Instantize me!

the best mashed potatoes ever! (photo from Idahoan.com)

This morning I got in my freezing cold car and drove to Food Lion for the essentials. The bad thing about living in the middle of a small town is that the heater in my car never warms up, so I ride the whole ten minutes there and back hunched over and shivering with one finger on the steering wheel.

Start your car before you leave, you say? Wait a second, that makes way too much sense.

So instead, I shivered my way into Food Lion with my mental list of essentials reeling:

“Butter, eggs, pie crust, and … oh yeah, instant mashed potatoes. Now, where would they be?”

“Hmmm…here’s mac and cheese and pasta roni. They should be here somewhere.” (looked around). “Nope.”

(Went down the aisle and turned left.)

“Looks like dog food, papertowels, and cleaning products. Not the place for potatoes.”

(I turned right.)

And there it was in big bold capital white letters on the sign hanging above aisle two: “INSTANT POTATOES.”

O Food Lion, I love you.

Who puts “instant potatoes” on a grocery aisle index? I thought they only put broad categories and essentials on those signs. Are mashed potatoes something you absolutely must know where to find in the grocery store?

When a snow storm is threatening to close schools, smother roads, and trap people in their houses for days on end, do people walk into Food Lion drop to their knees, tearing their garments in distress, and scream,” Where are the instant potatoes!?”

Is that why Food Lion put it on their sign?

I don’t normally shop at Food Lion. I give a quarter of our net income to Wal-Mart every month.  Where else can you buy toothpaste, diapers, frozen pizza and tires? People love to hate Wal-Mart, but I am not one of them. Mine is more of a love/hate relationship. Love the prices, hate the grime. Love the breadth of merchandise, hate walking a mile to get cotton balls. But I continue to go to Wal-Mart because, as they say, the prices are “unbeatable.”

Food Lion, however, is probably the most expensive grocery store round these parts, which may be a tell-tale sign of the booming metropolis where I reside. I’m not really sure why they are so much more expensive. It’s not like they can charge more for the atmosphere. I’d much rather shop at Martin’s (part of the Giant chain). They play show tunes over the loudspeaker, have a plethora of hand sanitizers, double coupons, and have a marvelous thing called “easy shop.” Not to mention a great selection and still better prices than Food Lion.

But when I’m in a jam (ie. I need instant mashed potatoes to go with some frozen beef brisket I got from my neighbor) I go to Food Lion. It’s only 1.7 miles down the road instead of 2.1 to Martin’s. Needless to say, I DO NOT go to Wal-Mart for three things. That would be either pure torture or pure insanity. Maybe both.

Getting back to instant potatoes. Don’t they sound good? And aren’t they necessary when eating beef brisket? (Although I’m not quite sure what beef brisket is.)

Maybe you are shaking your head at this because you always make your mashed potatoes from scratch. Good for you.  In my married life I think I have attempted it once.

For me, making homemade mashed potatoes is like going to Wal-Mart for three things. Torturous. Why would I put myself through the hours of laborious washing, peeling, cutting, boiling, mashing, and mixing, when Idahoan does the work for me?

And they taste so good. Even if I tried, I couldn’t get the right blend of garlic, butter, parmesan, and MSG like they do. Besides, they taste real enough to me. Although you may not want me to judge any mashed potato cooking contests because the last time I had real mashed potatoes was probably the before I left for college.

So when the next snow storm hits, you won’t find me wearing sackcloth and ashes because I don’t know where the instant potatoes are. I’ll be in aisle two of Food Lion… stocking up.

11 reasons I could live without January

Okay, so the sun sometimes shines in January.

Between sickness and snow, just about every plan I have made for the month of January has been canceled. It’s left me thinking that January is the most useless month of the year. Here’s eleven reasons why:

February

Admittedly, February isn’t much better. Cold, snowy, more of the same. It is, however, three days shorter, which in my book makes it more bearable and thus better than January. Nuff said.

