Knitting

My friend, Sue, is a masterful knitter. She makes beautiful things. My friend, Anne, picked up the handicraft in like a nanosecond. I figured, "how hard can it be?" I bought myself some pretty yarn and some needles. Now my hands are cramped up and I want to cuss. It's harder than it looks people, and I'm not sure why anyone says it relaxing.

because i need to post some pictures of 2010

I am SOOOOOOOOOOO bad at documenting our existence through photography. Horrid. But we were all present for 2010. We went on summer vacation. We did stuff. We went places. Honest. More to come..


Going on a ride
yep...those are chaps; every good cowboy needs em.


We have yet to convince Emma that the dog is not her on personal baby.


Moab
CA coast
Sexy bald man hauling darling 3 year old on a hike in Moab
Pebble Beach
Davenport CA - amazingly gorgeous place
Obligatory picture at the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco
Lake Tahoe
San Francisco

Breckenridge - we answered the question, "what happen if you add shampoo to a jetted bath tub and then turn it on?"

Bloggified version of a Christmas Card

· The Wood house is currently home to 3 adults, 6 children, and 3 puppies. . Steph’s longtime friend and her 2 sons moved into the basement apartment this June.

· This summer the Wood’s family friend and pastor announced he, and his family would move to Chicago and plant a church. Thus began a virtual avalanche of event ending in both Eddie and Stephanie stepping into leadership roles at the church. Eddie currently serves on Leadership Team of our small church and also serves in the role of executive pastor. (We like to call him “Pastor Ed” ). He does all this while he continues his full time employment with Legacy Partners.

· Stephanie is providing leadership to the small group ministry at Jacob’s Well Community Church. She is also homeschooiing the kid’s again, thus verifying that one should be very careful about what one says one will “never do again”. Actually, both mother and children have been pleasantly surprised by the experience.

· Ethan ,10, played his first regular season of tackle football, and now watches the Broncos with the zeal of a kid with real football smarts.

· Emma,8, has become quite a little cook. She can be sent into the kitchen by herself, recipe in hand, and emerge with something really yummy created all by herself.

· Caleb, 7, has started to learn the piano and we are discovering he has quite an ear. It’ll we be fun to this talent emerge in years to come.

· Abby, 3, has much to say—about EVERYTHING. She loves the color pink and likes to play school with her big sister. She might, quite accidentally, learn to read here soon.

· This fall the children, all 6 of them , successfully campaigned for the acquisition of puppies. Longtime pet hater, Stephanie Wood, has been converted. The puppies are trouble, but the cute factor weighs heavily to their advantage.

· Kota (short Lakota Pumpkin—naturally), is the Wood family pet, she is darling, smart, and a bit spoiled.

· The Wood family did not even attempt to attain a Christmas picture wherein all member were nicely dressed, smiling, and looking in the same direction. Apparently, doctors will not prescribe Valium for such events and the adult were unwilling to attempt such a feat without being properly medicated.

THE DIGITAL STORY OF THE NATIVITY

Generational poverty and aging out of foster care

Last year I hardly ever blogged. I was too busy. So I missed the opportunity to process what I was learning, what I was seeing played out in front of me. I think it's time.

Our basement is a one bedroom apartment with an separate entrance. Last year a teen mom lived there. She was 19 and had 2 kids. She had also aged-out of foster care. Before she came to us she was homeless. The majority of kids who age-out of foster care end up on the streets or in correctional facilities. That's how it rolls.

Our friend was pretty, and smart, a fiercely protective momma. She was up against incredible odds. A chance to live in our basement, to partner with a mentor from the Hope House, and get accepted into college (with grants) should have been what she needed to make a "go" of life. And she did, for awhile. But my guess is that she is either on the streets again, or very nearly so.

People rallied around this teen mom to pull her out of her circumstances, but ultimately the weight of her past pulled her back into the life she knew. Because, while our friend didn't want to be hungry and homeless and helpless, she was much more comfortable in a life operated around those things than in a life of relative security. She was used to chaos, and the cortisol buzz from crisis was her drug of choice. She literally did not know what to do in a world where someone didn't need to be bailed out of jail, or didn't have to scrounge up change for a bus ride to the food pantry. She didn't know how to feel safe.

There is a culture of addiction, and a culture of generational poverty that is drastically different than middle-class America. Asking a girl who grew up in generational poverty to leave it for middle class America is like asking me to up and move to China. I wouldn't know the language. I wouldn't be familiar with the food. I would operate under a different value system. I would feel like a "foreigner", and I would have to leave my family behind. Even the clothes would be different. Culture shock and assimilation would be huge issues. Assimilation might very well feel like I was betraying my home country.

