"A two headed bird"
My young son exclaimed
"Look, mommy, look"
Is it true what he claimed?

I looked out the window
Puzzled and impressed
When I saw it
That thing my young son expressed

But how do I explain it
Without ruining a thing?
How do I explain to my 3 year old
What two birds do in the Spring?

Girls, Play With Bugs

I was privileged to witness the blossoming of a "women are from Venus, men are from Mars" moment: a moment that transpired between my 3yr old son, Jude, and a fellow classmate, Kate. Kate's mother approached me after picking our kids up from school.
"Kate was telling me she wanted to marry a prince. I asked her which one, thinking it was Prince Charming or Philip. But Kate replied,'Jude.'"
When Kate saw Jude outside, she batted her little eyelashes and said,"Hi, Jude. Will you marry me?"
Jude was oblivious to sweet little Kate's proposal as he was too preoccupied with squishing the ants and looking for rolly pollies on the ground.
The scene reminded me that those moments never end. Too often women are speaking from their heart... exposing their innermost desires. And the men... those men... are completely oblivious.
So, what to do?
Well, I personally prefer Kate's approach:
After realizing her Prince Jude was more interested in bugs than in listening to her, she turned her attention to the ants and the rolly pollies too.
If Prince Jude wasn't interested in matrimony, at least Princess Kate could be interested in bugs.
And they played happily ever after.

The Artists

Recently, I have started a new painting... in oil. This plight is extremely more daring and dangerous nowadays because I have two young boys who want to be with mommy... always. Oil paint and children is worse than a bull in a China shop. Way worse... in fact, I once saw a show, "Mythbusters" and they actually put a bull in a China shop. The bull avoided the shelves and was actually quite agile in manuvering his mass around the delicate porclein. Not so with a young child and paint. Oil paint is magic: even when I paint, it magically gets all over the place regardless of the care I place in keeping it restrained.
Enter small child #1: Heads right for the wet oil on the palatte. Mom miraculously swoops down, percariously balancing paint brush and paint tubes, to intercept budding artist.
Enter small child #2: Heads for the paint brushes soaking in the turpintine.
Mom swivels and grabs up the small child, holding a paintbrush in her mouth and the palette of wet oils just out of Small Child #2's reach.
Barking orders to Small Child #1 through teeth clenched down on her paintbrush, #1 just stares... unable to understand what all the fuss is about. "Get out, please... mommy's working."
"I work too." Grabbing a clean paintbrush, #1 begins to "paint" the wall.
Small Child #2 is now fighting his way out of his mommy's arms to get a paintbrush for himself. Putting #2 down, mommy picks out a nice clean one and hands it to him. He too "paints" the wall.
Admiring her adorable artists, mommy soon realizes she has gotten paint all over herself. Her shirt is ruined. Oil does not wash out.
Oh well. At least her kids are spotless.
And that painting... well that painting will get done the day I put a dead bolt on the door.

A Story of a Butterfly

There once was a caterpillar

Who ate day and night

But no matter how much he ate

Could not curb his appetite

He went from here to there

Munching away at the flowers

at the leaves and the grass blades

He devoured for hours

What could stop his hunger?

This yearning inside?

He just felt empty

With nowhere to hide

Until one day, as he sat all alone

Pondering life and the whys

He overheard a butterfly pray

It brought tears to his eyes

“Thank-you, God, my Lord

My strength and my shield

To you be the praise and glory

For whom my will yield

There is none greater than you

For you, my broken heart, healed

I used to be such a selfish bug

Keeping my hurts and sorrows concealed

But you made me a new creature

My new heart has been revealed

By your grace alone, the gift of your Son

His death on the cross in a field

You gave me new life.”

Prayed the butterfly as he kneeled

When the butterfly was done

Praying to the Lord

The caterpillar asked him

To share some wise word

“I have hurts and I have pains,”

The caterpillar cried,

“I have such empty loneliness

Consuming me on the inside

What can I possibly do?

It would be better if I just died

I’m so awful and ugly

My soul has been dried.”

The caterpillar wept

As the butterfly took him under his wing

“I want you to listen

Because I will tell you something:

My God is a God of love and of grace

He wants to save you

He wants to change your heart

And there’s only one thing you have to do:

Believe in Christ

That he died for your sins

When you do this

Your new life begins

I too was selfish and weary

Feeling lonely and sad

I hurt so much

It got really bad

But then a butterfly told me

How God had changed his heart

And now, here I am

Playing a new part

Instead of devouring

For hours and hours

My new form is this:

I now can bless the flowers

God has transformed me

It did take a while

But look at me now!

