Be Still

Psalms 46:10 "Be still, and know that I am God."

Brett and I are having a rough time.  I think the kids are too.  And normally, when I'm having a rough time, my bipolar kicks in.  I either want to wallow in my self pity, which I did Tuesday and Wednesday, and it was fabulous, or I push my sleeves up and do ridiculous things, like clean the house and bake.

Keeping busy sort of helps me forget that I'm feeling picked on.  Wallowing usually involves reading or TV, and that numbs me nicely.  But there are those moments in between where I'm forced to face what's really on my mind.

Loneliness.

Fear of the unknown.

Confusion.

Being overwhelmed.

Feeling homesick.

And as much as I try and try and try to block out these feelings, they're there for a reason, and I need to confront them.

Brett asked me the other night, "What do you think Heavenly Father is trying to tell you through these trials?"

I slapped him.  Just kidding.  I wanted to.  I hate it when he's right.

But I think I know a little bit more about what I'm supposed to be learning.  I need to, "Be still and know that [He] is God."

It's hard to be still.  It's hard to confront those feelings of fear and inadequacy.  But oh the comfort that comes when we do it through Him.

I still feel all those things, but I'm comforted to know that they, too, shall pass.

When we first moved here, I cried every night for about two weeks.  I thought we had made a huge mistake.  But those feelings passed.  And I knew they would.

So I guess what I'm trying to convince myself is that it's okay to feel sad and overwhelmed and lonely.  I won't always feel this way.  Time will heal.  I'll make friends.  Hey, I even found the library yesterday!  And eventually Brett won't have to travel as much, we won't have to make a house and rent payment in the same month, and the kids will have their own room.

All I need is time.

And chocolate.

A Conversation

Brett:  I'll be home momentarily.

Kelly: Mk.  Heads up. I am not responsible for anything Chloe may, or may not, have done while I'm 'resting my eyes' upstairs.  The End.

Brett:  Whoa whoa whoa.  I'm not promising anything sight unseen!

Kelly: You don't have to sign anything.  Just remember I was in labor with her for five months.  I've done my share!

Brett:  It only counts if you remember it.  Clearly.

Kelly:  I.  Remember.  EVERYTHING.


Brett:  Well played.

Brought to you by parents who don't watch their children, who don't seal their cereal, and who don't want to clean up after said children.

Down Time

Kids in bed : check.

Brett to young mens : check

Kitchen clean : check

Living room...moving on...

What to do?  What to do?

I use to pray for down time and now I feel like I have it all the time.  Chloe sleeps three out of the seven hours the kids are at school.  One out of the remaining four, she watches Blue's Clue's.  "Blue" is the only real word she says.  Does this offend me?  OF COURSE!  But I'll save that for another post.  ( I mean c'mon, I was in labor for 6 months with her!  Sight exaggeration, but still.  Couldn't she at least say a clear "mama" once in awhile?  Sheesh.)

I don't have too many friends springing from the wood works right now.  I'm sort of hulled up in the apartment which I've become rather fond of lately.  (Small square footage = less cleaning).  I don't know where the library is (I'm pretty sure Google Maps is hating me lately.  It keeps saying things are here and there, but they're not anywhere!  I do not like green eggs and ham, I do not like them Sam I Am.  Wait...)

I've made about a dozen new recipes (thank you Pinterest), including bread, which I've never made, and which Brett made a huge deal about ("Oh, it's sooo good.  I'm going to eat everything on this bread!  It's amazing!" i.e. make bread, because it's cheaper than store bought.)

I'm sure there's a lot I could do in my down time, but I miss my little whipper snappers when they're at school.  We had them home for a week for fall break and it was so fun doing crafts together and watching Hocus Pocus and doing all sorts of random stuff.  It was fun seeing them for more than 4 hours.  Sigh.

They grow up too fast.  Where have I heard that before?

Is it too early to wish for grand babies?  You're right, I should just have another one...

Ohhhh Brrrrreeeeeettttt....

Welcome Technology, I Embrace You Now

So I totally love that my kids school does it electronic style.

I get everything through e-mail (with the exception of Cohen's teacher, sigh.)

I used to be super anti-technology.  Let me hold the paper in my hand!  Let me tack it to my burgeoning refrigerator door!  Let me have paper!

Now, with two workin' the grind, I have paper coming out of my ears!  Homework, school work, fundraisers, pictures, notes, calendars...KILL ME!

