My 17-month old reads my blog. The reason I know this is because immediately after I posted the previous entry, she decided to see if there was really a Humble Blogger in the house. She wanted to know if her Mama was a fake.

You know what happened already. I don’t need to tell you that she ditched her sleeping through the night routine for being wide awake from 1 – 4 a.m. and a few hours in between. I’m not godly between those hours; that’s why I sleep. She didn’t want food, a diaper change, or any of the usual baby ransoms. No, it’s worse: she wanted to play. It’s a good thing I’m in love.

It’s almost predictable. As soon as you push the Cruise Control motherhood button, it always happens: the flu hits, the milk spills, and your neighboring Prairie Muffin perfects her handmade whole wheat freshly ground bread. (The question, by the way, isn’t, “What’s wrong with me?” but “How’d you do that?!”)

The lesson, of course, is that calling on the name of the Lord is a daily thing. And, if you live in my house… so is spilling milk.

Change is usually difficult, but planning and executing small steps improves the likelihood of a good outcome. I mentioned some of our family goals before, and after revisiting them in numerous conversations since, I realize well that the task is large. Large, but not insurmountable. Planning small– yet forward moving– steps and then taking them is a large element of whether or not we will realize our goals.

So often it is easier to do nothing and get nothing, than it is to do something small and wait for the return. It is a practice in delayed gratification that our culture shuns and does nothing to encourage: “Obey your thirst,” “Just do it,” and “Have it your way.” But since we are followers of Christ, the concept is a familiar one, as the Christian life is all about our future hope. We believe now, hope now, work now, because one day we will be with Him. (Matthew 6:19-21; John 14:3)

One current example of a way we’ve implemented change by taking small steps is at the dining room table. I haven’t mentioned anything here, because I didn’t want to own it if I failed in implementing the change. The change I’m referring to is a little healthier cuisine being served at the table. Sure, I tried to sneak it in (never mentioning my secret campaign) and prayed their taste buds would take a permanent vacation. The first time I served brown rice my husband accused me of attempted murder. But now I mix brown rice with long grain (slowly increasing healthier proportions each time), and the family hasn’t noticed much. They hold their tongues in mature gratefulness. Or they’re choking—I’m not sure.

The point is that the change—while slow and still in progress—has been successful over several months because of deliberate planning, its small scale, and my taking action without waiting for everything to be “certified organic.” It’s a journey we’ll continue in the kitchen, and if the Lord wills, with our whole house.

And speaking of small steppers, my 17-month-old is getting
around quite well now. She’s a joy.

I don’t usually do memes for whatever reason, but this one was painless enough. Plus, whenever a mother of 12 asks you to do something, you just do it. So thanks, Barbara, for asking. Here are my answers:

1. Seven things to do before I die: Be more holy, own a farm, and see all my children (and their children) walk in truth. That’s only three but adding more would minimize my top picks.

2. Seven things I cannot do: Be godly when I sew, be a faithful blogger, understand the deal with cranberry sauce, play a game nicely, control weeds in the garden, tell the kids I’m counting to five, and be holy without Help.

3. Seven things that attract me to my husband: He is smart, loves God, is tall, gets me stuff in the middle of the night when I’m pregnant, brings me a nursing baby whenever we have one (…which is often), can fix anything, can build anything, enjoys my schemes, reads the Bible to us, and isn’t lazy. That’s more than seven, but I can’t help it.

4. Seven things I say most often: Time for breakfast. Time for lunch. Time for dinner. Okaaaaaaay…five minute clean up, everyone! I’m hungry; aren’t you? Who… (left this on the floor, didn’t bring their dishes over, etc.)? Bring it here, “Not Me.”

