Perspective

It's been an interesting day.

I woke up, unprompted, at 5:30 a.m. Since my alarm was set for 6, it seemed pointless to try to go back to sleep. After praying for a few minutes, I went downstairs to let Jillian Michaels kick my tail with her DVD torture. (For the record, I was praying for people... not for mercy. Tomorrow I'll pay dearly for that oversight.)

I planned to eat lunch with Clay at school today because, the cafeteria was serving pizza. That cinched the deal for me. Tomorrow, I planned to eat with Spencer. The cafe menu? Spaghetti. Thursday was going to be Allison's day. Hamburgers. (The kid's say their school burgers are the best! But then again, they're pretty big on McDonald's burgers, too.)

Plans are made for scrapping, though, right?

Halfway to driving the kids to school, I realized I'd again forgotten to give Clay his allergy meds. I'm so glad we live only five minutes from their school.

Still, I had a van full of some mega dusty valances that needed an appointment with a dry cleaners, so I figured I'd get the allergy meds up to Clay after I dropped off the crusty curtains.

First though, I dropped off an application for a part-time position within the county school system. And because one detour deserves another, I decided that I was near the driver's license renewal place, so I better go get that done.

While I was there, some guy asked me if a pretty young lady near me was mine. As in, my daughter.

Now, she was pretty, so that was good. But she had a baby with her, too. Which just means he thinks I'm old enough to be a grandma.

And that's when it hit me. I AM old enough to be a grandma. Albeit a young one, but if I'd had a child at the same age that my mom had her first, and then my child did the same...

Yeah, I'm getting old.

But I didn't let that fester.

Because my new driver's license picture is awesome! Really. Probably the best I've ever had. (Wrinkles and gray hair don't show in those things.) Ask me if you can see it anytime and I'll flash it for you. The picture. Only. Because everything else is gray and wrinkled and no longer flash worthy. Not that I've ever had any flashing tendencies. Well, maybe when I was a baby. Don't all babies love to run around the house naked?! (It's because they aren't gray. And wrinkles without gray is a good thing. On babies.)

I had been home only a short time, basking in the glow of knowing I had no visible double chins on my new driver's license photo, when the phone rang. It was the school nurse.

"Allison fell and busted her chin on a desk. It looks like it might need some... (PAUSE)... attention," she said.

"Stitches?" I asked.

"Or glue," she replied.

I thanked the nurse for not using the dreaded "S" word within Allison's hearing, and said I'd be at the school in a minute. I grabbed Clay's Claritin on the way out the door.

At the school, I traded the nurse my wounded girl for my son's medicine and asked her to deliver a message to Clay that I'd need to rain check on our lunch date.

I have no idea what to do about stitches. That should be evident if you read about Clay's head wound, which I blogged about only two weeks ago. I called the kids' pediatrician, but they don't do stitches.

ER? I was really hoping not. Bruce called the urgent care clinic while I was running to the school and found out I could take her there.

To distract Allison on the way there, I showed her my old driver's license picture as compared to my new, dazzling photo. She was impressed, I could tell. She confirmed the new one was better by saying, "In your old one, you look like you just had a baby."

In fact I'd just had twins. Her and her brother.

Except it was actually two years before that picture was taken. (It wasn't a restful time in my life. Pictures don't lie.)

It seems we were a little too distracted, because as she handed me my driver's licenses back, I noticed two Tennessee Highway Patrol cars, facing opposite directions. Probably with radar guns.

I was going about 12 miles over the speed limit.

"I think I just got a ticket, honey," I said to Allison.

And though I hate to admit it, I fully planned to use my daughter's injury to plead my case with an officer.

I guess the THP had bigger fish to fry than a mini-van though, and we drove the rest of the way to the clinic going the appropriate speed limit. (I set the cruise control to be sure.)

No need for stitches, thankfully. My girlie's chin is glued. No shots, no needles, no trauma. For her or me.

AND... the best part... we got back to the school by lunch time. So I decided to go ahead and eat pizza with Allison. I'll eat lunch with Clay on either spaghetti or hamburger day.