Kembry starting school was a real surprise to us all.  She took an early entrance exam and passed!  I just didn't plan on all the organizing and remembering I would now have to do.  They should give the parents an early entrance exam, because I was NOT PREPARED!!

But Kembry's teacher does everything electronically.  Reminders every day, which I need.  Class newsletter in my email box, not my refrigerator door where, let's face it, I would never see it.  She even does event organizing through e-mail.  She also wears high heels every day to school, resulting in Kembry wanting to wear her church shoes every day to school.  She's a real cute teacher.

Anywho...if you're on the cusp, not quite sure you want to make that jump from paper to e-mail, let me push you off.  Because technology rocks baby!!

Mrs. Douglas *tap tap* would ya mind?  For the sanity of all us mothers just trying to do our best?  For our refrigerator doors who are hanging on those weakening hinges?  FOR THE SANITY OF ANY PARENT WHO HAS TO SCHEDULE TWO PARENT TEACHER CONFERENCES ON THE SAME DAY???

Thank you and good night.

The Amazing Dry Erase Marker

So, say, perchance, you have a feisty five year old.

And let's say you also have a nifty dry erase board.

(Good combo, right?)

Now, let's say that feisty five year old, out of no small amount of malice, took a permanent marker to your nifty dry erase board.

Nifty Dry Erase Board

Of course you would calmly react. (That's me up there, calmly reacting.) You would pat her no her head an call her a little scamp then give her some candy.

And after she ate her yummy candy, let's say she went back to your now destroyed nifty dry erase board and...colored over the permanent marker with dry erase marker.

Now since all of this has just happened by chance, let's say, by chance, you go over and erase the newly colored-on dry erase marker from the permanent marker.

Do you know what would happen?

Do you believe in miracles by accident?

IT ERASED THE PERMANENT MARKER.

Say whaaaaat?


IT ERASED.  THE PERMANENT.  MARKER.

Go, spread the good news from every corner of the world.  Permanent marker is no longer the enemy of the dry erase board!

I Am Thankful

I read this blog a lot.  One day she posted a question asked by a teacher in church:

What if you woke up today

with only the things

you thanked God for yesterday?

So the other day I was driving to Brett's work to have lunch with him.  It's about a half hour drive.  And while I was driving, I literally thought about each individual, little, tiny, seemingly insignificant thing that I was grateful for.

I thought about Kembry, with whom I struggle the most.  It was eye opening to find out I loved everything about her, especially her outrageously enthusiastic energy and personality.  If I had to wake up and not have her smile and squeal to greet me, I'd be lost.  She teaches me to use the patience I pray for.

I thought about living in an apartment right now, and even though I don't love it, I found that I was really grateful that this is where I am.  I'm very close to my little family (literally) and while at first it felt like I didn't have enough space to myself, now it feels like the little space I have is filled with the things and the people I love most.  No matter where I am in the apartment, I can see or hear them.  It's actually quite nice.

I thought about how fortunate we are to have freeways.  To have cars.  To have shoes.  I was grateful for my ten toes and fingers.  I was grateful that, even though I have a bad back, I can still walk (most of the time) and I was grateful that I had a back in the first place.  I was grateful for a body that bares beautiful children.  I was grateful for my five senses.

 I was grateful for kissing.

I thought of so many seemingly silly things, and my heart was filled with joy that wasn't so silly.

It was absolutely the most wonderful 30 minute drive I've ever taken.  

My angry uterus is baby hungry.

It wants to digest a baby.  Oh wait, I mean, gestate a baby.  Man, that would be an embarrassing mistake.

Many of you may be rolling your eyes, questioning why on earth we would want to bring more Neff's into the world.

Aside from the fact that our children are practically perfect in every way, I've always wanted 4.  It's a nice, round, even number.  No middle child.  Middle children are just...weird.  I can say that because I'm an only child, and we're weird too.

Plus, Chloe seems to be enjoying being the baby of the family a little too much, and we can't be having that.  We wouldn't want her to be happy or anything.  So, it would be in her best interest if she was no longer the baby.

These are all excellent reasons to have another baby.

Now how to get Brett on board with this?

It's too late in the year to count the new baby as a tax deduction.  It wouldn't be born until next year...hmm...let's think...

Jump at him from behind a corner and scare him!

No, that only works for the hiccups.

Convince him that if we had 4 kids instead of 3, our mini-van would make more sense and therefore the extra car payment would be worth it.

No, I'm not even convinced of that.

Oh well.  I'll just grab him by the collar and tell him what's what.  Put that baby in my belly!  The other other white meat.