5. Seven books (or series) I love: I’m going to list the books that have had the most impact in causing a change in my thinking or behavior, from least to greatest importance. The Rich Dad, Poor Dad series (though I don’t recommend the greediness aspect of it) motivated us to not let $20 left over at the end of the week sit in the bank collecting 4% interest. Reading Body for Life (again, not recommended unless you can sort through junk) motivated me to lose 40 pounds after my third baby and get in the best shape of my entire life. The Complete Tightwad Gazette taught me how to have $20 left over at the end of the week. Elisabeth Elliot’s books mentored me for several years while I wasn’t allowed to attend a Biblical church. And God’s Word renews my mind and thinking, enabling me to live confidently in a postmodern culture without fear.

6. Seven movies I watch over and over again: The only movie I’d watch again on purpose is Gone With the Wind.

7. Seven people I want to join in, too: The only seven people left in Blog Land who haven’t done this one.

Commenting
I’ve wrestled with leaving the comments on or off for various reasons, none of which anyone should take personally. One large reason, the spam traffic has been a hassle lately and not something I want to manage right now. However, I want to take a minute to thank each one of you who comment for taking a minute to write down your thoughts and assure you that I read every note, even though I don’t always acknowledge them all with a return comment on the site. I enjoy the feedback, both positive and negative.

Thanks
Two Talent Living sponsored a contest wherein this site won an award for “Best Variety” of content among women’s blogs. I’m thinking that maybe I should post next on Buffalo Migrating Practices for variety’s sake. Thanks to all who read here.

I thought I’d pass along our favorite (made-up) recipe. It’s so easy and delicious. We have this meal almost every week, not because I’m feeling uncreative but because it’s that good. The kids cheer and whoop when I answer the What’s-For-Dinner nightly question with, “Chicken and rice!” It’s a more favorable reply to them than, “Liver and onions,” or “I don’t know…whatcha cookin’?”

4-5 + lbs. of boneless, skinless chicken or pork loin can be substituted
Olive Oil
Fresh Garlic cloves
Onion (optional)
Lime juice
Goya’s Adobo seasoning
3-4 tsp. Chicken bouillon

Put meat, bouillon, a halved onion, salt and pepper to taste, and about 1 cup or so of water in crockpot on high in the morning.

An hour before dinnertime, meat should be tender enough to separate with fork easily. Drain off all liquid and return meat to crockpot. Then pull apart the meat with a fork. Add enough olive oil until very moist. Add several cloves of chopped garlic (we like a lot) and sprinkle lightly to taste with Adobo seasoning. Leave in crock pot another hour.

Serve with black beans, rice, and sour cream on side. Top meat with lime juice to taste upon serving.

As a side note, yucca root (pronounced “you-ka”) goes well with this… if you can manage to get everyone to refrain from calling it, “yuck-a.” I was unsuccessful.

Update: Here’s the Adobo seasoning I referred to in the recipe. You can usually find in either the ethnic food section (Spanish/Cuban) or seasonings aisle of your grocery store. It is a salt, garlic, oregano, tumeric blend, but somehow it doesn’t taste like it. (The oregano must be very light.) Old Bay would not be a substitute.

Valerie upgraded the site to the latest version of WordPress this weekend. Some of you who subscribe to the comments might have noticed that the subscription feature hasn’t been working for awhile. There were a few other little quirks occurring that let us know it was time to upgrade. It turns out that it was happening on the PHP-something-host side of things. I’m not sure. I don’t know. Don’t ask me. I just type here. Thanks, Valerie.

I apologize for any error pages you might have been experiencing, but Valerie says they’ve been minimal. Please let me know if there are any other features or pages down.

Anyway, posting will might resume next week. The weekend is full and halfway over!

I am the worst mother ever.

There are two cop cars on my street as I’m typing this, and I bet they’re looking for me. It all began this morning when I left the children unsupervised while I brushed my teeth. Sticky note to self: You are a mother now; you are not allowed to spend copious amounts of time on personal hygiene! Get over it, lady.

So the Child-Who-Will-Remain-Unnamed– but happens to be the oldest and most responsible of the bunch– took it upon himself to dole out the vitamins (which are on a very high shelf in the kitchen) this morning without asking. He opened the child-proof lid and gave each Scott kid one serving, which amounts to two vitamins each. Normally this wouldn’t be a problem, as the kids know the rules and wouldn’t dream of taking more than allotted.

