I'm going on a vacation with ticks. Are there ticks in Disney?

Here it is, near the end of a holiday weekend, and I find that I am feeling less and less relaxed, and more and more nervous and there's something I forgot to do lingering the back of mind.

Oh yeah.  I'm going on vacation.  Tomorrow.  And because it's almost-camping - cabin in a state park kind of camping - there is a ton of packing to do.  And cooking.  And baking.  And I've dealt with all of this by pretending it isn't going to take long and I don't need to do it until today.

Yes.  This is working well for me.  Until 8am this morning when reality could be denied no longer.

My dad's birthday was last week, so I need to do some baking.  Like, be-in-the-kitchen-all-day-and-come-out-barely-able-to-stand baking.  All my siblings will be there.  All my nephews.  My dad.  His wife.  Now, I'm not responsible for all of the food.  But we're still talking about several days of food and lots of mouths.  My mommy-distracted brain can't even THINK about all of the food I need to pack right now.  And a husband who only eats vegan.  He might be eating corn straight out of the can for 3 days.  Note to self: pack can opener. And corn.

Apparently there will be bugs at this place.  Stinkbugs, mosquitos, and ticks, to name the ones I dread the most, although not necesssarily in that order.  One of my sisters told me about this stuff you need to spray on your clothes and let dry for a couple of days to prevent ticks.  You can't put it on your skin, though, because it breaks down on skin.  So.  Two days of preparations, and I'm just starting today.  Oops.  Note to self: stay in the cabin as much as possible.  Wait.  Unless there are stinkbugs.  Second note to self: be prepared to sleep in car. 

I believe I used to be somewhat normal in my dread of ticks.  I didn't like them, but I didn't freak out either.  I even suvived the lodging on and removal of two different ticks.  It's normal to make your 7yo son take them out for you while you look in the other direction and try not to hyperventilate, right?  But then there was The Incident.  I had nursed my baby to sleep and went off to take a shower.  Unbeknownst to me, he had an overgrown mutant tick who grabbed on for a trip into the Great Indoors and took advantage of the mommy-child bonding moment to hop on over to my body.  I took off my shirt as I stepped in the shower, and spotted the black thing the size of a quarter that started to run up my . . . you know . . .  torso area.  All I can remember now is a blur of screaming and panic as I thrashed about in the shower curtain. "GET IT OFF!! GET IT OFF!!"  And if you are thinking I could have just washed it off . . . .NO.  nonononono.  The rushing shower water just made it hunker down and look like it was going to sink its fangs into me.  So.  Yeah.  Panic level increased a notch or two.  My husband did finally come to my rescue - got me out of the shower curtain and that horrible creature off of me. FYI - it's very hard to look the other direction and not hyperventilate when something is that close to your chin.

Anyway, all of that to say, my sister sent me info about this spray and it takes 2 days to spray on your clothes and dry and then ticks will die or jump off of you and so I am rushing around doing this right now with the "help" of two children who think they know more about ticks than I do (they might) and that this won't do any good (they had better be wrong), and I am not really looking forward to going on vacation anymore.  I am suddenly thinking about my Very Smart Friends who have talked about going to Disney.  I don't like crowds.  I don't really like rides.  I don't mind cooking on vacation, but my husband usually chips in so I haven't thought our low-key, low-budget trips to places like this cabin are that bad.  Plus, I just like to do my own thing.  So my friends' attempts to convince me that Disney is the ultimate vacation have not really made any headway.

Until right this minute.  I am betting there are no ticks in Disney.  Or stinkbugs.

Not Quite Ready

Every now and then I feel a very strange compulsion to exercise with my kids.  Healthy family habits, good example, bonding, blah, blah, blah.  It's strange because it always seems to involve more pain than fun and yet somehow I forget that (kind of like birthing a baby) and decide once again that it's the thing to do.  So today I declared a family run. 

