Our oldest son turns eight tomorrow. My husband remembers turning the Big 8, and it was BIG for him. He felt like he really was entering a new stage of life, that this was a monumental birthday.

Our son feels the same.

His pending birthday has been making him contemplative. Yesterday's errand run was full of thoughtful questions and observations:

• "Why is it that we get that feeling that we've done something wrong when we haven't? What should we do when we get that feeling?"
• "I don't always try to be nice to people. I try to be myself, normal. But sometimes a lot of niceness comes out."
• "You know, I really feel like 8 is getting a lot older. I have a feeling I'm going to turn 8 and say to myself, 'Welcome to the world.'"

But the kicker was when he said, "Mom? I really DO feel like I am getting older."

"You do?" I asked. (I'd been thinking the same thing.)

"Yeah. I've got these long black hair thingys on my knees."

The children have been sharing a cold and a bad case of dishonesty lately, so we've been dealing with those head-on. The colds have been addressed with warm ginger tea, honey, lemon water, a Costco pack of tissues, and plenty of sleep (early bedtimes means more sleep, right, even if they talk until 10PM?). The dishonesty has been addressed from various angles, all of them including the reminder of how the punishment will hurt much more if you lie in addition to doing something wicked.

I am a little leery of the effectiveness of our efforts. The colds seem to be getting ... drier .... and the lies are definitely subsiding, but...

Just yesterday, Miriam (4) came running excitedly into the kitchen.

"MAMA! MAMA! I took the timer you told us not to touch and I clipped it on my shirt and Lily grabbed it and I grabbed it back and hit her and she said, 'You're so stupid' and I said, 'You're stupid, too!'!!!!! Aren't you so GLAD at us? Aren't you so GLAD we're telling the TRUTH??!!!!"

Thrilled. To. Tears.

Five of my kiddos (can you spot them all?) walking with their Papa back from the park in Missoula to the van, where the sixth child (sleeping) and I wait.

It's not often I allow myself to just enjoy the view: my husband and our brood. Nine years ago, I was a very fresh newlywed with a hunk of a husband and nary a thought about children. I even wore a two-piece swimsuit! Now, any thoughts NOT dealing with children have to be squeezed in between diaper changes, filling sippy cups, and explaining how to set up a slide of a cricket's leg for the microscope; and the only value I see in a bikini is for the two-year old who can make a 30-min. YMCA swim involve THREE potty breaks (you ever tried to pull down -- and then back up -- a wet swimsuit on a pudgy 2-yr. old?).

I'm older now and rounder and less inclined to giggle. Now I groan more ... both in getting up and in listening to my children's always oral musings.

But sometimes something makes me STOP and just absorb. We have a mess of children ... and they're messy. Their rooms, their hair, their noses, their bottoms, their incessant forgetting we "don't grab things out of anyone else's hands, even if it's yours," their constant spilling of the cups at the table.

Sometimes I forget with all the cleaning up of messes that we are more than this. I forget that we are more than just a group of people who make our individual messes under the same roof. That with all the wiping and scrubbing and soaking I can never truly clean anything worthwhile. That all my work will have to be redone - the snot and the crumbs and the mud and the filth will be back.

But we are more than that.

We are a glorious mess. To mangle a Woody Guthrie lyric, This Mess Is Bound for Glory. I can clean and sort and declutter and polish, but only HE can perfect.

And the work He has done means that my forever wiping is only temporary. There will be a day when we will meet Him face to face and see Him clearly - no smudges or smears or nagging sense of "I missed a spot." And even today, because of His work, I can boldly approach the throne of God - without adjusting any priestly garments or arranging tinkling bells or fearing death.

And THAT is beautiful. 

The LORD is my chosen portion and my cup; you hold my lot. The lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; indeed, I have a beautiful inheritance.      I bless the LORD who gives me counsel; in the night also my heart instructs me. I have set the LORD always before me; because he is at my right hand, I shall not be shaken.     Ps. 16:5-8, ESV

And as I sit and watch my children run and skip and dawdle and holler and sing back to the van with their Papa, I do think about this. For a second, I forget the disgusting state of the floor of the van and think only how blessed I am.

And man, that man is still a hunk.

Probably the most derogative term we use around here is "pickle," as in "You're being a real pickle." (Actually, come to think of it, the most most most derogative term is probably "semi-Pelagian," but this is a G-rated blog.)  It started long before the children were born, before Ethan and I were even married. In fact, I grew up being called a pickle when I was ornery (that's when I wasn't being called a cactus for resisting parental hugs/kisses).

Ethan and I just naturally started calling each other pickles when we were in mild disagreement, or slightly irritated, or even on all-out opposite sides of an issue (like which side should face out when you hang a new toilet paper roll -- we CANNOT agree on this. But I am right.).