Our friend's choices made no sense until I understood this.

The first few months our friend was here were a honeymoon for her. She had food, a job, a safe place for her kids. Her relief was palpable. But then there came a point where her continued progress, her healing, depended upon her making the hard choice to leave her old life behind. She could not stay friends with people in her old life and embrace her new life. She could not have a relationship with her birth mom (a felon, addict, liar), or her boyfriend (same goes) and break the patterns of co-dependence.

The Bible says, "A double minded man is unstable in all his (or her ) ways". This was exactly the case for our friend. She wanted all of the benefits from life in our basement apartment, but in the end she was not willing to pay the cost of HOPE." It was her undoing.

I learned a weird thing about addiction while our friend was a part of our life. Addiction is not only about the addict. It's about the people in the addict's life who make the addiction possible. It's the wife who buys doughnuts for her morbidly obese husband. Or the spouse who calls in sick for their partner when the hangover from last night's binge is too much. Codependents become addicted to "feeling needed" by addicts. We would not have allowed a chemically addicted person to take up residence in our basement. Our friend wasn't; but she was terribly codependent. We learned that codependents are addicted too. They are addicted feeling needed, to solving a crisis, to smoothing over. Ultimately our friend couldn't give up her habit.

She returned to her abusive and addicted boyfriend. She returned to her birthmom. She returned to squalor. And she took her young children with her.

I knew from our adoption training that a bed, clothes, food and education can't heal brokeness. A heart healed is a product of unconditional love, the hand of God, and ultimately the broken persons choice to heal. We show up willing to give. We love. We tell the truth. And we understand that our value is independent of another person's choice to heal or not heal.

Laughed so hard I nearly...

I hate to laugh at other peoples expense, but really when they make it so easy...what's a girl to do. And you thought your 7th grade year book picture was awkward. It ain't got nuthin' on this.

I'd like to write a novel someday

I'd like to write a novel someday. But it sounds like a lot of work.

I am not opposed to work per se, even hard work. But the thing is I've got a bunch of other stuff that needs doin'. Boogers to wipe - for one. Also, I'm the resident guru of 1st, 3rd, and 5th grade math 'round these parts. And it comes with responsibility - who will teach long division if I will not?

"Here am I, send me."

Then there is the laundry. It. Must. Be. Handled.

"Here am I, send me."

And the therapy to attend.

"Here am I, send me."

Dinner doesn't cook itself, now does it?

"Here am I, send me"

Sometimes I can say it with grace, with abandon. "Here am I, send me."

Those words, those 5 one-syllable words, they basically hand over my right to dictate my own life. Self actualization is traded in for servanthood. And the greatest shall be the least. On the good days...

I am happy to be a stay-at-home momma.

Happyish. (For it was never my dream.)

But I'd like to write a novel.

Or go to grad school.

Or travel.

However...

My life is not my own.

So Lord, let me find joy in the ordinary, and the day to day. Get my head out of the clouds and my feet on the ground. Help me to find satisfaction as I wiggle my toes down into the dirt of life. Remind me that the endless dishes, and the mundane tasks have a purpose. Help me to be faithful. Help me to be joyful. Help me to be generous.

I'd like to write a novel some day.

If I don't do it before I die, I'll just write it in heaven.

Busy bags and homeschool tricks

This morning I spent an hour and a half putting together "busy bags". Other people have cuter names for these contraption - but it's all the same. We homeschool moms are working to keep our "littles" busy while we school our "bigs". So we pull out ziploc bags, or shoeboxes and fill them with activities to keep our preschoolers occupied. Play-dough. Lacing Beads. Puzzles. Audio Books. And the trick, the imperative, is that these things do not come out unless mom hands them out. They are not for everyday use. They are special, and must remain novel in order to work.

Of course, these "busy bags" only work when your child is NOT hell-bent on creating havoc. But they do, generally, buy some time to bust out a little algebra. I know good homeschool moms are supposed to like to put together things like these. I don't. Seriously folks, I nearly flunked home economics. But somethings we do out of necessity. And my survival instinct is strong.


The other day an acquaintance from church came over and was uber impressed with my white board, chunked up into neat little boxed for each child outlining the work that needs to get done. She said, "Are you a really organized person?" Yea -NO! I am a person residing in a home with 9 individuals and three very young canines. 6 kids. 3 puppies. 2 dealing with recent trauma. 1 in therapy for her "quirky" little brain. And I homeschool. That white board and any semblance of organization you see is about me makin' it work. And it does work - at least most days.

