Over PBJ and Carrots

How Joshua (2) prayed over PBJ and carrots this noon,

"Dear God, Thank you for God. Thank you. Amen."

May I pray this way sometimes too.

Medicine Cabinet Mistakes

Grammy Morgan was 85 years old the day she told me "I learn something new ev'ry day".

Here's what I learned this week:

#1) Don't keep the Desitin next to the toothpaste.

#2) When the two year old has a sunburn on his neck, double check to make sure you've grabbed the small bottle of clear aloe, not the small bottle of clear hand sanitizer.

Kangaroos and Buffalo

My imagination has always been, and is to this day, a ravenous beast in a peaceful wood that will never be silenced.
Take a left off the highway and go along the main drive through town eventually making several turns. It is here you’ll find the “Barn House.”
We lived in a two story house with features that for some reason my older sister and I attributed to a barn. And so it was called the Barn House. I’m twenty-one now, and to this day we will refer to that particular home as the “Barn House.”
There were always next door neighbors. It wasn’t until I was in high school and learning to separate myself voluntarily in attitude and behavior from the normal world that I learned the practice of knowing and being friends with one’s neighbors was decidedly unpopular.
These neighbors had a son my age, and we did stuff together. All the time. Or not that often. I can never remember.
He wore a red shirt sometimes. I think.
His mom was a short lady and had curly hair.
Their house was blue.
And there was definitely a stone wall, about two and a half feet tall that divided our property and theirs.

Dad owned a garage door company, and it was in the early years of its becoming…whatever it is that companies become.
This meant that since we had little-to-no warehouse space for the doors, we stored them in racks in our garage. Dad had a small office located somewhere else he left for to go to work each day.
When I was six, he came home one day and wearing his signature Hawaiian shirt and khaki slacks, sat me down on our blue, felty-feeling couch with big buttons all over and said “Jimmy, I’ve got some pretty exciting news.”
This had to be important. Really important. I know ‘cause Mom was sitting across from me with the camera all ready.
My older sister put her pencil down and completely abandoned the homeschool math sheet she was working on. She could add seventeen minutes to three-thirty pm later.
Dad wasn’t mad at Jimmy, and her eight year-old mind didn’t already know what Dad was going to say, so she had to listen.

“Well Jimmy, one of my customers wanted a garage door. But this was no regular customer, this guy had a very special job. He goes to work every day and takes tourists for helicopter rides up the side of Mauna Kea and takes them right over the volcano.”
My Dad probably said more. I’m guessing what followed was he told me about how the customer traded him a helicopter ride for part of the payment for his garage door. I’m sure my Dad told me when we were going, and that it was at least several days away. There is no doubt in my mind that my sister waited until the opportune moment when she and Mom were alone in the kitchen, then she asked her how come Dad was taking me and not her, and she maybe even cried about it.
All I know is the seconds flew by and then I was dressed in my favorite Sher-kahn t-shirt from the jungle book that a Vietnamese lady who lived in an apartment building made for me, climbing into the cockpit of a helicopter.
Another second or two and I was adjusting my headphones, telling Dad and the pilot that I could hear them both.
Then we were moving smoothly over hundreds of acres of grass and cattle. Roads, tiny little cars and pretend-looking buildings passing relentlessly below.
To this day I’ll swear I saw kangaroos and buffalo. I can see them in my mind just as I did the day we flew over them on our way to the Volcano. I only wish they existed.
Then we were there. I could see the smoke rising angrily, billowing dark and other-worldly from the most deadly and dangerous thing a little boy’s mind could conceive of.
Lava was more dangerous than the ocean.
People died in lava.
We were at the edge of the volcano. I could see it bubbling and spurting orange and red liquid fire out at me. What if it burned a hole in the plane.
In a horrified, fascinated panic I gripped the arm at the edge of my seat and leaned back from the window.
The pilot was going right over the lava.
“Whoa, its getting pretty hot in here, can you feel that Jimmy?” I could feel it. I could smell certain death below. We were going to die. People died in lava. We were right over it and the pilot was steering us so that now we were totally over the lava. What if the helicopter stopped spinning and we dropped into it? Me and Dad were gonna die. And the pilot too.
“Wanna go down a little closer to the lava?”
“No Dad!”
The laughs in my headphones were no competition for the loudness of my imagination.
I didn’t want to die. Other people already died in that lava down there, and Dad wanted to go closer!
I could feel it all over my skin as I sank into it. It felt just like the jacuzzi I got into at the hotel before one time. Then a security guard came over and told Dad no kids allowed in it, so Bethany and I had to go play in the pool while Dad got to talk with the older tourist people from Canada with funny accents.

