When They Grow Up...

Laura and I have talked over the kid's career choices, and feel that the following is inevitable:


Ethan will be in some kind of administrator position. Not sure what exactly, but it will be administering something. Maybe he'll be a highschool principle or an army sergeant.

Lee will be a Davy Crockett reenactor. It's definitely his calling in life.

Ben is destined for opera. One day, I'll be able to say, "That dude up there on stage with the gleaming diamond pins and the voice that's lifting the roof? Yeah, he's my nephew. Let me tell ya', he lifted the roof when he was little, too."

Jackson is going to be a Senator. And a lawyer. Both. Oh, yes.

Phoebe is going to be America's first female dictator. Benevolent dictator, maybe, just so long as she controls everything.

Charlie is going to be the world's biggest flirt. She takes the older boys and wraps them around her little finger, or clings to them like a dryer sheet to a t shirt.

Isaiah is going to be a world famous auctioneer. Because he can yell it like it is.

House, yard, and inhabitants thereof, be ye warned!

Because...


Ethan and Jackson are coming tomorrow, and with their arrival, peace, quiet, solitude, calm, and order will set forth on vacation, not to return until Saturday evening, when the only traces of children will be the cookie crumbs scattered over every single square inch of this house and the left-behind shoes and underwear and power rangers.

And no, this won't be because of Ethan and Jackson alone, who are actually pretty tidy, as boys go. It will be because of the myriad of cousins and aunts and cousins and uncles and cousins who will take up partial residence while the boys are here.

If the trampoline and the cats and Marmee survive, I'll be surprised. Actually, I'll be pleasantly surprised if the house survives.

But when it's all said and done, I love Ethan and Jackson's visits, and they are two of the most wonderful boys in the whole, wide world. No kidding. I know I say "they're-the-most-wonderful-in-the-world" alot, especially about my nieces and *nevies, but it's simply true, true, true.

I love Ethan, with his geeky knowledge and his love for snakes and books. I love him because he was my very first nevy, and because I wasn't too old to really play-play when he was little. I love him because I can remember the night he was born when Jacob called me at Mamaw's house, after we had gone to bed, to tell me I was finally an aunt. For a six year old, that's really tremendous news.

I love Jackson, with his OCD little nature inherited from his mama, marmee, and me. I love that he can go the entire day outside in the dust and the filth and the heat and still be radically cleaner than Phoebe, Ben, and Lee all put together. I love that I so clearly remember praying for him to be born safely the weeks leading up to his birth, and praying for him to be okay the weeks he was in the hospital afterwards, because he was born several weeks premature.

I love that they want me to cuddle in bed with them before they go to sleep, and tell them story after story about dragons and race-cars. (I like the dragon stories best, because I can usually work in some damsels in distress and heroic knghts.)

Basically, I love them a whole, whole lot. This week is going to be wonderful, even if we never get the rugs clean again.


*Oh, and in case you were wondering, Jo March calls her nephews "nevies" and it's quicker and far catchier than just "nephews". I haven't found a short-cut for nieces, but if you think of something, comment away.

"Green is the prime color of the world, and that from which its loveliness arises." - Calderon de Barca

Have you ever looked, (and when I say looked here, I mean looked as in really saw,) all the shades of green in the world? It doesn't take a microscope; just a drive down the road or a step outside your door or a glance outside your window.

I really noticed this the other day as I realized that the most common color we see outside is green. Green tree tops, green grass, green brambles and brush and bushes, green vines, green flower stems, green kudzoo. It's everywhere!

But then I started thinking how doggone boring it would be if all this beauty was one shade of green. I mean, we would be absolutely sick of green if every single thing God colored green had the exact same tint and look.

He didn't, though. Just look at a tree line, or a patch of grass, and you will see greens so pale they're almost white, so dark they blend into the black shadows, yellow greens, blue greens, green with a hint of orange or red, bold, bright greens and nondescript, retiring greens. In fact, you would be pretty hard pressed to find the exact same green in the same area... even on the same tree or bush! Green plants and such are beautiful in the innermost shadows of the woods, soft and velvety, but they become just as beautiful in an open clearing with the sunbeam's golden hues pouring over them and transforming them into something absolutely magical.