But the 18-month-old doesn’t know Scott Rule #8349847, which states clearly: Do not eat entire bottles of vitamins. Yes, you know what happened. Child-Who-Will-Remain-Unnamed neglected to put away the bottle, leaving it open on the table. Baby Energizer –who is really feeling the energy now—consumed an estimated 40 vitamins. But looking on the bright side, it was only 20 servings.

To confirm my suspicions, we first needed to track down the vitamin bottle. We turned the house upside down searching for the missing vitamin bottle, as I placed a frantic call to my husband to google “vitamin poisoning” on the internet. I barked out commands to the older three kids like a drill sergeant, “Find the vitamin bottle NOW!” while simultaneously coaxing the baby with sweet words, “Tell Mama where the vitamins are…show Mommy…you can do it.”

She just smiled at me.

I finally found the vitamin bottle when my husband called to tell me that it was the iron in vitamins that are toxic. I read and reread the bottle over and over. There’s no iron in my children’s multivitamin! What kind of mother gives her kids vitamins without iron in them? Right—only bad mothers. But apparently, being a bad mother was working out for me today.

Another call to the National Poison Center (1-800-222-1222) confirmed that iron is the thing to worry about and that there was no need to get her stomach pumped. “But,” I challenged, “Can’t a person overdose on vitamins A, D, E, or K?” The reply was that it had to be ingested repeatedly over a long period of use. OK, good. This is only my first time of mothering neglect accidental overdose. As the cop cars drive by now slowly in front of my house, I regret giving the National Poison Control Center my real name.

So, no more gummy vitamins. It’s back to the gross ones. As far as this happening again, a serious talk to all the children (with special emphasis to Nameless-Kid) confirmed that they understood the seriousness of the offense.

And as for me, no more teeth brushing. I think it’ll aid my safety in jail.

Postscript: The vitamin bottle was found in the trashcan. The baby threw it away after she ate them. Maybe I’m not doing such a bad job after all.

There’s nothing like a good trip to the emergency room in the middle of the Christmas season. Thankfully, our company had just left last night, and I was able to fit in the four hour ordeal before the onslaught of activity begins continues. I do not have a free day until December 26 wherein I am not required to cook, host, perform, and smile.

And everyone wants to know why I’m a Grinch.

Only Grinches give pop quizzes, so here goes: What was the purpose of the emergency room visit?

a. The vitamins were more toxic than first thought. (See post below.)
b. Someone needed stitches.
c. I was in labor.
d. My husband wiped the counter again and broke his finger. (True story.)
e. To acquire the Avian bird flu.

Got your answer? The correct answer is “e.” I actually didn’t have the Avian bird flu before I went to the ER, but I feel pretty certain that I increased my odds a hundred fold. Here’s the skinny.

It all started when my father-in-law generously offered to baby sit so that I could hopelessly catch-up perfect all the music coming up. I used the afternoon to practice, returned home, and took a nap. Sticky note #2 to self: You are a mother of almost 5 kids now. No napping. Mush, mush, mush!

So I woke up wheezing terribly, due to my haywire allergies and people who won’t stay home when they’re sick. As the night wore on, the breathing became painful and the usual remedies of steam and Vicks weren’t helping. Normally, I’d just deal, but I didn’t want the baby I’m carrying to suffer. So, I placed a call in to the midwife.

Me: My name is Amy Scott; I was just in your office yesterday.

Midwife who has no clue who I am due to the high volume of patients they must see to cover medical malpractice insurance: You were?

Me: Yes, I’m the one with all the kids. (I use this line all the time, and it works.)

Midwife: Ohhhhhh, you mean the one with all the well-behaved kids!

I gave back my Bad Mother of the Year Award and proceded to tell her the problem. A half hour later I’m in the cattle corral ER waiting room, murmuring about big burly men with broken toes who get called in before wheezing, panting pregnant woman. Chivalry is dead, I tell you, along with common sense. Sticky note to self #3: Always grab your chest when signing in at the ER.

