Note to self: Just because I compose a blog post in my head while, say, in the shower or sitting at a red light or on a run with my dog, does not necessarily mean it will translate directly onto this computer until I actually sit down and write it. I only say that because this is something I've been saying to myself for awhile inside my pea brain, but haven't actually transcribed it to the written word yet. Until now.
So prepare. 'Cause it ain't pretty.
There's a 6-letter word that has become more profane in our family right now over most any given four-lettered ones. A word I detest. Loathe. Hate. Despise. You probably can guess it since I already gave you a big hint.
Stroke.
Such a simple word, really. It usually has pretty good connotations. A stroke could be associated with playing a fun game, like swinging a baseball bat or a golf club. Or how about tennis? Holla! Better yet, one I'm a little partial to: writing. A stroke of the pen. Or stroking the keys of my beloved laptop putting a long-overdue blogpost into written word. How about my favorite thing in the entire world: stroking my daughters' cheeks as they drift off to sleep? Perfection.
Well, that's all been ruined for me now. The word "stroke" has, within the context of one calendar year, singularly become - and pardon the melodrama, but it's how I roll tonight - the bane of my existence.
What once was an innocuous word has become a personal hell for my family, and it doesn't seem to be letting up anytime soon.
I know, I know. I sound like a crazy woman. It could be extreme dehydration from the stomach flu a couple of days ago. Coupled with the rules laid down by the kidney stone doctor which include collecting my pee in a big orange jug for 24 hours and changing my diet COMPLETELY because apparently every single crumb of healthy food I consume "is contributing to my kidney stones". Peanut butter wheat toast for breakfast? Nope, no peanut butter, no wheat. Spinach salad for lunch? No spinach or leafy vegetables, no tomatoes. Handful of nuts for a nutritious snack? Fuggedaboutit, no nuts allowed. Apparently, the only thing I'm doing right here is water. Can you tell I'm a little bitter? You're probably thinking Sarah might have even had a little stroke herself, right smackdab in the forebrain, for suddenly turning a lighthearted little family blog into a rant. I get it, I really do.
But guess what? This ain't about me.
You probably know by now how this antagonistic relationship with the word "stroke" originated. The devastating stroke of unknown origin or etiology that felled my husband's vital father. It came upon us swiftly and deftly without warning, and we were left floundering, bereft in a sea of agonizing questions and fist-shaking.
Next, I was turned on to a wonderful professional mommy-blogger and fellow sister in Christ who is raising two beautiful girls (shout-out), is a runner (whoop whoop), and who happens to also be thirty-nine years old, same as yours truly. Tragically, this beautiful and talented woman was discovered by her daughter last week on their basement floor suffering a grand mal seizure secondary to a massive - you guessed it, stroke - in her beautiful and talented brain. Even though this woman and I have never met, her condition and her family are weighing so heavily in my spirit this week for reasons I cannot identify with words. I am beside myself at the thought of these two girls possibly having to grow up without their mom. If you would like to pray for Joanne and her family, I encourage you to do so, and you can follow her progress here.
Lastly, I received some news today from my mother that my grandmother Sassy has suffered a stroke and is deteriorating rapidly. Some of you may know that my dear, sweet, beautiful Sassy has been waging a brave battle against the ravages of Alzheimer's for the past decade, and truth be told, I think she has also been secretly quite excited for the day she can escape the bounds of earth and reunite with her Savior, but still, hearing the news today has been hard. Especially since those words included the unforgiving six-letter sacrilege, "stroke".
So now can you understand the reasons for my fanatical ramblings?
But.....
Here's the thing.....
Perhaps the craziest thing of all...
And it's a pretty BIG thing....
THE CIRCUMSTANCES OF MY LIFE DO NOT CHANGE THE CHARACTER OF GOD.
