The Bloggy Mommy

Baby

05/02/2013 10:30:00

Because I am the youngest of eight, my parents and siblings have referred to me as the baby ever since I can remember.

I have ten kids. I have changed thousands of diapers, spent over a hundred hours in labor and been pregnant for approximately seven years of my life. But no matter what I do, to them I will always be the baby. I have never understood it. Until Hope came along.

It could be because I had her when I was closer to 50 than 40. Or maybe it's that the whole family dotes on her. (She's everybody's baby, I often say.) Or it might even be because she is probably my last one. But there is just something about that baby that makes me want to keep her, well, a baby.

At her 15 month check up back in March I sheepishly explained to the pediatrician why she is not yet walking: Because she has so many people who carry her around, I said, we don't put her down long enough for her to learn how to walk. And my friend who is a physical therapist confirmed it during an impromptu evaluation. Hope just needs to get her balance, she said.

Then I felt compelled to defend why she is still drinking a bottle. I have two trips planned during the month of April, you see, and the bottle sure keeps her quiet. (People on airplanes like quiet babies.) As soon May comes, I will get her off that bottle.

It was true. I took her to Vermont when I spoke at a women's breakfast. Then just two weeks later we went to Memphis to see my family. That's when it hit me: Hope is not a baby.

The first day we were in Memphis, she was content to sit in my lap and drink her bottle. (That's the way I like it.) But she soon had to be part of the action. By the next day her second cousin Henry, just six months older, showed her how to climb and push little trucks across the window sill.

And since we've been home, her siblings agree she is older, more mature, less like a baby. Sigh. I guess it's time.

I have stretched Hope's infancy out as far as it will go. But now I have to let her, help her, equip her, to move on.

The Christian life is like that. Content to sit and watch, we resist growth, change, or anything that stretches our faith. But, unlike the way I have babied Hope, the Heavenly Father won't let us remain as infants. He will do what He has to do to help us grow, move on and find our balance.

And when He does, just like Hope, maturity is certain.

For everyone who partakes only of milk is not accustomed to the word of righteousness, for he is an infant. But solid food is for the mature, who because of practice have their senses trained to discern good and evil.

Hebrews 5: 13-14

Hope--ready to move on.

Passing It On

04/24/2013 10:26:00

The older I get, the more I realize there are folks who have invested in my life whom I know I could never repay.

When my new best friend, Pan (don't dare call her "Pam") invited me to church where her daddy was the preacher, I went. As far as I remember, the first time I heard him share the Gospel, I committed my life to Christ. It didn't matter that I was only nine and didn't fully understand. I knew I needed forgiveness, and Brother Jackson told me where to find it.

Almost every weekend I could be found at Pan's house. I remember hearing her mother's lovely soprano voice as I sat beside her in the church pew, not to mention the dozens of times she shushed two giggly young girls. After Sunday service it was off to her house for lunch where something delicious simmered in the crock pot.

The Jackson family read a scripture before every meal, and as the guest, I often got the honor. I don't remember what the verse said on that particular Sunday, but I will never forget pronouncing "Psalms" --a word I'd never seen before-- as "P-salms" with full emphasis on the P. Mrs. Jackson, of course, remained composed. Pan thought it was hilarious, but all Brother Jackson had to do was raise a bushy eyebrow to silence her. I have often wondered if he, too, had to contain his laughter.

Because of the Jackson family, I was in church "every time the door was open" as my mother used to say. Sunday school, service and puppet team year round; VBS and Camp Good News every summer. The songs, the stories, the teaching and preaching are all still with me today.

Then there is Brother Mark, my youth pastor from middle and high school. With his preaching aimed directly at the teenage heart, he addressed topics I had never heard before-- "How to Raise Your Parents", for instance.

Brother Mark's approach to dating was also new to me. "God has someone picked out just for you," he told our group of wide-eyed girls. "Make a list of what you want in your husband, and don't settle for anything less." Good thing I listened, too. How else could I have found a man who was willing to have ten kids?

And now that I have those ten kids, I often think about the precious people who influenced me during those years. I have tried to swing my doors wide open to my kids' friends like the Jackson's did for me.

And like Brother Mark, I want so much to make Christ real and relevant not only to my own teenagers but to their friends as well.

And to those folks along the way I say thanks. Thanks for taking the time to invest in me. The way you spoke into my life when I was young has stuck with me, changed me and sustained me.

