October, 2012.

My birth month. My husband and I are bidding our marriage counselor farewell on the steps of the counseling establishment…not necessarily because we are “healed and whole” but more because the non profit organization was out of money and they were closing their doors. Pam the Therapist, who took us most of our 8 years of marriage to find, didn’t have a new job lined up and her life seemed more unsure than even our marriage. But if I’m honest, I felt pretty good. We had dealt with a lot of nitty gritty bits and pieces and the act of keeping a therapy appointment at all can be very therapeutic in itself.

Since I met my husband when I was 14 years old, we both knew there were going to be some differences in nearly every aspect of our lives. You never know how thats going to look 15 years down the road, but you try to bank on this dynamite bond you have going on and forget the rest till it rears it’s head. The bottom line is that I was raised in a broken home with daily substance abuse and domestic violence and the court system making all the families decisions for us. My parents did the best that they knew how to for myself and my four brothers. They had all their own sets of hurt and disfunction that shaped their lives and decisions. I once read that it would be foolish to expect to have received from our parent something that they didn’t actually possess themselves.  They cant possibly give what they do not have.  The best part of my childhood…the silver lining in it all…was simply that comic relief wasn’t an option, it was necessity. I have learned more from laughing at my life than I ever will trying to make sense of it all. Despite their more prominent personality traits, my parents are some of the funniest people Ive ever known. As weird as it sounds, it kept things feeling sane…when they clearly weren’t. And when you couldn’t laugh anymore, you could always cry. We are a strongly emotive family.

My husband however, has a Brethren Pastor for a father and a nurse for a mother. Loving, normal people. 3 brothers. All with gobs of their own inherent human dysfunction, but not nearly as announced or quite as life altering as my own families’. Trust me, if everyone were raised the way Christian Philip Emanuel Krouse was, the world would be a better place. Less hearts all out there on sleeves to be certain. That’s not reality though.

So you’re up to speed on who and when and where. One of the main things I had been working with my therapist on was setting up safe boundaries. A family like mine didn’t have use of a word like “boundaries”. I don’t know if they use that word anywhere but in America. Especially not with family. I don’t picture a hut dwelling family in Uganda confronting each other when someone goes all “boundary buster” on someone else. No room for boundaries when survival is the primary goal. But as an adult lady with four children and a husband, the thought of having more control over who and what I let effect me emotionally sounded nice.

So naturally, I was in the midst of a boundary enforced period with my father as counseling came to an end. I will always be my father’s daughter. I will always crave his approval and his adoration. But I was starting to realize it was at the expense of some of my morals. Over the past several months he had done a few off color things…just things that sent up red flags, mostly involving substance around my children and being a silly girl and imagining I had all the time in the world to decide how and when (or maybe never) to address this…we just weren’t talking. Maybe 2 months went by…he might have called…I didn’t return the call…mostly cause I didn’t want to say the things I needed to say. Everything I had to say seemed so “therapy verbiage” and I couldn’t picture it going well. So I avoided it. He lived 6 hours away at the time so it wasn’t too hard to make that happen.

At the close of October though, my family was in crisis and my father was making the trip down from Connecticut to help undo some things that were done. The young, codependent girl inside of me felt the need to at least offer a positive word or affirming nod while the family went through a hard time. I remember his voice on the message he left me, when he returned my call. With all that was going on, he sounded so happy to hear from me. He always called me his sunshine. Told me I could brighten anyones day. Maybe it was only true for him, but thats all a daughter really needs. When we finally made a connection, nothing went as planned. By the time I spoke to him he had already spoken with my mother, who he has been civil with on and off since their divorce in my teen years. That clearly didn’t go well and I got to hear all about it. Hindsight wished I had remained silent. A statue. But that blubbering, over emotive young girl had turned into a woman and I’ll be damned she was a woman who had received some therapy and if there was one thing that she knew, it was that there was a boundary being busted RIGHT NOW! I tried to calmly say,”Dad, the same way i don’t like to hear mom say terrible things about you, I also don’t like to hear you say awful things about her. She is my mother.” Well, I don’t think he wanted to hear that. Things became heated and I ended up saying everything I have ever needed to say to him. “SO HOW WAS YOUR HABIT OF GOING AWAY TO JAIL EVERY FEW YEARS NOT A MAJOR FACTOR IN THE OUTCOME OF THIS FAMILY! HOW WAS THE ABUSE, VERBAL AND PHYSICAL, NOT A FACTOR! TELL ME AGAIN HOW THE SHIT STORM THAT THIS FAMILY FACES ISNT YOUR FAULT!!” Thats the condensed, edited version. It was two days before my birthday. He told me as far as he was concerned i was no longer his daughter and that I was dead to him. I ended the conversation telling him that I loved him but couldn’t stand to listen to the lies he tells himself any longer. That was all. It was the worst phone conversation of my entire life. To add insult to injury, he died within the week.

What followed this event, aside from instant shock and trauma, was months of feeling like a hollow version of my former self. A shell, in place of what had been a breathing, thriving life force…going thru the daily motions of a life that i recognized but somehow felt removed from now. Grief. Some have known it well, I had never known it before this point and I never imagined it could carry this amount of weight. The circumstances seemed like the worst imaginable. I have had so many wonderful, heartfelt moments with my father. Why did his life have to end this way? Why so suddenly and with such a harsh last interaction? My first reaction was disbelief. In the days that followed our last conversation, I felt hopeful. I imagined that we would move past this and have a better understanding of one another and what we each needed and wanted from the relationship. Looking back I realize that sounds like the most perfect therapy session the world of psychology has ever known and it most likely wasn’t a realistic outcome. Maybe he would have lived for years more and we would have remained stubborn and mute to one another. Theres no telling. But I never would have guessed he was suffering from a blood infection that was slowly shutting parts of his body down and that even in months leading up to his death maybe he wasn’t in his right mind as this thing took over and altered every bit of his life.

