The Farmer Files

Packed and READY!

2011-08-05T20:34:00.005-04:00

Moving TWICE!!!

I moved to wordpress!!! If I am not showing up in your Reader go here and subscribe!!! Please delete the blogger feed and subscribe to the wordpress feed in your reader. I don't live here any more.

And secondly, I will be in Tokyo next week.

I love you guys. Be sure and write!

Xoxoxo

Road Fatigue from Driving Cross Country

2011-06-30T13:00:00.001-04:00

This morning we are leaving New Mexico driving to Arizona. The weight of this move is starting to sink in but I am happily ignoring the road fatigue.

Why I Just Couldn't Kill The Bunny

2011-06-29T01:51:00.001-04:00

Moving so often hurts. So many days I am a teary mess. It is not the goodbyes, it is not the making of new friends. It is not the settling down. I am glad that God allows those things to come easier to me than most people that move.

The heartbreak comes in doses of things left behind, of sounds I will no longer hear, and sights that will too fast fade from my memory.

I waited until the last minute to donate the tiny size four shoes. The toes are worn thin from the places that my very last baby stomped and tripped on his first steps. I had no good reason to pack them and take them with us. They were too old to pass along to a friend and too worn for a keepsake. But to this mama they were a visible meter of my very last baby's "first" steps. I threw them into a donation bag like hot coals and cinched it up fast.

My Son1 is very creative and constructs things for me all of the time. One dull and gray day he brought me a fighter pilot made from modeling clay. He donned a vintage fighter pilot cap. Son1 also molded the pilot a set of dumb bells and weights so the fighter pilot could work out. And on a frigid winter day in Boston I stuck that little splashy pilot on my kitchen window sill. On ugly gray days I stared at the little pilot and thought of the little six year old that might not make things just for me, for too many more days. On the last day in the house, I pulled the little clay trio off the sill like a band aid. No matter how fast I pulled I knew it would sting for a second. And I clenched it and shoved it into a trash bag without looking. Tossing that little fighter pilot was like tossing moments in time for me...moments that I cannot get back.

On the last days as we moved things down and out the service door of our 1928 Craftsman, I found myself standing still, listening to the sounds of the boys pounding down the hollow wooden steps. The old flimsy door snapped shut and the small glass window in it rattled. I had heard that sequence, pounding stairs, snapping door, and rattling window a thousand times this year. It was the sound of boys rushing to school, of boys barreling out to build an igloo fort, and boys flying out the door to chase turkeys, rabbits, and chipmunks.

These days of backyard adventures are gone. I will not hear them in a city apartment in Tokyo for some years.

The day before we left Massachusetts I knew I had to deal with the paper mâché bunny. I put off tossing him. In art class, Son1 crafted the bunny like the other kids. But he was the only kid who gave his bunny an umbrella, like Peter Rabbit.

How many more days will fairy tales matter to him?

I stuffed the bunny in a toss bag, but Son1 discovered him before he made it to the can. He begged me not to toss the bunny. So when he was in school, I drove the bunny to a trash can away from my house. I stuffed the plastic bag into a dome lid trash can. But that umbrella just would not slip into the can. So with conviction I grabbed that umbrella handle and rescued the bunny.

I just could not kill the bunny.

Today we are driving in a packed vehicle from Oklahoma to New Mexico. We are driving with bags squished between legs. Our quarters are tight. But between Dr. Romance and me sits a paper mâché bunny. He is so much more to me than dried painted newspaper. He reminds how brief time is with my boys.

Check Out Our New Ride

2011-06-15T21:25:00.000-04:00

My treasured Honda Odyssey that trucked home my three newborns from hospitals in three states is now sold. The family that rents this home after us is moving from the UK with four kids. And now they own my van. And when we arrive in California, Dr. Romance is selling his wheels. We knew a new ride was in our future.

One morning, I opened my eyes, grabbed my phone, and opened my email. My eyes popped open when I read Dr. Romance "bought us a van." He described it as "small and cute and will fit our family just fine." The only issue was that going to Costco might be tight with our family, but it seats 6 to 7 people.

I had no time to click the links to the pictures. I scrambled to get my kids to different schools. Later that morning, I opened the pictures and LAUGHED. How in the world are to 6 to 7 people going to fit in a van made to fit circus clowns??!?!?? Well, I am just going to have to let you know.

Tomorrow I am answering your questions about our move. So if you have dreamed any more up, leave them in the comments. But between now and then, what do you think of our new wheels???

The BIG Reveal...We are Moving...AGAIN!

2011-06-14T11:29:00.000-04:00

Once again, I am moving addresses for the 10th time in nearly 13 years of marriage. Watch this and see why my boys are thrilled:

Dr. Romance swooped into town last night, and we headed straight for dinner at a surprise restaurant!

The boys were thrilled. They love chopsticks. But there is still a learning curve.

Once we got home, the boys unpacked a few gifts from their future home, and Dr. Romance showed them pictures of their future schools.

The boys are beyond excited.

They asked me this morning if it is still true. YES!!!

If you have any questions about our move across the world, leave them in the comments and I will try and answer them soon. Come back tomorrow and see the car Dr. Romance has already purchased for us!

Moving: The Mommy Jitters

2011-06-13T14:55:00.000-04:00

We have kept the whereabouts of our move this August a secret for a long, long time. We moved from San Diego this time last year. We left a home that we designed specifically for our family of five just 18 months before. My parents lived less than 3 miles away. My in-laws visited from Arizona every month. Our eldest walked to his school. And my kids, for the first time ever, lived less than 2,500 miles from family. And, we were living in my hometown, where I had not lived for 15 years.

The move to the Boston area has been a bit free-swinging. We have taken weekend roadtrips all over New England and other East Coast states. The boys have made prized friends, and Dr. Romance had an amazing time at Harvard. However, the boys have always known we would return to San Diego this summer. They have counted on it. We will be on the West Coast through the first week in August, true to our word.

Tonight, Dr. Romance flies home. He has been gone awhile. And tonight, we finally tell our children where that "somewhere else" will be after San Diego. They have known we most likely will not move back into our home in San Diego. They have known that we might have to move away again. My stomach is full of butterflies.

I am not so much concerned with how they will take the news that we will not move back to San Diego. I am more aware that our move will evacuate from my safe place of logistical planning, of making phone calls, of setting up appointments, and arranging dates. The whole concept of our move shifts from a checklist of adult To-Dos, to invading and intertwining into the mission of our family. It will now permeate every single person's thoughts and goals. We will speak of it every day until we get there. I know it.

This sharing of the news with the kids is a game changer.

But let me tell you this one thing.

I am super excited for this move. I think they will be, too.

Come back tomorrow, and I will tell you where on earth we are moving.

Backward

2011-06-10T06:40:00.000-04:00

Today's topic: Backward

GO.

In two weeks our family of five is driving backward. We shove things as tight as we can, pack up all that will fit, and drive cross country from Boston to San Diego. We are backward of just one year, when we shoved and packed our lives and three little boys into two cars and a teeny 5x8 trailer.

Driving backward floods backward emotions. I toss out all the things I would not otherwise toss: refrigerator art, crafts, and toys. We pick up what matters. We pick up limbs, hearts, and our family bond. I can't toss those.

I pick up, I pack up. I can't toss what we gained this year. The tightness between my husband and me, our children learning that family stability is more important than our house in San Diego. More importantly, we grew this year in faith, in the ways we have trusted God about where we live, and how he provides.

STOP.

Go ahead, you try. Here are the rules:
1. Write for 5 minutes flat for pure unedited love of the written word.
2. Link back here and invite others to join in.
3. Get a little crazy with encouragement for the five minuter who linked up before you.

Day One: 21 Days for Sons

2011-06-08T04:00:00.002-04:00

Welcome to the first day of the 21 Days for Sons Prayer challenge! You are HERE and up for the challenge to pray for your sons for 21 days. Hopefully you have your book! If not, click on the link above, and then look on the left sidebar. The book is available in PDF or for your Kindle.

After our Twitter chat Sunday night, I was so encouraged by the passion you have for raising your sons to be Christian men of integrity with a passion for leadership. Thank you, #warriormom s, for being so honest and transparent. Also, I was so proud of the Twitter newbies that hung out for such a long time! Would all of you like to chat again another Sunday night?

Every day we focus a prayer topic. Today's topic is Obedience.You will see Brooke has included an overview of the topic, study questions, and finally the 10 topical prayers. Set aside time to pray every one of the prayers for each of your sons. Here are some ideas:

Pray the prayers during a quiet time, inserting your son(s) name(s)
Select some of the prayers to pray out loud with your son(s) and some during a quiet time
Pray some of these prayers with your husband over your son(s)

Ask how you can apply what you are praying to your every day life. Some ideas:

Reflect quietly
Discuss with your husband and/or sons
Tweet
Blog
Journal

Participate in the community on Twitter.

Try and tweet at least one time daily (it is ok to tweet more often)
Use the hashtag #warriormom in all of your related tweets.
Quote something from the e-book that struck you that day
Tweet something timely happening in your life related to the daily topic
Share an aha! moment
Retweet something that resonates with you from another #warriormom
Ask others questions
Laugh online
Offer virtual hugs

Let's be inclusive.

There may be folks who join our #warriormom hashtag from other groups, or who have started the challenge late. Make these mamas feel welcome!
Invite others to join any time. Just let me know so I can add them to our group list.

The only right way to approach these 21 days is on our knees. We are all busy. In our group, some work full time, some homeschool, some are traveling, some are moving, and some are pregnant. Some have impossible loads of laundry, car troubles, and "what's for dinner" issues. There are so many things
that encroach on our well intentions to pray. It can be a battle to set aside the time to prioritize this challenge.

Let's not aim for perfection of having an opportunity for quiet solitude for prayer. Let's just get it done, girlfriend.

I love this from Warrior Prayers: Contrary to popular belief, the battle won’t be won by reading and implementing the best parenting techniques. It won’t be won through late night talks, lectures on right and wrong, or even committing to a Bible-preaching church. These things are all part of the equation, but they don’t trump the most importantpiece of the fight. Prayer. This battle is best fought on your knees.

I am excited to participate in this journey with you. I will see each #warriormom in the Twitter stream today!!

Trip to Maine: Blue Piece is In!

2011-06-06T18:01:00.000-04:00

All of a sudden I remembered snapping a puzzle together as a little girl.

More of our day in pictures:

21 Days of Prayer: Twitter Pre-Party

2011-06-03T06:33:00.004-04:00

Hi friends! I am so excited for the start of our group, as we build a community of women that are passionate about lifting their sons in prayer. At last count, there are over 800 participants in the challenge! We are our own small slice!

We are going to keep this group mostly on Twitter. WAIT! Some of you are running away. Hands off your mouse! Keep reading.

I know that some of you are not on Twitter yet. But you really, really want to be part of this challenge. And I really, really want you to join us. And just to make everyone feel better, I am going to share with you my own 2009 Twitter newbie confession, complete with pictures at the end of this post. But first, let me give a few details about the group.

We are going to have our very own Twitter pre-party this Sunday, June 5 at 9pm EST/6PM PST. Mid west people, help me on the math for your time zone. We are aiming for 30 minutes. If you are still hanging out after that, we will go a little longer. This is a chance for you to get to know each other and also for those brand new to Twitter to give it a chance. I will be giving away copies of Warrior Prayers, and maybe something special for you folks who already have a copy. We will use the hashtag #warriormom. You can thank the witty and funny Lora Lynn from Vitafamiliae for choosing the hashtag! Between now and our party, we can use the hashtag for our tweets!

The actual Warrior Prayers challenge begins Wednesday, June 8. We will continue to use the hashtag #warriormom throughout the challenge. I would go on about the hashtag but the folks reading this that are new to Twitter are probably saying HASH what?!?!

So Twitter Newbies, I bring you my Twitter Confession!

But first, a little of my own background. I met Lora Lynn eleven years ago at church, before we had digital cameras. YES, it was that long ago. The pictures I needed of us to tell our whole story about how we can teach you anything, do not exist. So I have to skip the juicy story. I asked many people across the country for such pictures on Thursday to no avail. But since Rachel generously produced this one picture for me, I must post it. Lora Lynn had just had the twins, I was very pregnant with my first son, and Rachel was also pregnant with her first son.The very next year Rachel moved to Kansas, I moved to Hawaii, and soon Lora Lynn moved to Alabama.

Then months after I moved to California, Lora Lynn and some of her crew came to visit. I had all kinds of blogging questions to ask her, because she has blogged far longer and better than me.

And I felt very small and intimidated and incompetent and asked her about Twitter.

These Twitter things all scared me: @, #, DM, RT.

And I sat in my kitchen on the edge of my bar stool and felt all sweaty palms sitting next to someone with close to a thousand Twitter followers, thinking, I don't get this Twitter thing. She probably thinks I am a complete idiot.

Oh, I so wish I had a picture of us playing cards to show you....to show you I am NOT a complete idiot and can hold my own with her and her Euchre muscles. (It's a card game.)

She popped open her laptop, showed me her account and walked me through Twitter, step by step. Really, I did not need this Twitter thing. I had no idea why I asked her about @, #, DM, and RT. Now I had to act mildly interested. She was so effectively explaining it to me. But, I had no time for this Twitter stuff. I was very pregnant with my third son. And before I could finish arguing with myself about Twitter, she was done explaining and I knew what I was doing in less than 5 minutes. There is not much to Twitter at all. The great thing about Twitter is that you can build connections and community in an instant. So here I am, pregnant again, with Lora Lynn just after I survived her Twitter lesson.

I want you to just try it for 30 minutes, this Sunday, June 5 at 9pm EST. I am giving away prizes, remember?

So here is what you need to do:

1. Set up your account at www.twitter.com
2. Click on Search. Type this: #warriormom. Save the search.
3. Use the hashtag #warriormom anytime you want our group members to see your tweet.

I will be creating a list for folks whose Twitter handles I already have. Right next to the Searches tab you will see another tab for Lists. If I have your Twitter handle I will list you under warriormom. If you create an account please follow me @thefarmerfiles so I know you have created an account and can add you to the list. You need to follow the list (see the green button after you click Lists), and that will have you follow our group.

I will start tweeting today using the #warriormom hashtag. Those of you already on Twitter show me some love, and tweet back, m'kay? Newbies, play around a little so you will be ready for our Twitter party Sunday night. How do you attend the party? Very easy. Log into your Twitter account Sunday night before 9pm. You will start to see my tweets coming your way right at 9pm!!

thefarmerfiles at gmail dot com.

21 Days of Praying for Our Sons

2011-06-01T02:22:00.002-04:00

Have you ever wanted to start something, but you just didn't know how to begin? Have you ever wished for something, but it just seemed like wishful thinking?

That was me, almost seven years ago. I was a new mom, far from my family, with a new baby BOY. I knew nothing about mothering a boy, but I knew I wanted to do it right. I never had any brothers. I was completely clueless!! I wanted to try my best at whatever I was supposed to do with a boy. But what was I supposed to do with a boy?

I was blessed to take a course with a pastor and his wife at our church for new parents. I soaked up everything this seasoned mother said about parenting her sons. One of the things she said that stuck with me: Begin with the end in mind.

I know a little more now than I did almost seven years ago about boys. I am deeply honored that God has entrusted us with three sons. I see my tribe together, and I want "the end" to be three leaders, three warriors who will lead their families for Christ and stand up to be Real Men.

One day, they will not be guests at a wedding, dancing with me looking over the top of them. One day, my prayer is to be dancing the Mother of the Groom dance, looking up at them, remembering that I began with the end in mind.

But even so, there are no guarantees. Already they have ideas about their futures. They have opinions and beliefs. And so, I must begin with the end in mind, and do the most impacting thing I can do. And that one thing is PRAY.

Alongside several hundred women, I will be joining Brooke from Warrior Prayers in a 21 day challenge of praying for our sons. I am leading one of the groups using her ebook, Warrior Prayers. If you would like to join me, please leave a comment below with your blog or Twitter handle. What does joining this group mean? It means you begin with the end in mind. It means you commit to praying for your sons daily, and sharing some of your journey with a beautiful community of women. Each group member will need a copy of Brooke's ebook. It is less than $6.00!!

I would love it if our group can check in on Twitter. I will be posting some about my prayer journey during the challenge here at thefarmerfiles blog, but mainly I would love to check in with everyone more regularly on Twitter.

If you are new to Twitter, or not on Twitter, that is okay. We will figure something out. The most important thing in this challenge, to me, is to commit my time. Some days parenting is really tough! What is most important (to me) is a group of like minded mothers who are committed to beginning with the end in mind, committed to creating a community amongst other mothers, and sharing their hearts for raising a generation of men who will be leaders and Christ followers. If you are unsure about joining this group, or unsure about how to pray please know two things. 1. Thefarmerfiles is a safe place to ask questions about prayer, about God, and anything else. 2. Still not sure? Invite other mothers of sons to join us! We are in this together.

***Other people are already signing up for our Twitter group through the Warrior Prayers blog!

On Forgetting: Niagra Falls

2011-05-27T18:35:00.003-04:00

Today I am linking up with The Gypsy Mama for Five Minute Fridays. Today's topic is:

On Forgetting

Got five minutes? Here’s a great way to spend them.

1. Write for 5 minutes flat without editing your voice.
2. Link back to the Gypsy Mama and invite others to join in.
3. Pony up the comment love for the five minuter who linked up before you.

GO.

They give me the blank stare. I cannot convince them they DO remember that one time when....

And I dream that today will not be one of those times. I spun those very thoughts around in my mind when I pulled the billowing plastic rain coats over their heads and over their clothes. I was sharply aware that this dressing might slip their memories one day.

Will they remember that I grabbed the Middle Man by the wrist and charged him down the twisting path, across and over the foot bridge, and through the trees to the ticket booth, with Grandma huffing behind? She was clutching the Big Guy's wrist, as I breathlessly bought the very last tickets to the very last boat that day just minutes ahead.

Will they remember the way the birds dotted the shore and the rainbow bent in reverence in front of Niagra Falls? Will they remember the way our shoes were soaked past our socks, and the way that we arched backward to stare quietly at the cascading water? Will they remember the broken silence by happy screams, showering under heart dropping sprays from the plunging white throttles?

STOP.
Pictures from the day:

MY Cupcake Wars

2011-05-26T16:53:00.001-04:00

Do you know I love the show Cupcake Wars? I DO. And I am about to have my own WAR. The vlog is in HD, so go ahead and pop it out full screen.

No really, it was true.This was my plate.

We sat with the mother of the bride, and I told her I believed Jesus fed five thousand people with five loaves and two fish. I assured her we had enough desserts.

Okay, so I shared the plate with three other people.

Next, we stalked the photo booth. Woo wee...this is my camera man, and my Dr. Romance.

Have I mentioned today is my birthday? And that Dr. Romance is the doctor of romance for a reason. Look what he surprised me with!!!! Cupcakes from the new Mad Batter Cupcake Cafe in town!!! They just opened a few weeks ago.

No Cupcake Wars here. And YES, I shared.

Deep Breaths

2011-05-13T17:29:00.000-04:00

***

The Gypsy Mama is hosting Five Minute Friday.

Here are the rules:

Write your heart out for 5 minutes flat.

Today’s topic is Deep Breaths.

GO.

I have been a swimmer nearly all my life. I have no fear of pools or the ocean. I was raised in San Diego, with a pool in my backyard and the ocean minutes away. My parents claim the YMCA taught me to dive for rings at 14 months in three feet of water. They even have pictures.

I drew deep breaths. The air filled my lungs. The deeper I inhaled, the deeper I swam, and the longer I swam. Swimming lengths underwater was a welcome challenge in my childhood.

As a newlywed I was a certified Advanced Diver. Plunging to depths of 120 feet I relied on my regulator, all the while drawing deep calming breaths.

This all should transfer to every day life. It does not. I just ate two cookies after I realized Blogger swallowed comments from yesterday's vlog. So, if you have less than two minutes, encourage me to take more deep breaths and eat less cookies.

STOP.

***I am really upset over the deletion of some of the comments on yesterday's vlog. One was from my sister, and she never comments. A few others were from close friends that live far away. Deep breaths. Less cookies. Enjoy my vlog from yesterday. Comment if you are so led.

Quick Bathroom Confession at the Prom

2011-05-11T21:39:00.000-04:00

Maybe I Am Part Tulip Magnolia

2011-05-10T16:35:00.001-04:00

Now I understand my parents' Spring bull sessions.

Every spring for as long as forever, my parents have the same talkathon. It never changes. My mom stands her ground that my dad has spent an obscene amount of money on flowers, plants, and trees. He has. She is right. She sees in black and white, the money woman, an accountant by trade. My father sees only color, and no numbers. They are quite the pair.

Once all the life is laid in the ground of their yard, a reverence falls over new flamboyant life. The talkathon ends.

This year I missed their San Diego talkathon. But I witnessed the earth wake up in Massachusetts. Many days I wondered when Spring was our turn.

