Somehow we managed to leave the house at 7:48. No idea how.

There was a short award ceremony this morning for AR readers, so we did that. I love getting to support the boys. Then we came home, just J.D. and me.

That’s when the struggle got real.

Why? Because I thought I could get work done with my 3-year-old at home. hahahahahaha

I have a giveaway I need to run, but the photos aren’t ready….because I haven’t taken them yet…I have an affiliate that I’ve promised paperwork to.

And I haven’t posted since Sunday, and I’m starting to feel like I’m on a treadmill set on 6.0 and I only have one leg, a feeling many of us know well.

Hilarious, isn’t it? Did you know that bloggers have work stress? Well, yes, sometimes we do.

Also, it’s sheet day, the day I wash sheets, and I am behind on housework as always. 

But I wanted to put my three-year-old first.

I wanted to be a good mom. Instead of working on all those things, I colored with him first. We traced letters, and we colored about 10 different pages of Peppa Pig. (We love the Pig family.)

I thought I’d filled his little love tank enough and I could move on to dishes, Bible reading, and checking email. People are always ridiculing me for not having read the emails they sent.

J.D. let me do the dishes and read my Bible, but once I sat down to do email, all productivity brakes were hit full force.

“I’m hungry.”

“I’m hungry again.”

“Can I watch Toy Story?”

“Not the one with the blue one. The one with Zurv.”

The one with Zurg is broken, so that was out.

“Okay, then, the one where Andy grows up and becomes a dad.”

I guess that’s what he thinks “goes to college” means…

Toy Story 3 was nowhere to be found. He went overboard with the whining. I had a moment….. By this point, the Benadryl I’d given him for his runny nose was in full effect. He was crying. I was whining and out of patience.  I sent him to his room.

He had his broken-heart face on as he sat in his rocking chair and cried. Gets me every time. I felt bad for the sweet, tiny person I’d offended. I went to his room, I picked him up. I comforted him, and rubbed his precious forehead.

And he fell asleep.

I rocked him, and I admired his sweet angelic face. I thought about all the times I’d gotten so worked up about stupid jobs that would earn me a few dollars, when here was this baby, this person who depended on me for everything. They need me to train them into successful, hard-working men.

But today he’s only 3 years old, and he and his brothers are my most important jobs. I can have a few less dollars and be fine.

Those blog jobs will just have to wait.

We can get a week behind on washing the sheets.

Priorities. If juggling 4 children, the military life, and my work has taught me nothing else, it’s the importance of priorities.

We only get one shot at our children. They grow right in front of us, and we can’t even see it.

back row, far right. “Singing” at church.

They are our most important responsibility. Our marriage is an even more important relationship, but our children are our job. If we don’t love them and meet their needs, probably no one else will. If all children were loved as they should be, there would be far less crime and hurt in this world.

My Maw-Maw, one of my favorite people in the whole world, wrote this poem. I bet she wrote it when she was around my age. I don’t know exactly. She was taken from us way too soon, at the age of 56, by untreated breast cancer that spread to her bones.

She spent many years as a single mom. You know my Bible journal? Yeah, she had a library of about 120 of those. She’d take poems, quotes, and Bible verses pair them with a pretty picture from a magazine or greeting card, and compile them into scrapbooks, organized by topics. They ranged from “love”, “God’s will”, “Humor”, to “Gossip” and “Life”. 120 different topics.

Here’s a poem she wrote about the dangers of neglecting our jobs as moms.

Please understand that my Maw-Maw was not against women working. She worked several different jobs over the years. She worked in a sewing factory, a grocery store, and she even owned and operated her own book store, Beth’s Books, not all at the same time, of course. She was a lovely, inoffensive person, who always smelled like Avon perfume and never left home without her false eyelashes on. She loved nothing better than reading a book with a cigarette and a glass of unsweet iced tea.

Beth

What’s Happened to Motherhood?

You compete with the men

And an equal right you demand

While you leave your children in the baby sitter’s hand.

The pleasure of motherhood

Is a gift God gave to you.

Giving birth to a chid

Is something no man can do!

The hand that rocks the cradle

Rules the world, you say,

But stop and think;

Who’s rocking the cradle today?

What’s happened to motherhood?

Is it old-fashioned or out of style?

What could ever be more important

Than caring for your child?

Sure, you love your child

More than you could ever say,

But have you taken time

To teach him how to pray?