I can never repay you, I know, except by passing it on.

One of the songs that is still with me--

Pass It On

It only takes a spark to get a fire going,

And soon all those around can warm up in its glowing;
That's how it is with God's Love,
Once you've experienced it,
Your spread the love to everyone
You want to pass it on.

What a wondrous time is spring,
When all the tress are budding
The birds begin to sing, the flowers start their blooming;

That's how it is with God's love,
Once you've experienced it.
You want to sing, it's fresh like spring,
You want to pass it on.

I wish for you my friend
This happiness that I've found;
You can depend on God
It matters not where you're bound,

I'll shout it from the mountain top -

I want the world to know
The Lord of love has come to me
I want to pass it on.

This Is a Test

03/26/2013 10:53:00

When March 1st came, I breathed a sigh of relief that we had had such a well winter.

On March 2, Hope got a stomach virus. We had company coming--friends from Vermont. Our friend Karl Swanke (#67--look him up) played for Green Bay in the 80's and his visit was perfectly timed with our church's March Madness sports theme. He planned to say a few words at church while he and his wife, Maggie (one of my favorite people) were with us for the weekend college shopping with their daughter. I texted them with the news. They came anyway, and as usual, were a breath of fresh air.

The Swankes left right after church and by sundown the other seven kids and Captain Fun had fallen ill. You haven't lived until you have seven kids throwing up at the same time. Though, truth be told, the older five and the Captain were on their own, poor things, as I had to take care of Dorothy and Silas. All I could do was listen to hurried footsteps all night while I tended to the younger ones. Thankfully, our friends escaped it.

Ten days later, Dorothy woke up with a headache and high fever. For three days, she lay on the couch, and she missed the whole week of school.

Tiger and Matt, my two oldest sons, had the same spring break and planned to spend it at our house. I was elated to have all ten kids under the same roof. Within 48 hours of arriving, the stomach bug bit them. I brought them Sprite and crackers. It was just like old times, we joked. Somehow both of them agreed it was still a great visit home--one of the best, even, minus that 24 hours.

Within a day of their departure, Hope woke up from her nap feverish, inconsolable and lethargic. I rushed her to the doctor. Influenza B, he confirmed, and wrote a prescription for Tamiflu at $100 a pop. For almost a week she lay on my chest, not smiling, not playing, not eating. I have never had an infant with the flu before. I acted as if she was my first child, calling the nurse three times in the same day. I worried. I prayed. While Dorothy could tell me how she was feeling, all Hope could do was rest her head on my shoulder and cry. I thought of parents who have seriously ill children, wondering how they endured.

"I hope you don't get it," the doctor had said to me.

"Oh, I don't worry too much about getting it," I said, ignoring the tickle in my throat. By day three, the flu hit me full force. "I can see why you didn't get off the couch for three days," I told Dorothy. And on the day Hope and I were at our worst, a construction crew arrived in front of my house complete with jack hammers, waking Hope up from her much needed nap and allowing no relief for my pounding head.

By the time Hope recovered, Cory was down, calling for another $100 prescription and missed week of school. He returned to class today, but as I write this Mom Dot is on her third day in bed. Captain Fun checks on her, I check on her, the kids check on her. Soup, cold medicine, water and more water. She pokes her head out of her bedroom door, "Just to let you know I am still alive." I think she is on the mend.

Why the stomach bug and the flu in the same month? And why when we had so much company planned? (I even had a big birthday bash planned for sweet cousin Ellen that I had to cancel--twice.)

"Count it all joy when you fall into trials," the book of James says. Well, I am not quite celebrating trials yet, but I do know you just have to roll with them, let them stretch you, grow you, remind you that being there for each other is what family is for. It's no fun--the month of March has seemed three months long. But someone said we can let things make us bitter or better, and at least if we let it grow us, the experience is not wasted.

Once in a while when I was a kid, a strange man's voice would interrupt the Brady Bunch. "This is a test. This is only a test," he said before an annoying buzz would take over the TV for 60 seconds.

I still hear that voice during times of trial: this is only a test.

"Count it all joy when you fall into various trials, knowing that the testing of your faith produces patience. But let patience have its perfect work, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking nothing."

James 1:2-4

Everybody? Not on My Watch.

03/08/2013 11:38:00

I wanted to ride my bike to the mall with my BFF when I was about 12. My mother said no.

I told her everybody rode their bikes to the mall.

"And if everybody jumped off a cliff, would you jump, too?" she asked.