And I was overwhelmed with the thought of God's creative genius in such a small thing as how many greens there are in the world and how gorgeous they are for us to enjoy.

She's just the sweetest thing.

Phoebe: "Have you seen me jump off the diving board, K.K.?"

Me: "Ummm... no."

Phoebe: "Nobody has seen me jump off the diving board! Except Ben and Lee and Aunt Lolly and Uncle Trey and Mama and Daddy. And Isaiah."

Me: "Well, I'm not sure about the nobody part, but if you say so."

And a little later -

Phoebe: "K.K.? I'm just so, so, so much happier when you're here. Are you spending the

night?"

And a little piece of my heart just melted. I sure do love that little gal.

While I was writing the above, Phoebe came over and asked what I was doing. When I told her, she wanted to type something for my blog. Here goes:

gjkghjfgedzsdertfgd4erdcrfd3wedf.

Translation: "I love Isaiah. Only he screams alot, and I am tired of it. My mama and daddy are too. I sit beside Lee and Ben sometimes at church."

Thank you, Phoebe, for being my guest writer for today. Great words of wisdom and encouragement for us all.

P.S. If anyone notices that most of my posts are about my nieces and nephews, all I can say is, they're a really big, special part of my life and I'm with them almost every day. Posts about 'em won't stop any time soon, so I hope you like reading about the antics of these barrels of fun. Because otherwise you're pretty much out of luck.

Announcement...

Tomorrow is my last first day of highschool.

And I am happy about that.

Being a Senior feels awesome... it's an accomplishment, (with a lot of help,) it's the end of a journey, (I am very aware that sounded cheesy,) it's the beginning of a new, quite bewildering time of life, (which I am certain I can survive with the help of Christ, mama, dr. pepper, friends, and sugar highs,) and it signifies the light at the end of the dark, dank, depressing, despondent tunnel of algebra. (okay, okay, I know there's still college algebra, but I intend to do just as much as is required of that to graduate college, and get it over in the first semester, and then I will be done. utterly, completely done. I hope my husband is good at math, because I will not be teaching my children algebra. They would fail. End of story.)

So, tomorrow I will walk the halls for the last first time. Happy, happy, happy day.

Thank you, Captain Obvious!

Lee, Ben, and I were watching one of the old Herbie movies. I really have no idea which, so don't ask.

Anyway, the girl in the movie starts saying things to the guy, (he was being a complete jerk,) like, "you are the worst man I've ever known; I can't believe you would do a thing like that," etc., etc.

After quite a few such sentences, Lee looks up at me and says, "Auntie Katie, she's saying she doesn't like him very much!"

Yep, that's what she's saying, alright.

And then later on the girl is throwing glass things at the guy... lots of things, and yelling insults between every article shattering on the door he's ducking behind. Lee pokes me and says, "I think she wants him to leave."

Lee, darling, you are going to have one lucky wife. Not all boys can read women at seven years old, but you obviously are gifted. Use this gift wisely, and it will bring you much happiness.

Bless his little heart.

Just after I started driving on my own, Trey and I had the following conversation:

Trey: "So, you need to learn to pump gas."

Me: "Ummm... I'm not really worried about that."

Trey: (with an incredulous stare) "Well, you should be! Sweetheart, you have to know how to pump gas! How do you think you're going to manage without knowing that?"

Me: "I've thought about it, and I figure that I'll just observe about three or four times and then I'll have it down pat."

Trey: "But if you're driving on your own, you won't have anybody to observe. You need to learn how to pump gas."

Me: "You obviously haven't heard my Brilliant Plan."

Trey: (very dubiously) "What brilliant plan?" (It wasn't capitalized when he said it... obviously he had no idea how very Brilliant of a Plan it was.)

Me: "It's quite simple. I drive up to the gas station, look around for a good ole' country boy who just thrives on helping ladies, put on my sweetest, naive-est, most helpless smile, and say, 'Oh, I forget how to do this - I don't suppose you could help me? Oh, you could? Wonderful!' and then I get my gas pumped without lifting a finger, and eventually I'll learn how to do it myself."