Nothing. Not the strokes. Not the deaths of dear people I love. Not the kidney stones. Or the stomach flu. Not ANYTHING in my life changes my GOD. He is the same as He ever was. He is Alpha and Omega. He has never and will never change. I will change. The circumstances of my life will change. Some, I will be happy with. Others, not so much. I will move closer to Him and further away from Him. I will make mistakes and crawl back to Him on my knees. I will say things I don't mean, and probably even some things I do mean. I will take Him for granted. I will shake my fists and demand answers I may never get and pound the earth in vain, but He will still be Him. Steadfast, pure, faithful, resolute, unwavering, unchanging from the beginning of time until the end.
He will not change.
And this.
This, my friends, is what makes it all okay. This is what gives me the courage to get out of bed every morning and face a world filled with Alzheimer's, armed men who shoot children in parking lots, kidney stones, and yes, even strokes.
Okay whew, I'm done. My rant is over. Glad I got that off my chest. And thanks for listening.
-
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
My Child is Color Blind
...And I'm so proud of her. Jealous, even. Because I want to be color blind too.
Not color blind in the traditional sense. Not a vision deficiency with warped rods and cones, like poor Chris who, despite being in full denial while simultaneously exercising his Fifth Amendment right on this subject and wearing a pink shirt he insists is white, still had to get special permission from the FAA to pass his pilot physical due to a minor teensy-weensy problem like not being able to tell red from green.
Ahem. Excuse me. RED from GREEN. In a plane, ya'll. Do you know how crucially important that is? Like to tell, say, if the plane 500 feet away from you is barreling toward you at 200 mph or better yet, heading away at 200 mph. You get my point. I am unable to put into words the anxiety that gives me. (Deep breath. Isaiah 41:10. Isaiah 41:10...)
No. Aria is not that type of color blind. She is blind to skin color.
And I am so glad.
See, she doesn't notice whether the kids in her class are pink, brown, black, or even green as in Hopey's case the other day. Poor lil' Hopey. Aria watched Hopey get sick in class last month, and for weeks afterward during bedtime prayers, we had to pray for "Hopey's barf".
Aria doesn't notice the skin color of others. The only thing she knows is that the other children are her friends. In her perfect childlike innocence, she views others how God sees us. As people. As souls. With mercy. And compassion.
One day, I know this will change. One day, one terribly sad and heartbreaking day, Aria will realize that her skin is brown and her friends, even her Mommy, Daddy and Sissy, have lighter skin. This just kills me. It kills me because for now, for this blessed honeymoon period in her childhood, she is completely oblivious to the differences in other people. She doesn't know that her eyes, those beautiful chocolate eyes that can see into my soul, are brown to my green. Or that her fine, black hair, silk that I can't keep myself from stroking whenever she is within arm's reach, is so different from my own brittle (pretend) blonde.
I know it is coming. Maybe because of how sensitive I am now to any reference to race, color, or ethnicity. Twice at work in the last few weeks, different colleagues have told jokes implying racial stereotypes, and I've literally felt my skin bristle and my knees go weak with anger and pain. Not rage towards the unsuspecting, (albeit ignorant) colleagues, but at the big, cruel, insensitive world into which I will one day begrudgingly release my precious innocent baby - my beautiful, open-hearted daughter, who sees everyone for what they are, and not for their 1/4 -inch exterior.
I don't want to admit this, but I've done my share of racial profiling in my day. An African-American man near my car in a dark parking lot makes me grip my purse a little tighter. I observe with raised eyebrow the benign activities of the Persian man three seats in front of me on an airplane. And I give my little Asian neighbor lady a wide berth when passing each other in the car.
But let me be totally clear: I DO NOT WANT TO BE THIS WAY. I want to be more like Aria. I want to be color blind. I want to accept people at face value, for their authentic humanity, not their heritage or the color of their skin.
Talking to other adoptive parents, I've had people ask me how my "transracial adoption" is going, and this completely catches me off guard. Because I don't consider ours a transracial family. I consider us two people who wanted desperately to be parents and who were inexplicably blessed when our extraordinary Heavenly Father answered the prayer in our hearts and performed the most staggering, inconceivable feat by weaving the threads of our lives together with a baby born 8000 miles away. She is my perfect child, and I am her (flawed but well-intentioned) mother.
