spice girl

Back to that lebanese restaurant with the creamy hummus....
Erica, Jenny and I decided to split an entree and salad
between the three of us.
We had succulent beef kabobs with sauteed veggies and fatoosh,
a salad of cucumber, peppers, tomatoes in a vinaigrette,
dusted in cardamom....or maybe dunked in cardamom is more like it.
I have never tasted cardamom. It was different.
More like cinnamon or nutmeg than basil or oregano.
I kept trying the salad because I wanted to like it.
And Lord knows, I need the fiber.
But cardamom....not so much.
Jenny glanced over at me and said,
"Oh, you have something in your teeth."
I swiped at it with my tongue.
"Still there."
"Now?"
"Over to the left."
We went back and forth 4 or 5 times.
"What about now?"
"Okay."
We keep chatting.
10 minutes later Erica says,
"Oh, you've got something in your teeth."
"Again?"
"No," said Jenny,"It's the same spice from last time."
"I thought you said I got it."
"I felt bad for you so I told you you got it."
By now we are giggling a bit.
I am swirling water in my mouth and rubbing my teeth with a napkin.
30 minutes later we are wandering through World Market
redecorating our houses in our heads and Erica starts laughing,
guffawing even.
"What?" I say.
"You have a little stuck on your bottom teeth." Giggle.
"You've got to be kidding me."
More teeth swiping and rubbing.
I lower my bottom lip as far as I can.
"Now?"
Erica is hurled backward by the sheer force of how much cardamom
has apparently taken residence in my teeth.
"It's EVERYWHERE!" she gasps.
We are hysterical when we hear,
"Hey, Foth girls."
And turn to find some old friends from college walking up on us.
How random. How awkward. How like me.
I survived the conversation with closed mouth smiles.
Stupid cardamom.
Hummus - yes. Fatoosh - no.
Teeth and spice....
not so nice.

food love

These last few days have been filled with sister time, frolic and food.
My sisters and I met up in Modesto on Monday
for a Memorial Day cousin reunion at the Chicken Barn.
Don't let the name fool you. The Chicken Barn will not be mocked.
Their luscious tender chicken nuggets
and crispy spuds are held in reverence.
Their homemade bbq and mustard sauces
bring a small tear of joy to the eye of the partaker.
17 cousins meandered their way to a park,
with too many tiny kids to count,
ending the day at La Morenita munching on chips and cabbage salsa.
We spent the day feasting, laughing, storytelling,
and not quite believing how we are turning into our parents.
The fun-ness of being together. Of laughing from our gut. Of being real.
Of enjoying the company of those who are most like you is incomparable.
Yesterday, we sisters wrapped our day around buttery scones,
hot cups of tea,
a fresh summer salad of corn and lime,
and dinner at a lebanese restaurant with a hummus so creamy,
it danced on the tongue.
Maybe it's the way my family works. Food is equated with good memories.
Grandma and Grandpa's homemade peach ice cream....
Mom's apple pie with the pie dough cinnamon rolls baked beside it....
Chris and Traci's hand shaped pizza brushed with fragrant olive oil....
It's all enmeshed with the goodness of being together, loving each other
and enjoying the moments that we can grab together as we are doing life.
Today is Will's 4th birthday. We're going to have some fun.
We're going to have some presents.
And, of course, we're going to have some cake. Chocolate.
Let the love begin.