Look how I smile!

I am transformed!

I am new!

I am changed!

Look what God can do!”

So the caterpillar inched off

He found a quiet place

He quieted his heart

And sought God’s grace

When he opened his eyes

He could hardly believe

The love of the Lord God

Caused ALL his burdens to leave

He felt completely different

And then he knew why

The transforming love and grace of God

Had turned him into a butterfly

Spread your wings

Go and fly

Let the Lord God

Turn you into a butterfly

--By a Butterfly in Training

When I Laugh at Myself, to Myself

I admit, I often find myself laughing to myself about myself. Mostly obscure thoughts I've had, like slapping a large woman's butt when she bends down in front of me at the grocery store. "Move it, Ol Bessy," I think to myself," your butt is blocking the entire isle." Cracks me up. Not that I can't get by her McDonald's endorsed rump, but that I am actually resisting the urge to spank a complete stranger.
I'm so rude.
Does anyone else have thoughts like this?
Here's another:
A bratty little girl was mouthing off to her mother by a fountain. She was bending over the edge, trying to get the pennies at the bottom. I wondered if I'd be doing her mother a favor if I bumped her daughter right in the water. She was teetering anyway... the wind might just pick up suddenly. The thought of this little wretch soaking wet and in the fountain made me start laughing. And when the mother glanced up at me to see what was so funny, I had to pretend it was own children who were just over joying me.
This made me laugh at myself even harder. Jude didn't know what was so funny and Rocky just went along with it. Poor kids!
So, the next time you see me, if I begin to break out in laughter and you can't figure out why... know that it's a crazy, twisted mind.
And if you happen to ever come visit me at a home, I'll be the one they've put in the corner because I just couldn't stop giggling to myself.

The Flinstones Were Onto Something...

Family road trips are... interesting... especially with young ones. The baby doesn't understand why he's got to be strapped down for eternity, the toilet trainee always wants to stop to pee off the road, either my butt or my feet are asleep (strangely never simultaneously), and my husband turns into some kind of endurance athlete.
My wonderful husband is the endurance driver. He keeps his blood stocked with plenty of caffeine and sunflower seeds. I guess the work to get the seed out helps him stay awake... and my yelling when he spills them on the floor of the car. So if anyone wants some fresh cut sunflowers, they'll be ready to harvest out of my car in a couple weeks.
What someone needs to invent is a car with a removable floor. Easy to clean. Easy to find things. Like that cell phone that fell out of your pocket between the seat and the console. You call it and you hear it ringing. But for the life of you, you don't see it. Where is that darn phone? You empty your purse, the diaper bag, your kid's backpack, the pockets on the backs of the seats that magically collect cheerios and french fries. You are getting desperate and start picking up the papers strewn on the floor: coloring pages, oil change/tire rotation documents, registration forms... that's where it went... you'll have to fill that out later. You discover scrolls written on papyrus... And then, your phone rings. You remember your quest is to find your phone, not an archaeological dig of your back seats. Your phone is so close. You wedge your face to the floor and see it! You reach for it, but your hand is too big. You take another route on the other side of the seat adjuster, you got it! Unfortunately, your hand is now stuck.
Not to worry, if the floor of your car is anything like mine after a road trip, you will be sustained on goldfish crackers and raisins for months... not to mention sunflower seeds.
Now, just imagine how much more simple it would have been to just remove the floor, retrieve your phone, shovel everything else onto the compost pile, hose it down and put it back. Wasn't that easier?
Course, now you won't have fresh cut sunflowers every time you take a drive.

Children Are Hazardous to Your Health

Children do get their fair share of owies and boo-boos. Unfortunately, so do their parents because of them.
For me, there's the everyday head bonks that come from Jude, who in his excitement, forgets his head is hard as cement and bashes it into my face. Then there's Rocky, who is teething. Enough said.
But every once in while along comes the rare injury, like when Jude dropped a heavy wooden block on my foot and broke my toe. Granted it was just the little toe, but that incident sent me to the next room (hopefully out of earshot) with a mouth full of F's and SH's.
Most recently, however, I was awaken by a framed poster crashing down on my face. Thank-you, Rocky.
How did it happen? How does any of this happen?

Here's the recipe:

1 part curious child
1 part sleeping, distracted or otherwise non-suspecting, never-think-it's-gonna-happen parent
something(s) hard (preferably with sharp edges)

Cook for .000000001 second

Viola! Injury a la mom.