March

March is a decent month. Two-thirds winter, one-third spring. Even if March’s version of spring is 50 degrees, it’s still spring and brings the hope of better things to come.

April

April has a lot to offer: red buds, dogwoods, tulips, forsythia, daffodils… me. Yes, it’s my birth month. Sure, it rains a lot. Sure, there’s a yellow covering over all living and non living things outdoors, but it’s spring time! And gosh darn it and I am going for a walk and going to play outside even if my eyes water so much I can’t see and I sneeze my brains out.

May

May…ahhhhh…driving with the windows down. May just might be the best month of the year. Not too hot, not too cold, not too much pollen. The days get longer and warmer. Who doesn’t like that?

June, July, and August need no such explanations as to why they are better than January, but for the sake of continuity I’ll offer a few:

June

Swimmin’ pools and movie stars. Well, swimming pools at least. Back-yard barbeques, vacations, trips to the beach, campouts, hiking, and county fairs. Summer begins and so does the fun.

July

July starts to get hot, but when you are hanging out at a pool who really cares? The month literally starts off with a bang. We celebrate the Fourth of July by watching green, yellow, red and blue streaks of fire explode in the air after eating hot dogs, watermelon and ice cream. Awesome.

August

Repeat what I said for June and July (delete the fireworks and insert fire flies).

September

Is it summer or fall? I’m not sure. Either way, it still looks and feels a lot like summer, which is nice because I like summer. The weather cools a bit but the trees stay green. Not a bad month.

October

October rivals May for the “best month” status. The wind picks up and the leaves begin to turn fiery orange, burnt red, and golden-yellow. It makes me want to go back to school ever year. Apple pie, wool sweaters, pumpkins, football, chili, Halloween, I love them all. From apple picking, pumpkin patches, hay rides, corn mazes, campouts and wine festivals, there’s always something to do in October.

November

Even though the leaves begin to fall from the trees this month, the world is still beautiful. The first sight of a barren mountain side or field seems artistic. I had forgotten what it looked like. The days get a little shorter, but in some ways I’m thankful after the craziness of summer. To top it off, every fourth Thursday of the month we gather ’round with our favorite people and take part in a huge feast in which we gorge ourselves with scrumptious home-cooked vittles like Turkey, green bean casserole and sweet potato pie. Nice way to end the month.

The barrenness that is January

 

December

At this point, the prospect of winter is exciting. Bring on the snow and the icicles. I’m ready. I am more than ready. I am hoping, nay, dreaming of a white Christmas. December is filled with four of my favorite things: shopping, decorating, baking and eating baked goods. Oh yeah, and it’s Jesus’ birth month so how can it not be a great month?

January

Then there’s January. Like Nathaniel I ask, “Can anything good come from it?” Nope. It’s 31 days of no good winter ickyness. Not even New Year’s Day can redeem it. Resolutions are overrated anyway.

If it was just an overcast month. If it was just snowy and 32 degrees every day. But it’s cold, cloudy, polluted with the flu, and riddled with intermittent snow showers that cripple a woman’s plans. It’s too much to bear.

I offer my apologies to all my friends and family who have birthdays this month. If it weren’t for you, I could truly, truly live without January.

Showers and Shepherds

Going to a baby shower when you have a two year old and an eight month old is kinda like going to a wedding after you’ve been married a few years.

“Congratulations!” you say in your best and most sincere tone, while thinking in your head “Good luck, hold on tight, you are in for a ride!”

Of course the congrats are sincere. Being married is awesome. Children are a blessing. They are both gifts from God. But these gifts are from IKEA. They come in boxes needing to be assembled and the only directions you are given are a few little black and white drawings. Good luck.

The baby shower came at the end of one of the longest weeks of my life and thus I found myself biting my tongue about my child’s recent illness and the never-ending demands of motherhood.

The shower was of course, wonderful. Full of women, conversation, some sort of delicious raspberry champagne, cake, and fondu. It was great to see my friend and to celebrate this happy and exciting time in her and her husband’s life. Becoming a parent is like no other change in life. Bigger than going to college, than moving out on your own, and even getting married.

