He ain't heavy

Jacob (2 years) and Levi (6 months)

They're going to be good friends, these two. I can tell by how tightly Jacob holds on so as not to drop him, and how Levi just sort of grins and grunts through the whole ordeal.

In other news, it appears we've managed to loosen the grip on our choke hold hugs over the past three years, which is probably good news for Levi.

Abby (2 years) and Caleb (8 months)
October 2009

Happy Birthday, Caleb!

Some things never change.

My eldest son is one of them.

Last year, on his third birthday, I summed him up this way:

He's rambunctious, he's loud, he's busy, he's smart, he's curious, he's messy, and he only ever wants to play with anything with wheels.

He loves sharks and Tow Mater and diggers and dirt and figuring out how things are put together (or how they come apart, more often). He adores his big sister, tolerates his little brother, loves to wrestle with Daddy and has an unlimited supply of snuggles for Mommy.

A year later, every word still rings true. He's looking a little older, but his face still hasn't changed much since he was about six months old. It's still nearly impossible to tell how old he is when we look at old pictures. His cheese face is rarer than it once was, replaced more often now with a sweet smile, but it still breaks through every now and then, like when he opens his door on the morning of his birthday to find a great big Mater balloon waiting for him. (The same balloon we got him last year, apparently. I had forgotten all about it.)

He's growing closer to his little brother Jacob as they both get a little older, and finding it easier with each passing day to share and involve him in the complex adventures his imagination dreams up for the two of them. He's still the best problem solver of all our kids, by far, probably because he is the most patient of them. He will work for hours on one project or with one toy or activity until he knows every possible way it can be played with, manipulated, constructed and deconstructed. Of all of these, he seems to have a particular giftedness when it comes to deconstruction and demolition. Having Caleb in my house has enriched my understanding of the phrase "like a bull in a china shop."

When he's not breaking stuff or building stuff, he's talking. In fact, he's usually talking while he's breaking and building stuff. He starts talking as soon as he wakes up, and he doesn't really stop until shortly after we tuck him into bed each night. We're still waiting for him to reach his word-use quota, but it never happens. I've had to start offering him edible rewards for finishing his packed lunches on days when he eats lunch at Pre-K. Otherwise, he uses the opportunity when everyone else's mouth is busy eating to tell them everything that's on his mind. And there's a lot on his mind. He dreams up the most fantastical adventures for himself and his stuffed animals (which are almost exclusively sharks) and is regularly telling or retelling the story of Sharky's trip to the aquarium, or Big Shark's trip to the moon, or Baby Shark's birthday party, or Shark Hat's hike up the mountain, or Hand Puppet Shark's day at the zoo, and the list goes on and on. There is no limit to his imagination, and I can be certain of this because he keeps absolutely nothing to himself. He's a big time story-topper, and it's impossible to tell a story with Caleb present without him following up with a story of his own that begins, "Oh, well, Sharky did that once..."

He's strong, very strong, and does not know his own strength. He's captivated by the story of Samson in the Bible, and we've tried to use it to help Caleb understand the potential harm or good that can come from being so uniquely equipped. God blessed Samson with great strength, we tell our little linebacker. And what happened when Samson used his muscles for good?

"He did great things," Caleb will answer.

And what happened when Samson used his muscles carelessly?

"People got hurt," he'll reply.

He's a smart one, all right. But knowing and doing are two different things, and learning the self control to put all the good things he knows into practice is something we pray for him often.

But as Caleb moves into his fourth year of life, I see God beginning to give us a glimpse of the man he will become. If I had only one word to describe him, I would tell you without hesitation that my boy is tenderhearted. He has such a sweet spirit, and he cares about other's feelings in a way belies his age. It shows in his concern for those around him, in his sincerity, in his love for people, in the awesome hugs he gives, in the way he showers love on the members of his family. It is evident in the remorse he shows when he has disobeyed or hurt someone, intentionally or unintentionally. It is what makes him remind us multiple times before he goes to bed each night: "I love you so much, Mommy and Daddy." And then he stretches his little arms out as wide as they'll go, just so we can be sure: "I love you this much."