Fast forward to December…nearly a month after his passing. “It’s the most wonderful time of the year!” Yea, that song…and every other Christmas song playing thru the Farmers Market could just shut the hell up for all I cared. Thankfully I did still have my vintage clothing boutique I operated 3 days a week to keep my mind from turning on itself. My children had become more of a burden than the usual source of joy they had previously been. I was so inside my head and it wasn’t anything they could begin to understand. I tried to hide when I felt the need to cry softly…or not softly. Chris became more of a roommate than a husband. Chris had had trouble respecting my father for most of their relationship…never openly disrespecting him, but as my protector I understood that Chris couldn’t respect the jeopardy that my fathers choices had always seemed to put his entire family in. Chris is a truly responsible, honorable gentleman. My gift from God. My dad was probably more like Chris’ opposite. They had a lot of beautiful moments together, throwing back a few beers, seeing eye to eye about world issues…but they also had there differences that most often remained an unspoken understanding. For whatever reason, Chris was not the person I felt like mourning with. Even his embrace became void of feeling to me. We spent the next several weeks sharing the household duties while we all suffered through the worst cold and flu season our family…or maybe any family in the history of families had ever seen. My hours at market became a much needed break. The high point of each passing week. I enjoyed my interactions with other adults. While I do struggle with some mild social anxiety (mostly when I’m around large groups of people) I can be quite a conversationalist in the one on one department. I enjoy talking to people. People’s stories have always fascinated me…and that Farmer’s Market was full of stories. I am also a strong verbal communicator (strong isn’t necessarily good) and at times, to avoid the awkwardness of the conversational silence, I’ve been known to nervously fill the air with the sound of my own voice. I’m getting better at that…being ok with those silences. But at this time in the history of Autumn…I was a bit of a mess. I probably didn’t belong anywhere near the public, much less trying to run a business. So naturally I end up finding a listening ear in a mutual friend of Chris and I who frequented market…and wait for it…he was MALE! Thus begins the most scandalous two weeks of my life. I sat at a public bar maybe 5 times with this male…all 5 times with my husbands knowledge…I drank wine and cried too much and then he would make sure I made it home safely. Looking back I realize I probably coulda just used a girlfriend who’s husband was as awesome as mine and let her out of the house once in a while to hang out. This fella became the distraction I was looking for. Morals weren’t an issue for me at this point. When people drop dead, good and bad quit making sense. There was part of me that loved that people will judge what they don’t understand. I have been with one man my whole life. I have only known him…and my four brothers with any level of closeness. I know a professional would have called my situation a brief emotional affair…that most likely could have ended in an actual affair. Ouch. Not what I was going for and while I wish for your sake that I had a spicier story to tell…i don’t. A concerned family member who we’ll just call “The Hero” became aware of the situation because I didn’t feel any level of guilt and spoke openly about it and this person used it as an opportunity to point out the error of my way and far from gently point me back in the direction of righteousness. But it felt more like I was a kid in a sand box with a bunch of sand in my eyes and someone was offering me a moist towelette…that was covered in sand. Basically I realized this person has always had a few things to say to me and they chose to use the time after the traumatic death of my father and the rocky emotional storm there afterward to say all those things. Really quite refreshing. Like a fart in an elevator. It wasn’t fair to my husband that instead of turning to him to cry with I felt like going elsewhere. But I cant say I had a copy of the rule book on hand…and if I did, I probably wasn’t going to read it. So there it is. Thats as bad as this story gets. Naturally I ruined any friendship my husband or I had with the male friend…things became so awkwardly blown out of proportion that there was no salvaging it. Those were the consequences of my actions. I regret this fully. Chris seemed to take none of this personally and was as forgiving and understanding as you could ever imagine. He knew I was dealing with things beyond what he or I understood. Though his forgiveness and acceptance was evident, i remained distant. Something about my internal makeup keeps self rejection constantly appealing. Kind of like if he wasn’t willing to punish me, I’d just punish myself. The next week at market wasn’t easy. Just pushing past it all.

Enter Donald, the elderly veteran who comes into market everyday and minus the film of dirt over his entire person and the spittle that is constantly collected at the corners of his mouth, he’s actually quite charming. He is never without cap with a feather, a tie with tie clip and a dapper vest. A complete look. He approaches my stand once per market day, fully hunched over and recites his daily speech. “Good morning Autumn. You’re looking very nice today. I wish I had my paint and easel, I would paint you. We need to take you to Enola, to modeling school. Yes, we do.”(cause I hear all the big time models are straight outta Enola?) I always banter with him, tell him I’m too old to get mixed up in that racket and he says “Never too old!” and we chuckle and he moves on. It really is the same thing…every time i see him. He has only broken character three times. Once he approached me and looked at the veins on my arm and said “You have thick blood. You need to drink more red wine.” I had no problem adhering to his advice. The second time was right after my father passed. He simply approached me and said “Autumn, when I heard that your father passed I was very sorry.” I thanked him. The third and final time that he broke free of his rehearsed and somewhat autistic performance was the week after this whole mess. I was feeling low. I didn’t want to be around humans. I certainly didn’t want to participate in the rehearsed comradery that was expected of me. Donald approaches. I force a smile. “Hi Donald.” Without any of the normal chatter he simply looks at me and states, “Your husband loves you with a great passion. Yes he does. He loves you very deeply.” It must have seemed as though I was looking straight through him when the tears began to course my cheeks. He was telling me the truth. How had I gotten so out of touch with the man that loved me enough to bear thru the torrent that was a lifetime of pain and hurt and fear and confusion and compulsive behavior and aggressive self depreciation and over emotive, over communicating all wrapped up into one female. In that moment I realized that my husband is the only man who has ever truly seen me. He has seen things that even I don’t know are there. At some of my lowest points I have envisioned Chris married to some nice church raised girl who just loves to knit and scrapbook and never raises her voice and in this vision all of his dreams have come true because she doesn’t speak up or hinder him. Then I remember that he didn’t fall in love with that kind of girl because that isn’t the kind of girl he wants. He wants ME. Wether I’m a mess or not, he loves me. And I realized that a man’s passion isn’t going to look erotic or impulsive. My husband loving me passionately and deeply looks a lot more like him doing a job he doesn’t necessarily love to provide for his family. It looks like him reading books to our children on the couch when I’m too tired to keep my eyes open any longer. His passion looks like a foot rub. It looks like his silhouette in the kitchen window while he does the dishes after supper. His passion looks like holding my hand while we drive a van full of children to go get ice cream. His passion looks like folding laundry together while we watch a show after the kids are in bed. How has it taken me 10 years to realize, to accept, that I am his passion.

The months that followed weren’t among our finest, but we learned lots.  Death forces a teaching of appreciation.  It prompts an unstoppable recognition of what can be lost…and when.  Which is right now.  It, that, her, him…could be gone.  Forever.  I think my father passing and my brief emotional affair got me thinking.  If what everyone said was true and i had let that thing run its course, I would have lost Chris.  It woudln’t have been a question of him or his forgiveness.  It would have been my own bitter spirit that rears its head and turns on me and anyone around.  My inability to forgive myself would have been our end.  My father once told me that the true tradgedy in a premature death is the cutting short of the entire process of learning from mistakes and getting to try again and experiencing getting it right.  Growing old offers a grace to us. The grace of perspective and the grace of time and even the grace of being able to make things right.  Dad, I know we would have made it right.

Max is 3. He is such an awesome kid. Almost always cheerful. A really upbeat little guy, crazy about baseball and bunnies and his older brothers. It is also my secret pleasure to watch him enjoy and play with his 1 year old baby brother. I watch him live a life torn in two directions. One direction pulling him towards his wild older brothers and their dangerous antics. Laying on skateboards and bombing the neighboring parking lot. The other direction, Thomas trains and board books with little Noah.

