Tempting the Fates

I tempted the Vomit Fates.

I knew better, but I did it anyway.

The Vomit Fates won.

Last Thursday, as I manned the wheel of the 15 passenger van and took 2 of 8 to her Nationals competition for dance, I decided to repost a little clinical work I had done in the field of Vomitolgy. I extolled the three personality types I have seen in my work as a Clinical Vomitologist.

I gambled with a well-known principal in Vomitology. And I paid.

Because that well-known principal in Vomitology is this: should you talk about vomit, should you tell some of your favorite vomit stories, or should you, heaven forbid, naively say, "Wow, we've gone a long time without someone getting some kind of tummy bug!", you have just set yourself up for a puke fall.

Ker-splash.

Late Friday night/Saturday morning, when I was just getting my REM sleep on, 4 of 8 staggered into the guest room where I was staying. She wanted me to know that she felt sick and couldn't sleep. I thanked her for this field missive and issued the universal law of Vomitology: Take thy queasy self, take thy pillow, and lay thineself upon the cooling tile of the bathroom. And do not move. And don't wake thy mother again unless there is something...substantial to report.

She nodded, removed herself from my sleeping chamber, my heavy eyes succumbing to the pull of the sand man.

She was back, 20 minutes later.

Her status had not changed. She still felt queasy. She still couldn't sleep.

I repeated the Universal Law of Vomitology.

She made her exit.

I drifted off again.

Until sometime later, I heard the sound of pounding feet running across the floor of the room above me.

Not good.

At this point, 2 of 8 appeared at my guest room door. It seems that 4 of 8 had also been making forays into the room where 2 of 8 was staying, the same 2 of 8 who would be dancing all day and competing for the top slots in the nation with her dance company. 4 of 8 had been standing over 2 of 8, telling her for the third time that she didn't feel well when all that queasy promise came to fruition and she had to make a run for the bathroom.

That same bathroom she had been told to park herself in and not come out of.

Yeah, that bathroom.

She almost made it.

Mostly.

She left some gastric signature on the carpet at the threshold.

And all over the tile.

And all over the commode.

At three in the morning.

No wonder my short term memory has a limp.

But because I did have to enter the Vomitolgy Lab again this weekend, I have been able to further expand my research and add to my original three Vomit Profiles of The Martyr, The Denier and The Jedi Master this fourth category:

The Social Vomiter.

This individual is one who simply won't vomit alone, who can't stand the isolation of a cold bathroom floor. If she's going to hurl, she wants a congregation of sympathizers, professional pukers, if you will, to keep her company. Things to watch for with this unique personality are multiple violations of the Universal Law of Vomitology. You will want to insure that you take measures to contain the Social Vomiter in an environment that somehow makes her part of the larger social action without sacrificing your carpet...or your host's carpet, as was my case.

The beauty of the study of Vomitology is that it is such a fluid science, pun intended. One of my readers has further expanded our understanding of this unique research with this comment:

Janet of Confessions of a Former Ag Major writes:
I laughed all the way through your post! We're so lucky to have two jedi masters and only one martyr. One of my friends has a new term to add to your study, "vomitophobe." She says she can't ride the Kamikaze at the fair because she is a vomitophobe. I'm sure she'd be flattered if you used her term in some future study.

Vomitophobe.

I love it.

Sunday Selah

"I tell you," he replied, "if they keep quiet, the stones will cry out."

Luke 19:40

It started as a conversation about how glass is made.
5 of 8 was curious about the process, how we get that clear stuff that we turn into drinking vessels, Pyrex and windows.

I told him how glass is made from melting sand at a high, high heat. He was fascinated and enchanted that the stuff from the beach becomes the stuff in our kitchen cupboards.

He was relating this newly acquired knowledge about the etomology of glass to his daddy before dinner. I was listening to his discourse as I finished up some kitchen chores, his voice rising and falling in cadence to the magic he found in glass making. His daddy responded with the appropriate 'wow' and 'cool'.

And then Mike posed this question to 5 of 8: So if glass is made of sand, what is the sand made of?

5 of 8 pondered a moment and said, “Pieces of small stones!”

And then Mike posed this question: And what are small stones made of?

Again, 5 of 8 pondered a moment and said, “Pieces of bigger rocks!”

And then Mike posed this question: And what are the rocks made of?

5 of 8 quickly said, “Pieces of mountains!”

And then Mike posed this question: And what are the mountains made of?

5 of 8 answered, “Pieces of God.”

Yes.

Yes they are.

When I take a moment, when I think about the process and the genius of creation, when I look at the amazing engineering of a tree, when I ponder the chemical composition of a star, I'm thinking on little pieces of Him. Bits of His imagination, spots of His artistry.

Little breadcrumbs to the infinity of His mind.

Glass, sand, pebbles, stones, rocks, mountains.

He has infused Himself into my every day and given me the senses to perceive His presence.

If I will only look.

Sometimes no further than the drinking glasses housed in the top rack of my dishwasher.

Selah.

JPEG of the Week

~6 of 8 is now officially six~

~there is now symmetry in the universe~ 

~her universe, anyway~

And The Winner Is.....

So I'm snuggled up in my precious friend's gorgeous guest bedroom. She and her husband have the courage, pity and insanity to allow moi and sept of my huit children (I'm feeling awfully cultured in this beautiful room...)to stay with them while 2 of 8 is competing in Nationals for dance. The competition just oh-so-conveniently happened to be scheduled in my friend's city and lucky for me, she and her hubby and sons are the most gracious hosts.