My daughter is a perfect angel (in this one small area, and possibly just for today) and just jogs along at my side.  My boys are thoughtless, possibly evil creatures, who can far outrun me.  While running backward.  I hate them; no I really love them and could burst from a not-so-secret-pride in their athletic endeavors, even as I glare ferociously and tell them that if we were running 5 more miles I would run them into the ground, and yes, I am fine and please stop trying to hug me while saying things like "Poor Mama.  She looks tired."

I am a mature human being, a self-less mother, who has adapted just FINE to this idea of not being able to keep up to my kids, and so, today, when we started off on our 3 miles, I told the boys that they would be allowed to go ahead after we got past the stop sign.

We're blessed to live on a road that sees about 50 cars go by on a busy day.  After we go south of our house, past the stop sign, there's a stretch that sees maybe 20.  Fields on either side.  I think of it as pretty straight and flat (because this is NJ, after all, not PA), so I don't think they'll be out of sight for long, and I'm determined not to be one of those helicopter moms.  I'm NOT a helicopter mom, after all, never have been really, and plus I have some firm ideals about encouraging kids to stretch their wings and learn independence a little at a time.  Letting them fail in small things while they're under my wings so they can learn how to fail at big things when they leave the nest.  Blah, blah, blah. :)

There's a small hill after the stop sign, which then goes down gradually to the next stop sign about a mile away.  The boys take off together, all confidence, sweat, and manliness (with some little boy thrill and excitement thrown in by my so-called "little guy" on his bike).  I watch them run away from me without so much as a backward glance - I really thought there would be at least a couple of backward glances - and they are soon out of sight over the hill.  When I get to the top, I am unpleasantly surprised at how far away 1/4 of a mile looks - maybe it's more.  How fast they've gotten that far from me.  How much farther there is to go before they turn around.  And I had forgotten that there's a slight curve and additional slope that hides the stop sign from me.  But at this point it's too late for second thoughts.  Even though I can zoom in pretty well w/ the camera, they are outside the range of my voice.

Gulp.

And it turns out I'm not quite ready.  I'm not quite ready for them to succeed OR fail at this little trip out of my sight.  I'm not quite ready for them to take ANY steps away from me, let alone little ones.  It turns out that *I'm* the one who needs to practice letting go.  I'm the one who's failing (or maybe succeeding, who knows) in the unending march to their independence.

All I can do is keep going .  . . counting the cars that pass (2, one of whom is the farmer who lives across the road from us and who creeps along at a sedate pace) . . . keep running to that next hill, and wait at that curve . . .

 

 

. . . where I see them sticking together.  Looking out for each other.  Succeeding.  Without me.

But I'm still not quite ready.


~Stephanie

Houston, we have a sleeper!

Well, first I guess I need to apologize?  I've been a *little* busy these past few months with no time for blogging.  But, then again aren't we all busy?  So, I know you understand. 

Mirabella has been an excellent baby.  Very sweet. Perfect addition to our family.  After our third child who was not a good sleeper (though a sweet boy!), it has been a RELIEF to have our sweet Bella (the 4th child) who enjoys her sleep.  

Well, except for last week. And the week before. And the week before that. She was sick the first two weeks of this poor sleep trend. Last week we were transitioning her from her bassinet in our room to her own room in her crib where her parents were starting to need to sleep like statues and not move a single muscle or she'd wake up.  She didn't like her crib at first, but we are relieved to have some kind of consistency for about 4 or 5 nights now.  *crossing fingers*

And, this process along with a conversation with someone the other night reminded me of a time when we were transitioning our third child (who did not sleep for more than 5 hours in a row for the first 19 months of his life...) to his crib.  

And THAT is what inspired me to blog again.  Weird, huh?  It was just like-
Bam! This should be a blog post.  So, here it is.

The only reason this story can be a blog post now is because we can now laugh about it.  It was not really funny for a very long time, but we can now laugh.  I wouldn't ever wish it to happen again, but now it is a tiny moment in our history.  Or, should I say my history.  My husband was sleeping.  Rare at the time but needed. 

