Daylight Savings is for the Birds

This time of year it is so fun to listen to everyone complain about the sudden change of time.

Facebook is filled with it.

Some say their kids still wake up at their regularly scheduled time, their little bodies don't know that the clock changed, despite going to bed an hour later.

Some complain that now it's dark by the time they get home from work.

Others just like to complain, so they jump right on the bandwagon with everyone else.

My complaint?

I'm hungry.

Meal times are now an hour later and my stomach has no idea why it must wait.

I wake up starving and so I fill my belly. Then, by snack time I am ready for lunch.

By the time lunch rolls around I feel like I could eat a bus.

Last night before dinner my whole family thought I had forgotten to feed them.

I had to remind them about 500 times to look at the clock and that it was not time to eat yet.

But you want to know my biggest complaint?

It's not the time change, I am usually OK within a few days.

My tummy gets the message that it will get food and that I am not intentionally starving myself.

My complaint is the cold.

It has nothing to do with moving the clocks back.

Cold and winter would come no matter the digits glaring from my clock's display.

When the cold hits I'm ready to fly South with the birds.

Florida or Arizona or even parts of California beckon me.

I want to bundle up in ugly sweats and slippers and never leave the house.

And then there's the snow.

I love how beautiful it is and one of my favorite things it watching from my nice warm house as the kids build snowmen and laugh and play in the snow.

But I don't want to be in it.

I don't want it to touch me.

And I don't want to drive in it.

Or walk in it.

But, silly me, I went and married a local who has no intentions of ever leaving this place.

He actually (*gasp*) likes the snow and winter.

In my humble opinion, the only thing winter is good for is to make me fall that much more head over heals in love with Spring and Summer and Fall.

 During those times of year I literally walk on cloud 9 because it's not winter.

So here I sit, listening to people moan about day light savings while all I can think about is the impending doom of the seemingly ceaseless cold about to envelop my world.

I'll still be here in the Spring, waiting for the warmth of the sunshine to thaw my bones.

Infestation

I have a love, hate relationship with fall. 

I love the cooler weather, soup for dinner to warm my bones, and ripe apples falling from the trees.

I love making pumpkin everything.

I even put a blob of pumpkin puree in our homemade mac and cheese.

I use white cheddar so it gave it a nice comforting orange hue, but it was not enough to get the distinct pumpkin flavor.

I love the fall colors and the pumpkin patches.

I love the feel of change in the air and pulling out the warm sweaters and flannel sheets.

I love watching my children make huge leaf piles, perfect for jumping in.

The one thing I hate, hate, hate about this time of year is all the tiny home invaders who are pushed inside looking for a warm retreat.

And by home invaders I mean spiders, I shudder at the very word.

If you've ever read anything on my blog, you know the extreme arachnophobia from which I suffer.

It's not rational, but how many phobias are?

But this time I feel like my fear is valid.

This time, it's not just any ordinary, harmless arachnid running across the floor.

This time it's black widows!

Yes, plural.

IN THE HOUSE!

We have had 2 of them in the last week and a half, both in the same vicinity.

 I'm pretty sure there are more of them, just waiting for the right moment to emerge.

I literally have not slept the last 3 nights.

 They are both funny stories of screaming and dancing on our toes, but the second one, which was exterminated late yesterday afternoon, was a particularly funny and embarrassing story.

And since I love you all so much and have sorely neglected you all, I'll share my humiliating story.

For some reason black widows are the creepiest of the creepy little buggers I have ever come face to face with.

OK, they are tied with the tarantula, but only because of the sheer size of the later.

So it's almost 3:30 and Mr Bird would be home any minute from picking the kids up from school.

I was trying to hurry and finish putting away a load of laundry so it would be out of the way for our nice evening at home.

I had just picked up a bath towel to fold when the door bell rang. 

Our small town is in the throws of a mayoral election.

It was one of the candidates, a well know, respected man in the community.

He was going to homes talking to voters and sharing his views and I admit I had some questions I wanted to ask him.

As he and I stood in the doorway taking, Little Man and M&M were playing near our feet, trying to get a look at who was at the door.

Not even a minute into our conversation, Little Man screeches at the top of his lungs, "BLACK WIDOW!!!"

He instantly darted into the living room screaming with M&M in hysterics at his heals (yup, I'm raising a bunch of little arachnophobes. Actually, he kills my spiders most of the time, but he's a smart kid and is afraid of the poisonous ones).

Now just imagine what my reaction was to his words.

I knew we had just had one a few days before in this very corner of the house, so I knew this was no bluff.