Why do all my friends' mothers say that? I thought.

When I was 17, a guy who was well over 21 asked me on a date. My mother said I had to wait until I was 18 to go out with him. So I did.

In college, a foreign student invited me to his apartment. "I will cook dinner for you," he said in his thick, mysterious accent.

"I can guarantee you he has more in mind than dinner," my mother said.

Conversations between kids and parents have changed, it seems. Nowadays they go something like this:

"Why wait until I am 21 to drink? Everybody drinks before they are 21."

"Fine, then," say Mom and Dad. "We will host the party so we can supervise and make sure no one drives home under the influence."

At the last high school my kids attended, a banner hung on the gate from prom to graduation proclaiming Parents Who Host Lose the Most. Really? We have to have a giant sign to encourage us not to host underage drinking?

When my oldest daughter was in the spring musical during her senior year, I volunteered our house for the cast party.

"Well, Mom," she said, "I already mentioned it and they want to have a coed sleepover. I told them my parents would never go for that."

"How about the girls sleep over and the boys leave at midnight?"

"I offered that, too, but they said they would find a house where the parents either didn't care or weren't paying attention."

What happen to the jumping off the cliff analogy? What happened to that's not healthy, that's not right, you're too young or it'sillegal.

"Why try and stop them when they are just going to do it anyway?" I hear repeatedly.

Because they need to know it's wrong when they do it. And how will they know if we parents don't tell them?

Wrong. The opposite of right. Introduce your kids to the word.

Most kids want boundaries. All kids need guidance. And they all need to know parents care enough to say no.

It is no wonder kids are convinced everybody's doing everything. Instead of encouraging the common sense it takes to not tumble over the cliff with the crowd, parents are packing kids a parachute to protect them from consequences, then acting as private escort right up to the edge.

Say no, offer guidance, be the bad guy (it's in the job description). Will kids always make the right choices? Maybe not. But they will know the difference between right and wrong. And they won't have to wonder if you care.

When Quiet is Loud: A Review

03/01/2013 10:40:00

If you think introverts can't make a difference, think again.

Susan Cain opens her book, Quiet, with an eye (and ear) opening example of the power of the introvert. Rosa Parks, a small framed, quiet lady in her 40's, fueled a movement with one word: No.

But Cain doesn't stop there. She goes on to list dozens of introverts that have changed history: Lincoln, Einstein, Gates; the list goes on and on.

The book is a bit academic and, consequently, hard for me to digest at times. Still, Cain's argument is valid and healthy for an extrovert like myself to consider. Just as the subtitle so cleverly states, there is an undeniable power of quiet in a world that can't stop talking.

Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking

Susan Cain

Broadway Books

$16.00

Gait Changes

02/27/2013 10:42:00

For twenty five years I have been raising kids, frequently feeling stuck in a time warp much like Bill Murray in the movie Groundhog Day. As soon as one child gains a little independence, another arrives. But lately I have had such a sense of time and the inevitable changes it brings. Three kids have left the nest, and three more are perched on the branch, preparing to fly. Some still a few years away, but I know it will seem like no time at all.

Looking out the window on the way to church Sunday morning, I caught a glimpse of an elderly gentleman ambling toward a cemetery. He was dressed in his Sunday best. Hands in his pockets, his gait was slow, a shuffle almost. Even though I only saw him from a distance, I was struck by his seeming sadness.

Maybe it is because another anniversary of my mother's death is approaching. Anyone who has lost their mom is familiar with the emotion it evokes--even running across one of her favorite brands while shopping last week made me teary. Hard for me to believe that my four youngest have no memory of my mother. It seems impossible that she has been gone for over a decade.

Or perhaps it is that Hope is 14 months with four teeth popping through and already calling some of her siblings by name. Slow down, I urge her--and the rest of the family agrees. Well, except Silas, maybe.

"These are the best years of your life, with all the kids around your feet," my dad once told me. Many years have passed since he offered that advice, and I still have plenty of kids underfoot. But my perspective has changed. I have shifted from thinking that nothing ever changes to knowing everything does.

I guess time has taught me that life consists of a series of changes. Some come suddenly, some so gradual that I don't notice until it is upon me, staring me in the face. I am finally starting to get it, and it has caused me to brake where I use to accelerate, to amble instead of rush. Much like the dear old man in the cemetery, my gait has changed from mad dash to a slow and steady saunter. And if I had stopped to ask his viewpoint, I am certain he would have given me a charge to live more deliberately, more intentionally along the way.

