I want them to stay that way.

With the release of Toy Story 3, Natalie has been interested in watching the other Toy Story movies that she'd never seen before. So, thank you very much, Netflix, I will take a copy of Toy Story 2.
We decided to make a movie night out of it. So there we were, in the living room eating popcorn, when the toys turn down the Barbie aisle of Al's Toy Barn. Their jaws drop, their eyes bug out, and I was sorely disappointed. I don't want my girls thinking this is a normal way for guys to act around girls, anymore than I want them to go around scantily clad like the Barbies.

My children are still very innocent, and I like it that way. When the dentist asked Natalie if she was dating, she gave him a blank look. She doesn't know what that means. When he asked if she had any boyfriends, she knew how to answer. She has lots of friends that are girls, but only two close friends that are boys. "Yeah, I have two -- Avery and Ethan."

My mom took Natalie and her cousins to the store while we were visiting, and Natalie came back with a Polly Pocket pool set. It's got a pool, swimming suits, clothes, Polly, and a boy. Natalie says that the boy and girl are brother and sister. I LOVE that. Because, why else would a girl and boy hang out together in their swimming suits unless they were brother and sister?

So Disney, go ahead and make movies for children. I mean, I'm not crazy about it when you put scary parts in, or make the villain a witch doctor like in your last princess movie. I'm still watching you pretty closely before I decide if my kids lay eyes on you. But please, could you spare us some of the junk and make movies for children?

Happy Birthday, Elsie!

I'm putting up an old post today, since it is what I have been thinking about this week. I love you, my Elsie Joy-comes-in-the-morning!





I was holding Elsie this morning before Natalie woke up, and I was struck -- as I often am -- with the thought of how blessed I am to have her. Elsie is my miracle baby, which is funny because there was never anything wrong with her, as is usually the case when that term is used. My pregnancy and delivery were textbook perfect, as a matter of fact.

When I became pregnant with Elsie I had finished recovering from a surgery from an ectopic pregnancy only two months earlier. Jason and I sat down on the bed, looking at a stick with a little pink plus sign, and didn't say too much. Really, we were expecting that plus sign, we'd been trying for that plus sign, but we were still in shock.

After Elsie was born, at my six week check-up, all I could do was sit and stare at the little pink bundle in the carseat. It was a year and two weeks after my surgery. And the thought hit me, I could have spent this last year with no pregnancy, and no baby. Jason and I could have spent the last year trying, and being depressed, wallowing in pain and sadness. Or I could have become pregnant and spent nine months in oppresive worry. In fact, I remember telling Mary R. that I didn't know how I could ever become pregnant again without being in constant worry (She wisely spoke words that I will always remember: But Eleanor, worrying only takes away. It never adds). Instead our story had a different end -- a different middle even. It was a time of great healing for us, of expectation, of hope.

It's that of that story that Elsie continually reminds me. Please understand that I am not saying -- and would never say -- that a loved one lost can be replaced by another. But Elsie is a reminder of the abounding mercy and the abounding love of God in my life. Of all the ways things could have been, but weren't. She makes me grateful for so many other things, and for so many other people that I still share this life with. That's why Elsie is my miracle baby. I see in her the miracle of God at work in our lives.

Just one moment, please.

Do you know what I am doing right now?

Eating ice cream.

Let us bow our heads and have a moment of silence for ice cream.

...

Ah, yes. Extra creamy vanilla with some Hershey's chocolate perfected drizzled over the top. And it is even more enjoyable to me that I'm eating it now when the girls are asleep. Ice cream as a family affair is fun, but by yourself, it is indulgence. Like taking a bubble bath (and when was the last time you did that?)

Wait, let me take another bite.

Sigh.

I have rules about ice cream. Actually I'm just taking these right off the top of my head, but I think they're true just the same.

1. Never waste the calories on a flavor you don't REALLY enjoy. (When I find one I'll let you know...)

2. Always take just a little less than what you really want to eat. You'll feel self-controlled. Empowered, even. At the bottom of the bowl you will still want more, but you'll say to yourself, "Ahhh. That was just the right amount of ice cream."

3. Eat it when you can truly enjoy it. Maybe this is why I like to eat it when the girls are in bed. I have a desire to savor my desserts. Have you ever been at a restaurant with friends, and happened upon the most amazing dessert OF YOUR LIFE, but one particular individual just keeps talking and talking and talking? And you love them and all (truly, you are there for the friend, not the dessert) but you just want to say, "Will you excuse me for one moment while I soak in the luscious, smooth, and (probably) chocolatey-ness of this dessert?" Of course, you don't. You would never, ever say this. But occasionally after a good bite you think, "This dessert is slipping away from me!"

There. My ice cream is finished. My inspiration has been devoured, and therefore I have nothing left to say.

