Carpet stains and other nasty things that could all be solved in preschool

Two down, one to go.

Yesterday morning, Meghan woke up with a 101 temp, which (no surprise) turned out to be strep throat.

However (and I say this with all the passion and emphasis that I can possibly convey in a blog post) NO! VOMIT!

So now I’m just waiting for Nathan to wake up with a red-hot forehead and blazing throat. It’s coming. Wait for it…wait for it…

I’m going to come back to that passion and emphasis thing in a minute.

In the meantime, I’m trying to recover from 8 a.m. soccer games at a field an hour away and 59 people at my house for the Super Bowl (no exaggeration here – 25 adults and 34 kids) and a huge turquoise stain of unknown origin on the playroom carpet. It started out as this mysterious black powder and little black smudges, and when I sprayed carpet cleaner on the little black smudge, this is what happened:

Yeah.

Have you ever wished you could just hit the rewind button and listen to your friend who told you to vacuum up the mystery powder before getting it wet?

I tried an OxyClean paste, which ever-so-slightly turned it into a lighter shade of electric turquoise, but obviously didn’t do a whole lot of good. We’ll call the carpet superheroes and see if they can fix it, but I think we’re looking at brand new carpet.

Great.

(If anyone has any idea what this could be or how to get it out, please feel free to chime in.)

As much as we love hosting big parties, this will be it for a while. No parties while the house is on the market. I have a handyman coming this week to fix up all the things that need to be fixed up, and after that, we’re renting a storage unit and moving out all the crap extra stuff in order to make our house a beautiful showcase of a home that some happy couple would be pleased to call their own.

I’m not thinking past the handyman right now. I’m not thinking about the inevitable temporary transitional housing. Nope. Not yet.

Handyman.

I’m getting to my main point of this post, I promise.

I’m just a little distracted by the big turquoise stain. It’s burned through my retinas.

The point of this post. Right. Here it is: Can we all just play nice and get along?

I’m really bothered lately by nastiness and meanspiritedness. I’ve seen it in person, and I’ve seen it posted anonymously on the internet. I’ve been on the receiving end of both.

Somehow the anonymity of the internet gives us permission to say things we would NEVER say to a person’s face. And typed words without vocal inflection and facial expression and nonverbal communication opens a wide, wide door to a place called MISINTERPRETATION.

This is where things get ugly.

The internet thing is interesting. I actually took an entire communications class in college called “Technology and Communication” that addressed this specific issue back in the dawn of cyberspace.

(Never mind how long ago that was.)

But whether we are in a grocery store or commenting on a blog, we need to play nice, ladies. We need to realize that EVERYONE HAS STUFF. Everyone has issues. We all have baggage. We ALL have things in our lives that are difficult.

Let me pause here and pull up a chair next to those who are really angry. Those who have been wounded and beaten down and are deeply offended by my words that, I promise, were not at all intended to offend.

Come on, I promise I won’t bite. Come sit next to me for a sec. Please?

OK. Here it is. My stuff is different from your stuff. My reality is different from your reality. But we both struggle. My struggle may not be as difficult as your struggle, and for that, I am genuinely sorry. I’m sorry you are having such a rough time. I really am. And I pray that you find the strength and the peace in the midst of your struggle to keep going and doing the best you can do. That’s all any of us can hope to accomplish. I’m not pretending to completely understand what you have been through. I’m not judging you. I’m not comparing your struggle to my own. I can only imagine what your life must be like.

But I struggle, too. And my struggle is no less valid than your struggle. So please don’t tell me that my life is easy. Please don’t imply that I am condescending to you because our realities are different. I can’t fully understand what you are going through because I haven’t walked that road.

Just like you have not walked mine.

That’s all I’m saying.

So can we please have a little more compassion? Can we please support each other and cheer each other on instead of tearing each other down because each of us thinks that we drew the shorter end of the stick - when in reality, we’re both left holding a stick?

In the (rewritten) words from that monumental cinematic classic, High School Musical:

“We’re all screwed up together…”

(Feel free to sing along.)

Or, in the words of my now-five year old reciting the rules of his preschool class:

“Be a hahd wuhker, be a kind fwend, be a good listenuh.”

(Translation: be a hard worker, be a kind friend, be a good listener.)

Good rules for all of us, I think. Robert Fulgum was right.

I especially like the last one. Be a good listenuh.

Can we all make a pact to do that today? To listen intentionally? To, as Steven Covey puts it, seek first to understand before being understood? Think how much happier everyone would be if we really, really tried to understand each other. If we really, really listened.