I have been pruned, cut back. I lived a six month winter.

And then one day in May, I saw the earth wake up. It was my turn for Spring. It was my turn to see emerald green life shoot from muddy brown earth.

It was my turn to see petals dust where my feet pounded.

It was my turn to see God paint the corollas on the trees. And it is not beyond me to believe He painted them for me. Certainly it is not beyond Him.

I can vouch for the blooms of the tulip magnolia trees. They do not bloom before the tree is 20 to 30 years old. Just maybe I am part tulip magnolia. Pruned first to grow, and then to bloom.

The splendor of color surrounds me. The flowers are the refrain of His song. Winters are not forever. Seasons of slumber pass, though they weigh thick. And one day the earth wakes and it is as if winter never was.

Birth. Bloom. Beauty.

Life lived loudly.

Bold. Brilliant. Blooms without hesitation.

I marvel that I am right here, right now.

Wife to my man. Mother to my three little men.

I am living.

I am breathing.

I am blooming.

I paint the Earth.

Motherhood Should Come With Matches

2011-05-06T16:54:00.000-04:00

***

The Gypsy Mama is hosting Five Minute Friday.

Here are the rules:

Write your heart out for 5 minutes flat.

Today’s topic is Motherhood Should Come With....

Write your heart out for five minutes flat.

Go.

Motherhood should come with matches that ignite flames in your heart.

Some flames flicker like birthday candles, gently, side to side, with a sense of reverence. I know these flames when I hear my children learn to pray.

Some flames are lit like a beach bonfire, a warmth that beckons laughing and friendship. Those are the moments of night time tickles and sharing desserts and riding roller coasters together.

Some flames glow like the romance of an irresistible candlelight dinner. Those are the days that I held my sleeping newborns ever long, long after I could have laid them in their cribs.

Some flames of motherhood burn with a roar of a house fire, even if they are deep within my heart, held tightly inside the pit of my stomach by pursed lips. That fire is the roar in my heart when anyone comments on the "problem with boys" and overtly apologizes for my "situation" with THREE boys. Really, I could consume them like a fire rather than listen to their rambles. They do not understand how much I love my all boy world.

STOP.

How We Unscarred Our Kids

2011-04-29T18:58:00.001-04:00

"I told you so" moments are the worst, especially when I am telling them to myself. There are times when Dr. Romance and I *GASP* make questionable decisions for our kids. Against our initial instincts, we took our children to a family funeral. They were amongst cousins their same age. And really, they behaved beautifully and were fascinated by the formality of a Catholic mass. They loved the chimes, the priests' robes, and the incense. They had never been to a Catholic church. They were impressed by so much stained glass and seemed immune to the funeral. It was as happy as a funeral can get: not many tears.

The fuzzy problem was that this was their first "death experience." For months, they asked so many questions about death and the finality of earthly existence. I worried that I had scarred them forever by taking them to a funeral.

This Easter we purposed to tell the truth about death. We celebrated the death of Jesus and his resurrection. And my eyes brimmed with tears when my Middle Man woke up and said, "Mommy, I had a dream. It was about the tomb, but I wasn't scared!" Our Easter was full of rebirth, full of life, full of celebration.

The night before Easter we made Resurrection cookies. As we added each ingredient, we took our time and explained exactly why celebrate, why we beat the pecans like Roman soldiers, why we add vinegar, salt, eggs, and finally the sweetness of the sugar. Because death is not the end for us!

And the children sealed the "tomb" or oven, with masking tape. The next morning they jumped on our bed ready to open the tomb. Inside they found their cookies, hollow, just as the women found Jesus' tomb on Easter morning.

Our day was rich with celebration and more talk of how death is not the end for us. We spoke the names and the stories of those we know we will see again. Now, I brush away the thoughts of scarring my children for life, and take confidence that we are teaching them not only about death, but about life!

And though we are in Massachusetts without family, and have lived much life away from family, we seem never alone on holidays. Friends of relatives arrived. They arrived strangers, and left our Easter table like family.

The Hard Love

2011-04-22T10:01:00.001-04:00

***

The Gypsy Mama is hosting Five Minute Friday.

Here are the rules:

Write for 5 minutes flat for pure unedited love of the written word.

Today’s topic is The Hard Love.

GO.

I am sitting in a dark hotel room and only this screen shines bright. In the dark my three children are sleeping.

I think about when it is dark and I don't shine, even when I fail, Jesus still shines. He shines despite me. This Lenten season is almost gone, and has not happened the way I planned with time, activities, and intentions of allowing Jesus to shine. I feel like I have failed. Yet he still shines.

He chooses to love me in all of my darkness. That is The Hard Love.

In my orthodox Jewish neighborhood the ladies walk in hats and overcoats. The men wear their hats as they walk to the temple. They wear their outward display of reverence for God and they celebrate Passover. They stop, they chat, they share their faith with me uninhibited. They talk of their prayers and their customs, and lifestyles in every conversation, Passover season or not. I nod, I listen, and ask questions. They share even more.

Why is it, then, so hard for me to share? I don't mean just with my neighbors. I mean, why do I over think talking about the best friend I have?

I don't reciprocate equally His love for me and He still chooses The Hard Love. To love me, to go to the cross for me.

Interrupted.

The toddler cries in the dark hotel room. "Mommy?!?" I go to him in the dark of the hotel room, and I lift him into my arms. This post ends differently now.

The Hard Love finds me. He lifts me in the dark even when I can't see.

Stop.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Surprise....Night at the Circus!

2011-04-20T17:39:00.001-04:00

I had no idea last night was going to be about the strangest circus EVER. Last night I thought I would vlog about the Jewish 1928 Craftsman I live in, in honor of Passover. But, it will have to be another night.

I am not a huge fan of any circus, namely because I think animals belong in responsible captivity or in the wild.

THERE. I said it. I am with the animal lovers. I promise.

But, this was complimentary through Dr. Romance's place of work, and we couldn't pass up costly and nearly inedible circus food. He made up for it with those frivolous light up icy razzly dazzly things I would never buy the kids. At least it was Tuesday and Dr. Romance brought a container of THOSE brownies . It just wouldn't be a Tuesday night around here without them!

We surprised our kids. They had no idea where we were going. They LOVED the circus. This was their first. And, YES, my kids rode an elephant. They have been dying to ride an elephant since the Hubs rode one in Thailand. So we indulged them. For the record, I have ridden an elephant, too, but it was in San Diego. I have no idea how these elephants are treated, but the trainer seemed very loving. We stayed until the end....long enough for my boys to consider being shot from a cannon.

Because God Can Use Even the Tooth Fairy Drama

2011-04-18T20:49:00.001-04:00

Before I was pregnant with our first child Dr. Romance and I agreed not to lie to our children about such characters as the tooth fairy. We have not taught our kids to believe they exist. However, because they choose to believe in the tooth fairy, we choose to play along. So when Son1 asked Dr. Romance if the tooth fairy is real just before he lost his first tooth, Hubs told him she was not real. He looked his daddy square in the eye and announced she WAS real and that he believed. We play along with make believe superheroes, war games, and police officers, so the tooth fairy is no different to us. I know it sounds duplicitous and ridiculous. But it works for us.

When Son1 lost his first tooth Dr. Romance handed him a sandwich sized zip baggie to stash his tooth. Except my little man boldly insisted the tooth fairy could not possibly open or carry this baggie. He did not listen when we told him this baggie worked. So he cut a tiny triangle from a corner of the baggie to make a teeny tiny bag for his bony appendage. And then, he lost his tooth. We sent out an all points bulletin and the boys, Dr. Romance, and I searched high and low for this tooth, just shy of an hour. Dr. Romance called a 5 minute warning for a cease search. Watching my son's red eyes spill with tears, I grabbed our family into a circle and suggested we pray we find the missing tooth. I said a silent prayer first, asking God to show mercy and help us find the tooth, so I could model praying aloud for God's help, asking that despite my son's disobedience we were asking for a show of love.

I am telling you the absolute that Dr. Romance shot me a frustrated look when I asked that we pray for a tooth. So I squeezed my eyes shut quickly and just prayed from my heart. I opened my eyes, took one step, and I kicked something under my foot and we all shouted and hooped and hollered for the found tooth. And we praised God for that tooth.

A few days later, Son1 lost his second tooth. *Sigh* Same song, second verse. After much discussion we duct taped an envelope that guarded his lost tooth, shoved it into a plastic baggie, and zipped it closed. We told him not to open it under any circumstances. He said he was not going to open it. But pleasing the tooth fairy brought him to disobey us. More tears on his part. More frustration on ours.

We honestly could have shattered the tooth fairy right there. We could have called her out. But we chose once again to bring our son's disobedience to God, because God can use even the tooth fairy drama for his good. Because my heart is actively engaged in prayer for my sons through these 21 days, the way I treat their disobedience is different. I am turning away from my usual anger and impatience.

Son1 asked for forgiveness. I prayed aloud with him. I prayed that he would trust God and be faithful with his word and actions. I asked God that he would learn to trust his parents, as we have only his best at heart.

And so, over a crumpled envelope and a tear stained pillow, a heaving little boy went to sleep. And I walked down the stairs reflecting how much I love him, and how important praying for him and with him matters.

Distance

2011-04-15T14:43:00.003-04:00

***

The Gypsy Mama is hosting Five Minute Friday.

Here are the rules:

Write for 5 minutes flat for pure unedited love of the written word.

Today’s topic is Distance.

GO.

A couple of weeks ago I unfolded the huge map of the United States and spread it across the floor of my 1928 craftsman in Massachussetts, just as I had spread it across 2005 cold tiles in my California home almost a year ago.

I cannot measure distance the same way as my hubs, on an iPad or laptop. I need to feel the map between my fingers and see the cross sections of states in one whole picture. I cannot solely rely on the GPS in my car. This is odd to my man, but still he allows me to generally plan the route.

This summer we will once again travel three thousand miles across the country with 3 small children in tow. We will speak volumes across distance, we will grow our family ties across distance, and we will see a whole new route than when we left last July.

The distance will grow us. I don't know how, but I know it. The journey will mark part of our summer, of wild stories, adventures, and probably mishaps. We will see more than the stretches of highways.

STOP.

That was 5 minutes, except for formatting and uploading the photo!

SECRET Guilty Pleasure....SHHH!!!!

2011-04-13T11:27:00.000-04:00

I can only imagine what you might think NOW that I am sharing this with you! It is the TRUTH behind my secret guilty pleasure!

If You Met Me

2011-04-09T01:49:00.001-04:00

***
The Gypsy Mama is hosting Five Minute Friday.

Here are the rules:
We just write. For five minutes flat.

Today’s topic is “If You Met Me”

GO.

If you met me, you would know I have a wildly crazy side. I REALLY met this guy in an elevator in 1996, and I REALLY married him 21 months later on the Fourth of July, just so we could have our own fireworks for every anniversary. REALLY.

You might probably ask me if we tried for a girl when you saw my tribe of boys. And I would sit you down and tell you all of the reasons I wanted three kids. It never occurred to me whether I might want a boy or a girl when I saw two lines on a pregnancy test.

You would know how much I love the beach. I grew up in San Diego, left for college to Los Angeles, where I roller bladed on Santa Monica and Venice Beaches on the weekends. After Dr. Romance and I were married, we eventually moved to Hawaii for 4 years, and back to San Diego for 18 months, with a stop in Virginia and Massachusetts on either side.

You would know that I love to play cards...Hearts, Pinochle, and Spades. And yes, I am wildly competitive.

I love moments. I love experiences. I love people. They matter to me more than all of the money in the world.

STOP.

That was five minutes flat, except for uploading photos and formatting.

Warrior Prayers

2011-04-08T17:06:00.000-04:00

Last Friday I printed my copy of Warrior Prayers and bound it at an office supply store. I have ran my hand down the bound pages, through ten prayers, three times each, every single day.

I have prayed ten different prayers for six days for each of my three little boys. I have prayed 180 different prayers. I have inserted their three names, for my three babies I cradled in three hospitals in three states. A week ago, before we began, I thought I could measure my love for them. I thought I knew how much I loved them, how much I want them to be spiritual leaders of their homes, of how I have dreamed for their future wives and their children, and how much I hoped for their future education and leadership. And then I started this prayer challenge.

Everything I have intentionally, and so carefully planned for nearly seven years, diminishes in the shadows of this week of prayer. All of the ways I researched baby products, interviewed pediatricians, and toured schools, in the name of giving the very best to my sons, cannot begin to measure how much I care for them when I am in prayer for them. I have sat and taken notes from mentor mothers on effective behavior, established routines, and well mannered children. I have read specific books on parenting boys. I have prayed very specific, yet very predictable prayers, over them. Dr. Romance and I have intentionally shared teachable moments with our sons. And still, I realize we only scratched the surface.

This week I am changing. I am listening more.
Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks. (Matt 12:34)
I am listening to what they are saying, what they are speaking, what they are thinking out loud.

I am slower to speak, slower to discipline, and more rapid to pray. I am still processing that I have prayed for them, each one, 60 different ways.

No Rain, No Rainbows

2011-04-01T14:54:00.000-04:00

***
The Gypsy Mama is hosting Five Minute Friday.

Here are the rules:
We just write. For five minutes flat.

Today’s topic is “A Few of my Favorite Things”

GO.
A few of my favorite things are Diet Coke over large ice cubes, warm triple chocolate brownies, and living within minutes of the ocean. I don't anymore, but I have for 29 years of my life.

I also love words that tingle my senses.

I have vivid childhood memories of staring curiously at the little girl on the Morton's salt can. I read the slogan over and over, "When it rans, it pours." I loved reading the rounded cursive letters long before I ever learned to write my own loopy letters.

I marveled at those overlong raindrops. I believed that somewhere rain like that existed. Of course, rain like that existed somewhere other than my hometown of San Diego. I dreamt of living someplace where it poured. When it rains in San Diego, it does nor pour. And if it does rain a bit, the raindrops never look like those. But I itched to have a great big umbrella like hers and skip through puddles in galoshes.

What a joke. I am the girl on the Morton's can. I only carry a king sized umbrella when it rains. I don't like to be wet and feel my clothes stick to my skin.

I do not like rain. When we lived in Hawaii I found a new slogan I loved.

"No rain, no rainbows."

It is so much more beautiful a saying than anything about pouring rain.

For St. Patrick's Day I made these muffins. They did not turn out like the ones on the recipe. They were not supposed to look like tie dyed muffins.

But then I topped them off with vanilla icing for "fluffy clouds" and split them down the middle.

I remembered, "No rain, no rainbows."

STOP

Other than the time it took me to upload pictures and format, the writing was five minutes flat!

FOUR!

2011-03-30T06:00:00.002-04:00

I looked for one picture all day. Dr. Romance found it buried in 2007. It is a picture I never imagined I would publish here. I was afraid of everything the doctors told me for over a year about my four month old baby.

It is the picture of Son2 sedated, hooked up to many wires, monitored in a hospital after the first seizures that lasted 4 months. I met with a specialist doctor every few months, for over a year. She frightened me with all of her "possibilities."

In my hunt for the picture, I found others from the years we lived in Hawaii:

First time on the Big Island

At the top of Haleakala Crater in Maui

He stood up on this boogie board unprompted. I caught it on camera.

Our last night in Hawaii, trying to convince Son 2 to lose the pacifier at Roy's.

I saved that picture of Son2 and the wires. I would look at in now and then on my computer with a heavy heart. I remember the first years of caution, of prayers, and tears in Hawaii. Those were moments I shared with only Dr. Romance. I did not want to think of "possibilities."

When Son2 turned 2 we had just moved to California. His pediatrician told me there were no symptoms. I waited breathlessly for his third birthday. No signs.

And then he turned 4.

I realized that all the fears that once gripped me,
the uncertainties of what Is Not At All,
are No Where to be Found.

He is FOUR!
He speaks well beyond his years.
He befriended a professor who asked him if he was 20.
He runs and jumps and pretends he is Buzz Lightyear or Woody.
His new pediatrician noted he is the most active of my boys.

He is healthy and bright.
He is full of good POSSIBILITY.

We celebrated FOUR with a private showing of Toy Story 3 in a vintage movie theater including his friends.
We celebrated with Grandma flying in from Arizona. This is in the movie theater before the guests arrived.

We celebrated at preschool when I read his favorite book to the class, and when we made hamburger puppets.

We celebrated Again and Again at a restaurant with cloth napkins and fancy desserts.

And it resonates with me that we celebrated his LIFE.
We celebrated Living.
We celebrated precious, precious breaths....measured breaths.
We counted them, four years long.
We numbered good Grace.
And we gave thanks for his LIFE.

Waking Up

2011-03-25T16:21:00.003-04:00

***
The Gypsy Mama is hosting Five Minute Friday.

Here are the rules:
We just write. For five minutes flat.

Today’s topic is “Waking Up”

GO.

Waking Up

I open my heavy eyes and see sweet daylight. I am stiff in this rented bed in the rented house. I am not well rested. I do not wake up in a luxurious bed anymore. But I would make this decision to live right here again and again, "to live in a hut in Africa" with my groom. One day soon, I will have a bed I call my own. Now it is not too hard to jump out of the bed.

I always look to my left, and inspect him lying there, wondering what he is dreaming. My feet hit the ground and I race to start the morning before my three little live wires.

Now we five are all awake. The house is alive again, each of us following the morning routine. This rousing of the day together each morning is precious. It is time well spent together.

Just over an hour later I am walking the eldest to school. I look at him sideways and I see chocolate streaks swiping each of his cheeks. I take my thumbs and rub those grinning cheeks.

He knows I know. He dove right into those Stadium Brownies on his way out the door. And joy fills my heart because I have rubbed those cheeks clean this morning.

STOP.

Wild Turkeys Couldn't Hold Me Down to Sleep

2011-03-16T17:59:00.000-04:00

I am not made for long, cold, dark days. I live for Spring, Summer, and Indian summers. I kept telling Dr. Romance to just wait for March 13. I eyed the date like my own Christmas morning, like gifts under a golden sun. He just sighed every time I reminded him about March 13. But the March 13s of my life have been counted, even under different dates. With joy I went to bed, waiting for the morning. And still, I thought I might sleep in. But there was no sleeping in on March 13.

I thought I heard barking. Then I thought someone was sawing with machinery. I eyed the clock in the 6:00 hour and then Son1 lept on top of me. "Mommy, COME QUICK! There is an old fashioned kind of turkey on our front lawn!!!"

There was no barking of sawing. I heard GOBBLING. I heard GOBBLING in March. This borders on a phenomenon for our family. We live 15 minutes outside of Boston, and GOBBLING is not an every day thing around these parts. I am a city girl from San Diego. I graduated college in congested Los Angeles. I worked for many years outside of Washington, D.C. I thought I lived in the jungle when we lived within minutes from Honolulu. So my ideas about wild life are a bit skewed.

I threw on a fleece and some boots over my pajamas and hustled for the camera. And on March 13, what I told my Dr. Romance would happen, HAPPENED.

God sent the Spring.
He did not forget me in Winter.
And as His showpiece,
As a trumpet of GOBBLES
He sent me a flock of turkeys on March 13,
Straight to MY front lawn.

I looked up. I gave thanks, and I saw Him there in the blue wonder.

Right about this time of year the earth starts to tilt on its axis. Surprisingly the Northern Hemisphere moves farthest from the sun. But the tilt this time of year calls on Spring. I have marked the Spring by turning the hands of the clock forward one hour since I was in elementary school. Now, the clock is set in motion and the days of sun are longer, and my mood is finally lighter for months and months and months.

I am made for Spring and for Spring forward. I was born under the sun one day in late May.

I heard knocking behind me. I turned to see two boys rubbernecking me in the window. They spied their mama on a turkey hunt. They saw me hunting, but did they see me tickled by the smallest of miracles? These wild turkey were my blessing. I named them mine. I counted them mine. I am choosing to see the good, the very, very, very good, of being shaken out of my sleep at six in the morning. This, the only morning of 2011 I will lose an hour I will never, ever get back, and I want to see the joy. Will they see joy on mornings when they are shaken in much more major ways?

I was not sure the camera setting was correct. I flagged those boys to get my Dr. Romance. Down the steps of the 1928 Craftsman he came, joining me in this hunt. He captured most all of the wild turkey photos, even that big fat one above.

He even found a few turkey hunters.

He Speaks Superhero

2011-03-11T10:17:00.012-05:00

***
The Gypsy Mama is hosting Five Minute Friday.

Here are the rules:
We just write. For five minutes flat.

Today’s topic is “I feel the most loved when…”

I hung up the phone rather curtly after I said I love you. I whipped my minivan around the corner, my heart racing, for the last spot in the entire parking lot. Pulling in between those two white lines my soul felt I had just crossed a finish line, outsmarting the luxury vehicle in front of me. I pulled the keys from the ignition, grabbed the stroller already set up, and pounced it on the pavement. It is hard to move three active boys in snow gear, each hauling a backpack, up a long side walk to the front doors.