confession #7: I have unrealistic expectations

Last year, when things got desperate,
I had the privilege of meeting with a psychologist.
I recommend a good round of therapy to everyone.
My counselor was a gift God gave me during a dark time.
The first day we sat down, I was nervous.
I had insomnia. I was depressed. I was praying she had answers.
She asked me what filled my days
and what it was that made me feel overwhelmed.
We chatted for a while. And then she said this,
"What other than being a mom to a 5 year old, 3 year old, and
4 month old, a wife to Scott, trying to start a new church, taking
care of your family, not having time to write, not sleeping,
and surviving in the bay area financially, could be worrying you?"
We laughed.
"I think you are dealing with some very unrealistic expectations,"
she said.
And with those words...something shifted, something hard broke in me,
and I began to cry.
And she began to frame some realistic expectations for me.
A good night's sleep. A date, sans kids, with Scott.
An unkempt house but 3 happy boys. An hour a week to write.
She brought me down
from the high unhappy unreachable clouds of perfectionism
and showed me what my day could look like.
And the healing began. I'm still healing I think.
I still start my mornings with visions of grandeur.
Clean bathrooms. Mornings spent writing. My to-do-list complete.
Sometimes I despair. Vent. Yell at Legos that pierce my heels.
But I am trying to enjoy the small snatches of goodness in my day.
Chats on the phone with my sisters. A book read with Addie.
A flower planted. A moment to set in the yard and read a good mystery.
And in those moments....it almost feels perfect.

yet another exciting Sunday

I got to go to this conference this weekend.
I'm not usually a women's conference goer.
I usually think of women my mom's age going to women's conferences.
But I went. And it was fantastic.
One of those exhilirating times,
when you feel that God is more than real and loves you
even though he sees you for who you are and knows all your junk.
I called my sister, Jenny, and made her come, too.
I came home and told Scott...maybe my circumstances aren't changing
but I feel like I am changing.
It has been a post-partum year. A hard year.
Where you feel dry and sad and pitiful
and even shopping doesn't make it better.
So me changing - that's a good thing.
And I was excited to see what Sunday morning would hold.
Then somehow I got locked out of my bathroom.
People would soon be arriving.
We have house church. Which is a cool thing.
Until your bangs dry into an upside down "v" on your forehead
and your hairdryer is locked in the bathroom
and your husband can't look you in the eye
because you look exactly like that guy, Dwight, from The Office.
This was me on Sunday except the back of my hair is longer.

But Scott, resourceful man that he is, got on the phone to Brett, our
brother-in-law, who talked us through Unlock Door 101.
All was saved. Just minutes before people arrived.
And so I am thankful. And I can honestly say...
Both at the conference and on another frantic Sunday morning
God came through.

angels are real and they send chocolate

Today a glorious thing happened.
Scott and I were out on a date...
that in and of itself is a glorious thing...
and we decided to swing by the church's p.o. box
before heading back home.
There was all kinds of junk mail, conference notices,
magazines, the odd worship cd,
and a pink slip that said there was a package for us.
I didn't think anything of it.
Until they handed us a package that was swathed in
Godiva chocolate packaging tape.
With my name on it.
I opened it. And inside was a box.
Filled with lovely truffles.
Deep dark chocolate filled with more chocolate.
Chocolate is my love language.
All from Amy in Texas, a fellow blogger,
who felt my plight when I didn't get the chocolate
I thought I deserved the other day.
God bless you, Amy in Texas!
You did indeed brighten my day!

gloss me

A while ago my cousin Gretchen came over
with her 3 boys.
That makes 6 boys ages 7 and under.
We managed to squeeze in a bit of chatting
and a cup of tea.
And a lot of referree-ing of car play, sharing toys,
and yelling out,
"Be careful!" and "Don't stab at each other!" and
"I don't care if it's a light saber!"
Things like that.
Lots of testosterone with 6 little boys.
Every once in a while we need an estrogen fix.
That's why we drink tea and buy hair clips.
And Gretch, being the fantastic cousin that she is,
brought me a special treat.
Lip gloss. Shiny. Pearly. Girly.
And it tastes like mint.
It actually freshens your breath
so you feel sassy and like you have good dental hygiene,
all at the same time.
It's a win-win gloss.
We're thankful God gave us our boys.
We love our boys.
We love them so much we could eat them up with a spoon.
But we do like being girls.
And nothing makes you feel more feminine than shimmery lips.
So on extra-testosterone-laden-alpha-dog-male-dominated-days,
we're thankful for minty lip gloss, too.