Somewhere a gasp and another dip in the rotors later, we landed at the airfield in Waimea. It was cold and rainy, fog covered the small private airstrip we drove away from. I was cold and numb from my mind out to my still crawling skin.
We had flown over the Volcano.

Dad had done what the imagination of a little boy could not have conceived in a million little boy years.
My sister graduated first, married first, and had the first grandchild.

But I flew over the Volcano.

Einstein, Ann of Green Gables, and Hurricane Katrina

After looking around at the house, I settled on the couch for a delicious read. I knew this weekend stay with friends would be refreshing. The air was becoming fresher by the moment as the sun stretched its long arms across the valley. It was going to be a gorgeous autumn day; I could feel it.

When my neck stopped cramping from viewing the sunrise over the sofa back, I heard the bathroom door slam. A small boy hummed “How Great is Our God”. A few seconds later the toilet flushed and the wordless tune turned to a yodel. Bare feet padded slowly toward the living room making propeller sounds between choruses. I watched as the mighty ship battled the waves and I listened as the captain reassured the first mate that he had complete control over the boat in the awful storm. Mid-sentence, the captain broke out in song, “How gre-e-e-a-a-a-t-t-t is our God… Brrrrrr-vroomvroom-brrrrrrrrrrr-put-put-put-brrrrrrrr-put-jdjdjdjssshhh. Oh no! We’re out of gas, Captain! Quick, turn her around…Sing with me-e-e-e-e, how gre-e-e-a-a-a-t-t-t is our God…”

At this point, Gary was with in a few feet of my living room observatory and still did not know I was in the vicinity. So, not wanting to scare him, I quietly said his name. He jerked and looked at the door, puzzled. I repeated his name. This time he found me and ran over with a grin, “Wow. Hi there. I didn’t even know you were here; you’re pretty quiet. Why are you here? How long are you going to be here anyways? Can you sleep in my room? What are you reading? Is that a big-kid book? I can read SOME big-kid books but not the big-kid books that have really long words. Like this long (showing hands a foot apart). I bet I could read that book. Hey! Maybe you could read it to me!”

Thus, my weekend with a 7 year old, a 5 year old, and a 2 year old began. When I say 7, 5, and 2, don’t think of kids. Think of Einstein and Leonardo De Vinci mashed together, given red fruit punch, and told to stay inside an unsuspecting 7 year old boy. Think of Anne of Green Gables and Lucille Ball enslaved by Cinderella’s stepmother, given one room to share, and told to stay inside a theatrical 5 year old girl. Think of the Three Stooges and hurricane Katrina handcuffed side to side, given boxing gloves, and told to stay inside a brilliant 2 year old bundle of rosy cheeks, spring, and giggles.

After breakfast on the first day, they taught me how to write Egyptian hieroglyphics and we made secret letters to each other. I gave 5 year old Penny her letter and she asked me to read it to her. It said something along the lines of, “Dear Penny, How are you? I am fine. I like staying at your house. Love, D”. She strutted around the kitchen reading the letter to herself; a letter which was probably no longer from me but from some prince far away who was wholly devoted to her.

Gary and Penny sat resembling gargoyles while I read them “20,000 Leagues Under the Sea”. Every nanosecond or so, little Paige would punch the book out of my fingers so I could see her face. Each time she was more thrilled with herself than the last.

Finally, I dodged her tiny fist, “Paige, it’s time for you to do something else now. Right now I am reading to Gary and Penny. Later on I will play with you.” She immediately raised her eyebrows to unbelievable heights and pointed at my lap, “Me?” “No, Paige. You can’t sit in my lap right now.” She bounced off the couch and proceeded to point at each item in the room that she could lift her saying, “Me? Me?” All the while raising her eyebrows and cocking her head. When she found that I said “No.” too many times, she sat down to shatter the hopes and dreams of the captain and first mate.