I sure am trying.

"Jesus Christ, the same yesterday, today and forever."

-- Hebrews 13:8

God Gave Us Easter: A Review

02/08/2013 11:12:00

Once again I am reviewing a book for Waterbrook Press' Blogging for Books group. If you're looking for a children's book to explain Easter and then some to your kids, pick up God Gave Us Easter by Lisa Tawn Bergren

"On Christmas we remember Jesus' birthday, but on Easter we remember that we get to be with Him forever," Papa Bear tells Little Cub.

Parents will appreciate the simple approach to Easter that the author takes. But I was also surprised to find that she also delves into such theology as the root of Jesse and how death comes from life.

While she references eggs, baskets and bunnies as symbols of Easter, she ultimately returns to the main focus: God gave us Easter.

The application comes at the end, where Papa Bear teaches Little Cub to listen for Himself, with his heart, and find out what Jesus has to say to him. With a little conversation after the book is read, parents could easily encourage their kids to ask themselves the same question.

God Gave Us Easter

Waterbrook Press www.waterbrookmultnomah.com

40 pages

$10.99

A Day in the Life

02/05/2013 10:26:00

I always love writing articles, but this month I got an extra fun assignment from my friend and editor, Jane Schneider. "Would you tell us what a day in the life of a mom of many looks like?" she asked.

Well, here it is, the good, the bad and the busy.

A Day in the Life of: The Sims Family

When folks find out I have ten kids, the inevitable question is, “How do you do it all?” My reply is always the same: I could never do it all, so I just stick to the important stuff.

5:00 am The baby slept all night so I wake up before the alarm, grateful for an hour of quiet before anyone stirs. I flip on the fireplace and the coffeepot and settle in for my daily dose of prayer and scripture.

6:30-9:00 I send three pairs of kids off to three different schools. Because half of my kids have sports after school, I leave a simple but hot breakfast on the stove. Then it’s on to lunches, where the sandwich assembly line resembles a game of solitaire. After I walk my youngest kids to the bus stop at 9, I chat with the other moms, loving their unhurried pace. If weather permits, I take the baby for a walk—the only workout I can fit into my life right now.

10:00 I am not a meticulous housekeeper, but the kids gain on me if I don’t tidy up. I am soon over the housework and stop to play with Hope, 13 months. She is my late in life surprise, and admittedly, I am about half grandma with this one.

11:00 Hope watches Barney Goes to the Zoo in her high chair while she eats lunch. The same DVD every day, but she will watch the whole episode, interacting with the animals. I am delighted she can be contained for 45 minutes.

12:00 Bath time. Hope plays with her rubber duck family and tries to drink the tub water. (Now I know where the “Mrs. Lucy” song got its inspiration.) After her bath I rock her until she dozes off, finding it easy to take the time to feel the moment before slipping her into bed.

1:00-3:00 No matter how full the sink, the hamper or the “to do” list, I rest, write and recharge until the baby wakes up. Calls from my husband or my third child at the USMA are the only exceptions. My son often calls mid-day, and I love hearing about life at West Point and grow nostalgic thinking of how proud my parents would be.

3:20-4:15 Six kids return from school. Younger kids ride the bus home, but I must pick up my athletes. Since I am the only driver, I do a lot of running and I am counting the days until the next one gets a driver’s license I am thankful I usually have someone to watch Hope so I don’t often have a crying baby in the car seat—about the only thing that still gets under my skin after 25 years of babies.

4:00-6:00 Hope shifts, homework and hamburgers. Mom Dot, my 86 year old mother in law, lives with us and is a tremendous help with homework, quizzing the kids on their various subjects. Four kids taking a half hour “Hope shift” gives me two hours to tidy up again and cook dinner, always while listening to Sinatra. I call on whoever is around to set the table, joking with the kids that I know where they’re hiding.

6:00-7:00 Dinner and dishes. It is challenging to wait until 6:00 to serve (in my mind, dinner must be conquered) but family dinner time is a priority. I wait for my deserving husband; he is the breadwinner, after all, and my recent college graduate, Bethany, to get home from work. Eleven people around the table brings a lot of chatter, and I can't help but smile when one of them raises a hand for a turn to talk. Silas says something about kindergarten and Mom Dot mistakes it for the Pentagon. “Being half-deaf makes life interesting,” she laughs. Someone checks the calendar to announce whether it is boys’ night or girls’ night to help with dishes.

