One of the things I do when I walk in the kitchen is glance at the side of the refrigerator. On its side are magnets, kid paintings, miscellaneous business cards, Teen Missions prayer cards (of which there are many in our church), and my dear and beloved calendar. The calendar might be buried, but it’s there. I do not carelessly ascribe affectionate terms to inanimate objects; I really do love/need that thing. I look at my calendar several times a day, first, to remind myself where daily baseball practice is. When I begin lunch preparations, I check to see if we’re still on the same day.

Time is passing slowly for me. The lazy days of summer did something to the moon tide. Checking the calendar is watching the water boil. Checking the calendar is the teenager who reopens the fridge thinking that food might have sprouted since the last time they opened it ten minutes earlier. My life is that scene in Groundhog Day that replays itself out each day. The only thing different is that one day we might be out of turkey for sandwiches. The calendar reminds me that, no, things are different. It’s Tuesday, not Wednesday.

The thing I’ve noticed about the passage of time is that I’m always looking forward. When I’m old, I will look backward and annoy all the grandchildren around me with stories of yesteryear. But for now, I look ahead because I’m young or at least imagine myself to be.

Yet, turning the page of July crept up on me like a jokester ten-year-old with too much time on his hands. (I don’t know any of those.) It was weird. One day it was June and all the sudden—like this doesn’t happen usually—-it was July. That means only six weeks until our move. I told someone that we are leaving next month, and it was weird. Next month. One page turn. Get the boxes from the dump (the Publix dump because they’re so clean they probably Lysol their trash too).

There are things I will miss. Like a studious high school boyfriend that you dump (not that I ever did the break up, I’m just saying, the ladies that read my blog are definitely former heartbreakers and can relate, unlike me), you usually don’t know what you have until you let it go. When I was a teenager, I wanted to be a wife and mother. Now that I am one, I get glazed over watching the retired folks play crocket. I don’t even know what crocket is.

Our place here is like that. There are good things and bad things, but when you get nostalgic, you tend to dwell on the good things. (I could say something here about green grass and pastures, but I’m trying to think outside the cliché.) That’s what I’m going to write about this week—the things I will miss when we move. I don’t suppose it will sway our decision to cancel the moving truck, though, because as I’ve said, I’m always looking forward.

One of the things we will miss is our baseball family. I know Floridians aren’t the only ones who play baseball, but seeing how we can play year round here, we tend to be quite competitive and serious about it. The season never ends for us; we just switch teams with the draft. There was a break for us the week after Christmas last year, but it wasn’t because there wasn’t practice. We just didn’t go.

I still don’t watch baseball on TV. It’s not as interesting, and it lacks the fun nuances of the game. How do you yell at the ump? Who do you argue with over the merits of the last batter’s hit? Was it a hit or an error? Last week, the manager of the other team yelled at his batter for missing his signal. That’s when I yelled, “Infield, watch for the bunt!” Third base comes in. Then the manager said, “Well, never mind now.” I love it. High five. Only in a live game.

People often build friendships based on shared experiences. Over time, the bleachers become more than just a cheering section. It’s a good place for moms of all walks of life coming together for the one reason that they love their boys. We’re all different, but not really.

Greg likes to point out that I was dead set against baseball when we began years ago. That was in the past, though, and we can forgive my idiocy, can’t we? It’s been so good for our family; I don’t even know where to begin. McGregor came up from deep center last night to make a flying, diving, rolling “catch of the game”, and when the bleachers went wild, I let everyone know that he was my boy. I’m so glad I didn’t force him to play the piano. As a mother, it’s not what I would’ve chosen initially, but to see him blossom with his natural talents is a good thing. More and more, I see my job as uncovering the gifts God has given my children instead of pushing them to do what I think they should.

The boys not only won their pool play, they invoked the slaughter rule for every game. Last night was a shut out. Tonight they play for the District title. Go Merritt Island All Star team!

My preschooler asked me yesterday, “If you are not having a baby, how come you are still fat?”

This has happened to me the day after birth, but never seven months later. Sigh.

They will be able to tiff amongst themselves outside of my earshot.

I will stop twitching and my nerves will rest. It will be lover-ly.

One of the things about being “battle worn” in all things baby, is that experience doesn’t seem to make some things more endurable. A miserable baby isn’t easy no matter how many times you’ve handled one. The difference is that I know she will write her name in cursive one day, and that my life as it is, isn’t over just yet.

(I haven’t forgotten my “things I will miss” posts, just in case you thought I wouldn’t miss you….)

I’m afraid of cows. Correct me if I’m wrong, but this seems a bit of a problem.