As most parents can relate, I too have lamented the expediency with which these kids transform into opinionated, strong, smart roommates. They have big ideas and even bigger mouths. While I would love to cuddle these dependents for eternity, I comfort myself with the remembrance of what a tragedy it would be if you actually had to live through that. Your child never maturing, never growing, never learning. It would be the worst thing that could probably happen to a child, short of their life ending prematurely. So after I get sad that my kids are all growing up, and then get even sadder at the thought of getting my wish and them staying little forever, I snap out of it and remember to embrace the RIGHT NOW.

Writing is the most efficient way I know to slow down enough to breath in the moment. It gives me time to think about it, cry about it, laugh about it and move forward…having squeezed every drop out of the fruit of the moment.

Max is one of my first recruits of the day. Every morning I recognize his one-foot-at-a-time steps down the stairs. Some mornings he has obviously come down too early and he has a fog of grump about him. Other days he meets the day with so much enthusiasm it’s hard to contain my own enthusiasm at being able to experience life with him. One thing remains consistent. His bathroom habits, of which I am fully involved.

It matters not what I am doing when he feels the urge. I drop what I’m doing and make his bathroom success my mission, because what mom is ever excited about cleaning up bathroom messes when you get your priorities wrong and neglect to get that toddler where they need to be, when they need to be there?? No mom. Moms whole days are wrecked by urine and feces all over the planet, all the time.

As a way of keeping myself sane during the madness that can be the combination of egg on my hands while a baby cries while a 12 year old asks me a question while a husband wants to know where the hot sauce is while a 10 year old wants an IPhone unlocked WHILE a toddler asserts “I GOTTA GO PEE!” I’ve taken to providing a short little monologue that goes something like “Well you’re in luck! Cause we have a toilet here! Let me help you.” Max let’s an amused little smile creep across his face. I accompany him to our 2 year old “closet bathroom”, the one we put in when we realized it was necessary for our survival as a group. I proceed to tell Max the tales of all the potty trainers before him who had to go THE WHOLE WAY UPSTAIRS to use the bathroom. I express, “You’re so lucky, this is a special bathroom.” I also recognize how luck I am, being the mom who had to run up the stairs all those years to assist bathroom participants. Max listens intently while he finishes up and I help him hop down from the potty.

Naturally the suggestion of a stool in the bathroom has been explored, but I’ve always found that bathroom stools lend a warm welcome to the sink meddling toddler. It’s gone quite badly more than one time.

This morning Max came down in his usual pleasant mood. He milled around a bit. I let him know I needed some help making pancakes. “YESSS!” He was happy to oblige. He softly mentions, “I gotta go pee.”

“Well you’re in luck…” I begin.

“No. I can do it mom.”

“What!?” I follow him and watch while he drops his gym shorts and scoots his bottom up and back on the toilet seat.

“You’re a big boy!?” He is all smiles while I marvel at his mastery.

This is a happy story of my beautiful son growing and learning and maturing. Here’s the sad part.

This morning before I left for my 5 hour a week job Max approached me with his little lace up Chuck Taylor sneakers. He owns other shoes but he prefers these ones. I had already put them on his feet an hour earlier. I was trying to finish making pancakes for the other kids and I was frustrated that Chris had to work today and we are basically doing shifts with the kids today rather than going to the beach or the pool or Hershey Park. We’re just working to try to dig ourselves out of credit card debt and get him through nursing school and afford some homeschool curriculum and pay the mortgage. These are the stresses that kids don’t know about. They can’t know until they are living it. I became irritated with Max and his “shoes-on-shoes-off-shoes-back-on” habit. I told him to go find someone else to help him this time. I asked 12 year old Flynn to assist him since I was making him breakfast. I watched while Flynn fed off of my irritation and treated Max like a nuisance. “If you take these off again you’re gonna have to find other shoes to wear. Ones that you can put on..”. What did I expect. It broke my heart. I taught Flynn that Max needing our constant help with his shoes is cause for annoyance. I vowed this morning, as I rushed out the door, to redeem the shoe experience with Max.

At the end of the day, helping Max to the bathroom is slightly annoying…when I’m in the middle of 10 other things, but I made a point of turning it into a fun experience. And now it’s over. I can never go back and Re help him to the potty, because he can do it all by himself. At the rate time is flying, I’ll wake up tomorrow and he’ll be able to tie his own shoes. He’ll never need my help again and he’ll have a memory of his annoyed mom fumbling with his laces while he watched her furrowed brow with sadness on his face.

Being the mom to 6 kids is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I’m not a fan of beating myself up but I recognize that without some clear self reflection we can end up somewhere someday and not realize how we got there. I don’t want my kids to remember this stressed out lady that was “in charge”. Today when I get done with work I’m gonna slow down and enjoy my kids. Cause life’s too short to act like there’s not enough time for what’s important.

Chris came home from work around 12 today. He had a light day and needed to study before a major exam this evening at his 5 o clock class. While he threw some lunch together for himself, he vented about never being able to focus on just one thing. He took my minivan to work this morning because his suburban needs a new alternator and won’t move until it has one. We discussed how capable he is of replacing his alternator, but that would require time…which he didn’t have. We discussed how little he has been able to study for this exam. We discussed how he overbooked himself this week and when he text messaged one of the guys he’s working for this week and asked “Do you have anyone else that can finish that bathroom? I overbooked myself this week?” The guy responded “I have no one else.” And Chris responded “Ok.” We discussed our 13 year wedding anniversary that was the day before, and how “nice” it was to take all six of our kids to chipotle for some burritos. Romance, step aside! We prefer a house full of burrito farts to help us celebrate 13 years of marital bliss! There was a lull in our lunch time conversation and then Chris said, “I gotta show you this sculpture I made for the boys today…”. I looked at him curiously, wondering when it was that he found the time, materials and wherewithal to make our sons a “sculpture”. I said, “Are you kidding?”He defended himself, “Well, all morning while I was cleaning out my mud pan I kept plopping it in the same spot and it kinda started to set up and harden and got taller and when I threw the last blob on it was just too perfect…the bottom was nice and flat and I just used the fresh stuff to sculpt this little skull…I thought we could take it out to camp and they could shoot their Beebee guns at it…”

He exited the kitchen to go retrieve the sculpture. I returned to whatever chore I was in the middle of, then I heard him give off a slight trumpet sound, as if to draw attention to his presentation. When I turned around he had covered the small creation with the nearest stinky, wet dish cloth.

 “You ready?” He asked. 

“Absolutely.”

He lifted the dish cloth. There it was. “I mean it took me like ten seconds.”