Something in the universe alters when you become a parent. This alteration, I’ve recently realized, is that you are no longer the center of your world. (Okay, as Christian, “you” should have never been the center anyway, but you know what I mean.) All of the sudden, everything you thought about life and how it should operate–your dreams, your fears, your loves–all become different because this helpless little life has just been given to you. And they are yours! Yours to raise, to feed, to clothe, to change, to discipline and to screw up!

One day, a few weeks after I had Landon my mother came to help me. I sat on the couch and looked at my mom cradling Landon in her arms as Jacob played on the floor. I sat there in daze, probably just awoken from a nap, and took in the scene before me. These are my kids, I thought. That baby she’s holding…he’s mine. And that toddler on the floor? Also mine. And then I thought: who let me have these two kids? Are they sure I can handle this?

Most days I can handle it, but being a mom is hands down the most difficult thing I have ever done in my life. And that’s the truth.

Then came the stomach flu. This whole  flu thing has literally catapulted me into a new phase of motherhood. The phase of “Oh my Gosh my child just threw up on the carpet, what do I do?” The worrying, the lysol, the laundry, the carpet and the sleepless nights praying to God that everyone would sleep through the night and no one (myself included) would wake up crying or making trips to the toilet.

It’s particularly at times like these that I think of my mother and end up calling her every day to tell her all the details she doesn’t want to hear and ask for advice that I already know. I just want to hear her voice to be reassured that I still have a mother. Someone who loves me and sometimes still takes care of me.

I remember as a kid I always wondered how she didn’t get sick as often as we did. Now, I am the mother bringing in the juice, cleaning the mess, and drinking ginger ale hoping and praying that I’m not next. Because who would take care of the kids? There are no sick days for moms, I’ve discovered.

So it’s no wonder I felt the way I did at my friend’s shower. Are you ready for this Becca? Ready for the worrying, the sleepless nights, the responsibility, the fears, the questions? And the sicknesses that will infest your household every year until they go to college?

But the other night, as I lay there aching and not being able to sleep I began to pray. I prayed for strength, for rest, and for no one else to get sick. And for some reason, Psalm 23 came to mind:

The LORD is my Shepherd

I shall not want

He makes me lie down in green pastures

He leads me beside quiet waters,

He restores my soul.

And even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil

For You are with me.

Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.

You prepare a table for me in the presence of my enemies

You anoint my head with oil, my cup overflows.

Surely goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life and I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever. *

It was exactly what I needed to hear. Funny how the LORD knows these things. I needed to hear that He is my shepherd and I am just a sheep. I’m not expected to have all the answers or be the strong one. He is. And He gives me strength—and rest and “restores my soul.” Even when I walk through the valley of the shadow of death (aka the stomach flu) He is with me. And He comforts me. Thank you LORD!

The omnipotence, the presence, of God is something truly amazing. His love is wonderful, but unfathomable. His presence, however, is not. I can understand that. I don’t know how He is present everywhere all the time, but I know what it means to be near someone, to be present. I don’t know what it is like to love as God loves me. Remembering God’s presence gave me peace. A peace that surpasses understanding. It was an awesome thing.

I know there will be many more colds, flus, and sicknesses over the next 18 plus years, but I will try to remember the LORD is with us through it all, comforting, protecting, and looking for a green pasture where we can lie down.

That’s a nice thought.

*I wrote it from memory as I said it in my head that night, so it’s not an exact quote from the Bible.

Why get a flu shot when there’s the church nursery?

Maybe it was our trip to Wal-Mart. On second thought, I’m pretty sure it was the church nursery. Yep, the church nursery gave my child the stomach flu.

It seems like literally every time we drop him off at the nursery during the winter months he comes back with a sniffle or a cough that occasionally turns into an ear infection. This was the first stomach bug to come home with him. I’m not necessarily blaming the people who run the place. Maybe it’s the parents who bring their kids to share their germs. Or maybe it’s bad luck.

