Unique by Design

I was knit together in my mother's womb. That thought is awesome by itself, but to think that I was planned by God down to the tiniest atom in my DNA is mind-boggling.

I got to thinking about that this morning when I plopped down on my sofa, Bible in hand, coffee on the side. What triggered the thought was the stack of fabric on one end of the sofa, clean, ironed and ready to be cut, sewn, and stuffed with toiletries for our homeless friends in Texas. My motto for the bags is "No two alike, making it practical and personal."

I am in a mini paradise in my dining room where sits Rose's sewing maching on loan, a plethora of drawstring bags in various stages of production. I love to take tow, three, four or five pieces and put them together for an aesthetically pleasing ending. Some bags are all one piece, as they are least time consuming. Some are feminine, some appeal to men, and still others are going to make kids' eyes light up.
My daughter is making sure there are teen-friendly bags in the mix, too.

This particular stack is one my mom's friend gave her to pass on to me. I am tempted to keep some of it, but I won't. There's a Chinese red print with a pale mint green going through it. How classy it looks with the pale green solid sitting on top of it. Above the solid green is what I'd call European homespun. Navy blue hearts, black toile pictures, burgundy fleur de lis. So many possibilities to mixing it with other fabrics. Then my favorite is a retro floral print. Got those 70s colors going through it--periwinkle lilacs, tangerine daisies, and lime green leaves. Then there's a conservative earth tone stripe in rich chenille. Another one features a thousand white crows in rows on a tar black background.

The fabric was lovely. Lovely but distracting. Yet God used it to remind me of His pure delight in making individuals. Some of us are rich, some are homespun. Some speak with a foreign accent, reminding us of other nations in God's hand. One is lightweight and easy to work with; another is heavy and less manageable. Some are ones that men wouldn't mind having on their arm; others are way too fussy. Some are dizzyingly busy, some are plain and plodding. Most of us want to be "practical" to God in the sense of being used of Him in loving service. Service that is personal because of our personal relationship with Jesus Christ.

Yet no two of us are alike. God made us unique. Sounds so cliche, but when WAS the last time you thought about it? I mean down to the details? Your voice may sound like your mom's, but it's yours. Your hair may have a funny cowlick just like your dad's. You may have thick veins in your hands or a mouth that turns down when you're in deep thought. All of those characteristics were part of the Great Designer's plan.

I have four children, yet all four are unique. How dull our family would be if all were identical. Even if you're an identical twin, I'll bet there are MANY differences between you and your twin.

I am praying that each man, woman, and child who receive our kits will give thanks to God alone for thinking of them. When they carry their kits-- "no two alike"--even the Scooby Doo ones which appear to be the same-- they will consider God's creativity and sheer delight in making them unique.

Buttkin'

Today Joel made up a word I think we'll use regularly: buttkin. Here's how it came to be:

I was trying to get him dressed after a bath. He was okay with being dried off and getting the "unnawear" on, but when it came time for the shorts, he hopped away.
I told him to hop back here. He hopped farther away. I hopped toward him (not really hopped, that would've shattered bedside trinkets) but okay, I followed him into my bathroom. "You need a spankin' on the butt?" I asked.

"Noooo, don't give me a buttkin."


What's a mom to do? I bent him over my knee and smiled behind his back. It was all I could do to stifle a full-fledged laugh.

Then I swatted his little buttkin and told him to obey Mommy. He hopped back to where his clothes awaited him.

Sunday Evening Memories

Tonight we made some fun memories.

My husband Paul decides near dinner time that my plans for homemade chicken fettucini soup will take too long. He wants five-for-five from Arby's. Sarah and Stephen want to practice driving, even though neither has had driver's ed. Joel also wants to go "frivin'" although his personal vehicle is a lime green tricycle.

So three of my kids pile into the van with us. We drive through Arby's and get the five Arby melts for five bucks, plus curly fries and drinks. Paul hands over the coupon, a few dollars, and then we head to Retro Freeze. My husband is a coupon-aholic. I'm sure he'll want us to pay for his funeral with a coupon when the time comes. Anyway, he hands me a buy 1/ get one half price coupon for iced coffee drinks. One for me to share with him, one for Sarah. He sends her and me in together. We place our order and wander around the 18 square foot dessert shop to pass time.

