I fell off my soapbox

"Youth fades; love droops, the leaves of friendship fall; A mother's secret hope outlives them all." -- Oliver Wendell Holmes

I had a Mother's Day post started where I was ranting about my dislike for Mother's Day. How we eagerly, joyfully, sign the contract to be Mother's and then expect people to honor us when that turns out to mean hard self-sacrificing work and lots of mindless, thankless drudgery. How Mother's Day feeds into my own week human tendencies to think someone should be indebted to me for putting my children's needs before my own. When, in fact, I am the one who should feel honored that by God's grace I have been privileged enough to be called "Mother" four times over. (And trust me when I say that it certainly was grace as I screwup far too much to have earned such a gift.)

And that what I really need is a reminder of what a blessing my children are to me and not the other way around.

But then today I received this poem that Allie wrote me:

“She” Poem

She is a gift, a requirement in life
She wonders why we can’t all get along
She hears, “I love you, mom.”
She wants the world to be peaceful
She is a gift, a requirement in life

She pretends that her children will never grow up
She feels happy with our presence
She touches our foreheads with her lips as she kisses us goodnight
She worries that she isn’t all she should be (but she is!)
She is a gift, a requirement in life

She understands that sacrifices may have to be made for satisfaction
She says, “That everybody has a bad side sometimes”
She dreams of singing with me one day
She does all she can to provide for our needs
She hopes that one day we’ll all be healthily happy
She is a gift, a requirement in life

And I cried.

And I now say "Baloney" to all of that anti-mother's day babble. I love Mother's Day! Thank you, my beautiful girl, for honoring me. It is really nice to be appreciated, isn't it?

Birth

Today, Sara's babies hatched. At least two of them. I couldn't see the others well enough to tell.

Just this morning I peeked at our nest and was disappointed to see our four eggs untouched. And then tonight, I brought Ben out to check again and there they were. I warned the kids they would be ugly scrawny little things that won't really look like birds at first.

"Ugly like new babies are ugly, but then they get cuter later?" Allie, said.

"Yep, pretty much the same thing." I laughed.

But here's my secret. I actually don't think these few-hours- old baby birds are that ugly. I admit that they could use a bit of fat and fluff, but I think they are kind of amazing. And I cannot help but think how their tiny, pink, alien bodies, look remarkably like the pictures of my own babies curled up inside of me. Their skin was so translucent I could almost see their hearts beating inside them.

It's a miracle, this thing called birth. Even on this tiny scale.
Grow strong little birdies. We're pulling for you.



See? The black part is the beak, all curled up next to it's wing? Don't you just want to cover him (her?) up with a tiny receiving blanket?

OK, maybe that's just me.

What the heck? Updated

So I just noticed that beneath each one of my posts is a place for readers to give it a rating. 1 to 5 stars.

Really?

As I am approaching my blogoversary I am becoming increasingly insecure about whether I should continue to blog in this, emotional spewing, kind of outlet. I wonder if I have I lost my voice. Or am I fooling myself to thing I ever really had one? Am I now pandering too much to what I think people want to read or worrying too much about what people in my real life will think of me? There are so many bloggers that are smarter, more insightful, better writers, wittier, better at conveying their faith, etc. Maybe I am just out of my league.

Anyway...What I DO NOT need is a place where people can pop-in and rate each post I write. Nah. Didn't really care for it. or That one was pretty good. I'll give it 4 stars. Talk about encouraging me to pander. Or reeking havoc on my fragile writing self-esteem.

Blegh.

So, I don't know why the rating thing showed up, but I CANT FIGURE OUT HOW TO GET RID OF IT!

Someone, please help.
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Updated. Blogger's response is here.

It basically says "Oh fudge! We were testing something new and we screwed up. We're working on fixing it. Don't call us, we'll call you."

Heavens to betsy, she's gardening again!

Sunday afternoon, in an effort to keep our neighbors from converging on our home with pitchforks and torches, The Man and I attempted some work on the area we loosely refer to as our front yard. Most of the yard actually consists of a large center island surrounding a handful of overgrown trees. We thought the trees were lovely when we bought the home. We now regularly curse their existence and the resulting need to deal with the weeds, leaves, pine cones, sticks and weeds. Did I mention there are weeds?

