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!

• Blue milk for lunch? Check.

("It's from a blue cow," I say.

"EW!" says Lily [5]. "You're giving us milk from a COW???")

• Green food dye in the upstairs toilet tank; red dye downstairs? Check.

(Edee [2] is the first to use the potty. "It's green!!" she says. I didn't even know she knew any of her colors yet.)

• Vanilla pudding mixed with cherry juice and pawned as "fingerpaint"? Check.

("Is this yogurt? This smells like yogurt.")

• And others:

The berry "drink" (it's Jello):

The "cake" for dinner (shepherd's pie with ketchup and mustard "icing"):

 

"Taco salad" for dessert (taco shell: waffle cone bowl, ground beef: ice cream rolled in graham cracker crumbs, sour cream: whipped cream, lettuce and cheese: colored shredded coconut, olives: licorice, tomatoes: cherries):

  

  

But that stinkin' seven-year old, Mr. High-and-Mighty-You-Can't-Fool-Me. I couldn't. But his papa could, and this really irks me. After all the work I put into today (and do you know how hard it is to catch minutes ALONE in the kitchen to work your magic?), THIS is what fooled him:

Yes, icicles snapped from our roof and plopped onto our railing. He still thinks this is real and what nature provided. No, it's his father's doing, and it only took about three minutes.

So the game is on. Next year, my son, the pranks will be nowhere near as tasty. You'd better hide your underwear (my sewing needle is ready) and your toothbrush (where's the salt?).

My own words come back to mock me. A year ago, I never would have dreamt I would be here, in Montana, the icicles dripping and the trees occasionally relieving themselves of snow, powdery white cascading down.

It's April, for crying out loud. And I am. Crying out loud, that is.

It's not that I'm an itchy gardener or anxious for the spring insects (which is what I guess makes for itchy gardeners). Honestly? I'm too lazy for all this snow. The thing is, snow is just so much WORK. The shoveling, the scraping, the boots and coats, the puddles of melting snow on the floor of the van every time we get in.

Getting out is not simple. We can't even take a decent walk, because no stroller will make it through this stuff and our backs can't handle bouncy, whiny kids who snot up our hair and try to acrobatically crawl out of the back carrier.

I think I need to get creative.

We'll start with today. I've got some rather tame pranks up my sleeve. I'll let you know how those work out. Unless they don't, in which case I'll preserve my dignity and keep mum. (Every one else's dignity is up for grabs, though.)

Oh, and the title of this post -- it's great for having 7-12 year olds say those words fast. They won't get it but you will. And then they will, and they'll groan and roll their eyes and it's so worth it. I live for preteen eye rolls.

And then you can apologize and say, "Hey, do you know how to keep a turkey in suspense?"

And walk away.

Well, things are looking up. Everyone is still hacking and noses are still dripping, but I think we're on the upside of this cold. We took advantage of this wettest of final winter days -- wet from melting snow (well, and noses) -- to dash into our local teensy weensy library instead of the just as local la grande enchilada branch.

Don't get me wrong. The big library is fantastic. Granted, you do have to pay $45 to be given the privilege of paying late fees becoming a member, but it's so fun to walk around. They have animal skins and heads and an incredible encased-in-glass dollhouse with miniature everything that local Helenans have made  -- miniature secretary's desk made by the senator, miniature curtains by a Helena seamstress, miniature afghan by a local crocheter .  . .

It's cute as the dickens.

But man, are they nasty.

We've always felt a little strange going in, and we've tried to divide the group into two so that we don't look quite so much like a litter of . . . whatever. Even though I *have* seen other children at this library and there *is* a whole section devoted to children, it never fails: Every. Single. Librarian follows our crowd from the time we come in until we round the corner into the children's section.

But beyond this, a month ago, I paid them for damage done to a "Bob the Builder" video. Part of the outside casing was ripped, and I had to pay for them to fix it plus a "processing fee." Please. You're big . . . but only for here. You're not so big that the processing involved anything more than walking into the back room and sticking a piece of tape on the dang thing. You probably didn't even have to go into the back. Hey, I'm willing to wager there's a roll of tape right there on that front desk. Right next to the Book Drop.

