Awesome.

My dear husband surprised me last week with a potato/onion/garlic bin for my kitchen, freeing what I had been using for fruit, something that completely thrilled me. I now have ALL my big metal bowls clean, off the counter, and available for other uses. In a completely uncharacteristic never-happened-in-our-12-years-together move, he made me something completely out of the blue. He took an oak pallet, sanded it down, and made this for me:

With a love for the antique look that dominates my kitchen, (and a LOT of cookbooks, that also dominate a good portion of my kitchen…)

I LOVE this. So, so cool. (I also love RADA knives. If you couldn’t tell.)

I just had to brag a little. Thanks, Blaine.

Liberty was struggling yesterday with trying to figure out which way to twist the salt grinder to be counter clockwise. She was feeling foolish, and this story came to mind. It made her feel better instantly.

Blaine and I had been dating a short time. I was 18, he was 24. I was already feeling rather out of my league, mostly as far as age and life experiences go. I’d been living “on my own” as a live-in nanny on Long Island for just a few months, and Blaine had spent a year in France, traveled to England with friends, graduated with his bachelor’s degree, and was working full time and renting his grandmother’s house. (She’d moved into a retirement home.)

I drove to spend one Sunday with him in New Jersey, and we were on the way home from the evening service at church. Since I was driving my boss’ car, Blaine wasn’t allowed to drive it. That left me, completely turned around in a different state, taking directions from Blaine in the passenger seat.

I’d always had a problem with right and left. I found myself turning north to face the direction my class had been facing way back in first grade in public school, when my teacher taught right and left. Problem: driving doesn’t allow you this privilege. Problem: I didn’t even know which way was north on the curvy hilly roads of northern New Jersey.

Blaine gave instruction for my to make a right up ahead. I turned left.

Left turned out to be down some perfect stranger’s really, really, steep driveway, full of cars, with no place to turn around.

Here’s where I should insert a major issue: my boss’ car, that I was driving, was old. Really old. Beat up. Really beat up. Ornery. Specifically, it didn’t like to go into reverse. It was a try, try, try again method to get it to drop into reverse. I avoided the issue by parking in pull through spots.

So there I was, in some stranger’s yard, trying to get the car to drop into reverse so I could back out onto a pretty busy road and head back up the hill the other way.

Somewhere in all of this, mortification set in. My dear now-husband was laughing at my predicament, and I just wanted to shrivel up and die of embarrassment.

Eventually, the car cooperated, I got out of the driveway, didn’t kill us backing out into the busy road, and headed up the other way. I’ve yet to live that one down, though.

Somewhere along the way, in the nearly 12 years since, right and left has sunk in properly and I can give and take directions without messing them up. And now my dear daughters are a bit less mortified about struggling with clockwise and counter clockwise directions.

So glad I could be of service.

Another woman.

I took Blaine's van to Bible study the other night. It gets better has mileage than my big van, so whenever I head out alone, I take that instead. Shortly after getting in, I smelled perfume. Strange.

I didn't think about it too much at first, but I kept smelling it. Littered with jumper cables, car seats, random photography paraphernalia, cereal bar wrappers, and the like, smelling foreign perfume is odd. The thought of my husband going out to lunch and given a co-worker a ride crossed my mind, but he always packs a lunch. I kept smelling it, all the while wondering why it was bothering me so much. I've never had a moment's worry regarding the man I married. He drives a fifteen year old small minivan we outgrew two kids ago that leaks oil like it thinks it's doing the lawn a favor, dripping fast enough to leave a puddle everywhere it sits.

This man of mine goes to work faithfully, teaches our children as he works, slowing him down but certainly worthwhile. Father of nearly seven. Faithful. So why on earth is the perfume smell sending my mind in all sorts of circles?

I decided I was being absolutely ridiculous.

