Last but Not Least

The smells. The stinch. The noise. The sheer volume of it. That’s how I will forever remember Ivan’s 7th birthday. We finished the festivities with a sleepover. There were only 4 boys playing xBox, but when I opened the door it smelled like a dirty laundry basket. When I wanted them to take their noise outside, Keith wanted them inside as to not disturb our neighbors. It was a lose-lose situation. Meaning, I lost all the way around.





Since it’s the last one of birthday season, we dragged it out more than the others. He had to wait the longest, so it seemed fair, which is so often not the same.


And he got an extra cake.

He’s the only one I address as “Son” when I get really frustrated. The other 2 laugh and ask me why. I’m not sure. Maybe it’s to keep me from calling him something less endearing or profane. Because it’s he who pushes me to the limit. Daily. He’s also the one I typically warn. It’s usually something like, “I’m getting really angry, and I’m about to scream. I suggest you take the disobedience out of my sight.” Before I strangle you, I think to myself.

That seems like too many words to use when dealing with a child, but he pushes me beyond angry. Beyond enraged. I get into the Scary Calm Zone. You know what I’m talking about. Your voice, involuntarily, lowers to a whisper. The serenity that surpasses me is unnatural. Divine. It’s God’s intervention in order to save a life. His or mine. Depends on the day.

I speak slowly and softly as I recount the recent events that led to the present and what his future entails if he doesn’t do exactly as I say.

But before he can even comprehend the weight of the situation that he’s put himself in, he’s flitting about, gathering up and taking out the trash, without being asked…and putting a new bag in the container. Or visiting his daddy’s office to offer a water refill. Or doing cartwheels or spins in the middle of a room.

He is a happy kid. And, unless he’s being provoked by another child, he is content. A sweet snuggler. He is a servant. A lover of all living (and, honestly, even non-living) creatures. He is innately aware of the needs of those around him. Intuitive. He is a jokester. He is also really good at disassembling (i.e. breaking) things.

I try my hardest not to let his actions define him. But it’s hard on some days.

“God, help me to see him as your child, not mine,” I pray.

It helps. Usually.



Happy birthday, Ivan. Sweet One.

Round 2: The Eldest

We finished celebrating the birthday of the eldest child last week. Although he turned 9, he’s been with our family less than 4 years. Physically less than 4 years, but God knew since time began that he would be part of this family. And eventually His family.

If the bakery could freehand a unicorn, a horse head shouldn’t be a problem. It wasn’t. The only problem was that I forgot a lighter for the candles, so they were blown out on a half-eaten cake the following day.



His siblings adore him as their big brother. In the week leading up to his birthday, they continually made pleas for him to get extra this or that “because it’s his birthday.” I have created little monsters. But sweet ones since these requests were selfless.



They excitedly gathered gifts for him long before party day and hid them in my closet. Dust magnets from their own stuffed animal collection and a 5-dollar bill from each of them. “So that he has $10 to buy Legos,” they said. The sweetest.

Plus there’s this, which they made the day I took just the 2 of them with me to volunteer with the refugees in Houston. I had brilliantly gifted Garrison an entire day of limitless xBox while we were gone. I am pretty great.



It wasn’t until the day of the party that Keith tried to strip me of my duties as Birthday Extraordinaire. He wanted to cancel my party and arrange a different venue and theme the following day. He wanted me to just hand over “all boy birthdays from here out.” Preposterous! I said with doubt in my voice, “So, you want the party planning, cake ordering, present shopping, the very important present wrapping, and guest inviting?” I don’t think so.



Garrison and his BFF love art and are both relatively talented, so it was only fitting that we have the low-key party at an art studio. Although we had an equal gender ratio, the painting soon turned into a Boy Dance Party with the boys, not girls, belting out the Kidz Bop tunes in the background. Then a kid busted out the worm in the hallway for the grand finale.

As the oldest child in my family, I know him well. I remember being told, “You’re not the parent, Jessica Lynn,” and thinking my parents were ridiculous for assuming I would back down. And I’m like a broken record to him, “Let me be the mom,” as I go on to explain in too many words that being the mom is a difficult job, hoping he’ll feel sorry for me and cease fire.



It’s a battle I don’t like fighting. But it’s a battle through which God continually reminds me of His never-ending love for me… that he loves me the same whether I am a headstrong child fighting for my own way or submissive and compliant. And, always whether or not I deserve it.

I pray I am able to model that same kind of love for Garrison daily, no matter how much hair I want to rip out in the process.

