Thanks in Thanksgiving

Like my friend Aubri over here, we Olsons had a nice, relaxed Thanksgiving. It sure is a gift to learn some things over time, like: this is only one day. If the meat and at least one side is done, we'll survive. Kids like to help with special days (even if sometimes it feels like anything but help, like when they're juggling the fine china). A clean kitchen is a great joy. And a perennial favorite: eating is fuuuuun.

I also greatly benefitted from advance planning (I won't talk at length about my Wednesday meltdown which primarily involved a cranky, overtired pregnant momma who spent too much time standing and insisting on unrealistic execution. But I digress). The bread dough and pie were finished yesterday, so the sugar-high cinnamon rolls this morning were a breeze and a hoot--the kids wanted to try using cookie cutters on the dough until I explained that the cinnamon had to have a roll to make it happy. Papa dressed the turkey--the boys debated whether it should get underwear, a ski hat, or PJs to wear--as usual, which is a huge relief for me. He also cleaned and prepped and boiled the white and sweet potatoes. He's a dream, I know!

Because he did that, I could make the Schnitzel Beans (bacon, onions, green beans and other top secret ingredients), the Scalloped Corn, prep the dinner rolls from the dough, and make eggs for a late brunch. I also did two loads of laundry and put away three weeks' worth of clean clothes in our room, which was completely tangential to the meal but made me feel fan-tad-tic (look! Our dresser has a top!). Taking a shower probably helped my state of mind, too. And washing dishes by hand and running the dishwasher twice. Then I made the (box) stuffing and creamy mashed potatoes (cream cheese, check) while Papa carved the bird and made the melt-in-your-mouth sweet potatoes. Oh, and I opened up the can of cranberry sauce that Jon and the kids love.

At four we six and a half sat down to a great meal. We talked about things and people we're thankful for, in between preventing spills, reminders to use utensils, and refilling plates (you never have to ask Small Dude twice if he wants more. He invariably says "Puh-puh," or "please!"). Then I laid on the couch for an hour while Papa cleaned up. Bliss.

Yeah, the kids watched the parade this morning (fun to converse with them about it. When asked about the Rockettes' kick line, the Little Professor said, "It looks like a combine." Why, yes, yes it does. There's a deeper social analysis in that comparison, but the literal one was enjoyable enough). They played spaceship and trucks and who knows what else for much of the day. And I find myself near sleep and realizing how few thanks I gave today, how much I took for granted.

I know better. I wrote about gratitude this very week. I said prayers and read psalms and thought about God's gifts, but these are such small tokens. Like a pastor friend wrote on Facebook today, maybe that's the point--that God is pleased to receive our tiny thanks is another indication of His unsurpassable generosity to His children. We deserve nothing and get everything, and He smiles upon us when we give thanks to Him. I can and should do better, yes, in rendering thanks and praise to my Savior. Yet He forgives even my selfishness and inward focus on this day. For His great mercy I give Him my gratitude, my whispered words. And He gives again, and will so tomorrow and until the end.

Mother of a Filler Post

I began this post over two months ago, if that tells anybody what kind of priority this blog has been. It's been so long since I blogged that those of you in cyberspace might be wondering what in the Sam Hill is going on at the Olson Homestead. Not that you've lost any sleep. But your theoretical concern piques my heart, nonetheless. So here's a beginner of a filler post on what we've been doing here.

• Learning. We're heading into Week 18 of homeschooling--yes, that means we started back up in July--so we've been hip deep in larnin'. Reading? Check-check-check. Writing? Check. 'Rithmatic? Check-check. Catechism and daily prayer and bits of ancient history and science too. And Latin and piano lessons (for the Little P). Then there's tunnel-making and ball-rolling and leaf-pile-design and all kinds of free play for the littles, and all sorts of random stuff (I'm hoping the recent fascination with arachnids passes soon, because wheesh). It sounds like a lot, but it isn't. Maybe I'll explain that more thoroughly someday.

• House-selling. Well, it's not sold yet, and maybe I should have filed this under "learning." But it's been an interesting few months in a very small market. "Why are you selling your house?" you're probably wondering. Well, the short version is we'd like to both get rid of some debt with our huge equity and possibly get a bigger house before this one gets way too small. And the good news is we don't have to rush (if we sell, we can move, but we don't have to move rightthissecond). The better news is we've had five positive showings--a solid showing for this area--and springtime is a better time to sell. So we're optimistic.