He was working a full time job in a school and a part time job as a youth pastor.  The strangest things happen when you first become a youth pastor.  There's this sort of initiation.  It's the kind that kids give their substitute teachers only worse.  This one was in a string of many incidents that almost always involved our second car, markers, and sometimes saran wrap. What the teens never realized is that it never truly affected my husband.  He really didn't care that his car's windows had words written in window markers even if there was misspelling involved.  He didn't even care about the saran wrap and the vaseline they used to make it stick.  Even the litter from the saran wrap containers in the yard were not even a cause of concern for him. He didn't like it, but he was a good sport.  To be honest, I didn't care about any of these things either.

(Well, except the time I had to take his car to a business meeting last minute and there was nonsense written all over the windows.  I have to admit- I was annoyed because I was concerned it could affect my success at that meeting.)  Anyway, there was really only ONE thing that bothered me about this kind of strange torture done to the undeserving Toyota Corolla.  This was my baby at the time who hardly slept a wink.  And, my dogs who at the time barked at every. single. sound. coming form the backyard.  

One night in a time thankfully far away, I was rocking my little sleepless baby boy.  My husband was asleep. He needed to sleep as juggling two jobs was taking a toll on him.  I was rocking the baby, nursing the baby, singing to the baby, and everything else imaginable to help this child sleep.  It was late.  I don't remember what time, but I'm thinking it was after 11pm on a weekend night.  The baby started to doze off.  I had the movement perfected so that I didn't step on any parts of the floor that would squeak while rocking.  Miraculously, his body was feeling limp.  I didn't want to get overly excited yet.  I stayed focused. Finally, I leaned over the crib placing him in the crib, my hands still under his body and cradling him. Slowly, millimeter by millimeter it seemed I was able to get free. Miraculously, he didn't wake up. Hallelujah! I wanted to shout it from the mountaintops, but reality set in. I wasn't out o the woods yet. It was an old house, and though I had pretty much memorized which places in the floor would creak, I hadn't slept for a long time. This fact alone could foil the entire operation. I breathed in quietly and started my exit from the baby's room treated each step as a potential trip wire that could activate the baby's alarming cry. I couldn't believe it. Was it really happening? I could see the light from the hallway and flawlessly escaped the room without a single cry. Maybe, this was the beginning of a new era where sleep would be possible! Briefly I started imagining the possibilities...

And, then, the dogs heard something. Something unfamiliar like the sound of teenage girls trying to be quiet. The whole house erupted in a cacophony of barking that only my two pugs could create. The baby immediately woke up crying uncontrollably. And, thus began another very long night for the books for a very tired mommy.<sigh> 

So, what's funny about this?? Not very much except for the crazy lengths that parents go through to get some sleep.;) 

*Disclaimer: Despite the horror of not sleeping from the countless past pranks of certain teenage girls, I still love those girls regardless. :)  One person who led most of the pranks actually bought the outfit for my sweet baby in the picture on this page, and she is a special part of my life. I might have some pranks in mind for her  when she has children however.;)  

Sneaking some crafty-ness into Christmas

I am not a crafty person.  In fact, in my years as a mom, I've come to hate crafts more each year.  I've never stopped to really analyze this, but I think it has something to do w/ the clutter factor.

I'm not great at STAYING organized.  But I love to be organized.  Hence, nothing new can come into my house.  Especially useless little cardboard things "decorated" with the puzzle pieces glued with back facing up.  (Yes, I had something like that hanging on my fridge for years.)

But, I digress.

Way back when I just had a couple of kids and actually hung out w/ a couple of girlfriends on occasion, we took some glasses and etched a few fun designs on them.  My kids loved them, and when 2 of them broke (funny how that works with kids) I rashly promised them that we would make some new ones.  I ordered glass etching cream, and promptly forgot about my promise.

Luckily, they did too.  For a few years.