But Sunday brought a new twist to the name-calling. We noticed the outside light to Ethan's study (off the garage) was on. Ethan asked, "All right, who was peeking in my study?"

Miriam (4) answered, "Probably Abraham, because his shirt was all wet the other day."

It took me a second before I realized what she was talking about, and then it hit me. "No, Papa said, 'Who was PEEKING in my study?' not 'Who was PEEING in my study?' " (Just a note: Abraham was not peeing in Ethan's study, either. Remember, this is his twin taking advantage of a chance for him to get in trouble.)

"OHHHHH," she said.

But Miriam hates to be wrong, and she fumed for a while before she came up with the just-right slight for me, the one who had corrected her.

"Mama! You're such a pickle! You're just a ... just a ... just a SIN pickle! You're a BLOOD pickle!"

I don't know what to do about this. She has raised the insulting to another level by creating a whole new category.

The Lord's Day Insult.

Huh.

Last night, at 9 PM, my husband received a phone call from a Realtor asking if she could show the house at 2 this afternoon. My husband is nice, so he moved the time to 2:30 and said that would be fine.

She is lucky she did not speak to me. Next time, my husband assures me, she will.

Because I am 4 months pregnant with twins. Translation: I look like normal pregnant people look when they're 8 mos. pregnant (except nowhere near as cute) but I feel even worse (because not only are there 2 normal-sized babies in there, there are two placentas, extra amniotic fluid, and all the fat from six previous children) and I am done with the morning sickness so my energy (which is extremely limited) and hormones go elsewhere. They DO NOT go into mega-cleaning the house. They DO go into trying to get the bare minimum of homeschooling done with my children, three meals (if we're lucky) prepared and set on the table, and enough clean laundry that we are all wearing our own underwear.

And if there's ANY energy or ANY hormones left? That goes into telling the Realtor (who's not even the seller's agent) that we have it in writing that we get 24 hours' notice. So if you call my husband's cell phone (and HOW DID YOU GET THAT NUMBER???) at 9 PM, I will say, "I'm sorry, but the earliest you could come is 9 PM tomorrow, and that is too late for us, so we'll have to schedule for the next day." And if you have a problem with that, that's OK. We'll make sure that right before you come, we feed the baby beans, the cats any available houseplants, and we'll leave the dog.

Grrr. I even put a pitcher of apples on the counter and a bowl of lemons on the table.

Life's giving me lemons. Make your own lemonade.

Nineteen years ago today, my baby sister took FOREVER being born. At least that was my fourteen-year old opinion. I KNEW she was going to be born because the night before, my parents and I had stayed late at the office and then Dad told Mom, "You can have that baby now" and then later that night (early the next morning?) woke me to steal my bed for Mom (they had a birth-unfriendly waterbed). Even so, I opted to find a ride to church (it was Sunday) and then went to a friend's house for the day. When I came home, there was still no baby. It was in the middle of "Columbo" that I heard her cry.

She was big, beautiful, and bald. The midwives gave her a teeny pink shirt that said, "Born at Home." Someone called the next day to congratulate Mom and must have asked her what they named the baby and Mom must have been exhausted, because she answered, "Jezebel" and I shouted, "REBECCA!" and Mom giggled and said, "Oh, Rebecca."

For a while, the spelling of Becca's name was a mystery to Mom (whose spelling has always been a humorous mystery to the rest of us). She used to say, "Like in the Bible," until one of us all-knowing ones pointed out that the Bible spells it R-E-B-E-K-A-H.

From the moment she was born (almost), she was MINE. Because I said so. I begged to be the one to bounce her and take her to the crying room at church. Once I learned how to drive, I took her everywhere. And then I had to leave for college, and I couldn't take her. I cried because I was going far away to college, and she cried because she was going to kindergarten.

But I would come home for holidays and summer vacation, and then I came home for good and got married and lived not very far away. We resumed a routine-of-sorts. Every couple of years, she would fix neurotic meals according to my cravings and play with whatever children I had while I waited for the morning sickness to subside. And then it would, and the kids and I would pick her up one day a week from high school and head to the donut shop and thrift stores to see what treasures we could unearth. On the way, we would discuss with disgust the mandatory "Woman of God" class (a misnomer for sure) that she took at the same "Christian" high school I attended. And the weekly chapels provided much fodder for mockery as we tried to make some sense of the heightened emotionalism and irreverent nonsense masquerading as spirituality.

But then she left for college. It was good and right and natural. And it was hard, made harder by the fact that my family was also moving many states away. This time, there were no guarantees of summer vacations or holidays. But that's the wonderful part of being flesh-and-blood: you don't need guarantees. Somehow, someway, it will happen. There WILL be a "next time." And no matter where she is or where we are, I will always have her number and can call her at will. If the only reason I have for calling is to ask if she's near a computer so she can mapquest the middle of nowhere for me because that's where I'm driving and don't know where to turn, so be it.