(Sidenote here: I really, truly thought that St. Francis of Assisi said the thing about seeking first to understand. Thank you, Google. But ya gotta admit that it's a good quote.)

Let’s try it.

OK. Now that we’ve all decided to play nice, will someone please tell me WHAT DO I DO ABOUT MY CARPET?!?!?

Ahem.

Perspective.

Right.

Sorry ‘bout that.

A post for those with weak visualization skills and a strong stomach

Have I mentioned before how I have a very queasy stomach? And a hyper-sensitive gag reflex?

Yeah.

Pretty much every significant event in my adult life has involved vomit.

Just so ya know.

Engagement, wedding, birth of each child...

Vomit.

It's funny, though. I could change my own kids' stinky diapers, but put me on diaper duty in the church nursery? Fuhgetaboutit. Not pretty.

Vomit is another story.

(I sure hope you've already eaten.)

Somehow our home has managed to avoid all the stomach bugs and flu and nastiness going around for the entire year. My hairdresser credits the bowl of cherry tomatoes that sits on our kitchen counter. Antioxidants and all that.

It could also have something to do with the obsessive hand-washing that I have demanded encouraged.

In any case, we've been very, very lucky.

Until this week.

Griffin woke up on Thursday morning with a sore throat, tummy ache, ear ache, and fever. He was moaning on the floor next to the toilet when I woke up. Michael gave him some ibuprofen, and I sent him back to bed...with a bowl.

Thirty minutes later, it was time for Meghan, Nathan & me to get in the car and take Meghan to school. I went upstairs to get Nathan and check on Griffin - just as he was throwing up. In the bowl.

Now, vomit in the toilet is one thing. Vomit in a bowl is something entirely different.

Mother Of The Year tried to get near him to pat his back and almost had to leave the room. So she stood an arm's length away with her head turned, covering her nose and mouth and trying to say between coughing and gagging, "It's OK, buddy."

But it was still time to leave. So Mother Of The Year left her vomiting son (who had somehow managed to get to the toilet and emptied the bowl) and took her other child to school, all the while taking very deep breaths and talking herself down and trying not to think about The Bowl.

Very sensitive gag reflex. Like I said.

The short version of the story is that I was able to get him into the doctor that morning, and he tested positive for strep throat. Bad because it's strep throat, but good because of antibiotics and a quick 24 hour quarantine before he's non-contagious.

He stayed home from school on Friday, too - although he was jumping around and feeling great, which is a little annoying. "Can you at least pretend that you're sick?" I begged. If you're staying home from school, then you're gonna be in bed. That's the rule. Not so easily enforced. So Wii basketball in the chair was the compromise.

By that afternoon, the fever was gone, the sore throat was gone, and (thank you, God) the vomiting was gone. The Bowl, however, stayed in the bathroom for a little while longer until I could psych myself up enough to bring it downstairs, put a squirt or a full bottle of liquid soap in, and leave it to soak until my dear stomach-of-steel husband could come home and clean it out.

One vomiter in the house is enough, thank you.

The end.

Big Fat Liar and the Twooth about Sweep

So. Meghan's new school is great. REALLY great. Her entire countenance has changed, thanks to a little bit of intellectual stimulation. I knew that about her already - that when she's bored, she's miserable, and when she's challenged, she's happy. But it's still really cool to see. We knew without a shred of doubt that God knit her together and knows her and knows exactly what she needs and where she needs to be, and He is powerful enough to provide it. And He did. Which is very cool.

The adjustment for her has been pretty smooth. Mama's having a little bit of a hard time in the mornings because, y'know, I have to WAKE UP. In the old days, I would...

OK. Hang on. Let me make something perfectly clear before I continue. I am not lazy. I really do work my tail off taking care of these three little people and the house and the husband and everything else except the bills and the taxes because, y'know, I'm an English major. I don't do math.

So I'm not lazy. But I am also not a morning person. Not even close. I really love to sleep. I love my bed. But I'm not lazy.

Now that we've cleared that up.

In the old days, I would roll out of bed, pour some cereal, slap some peanut butter on some bread, throw it in a lunchbag, and roll back into bed. Meghan would then climb into bed with me, read her devotional, and we'd pray together. (Which you can do with your eyes closed and lying on a pillow.) Then she would leave to catch the bus, and Griffin would come in for his devo time. Then I'd set the timer on my watch and go back to sleep until it was time for Griffin to leave for school, at which time I'd roll out of bed, make sure he's wearing his bike helmet, wait for the neighbor's kid to show up at our house...and wait...and wait...and wait...(he's not exactly prompt), wave to the neighbors passing by who must be thinking, "who is that crazy lady in the pink reindeer pajamas and bed head?" then once the neighbor's kid finally showed up, I'd crawl back into bed until it was time to get Nathan up for school.

