I decided to pick mulberries from our tree this morning
and I had a hardworking crew of four to help.
Some pickers,
however,
were counterproductive.
Lesson for today: take the ones who don’t care for mulberries.
More berries land in the bowl that way.
We had a case of girl bites boy today. Having just discussed with friends biting and thinking back to the only other time I’ve had to deal with the issue, I told boy to bite girl back.
When teeth marks were evident but tears weren’t, I asked if he was sure he’d bitten her as hard as she bit him.
“Yeah, she didn’t bite me very hard.”
Alrighty then. They hugged, kissed and went back to their outdoor adventures.
Really though. Why do children bite? I don’t understand the desire for babies to want every gross thing in their mouths and I don’t understand the decision to put someone’s arm in your mouth and chomp down on it just to see what happens. Both are just gross.
Bet I don’t have to tell you nail biting has never been a habit of mine, either.
There is a dear family in our church that is up in Kansas City right now, waiting for a liver transplant.
The owners of Belle, the bull mastiff we loved on for a couple weeks, are waiting, day by day, for the call. While they wait, they stay in a Marriott hotel. With special diet requirements requiring kitchen facilities to be available and an end date no human knows, they wait. If you have the ability, Marriott points and gift cards are a gift they would love to receive, covering the cost of their stay.
If you can help, click on over to my Facebook group and message me. I’ll get instructions to you just as soon as I get it.
A great article about it was written by a friend and fellow church member here.
I’m amazed my husband answers the phone when I call him at work any more.
He’s gotten some doozies. Topping the list would be when I called to tell him our gas lines had a leak somewhere between the tank outside and the water heater inside.
I’ve called with little things, like asking where his wrench set is. I always get the “Whyyyyyy?” when I ask for tools.
I’ve called to ask how to use the sander. I’ve called to tell him the van wouldn’t start. I’ve called to tell him I’ve gotten a flat tire – four hours away from home. I’ve called for directions because I was lost so many times I cannot begin to count. Dozens, I’m guessing.
I’ve called when I needed to put gas in the weed eater and didn’t know which to use. I called back when I couldn’t get it started. When he answered, I hear in the background, “Uh oh. She couldn’t get it started.” I’m so predictable. But tell me, why, when I get on the phone, can Blaine always fix it even from 10 miles away, when half and hour of trying on my own resulted in nothing but the need for yet another phone call?
Yesterday’s phone call was more of the same. I’d love to be so stinking self sufficient that I don’t need to bother him, but I’m failing. The lawn mower wouldn’t start. The conversation went something like this: “The lawn mower won’t start.”
“Is the blade on?”
“No. The key is turning hard and nothing happens. It’s like the part the key goes into is stuck.” I’m so technical. He often has to tell me to knock it off with the big words and use layman’s terms.
“Does it have gas?”
“Yes. I’ve tried everything.”
“Did you use the choke?”
“Again, everything. I even have a blister on the last knuckle of my first finger to prove how many times I turned that key.” Did you know that’s where the key hits? After trying to turn a key 100+ times, a blister forms. You learn something new every day.
I gave up. Blaine came home later, took the, ahem, ignition switch out. Today, I visited Mr. John Deere, got a new ignition switch, put the lawn mower back together and it roared to life. Does that mean I get to claim having fixed it?
Why didn’t I call Blaine when I got it going? Because then he’d get that sinking feeling. It’s rarely good when I call to bug him at work. But he always answers anyway. Love him.
When I was little, I wanted to be a teacher when I grew up. I didn’t plan on this one room schoolhouse with six grades going on.
When I was little, I wanted a big family when I grew up. This business of being raised with just one sister was for the birds. I wanted three. Maybe even four.
Then I wanted to be a missionary. Live in some exotic place, learn new languages, tell everyone I met the gospel. Turns out, you don’t need another language, or exotic, and telling people is harder than I thought. But I start small, with my kids, and go from there.
When I was in high school, I read a book about a hostage negotiator. I changed my mind. That’s what I wanted to be when I grew up. Now, instead, I’m the one taking hostages. “You may leave. As soon as: 1. Your chores are done. 2. Your peas are eaten. 3. Your bed is made. 4. Your clothes are folded and put away.” You get the idea. There may be no survivors.
I was gonna marry well. I like shoes. Lots of shoes. Nice ones. Now, my dress code is flip flops. 60% of the shoes in my closet are flip flops that cost less than $5. No shoe in there was more than $30, save one pair. Those, wait for it… were $50. And those were a major splurge that I debated over for a really. long. time.
My children were going to be perfect. I knew everything. Now, I know how little I know. But speaking the gospel and wading through my imperfections seems to be working a little, and the chasms I leave in my wake are filled by Christ.
But I haven’t grown up yet.
Ruby brings me the bathroom garbage can.
“Mom! Smell this! You have to.”
Me: “I don’t want to smell a garbage can!”
Ruby: “It smells like poop.”
Me: “Then scrub it.”
Ruby: “Eden, where’s the spray to make this smell better?”
Perfect. I’ve taught them so well. Why scrub when you can simply mask the odor?