While I’m getting oxygen (stats were low) and breathing treatments (I appreciate the concern, but please don’t write to me about my decision to take it), the following scene repeats itself several times over:

Stranger: First baby?

Me: No, fifth. (smile)

Stranger: Don’t-you-know-what-causes-that?-do-you-know-about-birth-control?-you-mean-by-choice-or-chance?

Me: (smiling and hyperventilating continues…)

Refusing a wheelchair 10 times over, I walked back to a room where I’d spend the next few hours. I passed several cops and kept my head real low (see post below), even though they stole my room (from a pregnant lady, no less). I listened on as a crazy lady got loose, police locked down the place, and an old man yelled for 20 minutes, “Help! Is anyone out there? Is anyone out there?”

I almost unhooked all my wires to help the guy, but I was glad I didn’t when I finally heard his complaint: He was a little chilly.

*Miscellaneous detail: I want an Avian bird flu mask for Christmas.*

So the evening ends like this. The ER doctor discharges me with an inhaler, tells me to follow up with my primary care doctor to get some birth control (yes, I laughed at him), and wishes me a Happy Holiday.

Bah Humbug.

I am flying around the house making preparations for a large group of people to arrive tonight for dinner. If I were trying to be accurate, I’d call it a “party,” but I don’t want to put too much pressure on myself, so I prefer to say that “people are dropping by.” Apparently my ER story didn’t garner too much sympathy. (I’m fine, by the way.)

My husband is out securing firewood for tonight. You can’t have a party gathering without ambiance. It’s in the low 70’s today, and I’ve been hoping all day that the temperature will drop further so we can turn the lights down low and enjoy a fire. With the lights lowered, the scuff marks on the walls don’t show as well.

There are three reasons that people live in Florida: November, December, and February. Sure, we pay for it in the summer, but it’s pretty nice right now. So, I caught myself grumbling, “Why can’t we have a little fire…come on, Mr. Cold Front….,” and then I thought of all my northern friends who were wishing for a break in the snow fall.

There is a certain breed of person that we all have in our lives that won’t be happy no matter the circumstance. Can you think of a person like that? You know what I mean—they’re never happy. So, I caught myself today and prayed that I could say with Paul in Philippians, I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. (4:12)

A fire is such a small thing, a trivial matter. But it is the practice of godliness in daily life that prepares us for the sure trial to come.

As I scramble around the house, I offer up my moments to Him and ask God to renew my mind, to help my attitude be content whatever the lot. After all, I don’t want it to be my name that comes to your mind.

Recipe
A friend gave me a little sample with this recipe attached a few years ago. I love making my house smell delicious, like something other than the-trash-needs-to-go-out smell. If you put this on your stove this week, be prepared to pass out the recipe. Everyone goes bonkers for this, even some of the menfolk ask casually, “So, what’s that smell?” (Probably because they just want to eat it…)

Christmas Scent Potpourri
3 – 4 inch. Cinnamon sticks
¼ cup whole cloves
3 bay leaves
½ orange, sliced (optional, in my opinion)
½ lemon, sliced (optional; I use just the rinds)
1 quart of water

Combine ingredients in a saucepan and bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer. Check often and add water if needed. Mixture may be stored in refrigerator for several days and reused. (Source: Southern Living, December 1984)

This week
With both the adult and children’s Christmas programs behind me, I’ve turned my attention to finishing preparations. I kept a running list of “Things To Do” and a master shopping list, but when I tried to open it this week, Word would only allow me to open it by converting it to Japanese. (I could understand if Word automatically converted Wal-Mart lists into Chinese, but Japanese?!) I sent out a plea to my very own, personal rocket scientist to reprogram my lists, but he could only recover some of them. What good is having a private rocket scientist on staff if he can launch a rocket to Pluto, but then tells you, “Your computer has issues; I dunno…”?