It is odd for me to see her grow up. She has friends now that I don't know and whose older siblings are not my friends or even my acquaintances. She can do things I didn't teach her. She doesn't need me to fix her sippy cup or her hair or her toenails. She now influences my children in the ways I thought I influenced her. Unbeknownst to me, just a month ago, my three daughters were taking careful note as she lovingly and gently brushed my matted hair, me laying appreciatively on the couch after being totally wiped out by a shower. And now, they daily offer to brush my hair for me. And they surprise me with their gentleness, a trait that I know they learned from her and that neither they nor she learned from me.

While this is a bittersweet reminder of the transience of things, it is so much more sweet than bitter. What a comfort to know that God moves His world without my help! That my family here is well-cared for and others elsewhere are equally loved and cared for. That even when we don't bash the weekly chapel, our thoughts about God's Word and modern trends are strikingly similar.

I love watching you grow, Becca-boo -- seeing you flourish and find talents and sharpen your abilities. I love seeing your amazing photographs and watching you patiently put together a wooden boat with Benjamin and play princesses with the girls and laugh at "The Office." I love watching you rib our brother Daniel and watching my oldest son rib you. You are so much fun.

Happy Birthday, even if you did take your time coming. "Good things come to those who wait," I guess they say. And you are definitely a Good Thing.

photo: Rebecca pausing from photographing Elkhorn Ghost Town, taken by Ethan

     (image credit at bottom of post)

I am not a bumper sticker person. I mean, occasionally I enjoy the rare well-worded, witty sticker humoring me on the back of a car at a red light; but for the most part, I avoid car decor that says more about us than "We vacationed in Maine" or "We know what Mako's Water Taxi is" (which means we have family in Homer, Alaska).

Even if it's a cause I firmly believe in or a group I whole-heartedly embrace, I shy away from accepting even a free sticker and conveniently lose it before it can be affixed to any bumpers.

Maybe it's because I'm too judgmental and I figure everyone else is, too. I immediately pigeonhole the driver of the bumper-stickered vehicle. For instance, in the above "guardian angel" example, the driver fits into the "irritating wishy-washy-watered-down-theology-if-any-at-all woman" category. (Because of course it's a woman. I mean, the sticker is pink, and who knows any guys that would publicize the word "angel" without referring to a Harley?) The more I look at the sticker, the more irritated I get. Why are Guardian and Angel capitalized? How are "guardian angels" different than regular angels? Angels have a flying speed limit? AARGGH! And if it's a long red light and then the light turns green and we happen to turn into the same shopping center and park right next to each other and I see her face, there is absolutely no way we will end up in the same checkout lane. The thought of having to watch her flip through inspirational women's magazines while she waits and then see her pull out her "What's Missing in Ch___ch? UR!" pen to sign her "God Answers Knee-Mail" check in her leather "Fireproof" checkbook . . . I don't think I could remain civil!!

See what I mean? Now, I don't personally know of anyone who owns this bumper sticker, so I'm not talking about anyone in particular, so this is not meant to offend YOU personally, but . . . if you happen to own this bumper sticker, you are probably offended. You are probably nothing like what I described (or you are exactly like what I described and are confused about why I would be annoyed).

And I don't want to be stereotyped like that. I don't want your presuppositions of what such-and-such a person is like to taint your notion of me. I don't want to enter into a conversation (or a checkout line) with you and have you distort whatever I'm doing or saying to fit your incorrectly constructed niche.

Which leads me to the point of this post (you wanna talk about rabbit-trails?).

A multitude of siblings has the same effect as a large-print bumper sticker.  Large families, especially ones where the children are not conveniently spaced so as to be mistaken for aunts or uncles or parents or baby-sitters, etc., are easy prey for pigeonholing. If you add in to the mix that you homeschool and the father is a pastor, well. You might as well just forgo all makeup, women's haircuts, and non-denim clothing. People instantly fit your family in with every other "religious" large family they can imagine. They avoid eye contact, so as not to catch your rampant fertility or be proselytized into renouncing seminaries and embracing the home church community.

Or the opposite happens. A "quiverfull," split-ended, jumpers-only, clip-on ties even to Walmart, home-churching, seminary-bashing, cloth-diapering-because-it's-godly, homemade-lip-balm-only-if-it's-not-tinted-and-your-lips-are-bleeding family makes a bee-line over to you to ask if you, too, make your own yogurt and grind your own wheat. And you want to say NO but have to say yes but OF COURSE qualify that by saying that you have been doing this since before half of your children were born and it's really more of a hobby than a conviction and really you DON'T think your wearing of capri pants has any kind of negative impact on the spread of the gospel and  the last four kids' names are "Oops," "Oops Again," "No Way" and "Are You Kidding Me" and, oh, yeah, MY HUSBAND'S A SEMINARY GRAD AND WE BELIEVE IN ORDINATION!!