After lunch, I headed to Wal-mart for groceries and a birthday pinata. I found all my groceries but didn't like Wal-mart's pinata selection. I don't know where else to look for one either since the nearby party supply place closed recently. I guess if I don't find one, I'll stuff an empty shoebox with candy and treats and wrap it with colored tissue paper and let the kids whack at that. (I'm serious. I'll do it. I'm not disillusioned one bit about my sorely lacking party throwing abilities.)

At the check-out lane, my cashier was a 78-year-old man.

Seventy. Eight. Years. Old.

I heard him tell the person in line in front of me when he asked.

I wouldn't have asked.

Actually, I was impressed. That man was better than some of the cashiers I've had at Wal-mart who are younger than me. That's not saying much though, considering that I'm old enough to be a grandma.

I called my mother-in-law on my cell on the way home from Wally World to let her know about Allison's glued chin, because she planned to pick up the kids after school today. And while juggling the phone with groceries and opening a door, I dropped my cell phone.

R.I.P.

I passed up a chance months ago to upgrade to a new cell phone. I like my old phone. I can work about half of the functions on my old phone. That's a record for me.

I put away groceries and then started watching for the kids to get off the bus. Yesterday was the first day I let the kids ride the bus home this year.

Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

"Hmmm, they're later today than yesterday," I thought.

Then I saw the bus. It stopped at the right spot. But then my neighbor's middle school son got off.

My kids did not.

Not that they normally ride the same bus.

Last year, the bus would run the middle school and high school students and then the same bus would repeat that route with the elementary kids.

I checked my watch, thinking I'd pulled the stem on accident and re-set it all wrong and sped it up an hour. Why not? The whole day had been odd so far.

Finally, I went outside and talked to my neighbor's son. Evidently his bus gets home only shortly before my kids bus does and they no longer ride the same bus. All because bus routes were cut and reassigned this year.

I'm pretty sure my neighbor's son now wants to avoid me at all cost.

I'm also pretty sure I don't need to be waking up at 5:30 again any time soon. Jillian can just wait until our regular appointment at 6!

I'm really tired right now and in an hour we're meeting our realtor to look at this house that we've half fallen in love with. A house that's pretty much completely unattainable for us right now without God's intervention with timing the sale of our current home, which isn't even on the market yet.

I believe in miracles though, so we're going. Every other house we've bought has been His doing so why not this one, too?

This day has been interesting.

No Time To Waste

Seven years ago today, I was sitting in a hospital bed, wondering when I'd get my Pitocin so I could finally get a glimpse of two little pods who had completely overtaken my body and turned it into a house.

All along in my pregnancy I was assured that twins typically deliver early and that the labors for second pregnancies move along faster.

Whatever!

I was induced at 37 1/2 weeks, which was considered full term. I was induced to avoid going into labor and hitting Nascar race traffic and delivering in a car instead of a hospital. And, seriously, I think my doctor decided to induce me partly because it pained her to see my bloated used-to-be ankles for even just one more visit.

Spencer and Allison arrived in the evening, just like their singleton-birthed brother. Only an hour quicker than my first delivery. Fourteen minutes separated their respective entrances. Spencer weighed 6 pounds and 14 ounces; Allison weighed 7 pounds and 6 ounces.

I've written down the birth stories for all our children. (Clay's is a bit more detailed though - I had more time during that pregnancy!) I just read over Spencer and Allison's, and I'm going to read it to them when they get home from school this afternoon.

How has seven years passed? Some things I remember very well.

I remember often thinking "God, what are you doing giving us two babies at once? Can't you see I'm clearly not twin-mommy material?".

Clearly, I was wrong. (I'm grateful God loves me even when I second guess Him... and in spite of my vocally expressing it.)

I remember laughing through my horror when Clay announced that my post-twin-pregnancy belly was "hilly". He suggested I iron it. And as much as I hate ironing, I'd have done it in a heartbeat if I thought it would have worked.