While the girl is making our second drink, in walks Stephen with Joel. He
Sarah and I have to pretend we don't know our boys, because we are "separate customers." I feel funny being cheap. I don't mind saving money, but I don't like to present coupons anywhere except the grocery store. But I do, out of respect for the man of my dreams. So the drink gals are saying, "Hi, cutie" (and I assume they're talking to Joel,not Stephen, since they're speaking babytalk). I again try not to turn my head. Stephen is inching closer. I slip him a five while the girl's head is bent over into the 3 gallon tub of cookie dough ice cream. He says, "I got it" and shows me a wad of ones in his tight fist. We are so coy.

The girl rings up my full price drink (which has caffeine) but admits she can't figure out half of $2.71 for the second one. I say, "Well, one thirty-five is half of two seventy, so she suggests $1.36. It's a deal.

Sarah and I walk out together, but I wait for my boys where the employees can't see me. Stephen, I see as I peek through the window,dutifully and unabashedly presents his coupoon for ice cream cones: buy one/get one half price. Uh-oh, Counter Girl's got to figure out half again. And right at closing. Why do people do this to her? Why can't she work at Starbucks where the cash register computes the prices automatically?

Am I neurotic about this coupon phobia? Am I a coupon legalist? Who really CARES that we are one family trying to get two deals? Out comes Stephen, gripping a sloppy tower of ice cream in one hand, change in the other. "Mom, can you take Joel's hand?"

We pile again into the van, and head to the playground. As we approach the sandlot, I say to Joel, "Do you remember who you came to this playground with?" I thought he'd say, "Timmy," from the last play date there. Instead he surprised me and said, "Teddy and Robby." (Cousins from Texas). They came in May!

"Who else?" I asked, again thinking he'd say Timmy. "Pappaw and Ima" and then I remembered, yes, they brought him there last time they babysat him all day (which was before te paly date).

Joel thinks the long "swidin' board" is 'cary. Sarah, bless her 16 year old heart, slides down it first to prove to him it's not. Not just once, three times. He sticks with his conviction. She sticks with her wedgie.

Stephen sits in the red moon-shaped adult swing, while Paul and I sit on the bench a couple yards behind him. Paul picks up mulch, the heavier pieces, and chucks them one by one at the back of Stephen's head. He misses. He tries again. People watch. Yes, we are grown-ups. We are parents. We are making memories. Paul tries again. He misses again. Stephen's oblivious. Paul's a bad aim.

We all go to the swings. Daddy pushes Joel. Joel pushes Daddy. Noooo, Joel! Look out! Whew! Good thing Daddy has long legs and a father's heart or you'd be flat as fettucini yourself and we could toss you into the soup. Daddy puts Joel in his lap and swings high, Joel with a broad smile on his face and a death grip on the chains. Stephen swings beside them, saying "Don't leave till we've crashed." Wonderful reason to stop.


Next we go find a place to let the kids practice driving. Adjacent to McDonald's is a medical facility,complete with handicap spaces (lots of them, appropriately enough). Stephen drives first. He's my height, but that looks so short in a captain's chair. He adjusts his seat and then the mirrors. "What should I be able to see?" "Not yourself," we joke. He tries to pull the gear shift down.

Wait. Step on the brake first, son, and look around. He's driving so slowly I tell him he drives like his grandmother. He chuckles and speeds up. We drive around back and Joel says, "Hit the monsters, Stephen! Hit the monsters!" Stephen backs into a handicap space and Joel exclaims, "Good shob! You hit the monster!" (Those wheelchair icons on the pavement look a whole lot like monsters, don't they???)