See? Not a morning person.

But lo, those days are over and gone. No more sleeping in. These days, the morning routine involves cereal, peanut butter, devotionals and LET'S GO! LET'S GO! LET'S GO! and pulling Nathan out of his bed much earlier than he'd like, only to have him crawl back in and put the covers over his head, then pulling him out again so we can get in the car and drive Meghan across town to her blessed new location of education.

And that really is OK because that's what moms do. And I really am very, very happy because she is so happy and this is exactly where she needs to be.

Nathan and I have found a light spot of joy in these early morning awakenings. It's called Big Fat Liar.

We LOVE Big Fat Liar!

There's a radio station who does this segment every morning at the same time. The news guy tells a story. The traffic lady tells a story. And then the husband/wife DJs tell their stories. Three of them tell the truth, and one of them tells a lie. And most mornings, it's really hard to know who is the

(everybody together!)

BIG! FAT! LIAR!

Oh, but wait. The funniest part of the whole thing? The lead-in clips that announce the segment, which of course includes Tom Cruise and Jack Nicholson from A Few Good Men. You know what I'm talking about. So now Nathan - my adorable, precious, precocious, almost 5-year old - chimes in every morning:

"I want the twooth! You can't handle the twooth!"

Which makes me laugh and makes me so sad all at the same time because I think about how handsome and adorable and wonderful was Tom Cruise in latter years before he got all psycho and started jumping on couches and stole away our little Joey from Dawson, who really was stolen by Pacey but should have been stolen away by Dawson but instead was stolen away by freaky Tom Cruise who is jumping on Oprah's couch and yelling at Matt Lauer and just being a crazy psycho idiot.

(See? Too little sleep.)

And that's the twooth.

It's worth repeating...or at least patting myself on my back. {ouch}

I wrote an article last year for Lives of Doctors Wives about gifted kids, and I recently revised it and submitted it to Mamapedia.

Aaaaannnnnd...they accepted and published it.

Yay!

Here's the link.

(If you've come to The Couch from Mamapedia, welcome! Hi. I'm Jennifer. Glad you're here. Scan on down to my last post for more adventures in parenting gifted kids. It's quite an adventure, huh?)

Ticking time and transfers

Time is too slow for those who wait, too swift for those who fear, too long for those who grieve, too short for those who rejoice, but for those who love, time is eternity.

~Henry Van Dyke

Time sure is a funny thing. Don’t you agree?

One of our local radio stations announced the 20th anniversary of something-or-another that this particular radio station has hosted. For the past 20 years. And I thought, Huh. I was in high school when that started. And it doesn’t seem that long ago.

My stomach still lurches every September when the annual See You At The Pole rally comes around. I’m pretty sure this fall will be the 20th anniversary of that, too, because I vividly remember going to the first one in 1990 – the morning after my heart was ripped from my chest and smashed into tiny smithereens and my life was over! Over, I tell you! because of a stupid boy who decided he wanted to “see other people.”

Yeah, I don’t care much for See You At The Pole.

(But I got over it years ago. Really. I’m much better now.)

Twenty years sure has passed quickly. It sounds like a long time, doesn’t it? But it seems much shorter. Weird.

And sometimes, one single week can last an entire year. Like last week.

Meghan and I returned home from our trip to Cleveland and Chicago on Monday evening and stepped into a whirlwind of change and anxiety that left my head spinning. While we were in Cleveland, I received an email informing me that the school transfer we had applied for was approved…

Let’s back up.

Oooohhhh, where to start?

Her birth?

(Hmmm…too far.)

Last fall?

(Better.)

Let’s just say that my kids are all crazy-smart, and up until this year, the schools and the teachers have been wonderful and accommodating and have made sure that our kids get what they need to make their educational experience interesting and enjoyable and challenging. We have been very, very fortunate. Up until this year.

For some reason unbeknownst to the logic and common sense of the universe, Meghan was placed in a classroom with both gifted kids and below-grade level kids. Which is grossly unfair to the students and the teachers…and, to some degree, the parents who have to fight for their kids’ education. This particular school has its share of rough kids with really sad family situations, which perpetuates a really sad cycle of academic struggles and discipline issues.