When he has a problem

And needs to talk to you,

Can he come to you any time,

Or wait ’till your day is through?

While you work hard to achieve your goal

Your children so quickly grow.

And saddest of all is

What you’re missing you’ll never know.

~by Beth H. King

I know that poem may ruffle a few feathers, but I share it because

1.) I miss Maw-maw so much, and reading her poems brings her back.

and

2.) I think it’s a valid reminder of what is our most important job as moms.

We might as well enjoy this gift of motherhood. Love y’all. Have a great weekend!

SaveSave

The post Being Mom: My Most Important Job appeared first on Stories of Our Boys.

My boys, stalking sea lions in Monterey, just like their mom.

Today I was walking around my backyard, feeling thankful for the Nerf bullets in the grass and the bare dirt spots on the lawn because they are signs that my babies still live here.

They grow so fast, but for today they are still here with us, and I was feeling ever so thankful. This poem/prayer fairly burst right out of my heart, so I came inside and jotted it down. I hope you like it.

All of my children are boys, and there are 4 of them, so this is a little unique to that. However, a lot of it I know you may be able to relate to.

Dear God,

Thank you for these boys.

Thank you for Nerf bullets in the grass,

for a living room floor littered with their toys.

Thank you for their sass.

For tiny Lego men in the laundry basket and the noise,

Thank you for the noise.

Thank you for popcorn kernels in the couch,

for little plastic Batman in my bathtub,

and even the moments I beg them not to slouch.

Thank you for the way he runs when I approach with the washcloth to scrub

All that sunbutter off his adorable cheekies and his mouth.

Thank you for their fighting,

and their running, and their bouncing,

Their snacking, video-game playing, yes, even their messy hand-writing.

Thank you for the sounds of laughing, crying, and being rowdy.

Thank you for their tuition bill,

their baseball and basketball games,

The way they hug me, even when they smell.

And of course sometimes call each other names.

Thank you for the way they look after each other.

Thank you for all the dirt and clutter

and all the lessons to teach and walls to scrub clear.

Because what it means is that for now we are all here together.

And love is filling the house, and we are growing good men here.

Thank you for making me their mother.

~April Alan

The post A Prayer for My Four Boys appeared first on Stories of Our Boys.

Is the Christmas stress beginning to set in for any of you?

I can feel it. Christmas is more of a Mega-Urgent Task for me this year. I’m spending next week away at Science Camp with my kids. I’m afraid it’s going to be one of those no t.v./no internet sort of deals, since it’s a retreat center. That bums me out. How’s a girl supposed to entertain two pre-schoolers all day and night and do any Christmas shopping, without the internet or television?

What was I thinking, signing up for this?

Do you think the children would let me back out?

Once we get back, late in the evening on the 11th, we will turn around and fly to Alabama on the 13th.

Who planned this? I need to develop a greater compassion for my future self when I’m signing up for mess. Instead, I’m afraid I’m going to BE the mess.

So that’s my dilemma. To get out of Science Camp or to not get out of it? Can you tell which way I’m leaning?

Ironically enough, I have just begun reading this fantastic book. If you are related to me, don’t buy it. You might be getting it for Christmas. If you are not related to me, BUY IT, read it. You won’t regret it.  Here’s a link.  It’s called The Best Yes by Lysa Terkeurst.

I loved this quote from the book:

“That daily stuff–those responsibilities that seem more like distractions–those things we want to rush and just get through to get on with the better and bigger assignments of life–those things that are unnoticed places of service? They are the very experiences from which we unlock the riches of wisdom. We’ve got to practice wisdom in the everyday places of our lives.”      Lisa Terkeurst, page 41

Ah, the everyday tasks….

deciding whether or not to cancel Science Camp

potty training

feeding children—Doesn’t it seem like all you do, as a mom? By the time you clean up one meal, it’s time to begin prepping the next.

laundry—oh laundry

Crying, sick toddlers

children that should be napping.

the desperate desire to rest…

I went to sleep at 8:30pm Saturday night, with a fever of 99.8. I didn’t fully wake up until 8:30am Sunday morning. Don’t worry. I’m not sick, but I live with a fever half the time, and we don’t know why.

I have a rheumatologist appointment on Wednesday, but I have this feeling that they will not be able to figure it out either, and they’ll send me home saying that I’m fine.