I proved myself correct when I took my hair down when I got home, late in the evening in a sleeping house. The scent of my new conditioner hit my nostrils and I nearly choked on my stupidity. Somebody, please. Save me from myself. I. Need. More. Sleep.

I was contemplating two of my children this morning and made some observations to my husband.

We have buddies around here. Each of my children has a buddy – a littler person who they are willing and able to get things for, help dress, take potty, etc., when I am unable. Eden’s buddy is Charlotte. Eden’s been compared to a bull in a china shop more than once. She takes life in stride, plows through where she ought tread lightly, and tends to be a bit… blunt. Charlotte, on the other hand, is calm and quiet, shy, one to let her emotions get the better of her. The two together make an interesting team. Sometimes it’s really, really interesting.

Pairing up with Charlotte has smoothed a few of Eden’s edges. It’s taught her compassion, gentleness, understanding. Charlotte has taken Eden in stride for the most part, and it’s been amazing to see the relationship between those two grow. Lately, Charlotte has been sleeping with Eden. Charlotte had been on a trundle of sorts, but she kept rolling off her bed and ending up under Eden’s bed in the middle of the night. Nightly for a good while, I’d stumble in to her hollers that she was stuck once again and pull her out from under the bed. Finally, she started sleeping with Eden instead, and the under-the-bed mid-night rendezvous stopped.

This morning, though, Charlotte told me, “Eden pushed me off the bed again. But this time I didn’t hit my head!” Poor girl, I never knew. I commented to Blaine how good Charlotte has been for Eden, and how Eden apparently has a learning curve in sleeping next to another.

He told me it sounded like Eden and I have a lot in common.

The first few years of marriage and attempting to share one sleep space were interesting. Apparently Eden comes by her rough edges honestly.

Sobering thought. How easy is it to see my daughter and wonder why she can’t slow down, do things carefully, watch her words, be gentle? Is that how I am?

I’m thankful for Blaine. For the man who stood by me and helped smooth out a few rough edges without complaint. Who lives with the rest of them, never saying a word – being glad “it didn’t hurt – this time”. Those personality differences in friends and spouses and children can be difficult. We just don’t understand some people. But how often are those the ones we learn the most from?

Sobering thoughts to start out my day.

The desires of your heart…

I married a handyman. Over the years, Blaine has fixed water pipes, gas lines, changed brakes, took apart a dashboard to solder an electronic component that kept shorting out and sending the dashboard dark, and refinished a table and church pew for our dining room furniture. He’s built rock wall flower beds and changed vehicle belts and a host of other things. Last Saturday, he had my lawn mower torn apart, trying to figure out why it kept revving to a ridiculous speed. (Carburetor, I’m told.)

All that, for this story. A month or so ago, we agreed a new couch was in order. Ours was given to us several years ago, and was a huge blessing to us, but a year and a half ago we wore completely through the arm fabric and I recovered them. Last Christmas, we bought a slipcover for it because we’d gone through the seat cushion too. Now… it’s not so comfy anymore. On a search for a used sofa that didn’t cost a lot but would serve our family, my first choice was leather. I’d heard so many people say how well it wipes clean and dreamed of not washing slipcovers and the messes these children of mine can make.

I looked at hundreds of ads by people wishing to sell their sofas. I came to one conclusion: even used, leather is too expensive.

Then… I found a blue (not my first choice, but it’ll do) leather sofa. $50. Missing the mattress for it’s hide-a-way bed. (Sofa bed hadn’t crossed my mind… but it seemed like a great addition for our small house that doesn’t offer much space for company!) I agreed to buy it, and went home to do research on what it would take to find a mattress. Ouch. Those things are expensive too. Then I found a couch listed for sale for $35 with a sofa bed. I called on it. I kid you not, I asked if she still had the sofa bed and the lady said…

“It’s really in rough shape. It was my aunt’s, and her dogs tore it up. But if you wanted it for the mattress inside…”

Wow. She didn’t even know what I needed it for. So yesterday, we went and picked it up. She took $20. So we now have $70 into two couches that I plan to combine into one and Blaine has agreed to demolish the leftovers. (Dear, dear man. He didn’t even bat an eye when I told him my plan.)