But whatever the cause, I’m in a bit of a conundrum. Does this mean I need to bring Jacob to the nursery more often so his immune system will become stronger? Or shall I behave like I normally do and stay away for a few weeks afraid of what germ might be lurking on some plastic toy that Jacob will stick in his mouth?

For the brief time we were in Pittsburgh we attended a small church that we really enjoyed. They had just built a brand new nursery. They made kids take their shoes off and whenever an adult entered the room he or she had to do the same or wear those blue booties over their shoes. Amazing. They had a huge window through which you could see your children play as you came to pick them up or drop them off. Jacob never came back sick from church while we were there. Could it be because we were there in October and November, not the prime flu season? Or was that nursery cleaner? Or was it because there were fewer children?

How many children are in the nursery at our church? Does our nursery make our children take off their shoes? I have no idea because I’ve never seen the place. It’s kinda strange but at our church, after waiting in a roped off line with half a dozen other parents, you exchange your child for a beeper over a counter. You never get to see the room. I guess that’s life at a big church.

The first time I dropped Jacob off as a six month old, I asked to see the room where he would be. It was a quiet room filled with rocking chairs and middle aged women waiting to hold babies. How sweet. They did just that. They held him and loved him and he didn’t get sick. But Jacob has long since outgrown that room and now I have no idea of the mass chaos that surrounds the “walkers” room where I can only imagine a dozen snotty nosed criers. That may sound rude, but quite frequently when I pick him up that’s what I see–snotty nosed criers.

I guess it’s unavoidable. It’s winter time and kids are going to get sick. I don’t mean to harp so much on the church nursery. I have a friend that works there and I’m sure they do a good job. Still, it doesn’t make me all that enthused about getting up and going to church in the morning. And now there’s Landon to think about.

Jacob getting in on home church.

So, if I tell you that this past Sunday was our first day back at church since we’ve been back, you’d understand right? Good. Because this past Sunday was our first day back at church since coming home from Pittsburgh.

Shameful, I know. Thankfully, we don’t get into heaven based on church attendance. For the record, I do think going to church is important for fellowship and teaching, but lately when we go there is little, if any, fellowshipping involved. Some of it’s us, some of it’s the church. It’s a big church and it’s hard to feel involved if you are not really plugged in. We’ve tried, not the old college try, but we have tried. Anyway, this is a topic for another post. But some church shopping may be in our future.

And just so you don’t think we are complete heathens, we’ve listened to some online sermons and had “home church” with my family the Sunday after Christmas. Home church is code for stay home and drink coffee in your pajamas on the couch. My family’s been having home church for years. And yes, it’s more that drinking coffee. And yes, my parents do go to church. But every now and then when we’re feeling lazy (or running so far behind that even we would be embarrassed walking in that late) we have home church, and it is always a great time.

Home church starts off with hymns, usually. With my mom at the piano we gather ’round and sing hymns like “How Firm A Foundation” or “Fairest Lord Jesus” or as in our case last month, Christmas carols. Since we are an unrehearsed “worship team,” my mom occasionally stumbles her way through a song while my dad keeps on singing in his beautiful clear tenor voice. My mom adds in her lovely soprano or perhaps if she knows it, sings the harmony. I never know the harmony, although I sometimes try, so I usually end up singing the melody, voice cracking on the high notes and all. Darrell stands next to me quietly singing the words in his deep voice. He’s off key for almost the entire song, save a few notes here and there. Then there’s my brother, whose recently taken to singing the songs with us. I mean really singing the songs. These days that’s about it. My other two sisters and their husbands are sometimes there, particularly around the holidays. This past home church experience, even Jacob got in on the action.