730 Hope to bed. I love listening to the quiet as I rock the baby one more time.

800-9:00 Somewhere in this hour we have family devotions (complete with some wriggles and giggles). The time of connecting every night is vital to family health and I am quick to give credit to Captain Fun for starting this tradition. Afterwards, the younger ones go to bed while the older ones finish up homework.

9:00 I see my oldest son on the caller ID and eagerly answer. Recently relocating to ND to pursue a Master’s in aviation, he has forgotten about his new time zone. He reports he and his sweet wife like their new surroundings even though the high today is 4 and the low is -14. I enjoy talking with my oldest and find it hard to believe he is a grown, married man.

10:00 Fall into bed knowing I will be doing—and loving—all the important stuff again tomorrow.

What I'm Reading Now: One Thousand Gifts: A Dare to Live Fully Right Where You Are by Ann Voskamp
My Least Favorite Chore: Putting away the laundry
In My Bag, I Always Carry: A snack to distract whiny kids.

My Favorite Pick-me-up: A cup of Chai tea and chocolate—Dove or above.

"This is the day that the Lord has made, let us rejoice and be glad in it."

Psalms 118:24

Memphis Parent Magazine, February 2013

Cleaning House

01/25/2013 12:16:00

I have blogged many times about how order escapes me. Now that three of my kids are grown, I remind myself that they turned out well in spite of my quirky disorganized ways. Besides, I tell myself, I have ten kids, and who (except Mrs. Duggar) could be organized with ten kids? Nevertheless, I am constantly trying to improve my methods, and this week I reviewed a book that is truly helpful.

Cleaning House by Kay Wills Wyma takes a new approach to organization. She goes an impressive step further--not only helping her five kids to get organized, but also helping them to get over themselves.

The subtitle of the book is : A Mom's 12-Month Experiment to Rid Her Home of Youth Entitlement. It all started on the drive to school when her teenage son asked her which car she thought he would look best in, casually observing the cars around him. When he concluded that a Porsche was the best fit, Wyma saw the entitlement attitude waving a huge red flag. But she didn't just sigh or roll her eyes, she responded with an action plan.

Growing up privileged ("one of those" she describes herself), she was still taught the value of hard work. "But somehow I came to realize I haven't been equipping them to embrace those truths," she admits. In her book, Cleaning House, she lets all of us in on just how she did it.

Wyma's approach is to divide and conquer: divide the house into twelve parts and require her kids to own each piece for a month. Her plan is doable, digestible and humorously disagreeable to her kids.

If you're ready to get down to the nitty-gritty on what we parents are really supposed to be teaching our kids, pick up the book--and start Cleaning House at your house.

Organized Schmorganized

01/17/2013 10:50:00

I have a confession to make: I despise organization.

Don't misunderstand. I would love to be organized. But I am convinced my abilities are limited.

Getting ready for church, for example, was a nightmare when I lived in the Bible Belt back when church attire was in a class by itself. Finding shoes and socks that matched 18 feet was a routine Sunday morning frustration--also in a class by itself.. One morning we were down to the wire and I was frantically throwing shows out of the shoe basket, crying, "I hate shoes and socks!" when I turned to see my daughter, Bethany, standing behind me, no doubt trying to figure out just what her mother had against shoes and socks.

During baseball season, I have shown up at the wrong field with the wrong kid on the wrong night.

I frequently get lost--with a GPS.

I started a Facebook and couldn't find my wall.

The constant clutter and chaos can get a mother down. But one day several years back, I learned to let go.

I was talking with a friend who manages people's homes by profession. These folks depend on her for anything and everything. Our family was visiting the home where she worked, and we had a conversation.

"You do a good job with those kids," she said to me. "They are polite at the table and they take their plates when they're done." She didn't know we had practiced for a month before we came. "I can tell they are being raised with a lot of love."

"Oh, thank you," I said. "That really makes me feel good--my house is so messy, it really gets to me."

She stopped and turned to face me. "I have worked in many clean houses where the kids are killing themselves," she said, looking me right in the eye. "Don't you worry about that house."

I will forever keep trying to do better in the organization department, but I will never forget her words. Her advice has helped me to remember that while being organized is a good thing, it is not everything.

Once in a while the clutter still gets me down, but then I revisit the essential elements of raising kids. Being organized pales in comparison.