Learning To Ride Bikes, Only Almost Died Once!

One of my goals for this summer was to teach Adelaide and Atticus to ride their bikes without training wheels.

I knew Atticus would be an easy sell, as he's been begging to have his training wheels taken off his bike for some time now, but Adelaide... well.  Eight year old Adelaide feels the same way about bicycles that eight year old Me felt about them, in that we each looked at our mothers like, "Hang on, so you want me to climb aboard this two-wheeled metal contraption that can't even stand up on its own unless you're pedaling hard enough to make it travel so fast that a slight bump can cause serious injury to my person?  My gosh, woman, you still haven't let go of that whole body-writhing pain experience that was my labor and delivery, have you?  Will the paybacks never end?"

I spent one evening running alongside giant Adelaide on her giant bike, trying to keep the pair of them- who were just about as big as I am put together- upright and not brain-damaged, getting whacked in the face every time we ran past our neighbor's cursed tree whose limbs extend over the sidewalk at a height of right about five feet.  As much as I loved providing that day's entertainment to all our neighbors and random passersby, by the end of the night I was literally pulling leaves out of my hair and mouth and Adelaide was no closer to riding on her own.  The next day we packed up the bikes, went to the high school parking lot, and within about two minutes of unloading, Atticus was cruising easily across the pavement, biking like he's been doing it his whole life.  It took one extra day and a smaller bike to have Adelaide riding unassisted, and I still don't think she ever would have seen the need to master bike-riding if her little brother hadn't caught onto it so easily and had the nerve to out-perform her.

Over the past week, they've been riding quite a bit, getting the hang of riding on narrow paths such as dead end streets and sidewalks.  Atticus, again, has taken to it all extremely well, while Adelaide has been more timid, but still working on it, steadily improving.

Sunday evening, Derek and Atticus were out golfing, and so Adelaide decided to take advantage of her brother's absence and work on increasing her own two-wheeling skills.

At one point, I went inside to get Caedmon some water, came back out, and didn't see our daughter.

I looked up and down the sidewalk, but couldn't find her.  I did, however, see a large truck driving slowly in front of our house, almost like they were waiting for an obstruction in the road to move.

Right about then, Adelaide came from around the lilac bush and into sight, walking her bike onto the sidewalk, crying a bit wildly, blue eyes huge.

As she came closer, she dumped the death trap into the grass and told me that "The bike tipped over and into the street and I couldn't get up right away and then there was a truck coming right toward me and it was about to hit me and I almost died!"  (Insert near-hyperventilation every third word.)

Remember how I have this thing where I laugh at extremely inappropriate moments?  Like when I'm telling people someone's died, or conversely, when our daughter is telling me she almost died?

I could feel it coming on.  I had to fight to keep the smile from spreading across my face as soon as she started talking.  By the time she was done I was trying to turn the escaping laughter into a sympathetic, "Oh, Adelaide, I'm sorry."  I had the merest inkling that I'd failed because of her quavery reply of "STOP LAUGHING AT ME!"  This sent me completely over the edge, and I dashed inside to try and catch my breath, I was laughing so hard.

Of course our neighbors were outside.  I can only imagine what we looked like:  young girl crashes into the street, truck comes down the street, mother nowhere to be seen, girl has to pick herself up lest she be crushed, girl appropriately traumatized, limps out of the street and recounts the horror to her reappearing mother, mother laughs in her face, girl wails, mother flees back into her house gasping and guffawing, all while impressionable 3-year-old brother watches.

As I told all this later that night to a shaking-his-head Derek, I mused, "I really don't know how you leave me alone with these children."

"Neither do I."  Poor Derek.  He's probably ready for school to start again, just so he knows his children have some kind of sympathetic adults nearby, because Lord knows they don't here.

How To Make New Friends

One week before we left for vacation, I made the mistake of talking to my mom.