We started combining couches, but quickly learned the sofa bed mechanisms on my blue couch were less than straight. Blaine went to work, taking out the entire sofa bed mechanism from the ugly couch, putting them into the leather couch, and the only modification was the couch needed to be 1/2 inch taller to accommodate the folding of the bed frame. He fixed that, and we had a complete couch, with perfect mattress and sliding mechanism, and we’re out $70… less than we ever thought we’d have to spend.

The amazing part? Water spilled on my new couch last night. A quick wipe up later, we could still sit on the couch… and not shift around uncomfortably.

I know this is a long story. It could have ended very differently. The mechanism could have not fit in the leather couch, the mattress could have been to thick to fit… but in the end, we got exactly what we’d hoped for at a good price and I can’t help but think: Does God care about the little things? Like a couch that we can enjoy and use that takes less work to maintain – that’s comfortable to sit on too. I’m rather inclined to think He does. If you all have been around a few years, you’ll remember this story about Sterling and the desires of his heart. Amazing.

The story of us. Part eight.

Read part one here.

Read part two here.

Read part three here.

Read part four here.

Read part five here.

Read part six here.

Read part seven here.

After managing the apartment complex for many months, painting more walls than I care to count an awful shade of off white while my daughters played in the paint colored and sang and danced around empty apartments asking if I was almost done, we’d had just about enough. Dealing with tenants, non payment, eviction, judges, massive ice storms, and one interesting and hard landlord who mocked our beliefs had just about done us in.

My final straw was, now pregnant with Sterling, telling the landlord and hearing his reaction. We were insane, I tell you. Two kids replace you in the universe, three is far too many and socially irresponsible. Oh, the horror. If he could only see us now. Then Blaine got a promotion. A really nice promotion that put him on full time and making enough for us to pay rent and quit dealing with all that was at the apartment complex.

We live at the apartments until Sterling was three weeks old, then moved to a two-family rental. That move was interesting. Blaine was still working on apartments and full time at the newspaper, so it fell primarily on me. With a newborn. Blaine’s brother saved the day when he came to stay with us. He helped me pack the van, then stayed with the kids while I took it to the new house and unpacked the van. We got it done up to the big stuff that way, and then Blaine had a day off and we finished. Not the best week of my life, but we were so glad to be free of the apartments.

We had space, a small backyard to share with the other half of our building, and world’s nicest landlords. And then we met our neighbors. Weeks in, my daughters were banned from playing with them alone, and the complaints began.

Life couldn’t just be comfortable. I still had more lessons to learn, after all.

The story of us. Part 6.

 

Read part one here.

Read part two here.

Read part three here.

Read part four here.

Read part five here.

The regular pediatrician was gone for Thanksgiving vacation, and I got the doctor on call. He ordered a test to check for acid reflux, prescribed Zantac, and within three days we had a very different baby. She quit crying all the time, and by six months, she was sleeping through the night. Motherhood wasn’t looking so bleak.

When Liberty was eight months, I quit nursing. Upon realizing her weight gain wasn’t what it should be, I was threatened with a call to child services if I didn’t stop nursing and start formula. At 19 and scared, I bought formula on my way home. Liberty still was small, and didn’t gain weight any better on formula. I tried to tell her I had a very thin husband, but it didn’t matter. I switched pediatricians and learned a hard lesson. Fight for what I believe in, and no one will stand up for my family better than my family.

April 30, 2004 we bought our first house. A few weeks later, we found out I was expecting. I was working at our church as a secretary, babysitting one little girl, and also cleaning a few businesses and homes to make ends meet. Our marriage was stronger than ever, and we were starting to learn what it meant to become one. Liberty clung to me and cried each evening when Blaine got home and I headed out to clean. In the end, I quit the cleaning business and babysitting in exchange for Blaine working extra hours at his job instead. Life settled into a new routine again.