I know. I’m sounding like a bummer. I DO NOT want to be such a drag, so allow me to share happier thoughts..

Our two years in California feels like a strange detour. We’ve been plunked down in what is not a foreign land, and yet in many ways it is.

Even the seasons are different. The grass turns green in November. It turns brown around June.

This is what brings me the most comfort through all of the uncertainty, the decisions that come with being a parent, the health problems, the loneliness of home schooling, and the home-sickness:

Trusting God.

I am prone to full-on stress-ball fits of freaking out. Get two or three kids talking in my ear, about two or three different demands, and a toddler asking to pee, all at once, and I begin to unravel.

I can’t take it! Would you please all take a number and sit down? No, there are no numbers, but there should be!!

But God is here. God brought us here, and He does not leave us alone. Let the world think what they want to think. Let the angry people fuss. Doesn’t matter.

This world is a beautiful place, created by God himself. Believing otherwise is foolish. My sons love to make things out of Lego blocks. I wouldn’t look at one of their creations and try to figure out how it came to be. It is obviously created by someone.

That applies even more so with living, breathing people. Humans, animals, and plants are incredible! How could anyone look at these intricate systems and believe that they magically formed themselves? Ludicrous.

Believing is a choice. Some people simply refuse to believe in anything. The skeptics. I do pity the skeptics. They are living with only a portion of God’s love in their life, and they have no idea what they are missing.

But the world is so full of both God’s love and the Devil’s lies, that the skeptics don’t recognize which is which. Even the believers sometimes have trouble discerning the difference, myself included.

I am not a skeptic.

I’m a believer, a believer in God, and in Jesus, his Son. I believe in showing love even when you don’t want to do so. While I find this almost impossible to do, I believe in not retorting to insults, because what good will it do?

I believe in teaching kids kindness and respect. That’s right, respect. And obedience! I believe in God so loved the world that He gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believes in him will not perish but have everlasting life.

I believe in loving even the people I do not agree with. You will never see a person-bashing post on my Facebook wall.

I believe in humility, in acknowledging that I don’t have all the answers. Peace, goodness knows I believe in peace. When I am thinking clearly, I carefully choose each word I speak, always trying to promote peace. Unless I am in stress-ball mode, when I do not at all do what I want to do, but instead I do the complete opposite.

But I believe that with God’s help, I can improve! I believe all people can improve.

My grandma wrote this poem. I love it. It applies perfectly to the theme of my past year and a half in California: Trusting God, when you’ve reached the end of yourself. There are problems too big for me to fix. All I can do is show love. Let God take care of the rest.

Humility

Keep me humble, oh Lord.

Keep me humble as a little child.

Never let me forget

You were with me while

I had many burdens

That alone I couldn’t bear;

You were ever beside me

Guiding me with Your care.

Never let me take credit

For any deed You have done.

Never let me think that alone

Any battle I have won.

Always walk beside me

As through life I go;

And somehow through me

Please let Your glory show.

by BHK

We wish you a merry Christmas!! I just stuck my head out the door and subjected the neighbor boys to a 5 minute lecture/lesson on scooter safety. Haha!!  I love being old!

The post I believe in humility, in acknowledging that I don’t have all the answers. appeared first on Stories of Our Boys.

The other day, as I dug through the books on my shelves, I came across a book I have thought of a lot lately, a book like no other.

It’s the little book of Poetry, written by my grandmother, BHK. We’ll call her Beth. Beth died when I was 16, of breast cancer. Her death was one of those that didn’t sit well with anyone. No one said, “Well, it was just her time to go.”

Everyone was more like, “Why did she have to go so soon?”

It was Christmas, and she was only 56. You see, that’s another reason some of us have never been the same on Christmas. There’s more to our Charlie Brown-ness than just commercialism.

To make it worse, Christmas was HER THING. No, really. She owned Christmas, I tell you. She made such a display of decorating her house that she won town awards.

(I’m going to do that this year, too, Grandma! I’m going all out!)

senior portrait

Beauty was her gift. Beautiful Beth. She had a house full of beautiful ceramics, all created by Beth, all perfectly arranged and well kept. Her closet was full of hand-made clothes, mostly dresses. She was prissy, frilly, sarcastic, and fun. Sitting down with a good book, a glass of un-sweet tea, and a cigarette, that’s how we’ll always picture her.