Later that afternoon, I had to go to work and went to the bathroom to get ready. I got dressed, put up my hair with one of those huge clips that looks like a claw and opened the door. Right outside was my little 5 year old friend looking starry eyed and wistful. She looked me up and down saying “Oh!” and making big motions with her hands. The inspection ended with her asking me to turn around and kneel. I did as she asked and was rewarded with a tiny shriek of excitement. “Oh,” she squealed for the 11^th time, “I love your hair. It looks so professional! Can you do my hair like that?” I checked my watch, “Sure, but we’ll have to do it fast. I have to go soon.” “Ok.” She hurriedly searched through her mother’s hair-thing box trying to be as businesslike as possible. Finding what she wanted, she ran back to me. I did up her hair as fast as I could while she expressed how lovely it was and how her mom was going to be astonished by how professional she looked. Her mother was very impressed, so Penny marched through the house proclaiming that she was a professional now. She ended our hairdressing appointment with a request for me to let her help me work at the office. Unfortunately, that didn't work out.

After many different escapades with the three, I came to a conclusion; Gary builds a masterpiece, Penny writes its life story, and Paige owns it.

Sheep in Deep Kimchi

"Beep! Beep! Sheep in a jeep on a hill that's steep."
And so it begins.
A tale "guaranteed to tickle every reader's funny bone" according to Amazon's review.

Sheep in a Jeep has become a cornerstone of literature in our family. True story: when guy 1 (last month) wanted to send a gift to a girl he likes, he sent her not only Sheep in a Jeep, also Sheep on a Ship and the one and only Sheep out to Eat. Apparently, the books spoke friendship in a way roses never could.

Given the almost-two year old's affinity for farm animal noises, I thought the time was right. He could now appreciate Sheep in a Jeep. I read the words, he supplied the appropriate sound effects (extra beeps, baaaaaas, nasal pig grunts, and "uh-oh"s). As the plot tension mounted, he became knit his eyebrows. His little voice sniffled. He literally understood the sheep's transportation predicament. To almost-two year old, Sheep in a Jeep is not comedy, it is tragedy.

Guess we'll wait a while to introduce Shakespeare.

Roadnoise will drown out an enchanted childhood

Many people have said "There's nothing like family."
Do they know what they're saying?
Think about it for a moment, what is a family? Family is proof that God exists, and that He has a sense of humor. Family is one of the least logical ideas in the universe.

The process of family-making in America goes something like this:
Take a person, and have them meet randomly and fall in love with another person.
Boy and girl get married.
Soon another person comes out of the girl.
Voila, family is made.
The person coming out of the other had no choice in the matter.
The child is bound by the law of "family" to the kissy couple, and is for 18 (or a nerdy 35) years of their life under their authority.

When the child needs to be fed, the kissy couple that had him/her will feed him. Every time.
When the child throws up or does something equally disgusting, the kissy couple that had him/her will clean up and hold him/her.
When the child does something wrong, the kissy couple that had him/her will be responsible for him/her.
For 18 (or a nerdy 35) years.

This I ask of you. Why does it make sense? It doesn't. It isn't so much duties carried out by a kissy couple as it is love and dedication.
An endless cycle of selflessness to the end of seeing the success of others.
Yum.

Think for a moment about the role of parents... get a job and hold it so that your family may have income to feed and clothe the children, as well as provide for their wants and needs.
What inspiration. It makes no sense, but all across the world, in every tongue, tribe and nation, it is a complete idea practiced by all.

And yet when someone sits behind the wheel of a vehicle, the last thing on their mind is the fact that a kissy couple has dedicated their life to their success as an individual.
The furthest thing from their thoughts is that they were born into a loving household, provided for their every want and need for 18 years, and the amount of love they were shown.
The person behind the wheel might as well have been born into a family of wolves.

They want to kill you.

They sit behind you on the freeway traveling at one mile an hour faster then your 71 mph, two feet behind you mouthing not-nice words and shaking a fist that someone once called "adorable, so small, and delicate!"

Not anymore it isn't.

In a cruel joke of a personality switch, the person driving behind you just left the baby shower where they were swapping embarrassing stories, exchanging laughs over presents being opened by a soon-to-be mother of twins, and they probably even grabbed a handful of napkins to clean up the accidental spill of apple juice on the lunch table when it was knocked over by the passing of hot dogs from one end to the other.

The person driving to your rear was once given a trip to Disneyland as a surprise birthday present.

Recently, the person behind you now swerving lane to lane trying to get as close as possible so they can hopefully cause personal harm was given the opportunity to speak at a conference on Leadership and Management of Self.
The five points in the speech each with ten minutes of sub-text and illustrations accompanied by humorous stories were as poignant as any well-delivered sermon. Most who attended that session left with at least a page and a half of good notes.