I was astounded. “They’re gonna love it.” I asserted. 

And they did. 

And I love Chris. 

After literal weeks (lets be real…its been YEARS!) of visiting and revisiting this topic and jotting stuff down that I want to note and remember, I’ve come to the conclusion that this needs to be read as a kind of a sloppy research paper.  A study conducted with more emotion than say an actual scientific study.  My lab is our home.  I am one of the variables in the experiment.  I’m not yet sure what it is that I believe my findings will accomplish, but I have no choice but to dissect this thing.

A brief disclaimer…the following are observations concerning my own four boys.  Maybe you have 4 boys and they have a gentle, calm and relaxed demeanor.  If that is the case, then I would ask to perhaps read your own observations because they would be as foreign to me as the moon.

This is my creative way of announcing that never before in the history of our baby making, have we ever chosen to discover the gender of our unborn children before the birth…but this time we felt the need.  Mostly because we felt Iris deserved to know…if she needs to hunker down for more of the same around here or if perhaps, God was sending in a reinforcement.

DING DING DING! ROUND FIVE! It’ a boy.  I love boys.  Boys are fun and imaginative and energetic and I grew up with four brothers of my own.  Boys have a magic to them that is all their own.  I found that with all my boys, the cuddle time is limited…usually around age six they get a little too preoccupied to want to cuddle their mom.  A kiss on the cheek and a daily hug are as much as I can ask without seeming too needy.  They have taught me to savor my unabashed affectionate days with my little boys now.  Maxwell, our soon 2 year old, doesn’t get a break from my incessant cuddles.  Sometimes I catch the other boys watching us like it is a movie with subtitles and they can’t read fast enough to comprehend.  Once I was asked by one of them, “Were you like that with us Mom?”

“Are you kidding?! Yes!  Then everyone got TOO COOL for MOM CUDDLES.”

So we’ve established how fond I am of boys.  This fondness does not change the fact that they just might put me in an early grave.  My boys don’t walk through my home.  They run, like a herd of rhinoceros.  When my boys have just passed through, every area rug has been spun around and pictures have been knocked off the walls and furniture has been displaced to MAKE WAY! and the pillows are no longer on the sofa, rather they are EVERYWHERE.  Once I thought it would be a great idea after purchasing a “new-to-us” leather sofa off of Craigslist to also purchase a huge sheepskin rug that I found for a great deal on eBay, you know…a ten year makeover on the living room.  What I didn’t predict was that my living room would quickly become WRESTLEMANIA during all waking winter hours that the boys weren’t in school.  During the school day, Maxwell sits on that luscious rug and contently reads his board books…until the afternoon when it is overtaken by his animal brothers.  The rug summons forth some deep and ancient call to battle that can only be explained as primal instinct.  One evening while I sat on the floor with a laundry basket and matched the family’s socks, I watched in amazement as Chris took Maxwell’s waistband of his pants into his clenched teeth and drug Max around the rug like a father bear with his cub.  Max laughed in hysterics the entire time and all doubts were removed from my mind as to why it is that every time Chris walks out the door and Max is left with “the laundry lady” he has taken to fussing and crying and calling for his “DADA”.  “Sorry Max, I won’t be dragging you around the home with my teeth while I’m 7 months pregnant, you’ll have to wait until your ape of a father gets home…”

The other weekend, Chris’ brother and our sister in law took our three older boys on a sleepover extravaganza that included bowling and movies and a 20 dollar trip to the Goodwill!  They went away boys and came back MEN!  They deeply enjoyed this small getaway with their uncle and aunt and it is a memory that they will cherish forever. The kids had off school the day after this sleepover for Martin Luther King day and we were going to be hosting some friends that day.  Early in the morning I announced to the kids that our friends were coming over and that we all needed to spend a little time tidying our areas.  After about 20 minutes, I went upstairs to check on the boys’ progress on their room.  To my surprise, when I entered the room there were little signs of obedience and instead the boys were all standing and sitting around, all with a rather sullen disposition.  I could tell that I had walked in on a moment or conversation or something.  I halt.  “What’s up guys?”

After a brief glance at one another Micah answers, “We feel bad for Uncle Ben.”

I am utterly puzzled, “Uncle Ben?  Why?”

Flynn pipes up from the hammock in which he is lazily swinging, “He gave us a game that HE really liked.”

Owen is feeling all the feels, “Yeh, he really loved this one game mom, and he let us have it.”

I’m feeling amused.  I love that the boys got to experience their Uncle’s boyish enthusiasm for a game and I am also appreciating that Ben would love to know how badly these boys feel for him, without his game…just trying to make it through the day.

“Wow, so you guys were touched by Uncle Ben’s sacrifice?  You recognized that he really loved a game and instead of being selfish and keeping it for himself, he chose to give it to you guys?”

In unison they all agree “Yea.”

Micah announces, “I want to give it back to him.”

“YEA.” they all agree again.

I am smiling at their deliberation.  “So what game was it?”

Flynn explains, “It is this wooden game with a ball bearing called Labyrinth and Ben used to have it when he was young…”

“Well, that was really nice of him to give it to you guys.  I hope you appreciate it and take care of it.  Maybe if you think he would enjoy it more than you, it would be a good idea to give it back to him.  It’s up to you guys.”

I left their messy bedroom feeling less concerned about the mess and more intrigued by their tender hearts, considering poor Uncle Ben…with no Labyrinth to call his own.

My dear friend and her four kids came to visit and we had a delightful day filled with nothing at all…the best kind of day.  Nearing the end of our visit, I sensed that Flynn and Micah (my two oldest boys…10 and 8) were beginning to seem a bit bored.  I gave them some great ideas of things they could do to occupy their time until our friends left.

After our friends left, I laid Max down for his afternoon nap and wanted to get into a project…maybe some basement maintenance…but I wanted to get a handle on what my four other roommates were up to first.  The house was quiet so I headed out the front door.  There I found Iris (10) and her brother Owen (6) standing in the alley, shooting NERF arrows into the sky, nearly hitting the cars in the business parking lot directly in front of our home.  Add this to the list of reasons I love living in a parking lot.  When the kids have a weekday off school, that doesn’t mean the parking lot isn’t full of people’s vehicles that DONT have off that day.

“Sorry guys, no-one who works at the hospital wants you shooting NERF arrows anywhere near their cars…take it to the back yard or the park…” While our yard has been known to induce instant claustrophobia once more than 3 people occupy it, there is a small church owned park at the end of our block that serves as our “over flow yard”.  They headed in the direction of the park.

Now to find the other two boys.  I quietly scanned the second floor and whispered up the attic steps in an effort to NOT disturb freshly napping Max.  No Flynn.  No Micah.