I want Aria to know everything she can about where she came from and how the history of her culture will shape our lives. I am arranging for us to take Vietnamese lessons together so we can learn to speak the language. When she is old enough to understand, we will celebrate Tet (the Vietnamese New Year). One day, we will take a trip to her homeland, so she can understand and respect her heritage.
For now though, I will cover this face that looks nothing like mine with kisses. And I will try my best to be more like my daughter.
Who sees the world as God intended.
-
Not color blind in the traditional sense. Not a vision deficiency with warped rods and cones, like poor Chris who, despite being in full denial while simultaneously exercising his Fifth Amendment right on this subject and wearing a pink shirt he insists is white, still had to get special permission from the FAA to pass his pilot physical due to a minor teensy-weensy problem like not being able to tell red from green.
Ahem. Excuse me. RED from GREEN. In a plane, ya'll. Do you know how crucially important that is? Like to tell, say, if the plane 500 feet away from you is barreling toward you at 200 mph or better yet, heading away at 200 mph. You get my point. I am unable to put into words the anxiety that gives me. (Deep breath. Isaiah 41:10. Isaiah 41:10...)
No. Aria is not that type of color blind. She is blind to skin color.
And I am so glad.
See, she doesn't notice whether the kids in her class are pink, brown, black, or even green as in Hopey's case the other day. Poor lil' Hopey. Aria watched Hopey get sick in class last month, and for weeks afterward during bedtime prayers, we had to pray for "Hopey's barf".
Aria doesn't notice the skin color of others. The only thing she knows is that the other children are her friends. In her perfect childlike innocence, she views others how God sees us. As people. As souls. With mercy. And compassion.
One day, I know this will change. One day, one terribly sad and heartbreaking day, Aria will realize that her skin is brown and her friends, even her Mommy, Daddy and Sissy, have lighter skin. This just kills me. It kills me because for now, for this blessed honeymoon period in her childhood, she is completely oblivious to the differences in other people. She doesn't know that her eyes, those beautiful chocolate eyes that can see into my soul, are brown to my green. Or that her fine, black hair, silk that I can't keep myself from stroking whenever she is within arm's reach, is so different from my own brittle (pretend) blonde.
I know it is coming. Maybe because of how sensitive I am now to any reference to race, color, or ethnicity. Twice at work in the last few weeks, different colleagues have told jokes implying racial stereotypes, and I've literally felt my skin bristle and my knees go weak with anger and pain. Not rage towards the unsuspecting, (albeit ignorant) colleagues, but at the big, cruel, insensitive world into which I will one day begrudgingly release my precious innocent baby - my beautiful, open-hearted daughter, who sees everyone for what they are, and not for their 1/4 -inch exterior.
I don't want to admit this, but I've done my share of racial profiling in my day. An African-American man near my car in a dark parking lot makes me grip my purse a little tighter. I observe with raised eyebrow the benign activities of the Persian man three seats in front of me on an airplane. And I give my little Asian neighbor lady a wide berth when passing each other in the car.
But let me be totally clear: I DO NOT WANT TO BE THIS WAY. I want to be more like Aria. I want to be color blind. I want to accept people at face value, for their authentic humanity, not their heritage or the color of their skin.
Talking to other adoptive parents, I've had people ask me how my "transracial adoption" is going, and this completely catches me off guard. Because I don't consider ours a transracial family. I consider us two people who wanted desperately to be parents and who were inexplicably blessed when our extraordinary Heavenly Father answered the prayer in our hearts and performed the most staggering, inconceivable feat by weaving the threads of our lives together with a baby born 8000 miles away. She is my perfect child, and I am her (flawed but well-intentioned) mother.
I want Aria to know everything she can about where she came from and how the history of her culture will shape our lives. I am arranging for us to take Vietnamese lessons together so we can learn to speak the language. When she is old enough to understand, we will celebrate Tet (the Vietnamese New Year). One day, we will take a trip to her homeland, so she can understand and respect her heritage.
