Brotherly Love

Last night as we were readying the kids for bed, Joel decided to hop into Paul's bed. He snuggled up next to his big brother, pulled the blanket up around his little chin and contentedly sucked on his binky (yes, I know, he shouldn't even have a binky, but that's another battle for another time). I saw a little smile underneath that bink. He was in a blissful state.

Paul wasn't at all excited about the prospect of sharing his bed with Joel. I said, "Let's just try it out Paul. When Joel falls asleep, I'll move him to his crib." A few minutes later Joel broke the peaceful nighttime silence with his incoherent babbling. It was his usual before-bed dissertation, the subject of which only he knows. Paul said, "Moooom, I don't want Joel to sleep with me until he's two!" (Which, by the way, is Sunday.)

It's in the Genes

Today the guys grouted the tile on the floor in our bathroom. I had picked out a color called "latte" for the grout. I learned after doing the bathroom at our old house that it's better to have a darker colored grout because it doesn't show the dirt over time the way a lighter grout does.

The grout looked exactly like I thought it would when it went down today, but over the course of the day as it dried, it became lighter and lighter.

I said to Paul (mostly just because he was there, not because I thought he would have a response), "I don't know, it looks so much lighter than I thought it would." "It is what it is, Mama," he replied.

When Matt got home, I told him I had been dumpster diving looking for the empty package of grout to see if the guys really did use the "latte" grout. He said, "It doesn't really matter, Melissa. It is what it is."

I let out a laugh. Like father like son.

Goings On

The whole family (except Grace) has been sick with the crud that Lydia brought home. Daddy missed two days of work. I woke up this morning with grand plans to paint the master bed and bath and then realized I felt too yucky to do much of anything. A well person might get the aforementioned project done in two days, but a sick person might just give up and go to bed (which I did).

Here's some pictures of what's been going on at our house the past week:

Paul "going green" by using a Huggies box to make a fighter plane.
Our shower (or what was left of it) after the guys tore out everything with mold on it--gross!
The bed where Jude and I slept for a couple of nights. We got this old cast iron bed from the farm where my grandpa grew up and stored it in our barn for six years. Matt had the bed painted for me for our anniversary back in October. We finally found a newer, clean mattress on Craig's list and now it's my temporary sleeping spot until our bathroom is done ( after giving birth to six children, I no longer have a bladder of steel). The guys were kind enough to put our toilet back in place for the weekend, which is good because I miss sleeping beside my sweetie.Paul has been stuck like glue to the two nice Christian men who are redoing the bathroom. They let him pull out nails, be a tool gopher and answer his endless questions about why they do what they do. They even took Paul on their lunch break yesterday and treated him to pizza. Man stuff--Paul is in heaven.
My birthday tulips are blooming, providing a little spot of sunshine to brighten up the foggy days we've been having.

Feminism

Is feminism all it's cracked up to be, or have we been sold a bill of goods?

Here's an interesting article on the subject.

Original Sin

As a mother of six, I'm very aware of how my childrens' inherited sin natures can be clearly seen at very young ages. "The gimme" syndrome roots its ugly head even in a baby who is only months old. Tonight, the kids and I witnessed our own sweet little Joel exhibit this syndrome.

Matt was gone as he had a meeting at church. Since he bears the brunt of the bedtime routine, I usually resort to using tricks to get the children in bed. (O.K.--I'm also by nature sinful and unclean. I'll call it what it is--bribery.) I got out the box of chocolates the neighbor lady brought us yesterday and made the call, "Anyone who wants candy better get ready for bed and then be quietly waiting at the kitchen table!"

As soon as we opened the box, Joel began screaming. Then I said, "Everyone can have three chocolates." I gave Joel his portion, which he promptly put in his mouth. Then he stood up in his chair, chipmunk cheeks and all, and began yelling and waving his arms. "No, no, no!" He didn't want anyone else getting more than their fair share, which in his eyes, meant that they shouldn't get any.
I told Joel to quit yelling and to finish his mouthful. He chewed as fast as he could, yelling "No!" in between chews. I knew I shouldn't give him anymore, but I did anyway (chalk it up to fatigue=apathy). Then the sugar started to hit him. You could almost see his eyes roll back into his head. He held onto that last piece of candy, though. I said, "Joel, why don't you give that back to me. You're full." Nope, not gonna do it. Joel held onto that piece of chocolate as though his life depended on it.
I said, "Joel, have you had too much Turkish Delight?" To which he replied, "No!"

Passing the Baton

We all (eventually) realize that with age comes more responsibility. This has even led to a few tears in our house as a perceived negative to growing older. ("I don't want any more responsibility!!") But time marches on. And so the next in line must learn the ropes of their duties. --Matt

Dandy Lydia Turns 4

Lydia's birthday was yesterday. She's been counting the days to her birthday since Thanksgiving and when the big day finally arrived, she woke up with a sore throat--poor kid. She didn't eat a thing all day and finally took one bite of the pizza she had requested for her birthday dinner. She didn't even eat her pink-frosted cake. She was able to open and enjoy her presents, though. My parents, brother, sister and niece helped the rest of us celebrate.

I often get comments on Lydia's middle name, Dean. It's a family name. My great grandmother was named Edna Dean. My grandmother's name was Dorothy Dean. She didn't give her daughter (my mother) the name, but my mom named my sister Emily Dean. It's a bit of a family joke that if your middle name is "Dean" you must be strong-willed and independent.

I remember my Uncle Keith imploring me not to give Lydia the middle name Dean as she was bound to get the "Dean" qualities if I did (he was joking, of course). Well, guess what--Uncle Keith was right. Lydia's middle name is very appropriately "Dean." That Lydia--she's a dandy!