Now, my husband isn’t a stereotypical engineer: unable to relate well, lacking common sense, and unable to succeed with manual, useful work. He even has a descent sense of humor. Just so you know.

Regifting
It is my opinion that regifting is in very poor taste, unless the recipient of the passed-along gift would absolutely adore the thing. But it doesn’t happen often that you receive a purple feathered angel statue, and you just happen to know an angel collector whose favorite color is purple. So it is with great hesitancy this year that I endeavor to gift my loved ones with offerings that cannot be returned or passed along:

Unless you have friends with the same name or initials, you’re stuck. The onesie is for my cyber-friend, whom I met on MOMYS. (Mothers Of Many Young Siblings—to “qualify,” you must have had 4 children within 8 years. With my fifth coming while my oldest is 7, I feel like such an overachiever. ) She delivered her fifth child this month: a 10 pound, 12 ounce boy. Wow.

Honorable Mention
It is often that I’ll be chatting along with a friend, and she’ll ask me about something that I’ve already mentioned on this site. To which I’ll exclaim, “Don’t you read my blog?!” Then my shamefully unfaithful friend will beat around the bush, mumbling something about being busy.

But not my father-in-law. He reads my blog. So much so, that when I described my trials last week, he offered to bring a ham and all the trimmings for our gathering this Friday night. I am loved. Friends, blogging pays off sometimes.

If that wasn’t enough, my daughter asked for her birthday dinner party tonight for the terribly difficult menu of pepperoni pizza from Papa John’s. I told all the guests that the menu was now streamlined, due to the wishes of the Birthday Girl. It’s definitely not that I’m tired, lazy, or overworked. Nope. Praise God for little girls who adore take-out pizza.

Are you surprised to find a post here? My husband recently informed me that he’s going to stop reading my site, along with the rest of you. I didn’t intend to take a posting break, but it just happened with the past

12 days of activity…
11 new choral pieces
10 stacks of gifts
9 choir rehearsals
8 (is what people did at my house)
7 hours cleaning
6 minutes to undo it
5 HOURS SLEEP
4 hyper kids
3 sets of relatives
2 strains of viruses and
A husband with a rocket launch.

It all began when we bought this house four years ago. The realtor withheld vital information from the Seller’s Disclosure. The secret? Our street turns into Candy Cane Lane during the month of December, and part of our neighborly duty is to join the uniformity of the street by placing a nine foot tall gigantic, lighted candy cane along the curb. I thought for sure it was a joke, but I learned it wasn’t when the neighborhood kid came by with a posthole digger. Every year, merchandisers create a new gimmick, and the candy cane thing just can’t keep up with the lighted fake icicles, blow-up Santas, and other miscellaneous lawn decorations. However, instead of replacing the old with the new, neighbors just keep adding to their piles, so that now– faded, whitewashed plastic Santas share the manger grass with 20-foot blow-up, tied-down waving polar bears. We only have .3 acre lots here, you know.

As part of my Christmastime rebellion, we only decorate our Colonial home with large red bows and a single candle in every window. We didn’t even put up a tree this year, much to the complaining of all the relatives. When the kids asked for a little holiday sparkle, I sent them outside for five minutes to look at the next door neighbor’s yard.

A steady stream of cars paraded our street for the last couple weeks to gawk, concluding the season in the annual traffic jam around the cul-de-sac bonfire on Christmas Eve. One evening while my husband was outside, an onlooker leaned outside his truck window, and yelled angrily, “Hey, Buster! Put some lights on your house!”

Maybe he knows the guy who smashed several of our street’s candy canes on Christmas Eve. May they rest in peace.

It is not often that I let the culture dictate my agenda. As a Christian, it is my goal to be counter-culture– not for the sake of being odd, as if being odd legitimizes my Christianity, but because it is oftentimes true that when the stream is flowing fast in one direction that God is calling his people to swim the other way. In no other area of life—education, spending habits, down to the clothes on our backs—do I consciously allow the culture to dictate the choices I make. God’s people ought to set standards rather than be swept up by them.