It never fails to amaze me what the wheel of a car will do to some people.
Put them behind it, and their family, their careers, and their love of life all grow strangely dim in your headlights and they become homicidal land sharks on wheels.

As Plato once said..." ."


Well, Plato said nothing about being cautious you don't set aside your humanity to become the picture of ferocity every time your speed exceeds 35 mph.

But he should have.

Question Asker Strikes Again

My friend Jesse is a question-asker. She is a thinker, that one. Her questions are not of the typical "How-are-you-I'm-fine" variety. She's also a ridiculously good baker, but that is beside the point.

One day last month as I scrubbed the stove, wedging the cell phone that contained Jesse's voice between my ear and shoulder, she asked, "How did your parents raise you to know Jesus as a child?" That question made me think for approximately 27 days.

Almost five years ago, I acquired a second set of parents, my husband's dad and mom. I am not capable of summarizing the parenting journeys of my four parents in a sentence or two, so I shall fall back on my hobby: list making. That fabulous English word they shall vaguely refer to one or two or three or four of my parents. Us shall refer to my husband or I or our siblings. Who did what is irrelevant. How and why are more valuable to ask.


1. They prayed for us daily, starting before we were born. Instead of mainly praying general "God bless our family" prayers, they prayed specific prayers. "God, help our son to come to know his sin and your forgiveness at an early age." "God, prepare a Christian husband for our daughter."

2. Every night as they tucked us into bed they prayed with us.

3. They sang hymns and praise songs to Jesus with us. Kids understand the words younger than you'd think.

4. They made their own relationships with God a priority. I remember watching my Dad read his Bible as he walked on the treadmill. My husband remembers the chair his mom would sit in to read her Bible and pray.

5. They came to us (little kids) and asked for forgiveness when they sinned against us (for example, speaking harshly or having a rotten attitude). So we learned that big people sin too, and a healthy response to sin is to apologize and ask for forgiveness.

6. They prayed with us after we "got in trouble" (for example, for giving a brother an "indian burn" then lying about it) to show us that seeking forgiveness from each other is good, but seeking forgiveness from God is most important.

7. They treasured their relationship with each other. How did they show us this? Going on dates even when we didn't want them to leave, going away for weekends as a couple, never using the word divorce, backing each other up on discipline issues, never deriding the other to us.

8. On car rides, they suffered through (or... possibly enjoyed?) countless tapes and CDs that communicated God's love to children. "Donut Man" "Adventures in Odysey" "Patch the Pirate" "Psalty the Singing Songbook" "

9. They read Children's Bibles to us.

10. They gathered a "library" of God centered resources for us to enjoy: children's devotional books, Bible story books, Christian chapter-books, dramatized Bible on tape, etc.

11. Our dads lead family devotions in the living room after dinner. (Ahem, don't start to get the wrong idea here. A joyful family with the 3 and 5 and 7 year olds sitting perfectly still reverently listening to their father read from the King James Version at least 6 nights each week - NOT - alright, erase that mental image and let's start over.) "Family Devotions" consisted of reading a Bible story book, or reading an actual chapter in a readable translation of the Bible, or singing some Bible songs together (clapping and jumping ones preferred by the younger set), or asking "What are you thankful for today?" or "What challenge are you facing tomorrow?" then praying together, or discussing a verse. The littlest one would be roaming, mom would be falling asleep in the recliner chair, one brother would be touching another brother with his toe, etc. But there in the once or twice a week consistency, we saw our dads heart for God and their desire for us to know God.

12. They told us when God answered their prayers.

13. They celebrated Christmas traditions that reflected Jesus. Example: Each Christmas, we put a cattle "feeding trough" in the living room. Before we went to bed each Decembery night, we each placed a single piece of hay in the trough. By Christmas, it was brimming with hay. When we woke up Christmas morning, baby Jesus (a dark-skinned, lifelike baby doll) was lying in the manger.

14. They celebrated Easter traditions that reflected Jesus. Example: One year we made a small tomb out of paper mache. On Good Friday, we wrapped Jesus' body (made of popcicle sticks?) with white strips of cloth and placed him in the tomb. Then we found a large rock to seal the entrance. On Easter morning, we woke up to find the tomb open, Jesus body gone, and the white cloth lying in the tomb. (The fabulous thing about 4 year olds is that they can imagine a popcicle stick person to be almost a real person, so the sequence of events above is meaningful).


more to come

The Shadow, the Deadbolt, and the Missing 2 Inches.

