Dear Forest Animals,

Dear Forest Animals (especially the families of Bambi and Thumper),

I know you are probably still in shock at the loss of Thumper.  Especially after loosing Bambi just months ago.  I don't know if this letter will even make much of a difference coming from the wife of the man that slaughtered your furry family.  But I must at least try.

I should have seen the red flags years ago.  I specifically remember before our wedding vows, hearing the story of his teenage years and how one bright and unsuspecting summer day, there was an "accident" involving a lawn mower and a turtle.  Little did I know it was the start of something sinister.

Years later, a bunny rabbit and her babies were enjoying the new life spring brings.  Laying out under a pile of grass, staying warm, the bunnies again had no idea their lives would soon change forever. With the same weapon of destruction, the vicious blades of the mower spun rapidly toward their little home.  The sound would have drowned out any screams the babies could have made. Before they knew it, the big, red machine was recklessly over them and all they could do was duck and cover.  When it was all said and done, one bunny was bleeding, the others forever traumatized.

Here's the thing, little baby bunnies, once precious animal blood has been shed, there is a thirst for more.  The desire may lay dormant for months, even years... But it does come back.

Last year, after a day of frolicking through the meadows and quiet drinks by the stream, Bambi took an evening stroll.  She quickly crossed the street, only to be met with a beastly vehicle and bright lights.  Hopefully it was quick and the bright lights of the car were forever replaced with the shining light of deer heaven.  But perhaps Bambi's death was not quite so disturbing as the comments made by the man just shortly after the atrocity, "What kind of animal runs right in front of a car?" ...I kid you not.  I can only hope the pain lies somewhere deep inside.

Flash forward to last night.  While lying in bed, the perpetrator says rather casually and without concern, "I hit a rabbit tonight." Ummm, okay. Let's rewind, sir.  "What?!" I said in shock and disbelief, "you killed a rabbit?" and without skipping a beat he said, "He zigged when he should of zagged."

So, there you have it forest creatures. I want to say it will never happen again.  I want to say there's a morsel of good left in this world.  But I cannot.  All  I can do is leave you with this stern warning: Keep your loved ones close.

Your Friend,

The Wife

9X2

My oldest child will be 9 in three months.  No biggie.  It's not like 10- the double digit birthday, or 13- the teenage birthday, or even 16- the birthday where you lie to your kid and tell him they changed the law and you now have to be 21 to get your driver's license.  Nope, just 9... Except it's not just 9.

It's 9!!! I had a revelation the other day.  My mad math skills made me quickly realize that 9 is half of 18.  Still not seeing it? It means my son has likely spent half his years living under my roof.  He's left babyhood, toddlerhood and little boyhood in his dust and is simply "boy."  He's the boy formerly known as "my baby."  One foot out the door, the other foot soon to grow man hair.  His first half may have been filled with Thomas the Train, Transformers, and Legos but what will this second half bring? Independence, braces, girls, puberty (say it ain't so), and... probably still more Legos.

I know he's still young and a little kid in so many ways.  However, I have the inside scoop on "blinking" and I can tell you it's highly over-rated.  You see, I blinked and he started walking.  I blinked and he started school.  I blinked and he grew adult teeth.  So I just know these next milestones are quick blinks away.

His soft, undamaged kisses will be replaced with scratchy quick pecks and hugs that require me to reach my arms up instead of down.  His sweet little boy voice will turn to crackly out of tune sounds that evolve into baritone-like confidence... But it will still be him.  He will still be the guy who can cause my heart to feel both the greatest joys and worst fears. He will always be my baby and my boy.  And who knows, maybe when I say, "I love you," he will learn to say more than "Okay," or "I love you," as monotone as possible with his eyes rolling.  Maybe age and maturity will bring non-coerced responses and heart-felt thanks.  Maybe. But for now I'll grab a hold of 9 with all my might and savor every moment, every triumph, every life lesson, and make this "second half" a great game and a strong finish.

Stay Together, Forever

From my earliest memories I remember adoring my sister.  I wanted to dress like her, be friends with her friends, talk like her, etc.. I still love and adore her. I dream of being neighbors in heaven.  She knows more about me than anyone else.  She knows and understands my very foundation. We don't agree on everything and we haven't always gotten along (picture little sister "borrowing" older sister's clothes because she wants to be like her) but even in our worst of teenage sister fighting, I knew she loved me.  I caught glimpses of that when my 6th grade boyfriend broke up with me and proceeded to walk in my house and ask my sister to the dance.  She said no. Sister love.  Or when I got beat up walking home from church and my sister was so mad she wanted to avenge me. Sister love. Or when she gave me my first cigarette. Sister devil.  No one is perfect.

There were times we got along and times we fought, like all siblings.  But I remember the day we "clicked."  I was probably 12 or 13 years old and my sister not far ahead of me. We were watching a movie.  I don't remember which movie but I remember we liked it.  At the end of the movie we started saying, "Stay together, forever," rather sing-songy and stretched our shirts out over our knees as we rocked back and forth to our newfound chant.  We knew that we would be together forever.