Uh, the rules were freebies.
You're welcome.

Commenter's Intimidation

Ok, I admit: I have commenter's intimidation. There are blogs I read on a regular basis that I will not comment on. Way too scary.
Sometimes I don't comment because I have nothing to say that wasn't already said by someone else. Sometimes it was so beautiful that it seems inadequate to write "That is so beautiful." But mostly, on these particular blogs, I don't comment because these people are cool. And you know that saying, Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt? I'm trying not to be a live demonstration of that one. Well, the "remove all doubt" part anyway (ok, and the being thought a fool part, too. But I'm only in control of one of those things).
A few times I have bucked up enough courage to leave a comment, and usually I have regretted it. Even tortured myself with it. Surely I sounded dumb. Ridiculous at best. Why did I ever comment? They would never know I was even reading their blog!

One blog I read is maintained by a Christian chic-lit writing pair. If you've never read a post by these gals, you should go browse a couple. I find them very entertaining. But I never comment. Oh, no. In fact, they have contests where they give away books they've written if you tweet about their new book coming out, or write a blog post on a certain topic. I seriously considered entering the last one because, wouldn't it be so fun to win?
But, no. Because those other people who are so cool that I don't want to comment on their blogs? They read AND are brave enough to comment on this one. And . . . what if I won (they announce the winners via a blog post) and thought, "What, she reads this one, too? Does she have to invade everything we read? Isn't there anything left that's just fun for us?"

You have to understand, I know that line of thinking is silly. These are nice people; they probably would never think that about me, or if they did, they would be remorseful immediately afterward. But I still feel like I can't take the chance. And so, it looks as though I will not be winning free books anytime soon.

I would like to take this moment to say that if, by chance, I have regular readers out there who are afraid to comment here, you really shouldn't be. Honestly, haven't I shown you enough of myself to prove that you are cooler than me? Be free. If you don't like to comment, I'm cool with that. But if you are one who sits there, holding yourself back so that you won't comment and feel dumb later, please don't. After all, blogging is slightly narcissistic -- bloggers like to know that people are reading what they write.

So, is there anyone else out there who joins this silent frustration of commentor's intimidation?

Dear Jason,


Twenty-eight years ago today I was born, and you were three months old. There was no way that we could have known what God had planned for us.

But it was good.

Love,
Eleanor

On a scale of 0 to 10 ...

Hello. My name is Eleanor, and I'm a distracted messie.

I don't really know how this happened, or when my family first noticed it. I suppose it's hereditary.
I first learned to recognize it when my mother gave me a book -- one that I think she had been given herself -- called, "The Messie's Manual." In its chapters I found descriptions of myself, nodded my head, and even laughed out loud. I'd never before known that my problem was so common.

I don't think my father is a true "cleanie;" he probably falls in the "4-6" group on the given scale of 0 to 10. "0" = disaster, "10" = perfection. They say "0-1"s don't even come to a Messies Anonymous seminar. They don't care enough to want to change. "7-9"s are cleanies; there is really no need for them to attend a seminar like that. It's the "2-3"s that need help. Although, "4-6"s sometimes come to learn and get a little better.

To be brutally honest, I actually fall into more than one category of messie. I think it was 3 or 4. Yikes. But "distacted messie" is the one Jason and I laugh the most about. I've come a long way since I've been married, believe me. In fact, I have a mental list of things I want done around the house each week, and I'm really good about getting them all done. Well, I was before I became pregnant. But like I say, I was pretty proud of my progress.

Lately one child or another has been waking up in the middle of the night, and sometimes I have trouble going back to sleep. After being up for an hour and a half last Saturday, I decided to get out of bed at 5 in the morning. I figured I could pick up some toys that were scattered in the den, start some laundry, and maybe even wash the dishes I was too tired to tackle the night before. I started out well enough in the den. But when Jason walked out to see what had become of me a few minutes later, I felt a little sheepish.

"I couldn't sleep, so I came out here to pick up a little bit. But then I saw this book I've started and realized that I hadn't read the forward yet, and I really wanted to . . ."

Are you beginning to understand what a distracted messie is?

Vanity sale: $3-$30,000

*Here you go, Heather! :)


Yesterday I was driving alone in my car to Wal-Mart. The "alone" part of that sentence is rare enough, but I was also sporting a new haircut and a scarf Jason brought me from Israel. I was feeling pretty good. Pretty stylish. Even evniable, you might say.

I stopped at a red light and noticed a red convertible on the other side of the intersection. And it occurred to me that I didn't need one. I was pretty sure I felt just as amazing as that guy did in his costly car with just my $18 haircut. Or with just my $3 scarf.

Maybe that's a guy thing, I thought. Needing to spend lots of money to feel important, instead of just having a new hair style or a new accessory.

Until I drove past and saw that the driver was a woman.