So for nearly two hours I yanked weeds small trees out of the ground and sprayed a gallon of weed killer over every single inch, all the while muttering charming epithets like "Take that you darn pricker bush" and "Die, suckers die." It was not my finest moment.

And then, yesterday afternoon I went to check out the results of my destructive rampage. And found, to my dismay, an island full of weeds with almost no discernible difference! The Man, bless his optimistic heart, was kind enough to say he thought they definitely looked discouraged. Discouraged. I spent two hours discouraging the weeds to grow.

I have also recently failed miserably in ridding my yard of fire ants. I just seem to be chasing the mounds of these mean, pesky, critters around my yard. In fact, I think all I have managed in my landscaping efforts is to produce a yard so laden with toxic chemicals there is no way I can let my children play in it.

This is why I leave the gardening to the professionals. Or my husband.

So bring it on internets. Send this redneck horticulturally challenged mama your best cheap, non-toxic, weed-killing, ant-skedaddling secrets.

And hurry. The HOA wagons are circling.

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This is my entry in Shannon's WFMW.
The What DOESN'T Work for Me edition.

My baby girl is under-the-weather today, running a low fever. I'm not sure if it's a bug or just teething. She still hasn't gotten the rest of her incisors. You'd never know it by her personality. The girl has fangs. Unlike the rest of my children who respond to fevers with whining and lethargy she seems enraged. Anger at the pain, or anger at me for not relieving it, I'm not certain. Someone should tell her that piteousness would garner a better response. I don't know how to comfort her. She's an enigma this girl of mine. So different from I. So much spit and fire. I worry about her, and her ability to conform. "Gentle, Clara. Gentle." has become a mantra in our home.

She'll be good for my prayer life, that's for certain.

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"Should we name the bird, Ben?"

"Yes! Is it a girl or a boy?"

"Well, she's a mama bird, Boo. She must be a girl."

"Well we should name her Sara then. Like Sara from my school."

"Sounds good to me" I say, making a note to pay more attention to Sara from school the next time I am in his class.

And so our garage tenant was named. And everywhere we go, when Ben sees a small brown bird he thinks it's her. Instructing her to "Go home to your babies, Sara." Sara's eggs still have not hatched. Is it strange that I am worried about them? These tiny little adoptees in their speckled wombs. All around us, baby birds are emerging from their shells. Is it weird that I find myself fretting that ours may be too late? That maybe our constant peeking and prying has kept their mama away too much? I even find myself lying in bed at night worrying that Sara didn't make it back to her nest before we shut the garage door. Having to will myself not to go check on her like my own sleeping children.

Ridiculous. Right?

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It's apparent that I fret far too much. I think that without genuine things to worry about I am now creating them.

"I've developed a new philosophy... I only dread one day at a time."
~Charlie Brown

Saturday Morning...

A boy plays in the dirt.


"Pay attention Ben!"
He waits for the ball



(Hand by your ear,
lift your leg,
point your toe)
So much to remember.
He throws it like a pro.


Tries for a hit. And tries again.

The unbridled joy of 3-year-old success.
There's nothing like it.

I love being a mom.

A post about nothing

It's nearly midnight here but sleep, I know, is still hours away. The Man humored me when I crawled back into bed this morning after I woke him up at 10:00AM. Humored me a little too much, I say, as I didn't wake back up until 2:00.

A four hour nap.

"Why didn't you wake me up?" I groaned. "Now I don't have time to get anything done and I'll never sleep tonight!"

To his credit he refrained from calling me an ingrate.

But why is it that while sleep is so elusive to me at night I can, with no effort, sleep four uninterrupted hours in the middle of the day? I've always been this way. Which worked perfectly well when I was 19 and waiting tables for a living, but considerably less so for my current situation which includes an 8:20AM t-ball gave every Saturday morning.

Well, I am off to kanoodle with the husband. We just finished watching this movie which was so depressing I nearly couldn't finish it. I have never been able to get into watching fictional lives self-destruct on screen for my personal enjoyment. Isn't there enough self-destructing going on in the real world? Is a happy ending with all the loose ends tied up with a bow too much to ask for a Friday night? Ah well, The Man like it. He's much more tolerant of dark and gritty than I.

Anyhoo...

Tomorrow I will be writing a post at worst mama about how my toddler left a trail of urine all over Lowes Hardware store tonight. I am sure you can't wait.

The glamour of my life is overwhelming.