"My (Not So) Perfect Life" by Elizabeth Owen

I've been looking forward to reading something of Liz's for a long time. I absolutely love her blog, Mable's House.  Here's an excerpt from  her new book:

"Once one has breathed in the deep pungent aroma of sewage, you never again forget the nose-hair singeing, eye clawing, throat gagging experience. It comes over you slowly. You begin to feel like a character in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest as your muscles involuntarily jerk and you run screaming and blowing raspberries. Anything to get away from the mind-numbing stench.

But let me explain.

It was 6:30 a.m. I was standing in my retro pink tiled bathroom trying to open my bleary eyes and ready myself for work. As I stood there, peering into the mirror and wondering what demented nighttime fairy had planted four new wrinkles on my face, I paused and sniffed.

“Matt… what’s that smell?”

Matt staggered from the bedroom in his underwear, eyes half shut. “I don’t smell anything.”

I pointed my nose into the air like a hunting dog. “Seriously? You can’t smell that? Did you go to the bathroom in here earlier? I told you to use the room spray when you do things like that.”

Matt puffed out his bare chest and gathered his pride as best a man can with sleep in his eyes and a small hole in the side of his underwear. “I just woke up!”

I frowned, catching a glimpse of my makeup-less hot-rollers-in-hair state and tried not to think about the fact that I looked fifty instead of twenty-nine. “Well, help me figure this out. Because something smells ripe.”

We sniffed the sink drain and ruled it out as a suspect.

“Is it coming from the toilet?” Matt asked, examining it from top to bottom.

“No, that’s not it,” I snapped. I’m not known for my milk of human kindness in a disaster. Don’t get me wrong. I’m a survivor. I plan on eating my radish like Scarlet and clawing my way out of the nuclear dust while dragging my loved ones with me. But I won’t be doing it with positive phrases and a smile.

“Hon, I just don’t know. We’ll call a plumber after work, maybe it’s coming from under the house.” Matt staggered a little, trying to get past me and out of our tiny bathroom.

“Well, that’s just great,” I moved aside and pulled the shower curtain back so I could perch on the side of the tub and give Matt room to move out the door.

That’s when the full brunt of nastiness filled the air around us, a swirling mix of excrement and acrid stench that would have brought the sewer dwelling Ninja Turtles to their knees. Where the normally slightly-clean-with-a-hint-of-soap-scum bottom of the tub should have been, there sloshed gallons and gallons of brown sewage.

I clutched the front of my sweatshirt and held my breath. Matt began to dry heave.

“Get out and shut the door!” I screamed as we bumbled into the hallway.

“I’ll deal with this,” Matt grabbed my shoulders, trying to talk and hold his breath at the same time.

I could feel my eyes glaze over, the horrors of typhoid and hepatitis in our bathtub filling my mind. But more importantly, I could envision our evaporated savings account. In my mind’s eye I could see the long, gray hallway at the bank. A worker shrouded in a black suit pulled a set of keys from his pocket and unlatched a small locker labeled “Owen Bank Account.” Inside were two small stacks of quarters and a few crumpled dollar bills. It was bleak, not only because the banker with an unimaginative wardrobe gazed at me with an expression that could only be interpreted as “You’re a Big Fat Loser,” but also there was a very definite possibility we wouldn’t be able to pay for a plumber.

I wasn’t necessarily a spend thrift. In fact, I was downright frugal when it came to decorating with thrift store furniture and rewired vintage lamps. But the fact was, we were poor. We were starting out at starter jobs with starter salaries. We were starter adults with a starter bank account.

“Okay,” I nodded numbly, thankful that Matt was taking the lead on such a disastrous biohazard. “But make sure the plumber is super cheap. We don’t have much money!”

I left for work like a wino stumbling through a fog, not really remembering my commute, not really doing any work as I sipped my coffee and stared blankly at the computer screen. A disaster of such gargantuan proportions had previously been unthinkable in my life, and now I found myself attempting to push the image of a vast sea of bathtub poop from my mind. But I was sure of one thing: Anne Shirley never had to get ready for work while breathing raw sewage."

A Wonderful Message for Women

"What took you so long?"  I asked Brett.  He was an hour late from Young Mens.  "Just kidding.  Did you have a good time?"

"Yeah, it was fun.  We played volleyball."

"That's what you get to do while I'm stuck here all alone with those heathens upstairs?  Play volleyball!"

"Not just you," he says.  "The other wives are stuck at home alone, too, honey."

I love my husband.  Always keeps things in perspective.