And then he waits for our reply, which is always the same. "We love you too, Caleb. You're our favorite Caleb in the whole wide world."

And with all my heart, I mean every word of it.

Happy birthday to my still-shark loving, truck driving, best-hugger-in-the-world, favorite four year old boy!

Like she means it

Natural smiles don't exactly come naturally to Abby. She's more of the hurry-up-and-snap-the-picture-already grimacing type. But Papa caught her in a rare moment of sheer joy, when a fake smile wasn't necessary. It's hard not to be happy when you're climbing a tree.

Clearly, this is where she's meant to be.

New kid in class

Shark backpack? Check.

Camo shoes? Check?

Old enough to go to Pre-K? Well...almost.

So technically he wouldn't be in the pre-kindergarten class at the homeschool co-op Abby attends until next year. But he's almost four, and that was good enough for his teachers. They said he would be more than welcome to try it out and see if it might be a good fit for him.

And he loved every minute of it.

I guess you can only drop your big sister off at her super fun kindergarten class so many weeks in a row before you start to feel a little left out. Now, one day a week at least, there's something special for both my biggest kids to enjoy. The adjustment to a few hours alone with only two kids was a big one for me, and Jacob is totally digging being the only child when the bigs are at school and Levi's down for a nap.

Caleb comes home with a packet of completed art projects and extra worksheets after each class and insists that Abby sit down with him at some point and help him with his "homework." I don't have the heart to tell him the worksheets are just for fun. He really feels like he's moving to the head of the class, and Abby enjoys helping him practice whatever it is he's learning that week.

Except for the incident where he yelled at some boy for taking a toy from some girl (I praised him for sticking up for his friend Emerson, but asked him to remember to speak kindly to everyone, even if they're being mean) and the time when he accidentally kicked some boy and refused to say he was sorry because he didn't do it on purpose (I explained that apologizing isn't necessarily an admission of guilt) his transition into a classroom setting is going pretty smoothly.

And his favorite part?

"I get to talk to everyone at lunchtime and everyone listens to me!" he told me when I picked him up. A peek into his lunchbox confirmed my suspicions that he is, in fact, conversing in lieu of eating, much like our meals at home. I guess he figures he can eat anytime, but that kind of captive audience is hard to come by.

Sounds like he's got this pre-k thing all figured out.

Weep with those who weep

There is a space between the four framed birth announcements hanging on my wall that doesn't bother anyone else. It's just a 6-inch gap between Caleb's picture and Jacob's, no different from the space between the other pictures.

But in my heart, that gap is so much greater.

Every time I look at it, I think about what might have hung there. The baby that we lost three years ago had been growing inside of me for less than two months when his or her life ended. This side of heaven, I will not know if I might have had another daughter or another son. What I do know is that there is someone missing, and that gap will always be there. And no matter how full my house may seem, I will always wonder about my middle child.

I have had three years to work through this pain and wrestle with this issue, and it hasn't gotten any easier.

In those three years, I have comforted and been comforted by others who understand what it's like to lose a child you've never held. And what I've learned is that unless you've walked in my shoes, you don't get it.

Just as I will never be able to wrap my mind around the suffering of the friend who one year ago buried the daughter that she labored and delivered after her child's heart stopped beating in utero, or the suffering of the friend who wiped my tears after having suffered three miscarriages of her own.

Their pain is deep, and real, and intense. But most of all, it is unique. And unless you have walked in their shoes, you don't get it.

But what you can, and should, understand is this: when a mother suffers a miscarriage, she is grieving the loss of a child. A very real child, no matter how intangible it may seem to everyone around her, was being knit together in her womb, under the watchful eye of a gracious and loving Father.

I have learned very well in three years is that this loss is greatly misunderstood. I suffered terribly then, and continue to suffer at the hands of careless people who would seek to diminish the value of the life that was lost in a misplaced effort at easing the pain. "Oh, at least it was early," they'll say. As if losing a smaller or younger child is somehow less painful than losing an older one. Or perhaps, "I'm sure you'll get pregnant again." As if children are somehow interchangeable and can be replaced as you might replace a broken dish with a new one.