For these reasons I am beyond gitty for my four girls.  They get to grow up making memories they will cherish forever... times 4!  They will inevitably fight but they will be there for each other through the joys and heartbreak of life. And I just feel so blessed I have a first class ticket to the show.  I love seeing them come up with handshakes and scream and giggle when they're supposed to be sleeping (most of the time).  I love the fight that comes out of them when another is being wronged.  I look forward to what their future holds, my Little Women.

So my sweet girls, cherish each other.  You're all in for the long haul.  Stay together, forever. 

Lend Me Your Ear

Baby snorting, Baby breathing. "Whaaaa!" Guzzle, guzzle- breatheeee. Guzzle, guzzle- breatheeee.
Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, "I hung-gy!" Sleepless groan. Cupboards open.
 Pitter-patter, pitter- patter, Pitter-Patter, PITTER-PATTER! "We're hungry!" Clang, clang-slurp, clang, clang-slurp, clang, clang-slurp. Cupboards close.
Pitter.....Patter, Boy voice, "Mom... I'm hungry." ...Cupboards open. ...Clang.....clang.....slurp. Cupboards close.
Screams of laughter...louder screams of laughter...blood-curdling screams of pain! "Mommy!  Sissy pushed me!!!!"
 baby giggle? Baby Giggle!  Baby cry? Baby cry. Guzzle, guzzle- breatheeee. Guzzle, guzzle- breatheeee. Screams???! "Don't scream like that. I though you were hurt!"
Water drops falling from the shower. Sigh of relief... BANG! BANG! On the door, baby! BANG! BANG! on the door! "Say, What?!"
"Mommmmmmyyyyyy!"
"I'll be right out!"
 Door creeks, shower curtain rustles. "Mommy, you wat."
"What?"
"You wat."
"Huh?"
"You Waaaaaat!"
"...oh, wet. Yes, Mommy is wet." Towel friction. Baby crying. Guzzle, guzzle-breatheeee. Guzzle, guzzle-breatheeee.
Piano key bashing, piano key note C, piano key note C, piano key note C, piano key note C, piano key note C, piano key note C, PIANO KEY NOTE C!!!! "No more piano right now, please."
"Mommy, we're hungry." cling, clang, cling, clang. faucet on, faucet off.
"Want to play outside?" sounds of glee.
Silence...
 "Wahhhh!" Guzzle, guzzle-breatheee, guzzle, guzzle-breatheeee.
Door flying open, door slamming closed.  Crayons scratching paper. humming turned to song. "Jesus wuvs me, Yes, Jesus wuvs me, yes, Jesus wuvs me. Yes, yes, yes." songs sweetly sung out of tune.  Heart skipping a beat. Pep in my step.
"Knock, knock",
"Who's there?"
"Boo"
"Boo, who?"
"Don't cry." Giggles, giggles, giggles.
"Wahhh!" Guzzle, guzzle-breatheeee. Guzzle, guzzle-breathe.
Silence... SILENCE??? "What's going on in here?" sponges scrubbing walls, kids crying. "We're sorry, Mommy."
"I forgive you."
Door opens. "Daddy's home!"
"We're hungry." Cling, clang, cling, clang. Faucet on, faucet off.
"Time to go to bed." Cries and whining. Faucet on, toothbrushes brushing. Stories read, prayers said.
"Good night." ...
"Daddy?"
"Yes"
"Why did God make us?" Talk, talk, talk.
"Daddy, I'm thirsty."
"Daddy, I have to go potty."
"Wahhhh!" Guzzle, guzzle-breatheeee. Guzzle, guzzle-breathe. baby snores...
Silence.
"I love you, dear."
"I love you too."
  Sounds of dream world breaking through.

To Whom It May Concern,

Every year I take all my blog entries as well as several posts from Facebook involving my family and add it to our memory book along with pictures from the year.  I started this tradition in 2007 and have books for every year.  The other night I went to kiss my son before I went to bed and I saw all the memory books out on the floor.  "What are you doing," I asked.

"I'm reading the memory books," he said and continued to read.  The next morning at the breakfast table he asked, "Remember when..." and proceeded to go over things he had done as a two year old.  I didn't remember.  I had totally forgotten something that had meant so much to me not that long ago.  That's why I do this.  I want to remember and I want my kids to remember.  I want them to know what was going on both spoken and unspoken in their lives as they grew up.  So, kids, when you read this, I loved you, I love you now, and at the risk of sounding cliche, I will always love you... no matter what.  

Mommy

P.S. It was too expensive to print out more than one memory book for each year.  So, since there are so many of you, all the books are to go to ______________, that kid was my favorite.  (To be filled in later with bribery).

Sending Four to Venus

I have four girls.  4. Cuatro. IV.