For now though, I will cover this face that looks nothing like mine with kisses. And I will try my best to be more like my daughter.
Who sees the world as God intended.
-
Sunday, January 9, 2011
A Rocky Start
All that rhetoric I wrote imploring 2011 to be a better year?
I left Chris a little love note alerting him that the cause of the heavy breathing and groaning from the bathroom tile early this morning was not, in fact, a nice dream about him, but was, instead, this:
Congratulate me. I birthed a 1 mm ball of rage from my ureter.
And all without the aid of narcotics, seeing as how I had to be at work today at seven.
I hope my colleagues remember how I took one for the team today when bonus time comes around next month...
Now, somebody please pass the Advil.
-
I left Chris a little love note alerting him that the cause of the heavy breathing and groaning from the bathroom tile early this morning was not, in fact, a nice dream about him, but was, instead, this:
Congratulate me. I birthed a 1 mm ball of rage from my ureter.
And all without the aid of narcotics, seeing as how I had to be at work today at seven.
I hope my colleagues remember how I took one for the team today when bonus time comes around next month...
Now, somebody please pass the Advil.
-
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
MMXI
2011.
I can't believe you're finally here. And what the heck took you so long?
2010 was a yucky year and I'll say it, I AM GLAD TO SEE YOU GO AWAY.
2010, you made me say goodbye to two very special people in my life, my grandmother and my father-in-law. 2010, you made me watch my husband weep for the first time (unless you count the tears he had when I was walking down the aisle towards him at our wedding, and to this day I don't know if those were happy tears or not, but for the sake of my sometimes tenuous self-esteem, let's pretend they were). And 2010, you made me grow gray hairs on the top of my head, a hard pill to swallow when you are paying Drew gobs of money to give you the tresses of a twenty-five-year-old.
Oh 2010, you had your moments, I'll give you that. The Rangers went to the World Series. My brother's healthy, beautiful twins were born. I ran a half-marathon PR. One of my best friends battled breast cancer and won. I ran into Troy Aikman having my eyebrows waxed. Clemson beat North Texas. But let's be honest, I'm looking forward to a new year. A year without sickness. A year without anxiety. No sadness. A year without drama -- wait, is that possible with an overabundance of estrogen in our house? Okay then, gimme drama, just none of the other stuff.
Welcome, 2011.
Also known as the last year I'll ever be in my thirties. (BIG SIGH.....)
Which means now I have a big ole bucket list I need to accomplish in the next 10 months.
When I was in my mid-twenties I made a list of the things I wanted to accomplish before turning thirty. I had about three dozen things on it I wanted to do, but the highlights went something like this:
-Run a marathon
-Buy a house
-Get a dog
-Become a published author
-Get a Master's Degree
-Take flying lessons
-Meet the love of my life
-Read the Bible cover-to-cover
-Climb Mount Everest
Yes, seriously. Those were my lofty goals at twenty-five. Not asking too much. Nawww. But you know what? Of all those things, I actually accomplished all but one of them.
Would you like to guess which one?
As I've grown older and have (hopefully) matured in my perception of reality vs delusion, my goals have shifted and become a little less quantifiable. I can't check things like, Be a supportive wife, or Raise my children in the likeness of God, or Submit to Christ's will for my life off a list, but they have definitely taken precedence over things like climbing a 29000-foot mountain.
All this to say that, aside from the ambitions listed above, my resolutions for 2011 range from the vain (try and be in the best shape of my life by my fortieth birthday) to the mundane (have two garage sales, one in the spring and one in fall), and everything in between (visit my ailing grandmother, floss more regularly, begin a Doctorate program).
Oh and Mom and Dad, you'll be happy to know I've changed mountains. I think climbing 20320-foot Denali is much more realistic than Everest.
Agreed?
-
I can't believe you're finally here. And what the heck took you so long?
2010 was a yucky year and I'll say it, I AM GLAD TO SEE YOU GO AWAY.