I write this in hopes that someone out there will read this, and will not make the same mistake.

It's true that no one quite knows how to comfort someone who has suffered a miscarriage, because the loss is so intangible--for everyone but the mother. But if you would defend the life of the unborn when it comes to the issue of abortion, then I challenge you to stop next time you're tempted to offer simple platitudes to the friend, the daughter, the wife, or the stranger who shares with you that her pregnancy has ended in a miscarriage.

Because to those of us who understand that we are fearfully and wonderfully made from the moment of conception, it should be exceedingly obvious that what was lost was very much a child. And as such, we should grieve for the loss of that unborn baby, just as really as we would for the loss of an infant or a toddler.

Courtney Reissig says it this way in an article in which she speaks openly about her own miscarriage:

...none of us would say that what we lost was the "potential" for life. It was so much more than that. Our lost baby took with it the many dreams and hopes that began forming in our minds the moment we knew of the baby's existence. What was lost was a life that will never be replicated.

It's really important to never delegitimize the life that was once growing inside of a grieving mother or was once frozen in an IVF clinic. To her (and to God), this life was never a mere blob of tissue or a fetus. He or she was a life. 

As Christians, we must never treat pregnancy loss as some fluke accident that at least proves pregnancy is possible. We should be the first to grieve over every baby lost, regardless of the gestation, circumstance, or result of their death. 

What I lost was not the potential for a baby. What I lost was my third child. The words I penned three years in my mourning still ring true: "I miss this child. I mourn for this child that I never saw, never held and will never know." God was, and is, and will continue to be my greatest comfort. But as those first few days of intense mourning faded, I was left with some tough questions, and very few answers. The answers have come, over time, through much prayer, and through study of God's word. In a recent article about the son, Adam, that he and his wife lost through miscarriage, Alex Early summed up well what I know about my baby.

Where do the unborn babies go? ...The reality is that Scripture never speaks directly to this situation. At this point we are left to speculation, but our speculation doesn’t go unenlightened. We have a perfect Bible that reveals ultimately what God desires for us to know. Since there is not a verse (much less a systematic theology) on this subject, it seems only right to appeal to the character and nature of the God in whose image humans are created.

God has revealed himself as holy, just, and righteous—but that’s not all. He’s revealed himself as the definition of love (1 John 4:8), whose grace is scandalous, (Luke 15:11–32), and whose mercy leads to our justification (Rom. 2:4). In fact, Jesus teaches us that he is our heavenly Father (Matt. 6:7–15) and Paul goes as far as to tell us on two occasions that God prefers his kids use a familial name like “Abba” when talking to him in prayer (Rom. 8:15; Gal. 4:16).

Though I don’t have a verse that says definitively that [our child] Adam is in heaven with Jesus along with millions of other children, when I look at the nature and character of our God....I abide in the great comforter, the Holy Spirit, knowing that my baby met this God face to face, and therefore, I have great hope of one day worshiping Jesus at Adam’s side.

I never knew my baby, or held my baby, but that child has a place in my heart, and in our family. Justin asked me once what I would name our child if I get to heaven first. That one simple act of joking about names--as we have through all our other pregnancies--reminded me again that it is okay to continue to mourn and to miss my baby, and to never for a second fall into the fallacy that what we lost was anything less than a child, made in the image of God, and known by Him before the foundation of the world.

These days, I don't cry nearly so often over the little one that is missing from our family. Dates stick out in my mind that make the feelings more intense. The anniversary of the day we found out we were pregnant. The day an empty ultrasound confirmed our worst fears. The day that might have been our child's birthday. In this world, I will have sorrow. But like the author above, I have great hope of one day worshiping Jesus at my child's side.

Eyes in the back of my head

The sun was just coming up, and Jacob should have been asleep. But the cries seemed to be coming from somewhere other than his crib. I pressed my ear to his door and heard, very clearly, and very loudly, "Uh oh, Mommy. Uh oh."

