Uninvited, or Eeeeewwwwww

curled up nice and tight

While baking in the kitchen on Tuesday, I was casually chatting with Shelby, who was sitting at the dining room table. Abigail was nearby, happily coloring away. Quite suddenly, Shelby stood up from her chair and rushed over to the back sliding glass door, simultaneously calling for Abigail and I to "Come quickly!" When what to our wondering eyes should appear but a little, white mouse casually sniffing away on our back deck. The girls were enchanted. I was grossed out. Of course, the rest of the kiddos were called and pretty soon all the children were clustered around the door watching this little invader roam all over our property as if he was planning on moving in. Not good.

nibble nibble like a mouse
get that thing out of my house

You see, I am a fairly relaxed mom. I don't tend to be overly girlie. (I do try to be feminine, which is completely different.) I can wrestle with the boys, bait a fish hook with the best of them, take my daughter's Manatawny Sushi Award (AKA The Eating a Wriggling, Raw Worm Award) in stride, and pretty much accept the fact that raising five boys means that I am exposed to some pretty disgusting jokes. (Seriously - what is it about farting on someone else that is so funny?) I am even on the spider-removal team, which Scott refuses to be a part of.

HOWEVER. . .


Rodents of all types are a completely different story. I hate them. Nay, I despise them!!! Two years ago, a vole managed to find it's way into our home. I was literally on top of the dining room table and refused to come down until my husband and my mother managed to get it out of my house. I really can't explain what happened. One moment I was standing on the ground like every other gravity-influenced human and the next I found myself on top of the table, unable to get off. I don't even remember getting myself up there.  I thought it and it happened. Instant catapult.

systematically testing for weaknesses
just like a raptor from "Jurassic Park"

I wasn't thrilled with the idea of this guy moving into our yard area and found myself hoping a snake was nearby to polish the little sucker off, and if there wasn't, what steps I might be able to take to lure one over. He meandered away from the door, I went back to baking, and eventually it was just Shelby and Abigail watching out the back door. I should have know something was fishy when I looked over and saw only Abigail still staring out the back door. Abigail never stands still for so long by herself. But I was too wrapped up in my fantasies of instant mouse death to really give it much thought. And then Shelby came through the door with a Cheshire Cat grin if ever I saw one. In her hand was a large, glass jar. In the jar was it. The inevitable occurred.

"Mom, can we keep it?"

"No."

"But mom, he's so cute!"

"No."

"I'll take care of him."

"No."

"I'll wash his cage and clean him and buy the food and supplies myself."

"No."

"Come here, little Elias, so I can nibble your fingers off."

Sensing the entrenched nature of my position, reinforcements were called quickly to the scene. All their arguments, wheedling, cajoling, pleading, promises, assurances, and basic begging fell on deaf ears.

"No."

"Well, can we at least wait for dad to see him? You know, feed it some cheese and just let him be here for a little while?"

Now, here was a thought. I was busy baking bread and pizza crusts, but once Scott arrived home from his errand, he could actually transport the little vermin to a good cemetery or a nice open field where he would be visible to hawks for miles around. Then I could be assured that the squatter hadn't taken up residence in our yard and our lives could go on as God intended.

"Sure."

"Okay. Then I'm going to crack the lid so he can get some air."

"WHAT??!!" Again -- I don't know what happened. All I could think was cracked lid = potential escape. Inside the house. With me.  The panic I felt was completely real.

"No worries, mom. I"ll watch him to make sure you're safe." Pathetic, eh?

Scott did manage to take him far, far away but I really didn't begin to relax on the inside until after they returned from their trip and Scott said he literally went over the river and through the woods by Big Red Bus in order to protect my sanity. To his credit, he never once teased me about about the mouse. Perhaps, just perhaps, I shouldn't tease him about the spider-creeps he has.

Hmmm.

Short lived

Scott has this amazing grilling bible by Weber's. We found it years ago while browsing through Barnes & Noble and truly, the introduction had us doubled over laughing. We figured any book which combined meat, fire, and laughter had to be in our home. The recipes inside are remarkably easy and oh-so-delicious. This cookbook is to the grill what Julia Child is to French cooking. Simply perfection.

