The Bargainer's Dozen

     I have a sweet tooth. I hate to admit it these days, but I wasn't always so mindful. In fact for years, sweets were a food group in my diet. Gummy Bears ranked higher than carrots and Brussels sprouts. Peeps replaced Ham on Easter morning. Chocolate Covered cherries were all I stocked my pantry with through the winter months. It wasn't until the blood sugar test they give expectant mother's at their six month appointment that I learned I had gestational diabetes with Judah and my world began to pivot.
Writing down a total number of carbohydrates for each meal started to put a halt on the skittles.

     I thought, certainly if I drink a lot of water and exercise this whole blood sugar thing will get back to normal. I had the mind set that I could conquer anything and especially health. But as I pricked my finger again and again the numbers were always higher than normal. I had to forsake all sugars and embrace the Brussels sprouts. Needless to say, I went through a sugar withdrawal, but in-saline shots started to get my attention.

     The only thing I looked forward too through that last trimester was having the baby so I could get back to my Gummy Bears. I was sick of celery with natural peanut butter. I even dreamed about eating a Snicker's bar when no one was looking. When I finally had Judah I didn't check my blood sugar for a long time. I ate what I wanted to which was a large variety of the third trimester No No's.

     When Judah was about seven months old I thought maybe I should just check my blood sugar. I skipped the post par-tum blood sugar test scheduled for three weeks after his birth. It would have required fasting and 2 1/2 hours of drinking concentrated pop and waiting. I just couldn't fit it in with preparing to move and nursing a newborn. So I held out my finger for a good poke. As I gathered the droplet of blood I waited for the number to pop up, 139 the number read. My heart sunk, the sugar problem had not gone away.

     Once again I said farewell to my sugar buddies that had been helping me through the past few months. I went back to diet and exercise. I cut out regular sugar and I cut carbs. In a few months I was losing a lot of the baby fat and moving past the sugar cravings. I checked my A1C, and it was within normal range. This sounded like good news but I was afraid of myself. You know that inner voice that tries to get you to do all the things you know you shouldn't. Well it started whispering to me again. This time it brought up my old crush, Chocolate frosted donuts with cream filling.

    It just so turned out our new home was only thirty-five minutes from one of the best donut shops I had ever experienced, Jaarsma Bakery in Pella, Iowa. They had chocolate frosted cream filled Bismarks that were like eating a baby angel:) So good!

    Again I fell off the wagon of good eating skills just to have one of these little temptations. Now I am not saying eating donuts is a sin, but they are sinfully good:) I love the way the sugar rush makes my head tingly and I have the energy of a Squirrel. I looked past the stomach ache. I forgot the way I repented after I had to lay in bed after one of my donut indulges. But at some point I put the foot down and I looked myself in the eye.

Knock it off Dianne!

     That is when Brad introduced me to KETO. The weird diet of cooking everything in bacon grease and smothering it with avocados. No donuts were allowed though it was totally acceptable to eat a whole package of bacon in one day. In those days I would yell at the old tempter when my mind would remind me of how happy I was eating a donut. How fun it was to squish a gummy bear between my teeth, especially the ones from the Albanese Candy Store.

   The diet lasted a good four months before I started taking in a treat here and there. I thought I was still practicing moderation until yesterday. A new villian hijacked my sugar heist. Oh it was a clever trap laid before me. I was just going into Dollar General for a few things. At this time of social distancing I am thankful for the moments to shop. In our little community I only have two options, the grocery store and Dollar General. I wasn't prepared for what I was about to walk into.

   As I was looking for raw apple cider vinegar, not an item they carry, my eye was drawn to the little orange sign that read 90% off Easter. Now if there is anything I love more than candy it is a sale of grand proportions. I started digging through the items. I had a small thought in the back of my mind that Covid 19 could be in the box of plastic bunnies, Easter grass and wind-up chicks. BUT THEY WERE 90% off...

    I have a brain injury when it comes to sales. I have bought many items in the past that later I laughed at. Like at Christmas I bought 42 popcorn balls because they were 10 cents each. No one in my house would eat them but I reasoned, we could have a "snow ball" fight. Or we could make a craft.

     I have a problem. I sometimes recognize this, but yesterday when I laid eyes on the huge box filled to the brim full of cartons of Chocolate covered marshmallow eggs I knew I had to stop. My head pounded with the thrill hitting the jackpot. I picked up one package of eggs, it rung up at only 30 cents. I would have been crazy not to go back to get more.

     After purchasing three more dozen I left the store. My mind raced with the excitement of my great buy. I quickly opened the first carton. I'll just eat one, I said to myself. But to be honest the thin coating of chocolate had the perfect crunch contrast to the squishy marshmallow center. I was instantly brought back to the memory of eating these very eggs as a child. Thankfully my brothers didn't like marshmallow eggs so they didn't try to rob my Easter basket.

    As I ate the second and third egg I began to get happy. The sugar rush was beautiful. By the time I drove the 5 miles from the store to my home I surprised myself by discovering I only had three marshmallow eggs left.

    Oh no! this was definitely not good for me. I knew a walk was in order. I could picture the sugar surging through my veins. But the kids were loud, the kitchen was a mess, and I didn't have a plan for dinner, so the last three eggs just disappeared. Stress made me do it!!!

       The moral of this story is: I still have a sweet tooth. And though I have moments of victory, the fiendish side of me still can win. I have a bargain addiction, and I don't think there is medicine for this. I have 3 cartons of eggs that are calling to me as I write this. I am not sure if I should burn them, plastic carton and all, or donate them to the Covid 19 crisis center for other sugar addicts. It is hard to face your weakness and drop kick the chocolate covered marshmallow eggs. But let's be clear: I need to cast them into the sea of forgetfulness.