We try to teach our kids compassion for others. We tell them over and over again that if someone is being mean, there is always a reason. There’s more going on inside that child’s heart that we cannot see. I’m convinced that’s why God instructs us to pray for our enemies.

I don’t want to ever shelter my children and keep them in this well-protected bubble of white upper-middle class suburbia. HOWEVER, when an unsheltered environment translates into other kids getting in my child’s face and dropping F-bombs and teachers who are so overwhelmed with discipline issues that they give my child worksheets and busy work and leave her to fend for herself to the point where she comes home and tells me that she “hates school”…well, then we have a problem.

We faced two options: stay at the same school and change classrooms, or apply for a transfer to the school she will attend next year when we move into our new house - which is recognized as a very, very good school with great kids and great teachers. Great kids + great teachers = freedom to do some really fun stuff that does not involve worksheets or busy work. Our school district is known for being a little bit stingy with transfers, but Meghan was so miserable and frustrated that we decided to give it a shot. Changing schools was her first choice. We decided to submit the transfer application and, once again, open our hands to God to release all of our expectations and receive whatever He had for her.

(Which was a pretty incredible lesson in life and faith for our ten year old girl.)

So last weekend. Get the email. Lose the sleep.

We were all so excited…and incredibly nervous. I picked her up from school on Wednesday afternoon and withdrew her from her old school, then drove across town to enroll her in her new school. My precious baby girl sat in the secretary’s office as I filled out the necessary paperwork, and her leg was bouncing up and down uncontrollably, a tight smile on her face. She was so happy to be there – but absolutely terrified.

The secretary, noticing Meghan’s nerves, offered to walk us down the hall and meet her new teachers – who were expecting her and were both just as warm and sweet and welcoming as two teachers could ever be.

The next morning, our daily routine slightly altered, we headed out the door – tight smiles and bouncing legs and all. Meghan got hold of my phone was texting Gretchen as we drove. “Tell Alex that she will be in my will when I die of nervousness!” she said. Oh boy oh boy oh boy.

The butterflies in my own stomach were having a party for the entire day. I couldn’t wait until 2:45 when I could pick her up and find out how her day went. I hoped and prayed that she would be smiling when I saw her.

Assuming, of course, that I could figure out where exactly I was supposed to go to pick her up. “It’s by the cafeteria,” the school receptionist told me when I called that afternoon, seeking reassurance that I would indeed go to the right place.

Okaaaay…and where exactly is the cafeteria?

It was slightly unnerving.

I had visions in my head of a Mr. Mom reenactment: “YOU’RE DOING IT WRONG!”

Again, time is such a funny thing. That day seemed to drag on For.Ev.Er. I ran errands and cleaned up around the house and talked to Gretchen, but the clock mocked me. Two forty-five would never come.

Until it did. And into my car stepped a smiling, happy girl who once again loved school. She had a great day.

As Nathan would say, that makes my hot wahm.

(Translation for those without four year olds with speech impediments: that makes my heart warm.)

The next day was even better. More comfortable. More conversations with new friends. And a research project to boot.

Initiated by her teacher so Meghan would not have to repeat a science unit that she had already completed.

Did I mention how convincing her teachers at her other school to allow her to do her own research projects was like pulling teeth?

It was.

And her new teacher suggested it. Encouraged it.

And Meghan was like a dry sponge soaking up the Atlantic Ocean.

Her favorite part?

"No cussing."

I enjoyed a full, deep, blissful night’s sleep for the first night that week. Everything goes better with sleep.

This was absolutely the best decision. We trusted the God who knit her together with all her quirks and passions and preferences to take her to the place where she could be who He created her to be. And He did – so faithfully and powerfully.

So this last week? A little stressful. A lot of unknowns. Not a lot of sleep. (At least for me.) A lot of planning and coordinating.

And a whole slew of blessing.

This last week stretched for at least a month. I can’t believe we were on a plane this time last week. So much can change in a day, a month, a semester, a year.

(Or twenty.)

But we emerge stronger, wiser, deeper in faith, more diligent in prayer.

And well-rested.

Chicago via a corn field...and other (mis)adventures of five lovely ladies

Several months ago, Gretchen and I planned a girls/guys weekend for the MLK holiday, and packaged it oh-so-nicely for the kids' “big” Christmas present.