Our first grill was a miniscule hibachi we kept in the apartment next to the water heater when not in use. Of course, as the family size began to expand, that little grilling surface was a bit of an underachiever. Our next grill was a modest Weber charcoal picked up on the side of the road during big trash day. Our grill du jour on this bad boy was hot dogs and more hot dogs. We loved the fact that it was completely affordable and within our budget -- it is hard to argue with "free" after all --  but that was really the only quality our Weber had going for it.

Then we stumbled upon the grilling bible. It's ironic that a book on grilling by Weber is what pushed our Weber to the side of the road with a big "FREE" sign taped to it. We upgraded to a three-burner Kenmore from Sears purchased for Father's Day the year after we moved into the townhouse. Scott insisted on three burners because it would allow for indirect cooking. I had no idea what he was talking about, but I figured he was the grill guy, so who was I to argue?

The food this man concocted on that Kenmore was amazing! He would chose a recipe or two out of his Weber's Big Book of Grilling, I would do some shopping, and then the kids and I would sit back and wait for the magic. Marinated salmon, garlic shrimp, corn on the cob, whole chickens, steaks rubbed & then cooked to crusty perfection. And the hamburgers -- famous. We were so far beyond hotdogs that it took children begging for a weenie on a bun for us to throw a package of the great American summer time food on the cast-iron grate. We went through three propane tanks a summer, but was it ever worth it!

When you use something this hard and then store it outside in the elements, it seems inevitable that it will officially die. But we were stunned. How could our grill have deserted us? We had just had the twins, so the idea of handing over money for a new grill was not really palatable. But the grilling gods saw fit to bless our fiscal responsibility and we stumbled upon a reconditioned grill while on our way to the library one morning. Completely restored by a retired gentleman who tinkered for fun and sold his repaired projects in the front yard, a four burner Charbroil grill reasonably priced at $50 was absolutely was this family of (then) 8 needed.

At the beginning of this summer, our Charbroil decided it, too, was joining the Kenmore in the great grill heaven reserved only for those grills which have been truly adored and generously used. And now, as a family of 10 with commitments on time and money, we decided we would not purchase another grill indefinitely. It was not a decision made because we enjoyed grilling any less; rather, it seemed the pragmatic thing to do. And so we went through most of our summer smelling other family's amazing grilling-meat-smells while we continued to use the crock pot, stove, and oven.

As August was drawing to a close, we made a decision based on the 30% off end-of-season sale at Target: it was time to replace our grill. In our quest for healthier living, we finally decided on a charcoal grill because we had read something about it being healthier than propane. And it appealed to Scott's southern roots, this idea of cooking over molten hot bricks of fire. So we bought a Barrel Grill & Smoker and dove head first into the world of charcoal cooking. We congratulated ourselves on our shopping savvy because we loaded down on the grill and clearanced grill accessories for just under the price of one of those gas grills plus we were going to be providing our family with healthy grilled meals.  I dashed into Giant and bought an organic chicken and nitrate/nitrite free hotdogs before we headed home to assemble the grill and cook us some weenies.

Ahh, if only it were as easy as we always think it will be.

Scott and Dawson assembled the grill in an agonizing two hours. The grill had some signs of having been dropped and it definitely didn't look like it lined up to me, but we weren't sure it would really matter. I mean, we are talking about heaps of burning coal here! I figured the heat generated might melt some metal. For the record - it sooooo matters that your Barrel Grill & Smoker line up. Nothing we have cooked on this grill has been cooked easily, and most would not win any awards in the taste category, either. The weenies roasted that first night weren't the sizzling hot, perfectly grill scored hotdogs we have some to expect from Scott. That right there should have been a clue - hotdogs only okay? How exactly do you cook a hotdog badly? The chicken had raw legs. Ew. And hard, smoky potatoes did not seem appealing to me in any way whatsoever.  The temperature guage didn't work, so I would go outside and see how long I could hold my arm in the heat 1850s-style to determine the temperatures. Seriously.