    My sweet tooth isn't dead and when the going gets tough I secretly like to start eating. I am sorry that as you read this, you are probably getting frustrated with me. With these words I hope to rid myself of the lure of these tasty little death traps . This dilemma is my chronicle of the Bargainer's dozen. 

Getting the Recipe Wrong

         

    I'm worried. Have you ever made a recipe, you have already made enough times that you have  it stored  in your brain. It is lodged there somewhere next to tying your shoes and riding a bike. Yet somehow this time when you pull it out of the oven, it doesn't look right. How could it not look right? I know that I know that I KNOW WHAT I'M DOING...

     After calling the whole family in to look at and taste it everyone concludes the obvious, you missed something. You knew it but when others confirm it some how it just makes the mistake sting a little more. Looking back at the messy counter space, it becomes clear. The milk carton isn't out. Without milk the whole consistency is off.  And then you remember just when you were about to grab the milk from the fridge your phone started buzzing...

    Do you follow my drift? Like rehashing a tried and true recipe stored away in the brain, I tend to think I am fine with relationships. If you ask me how my family is doing most of the time I am honest with my "we're doing great," reply. But something hasn't been quite right and if you come up close you might be able to sense it.

    The problem has been popping up with my men. I have lived with men my whole life but I realize I still don't understand them and they don't really understand me. In an effort to do better I was listening to a podcast about the inner workings of a man's mind.

I shook my head. I have it all wrong, and I just don't know how to get this recipe right.

    Growing up with three brothers I felt frustrated. I cleaned the kitchen while they played basketball. I cared about my grades, I was busy with plays and show choir, but accomplishments didn't get the attention basketball did. I was hurt and defensive.

    After maturing a little and falling in love I was sure the man I married was nothing like my ridiculous brothers. Certainly I would always love and respect him. I have loved him 100% but please, do you expect me to Respect the way he washes dishes but leaves all the silverware in the sink because he abandons ship before they can be cleaned.

    Shouldn't I speak up when he forgets to buy the off brand unscented baby wipes and instead forks over TWO EXTRA DOLLARS for the name brand floral scented ones? My poor baby's rear end will be redder than Rudolf's shiny nose.

    These are little things to speak up about. Certainly I am not a nag, I tell myself. This is the recipe I have been using for years...So why do I feel like we are not connecting?

    It just hit me between the eyes this morning that I got it wrong. Men and Women look at the world differently and as much as I can say: Women want to be loved and Men want to be respected if I don't know how to show respect my relationships won't get better.

    I mentioned this to my teenage daughter, who rolled her eyes and said, Men are dumb. Some how her statement catapulted me back to my own adolescents and the ugly names my brother called my Mom when he was mad. I was so ticked off at him. Other incidents with men belittling me came to mind. I still felt angry. But as I looked at this budding young woman I realized I didn't want her to grow up with the baggage I carried.

     I love my husband and my sons.

     The first ingredient I need in heaping measure is Forgiveness. In my hurt I can try to control these precious boys expecting them to think in the same detail that I do. I may expect them to tell me everything they think and feel when this is just not how they are hard wired.

    Second I need to say Thank you. When one of my guys does something for me, even if it isn't the way I would do it, I can be grateful for their act of love. I'm going to practice right now.

"Thank you honey for washing the dishes." I don't have to point out the forks and spoons he forgot to finish. Even if it takes all my will power to button my lips I can and I will.

   The reason I listened to the podcast in the first place was to try to figure out how to talk to my 18 year-old boy. You see I don't want to lose him with the wrong kind of talk. I can tell I am on thin ice already, and as I listened I took notes. I took notes because I love these men I share my home with. Speaking their language doesn't come naturally, but I vowed again to try. They are worth it.

   I am worried that I am not getting the recipe right, but I am also hopeful because this is a new day. What if I can move forward more careful with my words, expectations, and assumptions. What if I can lead my daughters to forgive too? What if we can improve this recipe we call family.

  A woman can dream.

   Thankfully I am not alone in my desire. I have faith that God cares about these men in my world even more than I do. With His help I can do anything. I am encouraged by the apostle Paul's words in 1 Corinthians 13.

  Love is Patient, Love is kind. It does not envy, It does not boast, It is not proud. It does not dishonor others, It is not self-seeking, It is not easily angered, It keeps not record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. 

Love Never Fails.

   

   

Around the Oval Table

   

    It happened almost four years ago now, I said yes to attending a small writer's group, and why wouldn't I? I had started a blog (I was big time).

   It was a balmy summer evening when I pulled up to the beautiful home. The tall trees revealed the centennial age of the home and shaded its classic beauty from the setting sun. Walking up the sidewalk I almost danced up to the front porch.

  I knew Deane from my first writing class at House of Hope. The thought of her calmed my racing heart. It is largely because of her that I dare to write. She had shared her desire to step out upon the waters of writing in that previous class I treasured. As a result, she opened her home to continue that little writing space, that opportunity for dreams to fly off pencils.

   As I entered her home the warm color of wood welcomed my eyes as I followed Deane. The quiet shuffle of feet and chatter from the next room came to my ears with a curious beckoning. Around the oval table I met Brenda and got reunited with Rebecca, a fellow student from the House of Hope writing class. This was to be the beginning.