I retreat back downstairs, imagining that they must have taken to the outdoors, perhaps the treehouse.  As I walk through the kitchen and my eyes peered through the window and into the treehouse, I had to adjust my gaze slightly to go beyond the back of our yard and into the neighbor’s yard behind our property, for that is where all the activity was taking place.

Our kids have never actually met the elderly man that lives behind us.  They have seen him walk around his yard a handful of times in the ten years that we have lived in our current home.  He has a pool that he has never taken the tarp off of and other than causing a mosquito epidemic every summer that forces us indoors, he hasn’t really made an impression on the kids one way or another.  They have spied on him from their treehouse when he mills about his yard and they have given him the code name “Mr. Bunion”.

There, beyond our chainlink fence…in Mr. Bunion’s pool…I spot my two sons.  They are each wielding an ax and are chopping at the ice in the tarped pool like they are being paid to do so (they are all into being paid lately…for everything…you know, even the stuff that I do all day every day…somehow they would like to be paid for these chores…)  I am flabbergasted at what I see.  Only one other time have I ever even heard about the boys hopping the fence to grab a ball or something and I made it clear that retrieving their possessions that accidentally end up in Mr. Bunions’ yard is the only reason to invade his property.

I stepped onto the back porch and from there I used my outside voice to loudly ask, “IS THIS A JOKE?!”

They both stopped mid swing and looked at me and then each other.

“GET OVER HERE!”  I actually didn’t even know how to handle this moment.  They are not bad kids.  They probably thought they were doing the guy a favor or something ridiculous like that, but I was pretty sure they understood that they weren’t supposed to be in his yard, even if all his pool ice desperately needed axed.

When they entered the backdoor I was actually speechless.  These were the same boys that I had just caught that morning feeling deeply saddened at their uncles’ sacrificial gift of The Labyrinth, right?  They are my straight A, never a discipline problem at school, responsible young men, right?

“I don’t even know what to say.  Go to your room.  I have to call your dad.”

Their heads hung in shame as they drug their feet through the house to their final destination.  I immediately got on the phone to Chris, who I hoped was in a favorable environment to talk during his workday.

He answered the phone right away.  “You’re not going to believe this, I was having some trouble locating Flynn and Micah and after checking the park and the entire house I went to the kitchen window to check the yard and treehouse and there I find them…in Mr. Bunions’ pool…with axes…chopping away at the ice like a couple of delinquents…”

Chris begins to laugh the kind of laugh that makes the whole world feel better, no matter what is going on.  I hear screw guns and hammering in the background.  I’m slightly puzzled by his laughter until he entertains me with his thought process…

“They’re just stupid boys! You know what you should have done…you should have knocked on the neighbor’s door and told him what they were doing and asked him to wait until you got back home so you could record their reaction when he came out yelling at them…THAT would have been great!”

He was right.  I saved them from the natural consequences of their actions, the way all mothers do…because our children’s behavior is a direct reflection on our parenting…isn’t it?  Chris helped me to recognize that while these boys navigate the turbulent seas of becoming men and learn how to manage all this raging testosterone, we may see more of this kind of off the wall “It seemed like a good idea at the time” kind of behavior.  Our only real plan is to keep them enrolled in sports and to try to train them to use tools for their intended purposes.

Nothing much came of the pool axing incident.  The boys spent a good amount of time in their room and when Chris got home we gave them a stern talking to.

Not many days later, I was sitting in the parking lot at school waiting for the kids to be dismissed.  Iris hopped in the van first.  She immediately alerted me that she passed the boys bathroom that day and saw Micah crying in there.  I am immediately needing to know why?  I can’t imagine what could have caused him to be upset enough to prompt a bathroom tear fest.  Micah can be quite a handful on the home front, but at school he is an assistant to his teacher and a superior honor roll student and a SELF-MANAGER every single month.  He has never let on that he has ever had trouble with any other students.

Owen enters the van next and then Micah.  By this point we are all aware that Micah was crying in the bathroom that day.

Iris wastes no time, “Hey Micah, why were you crying in the bathroom?  I saw you.”

“I got my clip moved down.”  Micah is dismally gazing out the window while he explains. He was referring to an inter-classroom disciplinary system that his teacher uses to keep order and reward students who consistently perform adequately.  Micah rarely, if ever…has his clip moved down.  He didn’t handle it so well.  When I asked him what caused this he said something about a bunch of kids talking when they shouldn’t have been and he was apparently grouped in with them.

A week later at parent-teacher conferences his teacher had only positive things to say.  However, there is a section of the conference itinerary that focuses on areas that your child could improve.  His teacher mentioned that Micah has trouble transitioning from reading his book (usually a graphic novel that he picks up if he has speedily completed the last assignment) to the next topic or assignment.  He explained that a few days earlier he had to ask Micah to put his book away TWICE, and so his clip was moved down.  He mentioned that Micah was very upset and had to go to the bathroom to calm down.  I told him that I heard about this incident but that Micah must have misunderstood what his infraction was.  His teacher has told me multiple times that he wished “asking kids to stop reading” were a problem for more of his students.  I left that conference understanding Micah a little more and feeling proud of him.  He deeply values what his teacher thinks of him and was having a considerable amount of trouble overcoming what it felt like to disappoint not only his teacher but also himself.  I would have cried in the bathroom too.

It is mid-day and Max and I are eating a sad yet nutritious lunch of applesauce and muesli and yogurt.  I’ve noticed since around 18 months (Max is currently 21 months) he has become much more vocal.  Sometimes I can make out what he is saying and it feels like a giant victory.  Other times he blabbers on and on and I feel awful because I know how intelligent he is and I know he has so much to say, but he just isn’t speaking our language yet.  Recently, before bedtime we were in the kitchen when he wouldn’t stop pointing to the cupboard in the corner of the kitchen, where we keep plates and bowls.  He became so incessant with his chattering and pointing that I finally scooped him up and placed him on the counter and asked him what he was pointing at.  He reached forward and opened the corner cabinet and pointed to the top shelf, a shelf that I rarely access which mostly houses some scarcely used baking dishes.  I held him up so he could see ALL the way to the back of the top shelf of the corner cabinet.  He seemed pleased.  I set him back down on the counter.

“Anything else you’d like to see while you’re up here?” I asked.

He scooted a few steps to the left and opened the tiny cabinet that holds our in-home pharmacy.  I held him up and he glanced deep into each shelf.  Then we moved onto the largest cupboard, one he sees into often enough, but not a real good look, not all the way up to the top shelf.  It probably took 5 minutes of my day, to show him the interiors of our few main kitchen cupboards, and he was pleased to hop down off that counter top and move on with his night.  I felt amazed at myself that finally, after 4 other children, I am realizing by the fifth that they are constantly communicating and they are very smart little people.  I couldn’t help but ponder how long the boy has stared at those cabinet doors opening and closing and has just wondered what could be in there, all the way at the top.  It must feel comparable to the top of a skyscraper for him.  He is constantly teaching me.