2010, you made me say goodbye to two very special people in my life, my grandmother and my father-in-law. 2010, you made me watch my husband weep for the first time (unless you count the tears he had when I was walking down the aisle towards him at our wedding, and to this day I don't know if those were happy tears or not, but for the sake of my sometimes tenuous self-esteem, let's pretend they were). And 2010, you made me grow gray hairs on the top of my head, a hard pill to swallow when you are paying Drew gobs of money to give you the tresses of a twenty-five-year-old.
Oh 2010, you had your moments, I'll give you that. The Rangers went to the World Series. My brother's healthy, beautiful twins were born. I ran a half-marathon PR. One of my best friends battled breast cancer and won. I ran into Troy Aikman having my eyebrows waxed. Clemson beat North Texas. But let's be honest, I'm looking forward to a new year. A year without sickness. A year without anxiety. No sadness. A year without drama -- wait, is that possible with an overabundance of estrogen in our house? Okay then, gimme drama, just none of the other stuff.
Welcome, 2011.
Also known as the last year I'll ever be in my thirties. (BIG SIGH.....)
Which means now I have a big ole bucket list I need to accomplish in the next 10 months.
When I was in my mid-twenties I made a list of the things I wanted to accomplish before turning thirty. I had about three dozen things on it I wanted to do, but the highlights went something like this:
-Run a marathon
-Buy a house
-Get a dog
-Become a published author
-Get a Master's Degree
-Take flying lessons
-Meet the love of my life
-Read the Bible cover-to-cover
-Climb Mount Everest
Yes, seriously. Those were my lofty goals at twenty-five. Not asking too much. Nawww. But you know what? Of all those things, I actually accomplished all but one of them.
Would you like to guess which one?
As I've grown older and have (hopefully) matured in my perception of reality vs delusion, my goals have shifted and become a little less quantifiable. I can't check things like, Be a supportive wife, or Raise my children in the likeness of God, or Submit to Christ's will for my life off a list, but they have definitely taken precedence over things like climbing a 29000-foot mountain.
All this to say that, aside from the ambitions listed above, my resolutions for 2011 range from the vain (try and be in the best shape of my life by my fortieth birthday) to the mundane (have two garage sales, one in the spring and one in fall), and everything in between (visit my ailing grandmother, floss more regularly, begin a Doctorate program).
Oh and Mom and Dad, you'll be happy to know I've changed mountains. I think climbing 20320-foot Denali is much more realistic than Everest.
Agreed?
-
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Crash - I Meant, Creche
Christmas weekend was filled with a jumble of emotions. Some really joyful highs intermingled with a handful of bitter lows. I have a very emotional blogpost composed in my head, but I'm far too lazy to push my fingers across the keyboard tonight, so instead I'll leave you with the show you have all - er, who am I kidding? - both, been waiting for.
The backstory: my father-in-law always read the Christmas story from Luke to the kids on Christmas morning before presents, so in order to offset the gaping hole of his absence this year, we decided to put on a play, telling the story ourselves. Of course, we had the usual dramatic problems you would expect with any James Cameron movie or Broadway production: 42% of our cast members were too young to read, my diva daughter refused to be a wise man and instead insisted on being Mary because it was a way more glamorous role, and my mother-in-law's family heirloom was sacrificed as an offering to the Baby Jesus in the chaos of it all.
But it certainly was fun, we learned many lessons for our future productions, and we know Grandad would have been proud.
Without further adieu...
The Christmas story, a la Thomas-style:
-
The backstory: my father-in-law always read the Christmas story from Luke to the kids on Christmas morning before presents, so in order to offset the gaping hole of his absence this year, we decided to put on a play, telling the story ourselves. Of course, we had the usual dramatic problems you would expect with any James Cameron movie or Broadway production: 42% of our cast members were too young to read, my diva daughter refused to be a wise man and instead insisted on being Mary because it was a way more glamorous role, and my mother-in-law's family heirloom was sacrificed as an offering to the Baby Jesus in the chaos of it all.
But it certainly was fun, we learned many lessons for our future productions, and we know Grandad would have been proud.