I missed Scott's uber-confident "I can grill anything" attitude. Now he was a fusser, "Do you think we put in enough bricks? I counted out exactly what they recommend in the book. Huh - I think I should add more bricks. What do you think? Perhaps I should raise the rack a little. Or maybe lower it. What do you think?"

We did try contacting the company about our temperature gauge and misaligned barrel using their "Wait! Please don't return this item to the store! We can help you!" contacts. Emails got returned and phone calls were not returned. Great. Target, being Target, said they will take it back so we figured we would go look at other charcoal grills at Home Depot or Lowes sometime this next weekend.

Today, I was at Target with Tucker picking up some essentials - tissues, toothbrushes, doggie-poo bags. Tuck asked if we could check out the grill section again, so we meandered over. And there I saw it. The Stainless Steel Brinkman Scott had been drooling over. Four burner with an extra side burner, perfect for Pennsylvania sweet corn. Cast iron, porcelain dipped grill racks. 652 square inches of grilling space plus warming rack. 75% off. That was enough for me. Within minutes I had this grill-for-a-king on a flat bed being wheeled to the checkout counter.

Scott glimpsed it in the box on his way out the door for a double shift at the hospital this afternoon. His initial response had me second guessing my decision just a little. "If you didn't like my charcoal grilling, you could have just said so." Truly - I blamed the grill, not the charcoal. But I am ready for my grill master to return. I'm so over the pansy-"What do you think?"-grilling nonsense. There was some of the expected "You saved me money by spending money" ribbing that I get during every end-of-season Target sale, and then he was dashing out the door. Minutes after he got to work, Scott sent a text saying that he is actually excited about the grill and that the one thing he missed the most about propane was just going outside and turning it on. Preach it, brother.

So our experiment with charcoal grilling was short-lived. For those of you who love it, we tip our ball-caps to you & your patience with those dratted little bricks. As for us, we are big fans of push button ignition and non-renewable propane.

Let the grilling commence.

tick, tick, tick

So I am sitting here at 10:08 pm precisely and trying to figure out what I should write about. It has been a busy day followed by a busy month. And I really don't know why. What exactly has made our late August into September so ridiculously busy? And don't try to tell me it's the whole having eight kids thing. We've had eight kids for over a year now and I don't remember being this busy.

I think, just maybe, our slow-down button is broken. I'm sure it can happen. Just today, the brand new metronome I ordered off Amazon (to replace the original metronome I ordered off Amazon which arrived broken) was broken by Shelby. It wasn't the slow-down button, rather it was the button that decides to turn off the insanely regular tick-tick-tick-tick. Now, we are turning off our brand new, used for the first time today metronome using a toothpick. I think that perhaps we can squeak about two weeks of this method before a toothpick tip will be jammed into the opening, leaving the metronome in the on position permanently. And I say the on position because we would not be the family where it gets stuck in the off position. That wouldn't be nearly unique enough.

But maybe, having this insanely regular ticking would be a good thing. We could use it as a contest to see who can pick up ALL the Legos using the fewest ticks. And while we are discussing Legos, I am already regretting buying the large, Rubbermaid tubs which made it easier for the boys to access their "little Legos." Those things have been everywhere today. (We have several sizes of Legos. Little are the traditional size that everyone pictures when they think of a Lego. Then we have the Duplos, which are great Legos since a baby can't die on them. We are big fans around here of non-death toys. So we go one step further and have some monster-sized Legos that can actually build walls. And there are even the baby Legos, which have nice, rounded edges so that toothless gums can have a field day. Who knew those Swedes were so brilliant in the Lego department?)

Or the ticks could be incentive to complete each math problem within certain parameters. Five ticks for a basic addition problem. Twenty for an algebraic equation.  Then you could slow the goals down for handwriting - the more ticks you use, the better, since you are supposed to be writing slowly and carefully, concentrating on your letter formation. And thinking about letter formation makes me wonder why two of my children, who have been taking penmanship lessons since they could gasp a crayon, have writing a chicken would disown. How is that possible?