Trey: (No comment; swerves into the nearest gas station) "Like I said, you need to learn how to pump gas."


Soon after, he got me a taser. I think he was worried about what my Brilliant Plan for self-defense might be. It was rock-solid, I promise. But I'm pretty grateful for the taser, just the same.

I love you more than dr. pepper and apple pie.

Today, July 17th, is my sister's birthday. Laura's. And I'm not going to embarrass her by going on and on about her good qualities. But I'll mention my favorites.

She's a wonderful mama who knows just how to soothe heart bumps and knee bumps. (Lots of knee bumps!) She's my confidante, my friend, my champion in certain situations, she isn't afraid to tell me when I've snarled everything up, and then goes the extra mile to help me fix it. She's my fashion adviser, and is never too busy to tell me that I just can't wear that skirt with that shirt. Most importantly, she is becoming more and more of a spiritual encourager for me and everyone around her, and I am so thankful for her testimony and influence.


Happy Birthday, Laura. I love you tons and tons.


p.s. How old is she? Do I look stupid? Did I mention that she lives right next door to me and knows where I sleep at night?

Life Lessons 101

You always need another bobby-pin. Always.

Garrallumpphhh phupph?

My dentist expects marvelous things out of his patients. He apparently thinks that you should be able to respond clearly and comprehensibly to multitudes of questions hurled by a man in a white coat with funny glasses, all while, (and here's the clincher,) you have a mirror device, a sharp cleaning tool, and half a gloved hand crammed into your mouth. I mean, come on! I'm not Houdini of the mouth, doctor dentist!

So, please don't ask me questions about standardized tests for homeschoolers, how I discipline myself to get my schoolwork done on time, how my brother-in-law, grandmother, or any other family member who gets their dental work done by your office is feeling, what I intend to do after graduation, or what my political views are. Because I kind of have your hand up my throat, and my lips are being stretched to the breaking point, since you insert between questions, "Open wider, now! That's good! No, a little wider! There we go! Ooops, your mouth slipped - can we open just a little wider?"

Firstly, we? I'm sorry, did I miss something?

And secondly, this right here is why I haven't been to see you in ten months instead of six.

So, how 'bout holding off on the questions til I can swallow my spit and actually make coherent words instead of "gurgle, gurgle, grummpphh. Hmmmm? Mmmmhmmm. Gruefffelgrufflehannel."

Because I really don't like straining my grunting muscles to answer unnecessary questions.

Thank you.

okay, blogger did something weird and posted my latest post several posts down. So, scroll down for...

You have to scroll down.

I'm so not telling you what it's about.

Why are you still here?

Scroll down already!

Really. It's worth it.

No frog is safe from these two.

I went outside a few minutes ago, and Lee and Ben both mobbed me and dragged me over to where they had caught three frogs in an ice-cream bucket. The frogs aren't appreciative of their new home, by the way.

Me - "You should name them."

Lee - "No, we won't keep them long enough for them to need names."

Ben - "Yeah, let's name 'em!"

Lee - "Okay, this one is...," thoughtful pause, "...Fred, and this one is, umm, Frank. What are you going to name yours, Ben?"

Me - "I hope it's as original as yours, Lee!"

Ben - "Uh, uh, ummm, Scooby-Doo!"

Lee - "No, name him something else. Scooby-Doo isn't a good name for a frog. How about Tom?"

Ben - "Oh, yeah, that's a good name!"

Then, lo...

Rain!

~Caitlin B.

Consider Yourself Forewarned

*As seen on the lawnmower label*

!WARNING! Avoid serious injury or death!

Well, at Least There's Hot Tea

I recently started taking vitamins. You know, the vitamins which come in ginormous pills big enough to choke a horse. Ugh.

But I have been laboring under the delusion that taking these dragon-size pills would make me healthier. Stronger. Boost my immune system. Prove their salt with my unsurpassed energy and well-being.

I mean, that's what the bottle proclaims.

Liar.