Stephen, being the baby of the family for ten years before Joel, has that mentality that everyone is looking out for him. And we do. We have to. He doesn't look out for himself. Or other cars. Or mailboxes, sign posts, or pedestrians. Which is why we chose a professional building's parking lot on a sunday night. Few casualties posing there. Whenever he makes the van lurch, he says, "This transmission!" Oh, good. The kid's been driving for nine minutes and he's already started filling a bag with excuses.

Sarah's turn. Much taller, she appears in command of the driver's seat. She's not.
Paul and I need chiropractic treatment first thing in the morning. She says the pedal's too sensitive. So are the brakes. So is my neck, my nerves, my fender. No, not really. She is getting the hang of it. Reverse is her favorite gear.
"Turn and look over. your. shoulder " I coach, biting my ninth nail.
"Zo," says Paul, "there's no one here."
"Ya never know, honey, don't assume."
"Mom, that's why you can't sleep at night. You assume every possible thing."
"I thought it was because I take long naps."
"That too."
wE go around back and she also runs over monsters. I tell her they surveillance cameras there. Stephen believes me and says let's go.

Joel's turn. Yippee! He wants to do it himself. "Move over, Daddy!"
"Daddy has to do the pedals."
"Why?"
"Cuz you can't reach them."
"Yes I can" and starts to demonstrate.
"No, Joel, you get to do the steering wheel, Daddy gets to do the pedals."

We take off. Like a jet. Paul really believes that pedestrians are nowhere around,
This night, by God's grace, they're not. He picks up speed. We round a landscaped cement area with a street light in the middle. Cool. Let's straighten out. Let's,...okay, go around in another circle. Whee! Joel's giggling. Paul's grinning like a daredevil on a rollercoaster. Round and round we go. I'm getting dizzy, I say. Round again. Need a Dramamine, I say. Round again, fast, fast, fast. "Don't hit the curve!" Joel tells himself. "Yay! I hit the monsters!" he says, running over several wheelchairs painted on the parking lot.

Times up, Daddy announces. "More! More!" Joel says, gripping the wheel like he gripped the swing chains earlier.

Don't leave till we've crashed? is what I'm thinking.
"Not tonight, honey," Paul tells the straw-haired three-year-old Nascar driver in his lap.
"Maybe next Sunday."


We came home happy, dizzy, and whiplashed. It's been a good day.

Gender-Specific Excuses

I don't remember Ben doing this, nor Stephen. Maybe Joel (who is 3 1/2) is more caught up in the male/female roles because of his constant exposure to adults and teenage brothers and sister.

But around here his excuses for refusing to participate in something or obey parents are almost always tied to whether it's for boys or girls. Sometimes they are downright funny. Here are some examples:


Me: Joel, it's time for your bath.
Him: Boys don't take "bath-es. Boys take showers. (If based on observation in the home, that is true.)


Me: Joel, would you please shut the fridge door?
Him: Boys don't shut fridge doors, only girls. (Sometimes true, sometimes false.)


Me: Joel, let's read a couple books.
Him: It's not naptime! Boys only read at naptime. (Schoolwork does tend to be done in a reclining, sleepy position here. Reading is a naptime/bedtime ritual for almost every male in our home.)


Me: Joel, I want to give you a hug.
Him: Boys don't hug moms.
Me: They should.
Him: Big boys don't, and I'm a big boy.
Me: Well moms hug their boys no matter what size they are, if the boys will let them.
Him: Okay. ((hugs me tight))


Me: Joel, you need a shirt on.
Him: Boys don't wear shirts in the house.
Me: Daddy does.
Him: He's a man, not a boy.
Me: Do you want to be a man like daddy?
Him: No, a big boy like Ben.
Ben: Well, Joel, you're wrong. I AM a man.
Stephen: (laughing)
Sarah : (Laughing)
Paul and Me: (trying not to laugh)
Joel: Well, I'm frong like Ben.
Ben: Strong like me?
Joel: Yeah, see? (shows his biceps as his own face turns cranberry)
Stephen ; You're fronger than Ben.
Joel: Yeh, I'm frong like Daddy.

New Blog; Who'da thunk?

I'm going to start chronicling comedic and touching tidbits here that are specific to my kids.