECIATE whatever I decided to make.
c. I am grumpy. see points A and B.

Some kind woman gave me a link to THIS WONDERFUL LIFE SAVING SITE and I was able to type in everything I had on hand, and it pulled up recipes for me.

Here is what I landed on. I would have gotten a picture but:
a. It was too hot to hang a camera strap around my neck
b. It was eaten far to quickly to even locate my camera
c. blog readers should not be so picky about pictures, and learn to use their imaginations. Imagine this: Shredded chicken, can of corn, ranch dressing, and cheese. Rolled up in a corn tortilla. Oh, I added to the recipe. It seemed a bit plain.

The dog ate one. He loved it. The kids ate three. Without complaining. Until after dinner. After dinner the griping ensued.
"I want to play wii"
"Can I have ice cream?"
"Why can't I have icecream?"
"You are the meanest ever mommy in the widest whole world."
"Why do the adults get to be in charge and make all the decisions?"
"Can I have a piece of bubblegum?"
"WHY can't I have a piece of bubblegum?"
"Why do YOU get a piece of bubblegum?"
"Marcus hit me!"
"Esther hit me"
"Weston hit me."
"Mommy, why do you look like you want to hit me."
"Esther is picking her nose. It's gross. make her stop."
"It's so boring. SOOOOOOO boring. There is NOTHING to do. Life is the most boring thing in the world ever."
"Can't I pleeeeaaaassseeee have icecream?"


Auuuuuuuggggghhhhhh.

I have yet to duct tape the kids to a wall, with a sock in their mouths. Though, I have threatened it. Bedtime will be here in a mere 60 minutes. And I am going to play wii. While eating and icecream. And chewing bubblegum.

Meet Albert

Albert came to our VBS block party. He has Alzheimer's Disease. The reason I want you to meet him is because my children were enamored by him. My kids are shy. And unsocialable (they are homeschooled- what can I say?) It took them all of 0.02 seconds to see Albert's unbrella and decide to make friends.

Weston: Wow! Where did you get you umbrella?
Esther: Your cane is very nice. Did you get it for Christmas.
Weston: I wish you had an extra umbrella so I could use one.
Esther: Why do you have an umbrella? It's not raining.

both kids take a breath and Albert speaks!
Albert: I have an umbrella to make me cool.

(Weston of course misunderstands his meaning of cool and says...) Oh, Yeah, it is cool!

Esther: I want to stand under here. (and she proceeds to scootch her way under the umbrella to where she is practically in mister Albert's lap.

I decide to intervene.
Me: Kids, why don't you go play some games and stop bothering Mr Albert.

Mr Albert looks confused and says, "Who's bothering me?" It isn't a question to let me know he is having fun. It is a question of forgetfulness. He has forgotten how annoying my kids have been. I decide to let things be. Next thing I know, my middle child is melting my heart. And I suppose God's as well.

Weston: Mr Albert, I don't even know any 71 year old men but you. Do you even know anyone who is 71?
Albert: Yes. I suppose I do.
Weston: I mean at church. Do you know anyone at church who is 71?
Albert: (who does not attend church and is not a Christian) No. I don't suppose I do.
Weston: Oh. Well then. I think you should come to Sunday School. There are probably TONS of 71 year olds people there. You would meet them if you came. And you would learn about God too.

Don't worry. The child didn't stay all cute and serious for very long. As I was setting up my booth, I heard this very random nugget:

"Mr Albert, I don't really want to talk about cheerleaders or dead people today."

Sometimes you just need a smile

I sat down the other day to do some browsing on my laptop. I slipped into our formal living room, a place that is rarely (read ever) used. I figured that the room was so obscure and unknown to our children that they would never find me in there. I sat down for two seconds and was startled by the sound of heavy breathing. Now, I know this will seem silly to you, but remember I am in a room that is never used, and from every vantage point is completely empty save for myself. And yet, there is distinctively heavy breathing. I thought it was a rat. Haha, you say. No, seriously, my mind is so warped that it tricked me into believing there was a mongo sized rat in my house, breathing so loudly that I could actually hear him! My heart leaped into my throat, and then my brain took over. The smart side of my brain. It was Esther. Curled up between the couch and end table, smushed between the two in what had to have been the most uncomfortable sleeping position ever. He little face was crammed against the wooden sofa leg, and she was sound asleep.

She is my smile. Every day. Even when she wakes up and refuses my help getting dressed. Even when she decides to look like a ragamuffin and make me look like the worst parent on earth. Sometimes I want to put a sign around her neck that says, "She dressed herself". But, I have to admit- I kind of like her style. OKay, I REALLY like her style. It is fun and fantastic and I wish I were as brave as she is, facing the world in a chaos of stripes and flowers, and hot pink holey tights. At the same time- I am hardly even brave enough to go out with her in public.







Would someone like to make some guesses what this style will translate into when she is 15???

Oh snot

It's Monday again. I don't have anything to say. My life is so far from decluttered that I wouldn't know where to begin in giving you advice to declutter yours.

Right now, I am dreaming of running away. Canceling every activity, and moving into a camping cabin at carlyle Lake. I will throw my phone into the water and cook every meal from a campfire.

Sigh.

I did however get together a bag of books to donate to the children's hospital. Didn't do much for decluttering my life, but at least one bookshelf looks a tad better.

In other news:
Today, Esther turned Four
No more
No less
So for her I wish to bless
Just a little wish to say
I wish she were well on this special day
But since she is not
I hope she doesn't drown in her snot.