I hollered and danced on my toes and ran into the house, leaving the poor mayoral candidate standing in the doorway watching this crazy lady acting like the house was on fire.

I'm sure he had not understood what Little Man had said and had no idea of the emergency.

After a few seconds I collected myself and realized this kind man was still standing there looking totally baffled, where were my manners?

I tried to be calm and walked ever so carefully back to the door to explain to this poor man that my son had seen a black widow and that we had actually had another in the house and that we were indeed wooses.

Seeing my panic, he did what any knight in shining armor would do.

He hunted down the beast (it was a big, fat one, bigger than the first), detaching it from the door jam with his foot, then squished it dead.

Crisis over, mayoral candidate on my doorstep not knowing what to do next.

He quickly and awkwardly excused himself and left.

I was so flustered and embarrassed that I couldn't think about our conversation and I have no recollection as to what I may or may not have said to him as he was leaving.

I hope I thanked him, but I can't be sure.

It wasn't until a good 5 minutes later that I realized I had not asked him any of my questions, and just how awkward he looked when he left.

Every time I think about our exchange, I put my face in my hands and shake my head.

He must have thought me insane.

But the worst part?

We have a huge sign in support of his opponent spiked into the front lawn. 

I am really tempted to change my vote.

And douse the entire house in RAID! 

And So, I Bake

Almost a week ago a sweet friend (and distant Weaver cousin) buried her baby boy.

Only he wasn't a baby anymore.

 I'm pretty sure if you ask any mother she'd tell you her children will always be her babies.

Still, he was far too young to leave this life.

He was nearly 28 years old.

His death was a shock and extremely hard to contemplate.

Tears were quick and painful last week, still they're too close to the surface.

I can't even imagine the grief  that comes with losing a child, I pray I will never know such heartache.

As I thought of my friend and her family I desperately wanted to do something to help, only I was at a loss as to what I could possibly do.

 I racked my brain for days, tormented by the desire to help but not wanting to intrude on their family at this time of loss.

And so, I did what I do best, I baked.

I baked up a couple loaves of bread and some chicken broccoli bombs and set off to their house.

As I dropped off the food and chatted for a few minutes with this sweet boys father, I could not help feeling shallow.

It did not seem enough.

They lost their only son and I offer them bread?

How is that supposed to be any compensation at all?

I felt like I had cheated them somehow, like what I had to offer could never fill the chasm this life event had left in its wake.

It just felt really trite.

As I drove home, sobbing the whole way, I hoped this family would know what I was really bringing that day, what those few short hours of baking represented.

Wrapped in plastic was a piece of my heart, my love, my shoulder to cry on, my deep desire to lessen their pain, impossible as that may be.

Those rolls were not only filled with chicken and broccoli, but with hope that the sun will come out tomorrow, that these dear friends will know they don't have to shoulder this burden alone.

Those cracks on top of the bombs were not only to let out the steam, but to show that our hearts are also broken for their loss.

I thought about the symbolism of bread and He who is the bread of life.

The bread I brought this family will  perish.

But the bread of life is eternal.

"And Jesus said unto them, I am the bread of life: he that cometh to me shall never hunger; and he that believeth on me shall never thirst." ~John 6:35

The bread I offered up has power to only fill their bellies for a short time.

This bread, however, is the power to heal that which is broken, that which I am powerless to fix.

That is the bread I want that family to eat.

That is the bread I want to eat every day of my life as well.

"And this is the will of him that sent me, that every one which seeth the Son, and believeth on him, may have everlasting life: and I will raise him up at the last day." ~John 6:40

What an incredibly beautiful promise.

A promise I am powerless to make, but one given to them from a loving Savior who I am sure is holding my Wonderful Wendy in the palms of His hands.

Firsts and Lasts

We all know the thrill of watching a baby do something for the first time.

I remember as clear as day the first time my niece, Alyssa, said my name for the first time.

She could not say it very clearly, so for about the next 7 years I was know throughout the whole family (and even a few friends) as "RaRa".

Then I had my own babies.

As a young mother I waited patiently for Doodle to do something, ANYTHING besides just stare and sleep all day long.

The first time she grasped a toy and waved it all around, practically bruising her poor forehead, I could not have been more thrilled. 

I took a million pictures, called Mr Bird at work, ecstatic to finally have something to brag about, and played with her for what seemed like hours.

Really, it was probably 20 minutes, then she went right back to sleep. 

I could not stop smiling from ear to ear. 

It felt better than putting a man on the moon.

I remember her first bath right after I brought her home from the hospital.

I could not believe how slippery she was, I was so worried I'd drop her.