I was questioned at the front desk about our final destination. Frustrating to be stopped in a hurry. Why couldn't she be efficient as me? Did she not see my son in a swimming cap? Fast and furious we sped past her, sprinting for an elevator that was stuck. So I threw the door open to the stairs, and sent the older two corraling down the flight. I urged the eldest to undress his brother at the pool deck, while I dragged the stroller backward down an entire flight of stairs.

In the lobby of the pool deck, I finished flying the clothes off my son, down to his swim trunks. Swim lessons in Massachusetts at night with three kids in the dead of Winter? What was I thinking?

Finally. He was in the pool just as the lessons began. I relaxed. I wasn't running anymore. Now, just to manage the wriggling toddler and the chatty first grader, and hold a conversation with the interested mother next to me.

And then I saw him. My heart stopped, and then it sung. Straight from the airport, straight from his delayed flight, in just an oxford shirt, sans winter coat. I announced to the entire pool lobby, "I have just been rescued!!"

I feel most loved when he speaks his love language to me, not mine. Forgetting my sharp goodbye in the parking lot, he came straight to the poolside to lend me his hands. He said not a word, and lifted the wriggling baby from my lap and held him in his arms as he watched the swimming son through the window. Despite my frazzled, broken communication, he showed up.

STOP.

Rescue Mission: Half Birthday Cake

2011-03-09T18:00:00.000-05:00

I don't want to disappoint any of you that are new around here. I know I have been blogging a lot lately about food. But I would hardly classify myself as a foodie. It has been freezing in Massachusetts for about a hundred years, and this winter has nearly lasted a millenium. So I have had my oven on a lot!

But there are times my baking becomes a rescue mission. Case in point, this cake.

You know you are foodie if you can tell what happened already. But first, you have to know how this all started. This cake is at least six years in the making. Well, maybe even longer if you count back to my childhood.

Without fail, my mom always made my birthday cakes. She always made my favorite chocolate cake made from meringues. Think deep chocolate, and then dream more chocolate, and trust me, you still haven't daydreamed enough chocolate. I always imagined myself baking my kids' birthday cakes one day, from the days I had an Easy Bake oven. It's the thing about being a girl....about planning out every detail of how to live your life. I imagined baking birthday cakes up until the months before our kids' birthdays. I had romantic ideas of taking cake making and cake decorating classes like my mom, and baking picture perfect cakes that people oohed and ahhhed over.

The truth is, I have been a mom for 6.5 years and I have never, ever made any of my three kids their birthday cakes.

Confession: I have bought every single one of their cakes for under $20 at my favorite giant wharehouse where I hold a membership. And I have major Mommy guilt about that.

At least I tell the warehouse bakery to leave the cakes white, and blank, apart from Happy Birthday and the kid's name. Then I buy and top the white frosted cake with some impressive large brand new toys, in the kid's party theme, and people ooh and ahh. But they are not actually oohing for the cake. They probably just don't know anyone else that builds toys on top of cakes but me. And plastic toys on top of frosted white cakes does not erase my mommy guilt around homemade cakes.

Recently, my eldest came home from school asking about his Half Birthday, like it was an obvious and recurring event in our home. He asked, and he asked, and he asked some more. I dismissed his questions, hoping he would forget. I knew that if we celebrated his Half Birthday this year, that it would become an undying Farmer family tradition for the next 16+ years, you know, until my youngest turns 18. I may tend to be fatalistic and dramatic about such decisions.

I remembered that a friend makes half a cake for her children's half birthdays. If I was going down this road of Half Birthday family tradition it required me baking and creating the cake myself. In my mind, there was no alternative.

I baked a vanilla cake, Son1's favorite. I cut it in half, and anointed the cake with a rich cream cheese frosting recipe, courtesy of Paula Deen. Then I donned the cake with strawberries. It drives me nuts to eat cakes layered with fresh fruit, and have my dessert be reduced to a sliver of fruit I need glasses to find. So my cake was punchy with strawberries, for sure. I tried to crown the cake with the second vanilla half, over the punchy strawberries, but the crown slid off. I had a solution for that. I shellacked the strawberries with more cream cheese frosting, only to throw myself into a fit of laughter as they slid around. I then crowned the cake with the second vanilla layer and watched punchy strawberries squeeze out the sides of the cake. I shoved them back into the cake and held the crowning vanilla layer down with two wooden skewers. This cake was not about to escape my grip.

I will never again wonder why fresh fruit cakes are served with slivers of fruit rather than punchy layers. You may want to take a moment and scroll back up to the picture of the cake. Go ahead, I'll wait.

Now, Son1 is in a deep soldier phase. He is in love with all things soldier. Watching Toy Story 3 only enhanced this love. I knew without a doubt I was making a soldier cake. I pondered fondant and fanciness, but I am glad after the sliding strawberries I stuck to my dirt plan. I threw an army full of oreos into the Vitamix for the cake.

I should make one more confession. I have never, ever, eaten anything with crumbled Oreos. You know those things like dirt cakes, or cemetery cakes served around Halloween with crushed Oreos? I have always passed on those desserts. The thought of eating dirt, or gummy worms buried in crushed Oreos places an undue stress on me. GROSS. So this was an absolute stretch for me to coat this cake with Oreo crumbs.

The cake was a complete surprise for Son1. He had no idea that I remembered his half birthday with a half cake, let alone a soldier cake. So after a dinner of his favorite, tacos, the Farmer family ate a ridiculous lot of this entire cake. If I have ever doubted crumbled Oreos, this strawberry cake with cream cheese frosting has made me a believer.

But most importantly, here is what I will take away from this first Half Birthday celebration in our home. Son1 jumped up and down, hugged me, thanked me, and said this.

"Thank you, Mommy!! I LOVE it!! And this is my very first cake you have ever made me!!"

I have never, ever mentioned my mommy guilt over not making my kids birthday cakes, ever to them. But just when I thought baking a birthday cake was important to just me, I realized I was wrong. I asked him if ever minded that I bought his cake. No, it did not matter to him. But he really did love this cake. That was enough to make this homemade Half Birthday cake tradition stick around here!!

Winter Interrupted

2011-03-08T11:29:00.000-05:00

I want my boys to believe me, to take me at my word, to hedge their bets that I am telling the truth. It is painful to hear my sons ache, to long for other days. I am surprised at how this New England cold with its sinking teeth has bothered them. As a boy mom I mistakenly thought they would brush off the bitter cold.

This Massachusetts winter has been brutal. It has been record long, record cold, and brimming with snow. This meteorologists say this winter has been unlike any other winter in years. When the snow falls my boys forgive the temperatures, throwing on snow boots, jumping into snow pants, finding lost snow gloves. But for the days when the mercury barely creeps past the numbers the weather has been wild.

This is all new for them. They are spoiled to only remember warm childhood days lived in Hawaii and California. My boys are used to sweatshirts when the temperatures dip below 70. But every day for three months they have packed snow pants, snow gloves, and snow boots shoved deep into a bulging bag slung next to their backpacks. My heart hurt the most for them one -25 degree school day.

A few weeks ago the eldest shed tears for San Diego winters. When will the cold stop? His otherwise olive skin is chalk white and dry. His hands show chapping from the days he chose not to wear the gloves. I pulled him close as we stared out the window from the second floor, protected from single digit temperatures. We stood staring down at the snow hedge at least 100 feet long. I want you to remember this, I told him, as I pulled back the curtain. We stared down at birds perched on a six foot towering wall of snow that ran like a sterile hospital corridor between our house and the next.I told him that God had not forgotten the little birds in winter. Even in this deep snow He sees them, and He provides their food. How He cares even more for us, and how He knows we need spring to come quickly.

Wow, I want him to remember the metaphor, and not just the literal example. I can't impress that upon his six year old mind. All I can bank on is that he will remember the day we stood at the window, when it seemed there was no hope for spring to show up in Massachusetts. I want him to remember that God sends the spring even when we feel in the dead of winter. He doesn't forget the seasons. He holds time.

Just the other day the snow fell and I could not find him anywhere. I peeked outside, and there he was, eager to live in this season. He forgot the temperature, he forgot his snow gloves, again. But he lived this season, pinching the sleeve of his jacket, scraping the snow.

And just a couple of days later, when there seemed no end to winter, the Author of the Seasons sent a day in the mid 40s for the first time in months. The snow melted. The jackets were left inside, and my boots were borrowed.

I caught the birds singing. Their melodies were loud and echoed around the neighborhood.

The squirrels appeared out of thin air, flying from branch to branch, chasing one another like a game of boys chase girls in the school yard.

So we celebrated the vanishing snow with melting snowmen. We spread the dissolving snow on the cookies, squished those sinking snowmen down, and laughed as we imagined their sadness.

And the big boys hands, the ones that scraped the snow with chapped fingers, happily danced in that pretend vanished snow.

Story Telling

2011-03-04T11:37:00.000-05:00

A friend from another time and another place lives here. Her two boys and my older two boys have birthdays within weeks of each other. Once there were four boys between us.

I knew when I watched her at the back of the lanes.
She talked to my baby as he begged for a bowling ball.
It was time for story telling. She has told hers. I needed to tell mine.

I was absolutely uncomfortable. It would have been easiest not to share.

I needed to tell her that I know what it is to long for a third baby.
I needed to tell her that three years ago I wished I was pregnant as I watched her growing belly.
I needed to say that I know what it feels to ask God why life twists and turns to end up in knots.
I spoke her baby girl's name, the one in heaven.

I almost did not share. She would have been just fine had I remained quiet.
But I shared. I told a story different from hers, but still one of longing.
I told her about life in the desert, and finally about life in the green valley.
I told her about untamed joy with our third child, our beautiful son.
I spoke of a full heart, of no more longing.

Twenty four hours lived, and stories are written on every one of us.
Twenty four hours later will we remember how God worked in us, yesterday?
Will we share yesterday's story, and the next one, and the next one?
We are not the sum of just one story, but many stories.

What will it cost to be exposed?
Is the risk worth the return?
All of these stories different, yet each point to the hand of God.

Banana Macadamia Nut Muffins

2011-02-23T03:30:00.000-05:00

Recipe courtesy of Bon Apetit Magazine at the end of this post.

We are moving soon. Moving again sends me spiraling. When I start to let the "I Cant's" creep into my mind, I remind myself that "I Can" and that "I Have." I remember moves past. I remember the things that were easy, and the things that were awful. And I remember God's hand in it all. It is the only way I keep bright in the foreground and bitter in the backdrop. And, on Sunday, the Banana Macadamia Nut muffins were more than muffins. They reminded me of a move to Hawaii made with apprehension with rewards of many blessings. I needed to be reminded.

It helped that our baby has suddenly, without notice, ended a banana breakfast ritual. He recently declared a banana strike. That is how I ended up with plenty of ripe bananas. It was also the end of just effortlessly preparing half of his breakfast. Truly this was a momentary grumbling point. I am over it now.

Following the Bon Appetit Magazine recipe, I mashed 3 bananas. My bananas were not smooth like baby food puree. They had a bit of chunkiness to them. The recipe called for all things to be mixed by hand, so I assumed this was sufficient.

And when I added the sugars, eggs, and melted butter to the 3 bananas, I knew the reviews that declared these to be moist muffins were dead accurate.

Then I hand blended the wet ingredients I cannot even begin to express how appetizing bananas blended with sugars and pooled with melted butter and vanilla smells. Oh.My.Word. This was my favorite moment preparing the ingredients right here. The lumpiness of the bananas turned a bit smoother.

I did not chop the macadamia nuts very finely. I don't like digging for nuts when a recipe calls for them. I like them to be robust and present. The nuts on the right have not been chopped. The group on the left was the final result.

I toasted the macadamia nuts and chopped them before placing them in the batter. I almost did not toast them. It seemed silly if I they were going to bake in the oven anyway. But was I wrong! If you have ever wafted the smell of toasted macadamia nuts....oh heaven! Oh how I missed living in Hawaii when I pulled these out of the toaster oven.

I reserved the last of the nuts to top the batter. I may or may not have been a bit giddy at this point! The rich smell of the batter with the heaven of those toasted nuts...I almost did not want to part with the batter because I may have tasted it a time or two.

Finally, after 25 minutes I opened my oven and my family came running!

Banana Macadamia Nut Muffins
Courtesy Bon Apetit Magazine

Ingredients:

1 1/2 cups unbleached all purpose flour
1 1/2 teaspoons baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/8 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1 1/4 cups mashed ripe bananas (about 3 large)
1/2 cup sugar
1/4 cup firmly packed dark brown sugar
1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, melted
1/4 cup milk
1 large egg
1 cup unsalted macadamia nuts, toasted, chopped

Preparation:

Preheat oven to 350°F. Grease twelve muffin cups or line with muffin papers. Sift first 4 ingredients into large bowl. Combine bananas, both sugars, butter, milk and egg in medium bowl. Mix into dry ingredients. Fold in half of nuts. Divide batter among prepared muffin cups. Sprinkle tops of muffins with remaining macadamia nuts. Bake until muffins are golden brown and tester inserted into center comes out clean, about 25 minutes. Transfer muffins to rack and cool.

Confessions Before the Contribution

2011-02-21T08:43:00.001-05:00

Today I posted this also at Half-Baked Beauties.

When Half-Baked Beauties evolved, I was a new mom for the third time. My baby was just a few weeks old, born in September 2009 in San Diego. At the time, I longed for old friends, the walking kind of friends to be present in my life, as I had with my eldest in Virginia, and my middle son in Hawaii. But while I had family in California, I did not really have friends with whom Dr. Romance and I had a Together History. I was lamenting this just before B. dropped me an email to join this blog.

I could not keep up with every formula in the book. I was potty training a toddler, breastfeeding a newborn, settling into a new home after a move, and my eldest started Kindergarten. For the times I felt constrained to my house because of all of my mommy duties, I never missed any of your posts. I knew many of you in real life, and some of you I just knew as friends of friends. But during the months that people contributed here, I felt like I was connecting with old friends. And to be real, I was not constrained to my house. I had just started attending two small groups through church, in addition to the breastfeeding, potty training, house adjusting, and starting kindergarten.

And now our family is yet again in a time of transition. In the summer of 2010 we drove cross country to Massachusetts. My Dr. Romance has a one year assignment here. We anticipate our next move, yet to be announced, in the summer of 2011 to a new city, and a new home.

I have died little deaths with our moves. My attitude has always been, and will always be, I will go where you go, I will live in a hut in Africa. Still, I die little deaths of things that will never be. I keep them to myself. I dare not share them with my children, because I know my attitude sets the tone for our home. So I struggle with this whole concept of "home" and what my children will remember about "home." I die the death that they will not live in "the house they grew up in," that they will not have a neighborhood kid that has been their best friend since they were five, and on and on the list goes in my head. You can imagine.

I cannot say I do not like to move. I cannot say I love it. But I cannot say I mind. We have lived in amazing places over the course of our marriage. My kids have had some amazing life experiences, for their small ages of 6, 3, and 1. I could tell you all about them, but it might sound a a bit puffed up. Just know I am telling the truth.

So how then, do I build a home, when this whole idea of home is so transient and somewhat unpredictable for us? This book has gotten me to ponder such thoughts.

When I reflect on my own childhood, on the moments that were celebrated, on the memories I conjure up when I remember "home," I do not think back to a specific friend. I do not think of the house I grew up in, or that I lived in the same town from birth until I left for college. I remember long dinner discussions about days at school. I remember several side dishes to a rich meal. I remember my parents making albondiga soup. I remember burn marks on wooden spoons that stirred the avocado green skillet and vegetables chopped on the built-into-the-counter wooden cutting board. I remember my mother's moist chocolate cakes and oatmeal raisin cookies. I remember spring coming, and my dad in the back yard shaping our trees with his shears, and my mom sending me out to announce dinner was ready. I remember brownies made from scratch, and lasagna layered with love.

My kids are struggling with this concept of "home." Yes, we still own our home in San Diego. Yes it is ours but people are renting it, and yes, they are paying us to borrow it. No, we cannot swim in the pool in the backyard when we are home for Christmas vacation. Yes, it is still ours. Yes, when I say we are going "home" from Costco I mean the house we are renting in Massachusetts. No, you cannot jump on the couches because this is not our "home."

So how then, do I build a home for them?

Our now rented home in San Diego is large with multiple eating areas. Often my kids ate meals at the over sized island, longer than most dinner tables. This was mostly for my own need to multitask while they ate. But when we moved to Massachusetts, our 1928 Craftsman home only has one area for dining. This house is not even half the square feet of my home in California. But this new dining area has forced us to eat with one and only one option. We must all eat together staring into each other's eyeballs. It is a beautiful thing. I will never let my kids eat at a granite over sized island again. Well, so I say...

Building our family "home" when home is transient

This book I am reading now talks about Jesus and his thanksgiving at the Last Supper. But what strikes me is that there was a Last "Supper." There was a meal. Jesus knew time was short before he was betrayed. The next day he would go to the cross. He did not sit the disciples at an over sized center island, multitasking his last 24 hours. He sat with his friends intimately, around a table. He looked into their eyes. He dined with them. He spoke with them. He encouraged them. He shared his concerns, his heart, his expectations. There was safety around that meal.

This was my childhood "home." We sat around a dinner table many nights up until I left for college. It is the home I want for my sons. It is what I can give them right now. Together, Dr. Romance and I are demonstrating love, of listening to narratives of the day's events, and breathing safety around a dinner table. We talk about days gone by of babies, now years ago, of bite sized miracles and fountains of blessings in our every days. Everyone is there, all five of us, doing the very same things together. We are talking, laughing, giving thanks, and identifying blessings. We speak of important decisions, we ask questions, we make plans. We raise eyebrows, speak our minds, and offer apologies.

Our "home," with meals here as the back drop for what is not transient, what is constant, what I will carry with me from this edifice into the next. Because those edifices are not "homes" on their own.

These thoughts motivated me to rise early yesterday and bake Banana Macadamia Nut muffins. I was remembering life on Oahu. I remembered how much I felt at home there. I was so caught up in the muffins, I had not even thought what else I would serve for breakfast. So in a rush job before church, I threw together mushroom and shrimp omelets after baking the muffins, and preparing my sugar cookie dough (another project). I had pre-sliced the mushrooms a few nights before, and the cilantro lime shrimp was from Costco. I served the plates and I shook my head because I had not thought through the pairing of my banana nut muffins and cilantro lime shrimp omelets. It was not exactly right. It was not perfect. But I am imperfect. And maybe my family knows that all too well. Regardless, my family was blessed. They loved it all around the breakfast table.

So now that I have confessed how I could not keep up as a contributor here, come back anyway and I will post my Banana Macadamia Nut muffin experience. I hope other contributors come back, too with their own recipes.

The Back Seat Winner

2011-02-18T17:21:00.000-05:00

The Hubs and I have won at many things. We are winners.

But there was a chance our son might lose, that he might not be a winner this year. He has won twice in two prior states in the Awana Grand Prix. We prepped him the whole way to the race, just in case. We made our claims of love for him, of our joy that he is our son. He was so quiet, his six year old head pressed into the gray leather headrest. We repeated ourselves a few times. Still just a quiet "uh-huh" from the rear of the minivan, barely heard over his two younger brothers between us.

We arrived at the competition and trailed the family to the basement. Dr. Romance was armed with his paparazzi camera. (I will have to take a picture of his telephoto monstrosity for you.) Definitely we arrived in a basement of winners. We packed in with 100 other tense folks. Some stood poised with axle lube and babied their cars. Others buzzed around adding weights. Dr. Romance and I gave each other a glance with raised eyebrows. These folks were intense for sure. I looked away quickly, too nervous to read his eyes.

But our sweet son, our first born, our first born just as I am first born, just as Dr. Romance is first born,

yet so unlike us in so many ways,

had no pit in his stomach. We are strong waves. He is a calm ocean. He unpacked his car quietly, unshaken by the table judges, and the hovering helicopter adults in the room. He is so unassuming, so compliant. He yielded his car to be judged for design. He knew that his design was simple. He did not expect that trophy, amongst the princess slipper, iPod, or Wii remote .

He was battling for speed, battling in the most demure and reserved way.

He lined up his car on the track. He was chosen for the first heat, where he would race four times, once in each lane.

He lined up his car 41 inches in the air, somewhere around his first grade chin.

Thirty feet straight down the race track, his yellow bullet clearly smoked the pack. But just two inches shy of the finish line, his car toppled to the side. It did not cross the finish line. It did not count. He received no score. A piece of tape that cradled a shiny quarter to the underbelly of his car started to drag, started to uncurl, and toppled the car. Though Son1 attempted to blow dry the glued quarter that would exactly weight his car to the five ounce limit, it did not dry. Thus the tape.

The entire crowd AHHHHHED when his car shot out from the pack.There was no competition. A horrified 100 voices ohhhhhed when the yellow cannonball of a car fell off the red track.

And our first grader retrieved his car with no reaction, no readable emotion, and ambled thirty feet back to the ramp that measured just to his chin. Dr. Romance checked the car once over, and handed it back to Son1.