Bigelow Mentha Lip Shine

it's a love thing

I was reading this verse last night in Corinthians.
I've been trying to change my erratic Bible reading habits and
place an end cap on my day with the words of God.
I used to end my day with CSI, because I love a good "whodunit",
then I started having dead people nightmares,
play by plays of crime scenes danced through my dreams,
and I got scared of my kitchen knives.
I tend to have an overactive imagination.
But I digress.
So anyway, I came across this verse, at the end of the book,
when Paul gives them some last instructions.

Be on guard. Stand true to what you believe. Be courageous.
Be strong. And everything you do must be done with love.
1 Corinthians 16:13

Sometimes I have a hard time wrapping my mind around scripture
and how it applies to my life.
It seems like it would take a lifetime to master just one of these commands.
Each one of them tends to fly in the face of who I am.
I'm easily distracted, my beliefs tend to waver a bit here and there,
I'm afraid of most things, including heights and small rodents,
and I do most things, not so much with love, as with chocolate.
Chocolate seems to come easier for me.
Except when it comes to my kids.
That's a little different.
I am always on guard with them, I don't even have to think about it.
Whether it's checking Addie's mouth to make sure
he's not ingesting Legos
or that Will holds my hand when we cross the street.
I don't have trouble telling my kids what they can and can't do -
on that count, I definitely know what I believe.
And I can be fearless with my kids,
I have been known to conquer dark closets,squash spiders
and stare down bullies on the playground.
I am strong - I can lift them, carry them and protect them.
If anyone tried to mess with them, they would be dealing with me.
It wouldn't be pretty.
And the love part, that is what motivates me in general.
The guarding, the believing, the courage, the strength are
just an outflow of my being in love with my little guys.
So maybe Paul is saying the same to this band of people (like us)
who are trying to their best to follow Jesus and his teachings.
Maybe it is not so hard to be and do all of these things
if it is a natural outflow of being in love with Jesus.
It's a love thing.
And that's better than chocolate.

confession #6: I really do love being a mom

A lot of the time I am tired. That is a given.
I get a bit grumpy with the lack of sleep.
I can be overwhelmed with the meal planning,
the errand running, the constant clutching of my knees
along with requests for copious amounts of cheese and juice boxes.
I've been known to whine about the craziness of my life on occasion.
But truly, besides my wedding day,
my best days were the ones I had my babies.
I won't lie.
I took all the drugs that they would give me.
And asked for more.
With Will, I asked the nurse for my epidural and
she answered saying,"Ma'am, we actually have to admit you first."
So I rely heavily on modern medicine. I'm not ashamed.
But the dulling of the pain did not dull the euphoria,
the heights of joy and the fall of tears,
as each new baby was placed on my stomach the first time.
That unbelievable moment of meeting
an absolutely new person that had never been met before.
Touching tiny noses, kissing eyebrows and whispering
their names to them. It was indescribable.
And awesome. Scott would agree.
And to know that these little ones,
were made up of the two of us, was magic.
We could not get enough of them.
It didn't matter that Jack's head was shaped like
Bobby Brown's hair in his My Perogative video
or that Will had red scratches around his eyes
that looked like Gene Simmon's eye makeup from KISS.
It didn't matter that, I STILL had a 20 hour labor
with Addison even though he was baby #3.
Okay, it mattered but I forgave him the moment I saw him.
There is something about that moment of becoming a mom
that it is beautiful and glorious and
makes your heart ache inside your chest with the goodness of it.
I forget things a lot since becoming a mom of three.
I forget appointments, brushing my teeth
and the odd school function.
I forget to pack Jack's lunch,
and the names of close family friends.
But looking into the faces of my three sons,
holding their small pink bodies close
and saying, for the first time,
"Hi, sweet boy. I'm your mommy."
That is something I will never forget.