• House-moving. Internally, that is. After eight years of a series of remodels and getting used to everybody sleeping on the first floor, Papa and I finally moved up by moving down to the ensuite master bedroom in the basement. With a walk-in closet and our own bathroom, I feel like I've finally reached some point of adulthood I didn't know I was missing. And it's really quiet down there! Unless Small Dude is screaming into the monitor. Pearly Girl transitioned cleanly into a big girl bed and her own room, and Superman and the Little Professor enjoy their big boy room. Yes, Papa did a three-room furniture shuffle (and repainting one room). I was awesome at giving directions, pointing, and picking up random screws. 

• Exploring regular freelance writing. Since late August, I've been given an awesome opportunity to write a weekly column for our local paper, the Star. It's been great practice for me, and the editor is amazing--constructive, insightful, encouraging in pushing me to improve. You can look up my columns here, under "Thoughts in the Heartland." 

• Kid growing. The Little Prof (6) is seriously steaming ahead in lessons (again, possibly more on that later). Superman (4.5) is looking to follow in his tracks ("I'm crazy about history!" he announced the other day). Pearly Girl (almost, almost 3) wants to do everything the boys do, and more. And Small Dude is a year old--a YEAR OLD! No walking yet, but he's crawling everywhere and starting to pull himself up on his knees (and eating random Cheerios off of the kitchen floor. Score!). We're thinking he might, just might, decide to go bipedal by Christmas, but it's actually kind of great that he's not walking or running or climbing stairs and furniture yet. Because..

• Kid growing, part V.  Yes, we have been blessed again. Olson Child will arrive in mid- to late April 2015! I'm doing much, much better in terms of energy and appetite than for a few months there in early fall, but keeping up with four kids is, for some reason, kind of time-consuming. I keep wondering why I'm so surprised by this. Like getting used to this life somehow also should mean it gets easier. It does, in some ways--few things they do surprise me--but in other ways, it's just a dump-fest--laundry, books, toys, needs. Thank goodness Someone Else is ultimately their Caretaker! This season is just that--a season. That gives me both heartache and incredible relief.

Well, that's about all I can put down for now. My pillow is calling.

Running the Neatness Marathon: The Help

...who make life's work possible.
BTW, read this book.

Last year I blogged about beginning my years-long dream to declutter. Here we are, thirteen months later, one more baby later, and what do I have to show for it?

To be honest, I'm not finished with the project yet. But however slowly, decluttering has happened in bursts, small jumps, and after long interruptions of illness, travel, and life in general. Ultimately, I've learned that some of the biggest forward-moving parts of this process have involved the help of other people. And I don't mean "help" in a weasel word kind of way; I mean it in a "we couldn't do any of this stuff without the time, physical labor, and generosity of these people" way. We can't maintain God's gifts to us without help from our neighbors. Ooooooh! I'm sensing a wider lesson in all of this. Can you smell, too? (Go ahead. You can grin at my silliness.)

I'll give more details about the Olson family decluttering project later. I think you'll understand, though, if I first give credit where credit is due. So without further ado:

• Let me strike that "I" for a "we." If Papa wasn't on board for this long project, then progress would be infinitesimal at best and, um, negative at worst. What's negative progress, you ask? That would be moving backwards into a dung heap of squalor. It would be decline of the one-step-forward, twelve-steps-back variety. Without him, our floors would remain dirty because he would ignore the mop and vacuum or our children so I could clean. But to his awesome credit, he wields mop, vacuum, OR kid duty. Plus, he jumps in with gusto to our heavy duty declutter projects (i.e. he does most if not all of the heavy-duty physical labor). He initiated the steam-cleaning project, in fact. All this on top of his normal yard/garden/outdoor work--he's hauling leaves right now as I type and feed Small Dude. One word for this amazing husband: swoon!
• Another huge contributor to our project, though she doesn't know it, is my mom. She's visited a couple times this year, always at times where we desperately needed full-time assistance (i.e. after Papa's emergency surgery and after Small Dude was born). While she didn't sit and sort old papers or move furniture or tag items for the yard sale, she did wash dishes, clothes, kids, floors and generally keep our house spic-and-span so that once she was gone we didn't have to recover our house and so we could do other purging projects later. This is one of those small-but-huge gifts. If you get the inherent paradox.
• Then there's Dan, who moved furniture with Papa out of our house for our yard sale and a few things back in, all for a measly plate of sweet treats. I don't know about you, but people who move furniture without major rewards are self-givers of the heroic kind. 
• As are people who gift us their time and energy to watch our children! My friend Devina deserves a shout-out here. She, in her great conscientiousness, heard and remembered my lament last spring on my stalled cleanliness project and in her great kindness offered to take the three older kids (I was still pregnant) for an entire day so I we could clean. Then, when she had to reschedule the original date, she showed up an extra day and took all the kids--including her four--to the park! 
• In that category also there's also Gary and Carmen, who took Little Professor and Superman overnight and for a whole day so that Papa and I could steam-clean the carpets, move furniture, hang pictures on walls that have been bare for years. The same day, the uber-awesome Terri watched Pearly Girl, even when she and Joel had a relative coming to visit. Because of that one night and full day, Papa and I got stuff done that can only happen without little ones around (even hanging frames without pictures in them because if it's going to survive long in this house, as all parents of little tykes know, it cannot. be. on. the. floor. Or anywhere remotely accessible. Which means if Papa and I don't see it, it don't get done). So thanks to these awesome folks' help, we were kidless on that productive day. I mean, except for Small Dude, who was blessedly quiet and only needed feeding when I really, really needed to sit down anyway.

Such help like this is humbling because it reminds me of my inadequacy to do everything myself. Yes, "smart" as I might be, I actually fool myself into thinking far too often that I can actually accomplish everything on my list single-handedly. Which is ridiculously impossible. And so I give thanks for all of these people and their time and efforts, who--whether they knew it or not--were giving us the ability to run the neatness marathon in front of us.

Micellaneous Milestones

Since my last post, we've had some busy times! Here's a brief update.

Papa attended a Doxology seminar in Nebraska, where he learned about the devil and his wily ways from Dr. John Kleinig. He, and several pastors from our circuit, greatly enjoyed their time together (scrumptious food enhanced their experience, I've heard) learning about how to beat down the Evil One. The boys are into superheroes and "getting bad guys," so I'm still stewing about how to make a connection for them with this.

We celebrated my birthday with my lovely mother here (who also enormously helped out with the kids while Papa was away)! Turning 31 feels great, in a very achieving gravitas kind of way (especially when you leave sentences like this dangling for a week on your blog. I am FULL OF GRAVITAS. :)) And thanks for the "Happy '29th' Birthday" card from my brother, who's unofficially moved me into the "older person" stage. :) The boys spontaneously sang me "Happy Birthday," which brought me to tears. Little C shrieked and grinned, which brought me joy. Papa bought me a beautiful card and some pretty earrings--and the boys helped with both! I'm very thankful for all the wishes and cards and gifts; truly, my cup overfloweth.

Papa presented on "Family Matters" at an LWML Fall Rally at our church, which I was able to attend (thanks, Mom!). It was great visiting with many women, singing for the group, and even participating in a skit without knowing what I'd have to say or do ahead of time. Let me just say that Mrs. L.E. is hilarious and utterly trustworthy! Papa's presentation was fantastic, too--as he's prepared for this, he's helped me prioritize our children's spiritual care (more on this in another post). That's always a "win, win, win," as I teasingly tell the kids.

P's reading. I mean really reading. While he phonetically sounds out words sometimes, many times he just looks at them now and just says 'em. No help. Just the other day, he brought me a baseball thing and said, "Does this say, 'Get in the game'?" Yep. You read that right, buddy. So his "Letter Lessons" have been really fun! We just started Section Eight of The Ordinary Parent's Guide to Teaching Reading, so we're about halfway through that book. He's been practicing holding a pencil correctly with the help of a gripper, and we'll start a formal writing program soon, mostly because he keeps bugging me about learning how to write more than just his name. Hey--I'm not complaining!