But least you think I have it all together I must 'fess up. I don't have a solution for this one: a particular 3 year old is completely obsessed with dog food. She love to play with it. She loves to throw it, and eat it. She loves to gag puppies with it. I think its a weird sensory thing combined with ZERO impulse control, and just a smattering of "I'm pissed at the puppy for stealing the show." Looking for a solution here.

Things that don't work:

-Moving the food.
-Screaming and yelling.
-Requiring the offender to pick-up the mess.
-Gentle reminders

Eric Ludy - Depraved Indifference

Advent, and my dog might die...

I like Jesus better because he was born in a stable. Or a cave. Or whatever. It wasn't the Ritz-Carlton, or St. Josephs Hospital. And I like him better for it.

I can serve a God who can enter into the mess and redeem it. I can love a God who will be with me through the ugliness.

Because, my kid's got special needs.
And my friend 's husband is an alcoholic.
Wellbutrin, and Prozac are close personal friends.
And my puppy might die, despite the vet bills.

There's a kid up the street who's a pothead and breaking his momma's heart.
And there's a guy, a very talented guy, toting so much baggage he is his own worst enemy.
Despite what Hallmark says love cannot heal post-traumatic stress, and malnourishment.
The scars of abuse remain decades after the fact.

I don't need a god of sugarplums and fairies. I'd prefer a little dirt under the nails. Cause that's where I life.

So today, this season, I will worship Emmanuel. GOD WITH US.

Homeschool and Christmas

I tend to blow off the natural rhythms of life, preferring instead to ascribe to the guilt and shame modality of my Baptist heritage. Life SHOULD be full of grace and truth, fun and diligence, training and recovery.

But I am, apparently, above that nonsense. I work, work, work then fall flat on my face in exhaustion. Looking back I can see patterned played out over and over again.

This is how it looks as it applies to homeschool:

By December we are ready for a break in the routine, plus the holiday season brings with it lots of other commitments. One would think that, I would adjust accordingly. Homeschooling provides that kind of flexibility. NOPE. Traditionally, I hunker down and bust out some school, making every one in my path as miserable about education as I am. Then mid-December, my determination fizzles and I say "screw-it" . I then embrace Christmastime in all its cookie making gluttony. Novice homeschoolers take note:

THIS IS DUMB!

DON'T DO IT!

IT IS NOT SMART!

Plan for Christmastime. Enjoy it. Live up the beauty of homeschool. And for goodness sakes, be okay with taking some time off. This would be much smarter. And this is what I am doing this year.

We're making a recipe book of Christmas goodies and calling it handwriting.
We're gonna read "A Family Under the Bridge" and call it Language.
We're gonna double a candy recipe and calculate the cost of ingredients, and that will be Math.
We will probably read some of Luke, which will of course, be Bible.
Maybe we will make some ornaments: ART.
We're gonna make some cookies, and candies, and that will be science. Because there really is a science to cookie and candy making.
Then were gonna go shopping in the World Vision Catalog and buy us a some ducks and a goat, so that a family escape abject poverty. Maybe that's social studies, but even if it's not were doing it.

There are some beautiful things about homeschool. This December I'm determined to relish them.

Christmas Food Court Flash Mob, Hallelujah Chorus - Must See!

Children's Hospital Development Center

I got "the packet" from Children's today. It's ahmmm....not short. I will spend a large chunk of tomorrow filling it out. Then "the packet" goes to a team of experts to be evaluated. Then we get "the evaluation"; it's an all day deal where Princess, and her respective parental units get... well we get evaluated.

I don't know the results, and I don't know if we will get a "diagnosis" but just reading through the packet was affirming. I am not making stuff up. There are legitimate things in my youngest's medical history and family history that contribute to the stuff we see. It's documented by medical doctors, occupational therapists, and social workers. It's real.

Funny how I can trick myself into thinking that nothing is wrong. Abnormal becomes normal and we forget...
-most people don't have to drug their children to get them to sleep (well technically herbal supplement them...but whatever)
-most people can take their children into a store without them becoming unglued.
-most people do not plan sensory diet events into their day.
-most people don't walk into a new situation with a transitional item in place.
-most people don't start every every morning the very same way because change sends their little one into "behaviors" that aren't worth a few extra minutes of sleep.
-most people can ask their children "why?". (we tell "what")
-most people don't have to frame every stinking thing as a choice.
-most people aren't on hyper-alert all the time for when their child might impulsively do something to hurt themselves or others.
-most people aren't kinda expecting to change their child's diaper till she's 6.

