Happy 4th Birthday, Luke!

 

and

she loved

a

little boy

very, very much

-even more

than

she loved

herself.

--Shel Silverstein

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Four years ago today my oldest, Luke, was born. And it was an awesome day. He was over a week late- as were all three of mine- and, in late August, IN FLORIDA, his delivery couldn't have come sooner. I guess I just cook my babies on a low, slow boil. Like crawfish, they tended to need to soak a while before they're ready. 

His first birthday approached and I got to WORK. His favorite book was The Very Hungry Caterpillar and I was a freshly teacher-turned-Mom, so I was obsessed. This was, if y'all can believe it, BEFORE PINTEREST so I was largely on my own in terms of inspiration, but I still managed to create a massive tissue paper caterpillar on our mantle and bake a cake large enough to feel Rhode Island and create and hang both house and yard decorations.(Ask my friend, Olivia, about the three trial cakes I baked, decorated and gave away before his party because I had to get it just right. Mercy. I had cakes in my house for weeks before his party. I'm surprised I didn't send us all into diabetic shock.) It has still, to date, been the biggest party blow out that I have undertaken. Sorry Josie and Nathan- it's a firstborn-first-birthday-thing. BONUS, however, is that I will be able to reuse all the decorations for Nathan's first birthday in October. 

(Again, sorry, Nathan. Momma's got to be able to put all that hard work to use at least one more time. After this, you can pick any birthday party you want. ::promise::)

The day of the party came and our house was jam packed. Every relative from every city, from four states away showed up to help us celebrate with Luke. (He, of course, was just worried about chewing on the bows and wrapping paper scraps.) It was a noisy, messy, chaotic, whirl wind afternoon. Punch was made and ice cream was churned and prayers were prayed and food was eaten and drinks were spilled and songs were sung and candles were blown out and cake was cut and naps were missed and it was perfect. 

It wasn't until later that night that I cried. It was after the lagniappe cake was put away and the balloons came down and the house was finally quiet that it happened. I sat down in the nursery, holding Luke and wept. That's probably not the best description. I cried buckets and buckets and buckets of tears. They were happy tears and sad tears and first-trimester-hormonal tears and tired tears and scared tears and worried tears and uncertain tears and proud tears. I cried for every emotion I had encountered in the twelve short months I had endured after finally becoming a mother, but mostly- they were thankful tears. 

 

Because I was. I was so thankful that I was the one chosen to be his Mom. Out of every person on the planet, God picked me. ME. He saw a part of goodness in my heart, in my mind, in my soul that He knew would make me a good Mom to him. It was a small part, a quiet little, untouched place that all Mom's have- I just had to use it. I had to find that place- that soft place for my Luke to land- and enlarge it. I had to grow that little area of goodness in my soul so that the more Luke would need it, the more would be available to him. I needed to become a farmer.

I needed to pasture this land in my heart for him so there were areas that I had to eliminate. I had to bush hog them down, disc them up, dig out the rocks and roots and tree stumps, pile them up and BURN THEM to the ground. Now that I was a mother- there was no room for selfishness. There was no room for empty conceit. There was no room for pettiness or strife or jealousy or slander. I needed to take those areas and slash and burn so I could grow a better crop. And it was HARD. And it was a never ending amount of work. I'm still working to keep out the weeds and hedge bushes that crop up when I let an area of my heart pasture lay fallow for too long. I'll be a constant gardener in this farming called motherhood for my entire life. 

And that's why I cried. Because entering motherhood was the strongest refining fire I'd ever been through. And birthdays are a milestone marking another year that I've survived that fire. It's an opportunity to look back at the months that have passed and think about the fields I've kept. I think about the weeds and briars and brambles I've pulled up in my heart that year. The ones that were rooted so deeply that it took some serious digging and praying and praising for me to finally get them out. And then, when I finally did and was able to plant that freshly turned soil with patience and goodness and honesty and love- I cry. Because I want to give my babies' fertile soil. Because I'm thankful that, with His help, I can. 

Motherhood has made me a better person. It's given me a divine responsibility to become the best Christian, the best wife, the best Mom, the best daughter, the best sister that I can be. It has refined me in ways that only Motherhood could. And, as hard and grueling and gut wrenching as it is- I feel blessed to be able to do it. 

My prayer is that my heart will always give them a soft place to land. 

Happy 4th Birthday, Luke.

(Now let's go eat some waffles to celebrate.)

What If We NEVER Go 'Back To School'?...