P and I have also been doing "Math" (or what he sometimes calls "Number Math"), where he practices counting to 100 on the abacus or I write simple addition on our white board and he figures them out by counting dots. The first time we tried this a week or so ago, he literally quivered with excitement. "Mom, I just love this!" he said at least three times. I had to quell thoughts of him, at nine, performing complicated equations with a dry-erase pen on a window (I saw some news segment on a young math whiz years ago who'd do that). So far, I'm just glad he thinks it's all fun. We'll be starting weekly science and history lessons in the next month, too.

S has developed into a tackling machine. Not out of any desire to hurt stems his sudden pouncing; he's just a really physical kid. He's been giving hugs a lot, which is fantastic! I just find myself bruised more frequently. We're working on his gentleness around C, because while she laughs and grins every time he "hugs" (see: pushes, sits on, drags) her, we don't want any trips to the ER. He also is still our little singer. Last week, while he and P played in the leaves, we caught him yelling--YELLING--the Stephen Starke version of the Lord's Prayer. He also randomly bursts into song, sometimes mid-sentence. He also regales us with random comments, like the one just recently when I was helping him in the bathroom: "Mommy, I won't poop on you." I was so relieved to hear that! :) Yesterday we heard him walk into the living room and see something P had done, and he goes, "WOW! A-MAAAAAZ-ING!" His enthusiasm is contagious!

C is testing the waters with walking! She'll pull herself up by a chair or something and then let go--and stand for a second or two by herself. She's definitely thinking about letting go and taking steps (believe us, we can see that look on her face). She's also starting this cheesy-grin/grimace thing. It's so big, it looks like it hurts her face, and we can't help smiling every time she does it! She's a happy little girl. She's eating table food all the time now, and in a month or so we'll start introducing whole milk already. *Sigh.* My baby's not really a baby anymore! P will play with her by himself, and he just loves her, and she him. It's great to see their sibling relationship develop. S and C are still at the "NO, C! That's MINE!" or the sitting-on-her stage. S loves her; he just doesn't want her in his stuff. I admit I dream that someday S and C will have a Jackson/Johannah relationship (that's a Duggar reference, for those of you who don't know).

We've enjoyed jumping in the leaves! And tracking them inside. :)

And a decluttering update: I've cleaned out the laundry room (!!!) and gone through about five bins of micellany besides. I've still got about ten to go, but it's all consolidated, and I've just been plugging away at it whenever we're watching something at night, like the St. Louis Cardinals play during this postseason. Between a clean and not-cluttered laundry room and the Cards, life is good right there.

A Hug and a Bump

Back in the day when P was about eighteen months old, he got a huge kick out of ramming his forehead into his daddy's as a sign of affection--what we came to call a "bump." Now they've continued with S, who is still learning how to do these (though, I must say, both boys learned pretty fast. I mean, they're naturally brutal naturally aggressive boys. :)) I try to avoid these, not because I'm not affectionate, but because little boys don't always know how to gauge how hard they're ramming their little foreheads into...well, whatever they tend to ram them into. We're probably awful parents because we allow this to continue, but we figure the, erm, hard lesson in learning how to be gentle offsets any lost brain cells by the lesson itself.

Anyway, it struck me this morning (harhh, harhh, no pun intended) that one of our little daily rituals is very special, mainly because it won't last forever. When Papa heads out for the day and the boys are in the immediate vicinity (which is almost always), they always cry out to him, "Give us a hug and a bump!" So he comes over and gives each of them big hugs and a little head-to-head bump. Only Papa does this with the kids. And they love it. They get upset if he happens to forget; they'll even watch out for each other--"Daddy, now give S a hug and a bump." Who knew affection between parent and child could be so tender and so potentially painful at the same time? And yes, take that as many ways as you want.

Daddy with kiddos back in March. How time flies.

Eight Years of Wedded Blessings

Though I'm weeks behind, here's to my wonderful, wonderful husband for eight years of wedded blessings. We've moved four times in three states; been blessed with four children, three of them living; worked ten different jobs, not including that of student; traveled ten thousands of miles; and  laughed and cried and scrubbed and yelled and painted and cooked and cleaned and savored--yes, savored what we have been given. I pray God gives us many, many more years together!
 

I married up, as you can see.