I gently turned the knob and slowly pushed the door open. Or at least, I tried to push the door open. I was thwarted by the two-year-old standing on the other side of it.

He stared up at me, those big brown eyes admitting his misdeed. He pointed at his crib.

"Uh oh, Mommy."

"Did you climb out of your crib?" I asked.

"Yesh," he replied, toddling back over to his bed and hoisting his leg in a pitiful attempt to show me how. Getting in proved a lot harder than getting out, apparently, which is why he was calling for help.

I put him back in his crib, gave him a stern warning to never do it again, and told him I'd come back to get him when it was time to get up.

He escaped twice more before the realization hit me that my words were not strong enough to keep him in place.

When Abby learned to crawl out of her bed, she used the skill only to retrieve misplaced toys before scaling the outside wall of the crib and climbing back in.

When Caleb mastered the skill, he used it to stand up on the ledge of the crib and launch himself six feet across the room in the middle of the night, breaking both bones in his arm.

Jacob tends more toward the latter than the former. We decided to take some extreme precautions.

And that is how this frugal mom, having entered the journey of parenthood with nary a baby monitor, and having lived without one until acquiring a used monitor when baby #3 came along, found herself paying full price for a top of the line video monitor. Because, as the hubby pointed out, it's probably cheaper than another broken arm.

And utilizing the night vision on my new toy, I can scan the room to keep an electronic eye on both my baby and my escape artist. And when Jacob does begin to lift his body over the edge of the crib and I can't dash in to catch him in time, I can simply speak into the microphone and my voice fills his room: "Jacob, get down!"

He doesn't like it, as evidenced by the evil looks he's taken to giving the camera when it barks the order at him. But he obeys, and that's the important part.

In can't decide if this is the laziest or the best purchase I've ever made. Either way, I love it.

This iƨ my houƨe

And speaking of going into outer space...

Lest someone happen upon our empty house and think it has been abandoned while we are gone on our trip to the moon, Abby has prepared a sign for the front door to warn them.

This iƨ my houƨe

by Abby

"This way," she explained, "they'll know I live here and they won't try to move in."

This is one well-planned voyage to the moon. Who knew a kindergartner could be such a thorough trip coordinator?

One small step for man

Abby's hunger for knowledge and limitless imagination are truly fantastic qualities for a 5-year-old to possess.

But they leave us faced with a very real problem.

She has, over time, and of her own volition, developed a keen interest in outer space. With the help of her children's encyclopedia, she's made herself an expert on the planets, stars, lunar cycles, and space travel.

When she announced that she would like to travel to the moon, we encouraged her. But she'd need a rocket, we told her, and those weren't easy to come by.

She'd build one, she informed us. Daddy would help her, since he's good at building things.

He casually mentioned the fact that the space shuttle program had been shut down, which may cause a hiccup in her plans. No problem, she decided. She'd just write a letter to the president and ask him to start things back up again.

We finally consented to her plan to go to the moon, but with one stipulation. You must be eight years old to go to the moon, we told her. She agreed. This, we thought, would buy us a few years while she figured out on her own just how complicated space travel really is and how slim her chances of getting there any time soon really are.

But she didn't back down. So her dad agreed to buy a model rocket kit. We'll start small, he told her. Let's launch some bugs and stuff into space first, and practice with some small rockets for a while before we move on to bigger and better things.

She locked into that idea with every fiber of her being. And she has spent countless hours drawing, tweaking and reworking her rocketship designs.

She's finally settled on a simple blue and purple color block pattern. Now she's just waiting on that kit to arrive so she can see how it flies.

It could be a long two and a half years until she turns eight.

I dare you not to smile

Toothless grins, chunky thighs...these are a few of my favorite things.

Oh, and the flexibility to get your own chubby feet in your mouth? Very impressive, indeed.

Teaching assistant

Oh, vertical addition. Some days you just wear my little kindergartner out.

Today is one of those days.