  If you would have told me this would have been my lot 10 years ago I would have laughed...  Or cried.  The verdict is still out as they are not yet teenagers.  You see, I was certain God would give me a brood of boys.  He certainly wouldn't want this fairly insensitive, not really girly, slightly cynical, woman to raise girls.

When I say I am not girly I am not implying I don't like domestic things.  I love to cook, do crafts, and be creative with my hands.  I'm just not one of those girls who has to end every sentence two octaves higher than I started.  I don't like romantic comedies, high heels, or fancy things and I only cry when I'm really upset, not when I see a dead rabbit on the road.  But I am really sentimental about my kids and their ever changing little bodies and personalities.  I'm very protective of my cubs as well.  

My first born daughter quickly schooled me in her Venus origins. She was only a couple weeks old when I said in a frustrated voice, "What does she want?!" after she cried for hours in the middle of the night.  She looked at me in shock, her lower lip quivered, and she started crying.  She was a newborn.  How could she be so emotional already?  Over the years I have found her crying on multiple occasions and when I have inquired as to why all she can say is, "I don't know, I'm just crying."  I admit, I'm a woman of little patience.  I have a "get over it," mentality.  This has proven to be an ineffective method- I can be a bit of a jerk sometimes.  

But you see I married this man who seems to know exactly what these girly girls need.  He is a listening ear for them or just hugs it out the times they don't know why they are crying.  I thank God for him.  And I have learned to make an effort as well. This does not come naturally for me. It's an effort I'm willing to make because I love my girls and know I need to be able to communicate to them in their love language. For instance, they love for me to paint their nails.  I hate it.  I don't even like to paint my own nails.  I hate when my nails get long enough to paint and only allow it so that I can better peel oranges and pick the junk out of my kids ears. If it was socially acceptable I would just leave one nail long and call it the peeler/picker.  On second thought, I live in the middle of nowhere so maybe I'll do that.  Heck, I have five kids so people already think I'm weird. 

 Anywho, I set time aside to paint their nails and I do it cheerfully and sometimes even end my sentences two octaves higher as I carefully lather sparkly blue paint on each nail.  And in some weird way I enjoy it.  Maybe it's the fumes from the polish but maybe it's the look in my girls' eyes that says it all.  They know and appreciate the effort and I know God knew what He was doing all along.  

...Oh, but please don't hesitate to visit me and send cards when I am institutionalized during puberty. 

Night Time Revelations

"Waaaaa!!! Dadaaaaa!" I hear in the dark from the other room. Andy brings our little Olive into the room for the fifth night. She coughs in that high pitched, pathetic toddler cough and quickly falls asleep sandwiched safety between her Mommy and Daddy. But now I am wide awake. It's 5:30 a.m. and the sound of her precious baby snores mixed with the relatively close time to which the Packer household is awake anyway, I can't go back to sleep. So I sit there contemplating all of life's mysteries and taking in all the revelations those early morning/middle-of-the-night thoughts often bring. 

I start to contemplate why every older adult with grown children feels the need to tell me in the midst of my child's in-store melt down that I'm gonna miss this.  Sure, I think, I'll miss kissing squishy toddler cheeks and baby laughs, but this? Nope, definitely not gonna miss this. But then I start to think about life in 20 years. 

I think about the noise levels in the house replaced with the sound of traffic driving by and clocks I didn't know ticked. Bathroom counters that don't have toothpaste smeared all over them the day after I clean them. Jars of peanut butter and jelly that last months instead of weeks. Meals free from indigestion. Quiet car rides. Times of reflection and prayer in the pew before service and listening to whole sermons instead of teaching the older kids  how to follow along in the service, and teaching toddlers how to not be little screaming monkeys.  A calendar free from weekly doctor's appointments, scheduled activities, and school assignments due...

I start to think I must be crazy as an overwhelming feeling of sorrow takes over my sleep-deprived body. Because in that moment, I realize I really am gonna miss all of that. The same crazy sounds that come out of my house and make me thankful I don't have any neighbors in a 10 acre radius, are actually a comfort to me. The toothpaste on the counters and never-ending mess are the beautiful signs of growing life in my house. 

Someday, long gone will be the days of baby smiles, toddler belly-laughs, funny handshakes between sisters (including "booty-bumps"), and the wide-eyed wonderment of learning new things. There's only one "first time," you know.  The first time they carve a pumpkin or feel the disappointment of reading a book and then watching the movie. The heartbreak of watching them fail and the pride in the triumphs that come from those failures.

We are blessed, fellow parents. God did not lie when he called children a blessing. We are taking part in one of life's greatest gifts. And it's hard. It's hard because God uses these little munchkins to drive and mold the selfishness right out of us. He gives us glimpses of our own stubbornness and hardheartedness. But He also gives us joy. A joy incomparable to anything else in this life.

So yes, I'm gonna miss this. And I pray God would grant me the time on this earth to get to see it from a whole other point of view: grandchildren.