But because we've developed a hefty repertoire of coping strategies and parenting tools that might look weird to others our lives operate relatively smoothly. Normalish. Nearly invisible differences. Yet, you take away the crutches and holy guacamole; chaos abounds.

I promise to stop blogging about this soon, but it's on my heart right now.

Thankful

Topping the list: a bald dude on the downhill side of thirty. I so love him. He's my best friend and biggest ally. He responds to my, "Hey, let's..." with a " Sure!". Some of my ideas are nuts, some are risky, and he's always game. He's the feet and hands to my dreams. And I cannot tell you how much that means to me.

Next: My kids all one, two, three and four of them. My life is FULL, but less would feel empty.

In no particular order:

• Lattes, and mountains. So maybe the connection isn't obvious. But I love them both. With their respective deliciousness and majesty the feed my soul.
• My suburban. I love my miniture green school bus of a vehicle.
• Friends who "get" me.
• Gluten free "oreos".
• Writing, and books. I love words. Nerdy, I know. Shut-up.
• Living a story bigger than myself.
  
• Family. I really had a "Leave it to Beaver" childhood. You can thank my parents for my general level-headedness and well balanced outlook.
• Anti-depressants. Okay- so you might have to thank the makers of Wellbutrin too. They have heavily contributed to my sanity.
• Puppies. I am a recovering animal hater.
  
• My lovely home. I am even sorta thankful for the kitchen table missing most of its finish and marked with crayon. Good things happen 'round that table.
• Will Farrel - I'm not even gonna explain that one.
• Our church
  
• many many other things
  

No Lone Rangers in this Story

-Invisible disabilities can be such a head game. I got "in" with Children's Develpment Clinic. It's lot's of paperwork . Evaluations are scheduled 4 months out. That doesn't bother me. I'm nervous they are going to tell me that I am making stuff up, and that bugs. I would like someone, besides my husband, to validate what we see.

-She's cute, and charming. And, well, really charming. She doesn't regulate sleep. Or tolerate certain sensory input. She is potty training challenged. She looks for bizzarre sensory input. She has food texture issues. Just because she hears it, or even says it back to me does NOT mean she get's it. She is cause and effect challenged, and has barely perceptible motor delays. Impulse control what? She is impulsive and sometimes jet propelled. It is unsafe to keep her unsupervised for even a half a minute. She loves to be at home, or outside in the mountains. She becomes absolutely UNGLUED in stores. We both have post-traumatic stress after a trip to get groceries. And don't even get me started on what happens if her routine gets goofed up. It ain't pretty.

-At church, we've been talking a lot about what it means to do life WITH. We've been using words like: authentic community, and selfless sharing, and vulnerability. The value of this becomes really apparent as we consider that our daughter may always NEED to do life with others. She's bright, and delightful, but she will NEED someone. The truth is that we all need community, and life isn't meant to be lived in isolation. But the ramifications of my daughter trying to "do it alone" could be disastrous - all the data indicate it would be disastrous.

And so I question why "independence" is a metric for a successful life. For my littlest success will be defined in terms of whether she has the support people and systems in place to become all that God would have her be. And I am convinced she has much to offer the world. But the operative words will be interdependence, and connected, and supported, and valued. There will be no Lone Rangers in this tale - not if it is to be a "happily ever after".

With

Independence is as American as apple pie. But as we bite into it I wonder if it will not turn to rot in our mouth.

We were not meant for independence, and self-reliance is over-rated. If we bear the image of our creator (and we do) then we are meant for relationship.

Kitchen tables and campfires.
Sleep-overs and girls-night out.
Rainy afternoons and board games.

It's true we are meant to be free, but independence is a distortion of freedom. Some of the most enslaved people I've met have been fiercely independent. Fear of abandonment, pride and self-reliance have built a prison they call a fortress. They believe they are safe, but really, really they are just in a jail of their own making.

Then there are those who live on the margins. They are unseen, unloved, forgotten, and unkown. But most of all they are alone. Alone. Not independent. Not free. Alone.

Independence is over-rated.
We were meant for community.

The beginning of the Story starts as God walks WITH Adam and Eve in the Garden.

The end is the same.

Revelation says, "Now the dwelling of God is WITH man and he will live WITH them. And he will dwell among them and they shall be his people, and God himself will be among them...