While thusly snugged, I'm going all legalistic on you. I'm still pretty hopped up after a full day of driving and wrestling twins in a darkened auditorium for two and half hours.

Short bunny trail: I have found if you purchase a six pound bag of Dum-Dums lollipops prior to going into the Nationals competition venue, you can successfully distract and quiet your toddler twins by shoving Dum-Dums in their mouths every five minutes. This particular tactic works well for 47 minutes. And then the sugar rush hits.

Back to my legalism.

It's just moments after midnight. It's officially Friday. So I'm snugged, all tucked in, hopped up on caffeine and ready to announce the winner of the Family Constitution Giveaway. Because I said I would. And it's now been Friday for almost 10 minutes.

I know how much you all appreciate my incredible adherence to the letter of the giveaway law.

Many thanks to all of you who entered. You were enthusiastic, you were hopeful. And in the end.....drumroll please.....the winner, according to Random.org is....

DARLENE of My Soulmate is a Trucker!

Congrats, congrats Darlene! Email me at octamom@octamom.com and I'll get you in touch with Mr. Gale so he can get your book on the way to you!

And you gotta appreciate Darlene for this...she commented, she tweeted, she my-spaced and fb'd. The girl was serious, serious, I tell you. And yes, I just used my-spaced and fb'd as verbs. And I didn't even feel the need to capitalize them.

I go a little maverick after midnight.

On The Road Again....

Have you entered the Family Constitution giveaway yet? Well, get to it! The drawing is at midnight tonight!

As you read this, I am most likely frantically finishing up packing to take 2 of 8 to her Nationals Dance Competition. From there, she will head to an amazing ballet intensive several states away.

I'm being so brave.

This packing thing is just wild and crazy fun. There are any random assortment of items on my list, like white noise machine for the twins, pack-n-plays for the twins, 200 diapers for 36 hours for the twins, high chairs for the twins, Disney movies for the twins....oh, and, oh yeah, clothes and stuff for all those other kids.

I'm a model of on-the-road event planning.

And I can also safely say that I am one of the few moms at these dance competitions who commandeers an entire row of seats and has to park a double stroller to the side. 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 and 8 of 8 are becoming competition veterans. They've learned how to sneak in little snacks in their backpacks, have figured out how to string charger extension cords to their Nintendo DSs, piggy-backing off the professional videographers' rigs. Heck, they've even learned to look mildly interested in what's going on up on the stage.

They're troopers.

So as you sip your coffee, think of me.

And if you hear a primal yell from somewhere beyond the vista, just know that I'm trying to stuff all kinds of mayhem into the van.

Distracted as I am by the packing, my composition skills are probably lacking.

And I just hate to waste a perfectly good Thursday without hopefully making you chuckle.

So I've reached into the Octamom Archives and pulled out a classy little number for you, something that sheds a little more light on my personhood, my identity, my soul.

Because for those of you who don't know, I am a Clinical Vomitologist.

The evidence follows:
(originally posted December 5, 2007)

Ah, Thanksgiving with the extended family. Nothing like going over the river and through the woods to fellowship over turkey and pie, tossing the football, sifting through old memories and, oh yes, spewing toxic microbes on one another with sniffly sneezing and hacking coughs so that the intervening weeks between Turkey Day and Christmas become an infected petri dish of feverish (literally) preparation to go see all these people again.

It's hit our crew pretty hard, the Cousin Virus. It began with a rouge fever in 5 of 8 (he thought it might be the resurrection of the tapeworm) and found footing the the tummy of 3 of 8. Of course, vomiting for 3 of 8 is something out of Dante masterpiece, a full-throttle examination of the presence of evil in the world and how this can dovetail with the mercy and righteousness of God. Take such penetrating questions as, "How could God let there be something like throwing up?", "Why is it taking so long for me to be healed?", and, my all time favorite, "How many more times do I have to throw up???!!!!" (to which I feel like responding, "I don't know, son--but believe me, at this point, if it would end the whining, I'd take over for you if I could...").

I wrote a piece a few years back about the personality profiles involved in observing vomiters (yes, I made up that word myself and claim all proprietary rights to it) while working on my doctorate in Vomitology (another word I have also made up and am claiming rights to--I will find you if you try to use this 'intellectual' property). As one can imagine, the rigorous coursework and engrossing labs involved in earning the Vomitologist designation have taken years and years to complete and I feel a responsibility, nay, a compulsion to share all the wealth of my experience and observation.

As the nation's leading (and only) Vomitologist, I submit that there are three observable personality types that quickly emerge as an individual enters the character-revealing experience of a solid round of the stomach bug. I originally titled this thesis "Puke Personalities and Their Presence in the Projectile Arts" and it is with great pride that I must say the title holds up well even today. I hope this ground-breaking work can help all parents identify and appropriately respond to the vomiters in their lives.

