Close Encounters...

of the police kind.

And, no, I wasn't speeding.  Or running a stop sign.  (Hey, don't judge.)

It began with an innocent attempt at grooming someone's fingernails.  "Will you please go get the clippers out of mommy's drawer by her bed?" the mommy requested.

A few minutes later, we heard a familiar beep-beep-beep.  Within minutes, if not seconds, a quick string of beeps, followed by the shrieks of an ear-piercing siren, shattered the relatively peaceful quiet of our Saturday night.  Alas, we were stumped at the source of the alarm.  To our knowledge, no one had been near the key pads.  All boys were questioned and summarily dismissed as suspects.  Our nerves still a wee bit rattled, we chalked it up to what we hoped was an electrical fluke.

Then, just as jittery nerves had settled and boys had been herded to bed, there was pounding on the front door.  Two police cars were parked at the curb.  From inside we could see the sweep of flashlight beams as the perimeter of the house was examined.  The cavalry had arrived.  Adorned in my oversized and well-worn Chicago Cubs t-shirt and striped pajama pants, my driver's license was expeditiously handed over for their examination and record keeping purposes, while Jack, in good citizen mode, stood outside smiling and thanking them for their prompt response.

It wasn't until the next morning that we realized the remote access key fob for the home alarm system had been in that drawer.  The suspected perpetrator was questioned about his notice of, and attention to, said button-bearing device.  Assuring him that we had the power to cut him a deal with the DA, he agreed to bargain and readily admitted his unknowing misconduct.

Buttons, by their very nature, beckon to be pushed. Especially by little boys. Elevators. Remote controls. Phones. Cameras. You name it, the button-containing device is irrelevant. It's a temptation difficult to withstand.

I'm hoping the recidivism rates for this type of offense are really low, 'cause I'm not sure how much grace the men in blue are willing to extend, and I look terrible in orange.

I felt the earth move...

under my feet...

Did y'all feel it?  It was the thunderous shock of me not turning on the computer ALL. DAY. LONG.  I'm sure there was lightning somewhere as well.

Yes, it was an exercise in restraint.  Self-control.  Minimizing distractions, if you will.  My family was stunned.

I make no promises for the morrow...for I know not what the morrow brings.  All I know is, for today, it was necessary to keep this magnetic techno-monster at bay.

The last week or so has been a little, well, melancholy, for me.  Lots of introspection.  (Yuck.)  Lots of self-examination.  (Yuckier.)  And loads of internal criticism - with a side of condemnation, and a little bit of dread on top.  I wish I could blame PMS....

This is my SSMT verse this go round:
But let all those rejoice who put their trust in You; let them ever shout for joy, because You defend them; let those also who love Your name be joyful in You.  For You, O LORD, will bless the righteous; with favor You will surround her as with a shield.  Psalm 5:11-12 NKJV


He defends me.  His favor is a shield, protecting me not only from the arrows of the enemy who seeks to steal, kill and destroy, but from the inner voice that can be far harsher, uglier, and more critical than it should be.  Please don't misunderstand.  I'm not excusing my mistakes.  I make plenty of them.  Regularly.  But much of the time, I am my own worst enemy.  On so many levels.  Maybe you can relate.

So when thoughts of self-condemnation rain down upon me, He puts up a shield.  To protect me from me.  Now that's some favor.

Oh, for grace to love Him more.

This is the day, this is the day...

All together now...
"that the Lord has made, that the Lord has made..."

Michael's favorite song, the oh-oh-oh song (otherwise known as "Today Is The Day" by Lincoln Brewster) cycled through the iPod earlier today, requiring him to turn it up full throttle, and then lather, rinse, repeat, oh, say three or eight times, until an older brother came downstairs to proclaim its unnecessary loudness.

To which I say with gusto,
"HA, tweener!  If it's too loud, you're too old."

(Although, in all honesty, who can blame him?  I've been known to throw a flag on the field for unnecessary loudness a time or two myself.)

Believing that all You have in store for me is good.

One of my favorite lines.  All.  My mess-ups, botches, mistakes and failures, even when I knew/know better (ouch), He'll use for my good.  Isn't that something?  I'm so grateful.