After singing several hymns until our voices are sore and mom’s run out of songs she knows, we sit down and share about what we’ve been learning. It may be a verse God has shown us, a lesson He is teaching us, something our eyes have been opened to, or a difficulty we’ve encountered. My dad will usually read a passage relating to something he is learning and then we take prayer requests and pray. All the while sipping coffee in our pjs and taking bathroom breaks. It’s pretty awesome.

But as amazing as home church is, going to real church is important too. So, a few weeks from now, when Jacob is finally better and we are ready to handle another illness, we’ll be back. Until then, I’ll be on the couch sipping coffee in my pajamas listening to sermons online.

Eight Years in a Basket

Ever year when the warm weather turns cool, my thoughts turn to a certain fuzzy little maroon scarf sitting in a trunk in our guest room. That might seem like an odd place to keep your scarves, and it is—unless yours are like mine; unfinished.

This poor little unfinished ball of yarn has so much lost its identity as a scarf or even a “work in progress” that it has become instead a seasonal decoration I pull out when the leaves begin to change.

I used to bring it out with excitement, placing it in very obvious spots around the house with the intention of finishing it. Now, I bring it out of its plastic bag for a little fresh air and because it looks nice in my bedroom.

I don’t have any more grand ideas about finishing it for a Christmas present for some very lucky recipient. In fact, if I do finish it, I think it should be inducted into a museum in my honor (post-mortem of course) with various artifacts from my life. Or at least placed on a shelf with my soccer trophies. (Okay, those are in a box in my parents garage, but you know what I mean.) After all, who could possibly bear or wear the honor of a work of art eight years in the making?

I should rephrase: who would want to?

Let’s back up a minute. Yes, I just said eight years in the making. EIGHT. Eight years ago I was a senior in college. Now I am married with two children. A lot has happened in my life in eight years. Unfortunately, the scarf cannot say the same. It has had a rather boring existence of getting shuffled from drawer, to trunk, to basket and back again. It has not seen the light of day or felt the crisp wind flow through its fibers— because it’s still attached to two needles.

Like most projects it started with lots of enthusiasm and good intentions. It was Christmas break and a few of my friends were hanging out. Then one friend got an idea. Someone always has to get an idea. “Let’s have a girls night and bake cookies, watch Christmas movies and knit scarves!” She excitedly tapped her palms together and shot us an infectious smile.

As you know, it’s not hard to convince women to get together to watch movies and eat cookies. At the time, even the idea of knitting a scarf sounded fun. At the time. So we gleefully piled into her gray hooptie of an Oldsmobile and drove to Michael’s craft store where we wandered the isles in search of the perfect yarn, crooning along with the Christmas carols playing over the loudspeaker.

We found our yarn, bought our needles, and went back to her house and watched movies, made cookies, and began knitting scarves. For the rest of my friends that’s about where the story ends. A few days or weeks later, they finished their scarves and were proudly flaunting them like Julia Roberts et al, as part of the knitting craze to hit the U.S. in ’01- ’03.

Some of them even became real knitters and went on the greater things such as hats. They became knitters who could knit while watching T.V. I, on the other hand, either had to knit, or watch T.V. My attempt to do both landed me in the unfortunate position of having to start all over again as my scarf became triangular in shape.

The story and the scarf was far from over for me. Little did I know that scarf, that one long piece of yarn gently (or not so gently) wrapped around two needles would end up following me around in a basket for eight years.

So I know it must sound crazy, given my history and my self proclaimed title as a non-knitter, to say that I am actually thinking of working on it one of these nights once the kiddos are in bed. But, I am. What can I say, I live on the edge. Or maybe I’m just getting carried away with new years resolutions!

resolutions, goals, and all that

New Years resolutions, (sigh).

Actually, mine are Halloween resolutions, made in the midst of eating–you guessed it– a Butterfinger for breakfast one morning. It was at that point that I realized I have little self control and possibly even less discipline. Well… I always knew that.  But I guess it was at that point that I decided I wanted to do something about it. I wanted to be more disciplined.