THE MARTYR

This personality is easily identified because said personality basically tells you he is a martyr. Listen for such questions and statements as "Why is God doing this to me? Why is God allowing me to throw up so much? Doesn't God care that I'm throwing up? Why am I the only one throwing up right now? I have thrown up more that anyone in the family! Throwing up is not fair! What doesn't anyone care that I am throwing up??!!" These statements will often be followed by yet another round of stomach-emptying activity, complete with yelling, wailing and the like. It is always interesting as a parent to have to discipline a child in the throws of this behavior (look for my upcoming article "Positive Parenting Techniques Mid Stomach Virus"). Nothing like threatening time-out to a vomiting kid who is screaming like a banshee in labor. The vomit sound effects alone associated with THE MARTYR would make one think that the intestines have turned inside-out and are now pooled at the bottom of the toilet. Please note that there is a milder form of this personality. The milder form will simply gravitate to where other family members are gathered and moan quietly. Said personality will sigh frequently and give a catalog of symptoms, even though all family members are infected and are full aware of the various condiments available with this virus main dish. Look for the milder form in oldest children, the more severe type in younger members of the family who already traffic in the belief that they aren't getting enough attention anyway, vomit or no...

THE DENIER

This profile generally shows up in an upbeat personality full of optimism and hope, to the point that you can be sure of mandated upholstery and carpet cleaning by the time the tummy bug has run its course. This chipper little personality will deny to the final millisecond that vomiting is even a remote possibility. Such questions as, "Do you feel sick, would you like a bucket, why don't you stay on the tile?" are all met with vigorous head shakes and emphatic "No"s, all to no avail (with no offense to Zig Ziglar intended). Within a few more ticks of the clock, this personality will have hosed down your new couch and wool carpet with a contribution of gastric contents, all the while looking genuinely perplexed and shocked as to this turn of events, particularly since they were practicing such positive thinking. I find this personality to be the most dangerous profiled in the Projectile Arts and you should proceed with great caution if you identify one of these in your household. Don't ever take their word...just go ahead and place them naked in a empty bathtub with the TV/VCR hooked up a safe distance away with plenty of snacks (go for neutral shades in your food choices) and clear liquids. At worst, you've let them blow a whole day watching all the Barbie Princess movies in the buff. At best, you've saved yourself from having to re-upholster. Just trust me.

THE YODA JEDI MASTER

I thank the Good Lord that He allowed me one child who fits this profile. This is the person who will come down with said stomach bug, find their own bowl, get their own wash rag, curl up in a little ball (on tile, mind you!) and re-emerge 24 hours later healed and hungry. These personalities tend to be pragmatic, non-procrastinators who have a high level of tolerance and acceptance. This stomach event was not necessarily on their Hello Kitty PDA, but now that it's here, you might as well gather the necessary materials and hunker down. If you have have any goals in your life, this is the personality you might want to aspire to, particularly if you want to come to my house and get sick. This personality says, "Hey, face it, not only does life not always give you lemonade, sometimes it gives you the violent heaves and you might as well build character while involuntarily spasming your abs..." Another aspect of this personality that I greatly admire is the ability to silently rid the stomach of those nasty tummy bugs. No drama, no screaming, no gurgling, just a straight-forward emptying, another erased tally mark from the projected number of vomit incidents per tummy bug and back into the huddle. What a team player, what a gift!

I include this information here for your diagnostic advantage. Obviously this is high-brow research so be looking for it in your favorite medical journal and also as a possible board game (yes, negotiations with Milton Bradley are in the works--don't you think it would be fun to sit around cocktail parties and do Vomit Personality Assessments?)

Gratuitous Vacuum Violence

*WARNING!  THIS POST CONTAINS SCENES OF GRATUITOUS GRAPHIC VACUUM VIOLENCE!  SUCH SCENES MAY NOT BE ADVISABLE VIEWING FOR ALL READERS!  PROCEED WITH CAUTION!*



I'm cruel to vacuums.
It's true.

I don't intend to cut their lives short. It just of happens.

I've just purchased my sixth vacuum in as many years.

Yeah.

But, see, the one from five years ago was a little older and the hose kept getting clogged and I kept having to take it apart and then I would lose a screw or two every time I had to do that and then someone vacuumed up a piece of a Barbie and it sorta kinda melted into one of the gears and it just wouldn't roll correctly after that.

I think.

And then there was the Little Dirt Devil that I purchased while we were between our Oklahoma house and the little apartment where Mike was living and the island house during the Big Move. And it ran for a little while, but then I used it on the house on the island and if you've never had to vacuum sand morning, noon and night, then you can't appreciate fully the impact that can have on a cheap vacuum.

And then there was the expensive Hoover I bought when we got into our home on the coast and it worked just fine for a while and then I broke one of those new-fangled-uber-green-except-for-the-toxic-mercury-emissions-emitted-when-broken light bulbs and because I wasn't well schooled in hazardous material removal, I vacuumed up the bits of broken glass.

Which is apparently the very worst thing you can do if you break one of those save-the-environment bulbs.

Because then your vacuum will spew mercury fumes all over your house every time you vacuum.

So I had to kick that poisoned vacuum to the curb.

Then I was on to a couple of Eureka purchases, one for downstairs, one for up.

They lasted about 18 months.

The bigger, more expensive model 2 of 8 killed while vacuuming out the 15 passenger van.

Actually, I'm not sure she killed it. I think the vacuum just gave up in despair.

And then I did in the other Eureka. I used some of that Resolve carpet-powder-make-my-rugs-white-again stuff, which worked well...until I vacuumed it up and it proved too much for my last remaining vacuum.

I really want to believe that none of this is my fault. It's not like I get some thrill out of vacuum shopping.

Even if I do keep all the attachments from Vacuums Past.

And I'm not really sure why.