Our Great Pyrenees liked our neighbors better than us, and she went to my parents’ to live. We got a border collie mix we named Heidi. Walks with Liberty and Heidi became routine, and I got to know the streets of the tiny town we lived in pretty well. My pregnancy went along far easier than my first, and I found contentment far easier when life was easier. Understatement, eh?

February 1, 2005, Eden Rayne was born. You can read her birth story here. Her first year had many more changes for us. Just before Labor Day, 2005, Blaine was laid off from his job. He’d been longing for the East Coast, so we put a “For Sale By Owner” sign in the yard.

Four days later, we had a signed offer. We were moving.

The story of us. Part 5.

Read part one here.
Read part two here.
Read part three here.
Read part four here.


June 21, we celebrated Blaine’s birthday and having made it to the nine month mark. Now it seems funny, but at the time, I was pretty concerned with appearances and did not want questions as to the conception of my child.

June 25, labor began. I was admitted, confirmed to be in labor, and left to progress on my own. After several hours, I was moving along, and then it stopped. The next morning, when given the option to induce labor or go home, I stupidly made the decision to induce and get it over with. The doctor broke my water, began pitocin, and that night, Liberty Skye was born. You can read her birth story here.

And so, another of my plans was altered. A girl? First? Certainly we’d have a boy first. It’s the American Dream, after all. A girl first was not on my radar. I struggled with wanting the perfect life – and this was not what I’d envisioned. More money, peace in my home (and heart) and less struggling were what I thought I deserved. I wasn’t content. I had so much to learn. Apparently, I was one of those. You know, the ones that have to learn the hard way.

We settled into life with our first child. We moved from our apartment to a rented old farmhouse, where we burned wood for heat, got a Great Pyrenees dog who drove me nuts, and we worked towards buying our first home. Choosing not to heat the whole (big) house, Liberty’s bedroom sat empty and her crib hung out in the kitchen, closer to the wood stove. Flies and box elder bugs were abundant, and some unknown creature chewed on the floor boards from the dirt crawlspace. The pipes froze when it got really cold, and paint flaked off the living room walls and fluttered to the floor on a regular basis. God was working on me and this whole contentment thing.

Our marriage was rough. Blaine changed jobs, we’d been married a year by that point, and had a new, very crabby child who screamed day and night for the first five months of her life. I knew something was wrong, but the pediatrician kept saying it was normal. Finally, after many sleepless nights and at my wit’s end, I took her into the doctor’s office again, handed her to the doctor, and told him to figure out why she wouldn’t stop crying.

Babe, you’re old.

Liberty was asking what she ought to do about her history project for co-op. She’s supposed to ask an “older relative” about how the streams, rivers, terrain, etc. were back when they were young. She was confused on who she ought to talk to.

Eden told her to talk to Daddy.

Blaine was oh so thrilled when I told him.

Goodbye, Monday. You’ve been swell.

Saturday, I went to the community rummage sales down the road from us. Got some good deals, nothing fabulous, but at the end of my morning out, I parked on the hill at a sale, and when I opened the door of the van, the wind caught it. I didn’t think a whole lot of it until the van door wouldn’t open when I got back to the van. Rummage sale: 2 glass baking pans and a shirt for Blaine. $3. Driver’s side van door: stuck.

Perfect.

The bumper was dented, the door wouldn’t open more than 2 inches. I’m wider than two inches. Climbing out of the passenger side puts a whole new spin on strange that I hadn’t considered. As if the 12 passenger van wasn’t quite odd enough.

Today, I took it to town with plans to stop and two different places for body work quotes. The first place offered to fix it, free, then and there. Um, yeah! He popped out the fender and told me if I wanted it perfect it would need body work, but it was functioning and barely dented and opening well. Sounds good to me. I took it to Blaine’s office to see what his thoughts on it were.