WITH is the bookend - the beginning and the end, and the purpose in between. God intends to know us, and be known by us. He intends for for us to know each other. WITH is woven throughout the fabric of history...

Broken and then Restored.

Have you ever wondered what it means to be restored?

John 1:1 says, "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was WITH God, and the Word was God."

The Word: that's Jesus. God in the flesh, dwelt among us. Emmanuel. When Jesus came he came to be WITH us, to restore us and redeem us from the jail of our own making, and the jails we did not make at all, yet find ourselves in. There is freedom in WITH. There is power in WITH. It is the power of God.

We are meant to be in relationship WITH God. We are meant to be in community in WITH each other. And when we reach out beyond our self-absorbtion to walk WITH those who live on the margins God is honored. Because when we walk WITH, we become imitators of God. True followers.

Be careful here; a danger lurks. Just as independence is not freedom, neither is near the same as WITH. Near is a cheap substitution for WITH.

Near is about proximity.

WITH costs. Jesus was Immanuel, God WITH Us, and it cost him his life. His life.

If you think you know a thing about WITH, yet it has not cost you it is not WITH. Do you want intimacy in your marriage? WITH is going to cost you.
Do you want to know the heart of your child? WITH is going to cost you.
Do you want your life to be a story worth telling? WITH is going to cost you.

It always does.

But a story WITH is the only story worth telling. It is the Story, in fact...and so all great story, must be the same story.

Walk WITH God.
Walk WITH Others.
Walk WITH the Least of These.

"See, I have engraved you on the palm of my hand..." God said this to Israel, His People. He says it to us as well. We are the people that he loved, that he remembered, that he restored. He wanted to be WITH us. And so he engraved my name (and yours) on palms of His hands. So deep, in fact, did he engrave my name that it pierced His flesh. I think it may have looked like a...

A Spike.
A Tree.
A Hill where he died as soldiers mocked and crowds jeered.

WITH is a priceless gift.

Barking more than the puppy!

This morning I thought I would blog about why I love homeschooling. It would have been a lovely post about deliciously homeade buckwheat pancakes and lattes, and lazy snowy mornings...

it would have been a post like that...

except...

There is a ten year old learning to write research papers, and that apparently requires a fair amount of pissing and moaning.

There is an 8 year old who does not want to learn 6x8, or 6 time anything for that matter. It makes long division an extremely LOOONNNGGG and excruciation process for anyone in the vicinity.

There is a 7 year old who doesn't feel well - and inherited his mother's tendency to get emotional when hungry, tired or sick.

There is a 3 year old who does not enjoy her schedule being thrown off by such silly things as buckwheat pancakes and lattes.

There is a 12 week old puppy who doesn't like to be drug around by her front leg by a preschooler wearing a fairy costume. Imagine that!

There is a thirty something woman who is trying to model long-suffering and tolerance, but in actuality might have been barking more than the puppy.

SO...

We are declaring an extended recess/PE. The big kids are going outside to build a snowman in 3/4 inch of snow. And peanut put herself down for a nap.

See there are some good things about homeschooling after all...

John Piper and the Prosperity Gospel

Orphan Sunday

6 years ago God broke my heart for a thing that breaks his - a worldwide orphan crisis.

It never really mended - my heart, that is. And somehow I don't think it was meant to. Millions of orphaned children should chafe at one's soul. Child led households should be disturbing. Babies with cleft palates destined to short lives lived out in institutions - that should keep a person awake at night.

So because God broke my heart for these things, I wrote a little email to the leadership of our church suggesting we host a Orphan Sunday event. I was not at all sure that they would take it seriously. But guess what? They did. We did. And Jacob's Well hosted our first ever Orphan Sunday. I'm sure big churches with big budgets pulled off some impressive events. Ours was simple yet... God was on the move.

One family made a commitment to adopt. Another is seriously considering it. Small groups are supporting child led households. Our church is commiting to help an organization who cares for kids who've aged out of foster care and are living on the streets.

There is a buzz...a rumbling...an undercurrent and a subtext.

I am so excited.

Partly, it's that I know many orphaned kids need to have the church act as their defender. If we are really, truly the hands and feet of Christ, then we need to be feeding, protecting, advocating and caring for the least of these.

But it's more than just that...because in some weird way we (the American church) need these orphans too. We need the to draw us out of the bondage of our own self-absorption. We need them to teach us about joy, and hope. We need them to redefine "treasure" for us. We need them to lead us to the heart of our Father.