Having recently learned this lesson with Max, I took note as we ate our lunch where he wanted me to direct my attention.  He was pointing to the small yellow shelf in the kitchen that holds a large jar of coffee, a few jars of nuts and snacks, a cast iron bird shaped bottle opener, a brass paper weight…also in the shape of a bird, a sugar bowl…  I stood at the counter and moved my hand from one item to the next while he said “No.”  “No.”  “No.”  I was losing my patience when I came to the end of the shelf and my hand rested on a family photo that my best friend/photographer took of us when I was pregnant with Max.  He didn’t say “No.”…instead, the most darling little smile crept across his face.  I pulled the frame down and laid it before him.  He sat looking at that picture and pointing at each family member and talking about them for at least 15 minutes.  Once again, that photo has probably sat on that shelf for the better part of his life, always out of his reach.

So often I am too busy to stop and try to decipher what it is that my toddler is saying, but when I exhaust all my efforts in understanding what the little guy is saying, it is so worth it…so satisfying.

Days later…I am sitting with Iris at the small kitchen table doing a puzzle.  I managed to keep 6 separate appointments the day before, Iris started puking in the night, the kids had a day off school for parent/ teacher conferences, Chris was at his Friday morning nursing class and there wasn’t a lot that could motivate me to leave my home or care about getting dressed for that matter.  The boys were starting their kind of playful, soon to get ugly rough housing on the living room floor.  I called out once that “SOMEONE IS GOING TO GET HURT!” but my warning fell on deaf ears.  Not a minute passed before Max was screaming that scream that is silent at it’s most intense point.  He was clearly hurt in a way that not only felt bad but that had also taken him by surprise.  Flynn stands up and brings Max to me.  I ask for any available explanation from Flynn.

“Well, I was wrestling Micah and I ran into Max and knocked him over…”  Max is inconsolable and at one point Flynn expresses some annoyance that he isn’t calming down.

“Flynn, you just clobbered him.  No-one likes to be clobbered and he can cry if he wants to…”

On the slight defense Flynn asserts, “I don’t even know what clobber means!”

“Well, its when you’re going through your day minding your own business and someone’s entire body just collides with yours, invading your personal space and safety and  Max has just been clobbered.  What you guys don’t understand is that ALL DAY while you’re at school Max selects his favorite books and goes and sits on the rug and enjoys laughing at the pictures and turning the pages and he never has to think about defending himself against complete crazy people!  You are the one who needs to be more careful, or take your energy outside!” On this day I decided that sooner rather than later, our boys will be enrolled in wrestling…whether they like wearing a singlet or not (I would prefer that they despise it!)

A day or so earlier…Max is napping, Iris and Micah and Flynn are all “building something” in the basement and Owen emerges in the kitchen, having remembered that I previously mentioned making chocolate chip cookies.  Chris was at night class and I find the evenings that Chris has class to be particularly good opportunities to spend unique time with my kids.

I had almost reconsidered making the cookies, because there is always other stuff that needs my attention more than our confection supply, but when Owen entered the otherwise quiet kitchen and said “Can I help you make the cookies mom?” I said “Sure.”

I couldn’t remember the last time I was alone in my kitchen with just Owen. When did Owen last have my undivided attention?  I know he has a tendency to feel lost in a sea of children, all talking over each other, all needing attention, some more immediately than others.  I seized this opportunity for all it was.  Owen measured every ingredient and turned on the mixer and was able to tell everyone in the house that he made the cookies when we proudly presented them to the group.  At one point after he put the eggs away in the fridge and was walking back to his work station he stopped and said to me, “Hey mom, do you know what isn’t fair?”

“What?”

“Evens get to be broken in two…but then you know what IS fair?”

I’m looking at Owen now to try to follow where this is going…I’m sure these are the kinds of things he says all the time that get lost in the shuffle because they are said at the same time that a toddler is whining or a table needs set or a paper needs signed while scrambled eggs burn.

“Odds get to have a middle!”  He is smiling quite big while he shares this realization with me.

All this time I always thought, “Geez, those even numbers…always getting to be split right down the center, never a problem to divide, nice and orderly…”  But here its the odds that get to have THE MIDDLE!  Where are we without our middle?!  Whats an OREO without the center? (I’ve actually never had this thought…but thanks to Owen, I will never think of odds and evens the same again.)

“Wow Owen.  You really thought that one through.  Now we don’t have to feel bad for the odds anymore.”  My thoughtful Owen.

A few days later…it is Saturday.  Max has woken up in rare form, feverish and whiney.  Max is usually my happy, cuddley book worm in the morning.  This morning he only wanted held a specific way and if you had to stretch to reach your coffee or God forbid, get up and use the bathroom, he was going to let you know that he did not approve.  The three older boys were in high gear, all psyched up for their final basketball game.  Their two separate games were at noon that day, but here they were, all dressed and ready to go at 8 in the morning.

Anyone living in central Pennsylvania with a house full of children this winter can tell you that this has been a pretty sad winter so far.  No snow to enjoy or prompt school cancellations.  Only the occasional downpour, cause in the words of Chris…”You know, it is monsoon season here in PA.”  Well, this Saturday we woke up to big, fat snowflakes falling (and immediately melting) and we were all excited.  Micah was already red in the face from his several rounds of running in the snow in his basketball shorts.  He is my child who gets the most excited about snow.  I overheard him ask the other kids to go out and play with him, but due to the lack of accumulation, no one was interested.

By this time Chris had come downstairs and taken over in the kitchen as my arms were full of fever baby.  I decided to relocate the tiny rocking chair to the entryway so we could open the front door and watch the big, lazy flakes fall.  Max seemed soothed and I was too.  I felt a presence beside me and heard heavy breathing.  Following a disappointed sigh Micah lamented, “I wish I had a girl to throw snowballs at…”

I uncuddled Max just enough to turn and look at Micah, with that confused, furrowed brow that will one day be permanently stuck on my face and I said nothing.  There was nothing to say.  He is Micah.  And he needs a girl.  To throw snowballs at.

The next day, Sunday.  Our furnace is broken.  It has been broken since Friday and in an effort to save money we were avoiding calling a repairman until Monday.  The wood stove my father built us has always sufficiently heated our home, so other than hand washing the dishes in pots of boiled water, we were gonna be ok.  OK.  Not great, but ok.

Sometimes I feel like my life is a constant cycle of making a meal, cleaning up the meal and then immediately beginning to plan and prepare for the next meal…Oh, right.  That IS what my life is.