If you live near her and work either in the medical community or for the school district, chances are good that you've sat in one of her in-services.  My sisters and I have been told for years that "your mom is SO FUNNY."  What was so hilarious about CPR and infection control was always a trifle mystifying, but as a child all I knew about those gatherings was that my mom got up in front of groups of people large and small to talk about washing your hands and how not to be nasty and that it somehow involved washing my own hands while singing Yankee Doodle in front of a video camera on a semi-regular basis.  (The purpose of the song is to make sure you're washing your hands long enough to restore your hands back to non-disgusting status.)  Kelli, Steph, and I never really understood what "so funny" about our mom until one of Kelli's friends sat in an in-service and reported back to my sister that "your mom has lots of jokes.  Unfortunately you're the punchline."  Mystery solved.

Being one of her daughters, I get these talks whenever I want (aka whenever she wants), which is how, a week before I was to take multiple rides on those big metal birds in the sky, my mother regaled me with such classic tales as "The Truth About How Often Those Tray Tables Are Actually Cleaned" and "Airplane Ice Cubes Are the Dirty Old Men of Ice" and "Airplane Armrests and Bacteria:  A Love Story."  She then sweetly told me precisely where I might find little packs of anti-bacterial wipes at Wal-Mart (the travel section, friends), as if she were doing me a favor.

I purchased the wipes.  I readied myself for the trip.  Derek and I boarded the plane for the first leg of our flight.

For various reasons, I was always in the middle of three seats on each flight, which meant I had to look like I had lost my ever-lovin' mind as I wiped down everything within reach with those wipes as a bemused stranger sat two inches to my right or left watching me perform my little psychotic ritual.  If it was a woman, I made sure to tell them that hahahaha, I'm not always this weird, haha, my mom just told me some disturbing things about airplane germs, hahaha, don't mind me as I gingerly lift your arm to scrub at our shared armrest.  The one man I sat next to was spared this speech simply because I'm slower to warm up to men.

The lady on that very first flight was also forced to become my airplane best friend, as it turns out that I do not deal with moderate-to-severe turbulence well at all.  Every time we'd do one of those little drops that makes it feel like the plane is free-falling for a second or two, my body would involuntarily sit straight up in my seat and my mouth would emit a shaky "HOOO-KAY," while Derek sat to one side of me, ear buds in, calmly watching golf like our children weren't about to become three tiny pathetic orphans.

I tried to keep myself to myself, reading my book and not pestering the poor lady next to me, but I discovered that while reading can distract me from many, many different things, turbulence is not one of them, and I told her so, and basically (in the nicest way possible) demanded she talk to me.  She was very kind, and I learned all manner of interesting things about her.  Every so often there would be a lull in the conversation, then we'd drop and I'd say, "HOOO-KAY- so, your dad has 8 cracked ribs from a terrible car wreck and you had to miss your family vacation, let's talk more about that."

The one comforting factor in that turbulent flight was the off-duty flight attendant sitting across the aisle from us, sound asleep, who didn't so much as twitch during the whole bumpy ride, but came magically awake as soon as the wheels hit the tarmac.  I figured I wouldn't really start to freak out until she did, and she never so much as regained consciousness, so we were good.  We saw her again on our last flight back into Des Moines, and while I briefly thought about telling her something along the very creepy lines of Watching you sleep was very comforting, Derek assured me it wasn't the best of ideas.

I think I can safely add "Makes friends easily against their wishes" to my resumé.

"Mom?" "What?" "Mom?" "What?" "Mom?" "WHAT?"

We were all gone for the past week, Derek and I to South Carolina and the kids to their grandparents' house.  I have lots and lots of stories and photos to share, several days' worth, unless I get tired of talking about it and abruptly stop posting.  Actually, that sounds more like me, so just in case, I have to tell you this:  I had Nutella-flavored gelato in Charleston.  I am a changed woman.  Swoon.