"because it's my birthday"

Christmas lasted for 6 weeks. Avery’s birthday lasted for 6 days.

This was the first year I actually planned a location party. It wasn’t intentional. It just happened. Ice skating.

Pictured below are her favorite friends and cousins at the party. The boys are in the background somewhere. And, 2 gals from Bible study are not pictured. Girl A fell down, bummed her knee, but became distraught when Girl B, her sister, told her that the kind stranger who helped her when she fell was actually going to try to kidnap her. Every party has a pooper. This one had two. Girl A didn't want to get up for the picture (and rightly so...she had cried her eyes out over the fear of being kidnapped...poor thing), and I may have intentionally cut out Girl B.

Last year I was smart. I did family parties and piñatas. I mean, I bought a My Little Pony piñata and transformed him into a purple unicorn, pieced him back together and turned him into a black and white horse. I’ve got skills. Spray adhesive and hot glue are my new BFFs. Sorry, Megan.

It’s also the first year I’ve opened the door to a themed cake. I caved. Artificial food coloring. And a lot of it. I just didn’t care. I talked the bakery into attempting a unicorn. It was awesome. I mean after he scraped off the purple Great Dane mistake.

Avery’s birthday was last Sunday, so this post might seem late. However, we celebrate birthdays for about a week around here, which means I’m right on time. Correction, we celebrate kid birthdays for a week. Mine gets the whole month.

"Make this your motto," reads the inside of the card.
Done

That girl and I. We are so much alike. Too much.

At first I was grateful that she likes things clean and organized. Put in its place. A child who cleans on her own. Praise the Lord! But I know that need for a clean and tidy space can be exhausting. Physically and mentally. It can be debilitating. I don’t want that for her. I don’t want it to keep her from enjoying life (and messy people) like it did me for so many years. Messy people have value too. I’m married to one. (I threatened to post a picture of his "sock trail" as proof.)

That girl. She squeaks when she walks. She had mentioned wanting a few things, but when I encouraged her to spend her birthday money, she no longer wanted those items. Oh, no. I took her to Target, and while in the aisle showed her the same item on Amazon. She’s smart and patient. I forced her to spend that money, hoping she won’t have the same stigma about spending money on herself as I do.

But that girl has got her daddy’s heart. His big mushy bleeding heart. While I would want the fun of putting Legos together myself, she invited her brothers to help her as she opened the new boxes, thinking in the end they would play with her because of it. But when it came time to play “shopping mall,” I watched the boys sit with Legos in front of them while their eyes intermittently shot a glance at the TV. Then I noticed they each had a finger on a nearby controller for a video game. Seriously, Boys!

I’ve got a couple weeks before I have to start planning for the their birthdays. And thinking about their cakes. With all that food coloring. And I shudder.

Traditions: Broken and New

This was the Christmas of firsts for our family. There was no new addition. No new location.

But many firsts. Which means new traditions.

As soon as we cleaned up the pumpkins from Halloween, I put up the Christmas tree. With Keith (and his certain arguments about a tree before Thanksgiving) out of town, I seized the moment. We usually begin reading Christmas stories in early November, so it was only fitting that the tree go up at the same time. And, it stayed until yesterday, the day after January 7th, Christmas in Ethiopia.

We had gotten rid of all non-essential items, which included all Christmas decor. So, while garage-saling in the spring, I snagged a fabulous tree. Fabulous meaning, it's pre-lit, and fully assembled. All I had to do was unzip it's handy bag/cover and plug it in. A new tree meant new fixings for it. But I'm too frugal to purchase anything at the before Christmas price. I was in luck. My sis-in-law had an extra box of ornaments in her attic, and I found 2 skeins of tinsel yarn in my closet from a prior clearance purchase. Perfect-O. The only item it lacked was a star. I sent Ivan out hunting for sticks which I hot glued together and wrapped with the remnants of that tinsel yarn. Viola! It was fabulous. Well, at least it was free.

What Christmas items we didn't give away we took to (and left in...sniff, sniff) Ethiopia: the stockings and stocking hangers. Again, I couldn't bring myself to splurge on stockings before the after-Christmas sales. I could have crocheted them, but instead took the easy way out and purchased gift bags. Stuffing gift bags is much easier than stuffing stockings, especially since we only do 3 gifts. All that other junk has to go in a something. Besides, we don't even have a mantel on which to hang them. Gift bags can stand on their own and are here to stay.