Good thing she has that blankie to rest her head on, or our math lesson could have ended tragically. Who knew that thing would be useful for anything beyond helping her fall asleep as an infant or snuggling on sick days?

Mrs. Rabb, if you're reading this, thanks again for the baby shower gift. Almost six years later, it's still a favorite.  

July 2008 Abby (10 months)

Story time

This scene makes my heart happy.

I love my little bookworms. (And I'm a pretty big fan of their dad, too.)

What's for dinner?

Meal planning is never easy. Meal planning for a family of six is near madness. But I've spent the last few months tweaking a system that works for us, and I'm ready to share (because a few of you asked).

For a calendar of approximately what we're eating for the rest of the year, click here: What's For Dinner?

You'll notice there are a lot of repeat meals on there. There's a reason for that, and a good one. I've spent the last few months figuring out what my family will and won't eat, which meals are so good for us that we'll eat them anyway, which meals are delicious or easy enough to eat more often, and which meals always leave us with leftovers. I narrowed it down to about 30 or so dishes, and we rotate through them. I plug them into my handy little Google calendar, tell it how often to repeat them (every 3 or 4 weeks, usually) and from there, the meal calendar basically builds itself.

On Saturdays, I check the calendar to see what we're eating the next week and head to the grocery store. Almost half of our meals are ones that can be frozen and stored for later, so if I have a little extra time, I triple or quadruple the recipe and freeze three or four meals for later.  Often we get to the last week of the month and find that I don't have to do any cooking at all, since all the meals on the calendar were prepared in advance and are waiting to be thawed. (I'm not going to lie...freezer weeks are my favorite.)

A lot of the meals are seasonal (Minestrone tastes better when it's cold) and in the summer our fruit and veggie co-op will drive our meal planning, so the calendar is subject to change. Meals will get rotated out or in as seasons change or as a new issue of Southern Living offers new material to work with. But it feels pretty good to have a general framework for the year outlined.

I rarely deviate from the calendar, and if we ever have to skip or push back a meal that I've purchased ingredients for, I try to make sure we skip a meal that I can go ahead and prepare and put in the freezer, or one that uses more non-perishable ingredients that I can save for later. On a slow weekend, I've been known to prepare dinners for the entire week in advance. This knocks out all the mess and all the stress in one day. (And as a bonus, I have the hubby to help with preparation and clean up.)

For freezing soups and stews, I prefer the ziploc bag method. These can be stored flat in my freezer and thaw quickly. For casseroles, I usually line my trusty old Pyrex with foil, spray it liberally with cooking spray, and dump the casserole ingredients in as if I were about to cook it. I cover it tightly and flash freeze it for a few hours, then dump it out of the casserole dish, remove the foil and wrap it tightly in freezer safe plastic wrap. When I'm ready to eat it, I simply unwrap it, place the frozen block of casserole back in the dish, and thaw it in the refrigerator until it's ready to bake.

I'm loving this cookbook that my friend (and fellow mom-to-many) recommended. It has all sorts of great freezer meals that don't taste like freezer meals, and lots of great tips on freezing side dishes and other items. (Did you know you can freeze cooked rice and it tastes just as good as fresh cooked rice? You can, and it does, and this book will tell you how. This changed my life.)

Feeling inspired? Go do some meal planning of your own! Or just steal my meal plan...that's what it's there for.

Happy and you know it

I'm going to say it again: I have no idea where the time went.

If your days seem to be dragging by too slowly, you're more than welcome to borrow my kids sometimes. Having four little ones underfoot seems to speed things up considerably.

Levi celebrated his half birthday with our traditional family of fish half birthday cake. (He opted for a marble cake with green frosting and about 19 blue sprinkles, because that's all I could find in the pantry. He's pretty laid back like that.)

Perhaps because his own birthday was still fresh in his mind, Jacob was our most enthusiastic celebrant, singing his version of the birthday song ad nauseum, which included lulling his little brother to sleep later in the evening. (For the record, listening to my two-year-old sing "Appy dooby, Weevi" as he falls asleep now ranks among the top ten cutest things my kids do.)