    Later that year others would join the group. Some would stay and others would go. It sounds much like any group shifting with time, but it had become much more to me. This small group of ladies helped my heart speak. At first when we had writing exercises the flow seemed easy. I can do this, I thought. But as I listened to the writings coming off everyone's pens I enjoyed their writing.  I began to love these women who allowed the group to peer into their thoughts and dreams. We shared something together there. Out of the abundance of the heart the pen speaks and sometimes it bleeds onto the page.

    A few months into the meetings I found out I was pregnant. This was a life changing event. I didn't want it to be. I hoped to be able to Adult my way through an expanding tummy and the intense mood swings. I learned quickly that the pen will not lie. I am indebted to the ladies who sat through my bucket of tears. Why am I crying again? It is humbling to realize to give yourself permission to write is to become vulnerable, to become seen as you really are.

   Later when I lost my job we sold our house. We started a new life with a tiny baby, 3 older kids, and a naughty dog, but it was here I found comfort. Surrounded by the warm color of wood, in a chair around the oval shaped table words, lyrics, and delicious desserts put me back together again.

   After the blog posts ended and my mind was numb with sleepless nights and grief these ladies made me smile as we savored a poem together. As we read each other's works. When I wondered if there was anything left of me they reminded me...the pen does not lie. And there on tear stained paper I found my voice. It was quivering, unsure, and weak but it stood up on ink and notebook paper.

    They saw it, around the oval shaped table. They said, "it is good." That's when it happened...

For a second time, I believed...I am a writer. 

The Amazing Race

"Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding."Proverbs 3:5.

     I remember when I memorized this verse in high school. My Youth Pastor had passed out orange cards with this verse printed on it. He had instructed us to post it somewhere to be seen everyday. I put mine on the mirror in my room. At the time I doubted I could really memorize it by heart. But 20+ years later I rarely go a day without thinking about it.

     Last night I tried to make another meal. This quarantine cooking challenge has grown harder. I knew I needed groceries but I thought I could muster up another meal from the random supplies left in the pantry and fridge. It was one of those Trust in the Lord and lean not on your own understanding moments."

    Earlier in the day I thawed a pork loin roast a friend had given us. I quickly googled how to cook one in my Instant Pot:) I found a recipe I had all the ingredients for. Feeling like I hit the jackpot, I went to work. Second, I gathered my side dishes. From the bottom drawer of the fridge I grabbed a chilled can of biscuits. Digging through the deep freeze I uncovered a forgotten bag of veggies. Perfect I thought! All I need now is a few more quick and easy recipes to put this all together.

    I paused with a look toward heaven.  "Lord, You have provided," I said with my best Morgan Freeman impression, "please don't fail me now." In faith, I prepared dinner. Lately meal time had been going well. We'd gather around the table for a few moments to laugh together and share the day. Since the quarantine, this has become my focal point. I had already made the pink lemonade from the powdered mix because, hey I am gourmet.

     When I called the family together I expected to see gratitude for the meal I scraped together. Inside I felt a sense of accomplishment and appreciation to Google for helping me with these last minute recipes. I was sure my family would match my enthusiasm.
   
    As they trickled in from all corners of the house instead of praise I was met with one two year-old trying to crawl across the table, and two daughters fighting over the same chair. Their brother, the oldest, was looking at his phone oblivious to the raucous until his father told him to put it away. With an eye roll he passed the rolls.  As the microwaved vegetable medley went around the table someone simply said "5 miles an hour is pretty fast for a human."
 
    Who would think such a phrase could alter our evening so quickly but there it was heavier than the plate of pork loin roast drenched in the apple cider dressing in the center of the table.

 "I could run 5 miles in an hour," Lydia said.

  "No you couldn't," Elaina interjected.

   "I would beat you for sure," Isaiah chimed in.
.
           And as simple as that, the table irrupted in boasting, arguing and yelling. I tried to simmer them down so we could enjoy the meal I had Googled over. All notions of peace and tranquility quickly flew out the kitchen window as their voices escalated. Judah just stared, wide eyed at his teenage siblings. Had they lost their minds, his expression seemed to question.
 
    The answer is, Yes. And if you are reading this with teenagers in your home right now, I know you have experienced this strange phenomena.

    Isaiah's voice continued to rise louder and more boastful as the girls pounced on his ever increasing pride. Unable to hold in the disappointment I felt for my lovely meal destroyed by conflict I rose from my chair. I put down my fork and looked my first born son in the eyes, "Prove it!"

    He stopped boasting about his natural track and field abilities for a moment and looked at me.

     "Prove it Isaiah! I'll race you right now," I challenged again.

    Lydia stopped her combative attack and looked at me in alarm. "Mom, you just ate the pork loin roast, you are going to get sick."

     Undeterred I locked eyes with my son. He had ruined my perfect meal and I was not going to let it slide.

    "Fine, let's do it Mom," he consented.

   I ran to put on my running gear. Now, just in case you think I am a runner, and I train for stuff like this all the time. Please let me clue you in, I DON'T. I am not a bad runner. I have actually completed a few 5 Ks but never 5 miles and never at 7:35PM after eating Pork Loin Roast that was a little on the dry side. But a mama has to do what a mama has to do to shut the mouth of her lion cub.

   In the van another fight broke out causing big mouth 1 and 2 to stay home with their baby brother. This left only three of us. We drove to the high school track with this understanding. We would run the 20 laps around the track. The first one to complete the five miles under an hour would win $50.

   I played a new song on my phone," Graves to Gardens" on repeat as Brad yelled "Go."

    Isaiah started off at a medium pace. I slowed down a little remembering I was on 1 of 20 laps. He got ahead of me, about a half a lap, but I encouraged myself with the phrase, "slow and steady wins the race."

