Banner Weekend Part 3: It’s 10:30 pm on a Sunday night; do you know where your child is?

There are those moments when, as a parent, you realize you have fallen incredibly short.  Sometimes it is all your fault and you deserve what you get.  Other times it is kind of an accident.  

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

It was Sunday night and all was well.  Since Wes was supposed to be home on Monday, in my mind, the long dreadful weekend was nearing a close.  I was at the dining room table, busy working at my computer, trying to catch up after the taxing weekend.  Admittedly, I was completely absorbed in what I was doing, but all of the kids were perfectly happy, playing in various places.  Tyler had a friend over for a sleepover, and they were in the living room with the TV turned up full-volume, giving the PS3 a complete workout.  The older girls were upstairs on their computers.  Hannah had been in various places throughout the night…in my room watching TV, in Tyler’s room playing with toys, and upstairs with the girls.  Penny was in an out of the back door (which had been left open most of the day because of the nice weather until I had closed it earlier in the evening on account of the fly swarming around my face interrupting my work) but had been asleep at my feet for quite a while. 

It occurred to me, for no particular reason, to go and account for everybody.  It felt a little silly since I pretty much knew where everyone was, but still, nobody had bothered me for anything in a couple of hours, and that oddity, combined with my need to stretch anyway, led me to get up.  Penny at my feet…check.  Boys still at the TV…check.  Girls upstairs on the computer…check.  Hannah…um…Hannah…not in any of those places…and not anywhere else either.  Figuring she must be passed out asleep somewhere strange, I started over, room to room.  No Hannah. 

The dread started to prickle.

I asked the girls, who hadn’t seen her.  I asked the boys, with the same response.  So I asked the boys to please pause and help me look for her because I couldn’t find her.  So they did.  And being typical boys, they went straight for the back door.  I almost used my all-too-common you-are-so-stupid tone of voice to tell them there was no WAY she was out there in the dark by herself, when I heard from the friend “Um, Mrs. Tollett?  We found her…she was outside!”

Excuse me?

So I ran to the back door to be greeted with an even greater shock.  There was my neighbor from behind us, whom I don’t know other than waving and saying hi once, holding Hannah in my wooden fenced- and gated-in backyard.  Hannah had been crying and was soaked clean through.  (So was my neighbor from holding her).  The neighbor told me that her neighbor had heard Hannah crying in the backyard and called to see if it was her child.  It wasn’t, but she and her husband went outside to investigate, and they heard my child.  They peered over the fence to see her laying in the middle of the trampoline, sobbing in the dark back yard.  They tried to talk her into getting down, but she wouldn’t.  They didn’t know if she was hurt, abandoned or just scared.  So in desperation, they vaulted over my back fence to rescue her.  They tried knocking repeatedly on my back door, but nobody answered.  They were fixing to try to find a way out of my backyard when the boys came out looking for Hannah.

I was mortified.  I had visions of police swat teams and DHS officials.  I tried to explain, but I didn’t really know how it had happened.  I apologized a lot.  And of course I took Hannah in my own arms, and tried not to grimace at the feel of her cold, pee-soaked clothes touching mine, especially when my neighbor had taken the brunt of it.  (Yeah, it’s official, I’m a bad mom).  The neighbors looked me over and said goodnight.  I retreated back into my house.

Over a warm bath, I pieced together the story from a completely happy Hannah, all things now forgiven and almost forgotten.  She had been playing inside the house, and apparently followed Penny outside at one point and decided to play on the trampoline.  In the dark.  She told me she was having fun, but then indignantly informed me that Penny left her outside by herself.  The nerve of that dog, right?  At this point it gets sketchy.  Did she call for me?  Did she try to get down?  Did she fall asleep?  How long was she out there?  I’m not sure, but Penny had been inside at my feet for awhile before I got tired of that blasted fly and decided to go shut the back door and turn off the light, and I think that is when Hannah panicked.  Or maybe she was asleep, and only panicked when she woke up.  Or maybe she really needed to go potty and started to cry when she couldn’t hold it anymore and wet herself.

I didn’t push her for these details, because it really didn’t matter anyway.  All I know is I lost my child for probably over an hour in my own backyard and didn’t even know it.  I have learned some things from this experience.