The one year old is growing inventive, but in disastrous ways. He knows a) Doors open b) the front door opens to the great outdoors, where live squirrels, raccoons, tree frogs, and funny neighbors.
Fortunately, he is a) too short to reach the deadbolt b) unable to turn the door knob.

This morning, after discovering his shadow and staring at it suspiciously for fifteen minutes, he resolved in his mischievous mind to... open the front door. Tried. Realized that last night's growth did not afford him the extra 2 inches he needs. -Click- -Whirr- -Mind gears in motion- That's it! Something to stand on. Perfect: The inflated $1 bouncy ball Daddy bought him from Wal-mart.
Did not work out so well.

Thankfully, one year old attention span timed out.

Shoestring budget...

I used to babysit, therefore I know the going-rate for babysitters 8 years ago. And I cannot afford the going-rate for babysitters 8 years ago, so I do not inquire as to the going-rate of babysitters this year.

Last week, we were determined, babysitter or no, to go on a date. A real date, not the buy a frozen lasagna, put the one year old to bed early, and eat it by candlelight in front of a movie kind. Those dates have their place, but last week was not their place.

A long time ago, in a distant tropical land, in a Mexican restaurant called Bandito's Cantina, the Farmers dropped a jewel of wisdom before me. At the time, I did not perceive the immense value of that jewel, but in my hour of need, their sage advice came to mind, "We always come to this restaurant because the waiter gives each of our boys a balloon." Sheer genius.
"We are not living on a shoestring budget," thought I, "we are living on a balloonstring budget."

As husband and I played cards and savored brick oven baked calzones, one year old sat in a wooden highchair, tugging joyfully on the string of his gravity-defying red balloon.

Birthdays are Scary

Shhhhh. Don't tell Mommy I'm writing on 6wayintersection. I'm not one of the original six.
Guess what? Last week I had a birthday. Birthdays are scary. Don't have one.

That morning, Mommy swept all my cheerios off the floor... that always means company's coming. Mommy bought 2 folding chairs. Must be important company. Sure enough 2 families showed up. They brought little kids that Mommy calls my "friends". They played with my toys.

After dinner, Mommy put fire on a cake. Everybody suddenly started singing a loud song and staring at me. I said "down" but nobody listened. Then she put the fire right by my face! This is the same mommy that says "No, little bug, don't touch, it's HOT!" whenever I look at the big fire in the living room. After the grown ups laughed at me, Mommy blew the fire out. I thought life was getting better.

But it was getting worse. Daddy put something else on my tray. It was frigid, wet, and gooey. Then it dawned on me. This was snow in disguise! Snow makes me cold. "Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice..." Was this the end of the world?

When they finally pushed a wet rag all over my face and set me down, all the grown-ups wanted me to rip paper. Mommy teaches me not to tear my books or her ecli... elci.. eclitrissty bills. I gave them what they wanted, I ripped the paper. There were boxes inside! Small boxes, big boxes, funny shaped boxes! Silly grown-ups threw all the boxes away and tried to get me interested in toys. I was too tired to have any more "fun".

So, if anybody ever says, "Hey, wanna have a birthday?" Just say no.

But if you go to a restarant and it's the day after your birthday, ask for a helium balloon. Daddy asked for me. Maybe the waiter will draw a funny face on it. Maybe they'll let you hold the string all dinner long. Maybe they'll give it to you again when you wake up the next morning. Maybe your daddy will breathe in the air and talk like a squirrel.

White (sock) Flag

The epic battle he fought since infancy. Today, he signed a peace treaty with his socks.

The 11 month old has a history of removing socks. 4.5 seconds flat, both feet. Never mind wet grass, rain, or sleet. No matter what.

Today, somewhere between exploring the Poulsbo boardwalk in 40 degree weather and walking on almost frozen concrete to a Viking statue, he waved the white (sock) flag in the air and called a truce.

Back in our toasty living room, he sought out his sock and sat, pressing it to his foot. After my shock wore off, I disbelievingly slid the sock onto his foot.

Step, step, step. He walked (he walked!) to the second sock, wanting it too.

He has reached peace with his socks, and is now asleep with warm toes.

Breaking News Update

Breaking News Update:

The 10 month old may be a genius. He says two words. Sometimes.
The first word is "tickle."
The other word is "Daddy."