I found out last week when we visited our friend’s farm where they keep a Jersey milk cow. I did fine milking the goat. The 13-year-old boy with not even a bump of a bicep who can milk it out in 1/1000000 of my time even said I did pretty well. (He didn’t snort after he said it.) The goat wasn’t bad because you can arm wrestle her and stand a chance. So, I did what every reasonable mother would do in a situation like that—I sent in my kids to milk the cow.

The cow was scary. She keep swishing her tail and stomping and kicking. They called it “taking a little step” but it sure looked like Karate Cow to me. I told my son to lean in closer, you know, take the bull by the horns, so to speak. (I understand the analogy breaks down a little there.) I don’t understand why people would get underneath an 800 pound wild beast by choice, but I suppose it takes all types. I just kept having flashbacks of the time I fell off a galloping horse when I was 17. I lived to tell about it, but I sure can’t talk about it without phantom pains in my tailbone.

Like most things, the more you do something, the less scary it becomes. Large groups of kids used to give me heart palpitations and a headache, and now look at me, I only get headaches. Time and wisdom surely cures a lot of things. Check back with me in a few years. If nothing else, at least I’ll have time underneath my belt.

I just wanted to check in here to let you know we’re alive.

We’re still showing the house a few times a week to people who (a) want to wait until the bottom falls out, (b) want to wait until the bottom really falls out, and/or (c) just want to see the competition. I thought I’d reeled one in yesterday, right up until the point she asked for tax and insurance numbers. People keep gushing about my “beautiful home,” but nobody wants to buy it even though it’s the cheapest in its category. I’ll tell you why: taxes, insurance, and the further declining market. Everyone is dumping, and it’s simple supply and demand.

I’ve got an idea. Put the numbers for California and Florida in a bag and mix it up. Throw in Detroit just to keep it real. There you’d have a crystal ball for the rest of the economy. This week I paid $4.99 for seven apples. This lasts about as many minutes in my house. People used to make fun of me when I told them about my dream of an orchard to feed my family. Now they’re going out to Home Depot to get a fruit tree for the backyard. Somehow the validation is no consolation.

Look, I think I might’ve bought an extra bag of rice and maybe some matches (you know, to cook it) for Y2K. I’m not saying we’re doomed. I’m just telling you what stuff looks like right now for someone with three houses for sale. (Our rental properties in Virginia won’t sell either.) Suddenly, my whole backyard chicken thing went from crazy fringe to a pretty good idea.

I didn’t mean to go on about the economy, but I guess that’s what spilled out when I sat down. The economy never bothered me much until it bothered me. Does that make sense? I know there are Bible verses for that. These are the things to think on right before and after you plant your fruit trees. Can you tell my practicality gets in the way of my spirituality? Yet heaven is more real than what’s in front of us.

I saw a list written by my 10-year-old yesterday. It read like this:

1.) A sheepdog for my farm

2.) Cows and goats

I asked him what his list was for. He said, “At church we had to make a list of what we’d buy if we had an unlimited amount of money.” (I assume there was a point to the exercise, but I decided not to ask.)

And I said, “That’s what you wrote?!”

“Yes,” he said, “What else could a kid want?”

I tell you this story to illustrate that our children are watching us. They know what our passions are. They love what we love. Make sure you are passionate about the right things. I’d rather have Jesus than anything, but I wonder if my children really know that. I hope so.

Gotta run. Two showings today.

Many writers use something they call “writer’s freedom” (or some phrase like that) in order to make their stories good. I like to call it “stretching the truth” or “embellishing”, but whatever you call it, I don’t have to do that. For one, I’m not a writer, and for two, my stories are juicy enough. Remember the tenant who tried to murder by garbage can? That was all true.

For the first time in a long while, we had no house showings today. This means I didn’t scrub, hide Legos, clean, and spit shine like a mad woman for buyers who’d be here in 20 minutes. In my son’s mind, according to 10-year-old logic, this meant I was on vacation. “I’m glad you got a break, Mom!” What’s annoying is that he was serious.

How they make it to adulthood, I don’t know.

I am too smart to jest with God. It’s a good idea to honor God anywhere, but I’m just saying that it doesn’t hurt to double honor Him in Florida, the lightning capital of the world. But I do often wonder in the deep parts of my heart—between the baby going down and the toddler popping up– what in the world He meant by “keep the Sabbath holy” when one is the mother of little ones for 10 years straight. Maybe the emphasis is on “holy” and not “rest” like we thought all this time. I don’t know.