I remember feeling like a Jersey cow during the two weeks I nursed those babies, under the stupid notion that both had to be fed simultaneously. I remember crying, telling Bruce, "You are so supportive of my wanting to nurse these babies... will you be supportive when I tell you I have to stop, because I am not connecting to these babies like I did their brother and I feel horribly guilty about it and I think it's all hormonal."

I remember sitting on the floor in our den, happily feeding Spencer and Allison formula through bottles while they were strapped into their bouncy seats, thankful to God that I did develop all those warm, gushy Momma feelings for them both.

I remember not sleeping more than two hours at a stretch for the first two months Spencer and Allison were alive. I also remember how our microwave was broken during one very tired mini fit, thrown during an early-morning feeding (Bruce did it, not me.). I remember my mother-in-law coming to my house after she completed a full day of work at her job to play with Clay and watch Spencer and Allison while I climbed back into bed for a nap.

I remember being grateful that both babies learned to sleep through the night a full month earlier than their brother did. And that they each walked just a little bit later than Clay did, because chasing two was vastly different than chasing one.

And then I remember a first birthday. And a second. And after the third birthday, it didn't even feel so much like we were a family with twins. We became simply a family with three children.

But I don't remember how all that happened. How we got from having babies to having elementary school aged kids.

Despite the inevitable bumps that have come along the way, I've always thought, "This is my favorite stage. This is the best age."

And I still think that.

Aside from Jesus and Bruce, these three children, who vigorously push every button I have, sometimes several times a day... they are my greatest treasure, my most prized blessing, my hand-picked gifts from God.

Monster Treehouse

Time to post some pictures from our summer. I'm so far behind.

We went camping in early July in Crossville. It was a trip made for dual purposes - for my family to have a getaway and to spend some time with my grandpa in Cookeville, which is about a 30 minute drive from Crossville.

Last time we camped in Crossville, we stayed at Deer Run RV Resort, but it was booked solid for the weekend we planned to go. During this trip, we stayed at the Beanpot Campground, mostly because my kids love eating at The Bean Pot restaurant.

Considering that we spent one entire day of the weekend visiting with grandpa, we still did plenty around the campground and Crossville.

It only took a little foosball playing at the clubhouse to remember that I stink at that game. Allison isn't much better. And the boys didn't even care about how good or bad they were, as long as a ball was flying.



A little time on the playground.







Then we went to a tree house. But not just your average wooden structure like what you see in the backyard's of many families with children. This tree house was more like a wooden mini skyscraper and looked a bit like it was built by artist M.C. Escher. My apologies to Escher, though, because based on what I was told at the tree house, this structure was built without a level or a measuring tape. I'm not sure how true that is, but I'm doubtful that any great engineering mathematics went into the construction.







From the very top, if you looked toward an adjoining field, you could see this:



The whole tree house was very creative. There was a room that looked like a rustic sanctuary, a small room with a real toilet in it (sans actual plumbing), and on one balcony area there was even a bathtub, maybe to simulate a redneck hot tub effect.

Clay told Allison to sit in the tub so Bruce could get a picture, but she was having none of that because the tub was pretty dirty. I was up for it though. (Seriously, we were camping. None of us are out our cleanest state while camping except for after our nightly baths while we sleep.) I'm not showing the picture, because I look like an idiot. I only mention it because right after Bruce clicked the picture, I hopped up and did what I should have done before I laid in that tub. I made a closer inspection of what was in there. And I wished I'd done it beforehand or not at all. I'm okay with sitting in dirt, but there were some huge, dead and dried spiders in there that I'd have preferred not to wallow in. Somewhere deep within my mental vault, a timer started... counting down how long it was going to be until my next shower.

The kids and I climbed back down the rickety, sometimes steep, stairs and found a swing that was several stories high. Bruce took this picture from his perch up high. I like it because Spencer is blurred, which is pretty much how he whizzes through life.



Bruce came down and enjoyed a turn on the swing, but when Spencer gave Bruce a push, he hung on to the bottom of the swing. I wish this was a better picture, but I was working with Bruce's beefy camera and was lucky to get anything in focus!



Stay tuned for more posting some other day.