When my heart broke for the orphaned child it broke, really and truly. Yet somehow in the process I found that life was bigger than I ever knew, and I found HOPE. I believe that as our little church cares for the things that break God's heart we will find life. Our world will grow. We will grow - both in numbers and in maturity. And I am so excited to see what God will do.

Quotables and Bullet Points

• Caleb, aka kid #3, is laid back. He's seriously low key - and it sometimes disguises itself as laziness. Yet, underneath he's got this creative and incredible inner world. He's got a fabulous ear for music. He's funny - but he can be so quiet you miss funny comments. So, I thought I should record recent Caleb comments for posterity.

"When I die and go to heaven I want to get the body of a lego guy." - Caleb

"Mom, I think I can breathe through my ears." - Caleb

• I am riddled with guilt because our puppy has an ear infection. I have no idea why this is my fault, but it feels like I failed at puppy ownership and will have to turn in my " Humane Individual Card". This is compounded by the fact that we returned Psychotic Oso, may he rest in peace, to the shelter a week after rescuing him.

• We're homeschooling. It's going well. I am still not convinced we are lifers. Homeschooling is an imperfect solution (Back-off you homeschooling nut jobs - It is NOT perfect, and not everyone should do it.). However, public school are jacked too, and so is private school. So where does that leave us?

"Je ne sait pas" is French for "I don't know".

I think it sounds classier than, "I'm clueless."

So

"Je ne sait pas."

• I have a cold. I hate colds.
  

• Abby is wearing a princess dress over her footie jammies tonight. She is kid number four, so we don't care. She's sleeping. Sleep is good - she could ask to sleep in medieval chain mail and we'd probably say "yes."
  

• I talked with this amazing woman who just adopted a newborn. She's in her late 40's and has 10 kids, and a whole bunch of foster kids. Most are special needs. She's normal looking, and put together - in case you were wondering. I'm pretty sure she knows a lot about the important things. Plus, she said, "Get Pull-ups; it doesn't matter if your daughter is 6 years old when she is finally potty trained." , and that makes me like her even better.
  

• I'm excited our little church is hosting an Orphan Sunday initiative. Go Us. We're little. We're made up of mostly new Christ-followers. And we're talking orphan care.

• I've taken to carrying around a bottle of childrens' antihistamine with me. My allergies are become a PAIN, and I've found a swig of liquid Benedryl is the fastest solution. Pretty sure nobody's doctor recommends that.
  

Denial and other parenting tactics

Where to begin?

Daughter #2 (and kid #4) was adopted through foster-care. She was itty-bitty when she came to us and thus avoided much of the trauma her biological sisters endured in their home of origin. My brown-eyed girl is an absolute doll; everywhere we go I get random strangers commenting on her general cuteness. And, let's be honest here, the girl is SUPER cute. She is also bright, maybe even very bright. So I have this darling and intelligent kid and it's easy to assume everything is normal. Oh, there are indicators that something is amiss, but they are easily overlooked, and to the general public they are entirely invisible. Even to our friends and family these "QUIRKS" are nearly invisible.

Yet...

According to Karyn Purvis (adoption and childhood trauma specialist), and our pediatrician and my daughter's occupational therapist there are almost certainly physiological differences in her brain. These differences can be managed, but they will never go away. Never. They will likely have bigger and bigger implications as she grows and matures.

What's a mom supposed to do with that? 'Cause the kid looks normal, and she's my daughter and I love her. How do I come to grips with that? How do I tell people who need to know what's really going on and still keep my daughter's story her own. If I told people, would they even believe me? I don't want to give my daughter a label that carries a stigma, but how do I let the world know that not all of the same rules apply to this pretty little brown eyed preschooler?

And, seriously, how do I parent this kid?

SI dysfunction.
Adhd.
Information Processing/Auditory Processing Disorder
Sensory Seeking.
Poor transitioning.
Executive Function Differences.
Causal Relationship Issues
Sleep Disorder
Preconception /Body Awareness Problems


It's an alphabet soup of mumbo jumbo.

If any of you lack wisdom, he should ask God, who give generously to all without finding fault and it will be given to him...James 1:5

Ah God, it's me, I need wisdom. I need a generous heaping helping of it. Because you've called me to mother this precious child, yet I don't know how...

Bear, the Psycotic Dog

My kids have been begging for a pet for years. According to them they were the only kids in America without a one; it's a terrible burden to bear. I held out for a good long time, but the mom guilt gets to you after a while, so it was time to consider. consider. consider. pet acquisition.

Reptiles, amphibians, and rodents are icky. They were, and are, an absolute NO GO!