This was the first year the kids and I have made Christmas cookies together. What kind of mother am I? I know. We always do a gingerbread house, which comes in ready-to-assemble kit but is inedible. If it were at one time edible, it's not after being saved from last year's after-Christmas sale and surely expired. Starting this year, I'm not fighting that (food) battle. We only make what we can eat. I made the dough solo and refrigerated it according to the recipe instructions. Then, I borrowed cookie cutters and set my kids loose at the kitchen table, which is more their height than the counters. I dumped out flour for the rolling pin and realized I didn't have one of those either. (I mean, I used to. But setting up house again is a long process and kind of trial and error.) So, I gave them a large pot to share and smash the dough. Worked like a charm. Because we are a household free of artificial food coloring, our cookies were delicious but pretty boring. Santa didn't care though. Neither did Mrs. Claus, who ended up eating the majority of them anyway.

Avery made one cookie into the shape of Baby Jesus in the manger. She's a sweet one.

This was the first year I attempted making my maternal grandmother's dressing recipe. I slaved for days in the kitchen. For one dish. For one meal. It started with a cornish hen to make the broth. This is what my grandmother started with when I asked her for the recipe. (Kind of like when I asked my grandpa how to start a garden and he launched a compost-making lecture. A lengthy lecture. About compost. It was thrilling. And, exactly what I had asked for with my gardening inquiries apparently.) And it ended in an attempt to added black pepper, and seeing it was nutmeg I had just measured out. The containers are exactly the same.

Christmas morning we didn't start opening presents till nearly 10:00. The kids slept in, and then we all let Keith sleep in. They eventually remembered that the night before we had opened presents with extended family, and that they had new toys. I was in shock that a puzzle kept them busy while I leisurely enjoyed coffee on the couch, presents sorted into 3 piles in front of me. Clueless. They were clueless. Two new traditions for Christmas morning, besides the sleeping in: ice cream pints in the stockings (gift bags), and a handful of presents I buy and wrap all for myself. Just in case Keith follows my instructions for no gifts. Plus a few for him too.

As the kids ran in and out all day on Christmas going back and forth between new toys, I let them merely kick off their shoes at the front door...without putting them away. Gasp. I told myself, "It's Christmas." And I let it go.

Every year I look up how to celebrate Christmas Ethiopia style. I noticed a few things: 1) They wear the traditional white dress with a color band across the bottom, but I read "urban" Ethiopians wear Westerner's garb. Easy enough. We were all fully clothed in normal attire. 2) They don't exchange gifts. Awesome. My kids need a break from gifts with "birthday season" coming up. 3) They celebrate with feasting and games. My thought was Mexican food and an Uno Flash marathon. Keith's idea was far superior to mine: an "incredible" pizza place with arcade games, bowling, etc. Oh, and a buffet. However, the kids "feasted" on crackers from the salad bar and Goldfish, items I never purchase. Because I would eat them all the livelong day.

This is the first year our family has been together at home for Christmas. Not having to travel a day and living near family is a luxury we never thought possible. That is, until we tried to move to a different continent. But God had a plan in that. As He does in all things we may not understand.

So, at home for Christmas. In our own home. A first.

Temporary Home

We bought a house. In June. Yet it was almost Halloween when I unpacked the last box.

That's a lie. There's a tub sitting in the garage next to the back door, glaring at me each time I walk to the van. "I'll get to you...someday" I say.

This house at first glance, I deemed entirely too small for our family. Our family of 5. Which includes 2 Active boys. However, I re-evaluated the situation the first morning while I was cleaning up breakfast and the kids were within eye shot down the hall where they brushed their teeth, did their chores and completed their morning routine. And the angle hidden from me was clearly visible from Keith who had set up office in our room. (This is my morning view, behind Garrison and the impressive Lego tower.)




Keith and I struck a deal. We shook on it. A pinky deal. Serious business for this family. In 6 months we would rent the house and move our family to better suited quarters, or I was given liberty to go house hunting on my own.


Here we are near the end of our pre-set timeframe, and I’m having second thoughts.

I admit to screaming at my children a few times for not moving fast enough, which probably wouldn’t happen were they not in my line of vision every single second of their waking hours. But perhaps that’s more a reflection of me and my expectations of how fast a child should move when I ask, “Have you brushed your teeth?” (This one can be a slow mover.)

But I’m starting to like it in the matchbox.




I’m also starting to have perspective. I had fewer curtains to purchase, fewer blinds to dust. Who am I kidding? I don't dust blinds. Less counter space to keep clean, smaller rooms to vacuum. It’s been nice. It's been especially nice for the child whose chore it is to vacuum. (This one has that privilege.)