There's a new Hoover in town now here at Chez Octamom. It's gray and has some cool little features. I've had it about a month now...which means I'll probably be vacuum shopping again this time next year.

Not that I've premeditated it or anything.

The Sting...Kinda....

Sundance and Butch.

Cagney and Lacey.

When 1 of 8 goes on her nanny jobs, she really goes all out. She has the kids write stories, paint, make up songs, put on puppet shows.

She's a super nanny.

She recently has put her snazzy new cell phone/web browser/camera/video camera to use and has started producing movies with some of her kid actors. One day while babysitting 5 & 6's best buddies, CT and AT, a film treatment was developed and the cell phone was put to use. 5 & 6 of 8 happened to be over that day, so CT and 5 decided to play your friendly robbers and 6 and AT decided they would be policewomen. They put together their scripts and action sequences and 1 of 8 was the cinematographer.

Now, I must warn you, if you have something against kiddos playing cops and robbers, this indie film will not be your cup of tea. But if you enjoy a little Keystone Cops every now and then, sit back and enjoy the unparalleled performances of this Brat Pack:

And don't forget to enter the Family Constitution Giveaway! The winner will be announced Friday!

Twinkie Me, Twinkie You

My twins aren't exactly...'twin-ie'.
They look nothing alike.

They are boy/girl fraternal.

She outweighed him by two pounds, sporting a full head of dark hair and rolls of fat on her. He was slick bald, wiry and fair .

They kept looking at each other when they were infants as if to say, "And you are.....?"

No apparent special connection, no similar look, no similar coloring. They slept on different schedules, screamed on different schedules.



Nothing that would mark them as womb mates other than the same birthday and tandem nursing.

Their relationship has grown over the last few months. He calls her "Shishy", she calls him "Bubbie". We hear them in the nursery, passing books back and forth through the slats of their cribs, chatting about 'puppies'.



And then there's this:

They were sitting on my bed the other day, me with laptop in lap, them amusing themselves by jumping on their knees across my matilisse coverlet. She lets out one of her curdling squeals and strikes a pincer grasp in his general direction. He looks up and responds in kind. She grabs back at him, taking back whatever it is they are tussling over. He snags her arm and grabs her hands, wrestling something from her grasp. At this point, I make a grab for both of them, trying to figure out what it is they are grappling over.

They continue to take swipes at each other, alternating cries of victory and defeat.

And that's when I realize what the competition is about.

An imaginary sticker.

Um-hm.

They are fighting over air.

So I suppose I can add that to their twin experience...they both can hallucinate plastic paper with a gummy back.

And they will fight for the right to hold its air space.

Twins.

Sunday Selah

Remain in me, and I will remain in you. No branch can bear fruit by itself; it must remain in the vine. Neither can you bear fruit unless you remain in me.

 I am the vine; you are the branches. If a man remains in me and I in him, he will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing.

John 15:4&5

Terroir.
Pronounced 'te-wa'.

It's a French term, which can be interpreted as 'sense of place'.

Vintners use the word to explain the variety of flavors that can be contained in the wine they produce.

It turns out that the flavor of grapes can be strongly influenced  by several factors,  the vineyard in which they are planted comprised of more than simple dirt. Say, for example, there is a type of tree growing just adjacent to the vineyard. Aspects of that tree, its fragrance, the flavor of its nuts and leaves, will be imparted to the grapes and ultimately to the wine. Local vegetation, wind direction, length of exposure to sunshine, lower temperatures at night, all of this becomes part of what the root brings to the vine and what the vine brings to the fruit. The result is the flavor and fragrance of terroir, the embodiment in the wine of the place from which it was brought to fruition.

By our fruit, we reveal what we have been rooted in. We give off the flavor of where we are finding our growth, what kind of soil in which we have been planted. If we have tapped into a terroir of selfishness, wrong ambition, self-serving philosophies and the like, the very fruit of our lives will expose it. But if we are rooted in love, with Christ as the vine, our very terroir is God Himself, the beauty and fragrance of all that He is.

I want to be rooted in Him.

I want the light of His glory to ripen the fruit. I want the mountains of faith to be the terrain. I want the rich soil of His love as nourishment. I want His rain of grace to be my very water.

His terroir.

The very fragrance of the Father infused into my veins.  The aroma of His peace my perfume.


The fruit of my life bearing the signature piquancy of  His careful gardening.


By our fruit, we are known.  Others can taste what we have been grounded in.


Selah.

JPEG of the Week

~My Niece~

~keeper of the most fabulous freckles~

*and don't forget to enter the Your Family Constitution Giveaway*

*it's your patriotic duty!*

Happy Birthday, America

We The People...Should Have a Giveaway!

It's just the patriotic thing to do.

Developing a Family Constitution.

I was contacted a couple weeks ago about a new book of family relationships by Scott Gale entitled Your Family Constitution. The cover expands on the title, adding the phrase 'A Modern Approach to Family Values and Household Structure.' And I have to admit, being an at-home mom, I thought, "Hmmmm, what might Mister Gale have to share with me, seeing as how he's at the office while I'm in the diaper trenches?"

Apparently, a lot.

He had me at the first chapter.

Mr. Gale recounts what he calls Black Sunday, a literal day at the beach that exposed the frayed edges of his parenting with some classic fit throwing on the part of his kids and himself. His narrative is humble and transparent; he doesn't attempt to to sugarcoat his anger and frustration with his own behavior or his kids. And he recognizes Black Sunday as a watershed, a chance to identify the weaknesses in his family communication and to correct it.