     He ran fast and I cheered. This quarantine had been hard on him. He missed his friends. Having his 18th birthday a few days ago was monumental, but he was only allowed to assemble a few friends together in the front yard standing 6 feet apart. The recent announcement that the rest of the school year was canceled only added to the growing disappointment. For the first time in weeks he was running. Even if my legs fell off in this race it was worth it to me.

    One lap down and 19 to go I sang, "Lord there is nothing better than you." My son was moving. Hallelujah! Oh the measures we take as parents to help our kids get out of their funk. He ran the first mile without stopping. He was actually breaking a sweat.  This whole indoors edict had really shut him down, but for a moment I saw passion galloping down the track in a Ramen Noodle pant suit. The hope of earning a crisp $50 dollar bill made him work every muscle of his body together for his good. Unfortunately, as he finished the fourth lap he made the mistake of walking. He crossed the two mile mark half walking half running, before his final retreat to the van.

 I kept running.

    Completing lap 10, I danced and sang with my song on repeat "Oh Lord there is nothing better than you."

    This race was not about showing how strong I was. I was actually surprised I hadn't lost my dinner yet. It had become a battle in prayer. "Lord, give my son back what he has lost this spring. Restore to him what has been cancelled."

    As I cleared lap twelve, I remembered my own healing. I pumped my arms and moved my legs in rhythm down the track with more speed. Only two short years ago I couldn't even run one lap around the track. Having Judah had injured my hip, and for over a year it hurt to walk. As I cleared the 3 mile mark I was grateful my hip had no pain.

       From the van Brad ran to join me, but he made it clear that he would only run every other lap. His support reminded me that we are in this crazy life of raising kids together. Some nights are rowdy and we are not happy with each other at all. As I rounded the corner to my final lap he joined me one last time. We cheered as we crossed the finish line side by side.

         I completed the five miles in 52 minutes and 30 seconds. We couldn't believe it. I actually could run 5 miles per hour! Brad drove to the cash machine to put the $50 in my hands. Isaiah was quiet, humbled by the defeat.

 "Wow Mom you really did it, " he acknowledged.

        Knowing the lion had been tamed I said, "pull over at the Dairy King, Brad. Winner treats Loser," I said teasing.

     We ordered ice cream and talked about the race on the way home. The tension and boasting was gone but we were connecting. For me, that was the real victory.

      I am learning to "Trust in the Lord with all my heart and not to lean on my own understanding." In family life I have to be ready to lean into faith on a moments notice.

    Who knew that the little orange card given so many years ago would have the power to take a disruptive dinner and turn it into an amazing race.
 

A Safe Place

  

     The first time I met her the sun was shining through the double windows in the yellow room. We climbed many wooden stairs to reach this place at the top of the old restored Mansion. Outside snow was melting off the trees. It was early spring but the snow had not completely receded yet. We sat on folding chairs in a circle. My heart was beating loudly, as I sat both nervous and excited.

   She had it, that hospitable ease about her. Like a seasoned professional she quieted our nerves with her kind smile as she asked us to share the reason we signed up for the class. I looked at the small group of women sitting around me. There was a small woman with dark brown hair sitting on my left. She seemed very reluctant to make eye contact as she explained her dream of writing down her legacy for her family.

    Next to her, a woman with an infectious smile and warm coffee brown eyes introduced herself. She was a newly wed who had recently moved from Costa Rica to our little Iowan town. Her accented voice had a bright and joyful ring to it much like the sun shining into the room on that early spring day. She too wanted to share a legacy, her mother's story.

    Beside her sat a tall woman with long blond hair. She possessed an earthy kind of beauty. She listened politely and spoke intently. Explaining that she was a teacher by nature both at her church and as a home school mom, she shared her hope to expand her writing skills.

    My turn, I felt a lump in my throat. "Please Dianne hold it together for goodness sakes!" I pleaded with my nerves. Looking at Deane's reassuring smile I went for it. "I'm Dianne Singleton I am excited to be in this class because I just rediscovered writing."

    Like riding a bike the skill was still hiding within me, but only recently had I felt free enough to let it out. Sure I had been writing skits for years. I had written in my journal for over a decade. I even wrote my own songs, but I always felt limited. In a resent therapy class I finally got honest about it. The fear of being judged for my true thoughts was the source of my writer's block. Deane Watters, looked me in the eyes and gave me a thumbs up.

"We are glad you are here with us,"she said. "This is a safe place."

     I studied her oval shaped face framed by frosted cropped bangs for a moment.  Her blue eyes glittered behind her stylish red frame glasses. She had a beautiful smile that lit up her features in a warm sort of tea with scones way.

From the beginning she had our attention like a mother hen gathering in her chicks. She shared her own writing journey. My mind was challenged by her boldness to write and to surround herself with writers. She shared useful tips and lessons from books about writing. We read poems out loud, and discussed how they made us feel.  Her face lit up as she spoke of the inner writer's critic. I nodded along with the other girls. I had believed the inner critic for far too long.

    Then it was time to do a writing prompt. For fifteen minutes we had to write about a picture. I chose to think of the old photograph of my mother's parents. It was a wartime wedding photo taken in 1945. I still can remember how the words jumped from my mind dancing onto the page through my blue inked pen. There was a quiet haste in the room as we wrote about our own snapshot from life. When the timer beeped, we went around the circle to share.

      Again I felt very nervous, I wasn't even sure what I had written. It was like an electrical storm in my head. Words just shot through my mind as I tried to quickly get them out. Deane shared first. She wrote about her father, who had died when she was still young. I pictured the black and white photo of him standing in the yard next to an old car. The delicate details and vulnerable words caused the little circle to lean in a bit closer as she invited us into this tender memory.