• Always make sure your children aren’t still outside before shutting the door at night.
• Perhaps bedtimes should be considered, even in the summer.
• Neighbors who hold your pee-soaked child are probably worth getting to know.
• And don’t walk around the house naked, because you never know who might be standing in your backyard trying to get in for your greater good.

That is all.

Banner Weekend Part 2: Somebody Else’s Homework

I was never a fan of school.  I mean, I always made good grades and rarely got into trouble, but I figure I put in my time from Kindergarten through college and have never had even a brief interest in going back for more.  So needless to say, doing somebody else’s homework is not my idea of a good time.

 

I guess I should have thought that far ahead before having four children.

So besides being effectively a single parent with no working dryer over a holiday weekend, I also had four homework projects hanging over my head in between line-drying shifts: three vocabulary-word costumes and one name-of-God banner.  The banner was exactly what it sounds like…cut a piece of cloth, hang it from a dowel rod and decorate it with felt/sequins/braiding and such.  Pretty neat project after it’s over with, but a little stressful at the time for someone that isn’t very imaginative in the artsy-craftsy department but with the awareness to know what she’s up against with some of the other fifth-grade moms.  (Not that it was a contest, you understand, but you want to measure up with something that isn’t a comparative disgrace). 

The vocabulary word costumes were a little more vague in theory but a bit easier in practice: think up a good vocabulary word (at least that part I could handle) and dress up to reflect the meaning of the word.  Very cool concept, it just took a little work times three.
 

Tyler’s name of God was Eli.  He had already designed the banner on paper, and we had purchased all of the materials.  It took a day and a half between cutting, gluing, drying, printing, tracing, and ironing, but we got it done and I promptly took a picture, feeling pretty proud of myself.  And a lot relieved.  Ours wouldn’t be the most elaborate by far, but it would hold its own in the moderate category.

For the vocabulary costumes, Tyler chose “Incognito” (Wes’s old trench coat, sunglasses and a black felt hat leftover from Tyler’s role in The Music Man), Emily was “Lucrative” (paper money, plastic coins and hand-drawn dollar signs taped all over a grass-green tank top worn over a white t-shirt) and Lauren was “Sterile” (shower cap, mask, plastic gloves and scrubs I had to cut off and hem with fabric glue since I don’t sew).  Incredibly and sadly enough, I neglected to take a picture of these, but they looked pretty darn good if I do say so myself.  Which I do.

I think I earned myself a solid A for my efforts.  Plus bonus points for cleaning up the steaming pile of dog puke on the dining room rug under my feet.

I DID take a picture of that, but I’ll spare you. 

Banner Weekend Part 1: Old Fashioned Line Drying (White Trash Style)

For most, Memorial weekend conjures thoughts of get-togethers, cook-outs and camping trips, weekend getaways or time spent with friends and family.

This year mine was…a bit different.

Friday afternoon I opened the dryer to get the clothes out. The wave of heat that greeted me about knocked me backward, and despite my legendary heat tolerance, I flinched when I reached in to touch the still-wet but very wrinkled and almost melty-looking clothes. Not a good sign. When I closed the dryer and tried to restart it, I got a plaintive beep followed by…nothing. Really not a good sign.

When Wes got home, he immediately did the man-thing and started unscrewing anything that opened. When he got the panels off and looked inside, he found a hole burned into the control board. Confirmation. My dryer was dead.

As I sat there contemplating the steaming load, another sopping wet load, and yet another still unwashed load…mixed in with a generous helping of holiday weekend…thrown in with a dash of 4 children at home changing clothes every other hour…and beaten vigorously with the knowledge that my husband had to work the entire weekend on the largest project he might have ever been involved in (and I was not going to go live at the laundry mat)…I knew there was only one thing to do.

Old Fashioned Line Drying. White-trash style.

I fished some nylon line out of the cabinet and went outside to see where I could string it. Wes followed shortly, and we made use of the wood fence, deck posts, and yes, the swing set. Even the yard chairs, the deck benches and the charcoal grill were put into use. It actually made me a bit nostalgic for Africa. Except crackling when I walked in my jeans. And about exfoliating my skin right off using the towels after a shower. And chasing blown underwear and socks around the yard. And enduring the neighbors peering over the fence and saying “Hrm…dryer problems?” And the fact that it was a week later before my dryer was working again.