Visible and Invisible Glory

Tonight, after a lovely catch-up chat with Papa on our lovely front porch as we gazed at a lovely sunset, I offhandedly mentioned that I'd like my bike tires inflated. Short back story: Papa gave me my bike on our anniversary six years ago. He took me to church and said there was a surprise for me in the quilting room (a big storage space), and when I looked, there was a bike! It was one of the sweetest and most delightful surprises he's pulled off (the Nook might just beat the bike, though). We enjoyed riding it before the kids were born, and I've managed to ride it a little between pregnancies, but it's been a long time since I've hoisted my wobbly self onto the seat. I've been excited to take a spin this summer.

Anyway, Papa had already done the hard work of digging my long-neglected bike out of the shed last week, and at my words, he jumped up and went straight to the garage. I told him (admittedly half-heartedly) that he didn't have to inflate them now, but he did. And then I looked at the gleaming blue cycle with its oh-so-kickable kickstand and said, "Weeeeell... maybe I'll just ride around the block." Papa waved goodbye.

My ride.

I was about one hundred meters down the sidewalk when I realized that the sunset was reaching my favorite point--just when it last descends behind the horizon. The hues softening the few puffy clouds told me this was a good one, and I started pedaling fast. I was chasing the sunset.

We live a few blocks east of our town's western edge, and I like to walk over sometimes and watch the sunset from a higher point in a residential area that abuts a view of rolling cornfields, farms, and a few copses of trees as far as the eye can see. It's a gorgeous view. However, I had to go farther tonight to see the huge, molten day-gone sun because a new grocery store is now built, set to open next week, past the last row of houses. (I'll definitely do a post on that; it's big news out here.) I hit gravel and veered around the dirt paths that are set to be paved soon until I got to the main road out of town; I could just see the big red ball over the tops of a few trees to the north. I've got to get behind the high school, I thought.

I pedaled furiously down the little slope to the entrance of the high school. The sign flashed the time, 9:03 p.m., as I passed. Not much time. I cut across the grass to get to the library parking lot that connected to the back lot of the school, my jaw hammering with the vibrations of the rough ground. It's been a long, long time since I rode a bike. As I turned past the last corner of the school, I could see the sun, shining with muted ferocity as it sank. In the quiet, I could hear birds nesting, crickets chirping, cicadas calling, even the constant, mechanical buzz of the wind turbine. The wind whispered in the corn. The sight was so beautiful, I couldn't breathe.

 I've felt overwhelmed lately by the lists--all the things I have to do, all the things I should do, all the things I'd like to do, and the very long lists of what I just never do. I'm slowly realizing--I'm a slow learner--that there's no way in God's creation that I can actually get done everything on every list. I go through phases where I convince myself that I'm doing pretty well, that I'm "accomplishing" a lot, whatever that means. And then, when life gets busy, the kids grow and have more needs, I start feeling the pressure, like a boat that's taking on too much water. It's only a matter of time before something gives, before I get swamped. It used to be that I felt like I could "catch up" in the summers--clean out the closets, feel like I could get a fresh start to each school year. That's getting much harder--impossible?--to do.

But in the twilight, watching the sunset, I remembered that all of this life is meaningless. We chase ourselves and our loved ones around and around and die a little more each day, over and over again. The sun sets only to rise, panting. My chest heaved and my quads trembled and my soul stilled as I watched this day die, and thought of this.

But the sunset was so beautiful. Regardless of how temporal this life is, God deigned to give me--give us--this peaceful, marvelous tapestry on one evening out of the thousands, millions He has made. What a generous Giver He is, that as we struggle and as we lie burdened (esp. RAE this night), He showers us with loveliness, even little, seemingly meaningless glory in the heavens as the day ends. This is our toil, and this is yet our song.

Reb. Mary wrote today about how it's not OK, but that's OK, of the subtle temptation to think that doing certain God-pleasing acts (A) leads to certain outcomes (B). In her eloquent post, she writes:

When B does not follow, the cry of a [sinner's] heart should not be (or should not primarily be) for the Better Life: “Why, Lord? What am I doing wrong? Show me how to make it work!” Plead rather for the Better Hope: “Please, Lord. With this gift of your very life’s blood, pour into me the strength to continue pouring myself out. Enlarge my heart, that the life-giving transfusion may not be wasted through selfishly narrowed arteries. Teach me to live daily the difference of that cleansing flood, the difference between hard and hopeless, invisible to all but the eyes of faith. God grant me eyes of faith!” 