He continued his task, not phased by the hundred onlookers. That is him, every single day.

(Those hairy arms belong to a supervising adult, not to our family.)

And he watched only his car. He watched it complete three more lanes of competition. And he was done. We now waited for all of the other heats of cars in his division to finish their races. We were unsure he would advance to the semi-finals.

Dr. Romance and I sat back. We watched the over-lubrication of cars, the legal tinkering of weight, the balancing of wheels. We analyzed the competition. We repeated to one another that we were proud of him, that he is a winner. And yes, we ran the numbers and the averages on his competition, trying to predict his fate. We are math people.

The semi-finals were announced. He made it! I was squealing a high school squeal as silently as I could. I jumped up and down with my feet firmly planted on the ground, eyeing my oblivious 17 month old. I faked my disinterest to those hundred voices. But there is a proud 3 year old sports caster that let all onlookers know his brother advanced to the semi-finals, and finally to the Final Four.

And though his yellow car blew past all cars in every heat, he offered humility. Before the awards ceremony we knew he was a winner, but we had known that before we left the house.

And when his name was called, and when he collected his trophy, he made no noise.

On Measuring Valentine's Day

2011-02-17T11:27:00.001-05:00

I wonder how to measure a complete and successful Valentine's Day. How do you measure if it was good enough?

Before the babies came, Valentine's Day was measured at work. Who had the long stem roses delivered? Who had the fanciest dinner reservations? Who had the most booty and swag, and the largest and most balloons? That was how love was measured.

Now I have three boys and I am home on Valentine's Day. For the last three years we celebrated around a meal with an arsenal of boy-rated fancies, and boy-themed cards, and boy-inclined shiny-s and large over done red plunder. It was a sight to see. But not this year. Dr. Romance had a night class that canceled a fancy family dinner. Instead, we settled for a quick breakfast meal. Mornings already are rushed with Dr. Romance heading to Harvard, and the two older boys heading to two different schools. So that old Valentine's measuring stick came out. I wondered if this mama's Valentine's Day was good enough.

I wondered as I packed heart shaped lunch sandwiches. I wondered as I set out paper packaged dinosaur heart plates for breakfast. I wondered as I cut hearts from frozen waffles. A guilt wave surged over such a hasty breakfast. Frozen waffles seemed so common.

I stopped wondering when I pulled out the whipped cream, because whipped cream makes you forget all kinds of stuff. And my love, Dr. Romance, presented me secret sophisticated strawberry sauce he bought in California for such a time as this. We drew initials on the waffles, because every superhero loves his initial monogrammed on everything, like the big S for Superman. And the two of us working together, assembling three boys' waffle plates, could not be measured.

I giggled when Dr. Romance handed me my breakfast plate. He was cooking behind me. I don't know how to measure a man that presses Wilton cutters over my cheesy eggs.

We gathered the baby's plate. He did not measure himself as leftovers.

I don't know why I worry. Those boys measured breakfast as special. They measured with laughter. To them, I was good enough. I gathered the plates, and the eldest wandered into the kitchen. "Close your eyes, Mommy. We have a surprise for youuuuuuuu!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I closed my eyes, fully expecting a Valentine's card, stuffed with a gift card. I opened my eyes, and was a bit confused by the red velvety tower until I saw the logo on the card.

I first saw Sugardaddy's on Throwdown. Seventeen months ago I held my newborn in my arms and drooled over their Tahitian Blondies. I settled the baby, and then fell asleep on the couch before the show ended. Dr. Romance surprised me a day later with them on my doorstep. They are not for the every day. Frozen Valentine's waffles cannot even touch this stuff.

But even greater joy came from his words in my card. They measured me.

And that little card, with those little words, were enough. If those lightly scrawled words were enough, how could my frozen waffles not be enough?

Because there is more. With wisdom and genius, the evening class was canceled at the last minute. I almost cringed when Dr. Romance, in all of his elation, proposed we order Thai food for dinner. This was definitely not my idea of a Valentine's dinner. I don't crave Thai food. But Dr. Romance does, and so do my kids. So I silenced those inner thoughts and picked up dinner with my eldest. As he nearly skipped down the sidewalk with joy to the Thai restaurant, I took a breath, and smiled. I looped my arm through his. "C'mon, you're my date," I said. Once home, we unpacked dinner, pulled out the Valentine's Day cards that arrived from afar, and read the many ways we are loved.

No fanfare. No gift bags of swag. No red explosions filling our dining room.

But this Farmer Valentine's Day? It was more than enough.

One Day You Will Not Be With the Band

2011-02-09T01:08:00.011-05:00

There are days I take your pictures with my eyes. I want to blow up those moments, make enlargements of those frames, and wrap my arms around you. I want to squeeze those pictures behind picture frame glass to my chest and never let you go. Sometimes I tease you and tell you I never want you to grow up, and we giggle and laugh, because we know that is impossible and Crazy Talk. That day will come.

One day you will not be with the band.

One day you will not sit together in a circle, not with drumstick pencils, not making your music.

One day you will stand on your own, away from the safety of our family.

That very thought has shaken me to prayer for you. You will walk to your own beats. Some days the music will be loud and full of life. Some days it will be slow and hum drum.

And for all of those days, I pray that God brings you friends that will walk with you. I pray you find iron that will sharpen you. I pray for wounds from friends, those that you trust, and not kisses from enemies. I pray that when you fall, there will be someone to help you up. I pray you will find friends that will love you at all times.

Over ten years ago, we made the walking kind of friends. We have cried with these friends through birth, death, love, and loss. They are lifers.

This weekend I cried for three straight days for walking friends. I have cried tears with intensity of love. I care very deeply for them.

I stared at Dr. Romance, and I choked out, "I cannot imagine having to give a baby back."

And as he scrubbed the dirty dinner pots in the sink while I rocked the computer chair back and forth he said, "I think you can. That is why you are crying. Are you going to be okay?"

And I am okay. Because our friends shared their lives, because they shared their pain, and they shared God's triumph. And because their baby is one step closer to home!

They walk. They share.

And I am in awe that the very God that has performed a Jim-dandy in their lives can perform Jim-dandies in our lives, too. Their God is my God, and WOW.

And for you, my three sons, I want those friendships for you. I want you to know the longstanding ones. I want you to walk with trustworthy friends when you are no longer with the band. I want you to walk with those your whole lives. So I am praying for those friendships, even now.

So today I continue the list and count the ways He loves:

#8 for boys that drum feverishly in a brother band

#9 My Dr. Romance that considers my work "our work"

#10 for boys that LOVE this home, our family, our jokes

#11 friends that are lifers, friends that are walkers

#12 the baby that is one step closer to home from Uganda to her forever Vitafamiliae

#13 that God uses the work of thieves for his good, to perform a modern day miracle

#14 that God uses even a Ugandan judge to show MERCY

These Souveniers

2011-01-31T16:54:00.000-05:00

Boys don't check thermometers on winter days. I do, but they don't. Boys press their faces to the windows, fling back bedroom curtains into superhero capes, celebrating with a-hootin' and a-hollerin' for stretches of white powder.

I don't like to be cold. I am ruined forever, a Southern California girl, raised to believe 60 degree weather required a heavy coat. The years we recently lived in Hawaii only thinned my blood for the worst.

And now on the East Coast, I have complained too much. I have checked the thermometer too many times. But as the snow falls, and the bedroom curtains outline my boys like superheroes, I savor these days like souvenirs of motherhood. I hush those complaints of bitter temperatures and make a choice.

I wonder like my boys. I dream of more days on the bullet speed sleds, the fancy ones we bought for days like this.

So out the door, to find the van and the truck, bandaged in snow.

And to define our snow days with scooters and snow scrapers, carving out our own family memories...

...surveying the work of the snow blower; it huffs a growing wall of snow.

I wear my Boy Mom lenses. My spectacles, the ones that let me spy things I could not see, I would not see, if not on this very journey of Boy Mom. I see the boundless adventures, I see the superheroes, I see the make-believe turn into make-true.

The igloo they made with Dr. Romance three snow storms ago, with a tunnel addition built snow storm before this last, now rising to greet the morning. The igloo, the sugar loaf of an alp that is a stage for their imagination to run, the yard stick of how great is the snowstorm.

The same Wonder that draws my boys to the God-made of the snow covered igloo

draws me to the icicles that fortress our front porch.

The long cones that spiral like crystals, the ones that point straight to our welcome mat, that first greet outsiders. I eye them, measure them, inspect them. I wonder that they melt, grow, freeze, melt, grow, freeze over and over for days.

This year in New England is most probably a once in a lifetime experience for our family. We will move in June. I make a choice to see the beauty here now, even when the temperature seems to gnaw at my bones.

So today I will start my list and count the ways He loves.

#1 Sons that love to play the heroes

#2 Heavy snow falls that bring more sledding days

#3 Heavy snowfalls that build the igloo

#4 My Dr. Romance that considers snow play a family priority

#5 The baby that sits with me in the window as the others hurl snowballs at us

#6 Icicle crystals that hang like eye candy

#7 Neighbors that help snow blow our yard

The Hard Lessons

2011-01-27T15:53:00.000-05:00

One day I won't lean toward the hard way. Several years ago we adopted a "free" dog. We had just moved across the country, from California to Virginia, and a puppy seemed like a good idea. We loved him dearly, but he was far from "free." We learned that the hard way. He chewed a hole in our white carpet down to the threadbare. I covered the ugly hole with an ugly area rug for awhile. Not long after, he swallowed an entire bottle of vitamins that nearly killed him and made him seize. He lost those vitamins, all 144 of them, all over the leftover white carpet. We used every last cent of the very last paycheck I earned before birthing my eldest to install durable, beautiful hardwood.

Hard. Wood. Hard. Lesson. Beautiful. Durable.

The baby has been fussy lately, crying, with FOUR new little white mountains jutting up through his tender gums. He follows me endlessly, sometimes clinging relentlessly. It was cute the first few days. But hours and hours passed of see-sawing between lap time (or hip time) and just allowing him to scream when I set him down. When my arms got tired he sat on the floor. And when my ears got tired he sat on my lap. HOURS.

And then, I just couldn't get "things" done, "MY stuff" done. I rushed through phone appointments, left projects half finished, and stampeded through my day. It was like someone had called checkmate and had me cornered.

To call me snarly may have been an understatement.

So I cried uncle.

Really, would the world come to an end if my stuff did not get done?

What was the cost of getting it all done?

I slid down to the hardwood. I sat. I felt the firmness under my fanny of that hardwood. Time has passed since I just sat, stopped running in circles, stopped making my own head spin. I sat eye to eye with my baby, giggling, playing peek a boo, and pushing buttons on electronic toys. And in a moment the baby relaxed, to his usual little giggles, playing his favorite teeny monkeyshines. This is his idea of peekaboo. He only agrees to cover his sweet head, and not his chocolate eyes. He lives with those fingers in his moth, too. This is my baby, the one I haven't seen since the teeth started to erupt.

Sitting there, I pressed my palms down on the hardwood behind me, resting as we played. Those minutes were precious, the most peaceful minutes in his tearful days. My spirit soared. Sitting on the hardwood came the hard lesson.

These days with my last baby are numbered.

They are once in this lifetime.

These days are eyeblinks.

I don't want to count the cost.

I want the cost to count.

How about you? Are you making a change for the cost to count?

Hair Brained Time

2011-01-17T07:38:00.001-05:00

I have a weakness for hair brain ideas. I rationalize them in the sacred name of family fun. Actually, I directly insist on such moments, convinced my family will thank me one day. You might know what I mean.

So on 01/11/11 at 1:11pm I attempted one such hair brain family moment. I warned Dr. Romance 38 minutes ahead of time. I wanted a picture of our family on 1/11/11 at 1:11pm.

But after wrangling three small boys to the stairs, and setting everyone in their places, our family picture looked like this:

Did you catch anything wrong? Like the TIME? Or the fact that my baby is pantless? OR that not everyone is in on the plan? My daydream of a perfect family memory was snapped into pieces by the click of a camera. I was a teeny sad. No perfect photo meant an incomplete day dream of showing this picture years from now to my grandchildren at a future Thanksgiving. I may or may not be dramatic, right?

Dr. Romance offered an inkling of sympathy until he noticed I was not too aflutter. I was already pondering and planning 11/11/11.

And then Dr. Romance offered to alter time.

And the photo still did not come out like the day dream. And I laughed at myself. I laughed at the day dream. I laughed that it was not going to happen just right.

I laughed.

It was cathartic.

I laughed. I stepped away from a haze of worries that spouted recently. Already I am thinking six months from now. I have no idea where we will live. I have no idea what life will look like for my kids. I have no idea if we will sell our house in California or if we will move back. I have no idea. And my mind swirls. I like to plan, even plan more than hair brained family fun. The irony is that on New Year's Day, our family gathered around a plate of cookies, and we made a plan. We agreed to trust God in 2011. Just a few days later, I was baffled by worry. My will to trust began to fizzle.

But my mind raced when Dr. Romance altered time. If no one can really reset time, and we just did, how can I not reset my thoughts? How can I not get back to the goal?

So I am altering my thoughts. They will come, the uncertain ones. But I am going to get back to our family goal for 2011. I am making a plan to TRUST.

What about you? Have you made a plan that needs to be altered?

Boy Mom Truth

2011-01-07T14:14:00.000-05:00

I entered Life As A Boy Mom practically clueless. I came from Girl World, my life with only one sister. My mom has 4 sisters, and my dad has 9 sisters, which means I have 13 aunts. I have carloads of female cousins. Before babies I worked almost exclusively with females. I make friends easily. And, I love my girlfriends.

I knew not one thing about guarding a little boys heart in 2004, when I had my first child. Before Life As A Boy Mom, I thought little boys were, ... hmmmm, just not girls. I had no idea that they would need me, that they would confide in me, or that their brokenness would bring me to tears. I bought into what strangers whispered.

Boys are trouble makers.
Boys are mean.
Boys are rough.

Now I have three boys.
Mine to share with Dr. Romance, for now.
I am no stranger to boys.
I don't listen to whispers anymore.
Sometimes I cancel their whispers, their bold comments.
I tell them my truth about being a Boy Mom.

Last night my boy sat in my lap and cried.
He spilled mean words to my ears that he heard from other kids.
More heaves. More tears.
He misses San Diego.
More heaves. More tears.
I fight back my own tears.
He will miss Massachusetts when we move away in June.

I shelter him in my arms.
I wipe his tears.
I ask questions.
I want to know and he shares.

Here is my truth.
Boys can be honest.
Boys feel with hulking, soon to be, manly hearts.
They are wishful and dream.

Boys are sensitive.
Boys share boy bonds early on.
They have their own love language.
I don't speak it. But I spot it.

Boys require space.
Boys are loud.
Boys are physical.
They love to roam outside from the beginning.

That need to roam, I count it all joy.
So when the trash needs to be taken OUTside...
When the leaves need to be raked OUTside...
When the snow needs to be shoveled OUTside...
I am last on the list.
Because I am a girl, and I like to keep my pretty sock feet clean.

Boys confront fear.
I cringe. I do not like fear. I do not need to shake hands.
Boys are decisive.
They know what they want.
They author their own decisions
head first, in the dark
plummeting 20 feet in the snow.
The three year old bobs up,
dusts himself off,
and calls it fun.

We call time. We call last sled.
They listen. They obey.

Boys are generous.
Boys are thoughtful.

And the six year old declares,

"I give my last sled time to you and Daddy. You sled together and I will take your picture."

What about you? Do you have a truth about boys?

On New Year's Wonders of an Igloo, Cookies, and Blessings

2011-01-06T02:25:00.000-05:00

Three thousand miles on a plane only spells F-U-N for three active boys for about three minutes. We lived. We survived. We deplaned. My tribe was actually well behaved. The grouchy lady in front of me, though? Not so much. Her heavy sighs and piercing eyes drove me to offer her Dr. Romance and Son2's seats at the front of the plane in UPGRADED seats. I didn't share that they were upgraded seats. That would have been TMI. But in my most concerned voice I did share that if SHE was uncomfortable she and her husband could trade....well, she didn't agree. But she didn't look at us or sigh at us anymore.

Our Christmas trip to San Diego was delicious. It was downright beautiful. We drank up family visits, warmer weather, and Legoland. My kids swam outside in a heated pool. They were spoiled by grandparents on both sides. My mother in law even flew in to see my kids. We all were refreshed. The boys ran with old friends. And Dr. Romance and me? We held hands in a movie theater alone, and we dined by candlelight alone. Aaahhh!!! And then the end of the year arrived, the very last day of the year, the very last day of our trip. We boarded for Boston and arrived home minutes before a new day, and a new year...

New Year's Day was hushed, still, and vacant in our neighborhood. We relaxed in the quietude and the familiar of our "for right now" home. The boys had their own ideas about quiet and concentration. And together, two dedicated brothers and Dr. Romance diligently handcrafted an igloo in our backyard.

And their joint labor did something for this mama's heart. I was so proud. I propped the baby in the window so he could see, so he could know he was part of this brotherhood. But boys don't play like girls. They don't ooh and ahh through windows. No...my rascals saw their brother and inducted him. They pounded together snowballs and hurled them at our window. The baby screamed delighted, begging for more. And finally, the igloo was complete.

Later that night, our family came together around a plate of raspberry white chocolate macadamia nut cookies. We explained to the kids that we wanted to review all of the ways God had blessed our family in 2010 and think about how we would trust Him in 2011.

And they really made my pen move, grasping gratitude, blessings, and the handiwork of God. Even as children they witnessed the otherwise unpredictable, the unsolvable, and the impossible of 2010. They added those memories to our list. Dr. Romance and I spoke our memories aloud and then I recorded those, too. And slowly and humbly, we asked that our children count it all joy, that they too lay stones, remembering where we have been before we ask God to lead us where we will go.

I don't know what I expected. I did not expect that a 6 year old and a 3 year old might catch a glimpse of God's intentional presence in the Farmer family. I did not expect our family to produce an exhaustive list the width of our table of ways that God provided for our every need. I did not expect that my children would trust God so easily in 2011. And quite foolishly, I did not expect them to empty the cookie plate.

So we anticipate many changes for our family. We anticipate God sized answers to our small human questions. Right now, we have a lot of those small human questions that expose our uncertainty. We approach the new year with expectancy that we will see wonders greater than an igloo, of times we could not have done a blessed thing on our own strength. And around a bigger plate of cookies we will sit and list our gratitude.

More Hope Suds

2010-11-19T16:55:00.000-05:00

My heart is full, and I am blessed in so many ways. Ten years ago I moved 2500 miles to a new city, with my groom of two years. I was so apprehensive to leave my comfort zone. God brought us into an unbelievable circle of friends. UNBELIEVABLE "life-er" friends. We grew together until we all nearly moved away, all across the country. Together we knew life joys, and life pains. Equally important to me, we knew late nights of playing cards. Also, we knew each others as couples before we knew each other as parents. Ten years ago we met Lora and Andrew. Their family story, family history, and ultimately family legacy is inspiring.If you are not reading Vitafamiliae, please get there, quick!

On Adoption Sunday I was stirred to offer this Hope Suds giveaway, to honor what they are all about. I offered a winner two bags of Hope Suds. I contacted the winner, cheerfully announcing her win. I thought that was that. But she sent me an email back, telling me that in the spirit of giving, she wanted to share her win with another entrant. It is in giving that I have received an example of genuine winning. Thank you so much, to My Way Home, for elevating what it means to give and to win.

Congratulations to House of Hills. You have won the second bag of Hope Suds.

Random Integer Generator

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Timestamp: 2010-11-19 19:52:35 UTC

Winner! Hope Suds

2010-11-19T00:27:00.001-05:00

Congratulations to My Way Home! You are the Hope Suds winner!

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Timestamp: 2010-11-19 05:14:01 UTC

Giveaway: Hope Suds "Do Laundry. Save Lives."

2010-11-07T23:40:00.000-05:00

Today is Orphan Sunday and I have become painfully aware of the worldwide orphan epidemic because of this day. My heart aches thinking about this.

It is late here on the East Coast, but I am fan of "its never too late." Did you know there are over 160 million orphans worldwide? I cannot fathom 160 million children without families, waiting, some with hope, some without. Can you even imagine? I feel moved to do something this day, right now.

Today, I am giving away two bags of Hope Suds laundry detergent, of your choice. Hope Suds is all natural, and HE safe. From their website: "100% of our proceeds assist families in their journey to adopt orphans worldwide. Every load of laundry means Hope and Home to these precious children."

To enter, please leave a comment below telling me your thoughts on orphan care. For an extra entry please like Hope Suds on Facebook and leave a separate comment. For a third entry, tweet this giveaway, and leave a separate comment. Giveaway ends Friday, November 12 at 10pm EST.

I love the Hope Suds family. I can say I knew them before any of their children came along. I am so pleased to support them now in saving lives.