Without further adieu...
The Christmas story, a la Thomas-style:
-
Friday, December 17, 2010
We Stank You
Christmas is tied for first place as my favorite holiday.
None can match the celebration of my Lord and Savior manifesting here on earth as a tiny baby, except of course, said Lord and Savior dying for my sins and defeating death three days later.
But Christmas. I love it. I just love everything about it. The scent of fir trees (or fir candles if yourweenie wonderful husband manufactures a convenient allergy to Christmas trees-- whatever), the carols, the snacks, the Christmas flavors at Starbucks, and the mail. Oh, the mail! I get such a rush seeing our mailman chug around the corner, pull up to our house, and deposit stacks of glittery, multicolored Christmas cards in my mailbox, knowing what soon awaits me: the ability to sit at my kitchen table in silent, arrogant judgment about which one of my high school friends or college sorority sisters has the cutest picture of their kids, or in some cases, which one has made the most unfortunate of fashion choices.
I hope that doesn't get me kicked off anyone's Christmas card list for next year.
But come on? Do I lie? We all do it when the mail arrives.
This year, as a family, we've been trying to focus less on the commercialization of the holiday and more on the tradition and the ultimate reason for our celebration. Part, nay, most of that could be that we deeply miss a beloved and vital member of our family. And the rest is due to the ire that engulfs my husband when we spend money unnecessarily on junk, simply because some people (ME) like to have a full stocking on Christmas morning. So what if it's full of junk? At least it's full.
So we've been really trying to focus on our blessings this year. Of which, there are many. Too many to count. A list which would make my head explode were I to try and name each and every one, but I'm going to try anyway because it's Christmas, and I'm all caught up in the spirit now. And possibly a little wired on Starbuck's holiday flavors.
At the very top of my list of blessings are these three things in no particular order: 1) Jesus Christ, and the freedom and liberty to worship Him; 2) An incredibly loving, close, supportive, beautiful, healthy immediate and extended family; and 3) A roof over my family's head, food in my children's mouths, Bibles by their beds, kissing the noses of my babies every morning, waking up next to a man I love, going to a job I love, being surrounded by friends I love, and the wet kisses of dogs I love.
Was that more than three things?
Speaking of blessings, Aria has apparently learned a new one at school. This was news to me because until about a week ago, we were saying the same one I've said in the Wood family my whole life. Which, according to my dad is a Moravian blessing, but sadly, this means nothing to me. I don't even know where Moravia is. If I had to guess, I'd say it's that imaginary country in the Princess Diaries that Anne Hathaway gets to be ruler of, but I'm guessing since I've been saying this Moravian blessing my whole life and I'm one or two years older than Ms. Hathaway when she made that movie, I'd probably be wrong. Google wants me to think Moravia is in the Czech Republic somewhere.
Here is what I do know: the Moravian people make really tasty flat ginger cookies, and they passed down a blessing to my parents' parents that still gets said around the dinnertable every night in Plano, Texas.
Until last week. Now, Aria insists on saying this new blessing she's learned, which is apparently a hybrid half-poem and half-song diddy, at least to my three-year-old, because she starts out reciting it, and finishes up singing the last two lines to a catchy little tune. I haven't quite figured out the words yet to write them down for you, as they seem to change daily, but the last part is the refrain, "We thank You. We thank You."
But my little princess is tongue-tied. Literally, she really is. She has a tight frenulum and her tongue is heart-shaped, which causes her to say words that have "TH-" in them as an "ST-"-sound instead. Therefore, the "We thank you" part of her blessing comes out as,
WE STANK YOU.
Ohmagawsh, it's the cutest thing you've ever heard. Chris and I melt into peals of laughter every time she says it. And she's so earnest, too, with her little head bowed and hands folded in prayer. So, so, so cute!
And of course, it's caught on with Mommy and Daddy, so now we say, "What is stat?", or "I'm Stirsty", or "Stank You so much".
I'm stinking stis will go down in Thomas family lore.
Oh, and speaking of STANK?