Now that it is the day after Christmas, I find it easier to muse on the meaning of it all and my response to it. If I mentioned aloud what I was thinking two weeks ago, the Christmas Police might have protested my right to protest. But now that presents are stacked in every corner of the house (because there really is no room for more stuff), the Christmas tree is dried and shriveled, the relatives are all mad at each other, and Dad has to climb on the rooftop before the New Year to retrieve the lights, my reflections might be more welcomed.

While I am glad for the reason of the celebration, sometimes I find the process and external expectations of celebrating quite tiring. Dave Black points out that God never commanded us to remember His birth–but rather, His death. Yet the thing he commands us to do, we do so only once every month or two in our churches.

God calls His people to be light. How do I fulfill His call as I grumble about all the lights and tinsel I’ve allowed into our schedule? How much is self-imposed; how much is culture-imposed? How much of this is God-imposed? As a Christian who seeks to do His bidding, this is a legitimate question, as I seek to glorify God in my daily schedule and in all things.

While we won’t forsake celebrating our Savior’s birth altogether, this past Christmas season’s busyness reminded me that the yolk God places on His children is always and perpetually, light.

Both my son and husband like to play with rockets; my husband just gets to do it everyday. Today the two spent the afternoon building a model rocket in the driveway and then launching it later in the day. They claim it went 1400 feet high. Sounds like a fishing story to me, but my trigonometry is a little too rusty to voice any loud dissent.

Rockets, preaching, or cleaning stalls—if my boy grows into half the man my husband is, I’ll be one proud Mama.

My husband and I were talking recently about taking a short trip. As we do with most everything, we have our discussions while the children are underfoot. We don’t whisper in the bedroom and then inform them of family plans the next day at dinner. We’re pretty casual around here, and while the kids know that we have the final say, sometimes they’ll offer their opinion on a matter that we’re discussing.

We’d decided, in the end, not to take the trip, but we never informed the kids. We really didn’t know that they were eavesdropping as much as they were. So, this week I overheard the following conversation in the hallway, as I stood listening in around the corner:

My oldest son, age 7: When Mom and Dad go out of town, I’m the one who is in charge. I have to be The Dad.

[Note to Florida DCF caseworkers: I am absolutely unsure why they thought they wouldn’t be going with us, as we take our children everywhere. We’ve never left them home alone.]

My oldest daughter, age 6: Okay. You can be The Dad, and I’ll be The Mom. You have to get the baby out of bed in the morning, though, because I still can’t lift her out of the crib. She’s too fat. But I can still be in charge too.

They then began dividing duties and discussing all the things that would need to be done, especially what my daughter would be cooking during my absence. I kept my appearance hidden around the corner; this was too good to interrupt.

As they were discussing roles, I knew the most influential reference they had to draw upon was the relationship between my husband and me. In this moment, I was about to be graded on how well my example taught them who ran the house, who was ultimately responsible for the household, and the difference between the two. I cringed, as I hoped to pass the test. In the end, it all went down like this:

Son: You can be in charge of [the four-year-old]. I’ll help you with the baby, and you can sleep on Mom’s side of the bed. But, I’m still in charge.

Daughter: Yeah, but I’m in charge too.

Son: Okay. But, I’m really in charge. I’m the oldest.

Daughter: Okay.

My husband is almost eight years older than me. I decided not to ask them if my son trumped by virtue of his role as the father or by virtue of his birth order. But I did inform them that we’d never leave them home alone and that macaroni and cheese wasn’t acceptable for every meal.

Wives, submit to your own husbands, as to the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife even as Christ is the head of the church, his body, and is himself its Savior. Now as the church submits to Christ, so also wives should submit in everything to their husbands. Husbands, love your wives, as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her, that he might sanctify her, having cleansed her by the washing of water with the word, so that he might present the church to himself in splendor, without spot or wrinkle or any such thing, that she might be holy and without blemish. (Ephesians 5:22-27)