Cats give me hives and make it impossible to breathe.

Dogs...I'm allergic to some dogs. But there are a few that I can tolerate.

Thus, began the saga.

The story begins with me doing hours upon hours of research into hypo-allergenic dogs. Apparently, poodles are the hypo-allergenic-ist of all dogs. So people cross breed poodles with other breeds to get the hypo-allergenic qualities of a poodle and hopefully breed out the poodle ugliness. They're called designer dogs, and unbeknownst to me they are all the rage. There are labradoodles, and goldendoodles, and ausi-doodles, and cockadoodles. And then there are micro-mini versions of all of the above. It boggles the mind.

There is also a breed called bichpoos A certain sad and pathetic bichpoo had taken up residence at the Dumb Friends League, and my internet research had brought him to my attention. Eddie and I went to check on the hypoallergenic qualities of this dog, and ended up bringing him home. He was a sorry sight. Bad hair cut. Recently neutered. Skittish little thing. But he loved me - loved me to distraction.

We named him Oso, which means bear. It was wishful thinking.

One week and a couple hundred dollars into dog ownership we discovered a thing. The dog was psychotic. Fear had driven him insane. Really. I'd leave and he'd freak out to the point he'd start injuring himself. He chewed off his own claw. We're tolerant of neurosis, so we though we could deal with that. Until he started growling, barking and lunging at every little boy in sight. There are currently 4 little boys in residence. So poor Oso had to go before he attacked a kid.

(Philosophical sidenote: Some people are like Oso, the Psychotic Dog. They are so driven by fear that they hurt themselves and others. The need to control destroys them and the people around them.)

We returned Oso, the Psychotic Dog to the shelter Wednesday. But, of course, the story cannot end here. My kids have ridden an emotional roller-coaster. It went like this:

Children had born the burden of pet-free status for years.
Finally, they got a dog.
The dog was psychotic.
The dog had to be returned.
Imagine with me the years of therapy this kind of trauma could entail...


I needed a hypo-allergenic, non-psychotic puppy, at a deep discount, and in a hurry.

So I email every breeder of hypo-allergenic pups this side of the Mississippi, begging for a discount. Designer dogs are expensive. I needed a miracle of puppy proportion.

Kathy, at AAC Ranch, came through for me. She had mercy on our pathetic story and sold us a darling little fuzz ball at an $800 discount. We call her Kota. It's short for Lakota Pumpkin. "Pumpkin" because its October. "Lakota" because that is kid #4's ethnic background. I think it might be weird to name your dog after your daughters ethnic background. I mean really who names their dog African American, or Northern European? You see what I mean?

Anyway - we are now pet owners. She's nine weeks old. And a puppy in every sense of the word.

INFP

Our small group recently did the Myers-Briggs test and a spirtual gifts inventory. I am an:

INFP (an acronym)
Introvert - I renew energy by being alone. I am introspective and contemplative.
iNtuitive - Patterns, intuition, and relationship inform my life. I dream.
Feeling - People, and their feelings play into my decision making.
Perceiving - I like my options option, and am comfortable with being in process.

Now I've been an INFP since the very first time I took this personality inventory in high-school. People who know we well, and understand the Myers-Briggs verify my INFP status.

Here's the rub. The test I took last week turned out a bit differently. Though I AM an INFP I act Like a INTJ.

This annoys me.

It annoys me a LOT.

Because it sorta means I operate outside of my wiring. I've adapted to my life by acquiring survival skills.

Like being logical.
Like paying attention to details.
Like being goal oriented, and task focused.

These things aren't bad things, but let's be honest here, there not all that FUN either.

They're functional.

But, once, I was a dreamer.
Once, I was an artist.
I used to now how to glory in the beauty of a fall afternoon, and NOT do my laundry.
And believe it or not, years ago, I had the reputation of a slacker who distracted others from their work.

(In self-defense, I wasn't an actual slacker; I was just skilled at working the system so my work took me less time. I do, however, plead the 5th on the part about distracting others from their work. It might have happened, a time or two or... )

Life is stressful. It's busy. It's full of tasks that need to be done. right. now.

But somewhere in the midst of things I've lost the art of play. I lost the head in the clouds day-dreamer I used to be. What if I could just:

CHILL OUT!

and play.
and read.
and dream.
and pray.

What if I embraced these tendencies in my children?

a hand full of shells...

Theoretically, has settled down for us.

Theoretically.

The actuality is somewhat different.