Flynn is my biggest fan when it comes to my cooking.  He lives for my cooking.  He is still swallowing his last bite of breakfast when he asks me what I am thinking of making for lunch.  Some days I find it quite endearing and other days I can’t help but let him have it, “I DON’T KNOW, COULD YOU JUST GIVE ME A MINUTE TO THINK ABOUT IT!”

For some reason on this Sunday morning, while I hand washed all the breakfast dishes that everyone had just cleared, I felt very peaceful.  Something about being forced to slow down and hand wash all the dishes that we normally just load in the dishwasher and forget about had me in a particular state of mind.  I also deeply enjoy watching the birds feeding out my kitchen window.  Flynn had just finished helping clear the table and was standing in the corner of the kitchen when he said, “You really do do a lot of work around here…like ALL the work.  Thanks Mom.”

I almost started crying.  I told him that I know that I don’t always have the best attitude about the work that never stops around our house, but that I have been trying to recognize that the dishes and the laundry and the shoes and the coats and the backpacks everywhere are evidence that my life is full of blessings.  I also expressed that because the work is SO much and it NEVER ENDS, it means all that much more when people do even small things, like try to remember to put their belongings in their rightful place or bring their dirty laundry downstairs so I don’t have to go searching for it.  I let him know how much I appreciated him recognizing and thanking me for the mundane labor I perform in the home everyday.

Friday morning.  The gang had off school the day before for their first snowday!  It was also the twins official 11th birthday (we celebrated the night before because of schedule conflicts the day of…) and a day off school was a nice way to spend it.  We were all feeling the joy of having a surprise day off in the middle of the school week and then having to go back to school, for one day, before the weekend.

We are dreary looking.  People just lounging around.  Micah has taken his familiar post laying in the middle of the living room floor, hands behind his head in his typical, “I can cause a little trouble from ANY location and ANY physical position” stance.  Max is shuffling by in his footy pajamas, that he will be wearing until after his first AND second breakfast, and he is halted by Micah’s outstretched leg.  Max quickly turns on Micah and lunges toward his hip-bone with teeth bared.  He bites Micah in the hip with his tiny, round, pearly whites, while exerting an aggressive cry.  My little Maxwell Gunther Krouse, his toddler teeth, attempting to pierce man-flesh.  It was so instinctual that I could not help but let Micah know that while I know Max is his own person, it almost seems as though Max’s way of relating to Micah is of a very specific kind.  Micah quickly darted his lower body out of the way of Max’s bite, giggling and amused.  I expressed that it isn’t OK for Micah to irritate Max just to amuse himself.  I used a lot more words than that, and I was also mostly yelling.  Something about watching one of my youngest children defend himself against one of my older children really strikes a chord in me.  I can’t help but get ranty when I witness negative conditioning taking place directly in front of me.  I constantly offer Micah other options, ways he can spend time with Max that will be pleasant and positive.  I feel defeated after now making my older child feel badly for the way he treated the younger.  Does the conditioning ever end?  Sometimes, I just have a little too much and maybe I let a kid really have it.  Then, after I drop the kids off at school, I cry the whole drive home and regret ever thinking for one second that I know what I’m doing with all these personalities and independent spirits and I feel presented with all their flaws and I own them at times, because I’ve helped to shape them.  And I just want to bite someone right in their hip!

Sometimes I think the hardest part of parenting a house full of rowdy, rammy, aggressive guys is what it does to ME.  I lose my calm.  Yoga breaths become a long lost figment of my imagination while I watch from my kitchen as one boy body slams the other in the living room.  Is my fate to just go crazy on this journey?  I have to believe that Chris and I balance each other out enough that these kids have a chance at having some nicely rounded qualities.

I am in the kitchen, post school-day doing my usual dinner prep.  Flynn and Micah are snacking at the kitchen table.  Flynn rounds the corner of the table and presents himself to the side of me so he may observe my reaction while he asks me a deeply pressing question,

“Mom, do you think that you could get expelled from school for threatening your BROTHER?”

Again, that confused, (I’m feeling comfortable enough to add “hideous” to the description at this point) furrowed brow creeps onto my face…

“I’m gonna guess the school would treat you like any other kids that were threatening each other…I don’t think it matters that you’re brothers…”

Flynn’s shoulders slink upward while he turns his grinning gaze to Micah, seated at the table…”LET’S DO IT!”

Micah laughs a ridiculous laugh that fully asserts “IM ALL IN!”

My brow has softened and I now boast to that lazy, dead faced stare that is most likely what someones’ face looks like after a car accident where they were drunk and they lived only because their body was so relaxed that it acted as a dummy and since none of their muscles tensed up on themselves (breaking their own bones) they made it out unscathed…

“Sure guys, let me know how that works out for you…also let me know where you will be living during the time that you are expelled from school…”

One of the perks to being the mother of good boys who try to think that they have the balls to be bad, is the constant bombardment of hypotheticals.  They are smart enough to always want to know what the outcome of some deeply stupid actions might be.  My boys are always asking me about “Joovy” and what happens there and how the kids are treated and what you have to do to go there.  I’m ready to send them in, for research purposes.

The day that we found out the gender of our unborn child, we were pretty nervous.  We were nervous first because my midwife said I was measuring a month ahead of my dates and she was able to read a heartbeat at multiple locations on the belly.  Having a strong history of twins in the family we waited with bated breath to find out if we were having one or two more kids.

Just one baby.  All types of emotions.  Immediately, disappointment.  I know the jubilance of twins.   It’s A LOT of work, but jubilant none the less.  After the disappointment subsided, relief.  WHAT WAS I THINKING!?  LIKE I COULD HANLDE TWINS RIGHT NOW!?

The technician told us right away that she could see we were having a boy.  Again, a lot of emotions.  I have forgotten what it’s like to have the dainty, princessy whirlwind of little girl in the house.  Iris begged us to paint her room pink for years, and by the time we got around to it, it was over.  SHE HATED PINK.  She was most likely just following in her mothers’ footsteps, I’m not the most feminine lady out there in the traditional sense.  Having grown up surrounded by four brothers myself, I had to hold onto every shred of my girlhood with a white knuckled death grip and even still, my Barbies were used for target practice.  Other than feeling extremely uneasy with sisters that are inseparably close and females that seem too friendly, I’ve turned out alright.

When the kids got home from school that afternoon we sat them all down on the sofa and broke the news.  The only reaction I can really remember was Iris’, because it was so dramatic.  She physically flung herself to the floor, and if she had been wearing a gown of sack cloth, she woulda ripped it!  I told her she could get her ears pierced, and she immediately reminded me that she is afraid of getting her ears pierced.  I told her I was sorry, that she was just going to be a tough old broad like her mother.  I told her it would make her stronger.  She wasn’t buying any of it.  Iris has never known her existence without boys.  She was born with her twin brother breathing down her neck and all that followed was more of the same.  She has really learned to roll with the punches and she definitely has thick skin…to the point that she can be a bit unable to relate to the mainstream girl.  But again, I think she’s gonna be alright.