If you Give a Squirrel a Pumpkin

2010-11-05T14:48:00.000-04:00

We are a family of traditions. With so many moves, I want my kids to know consistency, regardless of what city we call home. There is an expectancy on our part as parents, and their part as kids. There are ways we do things, things that are our Commons. We have our daily traditions, our weekly traditions, our lifestyle traditions, and obviously our feasting traditions. I want them to know things that are purposeful and established in our home. I want them to know a family legacy.

I am awed by their small fry brotherhood. It is a distinct subculture. They hang together, and giggle together, and fight together. Its beautiful. Along came Halloween, and the boy tribe went to church dressed in orange. I want them to remember their childhood gusto for being their own posse, for loyalty and honor to one another. I want that gusto for them, the same gusto my husband has for our family, for their families one day.

I want their lives to reflect a God that loves them more than they love each other or anyone else. I want them to know they can never be as great alone as they can be with Him. So as we hollowed out the pumpkins, I explained how we too are like pumpkins. There are parts of us that are dark and icky on the inside. But a loving God cleans us up, and His light can shine through us.

And at our house, there are the childhood traditions that are just plain ol' fun, like eating Mummy Dogs. I made these for my kids during the month of October. The boys loved these so much they may request these year round. Ah, but I am a traditionalist. Sorry boys, October only.

This year is a year like no other. Some things cannot be steeped in tradition since we can only live here through June. And for those moments, I want my kids to learn to live in the moment, to embrace what life offers when it comes.

Hubs casually mentioned a few special activities at Harvard for the kids. Obviously, I wouldn't want to take the kids for just an hour on a Friday, driving in traffic, he reasoned. WHAT?!? Of course I did. When else were my kids going to trick or treat at Harvard? I want our kids to know fun. I want them to know that we cannot always be practical, be schedule oriented, and be so steeped in tradition, in a set way of doing things, that they cannot STRETCH. There is, however, a difference between stretching and bending until we snap from bending too far. They trick or treated again on Sunday night. Son1 saw a neighbor friend and wanted to trick or treat with his family. He invited himself, in a way. But I pulled him aside and told him that we were staying together as a family, that we would not leave anyone behind, and for safety he was staying with us. The streets are dark, and the lights are too dim. Plus it was a bitter 39 degrees, and he should want to stay near me since I had his jacket. He stopped and thought about what I said. He just smiled and agreed.

The day after Halloween we pulled into our driveway and found a very hungry squirrel. The kids shrieked in our van at the sight. I felt hot prickles on the back of my neck. Our pumpkins were a squirrel's feast. The kids wanted me to know. They wanted me to see. I thought they were upset. I was a little bugged myself. I thought how I might cry if I was their age.

It was quiet for a moment or two. Then I heard a curious voice ask, "Hey, Mommy, do you have a camera with you?" And then another voice, "Yeah, yeah, yeah!!! Take a picture!"

"Hurry Mommy, HURRY! You are going to miss it!!" And while I scrounged around for my camera, I smiled. They are boys. They see wonder sometimes when I see a problem. When I saw a pumpkin problem, they saw a pumpkin opportunity. It is amazing how they think differently, see differently.We watched as the squirrel dined on the pumpkin lid, and rolled it with its tiny hands.

In an instant the squirrel was gone. I thought we were done with our little observation. But my boys saw a different view. "NO MOMMY! Look behind you!" And there he was sitting at the edge of our driveway behind me.

The Road To Harvard: Part I

2010-10-25T14:47:00.000-04:00

We drove in the dark across the desert of a hot July night to Arizona, just Son3 and me. It was quiet. Too quiet. He was not exactly the chattiest driving buddy. It was so peaceful that I fought to stay awake. I caught up to Hubs and the older boys an hour and a half after I left San Diego. Still, Phoenix felt eons away.

We planned to stop at GG's (great grandma's) house for dinner. We were so late, hours late. Dinner turned into a 1am midnight snack of barbecued meat. GG had it waiting, and my kids scarfed it down. Forget that we had stopped for In-N-Out; they ate like champs. At 80 years old, that is GG for you, opening her doors unbiased by time of day. It is the same hospitality that runs deep in my husband's family across generations. My mother in law is just the same, and so is the Hubs. They are quick to serve others before themselves. Their character comes before their comfort. It is how we are training our boys. It is who we want them to become.

We dragged ourselves through a nearby hotel lobby an hour later to a nice suite. We slept. We woke. We ate. GG and Grandma T came for a swim, and left for G.G.'s house.

I did not feel the weight of the move. I did not feel the weight of the road trip.

I felt peace. I gave what I could. A handful of family members received.

The year after my sister in love's death, the Lord gave our family new life. Our first child was born. I do not believe he granted life to replace anyone, or to give back whom he had taken. He is God and he owes us nothing. No, he granted life in spite of her death.

Joy after death is very hard to explain, but very sweet to taste. For me to return to Arizona, to taste grief, and to hold joy in my arms all at once, is an inexplicable feeling. It reminded me how God extends mercy and grace in spite of grief.

I gave what I could. I gave my children time to freely interact with their grandmothers. I knew our time was short. I knew their love was big. I knew traffic was mounting. I knew my kids were acting naughty. I knew this time was cherished. I knew that my Hubs was mission oriented and anxious to get on the road, and time was of the essence. I gave what I could. I gave time.

I ran a load of laundry at G.G.'s house but did not move it to the dryer. The Arizona heat was sweltering at 113 degrees. G.G. and Son1 collected the wet clothes and pinched them between clothes pins on the clothes line. Giggles, laughter, and directions on just how to dry clothes in the desert streamed through an open sliding glass door. I wish I had taken that picture. She took the picture in her mind, and so did he. He talks about how he hung the laundry in the desert with his great grandmother, and she reminds him when she calls.

G.G. gave what she could. She gave time outside. She gave time inside. Hubs and Son2 took a quiet nap in the cool back bedroom that once was Carina's. It looks different now, but it looks the same. I peeked in, and quietly closed the door, remembering many nights I slept in that same room. Back in the living room I found GG and Son1 playing Go Fish. I heard more giggles, more directions, and watched as GG patiently sat with my beautiful son around a low coffee table she has had for probably fifty years. I joined them at the coffee table, where she played cards with her own children, her grandchildren, and now her great grandchildren. I thought about the last time I played at that coffee table Carina was still here. And then, my mind remembered the story that I have heard many, many times about GG teaching my husband to play Go Fish in the hospital when he was waiting for his first brother to be born.
When I tasted grief that day in Arizona, I knew mercy and compassion. Though our family has walked through the valley of the shadow of death, we have felt the comfort of God. We have not been alone, even in our grief. And still, I felt more in GG's living room.

The taste of grace is to know joy, to choose to giggle, to celebrate life, and to be playful, every day, regardless of the circumstance. It is choosing to count it all joy in spite of death, giggles in spite of a pressing drive across the country with three small children, and granting time, because life is so brief. It is sometimes all we can give, time. To know grace is to extend kindness to others because of the kindness God has shown us through his Son.

It was almost time to leave. The laundry was packed. The cards were put away. Suddenly, Son1 hailed us to the sliding glass door. There on GG's lawn was a bunny rabbit. We watched her play and scamper. That bunny made a connection for us across states, across generations. For me, it was just another peace omen.

For weeks leading up to our trip across country, GG

It was time. We were starving, so we piled into three cars to Cracker Barrel for dinner. I took one last picture of my boys with their grandmother and GG.

Dinner time came and went. We sat for awhile more in the rocking chairs outside the restaurant while I fed the baby one more meal. Time to go. We realized one bag was still back at GG's house. So Hubs and our older two boys jumped in the truck, pulling the trailer, while Son3 and I drove back for the forgotten bag.

I found it quickly, and allowed GG to rearrange the inside of my van. Well, she gave me no choice. There was no stopping her. My mother in law and I just shook our heads. GG is determined.

Once again, it was time. GG grabbed me something fierce and told me she wanted to pray for me. She did. She pulled away and I could see tears in her eyes and in my mother in law's eyes. No, no, no. I made a little joke, and soon enough the glassy eyes were gone.

Life is so brief. Our family knows.

I carefully made my way to I-17. It was desert dark. It was windy. It was rainy. Everyone was speeding. On that highway I thanked God for Carina. The last time I was on this highway was ten years before, when we drove across country together. I prayed for safety for 2 hours for my friends. They were driving through the night after the loss of a family member from Kansas. They would be on the same highway in a couple of hours, in the opposite direction.

Finally, I met up with Hubs and the boys in Flagstaff near midnight. We spent the night in a hotel across from his college apartment.

The next day we toured Meteor Crater.

This is an open window that framed the desert scene perfectly.

The crater is 4,000 feet wide and over 500 feet deep.

We watched a very scientific movie about the meteorite that caused the crater. It brought Son1 nearly to tears. He wanted to know why God would allow this to happen. I had no answers. I offered that it would not happen again. He asked me how I knew that. I realized that I have no guarantees in this life for my kids. I could not guarantee a meteor would not hit the Earth, just as I cannot guarantee that my kids will not experience hurt and grief. It was a sobering thought. Minutes passed. New thoughts. The crater was an amazing sight.

It was time to jump back in the cars. All of our possessions not in our cars were in this teeny tiny trailer.

Time to hit the road again, with no guarantees for the next day, or the day after that.

The Road to Harvard: The Preface

2010-09-18T07:40:00.003-04:00

So we are HERE. Next week marks one month in our house in New England. Getting here was more than I could have imagined. It was full of unexpected experience with the four people I love most in the world. It was an adventure that I would take on again and again. I would not trade this summer for a summer anywhere else. I told Son1 that he may never have a summer like this ever again.

The road here was emotional. And by road, I don't mean the freeways or highways. And by emotional, I do not mean I cried. There were some moments of intense happiness, moments of peace, moments of excitement, and moments of reflection. They are treasures to me.

Last night I was making some temporary edits to my blog. My eyes nearly fell out of my head when I saw that I had only made 11 blog posts in 2010. There was a year I made 261 blog posts. That is not this year. We have lived life, really lived life, almost every waking hour.

My only regret is not having shared the good life with anyone else.

In the last few hours I decided that I must write about this summer, and not just blow past the past. It was one of the most life changing events for me. I felt God speak to me in a tangible way. I fell more in love with my husband. My kids grew a more distinct brotherhood. I cannot believe I would admit this, but I actually saw the beauty in a road trip from San Diego to Boston, rather than choosing to jet across the miles in an airplane. Some years ago I vowed early in motherhood to fly rather than drive at all costs. My eldest two boys have logged some serious airplane miles in their young lives. When we lived in Hawaii I flew 2500 miles many times with the older two boys. I made that flight sometimes with the whole family. I also made that long trek alone with an infant and then alone while pregnant with the second and an active toddler, and finally with two small children and pregnant with a third. Traveling with them was manageable, but difficult. I only thought a road trip might be more crazy. I was wrong. Driving was easy, even with our family split between two cars, pulling a trailer.

So this is a new beginning point for me. This is a point of leaving the familiar, experiencing the unplanned, arriving differently than when we had left. But this time, you are coming, too.

Why I Can't Pick Just One

2010-09-12T21:17:00.009-04:00

Sometimes being the new mommy on the block seems more frightening than being the new kid on the block. The new kid just wonders when they will have a friend. The new mommy on the block has actually been around the block. I know what it is to be new. I know what it is to make deep friendships. I know what it means to click with a mommy but not with her kids. I know what it is to click with nice kids, and wish their parents were different. And then sometimes I click with someone and our kids click.

Have you ever just met someone and thought, hmmm, I can tell we click? Have you ever anticipated a "next time" meeting? Have you ever thought of the questions you might ask that person ahed of time, just to be prepared? Well, I met her in the last couple of weeks. Then, we were on the same email distribution list for an upcoming event. And then, I googled her last night.

Last night. Last night I was in a different place before I googled her. I struggled to choose whom to send a Dayspring card for the National Day of Encouragement. A card pack was given to me by the folks at Daysprin g and the (in)courage blog. I was asked to write just one card. The cards are absolutely gorgeous. I juggled a list of names in my mind. Who really needed to be encouraged? Whose "story" could I share? I had no answers. I asked God to tug on my heart and bring one person to mind. And then I got distracted. And my mind wandered. And I googled her.

I already had my questions ready for our next meeting. And then I googled her. Suddenly I had no more questions. She lost her husband, and has three small children. The eldest is my six year old son's age. My heart nearly fell out of my chest. My stomach was somewhere around my ankles. I realized my idea of who she is, is just an idea. My heart filled with compassion for her and for her kids.

God answered. My heart was tugged. There is no time like the present. This life is so brief with no guarantees, no warranties, no return policies. I am sending every single card that I received out to every single woman that has crossed my mind that needs to be encouraged this week.

And as for her, I am keeping what I know to myself. I am making an effort to know her. I will move out of my comfort zone, out of the new mom on the block insecurity, into plain sight. I just may make a friendship.

I Left My Heart in Arizona

2010-08-26T01:07:00.006-04:00

I resisted telling you about driving through Arizona on the way to Boston. Actually, it was lovely. More on the loveliness later. This is about my raw heart. These feelings are fresh. I have not felt this in seven years.

In early June, our family traveled to Arizona to watch the Hubs be hooded for his PhD. I remember staring out the window of my minivan, on the freeway. My thoughts tumbled out of my mouth. Did he feel closer to his sister here, I asked. He replied simply, no. I sat still, and stared out that window some more. I DID. I DO.

This past Friday, I walked up the stairs from the basement of our temporary house into the kitchen. It was move out day, to our current house. The Hubs was cleaning. He stopped and looked at a bewildered me. My eyes welled with tears. Was I emotional about leaving the house, he wondered. That was a lighthearted joke. No way. It was something else. I told him he might think I was dumb. I bargained not to tell him. His eyes were burdened looking at me. He wanted to know. Okay. I took one deep breath. I stalled some more. I made him promise not to respond to what I was about to say, no matter what I said. I asked him if he believed that Carina .......(insert the rest of what I said)........ in heaven. It is a question no one on earth can answer.

"Don't say anything," I said. He looked at me deeply. The tears spilled from my eyes. I turned away and he continued to scrub the kitchen counter in silence. Several days later he has never responded. He honored my wishes and I am grateful.

A lot has stirred in my heart between these two conversations over the last two months. I remember vividly snapshots of 1996 to 2003 with Carina, events that have not been present in my mind until now. She became one of my closest friends. She loved me. I loved her. People looked at her funny every time she said, "This is my sister." We look nothing alike. But that is how she thought of me. Period.

Many, many nights over several, several years we talked until the wee hours of the morning. I met all of her boyfriends. More than anything she wanted to be married one day. But no one was ever good enough. No one could ever measure up to a standard she held. I remembered that on Tuesday while packing lunch for the Hubs. So I threw this note in his lunch.

Ten years ago, the Hubs and I drove across country to Virginia. At the last minute, we needed an extra driver. The moving company failed on a trailer for our car. So Carina met us in Flagstaff and drove all the way with us. I remember being frustrated in Texas that she wanted Chinese food and not barbecue. I remember she teased me for not beating her at the silly Cracker Barrel game with the golf tees in Virginia. I remember more. I remember years and years worth. But I also remember wanting her to come to Las Vegas one weekend to fix the house to sell. She could not, she claimed. Her hip hurt. We were a little irritated. A year later when we moved into the Virginia house, I noticed her wincing. She said it was nothing. It was just that old tendinitis in her hip. Yeah, more than one doctor thought so. She was so athletic. Misdiagnosis. Two years later she called to say it was cancer.

Carina was diagnosed with a rare form of cancer. She was the oldest person to be diagnosed. Only 150 people are diagnosed a year with this in the United States. It is a two stage cancer. Stage 1 requires aggressive treatment. Stage 2 means you are a walking miracle if you live. This cancer has no Stage 3 or Stage 4. She was very Stage 2, with a 10 centimeter primary tumor on her hip, others in her lung, others in her spine. She opted for the most aggressive chemo treatment available, the "red devil" cocktail of chemos. The drugs are red. The side effects, well, you can imagine if it includes a nickname of "devil."

Carina came to Virginia to visit in November 2002. She thought she might be in remission. We took a weekend trip to New York City, and saw Columbia University, where she deferred her admission for her Master's. She applied there because my husband, her older brother had received his Master's there. It was a ridiculously fun trip. My mother in law and brother in law came, too. Our whole family was together for the first time in two years. Then came the call my mom had suffered a stroke. I was broken. Carina comforted me, wearing a bandanna on her head. Her hair was growing back in. She prayed for me and for my mom before I left on the next flight to California.

The next month we were in Arizona for Christmas. Carina was in the hospital again. Stem cell replacement was no longer an option. Now it was just more chemo. We sat at her bedside for days. That is my long hair over her head of stubby hair. She did not like the news of more chemo. She did not want to lose her little hair or eyelashes. It was all just growing in. I laughed and told her I would share. I sat this way in her bed the days we were in Arizona. We played games, we sang with Christmas carolers, and we made a list. My husband just stared at me when I asked her what her final wishes might be. He did not want to make the list. Carina said, "Let's make the list." But that is how it always went. She and I had ideas that we made the Hubs agree to. So I sat at her bedside, and scribbled her dictation. Hubs had an envelope with him. I tore the sheet off the pad, put it in the envelope, and sealed it. The list went to Virginia. It sat in my nightstand.

January Hubs traveled to Arizona alone. Carina was back in the hospital. She was losing more weight; it was probably the chemo, he thought. At the end of January, she and I had a long conversation on my work break. She wanted me to come to Arizona soon. She said she needed me to come. Two weeks later, my mother in law called. Carina was coming out of a coma and kept asking where I was. Three weeks later, God worked a miracle on a cheap plane ticket on a holiday weekend. I arrived on a Saturday.

What happened in the first twelve hours I was in Arizona is precious, including her death.

I did not expect to arrive and lose my friend the same day. I did not expect to have my last conversation. I do not know what I expected. Not death. The hospice nurses did not expect it. My heart was torn. IT HURT LIKE CRAZY. My friend was gone from this life. Forever.

I arrived in Arizona for a weekend trip. I did not plan to stay a week. I could have bought something to wear to her memorial. I was honored to wear a dress from her closet. My mother in law suggested I could. So I did. I reminded the Hubs to bring the precious envelope with him to Arizona. Somehow I made the necessary calls. Somehow I started to make the arrangements. I was grateful when the Hubs arrived two days later. He and his brother drove south to an airport. Washington DC area airports were all closed due to snow. Hubs handled so much once he arrived.

Arizona is where I said good bye to Carina. It is where our family remembered her on a gorgeous February morning in Arizona. It was in the 70s, clear and bright. It is where I sang with cousins, where the Hubs gave a eulogy sharing our faith and our hope in the Lord. We know her body is now perfect and healed, and that we will see her again one day. It is where my mother in law and brother in law grieved, along with many other family and friends. Arizona is where I feel closest to Carina. It is where a part of my heart that loves her lives.

The Day We Left San Diego We Popped a Wheelie and Never Said Goodbye

2010-08-11T16:56:00.011-04:00

Leaving San Diego did not feel final. We did not say most any of our goodbyes, except to family. I feel horrible that goodbyes did not happen. Friends were understanding. But Goodbye was not what I pictured. For the last time, I dropped off the boys with my parents, this time, so we could shove our lives into our cars, shove what could not fit in the cars into our storage unit, and take the rest to the dump. And by "we" I mean the Hubs. He shoved the most.

At 9:30am I was encouraged when my kitchen looked like this.

I thought we would finish before the renters arrived. We did not. I wished we were gone. I really detest key turnover. I refused to participate when we left Virginia and when we left Hawaii. I don't want to see the excitement in their eyes about living in a home I have loved. I don't like to hear how they will treat it "like their own," or how "this is your house." How in the world do all these people have the same lines?

Tick, tick, tick. Time slipped through our hands faster than a greased pig. The renters arrived before we were out. Their kids were ready to jump in the pool. Contrast that with wishing we would have swam the day before. My stomach churned.

In the handful of minutes they talked to Hubs, I breathlessly grabbed what was left in the house and threw it all in the garage. We organized there for more hours. I could hear the squeals of excitement, the kids pounding up the hardwood floors, running over head. Silently, Hubs closed the laundry room door to the garage. He looked at me, unmoved by the commotion, unmoved by the armfuls of their belongings. That's him. Not me.

But he closed the laundry door for me. And the way he looked at me, that was for me. After all of these moves it is never the actual house that I miss. It is what was, what is now no longer. Its the emotional, sensitive, ridiculous, and totally rational in the moment, part of me. It is that part that wants time to stand still to finish what I may have left unfinished. It is that part of me that has a pity party in the moment, if even in my head.

Our plan was to be on our way to Phoenix by 10am. But by 2:30pm, our three car garage still looked like this.
The stuff in the rafters stayed in the rafters. We had that planned. I looked around overwhelmed at what was left. The Hubs was taking care of a bazillion and one last details. I was exhausted. I missed my kids. I despised what was left. About then the Hubs pulled in the driveway. I will skip the story of how he pulled our gas dryer out of storage at the eleventh hour at the request of our tenants, and nearly severed his finger. It is too gory. Moving on...

