(Please to be excusing my messy kitchen. Just keeping it real.)

another first

I thought I could handle anything my (nearly) three year old could throw at me. I'm good at keeping my cool when I hear a thud in the next room with crying to follow. I try my best to keep an eye on him at all times, but CHILDREN ARE FAST and I'm usually unable to predict their next move. I try to keep a good balance between monitoring them closely and letting them feel they have a bit of independence. I have not found that balance yet. I think it's mythical. 

It was Saturday evening, my husband had just gotten home from work and was in the process of getting out of his chef's jacket. Supper was ready, and I had already scooped out a few ladles full of soup to cool for the littles. In exactly 60 seconds I would call my family to the table for the meal. Exactly 60 seconds. 

THUD. I've heard it before, a thousand times before. I cringe and pause with ladle in mid-air, waiting to hear the effects of this mishap on one or both of my children. It's Judah this time. He has responded with frantic cries appropriate to the magnitude of the collision. I am calmly making my way to his room when I hear Joey say, "Oh no!"

BAD SIGN. 

It's not that Joey's freaking out or anything. It's just that he is always Mr. Cool, and there's something in his voice that I don't quite like. I round the corner to find him untying the sash of Judah's robe (they had a pre-supper bath). Judah is covered with blood from his mouth all the way down to his waist.

Once the initial shock of seeing blood! everywhere! has passed, I find myself wiping Judah down with a wet cloth. It appears the source of blood is his lower lip. There's a significant gash, but I breath a sigh of relief when I see that he still has all of his teeth. Crisis averted. It's just a scratch. He'll be fine.

Until I try to wipe the gash. And it spreads open. And it's deep. Really deep. 

My husband and mom both agree with me: He's bitten through his lip.

I could have just let Joey take Judah to the hospital, but my parents are home and offering to take care of Ben. I am greatly relieved that I don't have to let my imagination fill in the gaps while Judah has his first real emergency experience.

At the hospital, the nurse who examines Judah cringes while cleaning the wound. "Ooo, that's deep. Too deep for glue, I'm afraid. That will be one stitch, maybe two." Another nurse standing by explains the anaesthesia they will use. So far, Judah's been really cool about this whole ordeal. He particularly enjoys being able to sit on his daddy's lap in a big comfy recliner and watch TV while the freezing sets in. Joey and I are able to share this experience together, grateful for excellent health care in this prairie town, and glad to be a team.

The silly thing about this whole ordeal was that it happened right before we were going to eat, and I had purposefully delayed the boys' supper so that we could eat with Daddy. Judah was the picture of a starving child by the time they were going to give him stitches. "I hungwee!" he bleated. The nurses were all mush. One volunteered to stay even though his shift was over just to "see the little guy through".

The doctor came in and took a second look at the wound and informed us that he did not, in fact, have a hole in his lip. It was kind of shredded inside, but nothing worse than that. And then the real fun begins. Two nurses gently but firmly "swaddle" Judah in a big sheet so that he can't get his hands in the way. One positions himself at his head. The other stands at the right side of the bed, ready to hand the doctor whatever he needs. The doctor is on the left side of the bed, and I find myself trapped in the corner near Judah's head. Even though the area is apparently numb, Judah reacts with cries of pain, jerking his head around to get away from the doctor's hands. I end up having to hold his jaw shut while the doctor does his work. It is NOT a pleasant job.

The deed done, Judah melts into my arms. He is heaving, shaking, crying, and he's HOT. I ask Judah if he wants to pray, and he manages a little "yes". I ask Jesus to calm Judah's nerves, and thank him for making him so brave. As I say "amen", my little boy's body completely relaxes. The same Jesus who calmed the seas calmed my poor little man.

A box full of little goodies is presented, and none of the nurses can refuse Judah when he asks for three prizes instead of one. Joey prompts Judah to say thank-you to all of the kind nurses, and he says a very heartfelt "thanks, guys". 

If you ask Judah how it was to be at the hospital, he will tell you that he said "ow! ow! ow!" and that he was very scared. He will also tell you that he got a sucker and stickers. So. 

It's possible that I am being a little over-dramatic about this whole thing, but I just can't help it! It's so tough seeing your little ones in pain! The trauma of the stitches was WAY worse than the initial blow. At the same time, I am so incredibly thankful for excellent health care and that nothing worse happened than a gash on his lip.

Here he is, looking tough with his two stitches. I think he is rather proud of them now.

just boys (for now)

Finding out that the sweet little baby I'm carrying is most likely a GIRL has caused me to reflect on the current state of my family, which is nearly entirely populated by boys, and how it might change in the future.