I can't see what is before me or our family. Heck, I could barely see the gravel on the shoulder as I pedaled weakly back up the hill into town. I don't know how everything important will get done. I have lots of sweating, and pedaling, and suffering ahead. This is the reality of life. But Christ makes visible what is invisible; He gives what we, the most impoverished, would starve without. I don't have to chase the sunset. He's already given it to me, and given me all the days that are before me, and given me the eternal dawn that waits for me and all believers.

To Mine

Today is Valentine's Day. But just to show you that love transcends far beyond even the most hippy-drippy pre-packaged commercialized holidays, consider this small list.

Papa's Acts of Love

 

• Helping our sons blow their very runny noses.
• Cleaning up the faces of said runny-nosers.
• Washing dishes and cleaning counters.
• Making spaghetti with semi-homemade sauce and a multi-layered green salad.
• Sorting, washing, folding, and putting away laundry. Repeat times six.
• Washing dishes and cleaning counters. Again.
• Getting up at night to assist and comfort not one, not two, but three children who awake due to bathroom needs, feeding needs, and illness-I-feel-yucky needs. Repeat times four (or five or six. Hard to keep track.).
• Going to four different stores to find a warm mist vaporizer (after ours went kaput after hard running). 
• Fixing breakfast for the boys and eating with them (translation: keeping them out of trouble).
• Teaching Bible class, visiting shut-ins, and serving in pastoral capacities that transcend my understanding.
• Loving his wife, even when she doesn't do much (other than work really hard on a really great hairstyle after tossing on a pillow for six hours).

The real kicker? All this he has done in less than twenty-four consecutive hours.

He gets my vote for Man, Husband, and Father of the Century. Make that Millennium. Thanks anyway, St. Valentine!

A few years ago, pre-crop-of-kids. He looks even better today.

Annoying (and Some AxE-murdering Weirdness).

So today we've had a few annoying things happen. Nothing earth-shattering--just out-of-the-ordinary stuff that deserves a blog post (for those of you bored enough to read about it).

First, I've been working through an issue with one of our savings accounts. I got an unidentified deposit in May, and being the good Christian that I am--insert guffawing laughter here--asked the bank to do some research as to where the funds came from. Long story short, some bureaucratic underling at USD made the stupid mistake of looking up my name instead of cross-checking social security numbers, so some student worker missed out on $200 while I--three years from the last time I worked for the South Dakota Board of Directors for SDSU, a completely different school--got magic money. So, she finally asked them where the dough was, they looked, realized they screwed up, and--oh! they needed my written permission to take the money back.

I love how mistakes work.

So today, after conversations and emails with the bank, I called the USD Human Resources chick, then emailed her and the bank what they wanted, and Papa and I decided to close the account and open another one just so the SDBOD can never, ever make this mistake again. They can't delete my info--my precious, identity-stealable-info--due to "record retention regulations" (how's that for alliteration?), and they can only "put a block on my profile," so we figured this was the next best protection we could take. So... somebody in government makes a mistake and someone else spends probably three hours fixing it? At a full-time government salary with benefits, how much did that $200 mistake really cost? And that doesn't count the bank worker time or my time being all altruistic and honest. I mean, don't I at least deserve a medal or something for being so cooperative?

Ha. Hahahahahahaha.

Second, Papa can't find his wallet. This happens fairly frequently, but he looked for an hour and still can't find it. Update: he found it at church. Under some papers. After going and looking there twice, in between telling me how annoying it was that he couldn't find his wallet, thus couldn't go get some stuff, thus couldn't mow the grass... well, he's mowing the grass now, and all's well that ends well. Especially if you end with your wallet in your pocket.

Third, I got a text this afternoon from someone telling me how they're probably going to sign soon on a house and be homeowners again by August 19, and thanx for all my support!!! Um, no problem. Because I was sitting at my computer while I told Papa about this, I decided to do a reverse phone lookup, even though I figured the message came from a cell phone. It did, but the free service identified the town where the number (or the owners of the phone?) came from was Villisca, Iowa.