That usually stops them cold.

All of this is to say, we've been pondering how to handle outings with our family, especially since another set of twins is on the way. It's not realistic nor healthy to expect that we will stay home all the time. We will not. None of us would survive that. So how do we plan to do family outings but avoid the inevitable spectacle?

It came to my husband and me in the van as waited for the crossing guard to drop her stop sign so we could continue. Like a ray of sunshine, it was.

We are going to have the children wear all of the same T-shirts. The same color, the same design.  My husband and I will wear matching blue polo shirts with "Mr. Ethan" embroidered on his and "Ms. Rachel" on mine. I know, I know, so far you're thinking we are not deviating too far from the conventional stereotype.

Here is where we swerve. Ready?

The children are each wearing a bright yellow T-shirt with a large black-outlined sun on it. Inside the sun are the words, "Sunshine Day Care."

See? In an instant, all comments about "Your own reality show," "Are these all yours?" and "Are you mormon? catholic? on fertility drugs? insane?" are OUT THE WINDOW. Gone. In a flash! If we can just teach the kids to walk single-file. . .  not talk incessantly about their latest Mystery of History lesson . . . occasionally pretend like they are happy to be together in public . . . and get the babies to use the codeword "bottle" when they want to nurse . . .  I think it could work!

***But just as insurance, I am getting a salon haircut (SHOCK!) tomorrow and my EYEBROWS waxed!***

image credit:

If this child

lives to be 8, it will be a miracle indeed.

Tonight at dinner, Lily (5) said, "Edee looks really tired. Her eyes are half opened."

"You mean half closed," replied Benjamin.

"Well," I said, "if they're half closed, then they're also half opened."

"Nuh-uh," said Ben in his I-just-want-to-be-contrary-to-my-little-sister voice.

"Then what else would the other half be? If it weren't half opened?" I asked.

There was MAYBE a two-second pause (if I really stretch it out) before he answered, "Nickels."

Well, here we are camping in Grants Pass, Oregon, where Ethan has presbytery meeting tomorrow and Saturday.

Errr . . . let me try that again.

Well, here we are at the Super-8 (where our dog is allowed) in Grants Pass, Oregon, where Ethan has presbytery meeting tomorrow and Saturday.

Ahem.

When we drove into our planned campground last night, about 30 minutes before the gate closed at 10, we found large sections roped off and a chipper older couple chasing us in a golf cart. "I'm sorry, but we only have one section open and no bathrooms. Did you want to stay one night or two?"

No bathrooms? No stay. That 15 (really 30, but don't point this out to my husband) minute shower is the ONLY chance at privacy I get when camping. I'm so used to corraling children ("Stay on this part of the road! Don't sit on other people's tables! Finish getting dressed BEFORE you leave the camper, for crying out loud!") that I have to train my eyes to stop scanning for a wayward child while I bathe. It never works, and the shower gets a constant looking-over. Each spider tries to crouch further into itself: "Hey, lady, what did you think I'd be doing in the two seconds since you last glared at me?"

So we found a hotel and have high hopes of scouting out a campground today, before Ethan's preliminary presbytery meetings with various committees.

The drive over was GORGEOUS. We figured out our van and camper have traveled cross-country, from Virginia to Oregon (with a 4-month stop in Montana). We traveled through Coeur-d'Alene, Idaho, camped outside of Pasco, Washington, and followed the Columbia River across the top of Oregon, past The Dalles. Such incredible landscape. We stayed a day at the campground outside of Pasco, right on the Snake River. It reached 80, we played in the river (and found out Maverick is a water dog, on top of being the world's most perfect dog in every other way), and Benjamin (7) perfected his bike-riding ("Mom! I think I'm an official rider now!"). The twins (3) and Lily (5) worked on their scootering. And sharing. Two scooters and three kids working on scootering means working on sharing (or working on speed in running to the vacant scooter, whatever). Eden (2) followed everyone around and played house with Miriam (who is always the mother, and always yells, "Edith! Edith!" in this shrill, matronly voice. Even though she can say "Eden" just fine. But THAT wouldn't make this pretending, would it?). Jonathan (10 mos.) speed-crawled all over the place and wore himself out thoroughly.

And Ethan fought and is still fighting a stomach bug. Which I plan to help him conquer by getting whatever super-duper medicated stuff works. The homeopathic stuff (you know, with acidophilus, bidowhateverus, and several other multi-syllabled us-es) hasn't effected much change. And him not sleeping/feeling good is BAD news at anytime, but especially when we're traveling.

Anyway. I'm off to google some campgrounds and gather the dirty clothes. Oh, but I just walked the dog, and it's a brisk 50-degrees and feels absolutely delightful.

AND, we're in the land of coffee houses on every corner! Today will be good!

It will!