And so begins his constitutional journey.

Mr. Gale realized that too many areas of communication and expectation were unclear when it came to family dynamics. He identifies the top three areas of breakdown as Lack of Time, Lack of Clarity and Lack of Consistency. He pored through a variety of books on discipline and parenting but often found their solutions too mired in negative commentary on the state of today's youth or too permissive. And so through trial and error, the concept for a family constitution was born.

Just like the Constitution (as in The Constitution), the Family Constitution is predicated on creating a system of mutual, peaceful co-existence with agreed upon expectations and consequences. Mr. Gale leads his reader through his family's process of developing their constitution and gives numerous steps and hints for guiding other families to developing their own. In his characteristic guileless style, he recounts his first attempt at the constitution and his second. He lists the things that initially worked well and the things that didn't. And through his journey, Mr. Gale has collected enough experience to pack the final chapters of his book with helpful lists, worksheets and tips. His concept could be easily molded to families of every stripe and polka dot, blended, Grandma living in, all the other iterations of our modern families. It is a concept built on communication, respect and concrete expectations, where every member has a voice and a document that provides a compass.

Bravo, Mr. Gale.

You can also visit his website at http://www.yourfamilyconstitution.com/ .


And he has graciously offered a fortunate Octamom reader the opportunity to win his book in a giveaway. So let's come up with an Octamom Giveaway Constitution, shall we?

Leave a comment for a chance to win. Tweet about it, let me know, and get another chance to win. And if you want to really go for it, mention this giveaway over at your blog and get yet another chance. I'll announce the winner next Friday, July 10th.

So come on and enter. It's your patriotic duty...

A Model of Deceit...

It's all a big deceit.
Smoke.

Mirrors.

Artifice.

And I know it.

But I just can't help myself. I just have to participate.

I just have to enter its magic, just every now and then.

I try to drive on by.

I tell myself I'm not going to stop this time, that I won't even cross the threshold.

But then I do.

Model homes.

Ah, model homes.

How they beckon me.

Their perfectly manicured lawns, zoysia carpeting the vista surrounding the sweeping walks and immaculate porches.

I open the heavy, glass front door and a wave of icy air conditioning washes over me.

And then I'm in.

The baseboards are immaculate, gleaming. The colors on the wall are perfectly hued. The furnishings are perfectly arranged, plumped and posh. I wander the rooms, sliding my hand along beautifully hung draperies, slick counters, shining spigots. The children's bedrooms are artful and whimsical, tailored duvets spreading the beds, a vintage collection of books gracing the corner of an immaculate desk. The media room is ready for movie night, a popcorn machine primed in the corner, heavy brown velvet drapes ready to create perfect dampened lighting for best cinema viewing. The master bedroom closet features pyramids of beautiful hat boxes, a tower of class and chic. Five pairs of stiletto heels wait in artful repose, ready to be donned for an emergency cocktail party.

Ah.

Model homes.

And I let myself believe, just for a little bit, that if I moved in here, this is what it would look like. I could keep it looking like this. I could wear heels every day. And I would have manicured nails. It could all happen if I lived here.

Then I see it. It's there, in the beautiful front study, an ornate desk of mahogany resting in front of the windows overlooking a small courtyard. Right there. That's the moment. The moment the illusion shimmers back from mirage to desert.

Because on that beautiful desk rests a mock computer and antique phone.

And there are no cords.

No cords. No cords anywhere. Not in the butler's pantry linking the espresso machine to its needed electrical source. No cords string the computer like an umbilicus to the printer and the external hard drive and the camera and the video camera. No cords linking the pretend DVD player to the pretend plasma flat screen. No cords from the video game console wrapped like a spider web across the media room.

And when I see the lack of cords, then my vision clears. And I see the lack of wet towels on the bathroom floor. And then I see the lack of Legos in the boy's room. And I see the lack of naked Barbies in the girl's room. And I see the lack of crumbs along the kick plates of the custom kitchen cabinets.

And the halogram of projected perfect house-ness hits a glitch and freezes and falls.

Okay. I see it now. It's a stage. An immaculate stage for mortgage surgeries. I get it.

And I'll be cured for a bit. For a bit.

But one day I'll be driving by again. And I'll just have to go in.

Because my alter ego haunts the place. Her nails are manicured. And she's always wearing heels.

In that alternate reality known as The Model Home Zone.

A Portrait of Patriots

On Saturday we will celebrate the birth of this country, our birth certificate signed by the founding fathers in an act of wild courage in declaration of autonomy from Britain and the intention to go forward in home rule.

233 years. That's how many candles are on the Independence Day cake this year.

Our history is not as clean and neat as we would like. It's not Jedis versus the Empire. It's a messy human history of bravery and slavery, autonomy for transplanted colonists and oppression for Native peoples. Wars have been waged on this soil. Democracy has been the grand experiment. And in spite of set-backs, embarassments, challenges and attacks, this country has stood firm and continues to stand as an a lodestar of dream and vision.

We all have our own stories as to how we arrived to this nation. My and Mike's families arrived here two centuries ago from Scotch-Irish roots. On my mother's side, the second born son of an Irishman realized that he would not inherent family fortune and land according to the laws of primogeniture and so he sailed for America in the late 1700's. My father's family arrived in the Carolinas before the turn of the 18th century. While we don't have records quite as far back on Michael's side, we can track his ancestors' paths through the South and into Texas.