I could use the ticks as my audible "time is passing" notice on those days when I wake up so tired I'm convinced that time is standing still to mock my weariness. A reminder I can hear might help my sanity on those days. Of course, so would a warm bath and a nice, long nap but I don't exactly see that happening any time soon.

OR - I could just take out the battery. But then that creates the whole conundrum of "Mom -  I can't find the battery! I know I put it back into the basket with the metronome, but it's not here!" Why is it that every single child of mine insists that they know something, even when the evidence of their lack-of-knowledge may be staring them in the face? Case-in-point: the other day Shelby came to me panicked that her camera may be broken because she had changed the batteries and yet the camera still wouldn't turn on. I opened the battery door, reinstalled the batteries the correct way, and the camera turned on. Shelby's answer: "I know I put the batteries in the right way." Sure you did. I just magically switched the positive and negatives before opening the camera door because my secret goal in life is to prove you wrong. OR - you made a very simple mistake that dozens of people make daily. Which is more likely? "Mom, I know I put the batteries in right!"

Of course, I could accept defeat and simply order a third metronome from Amazon. The good parent thing would be to order a new metronome and if this third one is broken, then the offending child must pay for the replacement. I must confess I'm not always willing to be a good parent. Sometimes I just want to say, "No worries, accidents happen" and buy another metronome indefinitely. Now is this because grace and mercy would say "No worries" or because secretly I really, really want the kids to like me, and taking their money for a musical tool is not exactly endearing?

Oh, forget it. I can't figure out what to write about. I'm going to bed.

A Littles No Longer

Vocabulary Lesson for today's post:

Littles: the younger grouping of Rutherford children who require more assistance than they are able to give.

OARs: Oldest Available Rutherfords have the ability to accomplish many of the tasks required throughout the day in Rutherford-dom.

Today was the day Tucker has been anticipating for weeks, months, and years. He was taken to Camp Manatawny and left for his very first week of sleep away camp. This is such a milestone in each of the children's lives and Tucker felt the weight of the change. I just didn't realize until later how seriously he took this moment.

We arrived extremely late, with only five minutes left to register Tucker. We had managed to get trapped behind a verrrryyyyyyy sloooooowwwwww truck driver, turning what should have been a 10 minute jaunt into 25 minutes of agony. Moments after we managed to get everyone unloaded, friends of ours pulled in next to us. Now, I love this family (who have six children themselves) but trying to get anything accomplished when our kids combine forces is laughable. They also have a first time camper in their midst. We managed to herd all 12 of the accompanying children into the lower level of Garret Hall where we were the only two families left to register. As I waited my turn I realized that our combined children made as much noise as the entire registration gaggle normally does. I handed the business end while Shelby had the unenviable privilege of quieting the troops. The moment the business was transacted, the kids ran for the vans to grab the gear the boys needed for their week of camp and headed over to their mutual home away from home, Boys Cabin 10.

I always manage to forget how much more is involved in settling in a first time camper. Shelby, Dawson, and Isabelle each hit their cabin, we meet their counselor and then it's a hug, kiss and "See ya' Saturday!" before the kids are ready to part company with us. Not so for a first-timer. You have to help them make their bed and unpack a few choice items. "Here is your dirty laundry bag. Your gross clothes go in here, not on the floor. And this is your toothbrush and toothpaste. Please - take pity on the rest of your cabin mates and use it daily. And about this stack of clean underwear. While I would prefer you change it daily, please at least crumple it up into the dirty clothes on Friday so I think you changed it, okay?"

Shelby had Tucker's bed made in a jiffy while Isabelle helped him organize his cubby for his duffle and shoes. Meanwhile, I was helping him change into his sneakers since Boy's Athletics had already been called and there is very little at camp Tucker was looking forward to more than Athletics. Just about the time we wrapped up serving Tucker, his counselor was free so we finally made all the introductions. And that was that. Time for goodbye.

I never know how each child will respond at this moment. I seem to always guess wrong, so while my head said Tucker would have a hard time given all the nervous questions he had been asking, experience was telling me the kid wouldn't even notice. Experience was right. He was hugging and kissing the whole crew goodbye, completely prepared and anxious for his adventure to begin. And then it happened.