When tickled, he sometimes spontaneously begins chanting, "Ti-ko, ti-ko, ti-ko..."

1 day later:

The 10 month old may no longer be a genius. He seems confused about sentient and non-sentient beings. There is evidence that 10 month old thinks his stuffed seal puppet, "Furry", is alive. There is also evidence that he thinks he himself is a stuffed seal.
On the Amtrak train to Portland, 10 month old chanted "Ti-ko" while tickling the train window. The train window didn't laugh. 10 month old was surprised.

3 days later:

Socks are designed to keep both feet warm in 40 degree rain. 10 month old appears not to understand this concept. He keeps one sock on his left foot at all times, and the other sock in his mouth. This picture snapped in the 10 second interval between socks on both feet and sock on only left foot.




4 days later:
Have come to this conclusion: Am indeed grateful that 10 month old's value doesn't come from his potential ability or intelligence. Glad his value comes from being made in the image of God. Also glad for the invention of footy pajamas.

Nature's Whisper... yum.

My son - eight months old with gusto - likes to lick the wall. He has access to all the cheerios and applesauce mixed with mashed peas that his little heart desires, but he still likes to lick the wall. That semi-gloss (or is it satin), textured, "Nature's Whisper" white rental-duplex paint is his second-favorite thing to lick. His favorite thing to lick is the toilet. When I once committed the mortal mommy sin of glancing away for an instant to wash a fork he found his way to the toilet base. Guess it feels cool on his little tongue on a northwest summers day. In the midst of such discoveries, a poem by my Mom reminds me to pray for this great and mighty man.

Every Great and Mighty Man

Every great and mighty man,
Each man accomplishing so much,
Displaying his artistic touch,
Inventing wheel or tool or crutch,

Every great and mighty man,
Each man who dares be first on wings,
Expressing wonder as he sings,
Maintaining, honing, fixing things,

Every great and mighty man,
Each man who tills his field of wheat
Preparing food for friends to eat,
Encouraging whome'er he meet,

Every great and mighty man,
Each man who breathes,
each man who lives
Began with what his mother gives

Each mighty man was born.
What great and mighty man is this
Who nestles safely in your womb?
And making his appearance soon
Be nurtured with the rising moon?

Upon your breast and in your care
He will be wholly contented there.
Could greatness be in one so fair?
What great and mighty man is this?

© 1997, Mrs. E.

How are You? I'm Snuffy.

Dear Aunt G (girl 3),

How are you? I'm snuffy. Mommy's snuffy too. Are you snuffy?
Even though I'm snuffy I still like to get inta stuff. Today my favorite stuffs to get into are... ummmm... the computer cord, and the computer, and the kitchen. I'm not disposta go in the kitchen, but I just go anyways. Me an' my lizard. Mommy keeps sayin, "You and your lizard get out of the kitchen!" but I just grin. 'Cause I'm cute. Cute and snuffy. The lizard doesn't grin 'cause he's made of plastic. But he would if he could.
So, do you like bein' on a big trip? Do you have to stay strapped in your carseat the whole time? Do they give you Cheerios? Oh wait, I forgot, you're a grown-up. Sort of.
Mommy wants to know where you are in the Bible readin'. She's in Exodus 6.
When you get here I wanna read stories with you, and eat stories with you, and eat Cheerios with you, and show you my cheesy monkey-face, and, ummmmm, we could go in the kitchen!?

love,
Half-year old

Babies are Weird

The half-year old, who is now 7 1/2 months wiser than the day he was born, was introduced to Cheerios yesterday. It was one of those, your-baby-food-is-defrosting-and-you're-hungry-NOW moments. I placed a Cheerio in his mouth. With minimal gagging and sputtering, the sport of Cheerio eating had begun.

Later in the evening, I, in a moment of wild freedom, snuck (yes, my spell-check insists on "sneaked", but as I am human, and my spell checker is not, "snuck" remains) out the door, childless, into the wide world to buy cheese. While I was gone, Husband coached half-year old and the art was perfected. Half-year old now ranks in the "professional" category for Cheerio eaters... as far as chewing and swallowing go.