Allow me to segue: I've noticed there is a funny smell coming from my daughters' play kitchen. It's not a bad smell, just not what one would expect emanating from a plastic toy. Odiferousness (yep, just made up that really cool word) isn't a totally odd finding in and of itself in our house lately, as pretty much everything my daughters get their hands on ultimately results in some sort of aroma.
They have the olfactory Midas touch, if you will.
Come to find out, though, when I investigate the kitchen smell a bit further, I discover that my resourceful three-year-old has been using REAL SPICES to "cook" in her "kitchen". Spices that have clearly been pilfered from Mommy's kitchen. Yes, celery salt, garlic powder, and pepper are all commingling in the pink Barbie plate simmering on her stove. When I ask her about it, she happily proclaims, "I'm making you some yummy pancakes, Mommy!"
Aye-yai-yai.
However, in the spirit of the season, I even give stanks for the imaginary delicious celery-garlic-pepper-pancakes in the pink Barbie plate, and most especially for the brilliant little chef who made them for me.
-
None can match the celebration of my Lord and Savior manifesting here on earth as a tiny baby, except of course, said Lord and Savior dying for my sins and defeating death three days later.
But Christmas. I love it. I just love everything about it. The scent of fir trees (or fir candles if your
I hope that doesn't get me kicked off anyone's Christmas card list for next year.
But come on? Do I lie? We all do it when the mail arrives.
This year, as a family, we've been trying to focus less on the commercialization of the holiday and more on the tradition and the ultimate reason for our celebration. Part, nay, most of that could be that we deeply miss a beloved and vital member of our family. And the rest is due to the ire that engulfs my husband when we spend money unnecessarily on junk, simply because some people (ME) like to have a full stocking on Christmas morning. So what if it's full of junk? At least it's full.
So we've been really trying to focus on our blessings this year. Of which, there are many. Too many to count. A list which would make my head explode were I to try and name each and every one, but I'm going to try anyway because it's Christmas, and I'm all caught up in the spirit now. And possibly a little wired on Starbuck's holiday flavors.
At the very top of my list of blessings are these three things in no particular order: 1) Jesus Christ, and the freedom and liberty to worship Him; 2) An incredibly loving, close, supportive, beautiful, healthy immediate and extended family; and 3) A roof over my family's head, food in my children's mouths, Bibles by their beds, kissing the noses of my babies every morning, waking up next to a man I love, going to a job I love, being surrounded by friends I love, and the wet kisses of dogs I love.
Was that more than three things?
Speaking of blessings, Aria has apparently learned a new one at school. This was news to me because until about a week ago, we were saying the same one I've said in the Wood family my whole life. Which, according to my dad is a Moravian blessing, but sadly, this means nothing to me. I don't even know where Moravia is. If I had to guess, I'd say it's that imaginary country in the Princess Diaries that Anne Hathaway gets to be ruler of, but I'm guessing since I've been saying this Moravian blessing my whole life and I'm one or two years older than Ms. Hathaway when she made that movie, I'd probably be wrong. Google wants me to think Moravia is in the Czech Republic somewhere.
Here is what I do know: the Moravian people make really tasty flat ginger cookies, and they passed down a blessing to my parents' parents that still gets said around the dinnertable every night in Plano, Texas.
Until last week. Now, Aria insists on saying this new blessing she's learned, which is apparently a hybrid half-poem and half-song diddy, at least to my three-year-old, because she starts out reciting it, and finishes up singing the last two lines to a catchy little tune. I haven't quite figured out the words yet to write them down for you, as they seem to change daily, but the last part is the refrain, "We thank You. We thank You."
But my little princess is tongue-tied. Literally, she really is. She has a tight frenulum and her tongue is heart-shaped, which causes her to say words that have "TH-" in them as an "ST-"-sound instead. Therefore, the "We thank you" part of her blessing comes out as,
WE STANK YOU.
Ohmagawsh, it's the cutest thing you've ever heard. Chris and I melt into peals of laughter every time she says it. And she's so earnest, too, with her little head bowed and hands folded in prayer. So, so, so cute!