Hard Headed

I've always said my kids are hard-headed. But this past week, both boys decided to prove me right. (Not that I needed proof.)

We've been visiting another church on and off a few times this summer, wondering if God would have us change where we attend. The kids have been resistant, because who at that age is okay with change?

Clay has probably been the most at ease, because he knows a bunch of kids from school who attend at the church we've been visiting. Spencer has been okay, because he's Spencer and can conquer the world. He has fussed a little, but nothing major.

Allison has cried twice when we've dropped her off for Sunday school... even though one of her school buddies is in class with her. And so is Spencer, for that matter. Of all the places I've dropped these children off (Sunday school, Awanas, VBS, BSF, kindergarten), she has never been a crier.

Still, that's how last Sunday started off. It was emotionally draining for me. We told the kids they could all go with us to "big church" instead of staying in children's church, and then we pulled Allison's clutched hands away from my waist and left her in her Sunday school class, bawling.

Once church time rolled around, we sat at the end of a row near the back. Spencer was in the very last seat, and he had a major case of the wiggles. The sanctuary was cold, too. So Spencer curled into a ball with his knees under his chin, feet on the chair. Then he pulled his shirt over his knees and tucked his arms in as well.

Within minutes, his wiggles resumed and he somehow rolled right out of his seat onto the floor. (Because, while Spongebob may have a square butt, my children do not.) Spencer smacked his forehead pretty solidly on the ground when he landed.

My memory at this point is all in slow motion. I looked down and realized Spencer's face was scrunched up, his mouth was open after sucking air in and he was getting ready to let all that air out in a giant wail. In the middle of the preacher's sermon about opposition happening when you are trying to do what the Lord leads you to do. Yes, preacher. Do tell.

While I pulled in a deep breath to control my frustration (I had just told Spencer to put his feet down off the chair and to sit still), I realized Spencer's mouth was full of blood.

That's when slow motion ended. I glanced at Bruce to make sure he saw the blood, and then I untangled Spencer from his shirt straitjacket and picked him up to carry him out of the church.

Two good things to note here. When Spencer gets ready to really wail, he loses his breath and takes forever to finally let it back out, so the shrieking began in earnest only once I was actually safely in the bathroom. And, despite all the blood in his mouth, my white shirt stayed white. Proof that God covers even the littlest details of our lives.

One more nice thing. Really nice, actually. Two different people, strangers from this new church, followed us and checked to make sure Spencer was okay.

He had bit his tongue. Big time.

Have you ever tried to hold a paper towel firmly to a crying child's tongue to stop bleeding? It takes awhile to work!

If I'd had my purse with me, I would have taken Spencer to the van and waited there for the rest of the family. Instead, I carried my boy with his rug-burned, pump-knotted forehead back into the sanctuary for the rest of the sermon.

On the drive home, Bruce asked the kids what they learned in Sunday school. Clay said something about Paul's missionary journeys. Allison mentioned David and Goliath.

And Spencer piped up and said, "I learned that you don't sit with your knees tucked under your shirt and your feet on the chair in church."

Last night was like Part II of a bad movie, just with a new star.

We went, first, to the school’s open house and found out who the kids’ teachers would be this year. Afterwards we went to the Moody’s house so that Roy and Bruce could load up Bruce’s truck with stuff to take to Cookeville. Brandon and Brandi bought a house there and are moving in today. Bruce and Roy left early this morning and picked up Bryan in Knoxville, so all the men are helping with the move.

There was a ladder flat on the ground in the front of the Moody’s yard and some furniture still waiting to be loaded. The kids were running around, playing with the Moody's German shepherd Rex and watching Bruce and Roy load up.

Then Clay walked backwards, tripped over the ladder and fell down and knocked his head against the corner of an oak nightstand. He instantly grabbed his head and started crying.

Sharon and I took him in the house to sit down because he said he was dizzy and it was cooler in the house. I told him to point to where it hurt on his head and I pulled his hair back… and noticed some blood. I didn’t think it was much, but by the time I parted all his hair, I found a pretty yucky gash. It was maybe an inch wide and probably a quarter of an inch deep. It looked like raw steak. I’m not used to seeing the inside of my kids' flesh. It never did gush blood though.