Getting the Cheerio into his mouth on his own is another matter. He picks Cheerios off his tray with ease. And stares at them. And tosses them between his fingers. And forgets about them. Not so with leaves, airsoft bb's, bugs, and other bits of foreign matter he finds hiding in the carpet. If there's a tiny dead beetle 20 feet away from half-year old, he pinpoints its location instantly (How... smell? Sonar?), makes a beeline for the nasty creature, picks it up in one fell swoop, and slaps it in his mouth without any hesitation. And yet, he can't pick a cheerio up from his tray and get it to its destination. Maybe I need to smush cheerios and leave them strewn about the carpet.

As my mother-in-law aptly pointed out over skype, half-year old just might fit in well in rural Kenya. Ants over Cheerios any day.

How I Ended Up on the Other Side of the World... Without a Diaper Bag

I used to despise overhearing mothers discuss their babies bowel movements. That was then, this is now. On Saturday, I called my friend Jesse, who lives over 2,000 miles away with an urgent - you guessed it - baby poop question. So if this has become such an important part of my life, how did I end up on the other side of the world without the diaper bag?

It all started with the missing lawnmower. When we recently became the proud tenants of of a duplex that has a yard full of dandelions, I spent 3.5 hours weeding a 1' x 2' patch. I had some profound thoughts about the importance of Jesus pulling sin out of our lives from its very roots... and decided we needed a way to mow those dandelions. Somewhere out there was a lawnmower with our name on it. We just needed to find it and buy it.

Simple solution: Drive less than 4 miles to Wal-Mart and purchase a lawnmower. I could hear the Farmers voices subliminally echoing through the recesses of my mind, "The Farmers never pay full price." Simple solution vetoed. Look out craigslist, here I come.

Option A: Drive a mere 30 miles to the bellybutton of nowhere to pay almost full price to a respectable farmer for an almost new lawnmower.
Option B: Drive east (ooooo, I'm using "mainland language") 6 miles, embark on a ferry, meet an unknown entity on the other end, and buy his cheap lawnmower.
Yep. Option B.

Unknown entity (sounds like a big black guy) says, "Well, I could meet you in about an hour at the ferry docks, but no later."
"Sure." I reply calmly. - hang up - "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa"

Snatch up half-year old.
Husband and I leap into the car.
30 seconds gained by using remote for automatic garage door opener (thank you, husband).
Drive west to ATM. Drive east to ferry docks. Park as ferry is about to leave.
I grab the "stuff" and the baby, Husband pays for parking.
Run down the ferry ramp (half-year old thought this was hilariously funny).

Ah, triumph. I feel the wind in my hair as I taste the salt spray and watch an island of evergreens float by. I love ferries, and summer in the northwest, and my family, and I... just forgot the diaper bag.

We step off the ferry in suburbia and walk right past our lawnmower. The big black guy phone voice was actually a little white guy. Go figure. We find ourselves on the ferry docks with a lawnmower, stroller, half-year old badly needing a diaper change, and 1.5 hours to kill. I thought it would be hilarious if husband pushes the lawnmower while I push the stroller in our search for civilization (aka diapers), but a ferry-angel locks the lawnmower in a storage closet for us instead.

One mile later, we find Joe's , a restaurant that changes it's theme and menu every quarter. Guess what Joes current theme and menu is? Hawaii! Discovery: poke made in the northwest does not taste like poke made in Hawaii. Here, I also spot a family with 2 babies... and where there are babies, there are diapers.

This picture compliments of the ferry ride home.


Now I have a memory, a lawnmower, and a diaper in my purse.

"Mama" means WHAT?

My man-child celebrated his 6 month birthday this week. This half-year old is developing quite the personality. For instance, when he wants to be picked up, he coughs. How he figured that out, I'm not sure. I don't cough to get attention, and neither does his father. The half-year old has never had a coughing sickness in his short life. Ah, the mysteries of communication.

There is a chant he recites mainly when on the changing table. "Mamamamamamamama". This is not the only noise he knows how to produce. Half-year old actually produces constant noise during waking hours and occasional noise during sleeping hours. However, this is the noise he consistently makes while being changed. Keep in mind, this creative being doesn't say "mama" to get attention... he coughs.

After breakfast, half-year old was rolling about the blue carpeted living room floor between board books and a white stuffed tiger when he suddenly froze, looked me in the eye, and said "mama" with urgency. Was this the long awaited moment? His first word? 6 months did seem a little early... but maybe, just maybe, he knew my name! I went back to unpacking books, but the meaning-filled noise did not stop "Mama, mama" he repeated. Slowly, the meaning dawned on me. I checked his diaper. Yep. He was stinky. So "Mama" means poop. Great.