This song actually reminds me of a much older "contemporary Christian" chorus, closely titled, "This is the day".  If you were raised in church in the 70s you may have sung it.  In fact, we still sing it around here with Jack as our chief chorus leader because he's, well, chipper, like that.  And while it'll never win any acclaims for its musicality (it hearkens, after all, from one of ugliest fashion decades known to mankind), it's a good message.  Just like Lincoln's version.  Which is definitely more fun to listen to.

In my mind's eye....

he was so tall.  And handsome.  He had caught up to, if not surpassed, his father in height.  His hair was still red, although a little darker, and the boyish frame had filled out; his shoulders were broad.  The boyish softness in his features had been replaced by a more solid jaw line and the face of an adult.  A smattering of youthful freckles remained.

I had to look up at him.

"Mom, will you help me?"

And in an instant, he was 12 again.  And I was standing next to him - albeit a shorter, tween version -  helping him comb his hair.

Those glimpses into the future don't happen often for me - task-oriented by nature, schooling, household chores, the never ending to-do's - and if I am being honest, time-wasting-saving technology - occupy the moments, hours, and days, with little pause for introspection.  Even the quiet of a sleeping household is filled with mindlessness rather than just being.

But, today - in spite of the rush to get out the door - for a moment, time had flown, and I had to blink away the tears, for I had hair to comb.

For Whom He Loves He Chastens

I've been chastened.

By Jack.

Jack is very safety conscious.  I, on the other hand, am very decor conscious.  Guess which one is more important?  Imagine my chagrin when I discovered that the man does not appreciate finding smoke detectors in the upstairs drawers.  And, yes, that was plural detectors.

And why are they in drawers, you may ask?  Our onsite safety inspector is concerned for the well-being of the residents of this home, and he is of the school of thought that if one smoke detector is good, more is better.  I, however, find it challenging to decorate around said (unsightly) smoke detectors.  They aren't always up on a wall or ceiling out of the realm of my decorating empire; no, indeed, sometimes they are on a shelf.  Right where I can see them.

And who among us, when the low battery signal begins its reign of chirping terror, hasn't done the stealth creep through the house trying to pinpoint just which one is the culprit?  I'm sure you can understand my predicament.  And so, the battery gets removed.  And, sometimes, the detector (or three) gets put in a drawer.

Duly chastened, I have now promised that:

1.  I will not just remove, but will actually replace, faulty batteries from beeping smoke detectors.

2.  I will not, under any circumstances, put smoke detectors (singular or plural) in drawers.  Apparently it significantly impacts their effectiveness.

And now, I have to go the store, as I require more 9 volt batteries.

I'll leave right after I check all the other drawers.

What's It Gonna Bee? A He or a She?

And no, it is not myself I allude to.

But it is my "baby" brother and his sweet wife.

(Insert picture swiped from FB of my handsome brother and his could-practically-be-a-supermodel-if-she-weren't-so-petite wife.)



And when they got married, because they are a contemporary and fashionable couple, they thought it'd be fun to go with one of those new-fangled destination weddings.  Cool.  Trendy. Happening.  With-it, if you will.

You know, like us.

With our 3-month old.  And a 5- and 7-year old.  And a just-possibly-still-a-wee-bit-post-partum mom, who had a few weeks prior, started a brutal diet and exercise program.  (And, no, I am not exaggerating.) (Really.)  (That'll have to be another post someday.)  (I know - you can't wait.)

Of course, we went.  Because how often does your brother get married on a pristine beach with crystal clear water?  "It'll be fun," the JPSAWBPP mom said.  International glamour.  Tropical ease.  (Or so the tourism website promised.)

So we loaded up the truck and we moved to Beverly...oh wait, wrong story.  But it wasn't far off.  We were, for all intents and purposes, "The Beverly Hillbillies Go To The Bahamas."  But without the rocking chair.  I am (again) not exaggerating when I tell you that we schlepped THIRTEEN, yes, THIRTEEN duffle bags through parking lots, terminals of major airports, customs and into taxis because we are, indeed, urbane and sophisticated world travelers.

We swam with the dolphins.  We snorkled in the crystal clear water.  We dove for rocks and coral.  (And, let me be clear that by "we", I mean the man and the boys.)  The JPSAWBPP mom hung out with a precious 3-month old who needed a t-shirt that said, "My parents took me to the Bahamas and I cried the whole time."