Currently:

• every article of clothing I wash (except mine) is a straight cut, no nonsense style that is usually one or all of the primary colours
• there can be 5029 cars scattered all over my floor at any given moment of the day
• stuffed animals are actually weapons of war, not sensitive creatures that need to be nurtured and loved
• I am fluent at understanding toddler jibberish because Judah couldn't be bothered with the proper pronunciations of words (in complete contrast to all of his little girlfriends)
• wearing clothing is a necessary evil, and making sure things match is out of the question

From what I have heard and observed from friends that have little girls, these things will most likely be mixed in with their opposites in due time. What I AM fully prepared for is any sort of baby/toddler shenanigans. Poop on walls, food shoved in ears, ear-piercing tantrums, climbing on furniture, nap boycotting, mess making, risk taking... these things just come with the territory of parenthood.

 

Bring it on.

childhood perceptions

When I was a little girl, I loved to dream about what my life would be like when I grew up. I would watch my mom in awe as she drove the car, wondering how she could move this big machine without constantly fumbling over which pedal to press, or forgetting to signal before a corner. I used to wonder what I would look like when I matured. Any pretty actress with dark hair and dark eyes was a good candidate for my future appearance. I wondered who I would marry - where he would come from (across the world, or next door?), what he would look like (Eric from the little Mermaid was my favourite), and how long it would take me to find him. I dreamed of the children I would have and thought as little of childbirth as possible (because it terrified me), and every baby that flitted through my mind had dark hair, dark eyes, and a decidedly feminine appearance. Boys were a strange territory to me, never having any brothers of my own. My fantasies dwelt in the realm of what I knew.

Now, as an adult, I can't help but laugh a bit at my childhood wonderment. Driving has lost it's golden haze - especially since it means many dollars are flying out of my pocket every year. It's a necessary evil in a fast-paced world. And as for my appearance? Well, it seems no miraculous transformation has taken place to turn me into Cather Zeta-Jones. I have found that I look much the same as I did as a child , just more mature. (This is not a bad thing.) 

It turns out the man I was meant to marry was somewhat familiar to me all my life (although I wasn't familiar to him). I was babysat for a time with a cousin that thought very highly of him, and the name "Joey" was often spoken. I couldn't help but be fond of him, even before I met him. When I did meet him, he didn't look quite like a Disney heartthrob. He was a thin, tall, and carefree youth with curly hair that defied description of colour, a mouth that was almost always smiling, soft grey-blue eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses, and a gentle demeanour that was free from judgment and disdain. I liked him immediately and admired him from afar for a few years. It still seems a bit of a mystery how we came to know and love each other, and I can't deny God's hand in all of it. Our relationship was reserved and respectful, taking terrifying honesty on my part to even get past the "comfortable friendship" stage. Oh, how thankful I am to my mom for counselling me to take that step! Even our engagement was not your average engagement, considering we were separated by distance and relied solely on phones, emails, and letters for communication and the expression of sentiment.

I could hardly be surprised when my first child was born and he had sandy blond hair and blue eyes. Neither could I protest when the second followed suit. My dreams had been incomplete because I had only seen half of the equation. How could I have known what my future husband was to look like? How could I predict exactly how our combined genes would represent themselves in our children? 

Looking back at little Andrea, I can only smile at her childish understanding of life. She couldn't fathom how growing up could make her prepared to do things like driving cars all by herself. She thought that one day she would just wake up and be transformed into some beautiful creature completely different than herself. She believed she would know who she would marry from the moment she saw him, and that he would know at that exact same moment. She refused to acknowledge that children would come with pain, and she allowed herself to picture nothing but brown eyes and brown hair. 

Growing up is a funny thing.

Coconut Red Lentil Soup

Hello, friends!

Last night I made a really tasty soup adapted from this recipe, but I feel that mine turned out so delicious that I felt obligated to share it with you. Not everyone is a fan of Indian food, and this recipe is for those that love it.

Ingredients:
1T cooking oil
2 heaping teaspoons curry powder
3/4t cinnamon
1 onion, chopped
2 carrots, peeled & chopped into very little chunks
2T fresh ginger, finely minced
2 garlic cloves, finely minced
2t salt
1t sugar
1 small can tomato paste
4 cups water
1 can coconut milk
1 cup uncooked red lentils
1 can garbanzo beans (chickpeas), drained and rinsed
the juice from one half of a lime
fresh cilantro & lime wedges for serving

Instructions:
1. Heat the oil in a large pot or dutch oven over medium heat. Add the curry powder and cinnamon and cook, stirring often, until the spices are fragrant (~2 minutes).
2. Add the onion and cook until they begin to soften, followed by the carrots, ginger, & garlic. Cook for a few more minutes. Stir in the salt, and tomato paste, cooking for a couple minutes more.
3. Pour in the water, coconut milk, lentils, and chickpeas. Bring to a simmer, stirring frequently. Cook uncovered for 25 minutes, or until lentils are tender and the soup has thickened slightly.
4. At the very end, stir in the lime juice. Adjust seasonings accordingly (I added 1T of chicken bouillon). Serve with fresh cilantro and lime wedges, if desired. Naan bread makes an excellent side to this wonderful soup.