      Around the circle we read. In each story I heard a different and distinct voice. The tall blond read about her wedding picture. I could see the wedding day. I could hear her excitement. I could almost feel the silk of her train and the sheer beauty of her face behind the lace veil.

       Then it was my turn. I looked at the almost scribbled words and began to read. I felt nervous as I spoke, surprised by the emotion I felt. In my picture I looked into the heart of my grandmother. She was so young as she leaned into her new husband. He looked so proud of her. Normally I had a hard time looking at that picture because I only saw the alcoholics they would become. I only relived the horrible stories my mother would share of childhood under the bar stool. For the first time as I looked at her young face I realized she didn't know the pain her later choices would bring. In that photo she was simply happy to be chosen by the tall handsome man with blue eyes.

     As I finished reading the women looked at me strangely.  "Dianne how did you write all that?" One of the lady's asked.

     I didn't know, but I will be forever grateful for the freedom Deane brought to that circle that day. I felt something like electricity through my veins. It was like the words that had been held in all my life were finally free to come out.

    As the class continued that spring, the snow melted into cherry blossoms.  Our circle grew closer as we trusted each other with the words we dared to spill. We looked forward to the new lessons we would learn with Deane. She was wise, careful to build up with her words, tender with our hearts and yet fearlessly paving the way to write honestly. In Christian circles this was not an art form readily taught, still she bravely led the way.

    Looking back four years ago to that first class on writing, I am grateful. As the five of us gathered in our little circle in the yellow room to share our hearts we cheered on each other's words. We forgot the pressures of our lives for a moment and just gathered as daughters of God, mere girls, dreaming, giggly and free. I watched as she helped us to paint the inner world of our very souls and allow God's grace to linger there.

     Deane is one of the most beautiful people I have ever known.  This petite lady who loves sharing tea and homemade cakes has invited us to write with freedom. I think her writing is free spirited like a little girl running through prairie grass picking the wild Black-Eyed Susans to carry home to her mama. Older and wiser than me her greatest desire is for women to find the peace and love of God that she has found. Her writings reflect her rich faith and hope in her Savior Jesus Christ.

    So here's to a wonderful lady, teacher, and friend who has changed my life for the better. If you are reading this today and thinking you have a dream to write. Find a group to connect with. It can make all the difference. To carry out our dreams we need other people that are willing to say,
 
"We are glad you are here with us. This is a safe place."
 

Even so

      Have you ever had an Even so... moment in your life? You know, like when you are holding on beyond reasonable bounds. I think I have done this countless times for the people I love. Love is patient and its supposed to be kind, but lately as we are all stuck in the house together everyday we can creep onto each others nerves.

   Even so... I will forgive. In family there is always a tension between boundaries and forgiveness. I know that we all need to have lines drawn so that we maintain our own identities but there are also lines that are softened by the closeness of relationship. I am not sure how many times my son has used my toothbrush merely because it was nearest when he was needing a good brushing. I am NOT talking about the two year-old.

   I also have to wear forgiveness for my girls. The darlings that used to never want to leave my side have now, in their adolescents, scoffed at the idea of having to spend time with me. Life is definitely harder with my quiver full of offspring.

   I am not complaining. Really, I played the game of life. I wanted the little pink and blue additions in the back of my little car pawn. But real life is raw and the story is telling of all my imperfection and weakness. There isn't a fault those dearest to me haven't seen.

   So what is there left to say? That is where I must pick up. The truth is, my family sees the real me. The tired puffy eyed me. The frantically cleaning to impress the house guest me. The silly grooving to the best of the 80's music me.

    The glue that sticks us all together is love, but without forgiveness everything falls apart. It is hard not to keep a record of wrong when bad moods last for several months. It is hard to trust when you find out about the lies. It is hard to want to listen when the advice you give isn't taken.

Even so...I will forgive.

    This selfless act of letting someone off the hook they rightfully deserve to be hung upon is a spiritual act. It is something we all need from each other, but it never comes easily. When I get hurt in the "feels" my brain locks that negative experience into my memory bank. It is only with real mental effort that I can move past it.

     Presently we are teaching our two year-old how to say sorry when he hurts us. Usually this is physical pain like a toy to the head or a punch to the gut as he pretends to be Bat Man. He doesn't understand yet the power of his words. Saying sorry and releasing an I forgive you have the power to change the dynamic of our quarantine home life from tension to trust every time they are used.

     When the three older kids were little I added a simple melody to this verse: "Forgive as the Lord forgave you," Colossians 3:13. When the kids were fighting I would march around the house singing it. They didn't appreciate the truth of it's wisdom in the heat of the moment, but the tune got stuck in our heads and I found us all humming it around the house.

   There are a million reasons to loose my temper. Even so... I will brush it off. Even so... I will move on. Even so... I will sing that little song again. And when I mess up and blow my top... I will take a deep breath..and I will remember all of this and I will find the strength to say I'm sorry.

    And when my lovelies blow their tops...Even so...I will forgive.

D.I.Y. Disaster

   

   This morning Judah was happily playing with what he calls his "Green Hulk" homemade slime. I was making cinnamon rolls and the dough was rising nicely. I was just thinking, today is going to be a great day. I could hear the birds singing outside in the sunny spring morning.  Judah's worried voice broke my reverie as he called out from on top of the table where he was playing.

"Mommy, Mommy!"

     And that's when I saw it. The whole glob of slime worked into the roots of his hair on the top of his head. As I looked at it I tried not to panic, but it wasn't good. Judah was fussing and patting his head. Brad came in and laughed at the ridiculous situation, and snapped a picture which I did not enjoy in the moment.