Then came the first smile, the first time she rolled over, the first time she slept through the night, the first froward crawling motion, the first cold bug and so on and so forth.

As the first child, I worked with her everyday developing new skills.

Just 8 1/2 months after she was born she took her first steps.

Oh, the party we had, we were so excited.

And with each new baby came new firsts.

All just as thrilling as the last.

The looks of adoration, the chorus of, "awwwww" in unison when baby is suddenly cuter than ever before.

Then something strange happens.

Before you know it the last baby is not a baby anymore.

All the baby "firsts" are done.

Now I am noticing the lasts.

The lasts seem to slip by unnoticed and uncelebrated.

A dear friend of mine has a little boy just a few months older than Little Man.
Those two are best buds, always begging for play dates.
One Sunday afternoon as we were leaving our church services, I past this sweet friend still sitting on a pew with her 5 year old son fast asleep on her lap.
I mentioned something about her cute sleeping boy, which was met with a look I will never forget.
You see, this man child is her youngest of 6 children.
For over 20 years this amazing mother has wrangled children through church meetings.
She vocalized her realization that she just did not know how many more times she would be able to experience that precious occasion of holding her sleeping boy.
That thought caught a hold of my thoughts and has not let go.
How many lasts have already slipped by without notice? 
My children used to sleep on my lap during the longest of church services, but none of them have done so in quite a while.
Sadly, I don't even remember the last time it happened.
What other lasts have slipped away?
My older kids are always changing and developing and on to some new adventure.
It is the thrill of my life to watch how they change and grow.
I just really don't want to miss even one moment.
But I am starting to forget the little things.
How Beano used to pronounce helicopter.
How Doodle would run on her hands and feet and rear up and neigh, just like a real horse.
How Dubs truly believed in fairies.
How Miss Mae would fall asleep in my arms in 30 seconds flat.
How they all called Little Man "Zebee" (it was their way of saying baby with wrong pronunciation) when he was a baby.
Those things have all stopped, but when?
Was I not paying close enough attention?
When was the last time Doodle impersonated a horse, I honestly can't remember.
Horsie sounds have been replaced by beautiful harp and piano music.
Each day they slip further from babyhood and childhood and ever closer to puberty, then adulthood, then comes college and moving boxes.
 I am powerless to stop it.
But deeply honored and thrilled to be a part of it.

Sleepless in Riverdale

I know, I know, it doesn't have quit the same ring to it that Sleepless in Seattle does, but hey, just go with it.

Now that all of my children sleep through the night it is my personal goal to catch up on all the sleep I lost while nursing new borns and trying to sleep train babies. 

I make it my personal mission to get at least 9 hours of sleep a night.

You heard me, 9 glorious hours.

Don't judge, this momma has a lot of lost sleep to make up for.

Plus, we're all happier when mommy is well rested.

Most nights that means I'm in bed by 9:30 so I can be up by 6:30 when the 5 year old decides it's time to wake up and awaken the rest of the house by being as loud and as annoying to his brothers as he possibly can.

Sometimes my plan does not work out as I would like.

Take tonight for instance.

I was doing so well, I curled into my soft welcoming bed at precisely 9:33.

The light in the sky was fading fast as the last bits of daylight tried desperately to fight the darkness.

This is my favorite time to go to sleep, just as darkness takes over and the whole world seems to rest.

I leave the blinds open so I can watch the sky turn to grey.

I'm out before I even realize the light is totally gone.

An hour later I am vaguely aware that Mr Bird has joined me and we sleep.

Then, a little later, Little man awakens to go potty.

I hear him, but drift off again.

 I hear him again a few minutes later, getting back in bed.

I notice he left the bathroom light glaring.

I try my best to ignore it and stay asleep.

Twenty minutes later there is no denying I have lost the battle.

The light wins and makes me fully awake.

I rise to turn it off and return to my repose.

No luck, the light in the brain is not so easy to turn back off.

So, after just an hour and a half of sleep I'm wide awake, blogging for lack of anything better to do.

Been awake for literally hours.

Dreading the thought that Little Man will be running a muck in 3 short hours.

I'm too old for this nonsense, and I don't even have a baby to snuggle for company in the wee hours of the morning. 

*sigh*

I have a feeling it's going to be a really long day!

 

Mommy Me

To say motherhood is totally different that I expected would be an understatement.

I had no idea I could love another mortal like I do these little beings.

It's like having 5 little pieces of my heart on parade.

I watch them fall and it breaks my heart just a little, every single time.

I watch them mess up and I feel like a failure.

They laugh and my spirit soars.

Their pain is my pain.

Their joy is my joy.