I told him we just needed to be done. We worked fast and furiously, until 4:09pm, when our cars looked like this.

And why yes, that is our nearly new play structure now sitting in the neighbors yard across the street. Not that I had any emotion over that, either.

Time to GO. We zoomed out of the driveway in separate directions. The Hubs scooted to the storage unit, and I hustled to my parents house. I readied the kids for the road because their daddy was swinging by to get them strapped down. He planned to stop and grab a spare tire for the trailer he was towing. The store closed at 5pm, and he was pulling out of my parents neighborhood at 4:35pm. The older boys ran to greet him on the lawn. He scooped them up, tossed them in the truck, and hugged my parents goodbye. I still had to pack up the baby and a few last things.

Then came a call from the Hubs twenty minutes later. He spoke to me in a shaky voice. "God loves us and is looking out for us." He had called the trailer dealership that Friday afternoon at 4:59pm. He asked them to hold the spare tire for a few minutes, though they were closed. He was three minutes away, exiting the freeway ramp. He hung up, and blew out a tire coming off the freeway. By God's grace the blowout was not on the freeway when he was driving at maximum trailer speed. Our kids were shocked, but safe. The Hubs was safe. That is all that mattered. That, and now replacing all trailer tires to avoid more danger. All of the stress in the world at that moment was futile, worthless. Our family mattered. That was all.

I fed Son3 dinner, packed up my mom's cookies, and did a terrible job of shoving more into that minivan. Finally it was time to pull away from the curb, to meet up with my husband and sons several miles east.

It was just me, Son3, my oozing minivan, and the mattress we forgot to pack in the trailer.

My parents knew it was time to say goodbye. They said everything but goodbye. Maybe they thought it would keep me in front of their house longer if they did not speak the word. They were right. No one wanted to be the first to say it. My dad offered to come with me, right then and there. But really, there was no place for any passengers over 20 pounds. All of the other five seats were occupied with Farmer stuff. We joked for some minutes, but I knew it was time. So rather than say goodbye, I grabbed my camera and we took about 20 or so silly shots until we got this one. I love it. And you know what? Goodbye just did not look the way I planned it. This time it was ok.

He Never Promised Me the Snow White Castle, Just the Hut in Africa

2010-07-15T08:18:00.004-04:00

We have left our home. It was grueling. It was rough.

My parents are retired. They offered to watch our kids so we could get some stuff done. I dropped the older boys off at 9am, and kept Son3 with us so he could nurse. We sold stuff. We packed stuff. What would a Farmer move be without getting really crazy? Contractors were in our home for two weeks, until less than 48 hours before we moved. They painted the walls. They refinished the entertainment center. They installed new carpet. They built a hutch from wood and granite. We hired a family friend to deep clean the house, and a pool man for the year. My house was beautiful before. It is stunning now. I love it. I miss it.

But it is just a house. And I want our kids to know that.

My parents kept the kids til 9pm the first night. My parents loved it. The kids loved it. We loved it. It sounded like a great idea. So that Grandparents Day Camp turned into 2 weeks of my parents taking the kids every single day. And my parents took them all over town. They rode the trolley to downtown, they watched Toy Story3, and for haircuts. They swam, they baked, and they watched 150 channels of TV. When I lived at home we had less than 6 channels until my sister left for college. My husband lived with 3 channels until he left for college. We had no mercy for our kids when we canceled our TV service. They have grandparents with On Demand.

My kids do not understand now why we moved. They know their Daddy is going to be at Harvard this year. They understand we are moving to Boston. They ask when we get to go home. They ask why we moved.

There is no real way to hide it. Our house is really big. It is a 6 bedroom, 5 bath house. Packing up the house, selling stuff, putting things in storage was a ridiculously monstrous task. The renters requested we leave certain furniture. We did, requiring an additional deposit. Many, many people questioned our decision to not split up as a family, to have the Hubs go to Harvard by himself, to have me stay in San Diego with the kids. After all, it is only for a year. Actually, it is only really for 10 months. But the Powers That Be give the Hubs travel time on either end of our trip. Why, why, why would I take my kids away from family, from "stability?" Was this really good for the kids? Hubs could fly back on his breaks.

When Hubs called to tell me he was accepted as a fellow at Harvard, I asked what his plans were for the family. He did not even hesitate. He said we were going with him. My stomach turned. Truthfully, I had the same thoughts. Was this the right choice? That night, I stood four inches from him and asked if we were making the right decision. He kissed me on my forehead and told me I gave him three beautiful boys. He wanted them AND ME with him for the year. There was no way he was going to be without us. My stomach settled. My heart was at peace. Every woman wants to be wanted. But it goes back to our story of the "Hut in Africa" in front of the Snow White Castle at Disneyland fourteen years ago.

The year was 1996. Hubs and I were dating not too long. On a particular breezy day in California, Hubs and I had gone to Disneyland. While standing in line for rides, we talked about where we had been, where we saw ourselves going. We talked about grad schools. He was a PhD student and I was an undergrad at UCLA. The year before he had just finished his Master's at Columbia University in NYC. He worked for the admissions office while he was there. He told me I probably could get admitted. I started to see stars of an Ivy League degree. I talked my timeline for grad school, what kind of job I wanted, where I saw myself going. And I went on, and on, and on. He was awfully quiet. And I went on, and on, and on. And he was frowning. I asked him what was wrong. He stopped in front of the Snow White Castle. I still remember it so clearly. He asked me what I thought about US. Well, I told him carefully, given MY potential plan, we could be married by 2002. His eyes got really wide. I back pedaled a bit. I reworked MY plan out loud, and said for him, I could see us married in 2000. That was still four years away. He very carefully thought out some words, and spoke sincerely. If I couldn't see myself marrying him for four to six years then I must not be the one for him. I was really shocked. Then I was mad. What was so wrong with wanting what he already had? He explained it had nothing to do with that at all. It was that MY plans did not include him. Essentially, what he was telling me was that I was willing to leave, but not to cleave, the very things God asks us to do in marriage. I was willing to leave being single, but I was not willing to cleave, to be one minded. He did not use those exact words. No, he used a more simple analogy. But in hindsight, that is what he meant. I wanted MY plan, not an OUR plan.

In front of the Snow White Castle, he looked at me and said, "I would live in a hut in Africa to be with you." He said he was willing to put aside his "MY" plan and make it an "OUR" plan. So that has been a mantra in our marriage, living in the hut in Africa. I eventually did complete my Master's from UVA, a public Ivy. He supported me completing my education. He would still support my decision to complete more education, because it would be an OUR plan.

So we are moving to the Boston area together, because my husband promised me he would live in a hut in Africa to be with me fourteen years ago. That is it in a nutshell. We sold much of our furniture, because it is just STUFF. It can be replaced. We rented out our hugest asset because it is just a house. Any damage can be fixed at a cost. But one thing can never be bought, sold, exchanged, or replaced even at a cost is the idea of the hut in Africa.

Yesterday, I shared just a little of my heart with my five year old. When he asked me WHY we were moving, I plainly told him because Daddy is my best friend. I made a promise years ago to him that I would go where he goes, that we would make plans together, and that one day, I hope he marries his best friend, and she goes where he goes. She better be willing to live in a hut in Africa with him, but I didn't lay that on him quite yet.

A Bed of Roses

2010-06-29T14:01:00.002-04:00

Everyone remembers their wedding day, but how many can say they remember the days following? The days leading to The Big Day are BIG. But the days following shrink in comparison. I don't remember too much about the days immediately following our wedding, and before our honeymoon. I remember falling asleep a lot. I was so tired, and our honeymoon was still days away. But I remember one late July afternoon just days after we were married. My mom invited my new groom and me to a furniture store. She had a surprise for me. She paraded us through the store and led us right to a cherry bedroom set. I love cherry wood, and I grew up with a cherry bedroom set. My parents still use it in their guest bedroom. But for some (not too logical) reason, I did not have a Va Va Voom! reaction to the cherry bedroom set. My mother quickly spoke up. I could apply the money from this set to any set I wanted in the store. Now, the next time you see the Hubs in person, ask him to show you just how I reacted. He will nearly skip out of his skin and squeal in delight all starry eyed, just like I had twelve years before. I scoured the store for a very long time, until I finally picked a bedroom set I loved. I picked a California King oak set, with a sleigh bed, with detailed rose carvings. I had no idea it was the most expensive set in the showroom. Let's just say it was practically the cost of a family vacation for four to Hawaii, including food and hotel stay.
But furniture fashionistas, tell me I am right. Supposedly, bedroom sets are a thing of the past. I read that it is all about the bed frame these days, and other non-matching pieces to outfit a room. Tell me that is the truth. That is the Farmer master bedroom furniture plan in a year. So since we are cleaning house these days, we wanted to let the set go, and acquire something new.

Needless to say bedroom sets lose their value. We posted our whole set for 15% of what we paid for it on Craigslist, and we additionally included the fancy shmacy pillow top mattress. And, since I am telling you all of our secrets these days, I will even tell you a juicy secret. Hubs and I bought that mattress off an old man who had just lost his wife. I am NOT kidding. They had other vacation homes and had only slept on the mattress in their California home a handful of times before she became ill, and no longer had a use for it. YES, we bought a dead woman's mattress. It was nearly brand spanking new and we were strapped and newly married.

I was practically giving away the cedar lined bedroom set and mattress. So when the Hubs wanted to post it on Craigslist, I just groaned. Ugh. I did not want to field phone calls from wheeling and dealing bargain hunters. But then I got a phone call from Wynn. I just wanted to jump through the phone and hug her. She was just the sweetest lady, the kind you instantly know would be a great neighbor or a great friend. She told me about her kids, about where she lived, and she was so flexible with my time. I never tell Craigslist people anything, but somehow we got to chatting about my kids and husband. I know! Totally unnecessary.

She arrived and the Hubs did the talking. You know where I was? I was seriously sitting outside watching my kids swim in the pool. I was almost afraid to meet her because I did not want to hurt her feelings if she tried to wheel and deal with me. You know, our friendship was on the line. But Hubs came out to find me and tell me that she was taking the bedroom set, for our asking price. They needed to return in an hour with a couple of trucks.

She returned, and I came out to meet her. We talked for a long, long time while the men loaded the trucks. This retired lady and I had so much in common! Our lives were similar in many ways! And then my friend Wynn confessed that when she saw the set on Craigslist she nearly cried. She could not believe it. She had eyed the set years ago at the very same furniture store, and could not afford it. She has always wanted this very set and could not believe I had "her" set for sale. My heart just leapt. I am so thrilled that our "old" set has found a new home.

This Freeway Leads Somewhere

2010-06-27T05:21:00.007-04:00

Leaving San Diego is very hard. I love this city. I love the weather. I love good Mexican food. I love the familiarity, the beauty, and the freeways. Is it strange to have your favorite freeway? I have two. I love the 163 and the 5. A stretch of the 163 wraps through Balboa Park with large archways covered by gargantuan trees and climbing vines, under the Cabrillo Bridge. I love where the 5 sweeps along the water, particularly the San Diego Bay near the airport, and up along Encinitas, Carlsbad, and Oceanside. I never noticed until Rachel pointed out that in Southern Cal, you refer to the freeways preceded by the article "THE". SO TRUE.

When we first moved here everyone wanted to know how hard it was to move from Hawaii. It was hard. Very, very, hard. I missed the very same things I will miss about San Diego. I missed the tropical climate. I missed plate lunches, Ted's Bakery on the North Shore, and the Grass Skirt Grill. My favorite freeway on Oahu was the H3, right through the lush and breathtaking Ko'olau Mountains. I know you are thinking about your favorite freeway now. So what makes it special for you?

This city is special. It is my home. My parents taught me to love miles and miles of endless coastline, to adore the Spanish architecture of Balboa Park, and to love the diversity of downtown San Diego. The same little train I rode in Balboa Park as a child my parents rode as children. It is the same little train my children love. The San Diego Zoo, the Wild Animal Park, and Sea World are all places I went as a child, and now I share with my children. And in a few days we will not just jump in the minivan and zip down the 5 freeway to downtown.

My third beautiful son was born at the same hospital where I was born. He is nine months and not crawling. He scoots and rolls from one end of the room to the other, squealing like he has climbed a mountain. I am convinced he isn't crawling because he is held A LOT. He is so precious. This time we are all too aware that time with these babies is so brief. I have enjoyed his entire infancy. And soon he will be a toddler. And just like our time in San Diego, his infancy will end.

Not too long ago the Hubs asked me to start blogging again. He is getting sentimental on me now. He wants our kids to know our Family Journey. Shortly after he told me this, he was on a business trip. Son1 fell fast asleep on our couch. I tried to scoop my Kindergartner in my arms. He is only 12 or 13 inches shorter than me. I laid his head on my shoulder, and his toes dragged across our tile floor. His nearly 60 pound body was so awkward for my short frame to carry. I am only 5'1" on a good day. I started up our 17 vertical steps to his room and realized he could bowl me over with his dead weight. So I gently placed him on the steps, shook him a little, and asked him to walk. The second I said it, tears burned in my eyes. I was shocked. I did not expect the grief I felt for an instant. I could no longer scoop up my eldest son without planning how to carry him without dropping him. Or killing me. Granted, he is in the 98% for height and weight and I am smurf sized. Well, not really. I would love my waistline to be smurf sized. What would life be without goals?

I knew as I watched my Kindergartner trudge up our stairs I needed to start blogging again. I knew when I stumbled upon pictures, let out a gasp, and covered my mouth I needed to write again. I was overwhelmed by a preschooler and a toddler that were no more. The little boy that came to California a preschooler will soon start First Grade on the other side of the country, and Lord willing, that toddler will soon be a preschooler, bundled in snow boots and jackets this year.

Is it wrong to miss this house? I already know the answer to that. NO. I will miss this house. I sat in the back yard on the flagstone love seat the Hubs and I designed and cried and told him I will miss this house. Most of all, I will miss the memories I have shared here with so many, that my children have shared with other children. We placed an offer on this home sight unseen. What a transformation this once stripped foreclosure has undergone. Our backyard was designed completely for our children. They have loved every inch of this house, inside and out.

Time in San Diego has about run out, but our Family Journey has not. So I am back to blogging, back to sharing our stories, back to sharing our lives. But tell me something. What is your favorite freeway? Where does it lead? Have you ever left somewhere special?

Bean Town Bound

2010-01-15T00:10:00.002-05:00

Friends, I have HUGE HUGE family news. It is a shock. In some ways it is bittersweet, and in some ways very exciting. We are MOVING AGAIN!

Today the Hubs was officially offered a research fellowship at Harvard University, full time, for one year. My heart is completely, selflessly happy for him. When he applied, he did not think he would be selected. He was wrong. He called me from work to tell me, and I wanted to jump through the phone I was so happy for him. Harvard suggests that he arrive mid-July. We will drive across country, so for now the plan is to leave in June.

So, are you as shocked as we are?!?

San Diego Winter

2010-01-14T02:52:00.004-05:00

It really is Winter here in San Diego, even if it has been in the mid 70s all week, which is only a teeny unusual. This time of year the high winter temperatures average in the 60s to low 70s. I cannot figure out how our trees lose so many leaves with warmer temperatures, though. I took my kids to a park a handful of miles away out in the 'burbs, where we live. This park wraps around part of a golf course, so it is huge with different trees on different sides.
At the same park on the same day, we saw these palm trees.
The boys and I were GOING to ride the train. See the train tracks? We missed the last train and I nearly broke their little hearts. The hours of operation on the web were not accurate. Sniff. Needless to say, folks in San Diego do not put away shorts for the winter, like in other parts of the country. We have only two seasons, a wet season and a dry season. It was 77 degrees on Sunday when I took this picture, in January, at nearly three in the afternoon.
This picture was taken by my Hubs yesterday, so I am "sharing" with him. The sun was setting over the harbor between the Embarcadero and Coronado. Another mid 70s winter day in San Diego, but with very cool water temperature, of about 60 degrees.

You Capture is hosted by Beth at I Should Be Folding Laundry

Día De Reyes: A La Farmer

2010-01-13T04:16:00.000-05:00

And you thought Christmas was over December 25! Not when you are Mexican. We still have more days to go. On January 6 el Día de Reyes is celebrated. This translates to Day of the Kings. It is what many other parts of the world celebrate as Epiphany, the day the Wise Men arrived to bring Baby Jesus gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. Many Mexican families do not add the Wise Men to their nativity scenes until the evening of January 5 for Día de Reyes.

I cannot believe I fell for this holiday as a kid, but I did. At least Santa went to everyone's houses regardless of ethnic background, so no wonder he seemed possible. But the Wise Men only came to my house and anyone else that was of Mexican heritage. Why I did not think that was strange as a child I do not know. No one ever spoiled it and told me the truth. I believed the Wise Men actually came while I was asleep to deliver gifts. Our stockings hung by the chimney with care, but were never filled until January 6. This is not part of the Día de Reyes tradition I will pass to my children. I like Christmas morning stockings too much.

The evening of January 6, Mexican families gather for Merienda de Reyes, an early dinner celebration with friends and family. Typically Mexican food is served. We celebrated Día de Reyes the weekend before January 6 since my sister was in town. My mom and I shared the responsibility for pork tostadas. For dessert we served the traditional Rosca de Reyes.

Our Costco offerered these special breads by the truckloads. This is California, and San Diego no less. Many families of Mexican heritage celebrate with a Rosca. The Rosca is a very, very sweet bread baked in an oval shape. The Rosca is a tradition that was brought to Mexico from Spain. (Here is a quick history lesson...the Spaniards colonized Mexico, hence the Spanish influence.) The oval shape represents the Wise Men's crowns, and the dried fruit represents the jewels in the crown. In the picture you see the Rosca with a Baby Jesus figurine.
This bread was vacuum packed and sealed for freshness. Three little figurines of Baby Jesus came with the Rosca. The party host turns the Rosca upside down and pushes in these little figurines into the bottom of the bread. The hidden figurines remind us of how Baby Jesus needed to be hidden and protected from King Herod. The knife that cuts the bread reminds us of how Baby Jesus was in danger of being killed after his birth. But the Rosca de Reyes is actually a game. The person that finds a Baby Jesus in their bread must host a party on February 2 for all of those in attendance for the Rosca de Reyes. See, I told you it was a long Christmas season for Mexicans! I will tell you all about the February 2 celebration closer to that date. My extended family will host a party on that date. They had another Rosca party on January 6 I did not attend. Since it was just my family, my parents, my sister, and nephew attending our Farmer Rosca de Reyes, finding the hidden figurines were just for fun.

Later in the evening, the adults went outside and helped the kids roast marshmallows around our fire pit. We made s'mores. Día de Reyes is not complete without chocolate. Chocolate was a gift from the natives of Mexico to the people from the New World, or Spain.

One Year Ago on the Sixth of January

2010-01-07T04:21:00.007-05:00

One year ago we lived on Oahu, preparing for our big move to the Big Rock. Our boys sensed excitement and anticipation. But there was more to come than just a new city and a new house. One year ago in Honolulu, our doctor announced that a new life was indeed growing inside of me. She pointed to a flashing heartbeat of our exactly 6 week old baby, just 8 millimeters long, on an ultrasound screen. She let us linger in silence, in amazement, and in love. She knew we were moving. She knew it might take me awhile to find a new doctor. And she knew how very important this appointment was for us to see this precious baby right then.

Months passed. The baby grew, and we grew, too. We grew eager to meet this precious one. My family all wanted to touch my belly, and they asked questions about all I felt from the inside out. He rolled, he tumbled, and kicked every which way.

But as the weeks surrounding his arrival neared, I became anxious around bedtime. I would start to doze off, and be startled into alertness. I often reached for Hubby's hand and asked him to pray RIGHT THEN. For the first time ever I was nervous about the delivery of our baby. I asked our church to pray. I asked others to pray, too.

I recalled a child I knew thirteen years before. She was a first grader at a school where I volunteered. She was wheel chair bound, unable to communicate with spoken language. Her story was that a faulty monitor during labor prevented the doctors from detecting loss of oxygen and a decelerated heart rate, resulting in her permanent state. Her story haunted me at night during my last trimester. So we prayed for peace and God's protection during delivery.

September 3, 2009, I laid in the hospital awaiting the birth of my son. A nurse was monitoring my contractions. She checked the monitor tape and frowned. It was just a momentary decelerated heart rate. Nothing prolonged. Nothing to worry about, she said. A prolonged deceleration might indicate infant stress, a wrapped cord, or other danger. But no, my contractions were normal.

Son3 was born shortly thereafter. He was born with a double chord around his neck, and around his body. But he was absolutely well, with no signs of distress. What an experience, to know I had prayed for the Lord's protection for this baby, and despite his chord experience, the Lord indeed protected him.