      When I think about Slime I am reminded of my favorite childhood television show on Nickelodeon, You Can't do that on Television. On the show if the characters said, "I don't know," they would get bright green gloppy slime poured on their heads. I looked forward to tuning in every school day at four PM. I would sit down with a heaping bowl of Ramen Noodles to watch in anticipation.

        Later slime reappeared in the popular kids game show hosted by Marc Summers, Double Dare. Again I watched amazed by the contestants that would volunteer to get slimed. Two teams would compete by answering trivia questions to win prizes while completing slimy challenges. My brothers and I gathered around the television to cheer.

       Slime disappeared for awhile after that. But it made a reappearance with Flarp. The little jar of slime that made rude sounds when you put your finger in it. My kids were easily entertained by this dollar store treasure. But slime had received the highest acclaim with YouTube's  D.I.Y slime making videos. All you needed was Elmer's glue, Borax, water and food coloring and you could make your very own slime.

        It didn't take long to find out that slime though inexpensive to make and a source of entertainment for hours on end, had a down side. It was notorious for ruining clothes and furniture. After the rise in its popularity came the ever louder grumble from parents world wide who had to figure out how to get the crafty gunk out of their children's clothes and off of every household item.

       I was never fond of the stuff, but now that my three older children are out of the slime making stage I thought why not try it with Judah. Am I brain dead? Didn't I already learn that Slime was a very BAD idea? I am an eternal optimist so I thought, this time will be different.

       Note to self and anyone else who is still reading...

Never say, "THIS TIME WILL BE DIFFERENT.

This is self-delusion at its finest.

     I quickly pulled out some peanut butter and tried to tackle the slime, but the problem was bigger than the old gum in the hair situation. This was more like ten packs of chewed Bubble Gum  pounded into the scalp by repeated somersaults. The hair ball looked almost impossible to get out without clippers.

    My second attempt at eradicating Judah's hair of the nasty substance was to use White vinegar. Earlier, I had used it to dissolve the green slime from his training pants. I poured little cap fulls on the fine hair sticking out of the gunk. I put down the fine toothed comb that was only torturing the tender scalp of my beloved little guy. He was screaming and I found my own voice elevated as Brad ran for a towel to wipe off the vinegar pouring down Judah's little back.

     We quickly moved the removal operation to the master bathroom tub. I shouted instructions as I tried to wash off the melted slime from my hands in the sink next to the bath.

    Brad stripped to shorts, got in the tub with him. I was trying to pour more white vinegar on the dissolving green mass but Judah was trying to claw his way out of the tub like a puppy getting his first bath. He continued to cry and both Brad and I were also on the verge. Thankfully the quantity of gunk stuck in the hair was getting smaller as the vinegar melted the plasticity of the mixture into something like very thick glue. Then I washed his hair.

   Judah has never enjoyed getting water on his head so this experience was more than he could take. As Brad tried to cover his eyes with a wash rag I doused Judah's head with water. After the first shampoo only a little green slime held onto the roots. I poured the last of the vinegar on and rubbed the slime to cream until I could re-shampoo and wash it out completely.

    I am proud to report, we got it all! In Judah's words the lesson was clear.

"Mommy I don't like slime in my hair!"

    Judah recovered quickly after a little time in his Daddy's arms. But I still felt traumatized so I had to write this down so that my own Mama heart could heal.

    Everyday is filled with the unexpected moments of upheaval. Today my secret weapon was white vinegar. Who knows what special tool I will need tomorrow. In matters of faith, we don't know what each day will hold, but if we hold onto hope there is always a silver lining to be found even in the slimiest of situations.



   

Nailed It!

     

     I was confident. In fact, I had tried to encourage a friend earlier in the day with a simple recipe I had tried that was a huge hit. I smiled to myself afterwards, envisioning myself as the next Master Chef. Its almost as if I could see my face on the front of a snazzy new cook book. I would have my hair up in a messy bun, but unlike the real thing, this bun would look tantalizing just like all the fun and easy recipes I would have published...

     Later that day, after a walk with Brad I asked if we could stop at the grocery store.

"What do you need honey?" he asked.

Without batting an eye I replied, "Two rolls of biscuit dough and some powder sugar," Like a pro baker I continued, "Tonight we are having Breakfast for dinner."

   When we got home I started the music, I needed to get inspired. I was going to attempt Sausage and Egg McGriddles and homemade donuts. I have been getting into the habit of doing two things for every meal. #1 Google the recipe I am thinking of attempting. #2 cook something in my Instapot.

   The current challenge was how to thaw frozen sausage patties in the Instapot while trying to figure out how to thaw egg patties in the microwave as I mixed together instant pancake mix and syrup for the McGriddles. If you are shaking your head at my less than gourmet ingredients ,just wait. Next I opened the Texas style biscuits. Because I had left them out for awhile when I opened them they exploded. Two dough balls landed on the floor. I screamed. Judah came running to see what happened. I quickly scooped them up, five second rule. What? A little dirt never hurt anyone.

     I didn't bother rereading the directions for the biscuit donuts (it was all stored in my Master Baker brain). I reheated the oil I had used a few nights before. What would it hurt? Meanwhile I cut holes in the center of each biscuit.

    The Instapot was steaming and the eggs were defrosting in the microwave. I frowned at the rubbery texture of the bright yellow rounds. "Hmmmm....it must need more time," I said as I popped it back in to the microwave.