thoughts on laundry

I had a revelation today,
as I passed by the pile of laundry on my living room floor,
the little boys clothes draped across the chair,
the full hamper in the kids room,
the basket in the baby's room overflowing with wee baby things,
the folded clothes on top of the dryer,
the handwashed pants hung over the ironing board to dry,
the unmatched socks littering the laundry area,
the sheets and towels towering on my dresser,
and the trail of clothes encircling my bed like an island.
This is what drives women to madness.
Utter madness.
The inability to finish laundry, I think, has sent
countless otherwise sane women, to special places,
with padded rooms and therapists.
Why?
They want to go somewhere where they don't have to do laundry.
I'm sure you think nudist colonies were founded by hippies
longing to get free from the restraints of society.
Not so.
This movement was, in fact, encouraged by a band of mothers,
who refused to keep doing laundry.
Their children hounded them for clean socks one too many times.
And something snapped.
These mothers said,
"That's it. No more clothes for you. You're going naked."
What choice did the children have? They had to form a colony.
Once I actually got to the bottom of the hamper.
I came back three minutes later and someone had tossed socks in.
There is a rumor that I was found, rocking,
in fetal position, murmuring, "The clothes are against me."
I will neither confirm or deny this rumor.
As I type, I know I have to go back out there,
with my game face on and deal with the laundry.
It must be done.
But I have a dream.
Someday all the socks will match.
And someone else will empty the lint trap.
The hampers will be emptied.
The towels will be folded.
And I will never ever have to put away clothes again.
It's never wrong to dream big, girls....
Mother's Day is just around the corner.

Ok Go makes me laugh

I went out to coffee last night with friends.
Nothing could be better than
a good beverage and fun conversation
At one point, we were talking about things that make us happy.
For me nothing can top a good lip sync and dance routine.
The inspiring creativity. The use of hot pink.
The funky white patent leather loafers.
Those are just bonuses.
Add a treadmill and you are beyond golden.
If I had 6 treadmills I would memorize this
and perform it just for the sheer joy of it.
And I would ask my college roomies
Barbie, Leslie and Missy to join me.
We lived for lip sync competitions. And we won. :)

I dedicate this to the girls coffee crew-
may we lip sync together someday!
Paula, Lindsey and Jen, this is for you.

Ok Go

just another exciting Sunday

When Scott and I came back to California to plant a church,
I had a lot of thoughts about what it might be like.
I knew that the process would stretch me.
Oh, how I have been stretched.
And pummelled. And on several occasions, humiliated.
Mostly in regards to leading worship.
It's all the pride I have welling up in me like a verdant fountain.
I really do prefer to keep up appearances.
But when you are leading worship, you are vulnerable.
You're up front. Laying it all out there.
And if something goes awry....there is no where to hide.
The latest, in a long line of worship leading gaffs, took place yesterday.
All of our other worship leaders who play instruments were out of town.
So I agreed to lead acapella with my sister, Jenny.
We've sung together for years - no big deal, right?
It was just a small group of us. The first two songs were fine.
Harmonies interwoven. People joining in.
Praise God.
Then I tried to do something different.
There is a cool Casting Crowns song I've been listening to a lot lately.
And now my life song sings.
We were going to listen once through and then join in singing the song.
So we all listened to it, meditating on the words.
Unfortunately, there was a small skip towards the end of the song.
I felt a little flutter in my stomach.
I giggled a bit nervously as I popped the CD out,
rubbed it on my shirt and put it back in so we could sing along.
Dear God in heaven, why didn't I just let us listen to it and move on?
As we started to sing along there was just not one skip but a cacophony of skips.
Kind of sounding like small jackhammer.
Let my -Ck- ck-ck-ca-ck-ck-ck-to-ckca-you!
And here I was trying to follow along, trying to match the pauses,
figure out what words it would skip and trying to sing over the top of it.
I once was blind but n-ck-ck-ca-I-see-ck-ck-ca!
I felt the heat begin to rise up my neck.
I glanced over at Jenny, who was looking sympathetic and nodding.
I once was bl-ck-ck-but-ck-ck-ca-I-s-ck-ck-ca!
I couldn't bear to look at anyone else.
God bless our church,
they were right there with me, singing, pausing, jumping notes.
I reached over and stopped the CD, trying to keep singing.
The loss of the music, even skip filled music,
sent us into a downward spiral of notes,
since no one really knew the song and heaven knows,
we needed the Casting Crowns to sing back-up.
I brought it to a quick close and turned it over to Scott
but not before having a full body sweat through and feeling slightly nauseated.
Many friends have told me they enjoy hearing of my humiliating experiences.
I keep praying they will come to an end. Soon.
But I have this awful feeling, that as long as I keep trying to lead worship,
there are many more to come.