The beginning of August has brought a deluge of pictures of fresh faced, adorable booksack-backed kiddos standing on their front porch or at their bus stop or in their classroom with their new teachers across my Facebook and Instagram News Feeds. They've been posted with the hashtags #firstdayofschool or #backtoschool or #hallelujah and THEY HAVE ME HYPERVENTILATING. Because, y'all- I don't think I'll ever have a post like this. 

Because, y'all- I want to homeschool. 

On some deep, subconscious level, I think I've wanted to homeschool since the moment I held my oldest son, Luke, in the hospital. My husband brought him to me after they'd weighed and measured him- he was wrapped up and bundled with his precious newborn hat on and he was perfect. Innocent. Unstained. Unblemished by this fallen world we live in that's full of sin and stress and strife. He was to me, in that moment- the very personification of purity. 

I knew, of course, that the world would eventually stain and blemish and bruise him. The imperfect, sin filled world that we live in leaves it's marks on all of us. And Luke, (right along with my other two children and every other human on this planet) has been no exception. He isn't perfect. No one is. He's a rough and rowdy and rambunctious boy. But when those stains and blemishes and bruises have happened, I've been there.  

I can't stop myself from feeling a weight of responsibility to him. To all three of my kids. To teach them at home. To stand guard for them. To bar the door against The World while I train them to defend themselves against it. And while I keep them here with me, I'll protect them, and teach them to protect themselves, until they're strong enough, capable enough, mature enough, to stand on their own.  

Feeling the drive and desire to homeschool Luke when he was little surprised me. I talked with my husband about it, and he sort of agreed, but in a very non-commital way, seeing as he was literally a brand new, itty bitty, teeny tiny infant and we had FIVE YEARS to make some sort of concrete educational decision about his future. 

Things rocked along for a while, we got pregnant and had our second child- our daughter Josie. Things were sort of hectic as we settled into our new routine with a home with two littles, but even with the new changes and craziness, I still wanted to do it. 

We pressed on a few more months and found out that we were pregnant for a THIRD time in three years with our youngest child. Nathan was born 10 months ago, and we have now settled comfortably into our new, even more loud and busy and boisterous routine with three small children in our home. And, as harried as my days can (and most certainly DO) get, I still want to homeschool these three rascals. Because right now, even in this crazy place I'm in- it still feels right.

Now, y'all- that's not saying that I don't doubt myself like a million times a month. That I don't have supreme guilt agonizing over the massive mental "Pros/Cons" list I've tabulated in my mind. (Below is a small snippet of the borderline insanity that streams through my head on a minute-by-minute basis when I sit down and start to consider what it will take when I embark on this homeschooling adventure.)

• Will the kids feel cheated out of the booksack-packing-lunchbox-carrying-bulletin-board-decorated life I am choosing not to give them? 
• Will they hate me when they're teenagers for not sending them to a brick and mortar school? 
• Am I patient enough to do this? 
• Am I smart enough to do this? 
• Am I organized enough to do this? 
• What if they do poorly in school? What if Luke turns 7 and still can't read or write his name or count to 100?
• Will I be a bad Mom if I'm an awful teacher?  
• What about my sanity? I love my kids and all, but what if I don't EVER get a break? 
• What if I look back in seven years and wish I could have a quiet hour to myself while they are away at school? 
• What if I regret not sending them? 
• What if I hate it? 
• What if they hate it? 
• What if they hate me? 
• What kinds of things are they going to sacrifice by my keeping them home? 
• What kinds of things am I going to sacrifice by keeping them home?
• What if? What if? What if? What if? What if?...

I also have a bunch of hypocritical feelings about my desire to homeschool because, before I had my own babies, I was teaching other people's. I was an elementary school teacher in one of the best counties in the entire state of Florida, in the BEST SCHOOL DISTRICT within that county. At the best school in the district. (I'm talking to Y'ALL, my Oriole Beach Elementary friends!) OBE is the very same school that my kids are zoned to attend. My sister-in-love is still the school secretary there and I continue to have wonderful connections and friendships there even today. We stop by and say hello a couple of times a month because we love OBE. And we love the people that teach there.

But I don't think I can do it. I don't think I can stand there at the end of the hall or in the doorway of a classroom or at the curb of the school and do IT. Passing that baton that is my baby to someone else. I can not say goodbye to my child. To my ward of this world. To that little soul I've been entrusted to glide and guard and guide through this world. I'm not ready to give that duty to someone else. Because, to me, it's not their job. IT IS MINE. It is what I feel called to do.