   The oil was boiling now so I started the donuts. The first time I made them they were to cook a minute on each side, but at 30 seconds they were almost charred so I flipped them. Quickly I pulled out a bowl for the frosting along with the powder sugar and milk I would use for the Donut glaze.

Judah in only Superman underpants, started dancing from one foot to the other. Potty training has a way of interrupting everything.

"Lydia! take Judah to the potty..."

     Looking down at donuts they were getting brown almost instantly. I started flipping them as quickly as I dropped them in the oil. As they cooled on the wire rack I stirred the glaze. I needed more powder sugar but as I pushed the sugar out of the bag it exploded all over my shirt and unto the floor.

Exasperated I cried out for help, "Brad, flip the pancakes! ALEXA stop the music!"

    He came in and assessing the situation with my shirt and my souring attitude jumped in like a champ. He flipped the pancakes but it was too late they were burnt from cooking too long.

      I let out a loud lament. My cooking manifesto was turning into a disaster. The Instapot beeped. The  sausage patties were finished so I let them vent with a big puff of steam. Brad quietly made more pancakes to replace the half charred first batch while I frosted the donuts. I tried to put extra frosting on the blackish ones. On a dinner plate eight donuts sat in a row covered in a thick gooey glaze.

      Picking up the most homely almost burnt one, the glaze covering my fingers. I took a big bite. It was warm and surprisingly didn't taste too bad, but ouch I bit into something black and hard. My tooth actually throbbed for a few seconds. WHAT WAS THAT? I then noticed all the donuts had little bits of black pieces in them. I picked at one of the donuts. That is when I noticed the edge of the the plastic spatula curled over like scraped butter.

     Brad had gathered everyone to the table. I panicked. I couldn't serve them Cancer Rings! Brad tried to be supportive.

"Dianne they are fine you just have to pick the black stuff out before you eat it."

"No, that is where I draw the line," I said with disgust. I threw the oven mitt on the floor, " I am a failure."

     My kids grew quiet as they noticed the powder sugar cloud on my shirt and the way I flung the donuts into the trash.

"No," I said with determination, "I will make a new batch."

     So while the kids started to assemble their copycat sausage and egg McGriddles I dumped out the oil and opened a new roll of biscuits. I made sure the fresh oil wasn't as hot this time. I used a metal fork to flip the doughy rings. The kids raved loudly about the McGriddles at the table.

"I can't even taste the weird egg," Lydia said trying to be nice.

"This is really good," Elaina seconded.

     After a few minutes the new batch of donuts were on the table and even Judah tried them. They did turn out pretty delicious but my imaginary dream of being a legit Master chef vanished in the cloud of confection and the smokey film of hot canola oil.

     After the meal was done I looked at Brad and said, maybe I wasn't meant to be good at cooking biscuit donuts otherwise we might gain 100 pounds. He just smiled and gave me a hug.

     And that is how it is in Dianne's kitchen. There's a whole lot of dreaming and not much to show for it, but at least I tried. One thing is for sure, I won't be boasting of my cooking anytime soon.

Pride comes before a fall.

I nailed that one.



 

   

Elaina Joy

     

 

     It was warm outside the evening that she came. We had just went on a walk around the small town of Washburn with Isaiah our first born. He was just shy of two years old. He happily pointed to the birds. He knew how to say that word.

As I walked next to his stroller I could feel my stomach contract, so we decided to turn around. We got home just in time for the second contraction. Five minutes later the third more severe contraction came.

      I called my Dad. My parents had a Cruise scheduled to celebrate their anniversary. As he answered the phone he explained that I caught him just before they left for a tanning appointment. Trying to stay calm I told him I thought I was going into labor. I could hear my mom in the background.

"Steve, we have to cancel the tanning appointment, this baby is coming."

     Shortly after the phone call when we had my over night bag packed we got in the car with Isaiah. I felt a pinch in my heart. He would only be our baby for a few moments longer. He looked small as he held his Blue Blank, his treasured blanket in one arm and his big red stuffed Clifford dog in the other. He was thinking about the new baby.

"Baby coming," he said in his toddler babble.

   Brad and I looked at each other and smiled. We loved our little family that was about to expand. After we dropped Isaiah off at my parents house the contractions got more intense. We lived 10 miles out of town and from my parents house the hospital was another fifteen minutes. It was dark now as we drove to the other side of town. With every minute the contractions were more intense. I started to fear I wouldn't make it to the hospital at all.

    We parked in the emergency parking lot. Somehow Brad helped me to the check in desk. Luckily we didn't have to wait. The nurse brought over a wheel chair so I didn't have to walk any further because the pain was getting more unbearable.

   In the birthing room I tried to lay down on the bed but the pain in my lower back was so intense I couldn't. When the midwife came into the room she quickly assessed the situation. I will never forget how she said, "Dianne this baby is ready to be born so go for it."

    What? I am not ready, I thought. I had just arrived.
 
    Ten minutes later at 10:33 she was born, my beautiful Elaina Joy. She weighed 8.3 pounds, 21 inches. She was the same weight and length that Isaiah was when he was born. April 6th would always be a special day to me. At the first sight of her pink little face I fell in love. She had a little kitten cry. She was angry to be in the bright cold room, yet when she was placed in my arms she stopped crying. I held her close her little hand in mine. Overwhelmed I studied her adorable her little face.

"I'm going to love you dear Elaina," I whispered, tears forming in my happy eyes.
                                                             
     In a few short days my little girl will be sixteen. How time flies so quickly. I named her Elaina after the heroine in Zorro, and I added the middle name Joy because I was overjoyed when I found out I was having her.