I went outside to get Bruce and he and Roy took a look at the gash. Up to that point, I had purposely never said the word "stitches". First, so Clay wouldn't hear it, but also so Spencer and Allison wouldn't and then repeat it to Clay. But Bruce saw the cut and said the magic word. Clay started his freak out session.

We were all pretty much thinking Clay was going to need a few stitches. But Sharon suggested I walk to her backyard neighbor and let him take a look. He’s some kind of medical professional. He took a look at Clay’s head and said if it was anywhere but in his hair, he would say take him in for stitches. But he suggested instead to take him home and then pull the edges of the wound together by pulling hair from each side and tying it in a knot over the top of the wound.

When we got home, I had Clay take a shower and wash his hair. There was blood caked all around the cut. Then I tried to knot his hair, but his hair is too silky and fine. It wouldn’t stay knotted.

I kept looking at that wound and thinking, “This really needs to be stitched.” But if I mentioned going to the hospital, Clay went nuts. He was shaking and crying so hard.

Finally, I got my scissors out and cut a big section of hair off, then took our hair trimmer and shaved part of his head around the wound. We had some butterfly bandages in our first aid kit in the camper, so Bruce brought them in and I basically pushed the wound edges together and taped them shut with the butterfly bandage. And then I put antibiotic ointment on the part of the wound that wasn’t covered by the butterfly and put a bandaid over top of that so nothing would get on the wound and it would stay clean. And so it wouldn’t bleed all over the pillow while Clay slept.

Poor kid. When we were done, he gave me a huge hug and said, “Thank you for not taking me to the hospital.”

It was a pretty traumatic evening for us both!

I'm praying it'll heal quickly without any infection. In the meantime, I’m treating him like a baby for a few days.

He had just decided to quit football on Thursday. It’s a good thing, too, because I probably wouldn’t let him play for a few more practices now anyway.

Now here's the part that just shows how warped our family is. When the whole thing started at the Moody's house, Spencer ran and found Roy’s camera to take a picture while Clay's wound was still open and oozing. We didn't take a picture though. I don't want to see that ever again.

Please, God, let us avoid stitches a whole lot longer! Forever would be nice.

Right about now I am thinking that perhaps Clay wanting his hair long was a good thing. Because most of that shag now hides his bald spot.

Back for a Bit

I've been on a technology hiatus. No real reason. I didn't make the conscious decision to take a break, but every time I sat down in front of the computer, I just didn't feel like taking the time to post on the blog. And I haven't been chained to Facebook lately either.

I have a bunch of pictures from the summer to post, but no time right now.

First, an update off of my last post. My medical tests came back normal. So, for now, I'm still off the medication I mentioned. I'll go back for blood work in a few months and see if everything continues as it should be instead of all whacked.

Second, Clay has started playing football, but I'm not sure if it's a going to be a lasting thing. He loved all the equipment once he brought it home. He had Spencer and Allison smacking all over him. "Go ahead. It won't hurt me a bit."

I think he enjoys the practices, too, with all the other guys. But I don't see his heart in this sport.

We don't typically let him quit something once he starts, but we'll probably make an exception this time. Especially since the team is practicing for another month before the first game. That and the fact that I resent the intrusion into our family life... practices four nights a week, for two hours, right when we normally sit down to supper.

I know some families are big time sports nuts. And for them, it works somehow. But we are not, and it doesn't.

I want my kids to play sports for fun and fitness and to learn a sense of sportsmanship. Beyond that, family time is more crucial. And I'm a huge proponent for family dinners together. Even if dinner is just sandwiches.

Stuff came to a head last night with Clay and we had to have a talk with him. He's giving it until the end of this week and then he has to make up his mind. Keep playing or quit. But if he quits, he has to tell the coach. We won't do it for him.

We'll see how it all plays out.

But for now it's time for an early dinner, without my husband, so that I can rush Clay out the door for practice. For two hours. In an area with no playground for the younger two to play at.

It'll be fun.

Sure it will.