I never claimed to be a poet.

It didn't stay for long

The sun came out for a day. Just long enough for the kids to have a good old romp at a friend's house. Weston woke up the next morning complaining of severe neck pain and had what looked like an indian burn across the back of his neck. It was hot to the touch and our chiropractor sent us on the way to the emergency room. Meningitis was a huge fear. Mommy paniked and rushed to drop the other two off at a babysitter. Babysitter said it looked like sunburn to her.


It was.

Good thing I didn't rush him to the ER for sunburn. THe doctors would have surely had a great laugh at my expense. It's hard to think of sunburn when the only patch of sunshine that we have seen for weeks was that teeny bit where Weston played outside.

Here are some pictures I took of the kids that day.

Snow Day

The Toasty Toes kids are famous for our itty bitty snowmen.Want to know a secret? Mommy makes them all. My kids have their father's intolerance for freezing cold wetness.

I love snow. When it's real. St Louis only gets one good snow storm a year. THis was our second, but we missed the first.



Don;t you love my kid's mismatched gloves? Who knows where the matches are. It's hard to keep up when you only use them once a year. This year, Weston was the only one who would join me in some snow play. The rest of the kids weenied out. Weston started crying icicle tears after only ten minutes. Wimp.

Good Morning Monday!

A place for everything. And everything in its place. Thanks to my dad and thrity some odd years of practice, it's a lesson I have learned fairly well.
Everything in my kitchen has adesignated spot. If it doesn't have a spot, I don't let it in. I'm mean to stuff. Cruella DeStuff. I have a basket for my root veggies. I have a basket for the dogs this and that, and another basket for all our vitamins and any meds we are currently taking. T

he best way to make you life in the kitchen simple is to take every single thing OUT of the kithen and then put it back ion it's own perfect spot. Now, the perfect spot in my kitchen changes. All the time. I get bored easily. This drives Dustan bonkers as he tries to find his vitamins and they have moved from the cabinet by the sink to the pantry. One day, I will be old and crippled and won't be able to move stuff around, I will probably die of boredom. Anyhow, the point is, that it doesn't. It all still has it's own place. Until it changes addresses, it will go in that specific place. Everything needs a home.

And if it doesn't have one- this is what happens to it: I love freecycle. It's the best thing that happened to mankind. I'm too lazy for a garage sale, and so, I posted the following offer on freecycle today.
OFFER: Half a garage sale. Not the stuff I didn't sell, but the stuff I am to lazy to bother to sell. make some money on my stuff. Pick it up by noon, and take it ALL.

It was gone within half an hour. It would have taken me three times as long to pack it up, drag my kids out, and drive to the goodwill. I heart freecycle. It helps me to declutter my life.

THe best Valentine's gift ever

No. Not Esther. She didn't arrive until a few months after valentine's day. And the gift isn't even for her, but she dominates the day, yet again. How DOES she do that?

The boys came home from church (I was sick yet again) and I surprised them with tickets to.....
drum roll please...
thrrrthrrrthrrrthrrthrrhtrhthrhthrtthhhrthhhrthhhrthhrthhh...........



MONSTER JAM!!!!!! I mean come on! I have to be the best mother in the world. For those not in the know, Monster Jam happens to be a monster truck rally. DunDunDunDuh! Supermom! Right?

Wrong. You see, I was sadly mistaken when I thought that Essie-girl would rather have a night out with mama than to go to the Monster truck rally. So I only bought tickets for daddy, Weston, and Marcus, who, by the way, were spinning in giddy circles with excitement. Esther screamed her head off when she realized she didn't get the grand prize of all gifts.
"Come on sweetie,"I soothed. "You and mama are going to have a tea party.
I am ashamed to say that the child hauled off and hit me. She was beyond pissed off. I wish you could have seen her face. It turned from sweet pink, to green with envy, to red with fury, to black with brooding, all in the course of a few minutes.
She calmed down after a while and I assumed she had forgotten.

Then came Esther's prayer of blessing for our lunch.

"Dear God,
Thank you for my food.
thank you for my mommy and my daddy.
Thank you for my wonderful princess surprise gift!
Amen."

I stared at her.
"What Princess surprise gift are you talking about, Esther?" I asked.
"Member Mommy. You are going to buy me a wonderful princess surprise since I can't go to the monster truck race place."

First off, I promised her no such thing. Secondly, who taught my daughter to be so manipulative? Thirdly, this child went from monster trucks to.....princesses? She is so confusing.

And she is brilliant. I am already brainstorming what kind of Princess surprise gift I can get for her. (of course, perhaps, this is more indicative of her mother's stupidity that her own genius.

Simple Sundays

Our Sundays usually invlove rushing around. We wake up, rush to get dressed, rush to get breakfast, rush to get to church. Dustan rushes to get the sound set up for services. We rush home, I rush to get lunch on...and so on, until time to rush back to church for evening services, and then rush hom for a quick dinner and rush the kids off to bed.

Somewhere in there we forget.

"Be still and know that I am God."

Today. For a change, we have nothing but time to be still. The whole family and sick, so we snuggled onto the couch and let Marcus tell us what songs to sing. Weston prayed. Such a simple beautiful prayer, without pretense or show.
"God,
Keep and safe and good.
Thank you for everything you made.
Amen"
We opened up a beautiful picture book and read from Job. God is awesome and amazing, and His majesty becomes so clear in His creation.
A simple morning. Simple worship.
Simple Sunday.