   Her blond curls have turned auburn. She has grown from a baby to a young woman faster than I wanted. Her brown eyes are intelligent and her smile is beautiful. She is gentle with her baby brother. She is hard working and creative. She has a passion for drama, and like any teenager, really wants her own car.

   The Mission trip to El Salvador last year ignited a heart for the world. She has been working hard to earn money to go back this year to help street kids again, but now the trip is on stand by as we wait out this Virus. But I am thankful for the past few weeks to have her close, ALL THE TIME.

    Okay, I sound like a needy mom.And let's be honest, I am. It takes a lot of energy, prayers, patience, and perseverance to raise a child up to this point. I HAVE GRAY HAIR FOLKS! But having a daughter is worth far more than any cost.

     Elaina Joy whatever you do in life I will be here cheering you on. Whom ever you become I will be your prayer partner, the shoulder to cry on, and the coach in your corner encouraging you to go on. From the moment I first laid eyes on you in the hospital room sixteen years ago I knew that you would change my life, but I had no idea how fun this life would be with you by my side. 

    I am joyful not because you are perfect or because we get a long all the time. I am joyful because you are a precious and rare gift and for this little time that I have right now, I get to inspire you everyday. I pray I don't miss this opportunity.

 




     

Precious Moments

     

      To sit in Daddy's lap to a two year old is like sitting on a throne of regal strength and confidence. At least that is what my little Judah's face expresses. These days he talks about Incredible Hulk as he perches on his Daddy's knee. He roars as he hangs on Daddy's shoulder. He sings super hero songs spontaneously as he leans into his Father's muscly chest. 

    Judah's fascination with his Dad can be overwhelming at times.  There is no place in the house that Brad can go that Judah doesn't follow quickly behind. Judah's eyes are always on the look out for his Father. From the time he was an infant Judah has wanted to be mighty just like his daddy.

    Life with a two year old is full of Baby Shark, Pull-ups, and goldfish crackers. It is continual episodes of spilled Sippy cups and wet training pants. With my fourth child, eleven years younger than his closest sibling I have learned not to sweat the little things. I take a slower more relaxed pace with this one, the little surprise.

    If you have read my blog from the past, Judah wasn't born yet. I was awaiting this little life changer. My world was immersed in Elementary and Junior high aged children. I had forgotten all about bibs and blankets. So much of my life was focused on proving myself to the world.

Sigh...

And then came Judah.

    In a moment he transformed our family. At his birth we were transitioning between jobs. In a few short weeks after we brought him home from the hospital, we put our house up for sale. In two short months we moved from a big town to a little village. We transitioned from spending our summer days at the public pool to a farm pond. With all of the change I felt speechless. Somehow I couldn't find words, I just felt numb. So I held this little one closer.

     Soft cooing has definitely transformed into cute toddler talk. He no longer wants to snuggle with mommy. Daddy is the super hero now. He is in a new stage, and sadly as my older three children are getting closer to leaving the home I find myself wanting to hang onto the wonder he brings to us.

    Now that my oldest, Isaiah is about to graduate I realize I am guilty. I have let precious moments slip by. It was not intentional, life just got away from me somehow...

    It is just like God to bring in a life changer like a baby to slow my world down. I am so thankful he did. I had no idea when the winds of change knocked us off our feet almost three years ago how much I need a re-start. I let go a little of me to gain more of the hearts of my kids. I slowed down to catch up to the three teenagers. I had no idea how hard it would be to teach them how to fly. I should have read more books. Yet having Judah to make us laugh when hormones are high and moods are stormy has brought us all closer together.

    I am guilty. I didn't mean to take precious moments for granted, but I did. In the quest to find myself I often over looked my kids. I hate to say it.

Then along came Judah.

     Right now we face an unique opportunity. Many of us are in self quarantine because of the Coronavirus. Schools are closed. Many jobs are up in the air. The virus is very real and has come too close to many of us. Life has never been more precious and valuable. We are picking up the phone to call our loved ones more. Many of us are working from home with the gaggle of children surrounding us. Perhaps this is the moment we had hoped for, family togetherness.

    But it is hard. I am not going to lie. Having peace with all six of us at the same time is almost impossible, but this time is still a strange gift to me. My life had gotten so busy and I was in danger of going too fast again and missing out on my most valued relationships when everything just stopped.

     In this unusual moment I am praying more. The world needs our prayers as new heroes appear on the scene like the sweet lady in my church who is sewing face masks for the local hospital. The teenager, I know, who is using his time to create face masks at home with a Cricket machine. I am praying for the grocery store clerks who ring up our daily essentials.  I am grateful for my friend, the nurse, who is working in the Coronavirus wing of the hospital. I am praying, I am calling, and I am humbled by their service.
     
     Last night, as I was about to finish this Blog. I was almost ready for my comfy pajamas. Because I haven't been sleeping lately (due to the Mouse) I was looking forward to getting to bed. That is when Isaiah, my seventeen year-old came bounding up the steps. He plopped down on the chair next to me his legs over the side. I could tell he wanted to talk, but it was already eleven o'clock.

     I wasn't excited. I really could have skipped this Precious moment but the computer was still open and the cursor was still flashing.

Sigh...

    I had a choice to make.

    Three hours later after watching a movie he really wanted me to see and discussing its moral issues. After listening to every idea, and thought that he had on his heart and mind he paused. I was suddenly surprised by his hug. My gangling and almost grown seventeen year-old hugged me, and said those three little words:

I LOVE YOU. 

    At last I sleepily fell into bed with a smile. This was a rare and precious moment indeed, and it would cost me...was it worth it?

    I wouldn't trade that moment for anything.