Abigail became a weeping mess. "Tucker can't stay here! He can't!" She began to cry in earnest.

I shot Shelby a dumbfounded look, which she was mirroring. I knelt beside Abigail and asked her what she was talking about.

"Tucker can't stay! He's a little!"

I tried to explain it to her. "Honey, Tucker is staying at Camp just like Dawson. Remember - we picked up Dawson this morning? Tucker will come home."

"But Dawosn is my BIG OAR brother. Tucker is my littles brother. He's a little like me! HE CAN'T STAY!"

I was so completely caught off guard I was silent. And in my moment of silence came Tucker to the rescue. He gently lifted her up into his arms and she clung to his neck while wrapping her legs around his waist. He craned his neck way back so he could see her face and explained the situation to her as only a big brother could.

"Abigail, I'm an OAR now. I'm not a Little any more. It's time for me to go to camp. I'm a brother for you like Dawson now. I love you and you'll be alright." And he set her down. She gazed up at him with eyes still dewy and said simply, "Alright Tucker. Have fun." And that was that. He stayed with his cabin and we walked to the van, loaded up, and left the camp that I now realized has become a symbol of reaching OARdom for our kids.

And so, my son is a littles no more. He is officially an OAR. Welcome aboard, Master Rutherford.

Friday the 13th, Rutherford Style

Today, being Friday the 13th, has always been one of those "special days" in the calendar which we anticipate. I honestly don't know the reason Friday the 13th is supposed to be unlucky. I guess I never really cared enough to add that information to my stores of useless trivia knowledge.

This year, though, Friday the 13th means Elias's first birthday. How fun is it that every 6 years or so our boy gets to have a completely bad luck birthday party? At least, those were the original plans this year. We were going to have ladders leaning against the walls to walk under, salt on every table, black cats peering out everywhere, broken mirrors along the food table and cracks to walk over. I loved the idea of celebrating a year of firsts among every superstition we could think of. I'm just not sure why it appealed to each of us so much. It could be more of that weird Rutherford living showing again.

However, our plans were dashed when we realized that most of the family would be gone doing their own things this evening and so we decided to move the celebration to Sunday. It only makes sense when you realize that the best part of a first birthday party is the entire cake-eating/wearing display. So today was supposed to be a normal Friday the 13th. Clean some bathrooms, bake some bread, pack a kid for Camp Manatawny. I guess I should say it's a normal summer Friday. But, like most good Rutherford days, this one had a twist.

Aidan's cast was due to come off today. I took all the Little Rutherfords (minus Dawson who is already at Camp this week) with me to the Orthopedist. We all filed in one at a time to the office and I heard several of the nurses counting under their breath. "One, two, three, four . . ." As this was not my first experience with the whispered counting, I was completely prepared for the inevitable.

"Are they all yours?"

"Nope. I picked up some random kids to bring with me to the doctor's office. A broken arm wasn't a interesting enough. We had to add to the drama."

I wish. What I really said was, "Yes, they're all ours." Totally polite, yet boring, answer.

Anyway, we were all sitting in this large room equipped with one exam table, one chair, and one spinning stool I immediately declared off limits. We managed to find a place for everyone just as a nurse came in and called out in a chipper voice. "Are you ready, Aidan?"

Aidan, trusting soul that he is, smiled politely and said, "Yes ma'am." Immediately, he looked at me and whispered, "Ready for what?"

I had no idea. This is our first foray into broken bones and Scott had made the initial visit to the Ortho's office. I was about to inquire what was next when I heard a nice, loud whirring noise. Gulp. I know what that means. I may have never seen it done, but I had heard stories about the saws of death used to remove casts so I was pretty sure I now knew exactly what was next.

I turned expectantly, waiting for her to calmly explain to Aidan what was about to happen. Boy, was that the exact opposite of what happened! Just as I turned, the nurse was lifting Aidan's arm and beginning to saw away without a single word. Aidan, who is easily the calmest Rutherford in the bunch, sat very still while his eyes became the size of dinner plates. He and I both stared, dumbfounded, as she continue to move the miniature saw of death with convenient vacuum attachment over Aidan's arm. Then, just for good measure, she flipped his arm over and did it again!