Rather than starting at the beginning, I'll begin at the end and tell you what it's been like since we got back.  No, it hasn't been the re-entry hell that so often accompanies a return to home and routine, but it has given me fresh ears to hear the incessant, I'm talking NON-STOP questions our children ask.  One day, while we were away, Derek and I called his parents to talk to the children.  The first thing his mom said to me was, "How many times a day do you say, 'What?'?"

It's true.  Our three children could teach graduate level courses on interrogation (verbal interrogation; the state of Iowa frowns on juvenile waterboarding), and sadly, I have only myself to blame.  When Adelaide was little and I was still a naive, fresh-faced mother I decided I would encourage inquisitiveness, and answer every question I could to the absolute best of my ability.  Then we had Atticus and I was still adorably quixotic and encouraged still more questions- "How else will they learn?" I chirped.

Two years later we had Caedmon, I arrived at my current state of chronic befuddlement, and the questions kept coming, times a million, because answering a child's question is like blowing on a seeding dandelion- a hundred more are spawned from a single breath.  I am eager and enthusiastic for right about one hour every morning, then I become like that horse I rode at 4-H camp: old and sway-backed, sleep-walking my way through the trail, relentlessly chased by my children's need to know how absolutely everything ever created works and why.

We were reunited with our darling children Saturday morning.  By Saturday evening, I was spent.  I had answered more questions than Google.  I readied the little'uns for bed, jammies, teeth-brushing, the works.  I read them a bible story, one about Jesus healing a blind man.  I attempted to frame intelligent answers to thoughtful questions:  "What's a Pharisee?"  "Where's Judea?"  "Can blind people open their eyes?"  "So even Jesus's spit was holy?  What about his snot?  Could his snot heal the owie on my knee?"  "Was Jesus's human body divine, too?  Or was it God dwelling in it that made it holy?"

And so it was that I found myself saying "NO MORE JESUS QUESTIONS," and not feeling even a tiny bit guilty about it, because I have since found that saying, "I don't know- you should ask God when you get to heaven," defers a full quarter of their questions.  I do feel a tiny bit guilty about that, because they have a lot of questions saved up already.  God's not going to know what hit him when these children of ours show up.  He'll have to create a new heavenly department, headed up by an angel incapable of developing headaches.

The Veggies of our Labors

Last week, in the midst of crazy vacation-prep hullabaloo, I stepped outside for a few moments so I wouldn't kill anyone.

This is how God speaks to me, by the way.  Moses got a burning bush.  Isaiah got rockin' visions.  I get a still, small voice that says, "Get out of the house, for Me's sake, before you maim someone."

So I got out of the house.


See this?

It's one of those sunflowers of the gorgeous packaging- the only one to grow of dozens I planted.  All my eggs are in this basket.  It better bloom, and it better wait til we get home.  

It's also well over six feet tall, so I'm glad the one that chose to grow is right next to the deck, so we'll actually be able to see the top.  

The coneflowers are in their prime, and usually playing host to pollinators.

Adelaide joined me outside for the reaping.  

"Reaping."  That word has such a sinister quality to it, post-Hunger Games, but not to worry.  We're just talking about vegetables.

The gourds are really starting to take off, too:

These 10 Commandments gourds are each bigger than my fist.

I felt much better after all that.  Nothing soothes like gourds, right?  I'm pretty sure that's an old Jewish adage.  Or something.

I'm Giving Away a Book! To You!

Do you remember the part in The Chronicles of Narnia- I believe it's The Voyage of the Dawn Treader- when the horrible Eustace becomes a dragon, and at first you're like "Haha, about time, I can't stand that guy," but then he shows some remorse for his selfish, obnoxious ways and you start to feel sorry for him and then you're like, "Aw, crap, I'm Eustace," so when he starts peeling off layers of his dragon-y skin you're relieved, until you realize he can't shed that skin on his own, but then there's Aslan to wonderfully-painfully peel that thick, ugly, knotted old dragon skin off of Eustace until it's just his real shining self standing there.