One of 2 of 8's dear friends, AN, came to this country in the arms of her adoptive parents from China. She has a sister adopted from Russia. She has a brother adopted from Thailand. She has another sister born to her parents in the U.S.

Our neighbors are first generation Americans. Both of their families of origin escaped Iran during the overthrow of the Shah, the wife's family going to Germany, the husband's family going to England. When both of them were in their teens, their families made their way here.

Another precious friend came to the U.S. in the 1970's after escaping Vietnam and spending time in a camp in Cambodia. She was twelve. Through the years, she sponsored each of her eight brothers and sisters and ultimately her parents, reuniting all her family here on American soil. She married a man who is German by heritage.

My sister-in-law T has her own American story. Her mother was born in Poland during World War II. Her birth parents died and she was adopted by the wife of a deceased SS officer. While in her twenties, she met a young American GI. They fell in love, got married, and returned to the good ol' U.S.A, giving birth to my sis-in-law a few years later.

1 of 8 has a fascinating friend from Guinea in West Africa. He was born there, then moved to Morocco, then went to work in Paris. He came to the U.S. a year ago, speaking beautiful French, sent here by the Starbucks corporation. His mother, still back in Guinea, has been very concerned about her son living in Texas, where she is convinced people still live like the Wild Wild West.

And when I look around at the precious faces of friends around me, when I reflect that we have all arrived at this time and place from such scattered histories and geographies, I am renewed. I am renewed by the vision of a nation that builds the culture of its people from the histories and traditions of the world. I am renewed by the vision of a nation in which Lady Liberty not only holds up a torch, but opens her arms to the citizens of the globe. We don't do it perfectly. We haven't figured out all our immigration issues. We trip and stumble. We fuss and fight. But we are a family of siblings created from the mutual desire of our parents and our grandparents and our great-grandparents to give us the chance for something more.

And we come together as a kaleidescope of kinsmen, all bearing the same surname: American.

God Bless America.

Reflecting on Our Words~Midway '09

Is it seriously almost July?

As we hit the completion of half of the year, I find myself amazed that July is right around the corner. Four blog friends and I started the year by each choosing a word that would be our guiding beacon for 2009 and at the end of each month, we have each posted something about how that word is shaping our year. (You can see our collective progression through the year here, here, here, here and here.)

My word for the year has been excellence. When I selected this word, I thought it to be the element that would wind its way through many of the areas in my life in which I seek to grow and improve, in my relationships, homemaking, schooling, writing, photography and walk with the Lord. To pursue excellence has become a lesson in degrees. How does one know when they have achieved 'excellence'? It's not really a destination or accomplishment, but rather an approach and attitude toward the duties and desires in life. And one thing that has emerged as I have pursued excellence this year is that it can be practiced in the smallest things. In my world right now, with so much of my time joyfully captured by the needs of small children, big goals could be frustrating. But to know that I can exercise excellence in making a bed, wiping a nose and reading a book to a child allows me to honor my New Year's goals without creating frustration and overwhelm, which is a very excellent thing indeed.

Here are my bloggy word girlfriends with their thought at mid-year:

MirusPeg writes:
6 months, 26 weeks, 181 days, 4,344 hours......four Americans and one Australian united together believing by focusing and reflecting on our tools called words our journey would become clearer.

For me, without a doubt the journey so far has been very rewarding. Who would have thought that by focusing on a few simple words (Balance, Desire, Persistence) they would grant me so much power and freedom.

This month I would like to reflect on finding balance in the midst of life’s ups and downs.

In life there will always be ups and downs. When something negative happens, instead of agonizing over it or trying to oppose it, we should accept it and try to turn it into a positive. Similarly, when positive things happen in our life we need to be prepared for the fact that good things can’t last forever.

Instead of wishing for a life of complete happiness where nothing bad ever happens, these ups and downs should be embraced, because they are what gives life its colour and meaning.

In Taoism it is believed that the entire universe is a balance of opposites, symbolized by yin and yang (day and night, winter and summer, male and female, life and death, etc).

“The Tao is the One. From the One come yin and yang; From these two, creative energy (chi); From energy, ten thousand things; The forms of all creation. All life embodies yin AND yang; Through their union Achieving harmony”.
Tao Te Ching (Dreher translation)

AVT Coach reflects:
I have been blessed to be attending a Yoga class three days per week. Through this class I have also met some amazing women. One of the women, a new friend has added so much to my life in only a few months. We enjoy a nice cup of chai on Sat. morning after our yoga class.

The first weekend in June we went on an overnight trip to a retreat center about 40 miles from our town. We stayed in an old farmhouse. Here is the abundance of this 24 hour time away. A glass of wine on the front porch, talking, watching the sun go down, watching the three new young alpaca's recently adopted by our retreat center owners, sharing again a viewing of the movie Chocalat while of course eating dark chocolate and sharing another glass of wine and talking. Feeling the morning breeze flow through the windows upon awakening in the morning, and taking turns getting a massage by a massage therapist who came to our farmhouse with table in hand..and talking. Enjoy an organic salad then taking a nap just because we can..and talking. It was a gift we gave ourselves and the shared experience was truly abundant. It is not easy to take the time to break away from old habits and do something new. We did it and we are only blessed beyond measure. Thank you Cris for our girl time away.