When Chris told his parents that we would be having our fifth boy his father sent him this photograph of Great Great Great Great Great grandmother Martha Krouse with her 7 sons.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe that documents like this one should be presented to the bride-to-be several months before the wedding day to be thought over and upon and wrestled with and fully accepted…like, “Hey, this is a genetic possibility…FYI”  My decision to become Mrs. Krouse would have remained the same, but from the look on Martha’s face, I could have at least prepared myself for a future of breathing in mostly boy farts for the duration of my child rearing days.  Tell me she doesn’t look like she has seen some shit!  I can only hope to follow in Martha’s footsteps.  If even one of my sons ends up with a mustache of that caliber, I can die a satisfied mother.  And that waistline!  Damn gurl!

The months have whisked right by and in 4 short weeks we will be welcoming another strong Krouse male.  What a responsibility we have on our shoulders.

When this photo was developed some 5 years ago I can recall thinking “Oh, this will be a fun picture to recreate someday when the boys are big…”  Now I look at it and think “This will be a fun picture to recreate when the park has reinforced that beam with rebar and cemented it in at least 3 foundational points in the earth.”

In closing, I would like to include what I’ll call the best family picture I’ve gotten in the last two years…which is actually 2 crumby little polaroids that I’m holding together while trying to keep my dirty thumb nail (raw sourdough caked under it…) out of the pic…

These were taken the evening we celebrated the twins 11th birthday.  The things I love about this photo(s) include the drywall mud crusted to my hard working husbands’ tee shirt, who had a horrendous morning of flat tires and calling junk yards for parts and the stress of school work due by midnight.  I love Owen’s smile while he fakes being happy even though he was super jealous that Flynn got an iPod shuffle and he is now the only (older) brother without some personal jams. I love that Iris is wearing a shirt that she just changed into because Micah and Owen misunderstood my instructions to “silly string the twins after we sing happy birthday to them…” and instead did it ALL DURING THE HAPPY BIRTHDAY SONG and for some reason the boys also thought it would be a good idea to hide the 2 cans of silly string in the refrigerator prior to the “surprise”, which apparently changed the chemical composition of the stuff and that basically looked like Owen and Micah spraying Flynn and Iris with Isopropyl alcohol directly beside open flame while Iris quietly complained “It’s burning my skin…”  YEA! Happy Birthday!  I love the height difference between my two oldest children.  I love Micah and Owen’s ears.  I love that my husband is positioned in front of me so you can’t actually tell how hugely pregnant I am.  I love tired, red cheeked party planning helper Max, perched on his favorite guy’s side.  And I love that in a month, we get to add another baby boy to this wild ride.

This post would only be complete if I end with an announcement that yesterday I found two of the wiriest grey hairs known to human hair.  I’ve waited 33 years for my crown of glory, here goes!

It’s not a secret that our current physical geographic location has been bumming Chris and I out for the better part of the last 5 years…turns out that someone finding a house for you to purchase in the merchandiser seems convenient enough…but trying to sell that same houseseveral years later might not be as easy. Naive as Chris and I were, we assumed that you live in a house for as long as you want, and then you sell it and you move. I guess not. So anyway, we’ve made it really nice over the past 10 years. We enjoy being INSIDE our home. We even enjoy being in our yard, if our neighbors have recently cleaned up after their 3 dogs (insert constant Spring/Summer/Fall time wafts of animal excrement blowing through the kitchen window…ahhhh!) and as long as there aren’t too many hospital employees taking a smoke break at the end of the block and if our diabetic neighbor isn’t “nasty drunk”…basically conditions have to be perfect. So anyway, until Chris finishes nursing school (2, 3 maybe 4 more years…who knows) I think we’re just going to get EVEN MORE comfortable at our current residence. Obviously our kids don’t know any better or care for that matter. They think having a hospital parking lot to hang out in is fun. I hope the hospital continues to feel the same. BONUS! When we are injured it’s just a short stroll to acquire any necessary medical attention! 

Today, I’ve decided to put aside my shitty, ungrateful “when the hell is this season going to be over” attitude and I’m going to share my latest, most favorite household addition. Bird feeders! Our back yard has always felt a lot like a glorified cage to me…especially when there are 7 of us and at least 3 extra neighborhood kids in the yard. I’ve installed 2 bird feeders and I have to say, for as small of a yard as it is and being the only neighbor around that feeds the birds…things have been feeling very “Alfred Hitchcock- THE BIRDS-esque” in that tiny yard. Max and I are in LOVE! We eat our lunch on the porch and watch the squirrels and the birds fight for bird seed and it’s as close to nature as these kids are gonna get for now. And I think there’s something comforting in knowing that those birds could fly anywhere they choose…and they choose to be in my itty bitty inner city yard. Thanks for stickin it out with us, little birds…even if it’s just for the food. 
My most dear friend and sister in Christ told me years ago that she felt the Bible verse Psalm 18:19 was given to her for me. “He brought me out to wide open spaces; He pulled me out safe because He is pleased with me.” First of all, I don’t imagine that God is necessarily particularly “pleased” with me…He may be, (grace and blood and all that supposedly means He’s as alright with me as He is with any other Christian) but it hasn’t been a real goal of mine in recent years (if I’m being honest and I am because this is my blog and if I can’t be honest here then what’s the point and if you don’t like reading this you can leave and never visit my blog ever again as that’s ok) and I haven’t given Him any reason to be any more pleased with me than with anyone else. Secondly, while I like to believe in God and assume that He loves us and wants good things for us all the time…Chris is more of a realist. He assured me that “God doesn’t care where we live.” He spoke from the viewpoint of there being much larger, more pressing issues for God to concern himself with…like Syrian refugees and starving children. I get that. So I fall somewhere in the middle…like “if He doesn’t care then why can’t we actually live where WE want…”. At the end of the day, it’s about preferences. I don’t prefer to smell dog shit from my neighbor’s yard or park my van 2 blocks from my house when the parking lot is full. I guarantee that our neighbors would LOVE some more “city friendly” residents living next to them. We are outside making noise ALL THE TIME! We have scratched their cars with our bike handles. We are messy and loud and we (the kids) spy on them from our tree house. We burn firewood which I’ve come to realize isn’t everyone’s favorite smell (it’s one of mine!) I’ve tried to tell myself that if we weren’t here, “where would the neighbor kids hang out and play…would they have a safe and fun place to be?”- but then I remember that it’s not my job to make sure every unattended kid in the neighborhood is having a safe fun time. I have 5 of my own kids to provide safety and fun -and that’s a full time job. 
So the glass is half full and it’s looking like a few more years in the bird cage. And speed bumps…I’m installing speed bumps.