We may have downshifted, but the RPM are just as high. We've traded in the freeway for off-roading. So while we cover ground more slowly the climb is more intense and it requires more skill in the assent. The slower speed lets me be intentional about the things in which I involve myself. And so many things vie for my attention. Good things. Really good things. Excellent even.

But my energies need to be focused.

I like missions statements. I get geeked about stuff like that, so I'm trying to develop my own.

Here is what I know: When I try to grab hold of life by living for myself...I end up chasing after the wind. I arrive with handfuls of hard won... nothing, and I am empty for all my chasing.

2 Corinthians 5 talks about being compelled by Christ's love to be a part of the ministry of reconcilliation. I know that sounds like a bunch of churchified mumbo-jumbo. Still, it speeks to me because there is nothing so compelling as the love of Christ. Nothing so motivating.
There is a song we sing at church that says " if His love is an ocean then we're all drowning" and it is true. After experiencing the radical, crazy love of Christ there is no going back. Nothing else feels like life...nothing else satisfies. His love engulfs and it changes; it compels me to action.

'Cause when you walk with God the things he cares about become the things you care about. His passions become your passions, and his heartbreak your own.

"Thy kingdom come, thy will be done", becomes an authentic thing.

The particulars for me center around orphan care, issues like fatherlessness, and poverty. They center around engaging the comatose Church in America with the heart of God. For God so loves the American church, now enslaved and chained to the things we have long pursued, that he gave his only son that whosoever believes in him should be disentangled from the consumerism that so easily entangles and experience life, both here and in eternity.

Still working on that missions statement.

The Business of With

Near is not with. It's near.
With is near on steroids.
With has power.
Near is about proximity.

God said, "I will be with you always..." It's a God thing this with business; more than the sum of its parts. Exponential. Transformational. Important.

For this season I need to be with my kids.
We're reading together. I'm actually listen to them.
I see my daughter healing up.

Sunshine and roses.
Sunburn and thorns.

It's flippin' exhausting this with business.

But good.

Except for when it's crummy.

Remind Me: Its a Season

So I haven't blogged in forever. I've been busy. Uber, ultra, insanely busy. And loving it. I hung up my home school hat and pulled on a new elementary school teacher one. I rocked it, if I do say so myself, for one whole calendar year. It was totally energizing. Unfortunately, it was also unsustainable. The thing is, I have 4 little kids, and a very busy husband. And while I was off teaching my closets got cluttered, my hubs got a smidge neglected, and my kids went along for the roller-coaster ride. For while I had as near a perfect set up as any working mom could hope for but I had forgotten an important thing:

Near is not With.

Somewhere in the business I lost touch with my childrens' hearts, at least to a degree. Eddie was feeling like I didn't like him. I dig my husband. I didn't have time to call my sisters, or my friends, or my mom or dad. People became tasks. And that, my friends, is a problem. I was near my family, but my heart was not with them, and they suffered for it. My girls, in particular, are walking with a bit of an emotional limp these days. It needs to be addressed.

So I quit.

Ouch. That stings. Oh, how that stings. It feels like a little bit of death. I LOVED my job. I was really GOOD at my job.

But remind me this is a season. It is a season, right?

There is an old cliche that says, "When God closes a door he always opens a window?" I think that might be crap. Like God sends us scrambling out the escape hatch because He somehow screwed up Plan A. It does, however, feel like God has asked me to walk right over and close a door. He didn't close it; he asked me if I would trust him enough to close it myself. So I'm left here asking, "God why did I close the door? I know you love me. I know you have good for me. But closing that door cost me." And he understands that. He knows what it cost me. And I am waiting to see what door he opens before me. I am looking for a door, not some measly escape hatch. A door. Plan A. And maybe it's just living in this season, at home, with my 4 little kids. Maybe it is the chance to be WITH, and not just near.

Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater

What do you do with people who drive you berserk? Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater might have been on to something; shoving the offending person into an over-sized veggie seems like it might just do the trick.

But then there is that whole being Christlike thing. Those WWJD bracelets might be passe, but my guess is that Jesus would never lock irritating people away in gigantic veggies.

Back to square one.

What to do?

Here's the thing: nothing makes me want to beat the living snot out of someone like when they mess with my kids. But I discovering that retaliation is rarely the way to go. It feels good, but it's not diplomatic. It does not heal; it does not restore; it does not help. Dang.

I tell my kids: life isn't fair. The mistakes of others will hurt you. Forgive; choose to forgive. Forgiveness is the only way to be free. And right now, the taste of my own medicine is bitter.