This year was my Waterloo, however.  E-Day could be put off no longer.  Since whenever my husband goes off for a few days, I take leave of my senses, I decided to do this one evening while my husband was off on one of his not-uncommon business trips.  I started with a set of simple clear glasses from Ikea.  (And a yummy lunch of Ikea meatballs had me energized enough to think this was going to be no problem.)

I also gathered up a couple of exacto knives, the glass etching cream (I did an online search and bought it that way, but I've heard people who can survive craft stores without falling into an anxiety attack say that you can find it there, too.), along with some other basic supplies:

I realized quickly that the division of labor was going to be the key factor in ensuring all children survived the night.  So I assigned my artistic daughter the job of drawing the designs.  I did not have cheap contact paper this time - just the library-grade laminate I cover my books with - but cheap contact paper was much easier to work with when I did it w/ my girlfriends.  Back when I did this with my girlfriends, we used pre-cut stencils to trace designs onto the contact paper backing, which made the creative part of the this craft easier.  But, honestly, I couldn't be happier with the drawings my amazing daughter came up with!  Another favourite with my boys were the letters of their name.  (It *does* take care of that pesky problem of one child using 10 cups every day, but just beware: cutting out letters is not fun.)

I took each design she drew, and cut it out with the exacto knife.  Before I actually had the knife in my hand, I had thought we could take turns cutting out the designs, but after looking at that sharp little blade, I realized I've spent enough time in emergency rooms.  And my children will go through life much better with all of their fingers and tendons intact.

I handed the design cut out over to one of the waiting children, and they stuck it on the glass.  I gave a brief but terrifying lecture about the dangers of acid and mentioned people burning holes in their skin and eyes.  Then my responsible Mr. Monk-like child was allowed to spread the glass-etching paste over the cut-out.  He was extremely cautious.  (I was so proud.)  Thicker is definitely better:

The bottle says to wait 3-5 minutes before rinsing off.  I don't know if it's because my paste is several years old, but I found that waiting 10 minutes or more was best.  We rinsed it off, peeled off the contact paper, and VOILA!  Everybody lived.  I didn't hate the process or the result.  And I have some cute little presents for my nephews.

Ssshhhh.  It's a secret. :)

~Stephanie

Unclenching My Fist

I think there are 2 kinds of kids out there.  In my family.  Well, ok, more than 2.  But what I think about a lot, especially when I look at my kids, is how I can divide kids into 2 groups.  A child is either a Runner or a Stayer.  They are either desperate to get away from you and see all there is to see, or they are determined that you will never leave them alone, not even for a minute or two to pee.  One type is kicking out Morse Code in the womb "Meet me at the nearest playground in 2 years." just hoping his unseen buddies get the message while he (or she) saws away at the umbilical cord w/ his secret file.  (what, none of you have seen that on the ultrasound?)  The other type resents you forever for letting go of your end of the umbilical cord.  He does, although he will never admit it and might even go off and get married some day.  It's a ruse.  He'll be back before you know it, smushing in between you and your husband just when you thought it was safe to stop locking the bedroom door at night.  (what? Who me?! No! I never lock the bedroom door!)

As luck God would have it, my first two kiddos were Runners, so I thought it was cute but puzzling when my third turned out to be a Stayer.  *This* child actually held my hand whenever I wasn't carrying him, unlike a certain child who ran off while on the Cape May Ferry to go hang over the back edge where there was no guardrail.  *This* child's feet never voluntarily left the ground, unlike a certain child who climbed 30 feet into a pine tree at dusk and then got stuck but was so high up we didn't know where the little voice was coming from.  However, my Stayer is big for his age, so the hanging-on-me-constantly palled by the time he was 4 or 5.  Plus, my fourth kid has turned out to be that incredibly rare mixed-breed species, and I can't tell from one minute to the next whether he is a Runner or a Stayer.  Hooray, the worst of both worlds.