Then you decide you'd best turn the page, quick now, and not think on that little scene too much, because remember, you're Eustace, and this little piece of allegory is beginning to mirror your own life and self to a decidedly uncomfortable degree.

This is how I've felt each time I've read Jen Hatmaker's book 7.  (That's right.  I'm talking about it again.  But wait!  I've got another JH book to force on you now!  Squee!)  I read it and I laugh and I wince and I despair that I will never be a real agent of change, much less change myself.  But after each reading, I rearrange and re-prioritize and change just enough few small things about myself and the way I live my life that when I look down, there's a new, thin layer of hideous dragon skin lying at my feet.  The best part is that when reading the book, Ms. Hatmaker never takes a stance of "Here's how you suck and I'm awesome- too bad for you, huh?"  She's very clear that she is no better and no worse than anyone, that we're all walking through this together, that we all suck, quite badly at times, together.  (Somebody put that on a t-shirt.  We'll makes dozens of dollars.)

And so it was, when I received an email from Jen Hatmaker (not a personal email; trust me, she doesn't know I exist, I'm just on her fun little email list), calling for people with blogs or websites to receive a free copy of her book Interrupted, I hesitated.  I've shed quite a bit of dragon skin, thank you very much and yes you may pat me on my sanctimonious little back, but a lot of that has been me peeling my own skin away.  I have yet to let Aslan have a real go to get the worst, thickest parts off, and I was scared that Interrupted was going to kick off that uncomfortable but necessary process.

Still, this is Jen Hatmaker we're talking about, and this is a book we're talking about, so I emailed the publisher:  Sign me up!

Shortly thereafter I received a confirmation email and I squealed and my friend and fellow JH-acolyte Deanna squealed with me, and a few days after that I opened up the mailbox to find this book:

Book in hand, I spent the next 48 hours reading and pacing and reading and laughing and reading and contemplating calling a priest to perform an exorcism because GET OUT OF MY HEAD, JEN HATMAKER.

I loved this book.  I want everyone I know to read this book.  I need to read this book again and again, because dragon skin doesn't come off easy, you know; it clings and binds; it's tenacious.  But I'm working on it.  I'm working on it.


Now here's the fun part:  I'm giving this book away.  To one of YOU.  And let me just say that my email from the JH merely suggests the possibility of giving the book away.  I could keep it if I wanted to.  However, it's well-established that I have a tendency to go all Gollum on books, and it has been pointed out to me that this is borderline unhealthy (by someone who no longer has fingers for pointing), so.  It's yours.

Here's how we're going to do this:  You're going to leave a comment on this post.  That's it.  You don't have to "like" anything, you don't have to sign up for anything, just leave a comment letting me know you want to enter the giveaway, and be sure to include some way to contact you: email address, physical address, post office box number because you're completely paranoid (hey, man, I understand), whatever.  I'll do a random drawing on, say, July 28th, which gives you a good five days to enter.  I'll also include a little something special from me in the package, because you're worth it.


I'm so excited!

NOTE:  Cooooongratulations, Karen!  You are the super-mega-grand-prize winner!  Prepare to have your life utterly ruined in the best way possible!  Squeeeeee!

"You Know What They Call That?"

"They call that a decade.  It's a long time."  (If you are not familiar with that movie quote, then I feel sorry for you.  Do yourself a favor and go watch Open Range.  For the children.  Or something.)


Ten years ago today, in north-central Oklahoma, it poured down rain, the wind blew fierce, a funnel skipped along the ground for a short time, and Derek and I got married.


We're just now reaching the point where sweet young things about to marry their young men will ask me questions about marriage and how to make it work.  My answers are invariably wise and articulate:  "Uh,"  "Hrm," "Hooo," and "You should pray a lot," which is GOOD ADVICE, but sounds vaguely threatening to newlyweds.