You won’t believe me when I tell you this, but by the time I was born, she wore false eye lashes every single day, and perfume. I used to stand in her bathroom for 30 minutes at a time, just gazing at the fantastic display of Avon perfumes, tiny ceramic pitchers and people, and her unmatched and always tidy collection of make-up.

Grandpa used to jokingly imitate her answering the phone saying, “Hello, this is Beth,” in THE most feminine voice you can imagine.

I loved her so. I often have thought about what it was that made me love her as much as I did, and I think part of it was because she was purposeful in spending time with us. We spent a week at her house each summer, and she would play board games with us kids for hours. She and our grandpa took us to the beach, to Six Flags, to the zoo, to movies, and thrift store shopping. From MawMaw (another name that we called her) I learned the fine art that is bargain hunting.

She used to write me letters, and I would write her back. I kept all of them. I’d love to come across those! She kept my letters too, so I also have those now.

She knew how to get along well with people. She was accepting.

Oh! And did I mention her vast collection of books! Well, obviously, she spoke the language of my heart! There were even times when she owned little book stores, but always there was her downstairs library, wall to wall with books. And scrapbooks! I think we counted about 198 scrapbooks.

At 4 foot 10, or was it 11, I hate how memories fade, she was the first grown-up that any of us kids caught up to.

The year she died was the same year that she announced to us that she had breast cancer, but by then, she’d already had it for two years. She had kept it a secret. I cannot imagine how. I never could, but by the time we found out, it had already moved to her bones. She was eaten up with it. It was only a couple of months after she broke the cancer news to us that she was gone.

We spent that Christmas vacation a couple of hours from home, so Mom could be by her side. We slept at my aunt’s house. I still remember the overwhelming heart break of the visitation service the evening before the funeral.

I sat in a chair near the casket, sixteen years old, losing one of the pillars of my life. I couldn’t take my mind off all the people around me making small talk about the weather. I was suffocating in my thoughts, and I just wanted to make them all be quiet or go away. How could they talk so carelessly? I could barely breathe, and when I couldn’t take it another minute, I ran out to my parents’ minivan, climbed inside, closed the doors, and bawled alone.

I don’t know how any of them figured out that I was there, but one by one, my brother, my mother, and my father all came out and sat in the van with me.

And it turned into one of the sweetest, most comforting moments in my life. There is something about sharing grief with the people who know, who get it, who have lost as much as you have. There is something about it that bonds you like glue and heals hurts deep inside.

I remember saying that I just couldn’t get past the fact that they were going to bury her, my dear little grandma, into the ground. I could not stand the thought of her being put down there and covered with dirt.

“Oh, April. That’s just her body. That’s nothing to her. Her spirit is in Heaven. She is with God, and we will see her again. That’s just her body. Don’t worry about that.”

I don’t remember what else was said, but for some reason, in the midst of my very first great loss, these were the words that I needed to hear. Even more so, I needed the comfort of sitting in the van, just me and the three most important people in my life.

But I’m not going to share this heart-rending story with you, and leave you feeling sad. I would never do that. You know I wouldn’t.

Here is one of my favorite little passages from Beth’s book of poetry. It isn’t a poem. Just wise words from a much loved sinner turned saint.

MY SECRET FOR HAPPINESS

I have a secret for happiness I’d like to share with you.

When you awake in the morning, think of three things you are looking forward to. Remember life’s simple pleasures are often best. They don’t have to be big occasions.

When you retire at night, reflect on three good things about that day.

You’re sure to smile and be happy.               by BHK

Try her suggestion, I dare you.

The post My One of a Kind MawMaw and Her Secret for Happiness appeared first on Stories of Our Boys.

Sometimes I feel so blue

I don’t know what to do

Go to my room and pray

Sometimes I forget to listen

God always has something to say

I open my Bible and read

I promise He tells me to make coffee

Yes! Why didn’t I think of this–yummy!

Exactly what I need!

I go downstairs and see them

All sitting so sweetly in their chairs

Their faces so sweet and chubby

Their hearts so clean  and innocent

Their hands so rough and dirty

I love them so much, how could I ever be blue?

I make my coffee and smile in sweet reverie

Then of course they bombard me with their merriment

And a thousand requests for snacks and for tea

I love it. I do. My heart floods with glee

My God, with four little boys has blessed me!

🙂 Yes, of course, I wrote it myself, why do you think it has no pattern?  haaaa!

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