And of course, it's caught on with Mommy and Daddy, so now we say, "What is stat?", or "I'm Stirsty", or "Stank You so much".
I'm stinking stis will go down in Thomas family lore.
Oh, and speaking of STANK?
Allow me to segue: I've noticed there is a funny smell coming from my daughters' play kitchen. It's not a bad smell, just not what one would expect emanating from a plastic toy. Odiferousness (yep, just made up that really cool word) isn't a totally odd finding in and of itself in our house lately, as pretty much everything my daughters get their hands on ultimately results in some sort of aroma.
They have the olfactory Midas touch, if you will.
Come to find out, though, when I investigate the kitchen smell a bit further, I discover that my resourceful three-year-old has been using REAL SPICES to "cook" in her "kitchen". Spices that have clearly been pilfered from Mommy's kitchen. Yes, celery salt, garlic powder, and pepper are all commingling in the pink Barbie plate simmering on her stove. When I ask her about it, she happily proclaims, "I'm making you some yummy pancakes, Mommy!"
Aye-yai-yai.
However, in the spirit of the season, I even give stanks for the imaginary delicious celery-garlic-pepper-pancakes in the pink Barbie plate, and most especially for the brilliant little chef who made them for me.
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Tuesday, December 7, 2010
An Early Christmas Gift
There has been a dirth of blog posts lately not for lack of material, oh no, but because of the exponential increase in the number of things to do around the holidays. And also because I was sometimes writing these blogs at work.
That is, unless you are reading this and you happened to be my lovely, wonderful, and extremely understanding boss, Tracy, who has such a good sense of humor; in which case, ahem, girl, I would nevah, evah blog at work; I spend my time reading medical texts and journals, and contributing to my knowledge of premature babies and such.
Nonetheless, were I to even want to blog at work lately, it would be impossible anyway, as it has been so stinking busy, I'm lucky if I even get to eat my lunch before 4 pm.
And then at home, well, my cup runneth over between 2 and 4 pm. Naptime. Also known as my favorite time of the day. Time that used to be reserved for ME and my friends and family in blog-land. Time that is now devoted to ordering from Amazon (free shipping, no tax, are you kidding me?), addressing Christmas cards, and wrapping presents that my little ones are not supposed to know about.
So, instead of boring you with stories about how tired I am, or how busy we are, or how taxing it is on my tiny brain to remember to move the stinkin' Elf every morning, I'll instead let you peruse some pictures of the Lovelies.
Oh, wait! A disclaimer to my immediate family: I'd like to warn you that by looking at these extremely beautiful photos, you will also be previewing your Christmas gift from me and therefore ruining any surprise.
Just sayin'.
Merry Christmas! Don't say you weren't warned...
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That is, unless you are reading this and you happened to be my lovely, wonderful, and extremely understanding boss, Tracy, who has such a good sense of humor; in which case, ahem, girl, I would nevah, evah blog at work; I spend my time reading medical texts and journals, and contributing to my knowledge of premature babies and such.
Nonetheless, were I to even want to blog at work lately, it would be impossible anyway, as it has been so stinking busy, I'm lucky if I even get to eat my lunch before 4 pm.
And then at home, well, my cup runneth over between 2 and 4 pm. Naptime. Also known as my favorite time of the day. Time that used to be reserved for ME and my friends and family in blog-land. Time that is now devoted to ordering from Amazon (free shipping, no tax, are you kidding me?), addressing Christmas cards, and wrapping presents that my little ones are not supposed to know about.
So, instead of boring you with stories about how tired I am, or how busy we are, or how taxing it is on my tiny brain to remember to move the stinkin' Elf every morning, I'll instead let you peruse some pictures of the Lovelies.
Oh, wait! A disclaimer to my immediate family: I'd like to warn you that by looking at these extremely beautiful photos, you will also be previewing your Christmas gift from me and therefore ruining any surprise.
Just sayin'.
Merry Christmas! Don't say you weren't warned...
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