Perhaps, I will never be considered a really disciplined person. One of the few who get up and go for a run every morning, eat hard boiled eggs and tuna, and read their Bibles everyday. Those who floss every night before bed and can pass up a piece of chocolate cake. In fact, I’m quite sure that will never be me. And I’m growing more okay with the thought.

Regardless, I want to be more disciplined than I currently am. I want to set some goals and see what I’m made of, if you will. And maybe, just maybe, be proud of my accomplishments.

You see, things have never really been hard for me. I don’t mean to sound naive, or cocky, or spoiled but it’s basically true. Part of it has to do with the fact that I was born into a great middle class family in the United States of America and part of it has to do with the fact that I don’t attempt difficult things. If it seems like something I can do, I try it. But if it seems too hard, too difficult and to take too much time, energy, and discipline you can count me out.

So I decided to set some goals. Goals that could not (in any way shape or form) be accomplished without discipline, without effort. I figured by setting challenging goals I will be forced to go outside of my normal way of operating and get out of my comfort zone.

Here they are. In the next year I will:

1. Run a half marathon

2. Read the Bible cover to cover

Some people would not be intimidated by these goals, but they scare the heck out of me. I’ve read the entire Bible before (not in a year) and I’ve done some running (not more than a 10k).  So what actually scares me most isn’t making these goals, it is sharing them with you!

Aye, there’s the rub! No, not death, something much worse: accountability. Accountability. That’s what we are all lacking isn’t it?

So here’s my confession to you accountability partner:

Four days into the new year and I have been behind on my Bible reading every day. However, I am pleased to report that as of tonight I am caught up!

As for running…that hasn’t really happened yet. My plan is to run a 10k this spring and train over the summer for a half marathon in the fall. It all sounds doable in my head, but pretty soon my feet have are going to have to start hitting the pavement and that’s when the going gets tough. (And the tough get going, right? Yeah, that’s when I’m usually lost. I’m not tough, so I don’t get going.)

So what’s your New Years resolution? (Or your Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas or Valentinte’s resolution?) Want me to hold you accountable?

A new Dawn, A New Day, a New Year

I’m writing this from a hotel room in Washington D.C. while one of my boys naps in a pack n play in the bathroom and the other naps in a pack n play two feet from my chair. Happy New Year!

It actually has been a good New Years. Last week, I was preparing myself for a non-adventurous New Years. Business as usual. Go to bed at 10 get up 6 and start the whole routine all over again.  There was a chance I may have been up at 2 or 3 or 4 and celebrating the new year nursing Landon.

But last night, we were sitting at a sports bar in the hotel lobby with my sister and brother-in-law ringing in the new year with flutes of seltzer water! (No we are not anti-alcohol, nor pro-alcohol. They got drinks earlier. I didn’t. I got nachos. Not that I am super holy and refuse alcohol, but I’ve gotten used to not drinking it for the past two years, and when given the option between spending $10 on a glass of wine or $10 on southwest nachos, for me, the choice is clear.)

So what seemed like would not be a very adventurous new year at all, has turned out to be quite the adventure: eating Chick-fil-A in Silver Spring, MD, driving through D.C. traffic, checking into our hotel with two over-tired and crying babies (can you believe the bathroom in the main lobby had no changing table!?!? I thought those were standard, apparently not), scrambling to get them in bed at a decent hour, touring the hotel (Presidents Row, the Crystal Ballroom, and even checking out the terrace level where Reagan was shot thirty years ago), and then munching on nachos, sipping someone else’s bourbon and coke, and finally toasting to the new year!

Now, when the boys wake up I am heading out for lunch with a wonderful friend from high school and her hubby, whom, sad to say I haven’t seen TWO years! Excited to see her but I keep picturing myself wandering around the restaurant chasing a tow head the entire time while Landon cries. No wonder we never do things like this.

Two kids, two adults, and one room in a non-family friendly hotel in the city is not the easiest combination. But glad to be doing something out of the ordinary. Wish me luck and Happy New Year to you all! Hope it was happy…whatever you did.