A few weeks ago, I was not thinking about the differences between my Runners and my Stayer when a little package arrived in the mail.  I opened it and discovered a gift from my husband's brother and his wife - a series of talks given by a former missionary to Irian Jaya.  As I listened to the first one, which was about giving up his "rights," giving up his expectations for possessions, I was inspired, but in a heart-untouched way.  After all, standing in front of your house as a fire rages over it catches your heart and shows you right there and then how important your possessions really shouldn't be, and kind of makes a recorded talk pale in comparison.  Not that I'm perfect in this area, but, well, I'm learning.  Then the speaker tangentially mentioned that he also had to learn to give his kids to God, and the Holy Spirit whispered in my mind's ear.  (This doesn't happen often, by the way, so I pay attention when it does.)  He asked me if I had given up my kids.

As it happens, I actually started my motherhood journey holding my children lightly.  My mom had died far too many years before, and I had seen first-hand from the other side that mothers do not always get to see their children grow up.  And, thanks to my husband's DNA, most of my kids were also born with breathing issues.  Our third - the little Stayer - was a whopping, full-term, 9 pounds at birth (which means that he was about as far from being at risk as is possible) and still spent several days in the hospital with RSV when he was a few weeks old.  He also had pnuemonia for an unknown number of weeks later that winter.  I sat up watching him breathe more than I slept.  Yet I had every confidence that God was holding his life in His hands.

But somewhere along the line, things had changed.  My fingers were clenching down around my kids.  They were mine to raise and mine to educate.  Every time things went less than perfectly around here, *I* was the one who was being wronged, and I let my kids know how upset that made me.  It wasn't pretty.

My first reaction to the Holy Spirit that evening was "No!  I mean, Yes!"  But then, I thought about what it can mean to truly give up your kids.  Mothers do not always get to see their children grow up.  And I thought, "Well, I want to, Lord, but I don't know if I really completely can.  I'm not sure I can trust You."  (Yes, I figured that complete honesty was the only way to go - since I was dialoguing w/ God after all.)  The conversation seemed to end there.

It wasn't even a week later that the conversation continued about how my Father really can and does take better care of my kids than I can.  Since my husband does occasionally read this blog, I won't go into details about how it came about.  So.  I will stop right there.  And just say that there was a Grave Communication Breakdown.  And so it came to be, that at almost 8pm (after dark mind you!) I realized that my 4yo and my 7yo had been left at a playground at the township soccer fields.  Left alone with nobody in the world they knew except each other.  For at least 20 minutes.  My 7yo the Stayer.  The child whose greatest fear (for no good reason, I swear) (OK, until now) is that he will be left behind.  The only child who I have actually promised, out loud, that I will not leave behind.  Multiple times.  Like, on a monthly basis.  And my 4yo who, let's face it, will always be my baby, whether he's Running or Staying.

One of my sisters saved my sanity by praying with me as my husband drove the 20 minutes (give or take) to the playground.  I snapped out of hysterical worry to realize: I knew 2 people who might or might not be at the soccer fields, and if they weren't there, I was going to have to trust God.  Trust God.  Of course, you know that neither of the people I wanted to rely on were there.   But then I had two additional people praying while I waited.

Waited to learn anew how God cares for me.  Waited to learn anew how God cares for my children.

Waited to learn that I had been holding them too closely.  Calling them mine.  When they are not.  They are His.  Lent to me for a time.  And He can care for them much better than I can.

Waited to learn that they were safe.  Waited to hug and kiss them all over, and tuck them into bed (or watch them fall asleep on the sofa).

Later that night I overheard the 7yo ask the 10yo very quietly, "Have you ever been left behind?"  That little stinker thought very carefully - I am quite sure he was evaluating his parents' performance to date - and slowly answered, "Probably."  Then he shrugged and said "But I don't remember."  Why would he care?  He's a Runner.