For his part, Levi licked up every little crumb and piece of frosting that came his way. He's done great on his solid mushy foods (sweet potatoes, green beans, carrots, assorted fruits, split peas) but I have a feeling pureed vegetables are going to have trouble competing for favor on his palate after tonight.

At six months, Levi is still just as easy going as ever. He might be our best baby to date. Or maybe he just seems easier by comparison to the pack of wild animals running around him. But he's perfectly content doing whatever it is we do all day. Whether playing on the floor while his brothers build a train track around or over him, or smiling as he's jostled and rolled around while his sister attempts to swaddle him in one of her baby blankets, Levi's proving to have quite a patient and gentle spirit.

In spite of his often noisy (and sometimes smelly) sleeping arrangements with his big brother, Levi's proved to be a great napper and a tremendous nighttime sleeper, snoozing away 1.5 hours of his morning, three hours of his afternoon, and 12 hours overnight. This, despite the concert that is usually going on in the crib next to him, never ceases to amaze me. My youngest is going to make a great roommate one day.

When we're out and about, he's happy in his carseat, strapped to me in the Ergo, or bouncing along on my hip. He doesn't know a stranger and happily approves the hand-off in Sunday School or among friends.

Have I mentioned he's a good baby? He's a really good baby.

He's starting to bust out of his six-month clothes (Literally. There are holes in the toes of some of his footed pajamas. Oh the joys of being boy #3.) and is looking more and more like his big brother Caleb with each passing day. Caleb, I should point out, was carrying an extra five pounds at this same age, but I digress.

Levi's still not sitting up by himself, scooting, crawling or really making any purposeful movements whatsoever, except for those that bring toys and food and feet to his mouth. He did roll over a few times on accident, but I haven't seen him repeat it in a while. What he lacks in physical development he makes up for in personality, and quite honestly, it's easier taking care of a stationary baby than a mobile one, so I'm not rushing things. I have a feeling if it were safer to leave him alone to play on the floor or in his doorway jumper without fear of being trampled or swung violently from side to side, he might be getting a little more exercise and showing a little more progress.

He's a chatty little fellow, when he can get a word in, and his coos and grunts and babbles are an endless source of entertainment for the bigger kids, who seem determined to decipher his "baby talk" and explain to me what points Levi is trying to make. This can keep them occupied for entire grocery trips, so I'm happy to play along and let them pretend that Levi is having intelligent conversation in his own language.

Happy half birthday, Little One. We're so glad to have you here!

Nurse Nancy

My dreams of a pedicure flew out the window as my mother-in-law ripped the nail from my big toe.

It's okay. She's a professional, and I asked her to do it.

What I didn't ask for was the slight shove my little shark-lover gave his bed while I was standing on the other side of it. I had no idea my three-year-old had the strength to move his cargo bed, much less to move it hard enough to dislodge my toenail. I'll know better next time.

While I am sad about the loss of my big toenail, I am most mournful for the loss of the time I would have spent in the kicky new cowgirl boots I got for Christmas.

For the record, this brings our yearly tally for unscheduled doctor's office/urgent care visits to four. And we're barely a week in.

Oregon Trail

It was pioneer week here at the Fisher Preparatory Academy for Excellence in Learning.

When we were done reading about all the grand adventures and hardships our early American pioneers faced, Abby decided a little role play was in order, to better help her brothers understand the lesson, of course.

Based on her interpretation of what we read, I can assume she learned that the pioneer women wore ballet tights and layers of dance skirts to keep themselves warm on their travels, and that their primary source of transportation was a covered wagon pulled by bug-eyed oxen.

She did at least go to the trouble of correctly identifying which wall in our house faces west before her trio of plastic pioneers began their journey.

Close enough.

Who he is

This is Caleb, making his infamous Cheese Face, wearing the shark costume he refuses to take off, and holding the Moon Mater toy he refuses to put down.

That pretty much sums him up, right there.

I seriously love this kid.