Last night, as I lay in bed, I felt something in the back of my throat. A sort of rough soreness. My food had tasted tainted all day, like when you eat during a cold and the drainage keeps you from tasting things. And I had coughed several times without any apparent explanation. But I couldn't have a cold. Oh, no. Because I am taking vitamins. But after a few minutes, I was forced to get up and swallow more horse pills, only this time they were for already-here-sickness. Double ugh.

This morning I have drunk hot peppermint and lemon tea, and am preparing myself to gargle salt water with a dash of whiskey. They say gargling whiskey is good for sore throats. I wouldn't know, because I've never been able to hold it in my mouth for longer than 1/4 of a second.

There is a moral to this story. Don't bother taking vitamins. It's a dirty medicinal conspiracy to generate more money for the vitamin proscribers and distributors.

HAIRSPRAY!!! ('cept without the spray)

My darlin' niece, Phoebe, has amazing hair. I really, really love her hair. It's so vibrant and fluffy and curly and dark... everything mine isn't. She puts the meaning back in "there was a little girl who had a little curl right in the middle of her forehead." (In more ways than one, if you are familiar with the rest of the rhyme and with Phoebe.)

But I have to admit, I love her hair most when it is crazily, terrifically messy. Because it doesn't just look matted, tangled messy. It's molded into cool shapes and designs - ones that you could probably never make your hair do, no matter how hard you tried.

So, a few weeks ago, she got her hair braided. (It took three hours and much patience on the part of the hairdresser and her mama.) Then came the fun part, because after a week and a half, the braids had to come down. And, oh, the beauty of her hair after all the miniscule weaves were unwound!

As you can see, it was truly awesome.

And the Tradition Lives On

Sometimes there's a familiar routine with certain things... something that always happens in the same order at the same time. Always. And that's what driving home with Daddy from somewhere was. A tradition. A routine. Always the same.

When he began slowing down to turn onto our dirt road, he would unsnap his seat-belt. *clickclick*
When I was little I would always worry. What if we had a wreck right after we turned on our road? What if there was a policeman just waiting by our driveway to see whether all seat-belts were firmly fastened? Sometimes I would share these worries with Daddy. And he would chuckle.

Then, as we approached our driveway, he would swerve to the left while rolling down his window to get the mail. He always pulled smoothly up to the mailbox, and when he was ready to drive on, it was the perfect distance from the driveway to turn the van comfortably. That wasn't an accident. When we built our house, he perfected that swerve to the left and then the comfortable turn into the driveway before he positioned the mailbox. The mailbox was in just the right place.

If it was dark, he'd turn the light on to see the mail. He'd take it out, look through it quickly, or sometimes just hand it over to Mama, and then he'd drive into the driveway while clicking the light off and rolling up the window. He had some major skills.

Why do I know all this, down to the very last detail? Because for thirteen years, I was part of that routine every time we came home with Daddy in the driver's seat. I worried every time at the *clickclick* of his seat-belt before we reached our road. I admired his talent at pulling up just so at the mailbox every time. And I miss that.

But...

Tonight, as I neared our road, coming home from church, I found myself reaching for my seat-belt. *clickclick* Immediately, the thought crossed my mind, "what if we have a wreck right after I turn on the road?" I chuckled at myself. As I approached the mailbox, I swerved to the left, rolling my window down. And, okay, I didn't pull up straight. In fact, I scraped the mailbox and had to back up a little, but that's beside the point. I turned on the light, got the mail, looked through it quickly, and drove into the driveway while turning off the light and rolling up the window. Yes, it was a little jerky. And then I realized something. I'm carrying on Daddy's tradition. Not on purpose, but just because that's how I do it. A little one, but it's his. Now it's mine. And I'm glad.

Consume our Dross

Lord, Thou hast said, "Seek ye my face."
O Lord of love, and Lord of grace,
We cannot lift our hearts to Thee
Till Thou hast cleansed us thorouhly.

O turn Thy hand upon us, Lord,
And search us with Thy powerful word.
And by the virtue of Thy Cross
Consume and cleanse away our dross.

-Amy Carmichael