Abundance is.. sharing new experiences with a trusted friend.

MommyVictory is seeing her word for the year in her daughter:

Discipline is remembering what you want.” David Campbell

“Discipline is the bridge between goals and accomplishment.”
Jim Rohn

“Discipline is the refining fire by which talent becomes ability.” Roy L Smith

“Endurance is one of the most difficult disciplines, but it is to the one who endures that the final victory comes.” Buddha

My daughter epitomizes the definitions of discipline described above. She has working since September towards the goal of attending the Showcase National Dance Competition. By setting an achievable and measurable goal, she was able to see that dream come to fruition this past weekend.

Caitlin spent several hours a week attending ballet, tap, jazz and technique classes without complaint. Additionally, her instructors would call weekend rehearsals.

What was the result of all this work?

Two amazing performances and two platinum awards. Which just goes to show that when you have the necssary discipline, you can achieve just about anything.

And sweet FlyGirl has these thoughts on her words:

JOY. Amazing how such a small, simple word can make such a huge impact in your life (when you let it!). Acknowledging the joy in my life has been one of my goals this year. By focusing on the word “joy,” I hoped to leave worrisome thoughts behind as I looked for those proverbial silver linings instead.

For me, finding joy is really about slowing down to enjoy the moments that make up my life. It’s about stopping the thoughts that whirl through my mind long enough to truly enJOY what life has to offer.

As I focused on this word, I began to recognize joy all around me. I saw joy in a baby’s smile at the grocery store, in the words of a student, and in my daughter’s unique way of seeing things. I found joy in a rare March snowfall and in the serenade of cicadas and frogs on a warm summer night. I found joy while cooking meals for my family and when treating myself to a few good books.

I have found that joy is not elusive but awaits me every day if I just look in the right place. Joy, I found, is a simple thing to enJOY.

Scooter Parking...

6 of 8's scooter is missing.

Missing, I tell you.

Gone.

Its three wheel, Barbie-licensed pink glory gone.

G-O-N-E.

5 of 8 and 6 of 8 begin a hard target search investigation last evening.

They discuss where she had the scooter last.

They check the outside extremities of the property.

No luck.

They reconvene in the foyer, plotting new search maps and trying to figure out if ninjas have absconded with a three-wheel fuchsia Barbie scooter.

6 of 8 begins a bit of dramatic hand-wringing.

5 of 8 assures her he will do all he can to locate her missing transportation.

More searching proceeds.

And then we hear it, a triumphant shout from the depths of the house. A shout of victory. A shout of accomplishment.

A shout of treasure found.

"6 of 8," he yells. "6 of 8! I found it! I found it! I found your scooter!!!!"

"It was in the guest bathroom...~"

Of course.

Don't you ride your Barbie scooter to the bathroom?

Sunday Selah

 "Have faith in God," Jesus answered. "I tell you the truth, if anyone says to this mountain, 'Go, throw yourself into the sea,' and does not doubt in his heart but believes that what he says will happen, it will be done for him."

Mark 11:22-23

Faith.


Now there's a loaded term.


People of faith.  Lack of faith.  Faith of our fathers.  Ye of little faith.  Defenders of the faith. Statements of faith.


Through my growing-up years and through college, I believed the definition of faith was the collection of ethics, rules and philosophies that guided my life.  Those with my particular flavor of 'faith' were lucky;  we had somehow stumbled into the mother lode of creed, adherents to a system that would ultimately garner us enough favor through good works and rule-following to give us barter for eternity. To lose one's faith was to walk away from that system.


But life has a funny way of exposing our pride and naiveté.  And when the realities of life drove me deeper into study of Scripture and in a thirst to seek out God, I was a little startled to see a very different expression of faith chronicled within those parchment pages.  It seemed that some of those Bible time people, the ones who didn't seem to follow the same rules as me, the ones who often messed up or were confused or only knew Jesus from those days preceding His sacrifice, they were often heralded for their faith.  They were able to conjure deep emotions of belief, it seemed.  And things seemed to improve for those folks who could pull it off.  Faith seemed to get them places, seemed to smooth bumps in the road.  My initial approach to the lives of these people was to analyze the actions and intensity of emotion that I defined as faith.


I needed to get me some of that kind of faith.


I thought.


It's ironic.


My early years were spent having faith in my 'faith'.
And then I spent some years trying to develop very strong faith in...faith.
And both of those expressions of faith seemed to take a lot of work.


Because it seemed that having really strong belief in faith, in becoming someone with super faith, was a very Christian thing to do.


But it didn't occur to me to define what faith was, beyond some sort of strong attachment to rules or a jet-fueled propulsion of emotion.


Faith.


Simple faith.


Faith in God.


Believe God.


When Jesus began to reveal to his disciples the power and authority that come from following God, He began with a simple statement.


"Have faith in God."


Not faith in faith.


Not faith in a system of faith.


Faith in God.


Faith in His plans, His provenance, His provision.  Faith in His omniscience.  Faith in Him.


It's the core of what Paul told us in the book of Hebrews:  faith is being sure of a God in which we place our trust.  Faith is certain that there is a God there who we do not yet see.  And it was this simple belief in the Creator that led Abel to make a better sacrifice, that let Noah build an ark, that let Abraham walk as a friend of God.