That was irritating enough. Honestly, I'm not sure that we didn't create that rip; it's entirely feasible. In fact, I can think of more than one of my children who would have enjoyed peeling that clear plastic back. But then when I walked to the kiddo video section? A good 5-10 of the videos have similar rips. And they were videos we never checked out. So somewhere, there is another Ripper . . . one who has not been paying fees for them to grab a piece of tape and slap it onto the rip (on top of the fee to fix it. . . . how are these fees different?).

But Ethan drew the line when they called saying we owe $24 (price of book plus processing fee) for a children's book that was returned so water-damaged they can't use it (but we do get to keep the book when we pay! Oh, joy!).

I know water damage. We realized early on that it was dangerous to let children read books in the van when a foot below their reading level were two very wet, snowy boots. Added to this is the danger of the book falling . . . and then being left, forgotten, to die a slow, dirty, page-curling death by trampeling and drowning when the inevitable dropped drink lands on it.

So no library books in the van, unless it is a very unusual circumstance.

We learned this lesson BEFORE the damaged book in question.

And in fact, I remember returning that book. We used the drop-box at our local convenience store (I know, Montana -- don't you love it?). The drop-off is shaped exactly like a post-office mailing drop-box. It looks so much like one that I am convinced it's just refurbished. It's blue and it says, "Lewis and Clark Library Drop Box. CLANCY LIBRARY DROP-BOX IS INSIDE!" I can almost hear the pinched-nose librarians shrieking, "DON'T PUT CLANCY BOOKS IN HERE!"

And one day, I gathered the books from the library bag and Ethan separated them into the Big Library piles and the Little Library piles and put them in the appropriate boxes. There was no water involved.

But come on, people. The weather fluctuates between wet and snowy here. How difficult is it to believe that the courier dropped the book into the mud?  The drop box is outside. Or that a teenager (because they're the evil ones) thought it would be funny to drop his drink in there?

So Ethan has pretty much banned us from going back there. This is probably more for their protection than for any other reason. I don't think I would be able to refrain from asking, "So which bison head did MY $45 member fee help buy?"

I know it's hopeless to argue with them. They will take one unsympathetic look at my crowd (which, right now, looks even guiltier with the snotty noses) before they stretch their surgical-gloved hands for my money. After which, I am sure, they will straightaway grab the Purell ("Imagine a Touchable World" !!!) and go back to their . . . processing.

So we stick with the teensy-weensy library. The one that only has paper cards (no barcodes!), but you don't even need that because the librarian knows our name. She's never even asked except for when we initially got the library card. She smiles at the children, tells us to take our time and enjoy ourselves even when we dash in ten minutes before closing, and flagrantly waives fees left and right.

We have to beg her to let us pay our late fee.

And some day, we'll pay the fee to the Big Guys. But I can't promise there won't be a Post-it attached: "Librarian is a service occupation.  Gas station attendant of the mind."~Richard Powers

And then we'll send our teensy-weensy library lady flowers.

I have to admit, I’m torn.

Don’t get me wrong. I love Christmas. I love the cinnamon, the caroling, the hot chocolate, the mesmerizing twinkle lights. I love the mittens and toggle hats (which, where I currently live, the wearing of has less to do with the weather and more to do with it being *Christmastime*). I love the wrapping and unwrapping. I love those J-I-N-G-L-E Bells (whoo!).

I even love jolly ol’ Saint Nick. I never believed in him, and neither do my kids, but he’s just jolly and old and round. What’s not to love?

But trying to explain Christmas when my 7-year old asks?

Hmm.

I almost think it would be easier if it were just called something generic. Like December Day. Or something.

But Christmas? And this with the 7-year old who is learning about compound words and can make the leap to “Christ Mass”?

No, we don’t do mass. Christ died once for our sins, and that was sufficient.

And no, Christ probably was not born in December. April, more likely.

So what’s with the “Happy Birthday, Jesus!” signs and nativity scenes wedged between the reindeer and the lit-up train whose wheels seem to move?

Ummm. Well. You just try to explain it. And let me caution you with the word “syncretism.”