We decided to stop at the second body shop, just to get an idea of what it would cost to get the dents perfected. I got the quote, got groceries, and got a tube for Eden’s bike tire. Went to the bank. Door worked great.

I pulled into my yard, and the door wouldn’t open. What on earth?!

Climbing out the passenger door, I set to work changing Eden’s bike tire so we could continue to the park with friends for a ride, as planned. The tube I bought now in her tire, I put it back together. Forgot to put the chain on. Found out the front tire was also flat. It lost it’s air within two minutes of being pumped up. Perfect. Liberty tried to ride my bike. It’s 10 inches taller than hers. No go. Eden rode the scooter. She’s a good sport.

Van door opens better on flat ground, but still not right. Blaine to the rescue. It’s now more dented than when he started, but it’s fixed and he figured out why it didn’t stay fixed last time. Speculating on whether the door has been replaced in the past. That would explain why the key doesn’t work in that door.

(That’s a funny story. Blaine’s key never worked, and he didn’t have a key fob like I did, so we went to the hardware store to get a copy of my key made. We figured we’d use his old key as a spare, since it worked in the other doors and the ignition. The new cut key didn’t work. She cut another. Three keys later, it dawns on me I’ve never tried my key in the driver door, only the passenger. My key didn’t work either. We now have multiple copies of that key, none of them work in the driver’s door, and I can only imagine we’re on a black list at ACE.)

In other news, Blaine thinks the house is booby trapped. I think it’s just him. Things jump out at him constantly. You know, things like non-working keys, flat bike tires, and dented fenders.

The story of us. Part 4.

Read part one here.
Read part two here.
Read part three here.

Finally, I started to come around. I was huge, swollen, but no longer losing most of my food. My hormones stopped telling me how awful my husband was. I was starting to think maybe I hadn’t made a huge mistake in walking down that aisle. And steady as a rock, Blaine was there for me.

My due date was June 30, 9 months and 9 days after our wedding date, and it loomed in front of us. We joked that the baby had better stay put until Blaine’s birthday, June 21. It was our nine month mark.
June 6, labor began. I drove myself to the hospital and Blaine met me there.

This was not supposed to happen yet.

We were checked in on the maternity floor of the small Spearfish hospital. They kept me for observation and informed me that if I was in labor, it would be stopped. If they couldn’t stop it, I’d be sent to Rapid City, the larger town in the area. Spearfish doesn’t have a NICU and won’t deliver a baby less than 37 weeks. I was 36 weeks and 4 days. If I had been 3 days further along, they would have left me to labor.

But I wasn’t. A few hours later, I had dilated 1 cm, and a shot of awful was injected into me. I shook and froze and felt generally awful for an hour or so, but contractions stopped. I was sent home.

The story of us. Part 2.

Read part one here.

I stared at that little bottle of awful and shook my head. Surely not. Surely this is all for nothing, and I’ll have suffered without cause.

October 21. I am SOOO tired. And late. I stopped to buy a pregnancy test on the way home on my boss’s suggestion. I spent $6 on stupid, certain nothing was to be learned by the thing. After all, we can’t afford a baby. We weren’t ready. We had plans.

I went home, made supper, and left my new husband painting the kitchen to take the test. Almost instantly, two lines appeared.

“Blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnneeeeeee!”

He came into the bathroom, paintbrush in hand. I’m pretty sure from my tone he knew what was next.

“There’s two lines.”

“I don’t see two lines.”

“There’s two.”

“I only see one.”

He stared for a few more seconds, and the line kept getting darker.

“There’s two lines.”

He walked back to the kitchen with his paintbrush and went back to painting. He didn’t say another word for what seemed like hours.

Dear Daddy,

You’re being watched, imitated, copied, and admired.

Playing “house” was just taken to a whole new level. Now he has a badge to wear to work.