So I took my sweet not-so-little Stayer in my arms again and promised him that God loves him and will take far better care of him than I can.  He says he knows that already (ouchy blow to my pride, although I could look at it as good teaching on my part, I guess).  I guess it's a good thing one of us knows, because I still have a lot of conversations with God ahead of me about this.



~Stephanie

She's HERE!!!

                                                 WELCOME TO THE WORLD!!!
                                           On October 9th, Mirabella Daisy arrived.
                                                   6lbs 15oz & 19 1/2 inches long.
                                     And perfect, miraculous, and amazing in every way.
                                          Congratulations to the Francisco Family!!!

“Mother, oh mother, come shake out your cloth!

Empty the dustpan, poison the moth,

Hang out the washing and butter the bread,

Sew on a button and make up a bed.

Where is the mother whose house is so shocking?

She’s up in the nursery, blissfully rocking!

Oh, I’ve grown as shiftless as Little Boy Blue

(Lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo).

Dishes are waiting and bills are past due

(Pat- a- cake, darling and peek, peekaboo).

The shopping’s not done and there’s nothing for stew

And out in the yard and there’s a hullabaloo

But I’m playing Kanga and this is my Roo.

Look! Aren’t her eyes the most wonderful hue?

(Lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo).

Oh, cleaning and scrubbing will wait till tomorrow,

But children grow up, as I’ve learned to my sorrow.

So quiet down, cobwebs. Dust go to sleep.

I’m rocking my baby. Babies don’t keep.”

~Taken from “Song for a Fifth Child” by Ruth Hulburt Hamilton

Some days you just have to eat candy pumpkins...

Some days are tear worthy.  These days require candy pumpkins.  

Not because my 10 year-old son found a hair in his lemonade.

Not because it's challenging when you're 38 weeks pregnant to get comfortable and sleep at night.

Not because after today's examination the midwife said that my cervix seems to feel as if I never had a baby before- even though this will be my fourth child, and I am "due" in a week and a half. 

Not because my ninja son refused to take a nap today. (Good thing he's cute. ;)  )

Not because you're teaching 5th grade, 8th grade, and preschool throughout the day and running your kids to and from all of their activities. 

Not because the book I'm reading makes me cry, so I don't want to read it. 

Not because there is still much to do before the baby arrives.  Business stuff, school stuff, house stuff, etc... 

Not because the presidential debate is on tonight and- well, I don't even want to get into that- but let's just say that both candidates upset me from time to time. One less than the other.  And, the media just makes me angry.  So, I really don't want to watch it.  It will make me upset and tears could follow.

Not because it's ridiculously humid for this time of year! 

Not because of the dreary, rainy week it's been.

Not because reading sweet picture books to my four-year-old makes me cry.

Not because being on hold on the phone while trying to accomplish necessary things makes you angry. And cry.

Not because I am so blessed beyond measure with an awesome family and Lord-willing another little girl to love in the near future, so I can't keep myself from crying. (because I am indeed blessed beyond measure!)

Sometimes you just cry, and there are no answers.  Except that your hormones are acting up.  

The logical part of you tries to tell the hormonal part of you that it is only the pregnancy.  The hormones will improve. Eventually... 

But, then you remember that the hormones won't improve for weeks to months after the baby has made her entrance, so you are ignoring the logical part of yourself for now!!

You end up avoiding phone calls, because you MIGHT cry for no reason at all.  And, you wouldn't want to upset someone on the other end.  Because there really is nothing wrong.  It really is just hormones. 

So you just end up eating candy pumpkins on these days, because there's nothing actually "wrong." (Truly, there isn't!)  You try to ignore the fact that your four-year-old ninja son is OBSESSED with these same candy pumpkins.  And, he MIGHT from time to time have a tantrum because he "needs" them.  And, you MIGHT now begin to understand and actually relate to his "need" and MIGHT throw your own tantrum for candy pumpkins. 

Even if it is 8 o'clock in the morning. 

Even though there REALLY is nothing wrong.  

Thank God for candy pumpkins.

~Michelle