If you’re new to The Couch, here’s a brief history of our families’ friendship: Met in Iowa during residency. Each of us has three kids, and they were all born in sets within months of each other (Meghan & Alex – two months apart; Griffin & Christian – six months apart; Nathan & Adrianne – two months apart, post-training). Survived the training years together and made co-parenting an art form. They now live in Cleveland and we live in Texas, and that sucks, but we take a family vacation together every summer, and we try to get together at least one other time during the year.

So the Christmas present. We decided that Meghan and I would fly to Cleveland for a girls’ weekend, and BJ & Christian would fly to Texas during the same weekend for a guys’ weekend. The girls’ present included a road trip to Chicago and the American Girl store, and the guys would go to a hockey game and Medieval Times.

Can someone say estrogen? And testosterone?

Fun was had by all. Memories were made. And normally, I am not a big fan of the passive verb tense.

While fun and exciting and all that, this trip was not exactly what we had envisioned when we planned it, mostly because the week before, Gretch & BJ made an offer on a house on a whim and put their own gorgeous home on the market the day after Meghan and I arrived.

Little bit o’stress. Not a lot of sleep for the Gretchmeister.

Blame it on exhaustion or a freaky wild GPS named Pepper, somehow we ended up driving to Chicago via two-lane gravel roads that cut through the middle of a corn field. I’m not even sure what state we were in at that point. We attempted some lame comparisons between our lives and God and the GPS – you know, as in sometimes the GPS takes us through some unexpected routes, and you can only see half a mile in front of you on the GPS screen, but the GPS will get us to where we need to be…eventually…so we just have to trust the GPS and drive and enjoy the views of harvested corn fields and big black cows.

Even cows seem profound when you’re working on a total of 9 hours of sleep over the past three days. And driving to Chicago through a corn field.

Around the time we crossed into Michigan (Michigan?!?), we pushed a few of Pepper’s buttons and found out that there is a setting on a GPS that says “avoid toll roads.”

Which is a big problem when the most direct route from Cleveland to Chicago is one long toll road.

Recalculating! Recalculating!

Then we rolled through Gary, Indiana. I was singing the song from The Music Man (you know the one: “GAry, Indiana, Gary, INdiana, GAry, Indiana…”) when Gretchen informed me that Gary, Indiana, is NOT a place you want to stop, especially at night. Which it was.

Right about that time, her gas light came on.

I kid you not.

Somehow we managed to find a truck stop with lots of outdoor lighting, fill up with gas, and get back on the highway. (At least it wasn’t a gravel road, right?)

A five hour drive turned into a seven hour drive, but we managed to dodge rush hour traffic in downtown Chicago, at least. By the time we had circled the block seventeen times and found out where to park, we had enough adventure for one day, thankyouverymuch, and ordered our requisite Chicago-style pizza via room service.

I was a little bit tired, but Gretchen was about to fall over – and it didn’t take a brain surgeon or an ophthalmologist to figure out that what we both needed was a really good night’s sleep. Only one obstacle lay in our path of slumbering bliss.

Meet Adrianne.

The world’s sweetest, cutest, most adorable five year old. Who also happens to be an early riser and quite a giggle box. A very loud giggle box.

It was time to pull out the big guns. It was time for bribery.

Oohhhh, yeah.

I told the Big Girls (who were sleeping on a pull-out couch bed in our room at the Embassy Suites) that if they allowed Adrianne to come into their bed when she woke up, and if they turned on a show for her and kept her quiet until at least 9 a.m., I would buy them something at the American Girl store the next day.

I told Adrianne if she could go into the Big Girls’ bed in the morning and not wake up her mommy and be very, very quiet, I would buy her a special treat at the American Girl store the next day.

Shameful, I know. But, goodgolly, it worked. Don’t mess with a woman and her beauty sleep. Especially when that woman is me.

Sure enough, Adrianne quietly sneaked into the living area at 6:45 the next morning, softly closed the door, and was as quiet as a hinge with a fresh coat of WD-40 until Gretchen and I rolled out of bed at 9:45.

A blessed 10 hours of sleep later. Ten hours. Ten. Everything is better with ten hours of sleep. Glory hallelujah.So. Off to the American Girl store. If you have a daughter of any age and you have the opportunity, you must take her there. It is like the Disney World of all things girl. So much like Disney World. As in, “I am so happy to be here, this is such a magical place, I don’t mind dropping thirty bucks for a doll dress, and let’s head over here and drop another fourteen dollars to get the doll’s ears pierced because it’s so darn cute and we’re so happy to be here.”

It really was sweet, though.