Okay - no blood and I'm sure it's a pretty easy finishing job from here. Right? Nope. Next came the gigantic clamps of death, which were used to pry the razored cast open. Aidan's eyes were now bugging out of his head. Okay. That was surprising, but I'm sure we're finished now. Right? Nope. Next came the gigantor scissors used to cut the knit lining inside the cast off. Aidan's eyes just popped right out of their sockets and dangled down his cheeks. Not really, but his eyes were wide enough they could have popped out. And now . . . it was finished.

We did have a couple of x-rays to go before we were allowed to get our lollipops and leave. And this time, I took a lolly too.

Always Interesting

I have been spending most of this week squinting at bright lights and cringing away from sounds as I have dealt with a horrible headache since late Sunday afternoon. Just today I learned that it is most likely the result of a virus which will run its course within a week. I was actually happy to hear that because it meant I could just accept that I have an ache in my head rather than secretly worrying I was finally feeling the effects of a gigantic tumor pressing on my optic nerve. I know - morbid, but that's usually where my over-active imagination runs to. Just another reason I am very careful about the types of movies I watch.

Just yesterday while I was sitting and trying not to move too much, I was going over what safety procedures it is time for our family to review. One of the downsides of having a larger family is that I remember teaching certain topics, but I don't always remember to whom or how long ago. To solve this very real issue we simply repeat sciences and history in a loop every 3-4 years, so we know everyone has learned the same things and the older children delve deeper as they repeat it for the second and eventually the third time.

Safety issues are done annually, usually in late August or September.  The whole fire drill practice with all of the kids meeting at the tree in front of our house and stop-drop-and-roll time. We include kitchen safety (knives are not for swordplay & boiling pots are not to be substituted for Shakespearean cauldrons), bathroom safety (drain the tub before you leave a room unsupervised and no duckies in the toilet), and internet safety (if you wouldn't want everyone -- including the creepiest guy you can think of and your mother knowing this -- don't put it on the web.)

Of course, having children aged one to 14 in our house means we deal with some things most families with a 14 year old have outgrown - cabinet locks, electrical outlet covers, cable guards, anti-tip devices on shelves. Well -- the anti-tip device really should be a must for anyone raising boys. I don't care how old they are. So during our annual safety discussion time, we also make time to repair and replace any of our safety latches needing attention. For example, the cabinet lock which protects the potatoes really does need to be replaced as Elias has developed a taste for raw potatoes. I know this because just a few days ago each potato I pulled out for cooking had a miniature Elias-sized nibble removed from it.

All of this thinking makes today's events more than just a little ironic. As I was sitting and squinting (headache - remember?), Abigail was brought into me. Shelby was carrying her and while it was obvious she was upset, I didn't realize Abigail was crying until she was on my lap and in my arms. Completely bewildered, I was both comforting Abigail and questioning Shelby. Eventually I managed to learn the bizarre and awful truth. Abigail was injured while sucking on a plugged-in laptop charger.

Really? She saw this plug and decided, "I think that looks tasty." How does that work?

After about 15 minutes, Abigail calmed down enough for me to go investigate the area to make certain I really did understand what I was being told. Sure enough, a drool-coated charger was dangling off the shelf, the surge protector was blown, the 2 GFI switches were popped, and the breaker was thrown. Wow. That is some powerful spit.

Now that I had confirmed that our princess had electrocuted herself, I called the pediatrician and explained our predicament before asking if Abigail needed to be seen or if there were simply things we needed to watch for. I was given the signs to watch for during the next 6 hours, assuring the doctor that if any of the signs appeared we would bring Abigail in immediately for some neurological tests. And Scott gave her a very thorough exam when he woke up before going to work.