surviving Helga

I'm always looking for something to get me excited
about exercising.
Because I really don't enjoy it. It's not my favorite.
I usually stick with videos.
But I thought I'd try something a little more challenging.
I talked my sister, Erica, into going to the gym with me
the last time she was down for a visit.
We went to a class called Boot Camp 24.
(Note to the exercise challenged - avoid classes
with the words turbo, power or boot attached to them.)
We arrived late. A little nervous. A little wary.
The women there were already working
with a variety of equipment.
Steps, weights, bars, etc.
They were yelling at the music. Getting pumped. Excited.
We almost left.
We should have.
But they beckoned us in and gave us our own equipment.
I think only then did I notice the instructor.
We called her Helga.
She looked like a viking princess from a Wagner opera.
She had long red hair and WWF biceps, but it was her thighs
that mesmerized us.
She could have crushed a small country with them.
Why in heaven's name did her thighs have to be so large?
What class could possibly require such musculature?
Panic set it. But we had our pride. The music pounded.
We lunged. We lifted. We balanced. We tried to keep up.
We faltered. We dehydrated. We wept a little.
Helga, with her Arnold legs, was relentless. She rocked our world.
Eventually, the hour mark passed. The class wound down.
Erica and I peeled ourselves off of the floor after cool down.
Helga's face looked a little pink...that was all.
I'm pretty sure she never broke a sweat.
We got out while we could, with our rubbery legs and sweaty hair.
It took us days to recover.
Helga lives large in our memories.
We still get a little scared when we talk about her.
But we also talk about that class with a gleam of pride.
We know we survived something big.
We survived Helga and her wonder thighs.

confession#5: I have hard days

I love easy days.
I prefer them.
But sometimes I have hard days. I know I am not alone.
Days that require deep breathing and large amounts of chocolate.
Some days just break me down.
I remember when I called my doctor 8 weeks after Addison was born
and left this message....
"The post-partum has hit...life feels bad...I have insomnia...I'm crying...
I don't want to hurt myself or my kids...I just want to go live in Hawaii."
She called back and said...
"Come on in. Let's get you back on track....we'll get you sleeping.
And as for Hawaii, the only way I'm sending you there
is if you take me with you."
I laughed. It felt good.
Laughter seems to ease the passage of the hard pressed life.
It seems to release something deep inside me
that needs to get out.
Today I was listening to a Casting Crowns song
while I was making lunch for the boys.
It was talking about praising God in the storm saying...
"I raise my hands and praise the God who gives and takes away."
Now personally I would prefer the song to say....
"I raise my hands and praise the God who gives...La-la-la-la."
That's just me. I like easy.
But right now we're at not-so-easy-on-the-cusp-of-down-right-hard.
And sometimes I need to get free.
So as the song got to the part about God holding our tears in his hands,
I took a deep breath, clutched the stove, and did a startling back bend.
Will set down his ham and cheese.
I plied. I tried a pirouette. A little grapevine from aerobics class.
Addison giggled.
I leapt...swayed... lifted my hands in an awkward ballet.
My backyard neighbors would have gotten a show
had they glanced over the fence.
The boys laughed. I laughed.
I'm sure they think mommy is cracked but they like me that way.
Will and Addie joined me for a tango.
You just can't beat a good three-way-tango.
So life is still hard.
But today, I got a little free.
It feels good to laugh.
Only next time I am going to kick it up a notch.
I'm adding hip hop.