We walked around the store for a full two hours, browsing and ear piercing and deciding and weighing all the options. (Thank you Jesus and grandparents for gift certificates!) Meghan’s Molly needed a new party dress for our lunch reservation (that we made four months ago. See? Disney World.), but Molly’s party dress was sold out, so we headed to the left about 20 years and found Kit’s party dress, which, thankfully, was a suitable alternative.

You gotta love being a girl.

The lunch was our favorite part of the entire weekend. It was beyond cute. It was ultimate cuteness. It almost made your teeth hurt because it was so cute.

Our drive back to Cleveland on Saturday night was much less eventful than our drive the day before, and we reset the GPS to take the toll roads for the entire drive, and we were much more rested.

(Ten hours of sleep will do that, y’know.)

We played and talked and ate for the rest of the weekend – so it was pretty low-key. Well, except when I checked my email Sunday afternoon and found out that Meghan’s transfer application to another intermediate school had been approved.

Which was very good news. Which is another story for another day.

But I was a little – um – anxious for the rest of the weekend and reverted to the insomnia. Blasted insomnia.

In the meantime, back in Texas…

I'm so thankful I have boobies.

House selections, part deaux. Try to contain yourself.

So the plumbing fixtures and the front door.

Please don't leave. Hang on. I promise this will get interesting.

'Kay?

After buzzing through all the tile and flooring and appliances, the next item on our selections list was the front door. It wasn’t at all what we expected it to be. We showed up at the front door place (with a most awesome piece of manly grilling equipment in our van) thinking that we would buzz in, pick out the stain of wood for our front door, decide what (if any) kind of glass to put in, and be done. Check.

Oooohhhh, no. It couldn’t be that easy. Or that boring. No, this place is a front door design center. As in, you design your front door. Your iron front door. We have seen iron front doors, which are usually pretty ornate and fancy-schmancy…and not our style at all. Fancy-schmancy doesn’t quite fit with the “come and set a spell” wrap-around porch.

I won’t tire you out with all the details, but we sat down with our designers and Door Man and drew up a sketch of what our front door will look like. It’s pretty cool.

Too cool. I'm totally stuck. We can't decide which design to choose.

Help?

Here are some examples of the kind of door we’re talking about.

Here’s what our house will look like (sorry for the fuzziness. I literally had to roll out our blueprints and take a picture. Curse you, Adobe Acrobat.)

(the front door is right there in the middle - duh - with a narrow single pane window on either side.)

And here are our door options so far:

Tell me what you think. I thought I knew which one I liked best, then I looked at it again and changed my mind. So I’m a big ball of confusion and indecisiveness right now.

Next stop: plumbing fixtures. We got a PDF file of the “standard package,” which honestly, we were fine with – then one of the designers took us to the plumbing fixture showroom…I thought we were just going to see in person what they will look like, but no. We got to deviate.

Oooh, how I love to deviate. Heh-heh-heh.

So we switched some things around. That’s all. Here ya go:

Master bath and Meghan's bath

Master shower.

Yes, two shower heads. One of them an adjustable hand-held. Michael and I had a constructive disagreement about the usefulness of an adjustable hand-held and whether or not it justified the additional upgrade cost. Let's just say that the short person won that one.

Boys' bathroom

Guest and powder baths

I saved the best for last. Oh my goodness gracious, can I tell you how excited I am about this one?!? Look closely. A SPRAYER ON THE TUB! I can wash my hair! I can rinse my back! I can wash out all the bubbles! I can clean the bathtub!

(Oh, wait.)

(That's not exciting.)

(Scratch that.)

I can wash my hair!

More than one person has told me about how stressful house-building can be, and I’ve heard that if your marriage can survive building a house, it can survive anything. I’m sure that’s pretty close to the truth. I know it’s going to be difficult. I’m expecting it. I’m ready for it. Bring it on.

But truly, if we can survive the last year with all the crap from the city and the land development and thinking we were sitting at a dead end and the only way out was a lawsuit…well, honey pie, I think the house-building part is going to be gravy. This is the fun part. This is where mama can sink her teeth in and spend all this imaginary money …which, of course, will not be imaginary – but it sure seems like it. Imagine walking into a showroom and someone says, “you have $9000 to spend! Go crazy!”

Fun. I’m just sayin’.

So there you go. The fun part is probably going to take a brief hiatus until we actually start building…which at this point looks to be sometime around March. But truly, after everything we’ve been through, I have come to a point where I realize that God already knows the exact date we’re going to move into this house, so any delays are not going to surprise Him – hence, a very good reason for me to seriously chill out. So I’m not worried. We’ll get there.

Tub sprayers and all.