Enjoy! It was delish. Even my cook of a husband gave several satisfying grunts of approval. Ok, he used actual words to describe it. He's not quite so Neanderthal as that.

winter on the prairies

My opinion of winter has always been quite favourable.  I absolutely detest being hot, I love wearing sweaters and scarves, and I love the absolute reprieve from summer storms. Having grown up on the Canadian prairies, winter hardly ever takes me off guard.

I am glad to say that my boys' opinion of this season is top notch. Benjamin hasn't gotten much further than simply sitting in the snow and watching the goings-on around him, but it's easy to see on that sweet little face that he is loving every minute of being outside.

We have so much snow this year. It seems like a fresh layer falls every night! It's perfect for making snow hills and showing off big manly muscles by carrying around big manly shovels.

Judah was "helping" shovel off the deck. This kid loves to be useful, and I love that about him. It's quite possible that he has the gift of service - he must if shovelling snow off decks is more fun than making snow angels or taking rides on crazy carpets!

 This guy also has a passion for winter. His enthusiasm for taking the boys outside never ceases to amaze me!

 (I fall down.)

I know it's kind of characteristic for Canadians to complain about winter/brag about how cold it got, but I don't want to add to that chorus. To me, winter is a picture of redemption. While the land is dead and bearing no fruit, a blanket of pure, white, shining snow falls and clothes the grasses and trees with more splendour than their naked branches could ever produce. God covers the shame of the dead countryside and turns it into something truly beautiful. Only God can do that!

on a blizzard-y Friday

My Everyday.

Dear Mr. Benjamin, you are quite the little card. 

surrendering my right to mother

It has been alarmingly quiet on this blog. I admit it. I would like to say it's just because I'm too busy being super mom, or that we've been off having adventures far away from home, but that wouldn't be true.

The truth is that I am fully caught up in figuring out my role as a mother and a wife. Still. Always. Blogging makes me feel like I need to have a perfect life in order to blog about it. I need to have an immaculate home, I need to spend every moment of the day planning things to do with boys that they will remember for a lifetime. I need to have hot, delicious, nutritious meals ready as soon as my husband's foot passes the doorway. I need to be perfectly content with my life in order to pass on my wisdom to others. Whenever I sit down at the keyboard and try to start a post, all I can think of is how I lost my temper with Judah, how I was more lenient with one child over the other, how it's 5:59 PM and Joey will walk in to a disastrous house, crabby children, and a supper challenge like you would see on "Chopped". I feel so hypocritical when I try to twist the events of the day into something that is interesting and inspiring. That's what a blog is, isn't? If it isn't interesting OR inspiring, then what is the point of reading it?

I have been battling my own attitudes for a very long time. My fleshly self would love to have my boys play happily all day long while I do whatever passes my fancy. How dare they need ME to keep them occupied, to break up squabbles, to wipe their noses and wash their hands and change their bums! Some days I am so set on living for ME that I end up snapping at my children, shirking all of the duties I need to do to keep this house in order, despising my life, and neglecting my husband. It doesn't sound very pretty, and I hate that I'm writing it here for all to see, but it's the truth. It's something I need to change, and it's something I am unable to change.

Some days I wake up with a fresh feeling of love for my boys and my husband, and it's easier to love and serve them more and me less... for a time. Suddenly, the clock strikes noon, the boys are hungry, I'm overwhelmed, and those little warm fuzzies of love go POOF - gone! It's so easy to sink back into that mire of "woe is me! my life is not what I want it to be!" and forget that I still have a role to play in this little family.

What is the point of all of this noise? One simple thing: without relying on the love of Christ for the strength to serve my family each day, for the love to give when my own heart lacks, for the grace to pick up and try again when I fail, I am and will continue to be nothing more than a self-pitying, utterly-failing mess of a mom. Sure, I may still possess the innate ability to care for my offspring, but it will be nothing more than my own particular form of slavery. What I need is to stop believing that I can find the strength to be a  good, God-fearing mom somewhere within myself, and start believing that relying on Christ is not only what I'm commanded to do, but it is also the very life and breath and being of who I am as a Christian - and HE will give me the strength to rely on Him. By my own efforts I may be able to go through the motions of motherhood and deceive myself into thinking that I am accomplishing the very best for myself and my family, but my heart will never be in the right place. It can never be completely submitted to my loving God if I am convinced I do not need an intervention of theistic proportions. 

I love Jesus, my Saviour, and what I truly want is to live as if He is lord of my life. My role as a wife and a mother is one area that I have not been willing to surrender to Him. It may have hurt me and my family, but it is a far greater sin against the perfect, holy God whom I know to be THE ONLY God and the author of all life. This is something that I first need to deal with in my heart before the effects can trickle down to my family - in GOD's time as He teaches me and molds me into something beautiful.

New Year's Day