He is healthy. He is beautiful. He is one year bigger than when I first saw his heart beat on that screen. Except he has grown into a 4 month social yet easy going baby. He is so loved by our family.
A few times last week I was asked what I will remember most about 2009, or for what I was most grateful. Without a doubt I will remember how the Lord chose to bless us with a third beautiful, healthy, and happy baby.

This New Year With Three Boys

2010-01-05T03:27:00.008-05:00

I was coming back here anyway. Regular blogging in 2010 is one of my three resolutions. But Rachel nearly sent me an S.O.S. email. I kindly responded with no answers and told her to read my blog, because I am sensitive like that.

She asked if Son1 is back in school. I am sure she genuinely wanted to know. Everyone asks me that these days. But they don't just ask me. They ask me with a hopefulness, like that should bring me some relief from three boys at home. Nope, he is home until mid January, and I am thrilled. This house is rockin' like a jack hammer hit it. The walls are shaking, the floor is pounding, and my head is spinning. Not always. But a lot of the time it is loud. That is OK with me. Contentment is a choice. I am drinking life in, because for now, I have two little boys that still call me Mommy, and I am just not ready to give it up. When it is gone, a season will have passed, and I am not ready to be Just Mom yet. For now, I get saluted and called Captain by my pirates with wild imaginations. But the start of a new year reminds me that time is passing.

The other day we dined at a lunch buffet kind of place. On the price list kids 3 and under were free, kids 3 to 5 were a certain price, and then kids 6 to 12 were another price. Perfect. Hubs and I plus our five year old made for a cheap lunch. The cashier tried to correct us. She asked us how old Son2 was, though we told her he was free. Then she tried to correct us about Son1's age. Yup, he is five until August. She was not convinced. I finally apologized, noting that Hubs and I are short, and somehow we are blessed with tall children but we really were not lying. No one believes us ever. They are big kids. And because they are physically big, I wonder often if that will speed up their emotional maturity beyond their years. I truly hope not. I want them to be 5 and 2 just because they are only that old!!

So these winter days (it is in the mid 70s here) have been flanked by evenings around our fire pit, roasting marshmallows over an open fire, and squishing them into s'mores. We have had two children fall in the pool since New Year's on two different nights. Yes, both were boys, and no, neither were mine. That is no surprise; life around this house is active, with scooter riding and hide and go seek in the dark.

Son3 is just a gem so far. He seems to wonder when it gets too quiet, unless he is in his crib. He wants in on the action. He starts to squawk if he can hear us but cannot see us. He is happiest when his brothers are around and does not yet mind the chaos. The big boys are perfectly at ease when I am occupied with the baby to drum up some turbulence around the house. They have that "when the cat is away the mice will play" syndrome. I am grateful for their bond, though.

Life here is busy and exhausting. Feeding an infant, popping the toddler on and off the potty, and working on Kinder skills with the eldest is just a fraction of all that needs to be accomplished in a day. I fall in bed ready for the day to be over. In that moment, I choose contentment over worry, over frustration, and over life's curve balls. My life is full.

But that choice to be content can be so hard some days. Raising our boys is a two person gig. My Hubs steps up to the plate so often. He reminds me to be gentle, to be patient, to find joy in the moments that are not so joyous, because they are just moments. So it is with these fruits of the spirit that we have ventured out so much since Son3 has been born. Here we are, just before our little man's third trip to the zoo, just before Christmas.

LL recently wrote this post about THIS DAY.

I read it and I just kept thinking of this song.

Here's to Tomorrow!

2009-12-13T03:45:00.003-05:00

My parents, sister, and nephew were all at our home tonight. We popped in Julie & Julia. I laughed to myself when Julie was so excited to get a single blog comment early in the movie. I wondered if I might get just one comment if I posted to my blog. It has been so long.

I fell asleep before the end of the movie. I said goodnight to the company and climbed the stairs. I was the only one awake. I slipped through our bedroom door and scooped up Son1 in my arms. He had fallen asleep in our bed. He didn't exactly end up in my arms. He was more dangling to my ankles. I nearly lost my balance as I took a step backward. I am only 13 inches taller and he is only five! How long had it been since I last carried him like this? Probably several months, probably before I had the baby, probably before I hit my last trimester. Wow. Images from the book I Love You Forever rushed through my mind. My baby he will always be. Sigh. Lord, please tell me he might remember the good things from today. Could he remember playing trains with his brother, or that his daddy rushed to the grocery store this morning so he could make him a special breakfast, or that we let him stay up late with his cousin? Could he remember spouting train whistle sounds and sirens, or the balloon he got tonight at church, or a baby brother that was truly amused by his antics?

Could he just forget a mama screeching over Christmas breakables? Could he forget that I was grouchy and sleep deprived with a touch of holiday stress thrown in for good measure? Those are not the Christmas memories I want for him this year.

I am so proud of him. He has grown so much in Kindergarten. He is thriving in school, in AWANAs, and as a big brother. His heart has grown by leaps and bounds for his two little brothers. He is so loved by his parents, particularly by an imperfect mother who needs tomorrow to come, so I can start again.

Where Have All the Farmers Gone? (Sung to the Tune of "Where Have all the Flowers Gone?")

2009-10-17T16:07:00.003-04:00

Where Have All the Farmers Gone? Weeeellll....I had a baby. And I am alive. I am not freaking out. I already did that weeks one and two. He is our very last, and I am enjoying his little newborness to the absolute fullest. And I am in DEEP LOVE. That takes up my time. But for all of you Farmer fans that cheered me on during labor and on Facebook and on Twitter, don't worry...I am going to give you the birth story very soon.

In other news, in a moment of sleep deprivation, I decided to blog with a group of friends on a brand new blog. A long time friend read an article in the W--hington Post and was inspired to start a virtual baking group. I was so excited! I know most of the ladies from when we lived in the Northern Virgina beltway. Some I have never met, except online, because they are friends of friends. And some ladies I don't know, but I will! I just posted and you can read it here. It is all about my motorcycle riding with wind in my hair. See you there!

Welcome JK Farmer #3 to San Diego!

2009-09-03T21:53:00.005-04:00

JK Farmer #3 was born on 9-3-09 at 5:37pm. 7 lbs 13.2 oz, 19 3/4" long, head was 13 3/4" Right now he is having some dinner...

Twas the night before my Induction...

2009-09-03T04:10:00.006-04:00

This is the very last night I will be pregnant. And I am emotional for so many reasons. Seriously, I just stopped to wipe my eyes because the tears just spilled.

There are the medical reasons I am emotional. I am nervous about being induced. I was induced with my first child. He was born on his due date. And here I am again. With my second baby my membranes were stripped. He was about a week early. This is the longest I have ever been pregnant. I am five days overdue.

I am notorious for being picky about doctors. My OB is amongst the best. She has the pedigree to prove it. And I am delivering at the most "shee shee fancy" hospital in the county. I was born there, you know. But none of that brings me comfort.

I have wanted this third child for a long time, probably since I knew I was marrying my best friend. He was not so sure. But I just always hoped we could agree on three kids. Here I sit, with a completely healthy, whole, beautiful baby that I will soon meet, Lord willing, in a few hours. I am beside myself that God has blessed me a third time.

I wanted three children more than I wanted a girl. Shame on complete strangers that do not understand, but feel liberties in making faces when I say I am having a third beautiful boy.

THREE.

In a few hours the third baby will be here. I will hold him. His daddy will hold him. I will be more emotional. I just know it.

I knew this day was coming. And maybe I am just a little nervous that I will miss the early days of Son3's life, because it will all be a blur. I hope not. I want to feel every single moment of a newborn baby again.

I have had those same feelings about savoring the moments with my five year old, my two year old, and my husband. I have poured as much as I could into my family of four, my two sons, and my husband. I love them so much. I have not wanted 2009 to be "the year we moved to San Diego and we were busy getting adjusted and we just did not do anything but that." Nope. I did not want the days to turn into months, and then for us all to wonder how we got a year older. This pregnancy has allowed me to slow down, to appreciate every time we heard the heart beat on the doppler, and saw the baby on the ultrasound monitor. I have appreciated the minutes, the days, and the weeks. When I said "no" to anything else, I was saying yes to them. We spent long days in our new back yard this summer, laughed, hugged, and played for hours. I packed the kids up, spun them around town, and sang silly CDs in the car with them at the top of our lungs. We made trips to Coronado for an hour here or there, just because lunch with Daddy was possible. And often, very often, both the boys wanted to know about the baby wherever we were. He is at the forefront of their minds.

This pregnancy has meant something to all of us. Every single member of our family is excited. Every single member reaches often for my belly, to feel Son3. They press, he kicks. They are loud, he kicks. Both boys lift up my shirt and kiss my belly spontaneously, or talk to the baby, or reason that he kicks because he must feel trapped and he wants out. Son2 is convinced he can push him out.

One day Hubs totally surprised me. He told me how beautiful I am pregnant, how he wants to remember these moments that our family is excited, and he arranged for a photo shoot at Coronado Beach. These are his shots of me, of the kids, and I love them. Professional pictures will get posted one day, you know, when I don't have to get to bed. That night on Coronado Beach was seemingly perfect. It was warm. It was peaceful. It was about our family.

Wednesday morning I was up early with Hubs, the day before my induction. It was in the 6am hour, and he was ready for his work day, and I was ready for mine. I came down the stairs, and a slow smile spread across his face. He called me outside to take pictures. So here we are. Son3 and me, overdue.

The other side of my emotion is excitement. I cannot wait to meet the newest Farmer. I cannot wait to see his teeny tiny face in my hands. And most of all, I cannot wait to share him. I have had his kicks all to myself, his movements to myself, and even some of the discomfort to myself. Now he will belong to our whole family in a different way. His daddy will hold him, and his brothers will kiss him. I know my heart will be full. For that, I am emotional, too.

Last Day on the Big Island

2009-09-03T04:00:00.001-04:00

On our very last day on the Big Island Hubs and I made a plan. Well, really he made a plan because he loves me so much. We would drive all the way around the Big Island, northbound to Hilo, and end our day in Kona, back at the airport before our very long flight back to the Big Rock. The plan was to stop at Hawaii Volcanoes National Park one last time. Could we find my camera?

We left our hotel in Waikoloa and headed to North Kohala, and into Kamuela, or cowboy country. I missed the shots of the Kohala coast that resemble the moon on our drive into Kamuela. Yes, the moon. The landscape all the way to the ocean is a crisp black, not green and lush. The blackness is dried lava. You can see some of it here, from a trip we took when we lived on Oahu, and visited the Big Island.

Hubs and I love Kamuela. We could totally see ourselves living here. It is at a higher elevation, and about a 20 minute drive to the beach. It is the "largest" city in the interior of the island, with a whopping seven thousand people. It is cowboy country, or paniolo country.
The cowboy town holds a strong Mexican influence. Living here is not cheap by any means. Parker Ranch is the largest privately owned cattle ranch in the United States.

The hills are rolling green. It is cooler up here. And there is all kinds of livestock. It is peaceful and my kids go nuts when they see all of the farm animals.
About here our two year old started crying for apple bananas. It was so cute to hear him plead through his tears for us to stop. We stopped days earlier here for apple bananas and he remembered. Hubs pulled over at an organic health store and bought a bunch for less than $2. And Son2 giggled through tears, and we all smiled. My kids love local Hawaiian fruit.

Between here and the Hamakua Coast much of the island is a two lane highway.

We emerged from the rolling hills of cowboy country to the majestic Hamakua coastline. Whizz! This was taken while driving...can you tell?Our direction, the highway continued in one lane, and in the other direction, the highway opened up into another lane.
Whizz! I could not risk dropping another camera. Son1 was screaming for me to check the wrist strap. Trust me, there are waterfalls down there.
Finally we came into a very wet Hilo. It rains most on the Hilo side of the island. Whizz! Still driving...we had a plane to catch that night. It takes roughly four hours of drive time without stopping to drive the whole island. This is the small historic downtown.
Just minutes from downtown Hilo is Volcano Village, just outside of Hawaii Volcanoes National Park. We stopped at what was deemed the best Thai food in Hilo. The restaurant is very family style, and the Thai food is island style. This was seriously the best Thai food I have ever had. The summer rolls enveloped fresh pineapple, and the fried rice was garlicky and mmmm island style. Everyone ate their fill...Hubs, boys, and I were stuffed and satisfied. It was a very good feeling.
Love this sign at the park entrance.
Hubs made a quick turn at the entrance toward the Kilauea Iki Trail. The rain was really coming down, and the roads were packed with cars and slick with tropical rain. I jumped out and took photos of the trail head where we had hiked.
We hiked this entire ridge, down into the crater floor, and back up the ridge, before I dropped my camera.
I really, really wanted to see this steam vent on the floor of the crater, up close and personal. One day we will go back and we will make the whole hike out there, I just know it.
And that sweet Hubs of mine snapped my picture in the rain and in the steamy vog because I WAS THERE.
We crossed the parking lot by car to the Thurston Lava Tube. The tube was totally packed. The ground was slippery and muddy. We all came to the final realization (well probably it was just me that needed to accept) that my camera was deep in a crack in the tube somewhere. We knew we could not find it that day. It was gone forever. So I took a picture at the edge of the overlook, clutching my camera, exactly where I dropped it between these two signs.The camera tumbled down, down, down this canopy of ferns, and deep into the crevices of the lava tube below. This was pretty painful to be back. Instead, we left the park, and continued on our trip around the island.
We rounded South Point, the southern most tip of the United States, and up into the South Kohala Coast.We soaked up every bit of Hawaii we could, until the sun set. And we said aloha to what we once knew as "home." But in Hawaii we say "Aloha, Ahui hou." We do not say goodbye. We say, "Goodbye, until we meet again." And Hawaii, the Farmers will meet you again. We miss you too much to say goodbye forever.

Tropical Dreams at $26 a Gallon is Worth Every Penny!

2009-09-01T16:30:00.001-04:00

Hubs and I knew one MUST DO on the Big Island was stop at Tropical Dreams ice cream farm. The short version is we stopped, bought our half gallon of Banana Storm, and ate it back at our vacation unit. The much better story is the first time we ever discovered Tropical Dreams.

On our very last trip to the Big Island before we moved from Hawaii, we kept reading about Tropical Dreams ice cream. It was supposed to be THE ice cream on the face of the planet. We set out to find the farm and forgot our guidebook! We remembered the farm was in Kamuela. Somehow, the idea of a FARM did not stick in our brains. We drove all over the small town looking for an ice cream SHOP.

We spotted a hot pink store front and pulled over. We asked if they served Tropical Dreams. NO. Before loading in the car, my kids spied a huge turtle coffee table in the real estate office next door. They wanted to pet him, but he seemed made out of Koa wood, and I thought the better of it. I steered them toward the car when Hubs slipped inside. I did not notice right away. He talked story a bit, and walked to our car with papers in hand. I thought he had property information. Ha! The realtor printed out map and directions to the FARM, less than two miles away. We found the farm in a few minutes. In the middle of this farm is a warehouse.
Now we just weren't sure what to expect. Hubs hopped out alone to check things out. A few minutes later he emerged from this warehouse, swinging a plastic bucket, clutching a brown sack, and making eyebrows at me with a wide smile across his face. This stuff had to be serious. In fact, it was. In his prized bucket was Banana Storm, at $26 a gallon. He had a half gallon, and paid $13. For some reason they were closed, but had the door to the warehouse open. The owner(?) sold him the ice cream anyway, with some plastic spoons and some styrofoam bowls. She said the ice cream was super hard, but should be just right if we made the drive to Hilo, 60 miles away. We were headed that way, anyway. She told him all about the ice cream. Mmmmm. I am getting there.

Hubs thought we needed a serving spoon because plastic spoons are just not the best for serving a half gallon of ice cream. It was a Saturday, and we rounded the corner from the farm and saw this sign:

Hubs flipped the rental around, and pulled over at a home in the neighborhood. I slid out of my seat onto the driveway, and he handed me a few dollars. I poked around a bit and found a handful of stainless steel serving spoons perfect for scooping ice cream. I asked the lady how much for one spoon, and she said I had to take them all for fifty cents. Deal.

I jumped back in the car, and we started the drive toward Hilo. Soon enough the kids were wise to our ice cream bucket, and were STARVING. Oh they just could not wait. Oh they were so HUNGRY. When were we going to stop??? Hubs caved and pulled over at a nice park along the Hamkua Coast. We grabbed a package of wipes, ice cream, spoons, and bowls and sat at a picnic table under a huge tree, looking down at the Pacific Ocean. We pulled the top off of Banana Storm. I took one long look and scrambled to pull the shirts off the boys. I could only imagine they might want to bathe in the ice cream, and I had not even smacked Banana Storm across my lips yet.
Oooh la la...Banana Storm. This is what we learned about this ice cream. The ice cream was named by an employee originally from Guam. When storms grace Guam, bananas fall to the ground everywhere. So it is called a banana storm. This ice cream is made with all kinds of local fruit. And it isn't like other ice creams where you get a little chunk of this or that about the size of a penny. No.NO.NO.

Oh. My. Word. I have NEVER ever had such frozen goodness grace my buds.

The ice cream is classified as "superpremium." Such ice cream is made with 18% butterfat and is "low overrun," meaning the amount of air mixed in while freezing. It makes the creamiest, densest ice cream EVAH. (Grocery store ice cream is 10 to 12% butterfat.) And the bananas are NOT the long yellow ones sitting out at your grocery store. Oh NO. These are locally grown apple bananas. There are half strawberry fruits and half oreo cookies in there. These are not little ground up chunks. NO. I am talking about half pieces of cookie from the top of the plastic tub all the way to the bottom. Mmm mmmm mmmmmmmmmm!
This was officially the beginning of the end of my South Beach diet in December. I am only going to confess to having at least two bowls. I will not confess more than that. My family had just as much as I did, too.
We were so thrilled to visit Tropical Dreams once again on our trip this summer. Hubs and the owner talked story again when he picked up the half gallon. We will be back, Tropical Dreams!

Waterslides and the Price of Fine Japanese Food

2009-08-27T02:02:00.002-04:00

I finally quit moping about the camera I dropped down the lava tube. It was making my family too sad, and the kids needed me to get wet with them. Unfortunately, Hubs had a horrific accident a month before we left on the trip to the Big Island. The short of the very long and gross story is that he could not get his leg wet because of a puncture wound nearly to his shin bone. It was an open wound and still had not closed almost a month later. (That story is super gory and I will only tell it if you make me. Plus, it's not like I am behind in my blogging, right?!? The short version, is that his doctor, along with another orthopedic surgeon agreed he risked having his leg amputated since he waited to seek treatment for a few days after the accident. It became infected from the inside of his body out. Ewww!!)

Even though it was just the boys and me in the water, and I was sporting my 32 week bump, I was amazed that both boys were so independent on the water slides. Handling the two boys alone and pregnant in the pool was not nearly as difficult as I imagined. Really, my feelings were not hurt that they preferred one another to me. Okay, maybe I was a little shocked for a minute. I felt a little guilty treading water in the pool while they slid down the slide, dumped into the pool, and swam to the edge over and over. My two little fish loved swimming away from me. I suppose they thought that was funny. This is the water slide at our vacation ownership resort. Hubs took pictures with his camera.
We also are allowed to use the hotel resort next door. Now here is the thing I loved the most. Had I been at a water park, I am sure I would have been banned from the water slides because of my "health condition." But at the resort it did not matter that I was very pregnant! Can you spot the boys behind me? Too bad you can't see me in this suit standing up. In three pregnancies this is my absolute favorite maternity suit!
The OTHER thing we did at the properties was attend a presentation to buy more vacation ownership. I purposely am not mentioning where we own because this is the one and only time we had a not so pleasant experience. Generally the pitch to owners is a no pressure sale, because they believe their hotel brand sells itself. And it does. The presentation usually goes like this: They say, "So you don't want to spend money today. Any questions? GREAT. Here is your check for $100. Bye. Enjoy your time here." Or something to that effect. That did not happen this time.

I made the mistake of telling the egomaniac with a smile I was not going to leave without my $100. Ugh. I think he took that as a challenge. He brought my kids legos. He brought them snacks. He tried to get them to watch a movie. He offered to buy us dinner. He told us we deserved this. He questioned our judgment and logic when we said no. And I felt trapped. So I had to spring us from this guy's office.

A little known fact is that I finished half an economics degree in college before I changed my major (long story, but I wanted to graduate fast, instead). I still read Forbes. I still follow economic trends, and I like to weigh opportunity costs. So I launched into an incredible diatribe on the state of our economy, the evolution of the American mentality of entitlement, and how we must be more judicious in our economic choices in the state of our current economic crisis. But what I said was much more involved, intelligent, articulate and beautiful, all while I snapped legos together, passed out snacks, and tried to keep peace on the floor of his office. I watched as he sat in his comfy ergonomic chair shifting back and forth, but I kept going. A slow smile spread across Hubs' face when I finished and I knew I made him proud. The egomaniac did not have much of a come back and finally fetched our $100. He made some snide remarks at me as he filled out the voucher. And because I am sinful and I need Jesus, I used some of his wording from his sales pitch with an edge to my voice as a retort. He dramatically looked at me and told me it was a good thing he had thick skin. I held my tongue and said nothing to him about how I spent a good chunk of time on the floor of his office pregnant, with my children, while he rocked in his ergonomic chair.