I don't even know where to start when asked that question, because to begin with, I never wanted to get married, and I know for a fact that young twenty-something me wasn't smart enough to look for someone like Derek in a mate.  I'm lucky he came back for more abuse after the first time I shut him down (in my defense, I truly don't like volleyball, and in his, Super-Jock Derek had no way of knowing he was talking to Anti-Jock Kristy), I'm lucky we lived far away from all our friends and family the first four years of our marriage (no well-meaning loved ones to run to when the going got tough with things like ARE YOU KIDDING ME SHE BETTER NOT HAVE and NO WAY YOU ARE NOT EVEN GOING TO LET HIM- for better or worse, we were stuck with each other and the surly inhabitants of the Nutmeg State), I'm lucky God was more concerned with pairing me with a good spouse than a clone of myself, which is probably what I'd have looked for if I was the one doing the looking.  I don't know how many people have said things like, "You and Derek are the funniest couple- I'd never think to put you two together," and "How did you even start dating each other?" and "You guys are like Ricky and Lucy from I Love Lucy!" which is completely true except that Derek isn't a tiny Cuban band leader and I'm not a beautiful red-headed charmer- so, it's not true at all, aside from the fact that I can be completely exasperating to live with and am often baffled by everyday things.

It's comforting to me, though, to know that it had to be God who paired a sports broadcasting major to someone who was like, "Sports?  HAHAHA NO THANKS" and "Television?  Eh,"  and a Psych Major with someone who was openly disdainful of, well, psychology.  We don't make sense on paper, but we know to put God first and how to be kind to each other and how to laugh and build each other up and are forever on and by and at each other's side.

Plus we make spectacular babies.

Happy Decade Anniversary, Husband!

Joo-Lie

This summer.  I don't even know what's happened to it.  I mean, I can look back and pick out a few things here and there, mostly because I remembered to snap a few photos, but other than that?  It's just gone.  It feels like I was just meeting Adelaide as she got off the bus on her last day of second grade a week or so ago.  But no, here it's almost the end of July.  Two of our kids go to school one month from yesterday.  It's not enough time.  It's just not.

Before this post devolves into me planning how to make our home an impenetrable bubble from which our children can never escape, let's go over some high and low lights as to what we've been up to lately.

We went to go see Mike (Steve?  Bob?  Some other man name?) the Bubble Guy do a show.

Adelaide and Atticus both got called up to participate, which was fun.  I'm always pleased when any of our children (particularly Adelaide) refuse to let shyness or fear rule their experiences.  I think it was brave of them to get up in front of a big old group of people and volunteer.  

Even Derek had fun:

At one point this month I was forced to take a week off of running due to plantar fasciitis.  This made me a (fallen) angel to live with.  I've got it mostly under control now, but I've still had to decrease my weekly distance, trying not to exacerbate whatever's going on in my stupid, stupid foot.  One plus to all this was I had to go hunting for more yoga routines and found Rachel Scott, one of many yogis who has posted videos on doyogawithme.com.  I love her teaching style:  she speaks in a strong, confident voice, none of that w i i s s p p y y, breahehehethy crap so many female yogis seem to be fond of, and she's very precise about where and how you need to place each part of your body, and why.  I'm a fan.

The kids and I went to our small local zoo:

The bald eagles were my favorite; they scared Cade.

The wallabies were more or less given free reign in the Australia section.

We headed down to the creek that trickles by a block or so from our house.  

This was ostensibly to collect small rocks to do this craft, but in reality to provide the local mosquitoes with their evening meal.

Oh, and remember those baby robins living in our front yard a few weeks ago?

I checked on them one day at the beginning of the month, and they'd gotten huge!  I couldn't believe how fast they were growing.  Then the next day, when I went to check again, they were gone.  Exactly zero people were astonished by this, except for me.  I was not emotionally ready to let go of these little guys who were most likely terrified of me.  The nest has remained vacant and desolate.

I need this next month to sloooow the heck down.  I need it to crawl.  I need to not panic at the thought of having two children in school in a month.