Let me tell you about my vacation today. There were diapers, schooling, three meals at home, lots of refereeing in the swimming pool (that I wasn’t in), laundry, devotions to steer their wayward souls, floor scrubbing, cleaning unidentifiable yuckies in the carpet, and a partridge in a pear tree.

I didn’t mow the lawn in the 100 degree heat and my van didn’t break down, though that would’ve made my story better. I hope you don’t mind. Regardless, there is no use in feeling sorry for oneself. I have a lot to give thanks for, which I will do, right after I fall into bed.

The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases;
his mercies never come to an end;
they are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.
“The LORD is my portion,” says my soul,
“therefore I will hope in him.”
~Lamentations 3:22-24

Last night, I said that I was going to bed to count my blessings, but that didn’t happen. There’s always a kink in my plans. Instead of going to bed after a long day of sipping umbrella drinks, I hauled six sleeping kids down to the station at midnight to bail my husband out of jail. I never jest.

It all started when Greg left for Miss-iss-ippi on business. I didn’t mention that he was meeting clients at restaurants in other states while twirling around in a convertible Mustang (while I vacation at home…), because I didn’t want to whine. Whining is annoying, and I knew nobody’d want to hear it. Anyway, in a stroke of “now-that’s-more-like-my-life,” our family van broke down at the airport on his way there. Of course, things work out for him, and he coasts into a parking spot as if he meant to break down right there all along. His luck never happens to me.

I had to tell you all that, so you’d know why he was driving home in a leather Caddy from the airport late last night, just in case you recognized him on the causeway. (As a very valued customer, he always gets upgraded. Last time I rented a car, it was a Hyundai without automatic windows.) On his way home, a man ran a red light as Greg was in the intersection. The (drunk?) driver slammed on his brakes, skidded across the intersection, and hit Greg. The iron Caddy stood strong. Make sure your next wreck is in one of those. Leaving his car parts all over the intersection, the driver took off. In an odd twist, Greg’s pinched nerve in his neck feels much better. If it was me, I’d be in a body cast.

When the police officer arrives on the scene to record the hit-and-run, she pulls up Greg’s license. Apparently, there is another man with the same birthday and last name wanted by police. Poor Greg just wanted to go home to his family and now he’s in handcuffs? Maybe this is like my life after all!

OK. I didn’t really have to bail him out of jail. Greg is so honest, he won’t even share free refills at a restaurant. But sorting out the whole mess last night and all day today seems like an appropriate end to yesterday’s vacation. Don’t ya think?

My son got a Pokemon bookmark from a magazine.

“Look Mom. A Poke Man bookmark.”

He pronounced “Poke” like what you do to someone’s eye.

I love my girlfriends. They’re great. And nothing beats a good game of Childbirth Swap. Now, this isn’t a game where you do anything illegal. I’m just talking about the stories. Have you ever stood in a circle munching carrots sticks and ranch dip while you exchange childbirth horror stories? You haven’t lived until you’ve done that.

It all starts with the first lady. I don’t know why she goes first, because as you’ll see, the first person is doomed to lose. You can’t win if you go first, but someone has to get the ball rolling.

“I had a cold when I delivered my first. You wouldn’t even believe….” [Score: 0]

“Oh yes I would. I had THE FLU!” [Score: 1 if she was vomiting]

Then the third lady tells about the doctor who didn’t get there in time, the nurse who yelled at her, the needle that was 10 feet long, or some other variation of a hospital staffing problem. [Score: 1 point for each error.] I don’t usually talk about the 20-year-old gangster EMT trainee boy they asked to bring in for my fifth birth. Nah, you’ve got to hold out for the big guns. I’ve got better stuff up my sleeve, and so I wait.

If the group of ladies is large enough, someone surely died and came back to life Jack Bauer style. You must attentively listen to the postpartum hemorrhage details and nod in empathy. This lady is king and you must pay homage. Begin subtracting points for any natural childbirth ladies in the room who had a 20 minute labor. Give her the evil eye. Do not offer her your formula coupons. Play hardball.

Dying in childbirth is incredibly rare these days in our country, and I count it a blessing that we’re able to play this fun game. It is common grace, evidenced by the fact that everyone is swapping stories with reckless abandon.

During my fifth birth, I closed my eyes and thought, “So this is what it is like to die in childbirth.” That moment changed who I am forever, and it is rare that I meet someone with the same scar. I do not share my story, because it isn’t time for that. It is never time.

When the birthing stories begin to resemble men’s fishing tales, I pull out my only claim to fame, “I’ve delivered six.” The crowd gasps, and I say, “Pass the carrots.” And life goes on.