But the wedding was beautiful.  The beaches were beautiful.  The bride was beautiful.  (And, of course, it goes without saying that the two ring bearers were adorable.)

And now...fast forward five years.

She's still beautiful.  And now she's expecting.

We had a little family "reveal" party yesterday.  I made my first, and possibly last, pinata.

And there were diaper cupcakes, but I forgot to take pictures.  They were cute though.  I got the idea here, if you get the urge to make some.  I used newborn size, but if I were doing them again I'd use size 1.

So, what's it gonna bee?  A he or a she?

Well.......

It's a girl!

Wild Thing, You Make My Heart Sing or A Tale In Which Singles Become Acquainted

And speaking of things that make my heart sing, or at least hum, I did, in fact, get my kitchen cleaned the other night.  And last night too.  Woohoo...apparently I'm on a two-night roll.  I should take this hot streak to Vegas, baby.

Today I feel compelled to tell you about a young single woman whose father, Bob, was led to set her up with a guy named - yes, you guessed it - Bob.

Now father Bob could not be faulted for wanting to come to the assistance of this young woman, his eldest favorite daughter.  While not quite "long in the tooth", she was definitely of a marrying age.  As opposed to the "still hanging around with her parents" age.  Not that either ever seemed to mind that.  She always enjoyed The Parentals, and, as far as she could tell, they enjoyed her.  (And if anyone knows otherwise, they should keep that little tidbit to themselves, because as we all know, ignorance is bliss.)

Actually, The Parental's household was always an open door whereby the singles of their local house of worship could commence to fellowship.  And fellowship they did.  Game Nights.  Home Groups.  (Ah, heck - you know how those churchy singles are...any excuse for a get-together.)   And she wasn't alone; there was another sister of  a marrying age just behind her....  So I'm sure you can understand the man's motivation to get those eligible maidens hitched, as it were.

So, Bob, The Father, decided that Bob, Not The Father, and Eligible Daughter #1 might be a good match for one another.  Bob, Not The Father, was attending the same church at the time, and it was convenient for him to join in on the singles' reindeer games.  And henceforth, the two met.  And became acquainted.  And may or may not have managed to ride together by themselves to and from an event or two, as singles who are getting acquainted are wont to do on occasion.

But as time progressed, Eligible Daughter #1 discovered traits of sweet Bob, Not The Father, that were, well, not conducive to moving forward with their acquaintanceship.

For example, Bob, Not The Father, saw only "G"-rated movies.  And while Eligible Daughter #1 (let's just call her ED#1, for short, shall we?), had been known to enjoy a good animated feature from time to time, she also enjoyed films aimed at, say, an audience of viewers who were old enough to vote.

ED#1 also discovered that Bob, Not The Father, only drove 55.  MPH.  Now ED#1, while no Sammy Hagar, did appreciate the use of the long pedal on the right, and was known to, on occasion, when warranted, drive just a wee bit faster than 55.

It was at this point that ED#1, while never one to be drawn to the proverbial "bad boys", decided that there had to be a happy medium somewhere between tattooed, motorcycle-driving, rock-star wanna-be and staid, sedate, rated "G" observer of speed limits.

And that was the end of Bob, Not The Father.  And she sincerely hopes he's very happy.  Because he was a pleasant person.

And then, eventually - very, very eventually - without the intervention of Bob, The Father - ED#1 would meet the man who would take her to PG movies and drive her around town.

In a rocking Toyota Camry.

And the irony is that he doesn't speed either.

But he does make her heart sing.

A Clean Kitchen...

...is a beautiful thing.

So says the woman who got last night's dinner dishes done just in time to make tonight's dinner.  I bet Martha Stewart never does that.  Yeah, I know...she's got people.

I've got people too.  They just never clean my kitchen.

(Full disclosure: That's not entirely true.  Boy2 unloads.  Boy1 loads.)

(In theory.)

Even when the boys do their unload/load routine, there are still little things to finish up behind them, and I should be better about making sure I have a clean canteen every night before I go to bed.  I cook three squares a day most days, so a messy kitchen is a luxury - as it were - that I can ill afford when a hungry boy stumbles downstairs, asking for his breakfast in the a.m.  It's downright un-fun to wake up to.

(The messy kitchen, not the cute boy.)

And on that note, I think I'll go clean my kitchen.