In Hebrews 11:6, faith's definition becomes so clear:  Without faith, it is impossible to please God, because anyone who comes to Him must believe that He exists and that He rewards those who earnestly seek Him.


So that's become my creed.  That's become my statement of faith.


I have faith there is a God.  I believe He rewards those who seek Him.


And now my faith rests in her rightful home.  Nestled in the hands of God.


Selah.

JPEG of the Week

~My Budding Musician~

~8 of 8~

Template Thoughts....

As a kid, I loved to rearrange my bedroom furniture.
Loved.

What would start as a routine session to pick up my Pee Chee folders off the floor and put away my Shaun Cassidy records would turn into a full-out room redo, dragging my Sear's French Provincial Collection furniture across the cream shag carpet of my bedroom.


(photo credit from ths.gardenweb.com)

And I got worse after I got married.

Mike has not been a big fan of my late-night estrogen-rush room makeovers.

I've reformed a bit. I still have to drag huge pieces of furniture around on ocassion just to make me feel like a woman. But I have to say, all the relocation activities in my life over the last five years have kinda sorta cured me of furniture manipulation issues.

And besides, that's what a blog layout is for.

You don't throw your back out and your husband doesn't get frustrated when you want to put it all back the way you had it before.

I've found it quite fulfilling to repaint and paper my blog depending on my mood and on the season. Let's take a little walk down memory lane, shall we?

Here's one of my early attempts at a blog header incorporating some of my photography...



Here's one from last fall...I think this is one of my favorites. But then, fall is my favorite season.



Of course I had to put together a little something special for Christmas...



Ringing in 2009 seemed to need its own special header...



And then there are these little designs...










So I'm feeling that itch to do a little blog rearranging and I thought I'd check in with you, see if you wanted to drag around a little blog Sears French Provincial with me, as it were.

Beyond the decor and wallpaper, what kind of features do you like to see on a blog? What makes things easy to find, what widgets, gidgets and gadgets command your attention and respect and which ones just make you a little crazy? What are some things you would like to see here at Octamom.com to enhance your experience? Share, share.

And when we're done rearranging, maybe we can listen to some of my Shaun Cassidy records...

Da Do Ron Ron Ron, Da Do Ron Ron....

Name That Video...

These are the home videos that defy a simple printed label to identify their recorded contents.
Because I live with children who defy simple labels.

This one started innocently enough. 5 of 8 likes the idea of making our own 'show'. So I told him that we could take the video camera with us to Costco while we shopped for Michael's birthday dinner ingredients and for a gift.

That would have been a simple label for the video.

"Summer 2009. Mike Bday Preparation."

But, then we wouldn't have gotten this on tape.

Let's see. So the title options are....Costco...or Look at My Shoe....or.....

Deep Theological Conversations on the Apparent Absent Morale Compass of Chihuahuas and Their Inclusion Into the Genus of Mammal.

Yea, I think that's it.

Unless you have a better idea.

Which I would love to entertain.

Rewriting History

I love my digital scrapbooking.

I really do.

But there is still something so magical about sitting down with a heavy photo album laid across your lap, slowly flipping the thick pages of pictures and memories.

I used to avidly paper scrapbook, back in the day when I was Triomom and Quatromom. I had a spot where all my supplies were in easy reach for me and protected from little creative hands. I have several volumes completed from the Trio and Quatro eras…and they continue to be perennial favorites with all the kids.

Though it does tend to make the younger kids ask where the albums of their early lives are.

To which I respond, “Somewhere under the laundry pile.”

Which is subtle code for, “My consuming hobby is now laundry, and no, I’m not being a martyr. Mostly.”

3 and 7 of 8 have been looking through some of the albums as of late. They particularly like the one recording the months immediately preceding 3 of 8’s birth up to his arrival and the first precious weeks of his infanthood.

7 of 8 is enchanted with the pictures of ‘Baby’.

And it is so fascinating to hear 3 of 8 tell her of his history, the stories we have passed down to him of the events leading up to his birth, of his older sisters’ excitement, of who they were as children, of the transition from a family of two children to three.

The oral tradition of storytelling continues.

And one day, when the laundry is somewhat caught up, I will again pull out the paper scrapbooking supplies. And I will print these pictures. And I will create a scrapbook spread about 3 and 7 of 8 looking at scrapbooks.

Which means I will then be scrapbooking about scrapbooking.

Which is probably the dividing line between hobby and obsession.

I'm thinkin'.

Partners in Canon.....

You remember the Amazing Thea, right?

My Artiste Extroidinaire, the Jewelry Designer to the Stars (and the wanna-be's). Well, when I went to Oklahoma a couple of weeks ago, I got to spend a little time with the Amazing T herself.

You see, we don't just share a dear friend (one of her best friends is also one of my dear friends). We don't just share faith. We don't just share a love for fun and sun.

Not only just all those things.

We also share the experience of boy/girl twins.

Voila.

Thea was my go-to-girl when I was knocked up with the twins. She herself had a surprise multi-gestation back in the day and talked me through protein consumption, adequate rest and good thoughts for carry those little dudes to term.

We got to make some photos of our twins and twins. I'm nostalgic that way.

But there is one more thing that Thea and I now have in common, something that is very intrinsic to the way we see our worlds...

...or should I say, the way we record our worlds.

And that would be that Thea has now joined the ranks of deliriously happy Canon 40D owners.

Bam!~

Yep. We're Camera Canon Sistas.

And that, my friends, is a very serious bond...