For me, what weighs on my heart at the root of all of this is INFLUENCE. It's the seconds that make up the minutes that make up the hours that make up the days of my children's lives that I'd be giving up to send them away from me to a school each day. It's about my inability to hand over the weight of the responsibility for the events that will happen during these important, life-changing, character-molding, soul-imprinting moments to someone else that isn't me. I don't want to give that up.

My purpose in this life is to get to Heaven and to help bring as many people there with me as I can. I'll be there with my husband, my family, and most importantly, I have to raise my children to be there, too. And, for me, as their Mom- the best way I know how to point them there is from home. Perched right here at my dining room table. 

Luke, my oldest, will turn four in a few weeks. And here in Florida, the state offers and pays for 540 hours of instructional time that focuses on academic readiness in order to help prepare 4 year olds for kindergarten. {In short, it's free preschool.} When I looked up the statistics online, something like 80% of parents in the state enroll their students in free VPK. 

We aren't.

That doesn't make us better than the 80% that do send their kids to preschool, it just makes us different. Besides, Luke is in preschool. He's learning everyday here at home. With me. And with his little sister and baby brother. (Who are about the two cutest classmates a kid could ask for.) We are learning letters and numbers and language skills and how-not-to-pitch-a-fit-every-time-someone-else-is-playing-with-your-favorite-toy-skills, and having picnics and field trips and nature walks. 

Our normal, happy, everyday life is a preschool. 

 The straw that broke the Homeschool vs. Public School camel's back happened last Spring when the idea of actually sending Luke to school was actually brought up and I actually almost hyperventilated in public.  

I was at a park on a play date with a good friend of mine. There was another young mom at the playground with a son who was exactly one year older than Luke. We, of course, as women frequently do- got to talking, and school came up almost immediately. She told us about where her son had gone to preschool and how much she liked the place and how excited he was for school in the Fall and blah, blah, blah... And then she turned and asked me where Luke was going to go to VPK. The sky darkened, my vision blurred and it suddenly felt like I was being slowly suffocated by a giant anaconda while standing in a pit of quicksand. 

I stammered something to her like "Well, he's got such a late birthday, we will probably wait and if we decide to, enroll him in a preschool thing when he's a little older. Maybe we will wait an extra year to do the VPK thing." That's when she looked at me and dropped a bomb on my tender little Momma heart: "Oh, well, that's OK- I guess." she said. "But, if you are going to use the free VPK voucher, it's only good for the year that they're four. If you miss the boat for that year, it'll be on you to pay for preschool." ::gulp:: 

That meant that if Luke were going to go to preschool, he would have to go in August. Like, four short months from then. He would be so little. He'd not even have turned four by the first day of school. I couldn't take it. The thought of sending him to school away from home was paralyzing me.

Y'all, I could not leave that park fast enough. My throat was tight and my eyes were hot and I had that terrible "I'm about to cry" feeling in my chest and I could NOT have a breakdown in front of this strange woman or my good friend and her child or in front of my kids. 

I got us all loaded back into the van as quickly as I could, holding back tears the best I could while I speed dialed my husband's work number. I called him faster than anyone has ever called anybody else ever before since the beginning of time. Alexander Graham Bell would've applauded both my speed and accuracy. 

The Dowager Countess totally gets it. 

(source) 

Matt and I have this awesome symbiotic relationship in that I always, ALWAYS overreact to situations and he always, ALWAYS tells me when I'm freaking out. I called him and breathlessly filled him in on the conversation that just transpired in a :13 second "I-just-met-a-Mom-on-the-playground-and-she-said-that-Luke-will-have-to-go-to-VPK-in-the-fall-but-I-don't-think-I-can-send-him-because-that-just-seems-so-young-and-he-is-so-precious-and-innocent-and-I-just-don't-think-I-can-do-that-and-maybe-I-am-a-freak-and-what-do-you-think?" version of the situation. 

And y'all, NO LIE- Matt's response was: "Boo. Relax. We are not obligated to send him to VPK. You are right. He is so young. There is absolutely no real reason that we HAVE to send him to preschool. He is fine. You are fine. Our family is fine. Not everybody goes to preschool. Plenty of people live normal, happy, healthy productive lives without ever having gone to preschool. And our kids will survive without it, too." 

I have never loved my husband more than I did on that fateful morning as I lamaze breathed into the phone and borderline ugly cried while sitting in my van in an empty parking lot of a Mexican restaurant. Because HE GETS ME. 