And what about cute baby Jesus? Well? What about Him? Is this what our faith is reduced to…singing, “Happy Birthday” to the Savior of our souls? Gushing over cute little plastic fingers and toes, forgetting the wounds their flesh-and-blood Antecedent would suffer for our natures of flesh? Cooing over this baby in the crèche, mindless of His ever-present deity?

It is easier to explain Valentines’, Thanksgiving, or even, {{I whisper carefully}}, Halloween. There’s no ambivalence. No trying to defend my love of pine and singing by throwing around a few verses from Luke.

I don’t have the answers to this personal dilemma. I know some have solved it by whole-heartedly embracing all "traditions," and others shun it altogether.

I just don’t know. It was easier when it was only me wondering, when the occasional pondering could be entertained or snuffed at will. It is more difficult now, when the “Why?” is constant and sincere. And freckled, with the big blue eyes of his father.

I don’t think a “Why not?” will suffice.

It is time for me to finish this thought.

Do you have any?

Overheard in the van, as the radio played called-in expressions of gratitude:

Ben (freshly 7): I'm thankful that we found a house in Montana. Your turn.

Lily (freshly 5): I'm thankful that God gave me a family. Your turn.

Ben: I'm thankful for God. Your turn.

Lily: I'm thankful for sickness. Your turn.

Ben: {Groan} OK, Lily, we need to stop. We've run out of things to be thankful for.

Our cup runneth over. Happy Thanksgiving.

This is the number of car seats of which I am now the proud owner.

Why?

Because on Tuesday, Officer Evans called to let us know they had found our stolen van.

With the car seats.

And (PRAISE BE!), not only are the car seats all there, but every. single. thing. that was in the van when it was stolen, is still there. Every theological book, every important paper, every library book, every crusty sippy cup. Ewwww. It's all there.

To give a little background, two nights after Ethan came home from his trip (during which the van was stolen), I awoke at 1:30 AM to the camper shaking and Ethan scrambling. "Oh, those punk idiots!" he whispered excitedly before zipping the window shut and hurrying towards the door. I was still in a slumbering stupor, so nothing was registering. I flipped over and blissfully enjoyed having the whole bed to myself.

A few minutes later, he came back into the camper, fumbling for the cell phone. "Hello? Yes, we had a car stolen a little over a week ago, and now I'm watching three guys with hoods and backpacks check all of the cars on the street.  They're looking in every car with a flashlight and checking all the doors." The next morning, we discovered they had opened his locked truck and stole his sunglasses and a shortwave radio.

Now, for those of you that know my husband, you know that it is a big deal that he did not go after them himself. Ethan is a strong horse of a man that you don't want to cross by doing something like outright stealing his entire vehicle. And if you have the nerve to come looking around for more, well, watch out. So anyway, it was a pleasant surprise to find him not chasing after them himself.

That was a month ago. We called our officer occasionally to check on the status of the van.

Nothing.

Until two days ago. After we received the call about the van, we began to piece the story together. It took the help of a detective. "Hello? I'm Officer XYZ. Now that your van has been found and is again in your possession, I have been assigned as the detective on your case. Obviously I'm a little out of the loop here. Tell me what you know so that I'll know something."

This is what happened.

The night Ethan called the police, those three thieves were found and arrested.

A week earlier, the van had been found a few hours after it was stolen. At 5 AM the morning I discovered it was stolen (at 8 AM), the thief had been caught speeding near Chesapeake, VA. He was driving on a suspended license. They gave him a citation and towed "his" vehicle away. Since I had not yet reported the vehicle as stolen, they did not know this. Later, the tow truck driver processed the vehicle (meaning he let the DMV know he had it). It came back as "blocked," but the DVM didn't let him know this was because it was stolen. After waiting three weeks, he tried to process it again. It again came back as blocked. He called the state police, found out he had a stolen vehicle, and the rest is history. Well, $500 later, the rest is history. Because we had to pay the impound fee (on which he graciously ...ahem... gave us a 2/3 discount). And the thief? He's already in custody, as he is the same one found stealing from other vehicles. One of the ones Ethan called on. So add grand larceny to the mix.

But I am happy. We were certain that stuff was gone and that was that.

And God would still have been good.

But I am so grateful that He has again expanded our idea of good! He has given, He has taken away, He has given again.

Car seat, anyone?