I’ve also thought about the mud and straw home our boys were born in, where they spent the first few years of life.

Our neighbors in Ethiopia with concrete homes, corrugated tin roofs, no electricity and often no doors.

The refugees I see every week who have taken in extra family members into an apartment too small to house their own.









So, the matchbox…is a place to call home. At least while our home is here…in Texas, the United States, planet Earth.

But we do have a great backyard.

With deer and everything.

And great neighbors. Plus family just one block away.

Redemptive

That's the word my friend Kristen used to describe the work we are doing together.

Volunteering with the refugees has been both cathartic and redemptive. Each Friday we load up a van or two with supplies, snacks and people. Make the one-hour drive to an apartment complex whose sole residents are refugees.

It's so much like the work that Keith and I did in Ethiopia, and also the work she does yearly in Kenya. Both groups of women need to know their value. Ultimately, it is in the God who created them. For now, we are helping them see it through their beautiful creations.

I am able to communicate with just a handful of the ladies. The same was true when I spent a day at one of the sites in Ethiopia. But we more than manage. Somehow they know I love them, and eventually they will ask why. Enter Jesus.

It is crazy how God is bringing things around full circle. Somehow, our time here is making our experience in Ethiopia better. It's getting easier and easier to look back on that time and say it wasn't so bad. Don't get me wrong. We loved it and were completely torn when we had to leave.

But the adjustment was a difficult process. And a long one. We were finally finding our new normal, thinking "Okay, we can do this."

My comfort isn't God's priority. His priority is His own glory.

Kristen turned to me one day and said, "I've had this idea for about a year and you're the perfect person to do it with."

I said, "I'm the perfect person to do most things with, but go ahead. What's this idea?"

In a nutshell, it is a way to empower women all over the world. It's a way for their work to help women across the globe but in their same walk of life.

It's a way for you to impact women in poverty all over the world...and for it to impact you.

It's a way for us to advocate for these women. To give them opportunity.

It's called Fair Trade Friday. Check out the site or read Kristen's post about it.

This post was ready to go out on our launch day but blogger wasn't cooperating. So, here it is. Four days late. We sold out within hours of launching on Monday and have hundreds on the waiting list. God is good.

This Makes It Official

A few Saturdays ago, I walked back to bid the children goodbye before I went out for a few hours. Since they still sleep together on Friday Family Fun Nights, they were all in one room huddled on the floor in their cozy pajamas playing with Legos.

"Kids, I'm going to a few garage sales this morning, so Daddy will get breakfast for you when he gets up."

"What's a garage sale?" the little one asked.

"Well..." I looked down to the bed where I sat. "For instance, a bed in a store might cost $500, but at a garage sale it could be $100 or less."

From the child whose incessant diarrhea of the mouth makes me jealous of the deaf, "Five hundred dollars! Five hundred dollars!!! I didn't know a bed costed $500. A bed shouldn't cost $500. Five hundred dollars..." And, on and on and on he goes.

"Awesome! What a great deal. I love garage sales," looking all starry-eyed said the one cut from the same mold as her frugal mother.

And the little one said innocently, "We already have beds."

Awe.

"Each of us has a bed to sleep in, indeed," I concurred. Here at the grandparent's house, that is true. 5 extra people, 4 extra beds. What a provision.

My kids realize more than I do how God has taken care of us through this.

Technically, "our" beds were stolen by our former tenant. Yes, you heard that right. Stolen. Along with everything we left to furnish our once clean, beautiful home. This post will not make it past the Blog Police if I go any further, so no tirade today. Boo.

I feel like we have been through a year-long hurricane, which seems to be over now. As we pick up the pieces, I find myself struggling.

It's difficult to not let yourself be defined by your circumstances. Although my Sunday School answer that Jesus is the One who consumes me, so often it's my kids, my worries, my planning.

In the literal chaos that surrounds me (because I have no closet), I find it hard not to think of myself as displaced. The truth is I am exactly where God wants me. He has allowed my circumstances, as crummy as they may seem, to show less of me and more of Him.

So, we are starting over.

In Texas. Houston.

The hot, muggy, congested, smoggy, stuffy, humid, sticky pit of the United States. I realize I am offending all true Texans with this statement.

The decision to move to Ethiopia was made more easily than the one to "move" here.

This pretty much makes it official. Keith had to drill holes in the front of my van so that we could display a second license plate. One isn't enough for "The Lone Star State." It's like Texas is showing off to all the others. Two license plates??? Come on, Texas! We know you're bigger and better than the rest of us teeny tiny regular sized states.