Yeah. Except for all of that, it was great.

The Return of the Broken Arm

Broken arms should be like the chicken pox. Many can go their whole lives without getting one. And those who do usually aren’t repeat offenders.

Alas, not my Lauren.

I got the call on the afternoon of May 16th. In theory, it was supposed to be good day. We had just gotten in from camping that weekend and Monday was a field trip for Lauren to the bowling alley. After school, basketball camp kicked off. But in between field trip and basketball, there was end-of-the-day recess. With monkey bars and sweaty hands. Ooops.

Well at least it happened on school property. I mean, I think the doctor wrapped it in gold-plated cloth or something (just so you know, simply wrapping the arm was considered “surgery”) so a little help from multiple insurances was a silver lining. But poor Lauren, stuck in a clunky, hot cast right at the beginning of summer.

Not that she is a stranger to casts. When Lauren was 2, she fell off the bed (while jumping) at Grandma’s house over Thanksgiving. The kids kept it hush-hush of course; they say she only cried a little and we weren’t really even aware there had been an incident in the back room. But I when I took Lauren to the doctor a week later for being sick, I randomly asked about her arm, because she had been mildly complaining when we got her dressed each day. Turns out she had a greenstick fracture in her left forearm, requiring a cast for two months. I have to brag, though. Little Lauren never complained a single time, simply went about her 2-year-old business, proudly waving her bright blue cast.

Fast-forward 5 years. Double wrist-bone break this time, but same arm and same blue cast. And same fortitude of spirit. Bigger Lauren didn’t complain any more than her earlier version. We had tears only twice, when the truth sank in about bike-riding and swimming and playgrounds and inflatables and an itch we couldn’t reach with a bamboo skewer (I know, don’t tell, but I had to try…)

Like I told the other kids, at least it was only her arm. And if my calculations are correct, at this rate of repetition, we should only have to go through this two more times before she is out on her own. Better start saving now…

Getting the gilded wrapping

Getting casted a week later

Waiting for the cast to dry

Getting the cast cut off

Removable splint

Camping in the Rain

I love camping. It’s a chance to “get away from it all” while sharing close-quarters “family time”. A good camping experience includes being packed like sardines in a tent, sleeping on the ground, going potty in the bushes, taking colder-than-Africa showers (if you bother to shower at all) and listening to I’m hot, I’m tired, I’m hungry, I’m bored while walking the same trail you walk each year. But I’m ok with all of that, because like Africa, I can breathe when I’m out camping.

What camping is NOT supposed to include is rain. Or being a single-parent mom in charge.

Here’s the deal. We have to book our camping site a couple of months in advance, or the campground fills up. (Yes, really). So we scour the calendar for the *perfect* weekend, secure our favorite spot, and pray like crazy that nothing else comes up and the weather will cooperate.

No such luck this year.

First, it was raining. Not enough rain to cancel, mind you. But just enough drizzle to make things really messy and miserable. Ugh. Second, turns out our camping weekend was also graduation weekend for Wesley’s cousin…so yeah. I got left alone. At the campground. With children. In the rain.

Ok, I’m such a whiner! Wes did drive us there and get our tents set up really quick before he bolted off. I didn’t have Hannah, and as every mom knows, every outing is exponentially easier without the “poose” of the group there. (She had been visiting the grandparents; Wes would bring her back with him when he returned in the wee hours of the morning). I knew how to work the gas stove for supper if I had to. I was wearing a rain jacket. And I had brought my secret indulgence this time…a queen-sized blow-up mattress to go under my sleeping bag. Walk in the park, this camping trip, even in spite of the rain. Right?

The first obstacle to tackle was the fire. Wes tried his best to get one started before he left, but the wood was wet and the best he got was a sizzle and a little smoke. He shrugged apologetically before he left. He really did look sorry, leaving me standing there. In the rain. Alone. With hungry kids wanting hotdogs and smores. With no fire. (I don’t harbor any bad feelings about this, of course).

So I did what any single-parent mom in charge of camping does. I made a fire. With wet wood and wads of dry paper towels. Oh, yes I did. I’m not even embarrassed to say that I pulled a Tom Hanks, beating my chest and dancing around shrieking “I…have made FIRE!” (We have pictures to prove it). The kids were cheering me and treating me like the hero that I was. It was awesome. I was almost feeling amiable toward Wes again for ditching me out here to fend for myself.