All I want to do is protect them and keep them safe and happy and fed.

Like a mother hen.

Like a mother bear other times.

I am constantly amazed at how intertwined our lives are.

I can only pray is stays like this forever.

I want to be present in their lives for the rest of mine.

I never knew the depth of a mother's love until I became one.

I never knew the sheer frustration of a mother until I became one.

I never knew the sleepless nights, the total commitment, the sheer stress of a mother until I became one.

I never knew that laughter could come from your toes or that the tears could be so bitter.

I never knew a gooey sticky child could possibly leave that much destruction in their wake.

I never knew that magic was alive and well in this world.

I never knew little boys could eat so. much. food.

And they're not even teenagers yet!

I never knew music could sound so sweet.

I never knew butterflies and snakes and doddle bugs were so fascinating, until I became a mother.

I never knew the sheer joys of a sunny day bike ride or the total pleasure of dipping hot sweaty toes into frigid river water could be sheer bliss, until I saw those things through the eyes of my children.

I never knew that my Mr Bird and my children would complete me.

That they would complete me in ways I never even knew were incomplete.

They are my life, my everything.

They are the good and the bad, the bitter and the sweet.

They are better and worse than I ever imagined possible.

To my sweet babies on this mother's day I say, 

Thank you for making me a mommy.

I love you from here to eternity!

See's Candy and The Secret to Happiness

Every year my grandmother and my mother jointly send me a one pound gift certificate to See's Candy for Christmas.

Those of you who have had the pleasure of tasting these sweet morsels of chocolatey goodness, you know they are the Rolls-Royce of the chocolate world.

As a self proclaimed chocolate addict, there is nothing better than a whole pound of the best chocolates of my choosing.

The only problem is that during the Christmas season we are literally bombarded with other sugary goodies.

The See's becomes just another sweet treat amidst all of the others.

Plus, last Christmas we the children were off sugar, so we put the certificate on a shelf and all but forgot about it.

And when I say forgot about it, I mean I thought and dreamed about it every single day, but I knew that the moment I redeemed it I would have 16 ounces of my drug of choice literally at my fingertips and I'd lose all control.

I'd hide it from my family and eat it locked in my bedroom until I was sick.

I simply could not bring myself to fall into it's grasp.

Until today.

As I walked into the tiny corner See's store I was hit with the sweet smell of chocolate that I have come to love about them.

Right as I walked through the doorway I saw a display with Easter candy, marked down to 50% off.

My mind raced!

Two pounds of chocolate all wrapped in Spring time clothes for the price of one!

Score!

  I found some cute dark chocolate, cream filled eggs with a cute yellow rose bud on top, I could not resist the cuteness.

I bought 4 of them (as gifts) and still had enough left to buy a few of my all time favorites for the ride home.

It was the perfect scenario, because I needed a few small gifts, I could still enjoy a couple of my favorite treats without gorging and becoming sick.

As the cashier bagged my goods and took my payment, she said to me with cheerful sunshine in her voice, "Enjoy your bag of happiness!"

My fist thought was, oh yes, I certainly will!

I thought about that cashier's words all the way home. 

 If only I really could purchase a bag of happiness.

I'm not talking momentary pleasure that melts away like chocolate in my mouth, I'm talking about the real deal.

The stuff that gets you out of bed in the mornings with a smile on your face, excited to face the day.

The stuff that makes everything better, even when life is hard.

The joy that comes and fills all the broken places in these ever so fragile hearts.

The assurance and peace that lights the days after we lose loved ones.

Not only that, I thought, if only I could buy true happiness and wrap it up in Spring time clothes to give to someone I knew was having a hard time.

Someone I could see struggling with the weight of the world on their shoulders, who just needed a little push into the light.

I could give it to them knowing it would not melt, or fade away, but would wrap their soul in joy that would fill their spirit instead of just their belly and fat cells.

Oh, how much easier life would be if I could buy happiness from a chain store and spread it all around.

If only if it were as easy as giving a gift of fine chocolates.

But the gift of happiness has already been purchased.

It is a gift that is wrapped in the love and hope of Spring time.

It is given to all, free for the taking.

The price was not a gift certificate to a store in the mall, but the blood of Christ and given 3 days later with an empty tomb.

That empty tomb fills my soul with warmth and sunshine and, dare I say the word, happiness.

It has healed too many cracks in my heart to count.

It has dried my bitter tears and brought sweet tears of joy into my eyes.

It gives me the courage to fight the good fight, each and every day.

All because of Him, all because He is risen and promises life and salvation to all who believe.

 Because He lives, so do I.