So I did what any God-fearing American would do and googled Villisca, expecting a map to pop up first--and I got the website for the Villisca Ax Murder House. Um, yeah. In 1912, in said house, the Moore family (two parents, four kids) and two other kids were brutally slaughtered (I'd say "axe murdered," but that's pretty self-evident, and then it brings up the whole debate as to whether ax should be spelled with an "e" or without. The "e"s seem to win it, but maybe those folks who run the House get dibs on correctness). No one ever solved the mystery, strange things take place on the property... and the house looks like the major tourist destination for central Iowa. Talk about information I did not expect to learn today.

I was hoping this guest would be wearing the "Where Skeptics Become Believers" shirt, but no luck. I like the overalls, though.

On the bright side, the temperature dropped back into the mid-80s and, most excitingly, our living room furniture was delivered this morning! Post soon about that non-annoying, non-weird stuff.

Good men are hard to find.

I'm a little late on the uptake here, but this WSJ article from the weekend reflects a lot of what I've been reading lately. Just this morning I was thinking about my married friends and which ones had the ideal husband--the responsible-but-loving type. The vast majority of the blessed ones, I realized, are married to pastors--men who have to "man up" and undertake incredibly difficult tasks while also remaining sensitive and loving. I know; these guys aren't perfect and often fall short (I'm married to one). But they embody so much of what's missing in so many guys. And, sadly, I think parents, schools, and even churches have denied boys the role models they've needed because, well, men are brutal and savage and who wants THAT for our sons? Here's a few gems--irony noted--from Kay Hymowitz's article adapted from her book:

Today's pre-adult male is like an actor in a drama in which he only knows what he shouldn't say. He has to compete in a fierce job market, but he can't act too bossy or self-confident. He should be sensitive but not paternalistic, smart but not cocky. To deepen his predicament, because he is single, his advisers and confidants are generally undomesticated guys just like him.

Single men have never been civilization's most responsible actors; they continue to be more troubled and less successful than men who deliberately choose to become husbands and fathers. So we can be disgusted if some of them continue to live in rooms decorated with "Star Wars" posters and crushed beer cans and to treat women like disposable estrogen toys, but we shouldn't be surprised.

Relatively affluent, free of family responsibilities, and entertained by an array of media devoted to his every pleasure, the single young man can live in pig heaven—and often does. Women put up with him for a while, but then in fear and disgust either give up on any idea of a husband and kids or just go to a sperm bank and get the DNA without the troublesome man. But these rational choices on the part of women only serve to legitimize men's attachment to the sand box. Why should they grow up? No one needs them anyway. There's nothing they have to do.

They might as well just have another beer.

For an alternative--albeit evangelical--to this pre-adult lifestyle (which also affects women, but that's another post topic), check out Alex and Brett Harris's Do Hard Things: A Teenage Rebellion Against Low Expectations.

I pray God that our sons will have many fine male examples to follow. And their father will lead the way--by the way, he painted the entire basement this afternoon. After spoonfeeding S, playing with P, writing and editing sermons and I-don't-know-what-all, taking pastoral phone calls, and generally being an awesome, awesome Dad and Husband. And this was just today!

Lamplight flickering on the Cam

Thank you, my dear husband, for putting up Parliament on our blog. Despite what goes on inside that historic structure, its image imparts to us a warm nostalgia for our days--nearly ten years ago!--walking together along old, cobbled English streets. We will return there someday, and walk again, with present joys to add to our fond memories.

I love boys.

Thanks to Netflix, J's been watching Transformers while I've been playing with my new laptop. He's got a permagrin. I love it.

Blurbs

I know: people hate gushing. But J deserves a public embrace for his lovely post from the other day. The man is incredible--not perfect, but certainly the perfect man for me. He sleeps behind me as I type this, his patience proven again by his ability to put up with my occasionally nocturnal turns.

I hear thunder outside. Though this might seem commonplace to many of you, I associate thunder with summer--which is what our recent weather has been like. I'll take it, and take it, and take it. Along with the numerous contractions I've been experiencing for the last hour and a half. AND I hope you enjoy the new Babystrology widget here; I know, it'll be pointless very soon, but isn't it COOL? Sorry, no more gushing.