The six hours of observation came and went and Abigail was very much her normal self. The house, however, hasn't been so lucky. The surge protector did it's job and is now trashed. And the upstairs GFI refuses to reset, which means it will need to be replaced. Which isn't too big a deal until you realize that is the outlet the bathroom night light uses, which means it is a pretty high priority to fix. (To understand why this is a priority, I direct you to the post entitled "Utterly True" about chicken-in-the-dark twins.)

During evening prayers, we were all thankful that Abigail was completely fine and that the repairs are minor. I tucked the children into bed and came back downstairs, thinking again about our upcoming safety reminders. I am officially adding "Do not suck on plugs. Ever." to the list.

It is always interesting around here!

Breaking Point

I hit quite the low point last week. I have heard the phrase "burned out" for as long as I have memories of words, but I truly never experienced it before last week. My bucket was empty. My commitments were too many. I wasn't up to the task. I had bitten off more than I could chew. My eyes were bigger than my stomach. Pick your phrase - I was there. And all I can say about my visit into overwhelmed land is: yuck.

I have heard that there are individuals who take up permanent residence in such a land. Really? Why? I can't imagine ever wanting to feel such an utter sense of depletion on a daily, weekly, monthly basis. For goodness sakes, I don't want to feel it ever again - why would you chose to live there?

In all honesty, I'm not sure what happened last week. I think it was simply the combination of a very busy swim season combined with the commitments of our weekly Farmer's Market, which we have never done simultaneously before. Throw in school work for the older four plus Keats and Aidan learning to read and you certainly have full days right there. Of course clothes still needed to be cleaned, a home maintained, food purchased and prepared, items used up needed to be replenished, children going to sleep-away church camp plus one who left the state. Don't forget the ER visits for a ruptured eardrum (Keats) and a broken arm (Aidan), not to mention the follow up doctor's appointments for those two calamities. There were other doctor visits as well - Aidan's follow-up for his tube-check (they are both finally out!) and well checks for a couple of our littles. And, in the midst of it all were the efforts involved with planting a new church and dealing with an employer who is doing everything to accept Scott's time and not compensate him for it. It was a very full six weeks.

Usually Scott and I do a pretty good job of maintaining our personal level of crazy without it being overwhelming. Not so last week. I arrived home on Friday afternoon to my children cleaning the house from top to bottom. It was wonderful to see and I was so appreciative of their kindness, initiative, and thoughtfulness. Right up until Shelby met me at the door. I should be honest and say that the teenager and I have been butting heads lately, but Friday we hit a new level. Her response to my returning home from dropping Scott at work?

"Can you leave?"

It wasn't said with malice, but it wasn't kindly requested either. I replied, "Babe - I haven't even started the bread for the market yet. I really need to be home." Drama rushed in through the open door faster than the air-conditioned air was rushing out.

"FINE! We were trying to do something nice . . ."

My oh-so-mature response to this comment? "Fine. I'll leave. You call me when I can come home." And I left.

Of course, Shelby made quite the scene of yelling "MOM!" after me, trying to quickly undo her attitude and comments. But it fell on deaf ears. I was at my breaking point. Enough was enough. I could no longer be all things to all people. I went to my daddy and mommy's house where I sat and enjoyed a glass of wine while the littles (who had all come with me to take Scott to work) enjoyed some unexpected play-time in the backyard.

An hour or so later, I gathered up the children who were with me and we headed home. Somehow, in that hour sitting at my mother and father's house consuming my glass of fermented grapes, I regained my perspective on life, family, and commitments. I remembered again why I was thankful Scott has a great job. I felt up to the task of molding the teenager instead of leaving her to figure it out on her own. I knew that I would, without a doubt, be ready to read to Abigail her favorite stories. Again. That I could be enthusiastic over Tucker, Keats, and Aidan's newest achievements in their quest to conquer all things physical. That I could help Dawson pack for his round of sleep-away camp with true excitement for his upcoming adventures. That I would bake the bread thinking not of myself, but rather of the people the money raised would serve.

In short - I remembered that my energy is spent on the people I love and serving the God I adore. Yes, there had been heavy usage lately and I wasn't quite over it yet. It was really only this morning that I began to feel like myself again. But I had found the strength that flows from Above again.