ANYWAY.

We took our voucher.
I dressed my men alike for dinner.
We rode the shuttle to the resort.
We hopped on the tram that wraps through the resort,
and landed ourselves at this restaurant where I vowed never to take my little people on many previous visits.

And honestly, I became that American with a sense of entitlement WITH a $100 voucher for dinner. So to the people that gave us some stink eye because of my little people, I did not see you. I was too busy sharing a sunset with my family.Son1 has had a thing for Japan since he was three. He was beside himself to go to Imari, a Japanese steakhouse, for dinner. They serve two kinds of dinner, Teppanyaki (grill where you sit around the hot table with some strangers) or Washoku (traditional sit down Japanese dinner.) We opted for Washoku on the fancy side of the restaurant, you know, for the amusement of the other guests. HA! The restaurant folding doors were pushed open, and my kids loved visiting the koi pond in between courses.

And Imari did not disappoint. We made a reservation ahead of time. They had a special table set up for us, and to my surprise, chopsticks prepared for my kids. The chopsticks were wrapped with rubber bands so the kids could participate, and their menus and crayons were placed so carefully at their settings. The restaurant has fountains, waterfalls, and porcelain pieces throughout. It has an elegant minimalist feeling. The waitresses donned traditional black kimonos, and the restaurant bred an aura of serenity. I tried to get the kids to blend and be one with their environment, in other words, be quiet. Whenever we frequent a cloth napkin kind of establishment I try and emphasize the whole "fancy restaurant" thing with the kids. Now this place was a double whammy because on top of cloth napkins they also received steaming white wash cloths. They were a bit confused by bath time at the dinner table, but at least followed suit.

For dinner, I had a China Mist passion fruit iced tea...
...and some scrumptious scallops. Why bother with an appetizer when I could not eat anything raw?
So instead, I behaved, did not indulge, and watched Hubs feast on his appetizer including my absolute fave...sashimi.
He had himself a bento box, except Son2 monopolized his hot and sour soup.

Now you don't think we took all of these pictures with a camera phone, do you? No! Hubs and Son1 took a special field trip to Costco and got us a nice little point and shoot Canon for the rest of the trip! Son1 kept checking to make sure I used the wrist strap and wasn't going to let us have another sad day. Because when a man loves a woman...well, you read my last post.

Crocodile Tears at Kilauea Iki Trail and Thurston Lava Tube

2009-08-03T20:45:00.003-04:00

This day did not turn out as planned. It was the saddest day of our whole trip to Hawaii. I sobbed and heaved and blubbered. The day started so well.

We stayed on the Kona coast of the Big Island, known for it's crystal blue calm waters and coffee country. With Hubby's leg wound not healed (more to come later) we opted for a land day on the Hilo side of the island, two hours away. We traveled the drier south side to the Kona Mountain Coffee Company. They produce 100% Kona Coffee. This is a big deal, because some companies only serve 10% Kona coffee. I learn more about coffee all of the time. I am SO SAD that I am not a coffee drinker. I missed out on a whole lot of Kona coffee drinking when we lived in Hawaii. Our church served Kona coffee every Sunday and I may have indulged once, just to say I did.

At the store, Hubs purchased green unroasted Kona coffee beans. You roast them just before you brew coffee.This was news to me. I knew nothing about green coffee beans. In the Kona coffee grading system they are extra fancy, the largest and nearly perfect beans. And they are spendier! He also chose a coconut mocha Kona coffee which is 100% Kona coffee mixed with macadamia nut and coconut and a few others including a chocolate raspberry. And even though I am not a coffee drinker, Hubs monitors my caffeine intake lately. (READ: Almost eliminated it entirely regardless of my cravings.) So he sweetly surprised me with a bag of chocolate covered peaberries, high in caffeine! I ate a handful and all of a sudden my head relaxed with a familiar caffeine buzz. A Wal Mart stop and lunch drive through later, we were finally on the two lane highway to Hilo!

We arrived at the Hawaii Volcanoes National Park shortly after 4pm. This was one of the only things on Son1's TO DO list. He remembered his time at Thurston Lave Tube with our family and Gradma T., and was intent on walking through the cave. Just before the bend in the road to Thurston Lava Tube is the Kilauea Iki entrance. So we made an unexpected stop and jumped out. Our plan was just to take a picture from the rim of the collapsed crater. But as we peered over the edge we spied a handful of people walking across the crater. I was positive this was the four mile hike our friends Kevin and Sarah once made across the collapsed crater.
We checked the trail guide, and sure enough, this was it! So Hubs and I stood there and we pondered the hike. We knew Son1 could easily make the four mile hike. He had walked that far over the Coronado Bridge. But the trail was not stroller friendly, and this time our two year old was in tow. We had some bottles of water and some cashews and chocolates to hold the kids over until dinner. We hemmed and hawed long enough and finally called Kevin and Sarah on the east coast hoping not to wake them. Did they think our kids could make the trip? They don't have kids yet, but they do know and love our kids. We trusted their judgment, and they said to go for it. By the time we packed our stuff, and hit the trail it was nearly 5pm.The trail was dense and thick and jungly. The ground was moist and the mosquitoes were awake. Parts of the trail were steep downhills and some were steep uphills. The jungle canopy shaded the trail so well, and blocked out much sunlight. It was all beautiful, and I made many stops with Son1 to take pictures of all the beauty around us.The trail is a 450 foot drop from a rich sea of green rain forest into a dry and desolate volcanic crater. Hubs quickly decided to hoist Son2 on his shoulders while Son1 and I brought up the rear. Hubs and Son2 walked ahead and kept up with the momentum of a down hill trail. Son1 and I talked about the vegetation, the insects we heard, and the birds we saw. I took so many beautiful pictures of him, of all that we saw, and Hubs and Son2 along the trail. In so many ways I could not believe that we were back again, just six months after we had moved from Hawaii. All of the thick and tall trees, the smells of the rain forest, the sounds of the birds and insects, I took it all in. I loved it differently than I had loved it before, because this time, I knew I could only enjoy this beauty for a few days. Son1 and I talked about saving, and I reminded him that to come on special trips like this we needed to to save money. We talked about spending less money on McD0na1d*s, and what it means to save money.

My thoughts wandered to my three pregnancies. When I was pregnant with Son1 and living in VA Hubs spoke at a conference in Hawaii. I tagged along, and made the long 13 hour flight, pregnant with Son1. I had no inkling we would move to Hawaii just a year later. Then I thought about how my second child was born in Hawaii, and how our third child was just teeny tiny in my womb when we left. And so I had all of these mushy emotional pregnancy thoughts, how I have spent part of all three of my pregnancies here. I watched as my eldest flew down the trail so easily in front of me, in his laced up tennis shoes, how I never thought a day like this would come four years ago. I thought he would be in velcro shoes forever. I listened as he shouted, "C'mon Mommy; we have to catch up! I can't see Daddy and brother any more!! Stop taking pictures Mommy! We have to get to the crater!" Sometimes we stopped long enough to touch and talk about the plants, trees, and the exposed roots.

And I snuck more pictures.

We talked about the cooling lava, and the rich soil, and the new growth. We talked about God, and all that He created, and all that we delighted in seeing, hearing, and touching.

And I took more pictures.

I took some awesome pictures of my big boy's sweet smile, of his excitement, of his understanding of all that was around. I took pictures of my husband, and captured the moments of him loving the minutes with our little toddler, helping him climb over the carved out trail in a most protective way, sometimes with the little boy perched on his shoulders. They were pictures of the little boy who was turning into a little boy, and would soon not be the baby in the family. More pictures, and Hubs told me we just had to hurry. He was sure I had taken a whole mess of pictures already. He was right. I easily took close to 100 shots . The light was disappearing from the trail. Both of the kids had tripped. We realized that we would need to turn back at the crater floor, for a 2.5 mile round trip. We would not cross the crater.

Soon enough we reached the crater floor. A few people looked at my well formed belly, just 8 weeks from my due date, and cautioned me to be very careful. The lava rock was crumbly and loose and they were struggling to climb up the trail. I promised I would be super careful. Finally our feet hit the floor of the crater, and I asked Hubs to let me take a few pictures. The landscape was so different at the floor! The crater collapsed in 1959 after a red lava lake spewed and formed after 1,000 earthquakes. It took 36 years to cool. And it is still cooling. In the distance we could see steam vents from the ground. I zoomed in and took some beautiful shots. I must tell you that none of these shots in this post are mine. Not even this one, of the ohi' a lehua, one of the first plants to form in the rich lava soil after it cools.
This a view of the new rock that forms after lava cools.
In the distance you can spot some of the steam across the rest of the trail.At this point, we knew it was still over a mile back to the trail head. The sun was setting already, and the trail is not lit at all. We all agreed it was time to go. I handed Hubs my camera, and asked him to take a few shots of me and of the kids. He promised he took a handful of great shots, and we should start back. But I asked him to take one more with the timer, one more of our entire family. I explicitly made a point of telling him "of our family of five." I smoothed my kids' hair, wiped sweat beads from my forehead, and we positioned ourselves. We did not have a tripod. In the vast open space, Hubs found a little rock lava sculpture. He grabbed more lava rocks from the floor of the crater, and lodged the camera into a precarious position, guaranteeing me the camera would be fine. He set the timer, and we took a few pictures this way. But when the very last shot finished, he grabbed the camera, played back the digital image, and we all were absolutely amazed. There we were, dressed in bright blue against the dark black lava rock with the rain forest towering along the crater rim. The picture captured the landscape behind us so clearly, and our family so crisply, our family of FIVE. I praised him for such a great shot, and I told him I could not wait until Son3 could one day see this picture. I wore a smile all the way back up the trail, because that picture could not have been any better. The boys were smiling, and Son1 wore a sense of accomplishment. Hubs and I agreed that this hike was one of the highlights with our boys thus far in the life of our family. We enjoyed the hike all the way back. Finally, we arrived at the trail head, a little tired, 2.5 miles later. We were so proud of both boys, shocked that even our two year old hoofed the majority of the trail back to the parking lot on his own two feet.

Hubs loaded the kids back in the car, and I snapped a few more pictures of the early evening over Kilauea Iki. Hubs asked if we should still make the short jaunt through Thurston Lava Tube. The entrance was just across Crater Rim Drive. The sunlight was definitely escaping us. But the dusk was enough light to make the short hike. Yes, we all agreed we wanted to make the short beautiful hike. We even had a little family cheer. YAAAAYYYY!!!!!

We found parking. We crossed the street. We stood at the overlook at the entrance to the lava tube. I tried to get a good shot of the top of the canopy, but I thought Hubs could get a better shot leaning over the rail.

I asked him to take the picture.

I extended my arm to him with the camera.

I let go before the camera met his hand.

And it slipped over the rail and bounced off the top of the canopy of trees.

It tumbled.

We heard it go deep, deep, deep down.

And Hubs looked at me ready to say something.

And I burst into tears.

And he said nothing.

Very determined, he suggested we look for it. Quietly we descended into the tube. We rounded the bend closest to the probable landing spot, still no less than 30 feet from the trail. Below the canopies of the ferns and trees several stories in the air, the darkness started to settle in for the evening. A folding sign blocked an entrance to where we needed to cross. It warned not to enter, it warned of danger. Hubs picked the sign up and crossed into the slippery green floor. It was muddy from recent rain. I kept hushing an inquisitive Son1. He looked at me and said,

"Mommy, is Daddy doing a bad thing??"

And the words tumbled from my heart. I looked into his sincere eyes and said, "When a man loves a woman, he will do crazy things." He was strangely satisfied, and repeated that phrase all night, and through the week. In fact, he is still saying it in San Diego.

Hubs never found the camera. I cried the rest of the night. He bought me a steak dinner that could not fix my heart. He offered to buy me another camera that could not bring back my SD card. He listened to me cry for two hours back to Kona about that one picture, the picture of our family of five. I was not angry. I was feeling so sad. I heaved. I blubbered. I thanked him for showing me the picture on the screen, the one I would hold in my heart. That man has a heart of gold. He understood me even if he did not understand.

A pleading phone call from my emotional pregnant heart to the park ranger led to a rescue mission two days later. At that moment all I wanted was my SD card. I did not care if the camera was shattered. All I wanted was that one picture, the one I saw on the playback screen. The amazing folks from the park sent four workers deep into the bowels of the tube to look for my camera with no such luck. I was told that they searched for half a day. They found many other lost items, though. The emergency dispatcher said my camera probably slipped through a crevice and plummeted over a hundred feet below the ground.

So there is no picture of that day. That is OK. But if there is one thing I hope that the boys learned that day from their daddy, is that if a man loves a woman, he will do crazy things for her. I hope they learned from their daddy to be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to become angry. Their wives will thank them one day.

Sick!!!

2009-07-21T11:55:00.003-04:00

An unexpected illness took a firm grip over my 61 inch frame.

A horrible case of the stomach virus attacked me. LITERALLY for five days.

I saw my practitioner. She told me to hydrate and take an over the counter medication.

I did not hydrate.

The contractions started.

I called the doctor's office when the contractions multiplied the next day.

I called Hubs to come home before I called the doctor.

I knew I was in for it.

My kids knew something was very, very wrong.

They were dolls.

Who knew the 4 year old could make meals?

The triage obstetrical nurse said I wasn't having "enough" contractions in an hour.

She told me to drink MORE water.

I told her I could not.

She wanted to know WHY I could not.

Liquids made me more nauseous.

I started to cry. I told her I was never this irrational about liquid.

She gently shook me through the phone and told me I had no choice.

Six contractions in an hour and it was hospital time.

NO!

She told me the hospital would only give me IV fluid and put me on monitors anyway, and maybe just give me a touch of medication and send me home.

"Angry Booty" (an Usherism) is not pregnancy related, yet going around pregnant women now.

I was still in painful tears when we hung up.

Hubs came home and catered to the kids and to me.

Six contractions in an hour came. He held my hand. I drank more water.

Six contractions in twenty minutes came. I refused to hear about the hospital.

I drank more water.

I drank more water.

I drank more water.

Six hours later the contractions subsided.

I drank more water.

I was sweaty all night.

I drank more water.

I could not pee. There was nothing to waste.

I drank more water.

Hubs went into the office for a few hours the next morning.

I drank G2. It literally saved my life.

It was salty and sweet from beginning to end. I did not like it at first.

The water was not enough, though. I needed more salt to retain liquid.

I drank more G2.

I drank more G2.

I drank more G2.

Hubs was home again. He did not let me move one inch.

I slept several hours.

I drank more G2.

I drank more water, too.

Stomach virus was still in full swing.

I stood up only *to go*.

Hubs disappeared with my kids.

I slept more hours.

I was sweaty for more hours. It all came out my pores.

I drank more water. I drank more G2.

Two days later, I felt my stomach relax from knots.

It had now lasted Sunday to Sunday.

Today is Tuesday.

I am good, thank the Lord.

Read more about the rest of the Hawaiian adventure here soon.

Big Rock Fever

2009-07-10T16:07:00.000-04:00

When we lived in Hawaii people NOT from Hawaii always asked if we ever got rock fever. And my answer was always a horrified "NO!" I generally stayed in the state except for one trip back to California a year. On holiday weekends and during some holidays we traveled to the neighbor islands. Each island is so vastly different that I never felt whatever people refer to as "rock fever." However, after living on the Big Rock (what local people in Hawaii call the lower 48) for just under six months, Hubs, myself, and Son1 all had Big Rock Fever. Um, and why yes, that is a Farmerism. We missed the culture of aloha the most as well as local food. It was time. We had to get off the Big Rock. So with time share points expiring this year, and a hunk of frequent flyer miles, the four Farmers arrived at the airport two hours after dropping off Vitafamiliae. The total flight time before us was seven hours, with an additional 3 hour layover in SF. That is 10 hours of travel time! From San Diego to San Fransisco the kids sat with Hubs. And they were the quietest kids ever. Yes, I was jealous. They always give him the royal treatment. Humph!!!

We never mind layovers in San Fransisco, because we always score the same terminal. I have no idea what it is called, but it is the one with the kids play area and the food court. By far, our favorite stop is called Just Desserts. They are a local SF company that bakes premium desserts from scratch with no trans fats. The desserts are all natural. They do not use any artificial flavors, colors or preservatives, bleached flour, or hydrogenated shortenings. The dessert on the left is mine, which was a marble mousse, and Hubs had a mango mousse cake. Those sweet children of ours did not even ask for a bite! We swallowed these after our mondo Mexican food lunch.
Three hours later we boarded the flight to Kona, Hawaii. Kona is on the "Big Island." All of the other seven main Hawaiian islands could fit inside the Big Island. It is Son1's favorite island, and he was crazy excited to fly back to Hawaii. Son1 and I had a row to ourselves and Son2 and Hubs sat in the row across from us in their own row.
The seating arrangement was just fine with me. Son2 is our more active and vocal child. Let's just say he doesn't do his best in confined spaces. About 10 minutes into the flight I peered over Hubs and saw this:
I asked Hubs how he accomplished to do that. He just smiled a cocky smile at me and said, "I am the Son2 Whisperer. I just told him to lay down and go to sleep." Well, Daddy-O have I told you how happy I am you are on this trip?!? He just shook his head at me, pulled out a charged ipod and the rest of the flight went like this...for just over 5 hours folks.
We landed in Hawaii, and after two hours of calling every rental company to find where we reserved our rental car, we finally made it to Costco one minute before they closed for the essentials. And of course, that included a macadamia nut pie for me. ALL ME. Aloha y'all.

The Vitafamiliae Visit

2009-07-08T16:17:00.001-04:00

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, ..., it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, ..."

Ever read that quote from Charles Dickens in a Tale Of Two Cities? Did Dickens know The Farmer Files personally? A LOT of life has happened over the last six months. A LOT. And blogging took a back seat. A lot of chaos, emotions (HELLO remember I am pregnant?!?), upheaval, and prioritizing my husband and kids absorbed our days. Moving to San Diego has been wonderful and exhausting all at the same time. The construction around our home is finally complete and we are adjusting to a new "normal." We have hosted company for 27 days in the last four months from understanding friends to understanding family.

Our latest and greatest guests came from the house of Vitafam. I have not seen them in four years, since before the twins' first birthday. And their visit was like water for my blogging soul. But before I tell you all about my revelations here is the quick story...if ever such a thing.

We first met LL and Andrew nine years ago in Northern VA at church. I knew I liked them immediately because they wore jeans to church inside the stuffy suit and tie Beltway. See, despite was LL says, they could live in CA. They have since moved back "home" to the South. Andrew scored a work conference in San Fran last week, and LL and three of their five kids boarded the plane with him. Go visit her and read about their adventures in the city. OH MY. Then they jumped on ANOTHER plane one hour south to our house. She tells you all about Legoland, swimming at our house, and playing with our Vitamix here. And it was tons of fun. They even let us sneak out one night for dinner ALONE. Oh, and those kids she blogs about? I have no idea where she left them. The twins she blogs about are not the ones that showed up at my house. They were polite, obedient, cleaned up their plates and toys, every single time without fuss. In her post, she skipped the part about how they spanked us in Euchre after a lot of trash talking. Hmmm I can't decide if she left that part out because of her Southern politeness OR if it is because Hubs swears the game is a game of LUCK and not SKILL. I mean, it's not like Euchre is HEARTS, PINOCHLE, OR TEXAS HOLD 'EM. Not that we are competitive or anything. But seriously, it was awesome to play cards with sweet competitors that understand the beauty of a poker pack. They speak our love language.

But the best part of the visit for me were the long convos. Well, that, and them doting on my pregnant self. What pregnant lady doesn't love folks that don't let her lift a finger?? I was spoiled. When they come back, I think I will just shove a pillow under my shirt and pretend and see if they are just as good to me. HA! But as LL said, there was no "starting from the beginning." I have known them long enough to know them. There was a lot of sharing of our lives and our walks by faith. You know, mushy stuff. And then there were tech moments. The dry stuff that I thoroughly enjoyed talking about with LL. Hubs and Andrew did their tech triage stuff around our house, too, but I totally didn't understand what they were saying in computer-ese. Um, and pretty much it was Andrew doing his thing. Computers, those are his bag, folks. Meantime, LL broke down the whole twittering thing for me and hooked me up on tweetdeck. So follow me, I'm thefarmerfiles.

Talking to LL was like water for my blogging soul. I am encouraged. I am back. And because you have been reading and you know us, we will just take LL's advice and not start over from the beginning, m'kay? Now these photos are on her blog, and I totally don't care if you see them twice, because they make me smile. Marinate on these, people.