After dinner, I finally had the chance to go into my tent to set up the inside. Emily and I unfolded my brand-new air mattress, straight out of the box, and I reached for the air pump. I was a little apprehensive; I had wanted Wes to blow it up at home, just to test the pump and make sure it worked and all, but he hadn’t wanted to unfold the mattress and have to repack it. But I was still juiced from making fire, and was pretty sure I could handle this silly inflating business. Until I unwound the power cord coiled around the air pump. Power cord? An electric air pump? Really? ? &%*^&^&^!!!! (Fill in the blank for yourself here). The warm feelings toward my other half quickly turned back to animosity.

I got angry. I got upset. I fumed and pouted at my one very important comfort being ripped from me unfairly in this soggy, miserable vacation. My brain was going a million miles a minute. There had to be a way around this. The obvious would be to text someone near and dear to my dagger-throwing heart and tell him he better not come back without a way to fill up my air mattress. But no, another important part of the camping experience is no cell service for miles.

Emily quickly recalled seeing some other bozo who brought an electric air pump dragging his air mattress to the bathroom (where there is electricity and power sockets). He used his vehicle to haul the filled mattress back to his camp, which I obviously couldn’t do since I had been dropped off, but I had myself, 3 children and a load of attitude. This could work! Except…someone had not packed the nozzles that go with the air pump. JUST the useless air pump. And someone would have known this had someone bothered to test fill the air mattress before we left home. I was more deflated than the mattress. There was only one thing left for this single-parent camping mom to do.

Beg.

There was a huge group of folks tenting across from the bathrooms. Surely someone would be kind enough to lend me a battery pump? I swallowed my pride, forced Emily to walk with me, and approached the group. I was glad it was dark because I’m sure I was beet red (and as attractive as a wet dog) as I stammered out why I had just invaded their camping space with my presence. But I walked away victorious with a battery operated air pump and Emily and I shrieked again with glee when the mattress actually inflated. I was on a huge high now. I had made fire AND filled up an air mattress…in spite of being alone, at the campground, with children, in the rain, and with no battery air pump of my own. I didn’t have any extra batteries to spare, so I generously offered a $5 to the girl when I returned the pump. I was expecting “oh, that’s ok, you don’t have to do that” or “that’s so nice of you!” Instead, I got, “just put it on that chair over there with the pump”. Hrmph. Yeah, well. I guess I couldn’t really complain. I had my air mattress.

And other than the constant noises in the night (which I was sure was coons making off with all of our things), things went pretty smoothly after that. Wes rolled in with Hannah sometime around 3:30 am. He asked me how things went, and came bearing gifts. Starter logs and extra rolls of paper towels so we could build a fire for the next evening.

I genuinely laughed for the first time that night.

And of course then the rain stopped.

With Love

We probably make too big a deal of Valentine’s Day. It’s like a mini Christmas. But we do love our kids, and want to show them. The candy may be long digested and the gifts discarded for something new…but the love still remains strong.
How do I love thee, my offspring? Let me count the ways.

To my man, Tyler: You taught me how to be a mom, because for sure I had NO idea at all before you came. I remember saying you couldn’t be my child when I saw you for the first time…because I had always said all babies were ugly and you were so beautiful! Now you are a big bear of a boy who dotes on his sisters and loves the cooking channel. You may be a bit too literal at times…someone who insists the world should run in strict black and white (and allows you to always win)…but I can’t really argue since I fight the same battle. You are fun-loving, sensitive and kind…and you are going to make one heck of a daddy someday. I love you, Tyler!

To my sweet sis, Emily: I thought I had a ringer on my hands when you came along with your shock of crazy hair, sleepless nights and screaming refusals to do anything you did not want to do, but you went from a demanding and difficult baby into the sweetest and most easy-going girl I could imagine. You are intuitive and loving, friend to all, the peacemaker of the group, and the only one who really likes to “just be alone” sometimes (which is my one mark on you…you sure didn’t get your slim nut-brown body from me!). You are determined, hard-working and beautiful, and I look forward to seeing the young lady you are quickly becoming. I love you, Emily!