Just like Daddy.

(Oh, except he doesn’t take photos at work. He builds houses. With Legos.)

Embarrassment.

I finally gave in and did my exercise video when my husband was home. Something about doing all sorts of strange body maneuvers while trying to keep up with the lady on the tv who is pretending to talk directly to you is just awkward. I’ve held off, not caring to be observed in this strange ritual, but, with limited time yesterday, I finally just did it. Feeling embarrassed despite my gracious husband’s eyes being glued to the computer screen because he knew I didn’t want to be laughed at, I was glad when it was done. I got ready to leave the house, and headed out the door with bags and coffee in hand.

The steps looked wet. They were. Under the water was ice. I know this because down I went, four concrete stairs down, landing on my backside. Everything in my hands stayed there, but my coffee went splashing and I looked like I’d peed my pants.

Blaine saw the whole thing.

How is it that the man stood by me for six births, has seen me do countless stupid things in the ten years we’ve been married, forgiven me for all my faults, and this is so stinking embarrassing?

Because that’s the kind of guy he is.

I have a tree.

 

I’ve had a Ficus tree since college. The thing is kind of old. It needed to be repotted, pruned… it’s looking pretty sad right now. Blaine and I looked at pots, but none caught my eye. I clicked over page after page on Amazon. (Thanks to a Amazon Prime membership, compliments of my sister-in-law, 20 gallon pots ship two-day free. Who would have thought?!)

Nothing. Then Blaine found one locally, bought it for me, and brought it home. He even got me purple. And then the (in)famous words were spoken.

“It’s not self watering. But I’ve been looking online, and I think I can make something.”

I nodded, smiled, and I’m sure my eyes got a little bit glazed over. Couldn’t we just put rocks at the bottom like my mother always did?

Oh, no. Certainly not. Yesterday morning I was called into the garage to see the product of all the bumping and scraping and drilling I’d heard.




I’m quite certain I did not make over the invention nearly so much as he desired. It’s a former goat-watering tub, my friends. Re-purposed. I cannot smell the buck’s eu de billy, so all’s good. But is this really necessary?




It’s a pot. With a pipe sticking out of it. That’s where the water goes, I’m told. He even put a stick in the corner of the bedroom so that I can check the water like I check he checks the oil.



I’ll be the first to admit. It' looks lovely. Ten times better. I still think the rocks at the bottom trick would have worked and been far less work. But then I wouldn't have been able to write this post, and all of you wouldn't understand, on a really small scale, the kind of guy I married.

Who am I kidding? I’m not sure I understand either. We’re opposites, that’s all I know. That, and he makes me look really, really lazy when he does something like this.

“He always looks before he scoots.”

After giving the warning not to scoot the kitchen bench down because I’d placed a frame between it and the wall, undecided where to hang it, Ruby asked if I had to tell Daddy not to scoot the bench down too. I said I didn’t, because Daddy wouldn’t move the bench anyway. Her reply said she knows her Daddy very well.

“Yeah, because if he did want to scoot the bench, he’d check first. He always looks before he scoots.”

Some dear child has been scolded, more than once, for not checking before she throws, scoots, slides, shoves, or any other action verb you care to throw in this sentence.

Ten.

Friday Blaine and I celebrated our tenth wedding anniversary.

A friend took the kids Friday and Saturday. We stayed home and wondered what on earth we’ll do when the kids are grown. It was so… quiet. No one woke me up at 4am. I got more hours of sleep straight than I have since before Charlotte was born. We sat on the porch and visited without a single interruption. We set up pop cans and shot them full of holes, just for the fun of it.

We had a lovely time. And then, we went and picked up the kids. I’m just not good at this whole “no kids” thing. Life without them is, well, boring.

No offense to my dear husband. Ten years, six kids, nine houses, four states… life together has been anything but boring. We been blessed beyond measure with this big family of littles. I can’t imagine doing this without him. I love that man.