To my love, Lauren: You are my tomboy who came out hairless but loving the color blue…a combination that resulted in you wearing blue dresses the first several years of your life. You are the most intriguing personality of the group. Everyone on the outside labels you as quiet and sweet…but those of us on the inside also know you to be the family clown…the one who likes to show out to make others laugh, the daredevil that has broken her arm twice. You are passionate and emotional, swinging from very high to very low. We are the most alike and are destined to have many clashes in the years to come. But when you say all you want to do is find a husband, get married and have babies “just like me”, it melts my heart…and also scares me to death. I love you, Lauren!

To my “Poose”, Hannah: You are your own person, with your own personality. From your wild and curly poosie hair to your incredibly sharp mind to your horrible mad faces, you are a bright spot in our family’s world. I always say with your strong will and determined mind, you will be capable of the worst of worsts or the greatest of greats…and just so you know, you get away with things that nobody else would have a chance with! But I gave you to God before you were born because you were His special commission, and I rest in the knowledge that He knows what He is doing. I can’t wait to see what you grow up to do. I love you, Hannah!

Happy Valentine’s Day and every day to my crew!

Penny

January is a deceptive month because it always seems so lazy and quiet. NOTHING happens in January, right? Except taking down all the Christmas decorations, getting the kids back to school, making and breaking many New Year resolutions, snow and cold weather...ok, so maybe things do happen in January. But this January, we made the decision of all decisions. The decision that was 10 years in the making. The decision that changes EVERYTHING. The decision to add to our family.

Not another baby…duh. Chances are nobody would have even noticed or cared about that. No, this decision was much greater. I’m talking about getting a dog.

We promised the kids we would take this plunge when they turned 10, 8 and 6 respectively. And then we had Hannah. Of course the kids wouldn’t go for the argument that our Poose was MUCH more fun than a dog. (And in the beginning, just as slobbery.) So we had to make good on our deal…and we were running a few months behind since Tyler had just turned 11 in October.

After careful research on what kind of dog we wanted, we decided to go with a Boston Terrier. Over Christmas break we found a local breeder and interrogated her with questions. Then she posted pictures of her new little ones and the deal was cinched. Our hearts were stolen by Penny, daughter of Miss Penny, ready for pickup right before Valentine’s Day. Money was exchanged, and the secret-keeping began in earnest. We kept things hush-hush until Wes’s birthday at the end of January.

Wes got a ton of presents that night, but only one was really his. The rest were “Hey, do you guys want to help Daddy open ALL of these presents?” kind of presents. They were bags filled with collar and leash, doggie toys and treats, and 4 individual prints of a collage of Penny pictures, taken and posted just for us by our awesome find of a local breeder. It took awhile for the truth to sink in for the kids, but it was crazy fun when it did.

Snowmageddon threatened to hamper our Penny pickup plans, but we managed to avoid mutiny and get her the day before the big storm hit. It was love at first sight…and interesting trying to get her to go outside to do her business in two feet of snow. Not to mention the joy of crying in the night. (I thought we were done with that??)

Everyone was perfectly happy for 2 days. And then I think Emily asked for a cat.

Not a chance, sister. Not a chance.

Catching Up

So I’m catching up after 6 months of radio silence. I feel a little like Alice after her tumbling-down-the-rabbit-hole-experience…a big blur of curious craziness in which things are not always what they seem.

As I reflect back over the last year of my life, I realize I have gotten involved in some pretty amazing opportunities. My first trip to Malawi last March, a plunge into volunteer missions by June, a second trip to Malawi in August, and a complete submarine dive into anything and everything Malawi since then. I have turned my life upside down in response to the call I felt to make a difference way bigger than myself and it has been incredible. But now it is time to take a step back and catch up on some things in my own backyard, so to speak.

I have come to the point where I realize there must be a balance between all things. Even really good things. Even really good God things. This summer I have begun making a serious effort to give as much time, effort, and yes, devotion, to God and my family as to my mission work. After all, they are my first loves and my primary jobs, are they not? And I am convinced God will bless both my mission work and my family, multiplying my time and efforts on both fronts, once I put things back in order.

And boy, a bunch has happened since January!

So here goes…catching up on the things I should have taken a bit more time to really savor along the way.