Somebody asked me, when I told them of my misgivings about sending Luke to VPK what I'd be worried about him being exposed to at preschool, given the fact that they are only 4 years old. Well, to be honest, I'm worried about just about EVERYTHING he'd be exposed to. 

Kids are clay. They are impressionable. And soft. And malleable. And easily molded by their environments. 100% of absolutely everything they come in contact with leaves a mark on them. Good or bad, positive or negative, embarrassing or validating- those marks are there. PERMANENTLY. And I want to be the one who leaving the most imprints on my kid's lives. 

It's like when I bought peaches a few weeks ago and (unwisely) put them in the big part of the buggy where my oldest son sits while I shop. By the time we made it to the register to check out, all of his wayward kicks and rolls and nudges and smushes between the big tub of oatmeal and 4 milk jugs had turned what had been a sack of perfectly ripe fruit into a big ol' bag of peach mush. And I think kids are like that. They bruise easily. Their souls need to be handled with care, because their spirits are tender and need to be treated accordingly. 

Luke is like a sponge. He literally picks up on every single thing that happens in my house, in the grocery store, in church, EVERYWHERE. When I think he's not listening. He is. When I think he's not paying attention. He IS. He can tell, by the tone of my voice and the sound of my tone, before I ever tell him, who I am on the phone with when a call comes in. "It's like he's got ESPN or something." 

But seriously, raising my kids has been the best motivator for me to change some of my less-than-desireable behaviors. Being their Mom, being the one who has the greatest influence on their lives has been the biggest incentive to make me a better person. To make me a better Christian. A better wife. A better daughter. A better friend. Because I know that they will mirror the behaviors, habits, and attitudes they see in me. And I want to give them the best example possible. 

But the weight of that responsibility is sometimes hard to bear. Because I'm not perfect. I lose my patience and my temper and my sanity more often than I'd like to admit. And I've got to be honest because there are days that I want a break. 

There are days when I think about friends of mine who have school aged children who can get like entire HOURS of their days to themselves. Zero fighting. Zero squabbling. Zero potty breaks. No incredibly loudly squealing kids in the background of their phone conversations. At 9:47am, they can watch TV or browse Pinterest or take a nap or sit on their couch or read a book or drive their cars or take a bath or basically do ANYTHING IN THE WORLD that I am not able do right now. And y'all, there's a selfish part of me that worries that I'll miss not having that when I'm homeschooling my kids. (Ouch. It kinda stings to admit that.) 

But then I think about the flip side to that coin. I think about the days and hours and minutes that I will get to spend with my kids. The joy I saw last week when Luke tried UNPROMPTED to write his name for the first time ever. How cool it was for me to see Josie initiate an opportunity to share with her little brother because he was fussy and she knew she could do something to help make him laugh. 

I get to watch my two oldest kids celebrate literally every.little.thing their baby brother does. "Momma! Nathan justa crawled to me!" or "He justa rolled my ball back!" or "Nathan justa ate the snack I gave him!" or "Nayyy-fun's sooo-a cuuuute." "I wooove my widdle brother." "He's just the sweetest ol' thing!" Moments like that are the fuel that keeps my engine going on the tough and tired and troublesome days that I'm sure I'll encounter while I continue to teach and lead and raise my kids at home. 

And, y'all, now don't get me wrong. I realize how dramatic all this must sound. How completely over reactionary it may seem. Because, right now even to me as I am writing it- IT DOES. I am 100% guilty of over dramatizing this situation.(I compared my kids to Play-Doh and ripe summer fruit, for mercy's sake.) I know know there are plenty of homeschool situations that aren't perfect, just like I know there are scores of public school situations that are far from ideal. 

I am worried that, by writing a post about my views and decisions about homeschooling my family, I will offend someone who has chosen not to. THAT IS NOT MY AIM. I have close family and dear friends that homeschool. I also have close family and dear friends that send their kids to school outside their homes. Both sets love their children. Both sets want what's best for them. I do not doubt that for a SECOND.

 I've read oodles of pro-homeschool articles telling parents that if they send their children to school outside their homes they don't love them enough as a family that homeschools. That, if they send their children to public schools that they aren't worried about their souls. I AM NOT SAYING THAT. 

I am not speaking for your family. I am not speaking for your children. I'm speaking for my family: myself and my husband. I am speaking for my family and the three precious souls given to me.This is the place we are currently in. These are the decisions we are facing. And this is the path we feel led to take. 

The most important graduating credential your family could pursue should be the same, regardless of the educational setting you choose to acquire it in. That's leading your children to attain a citizenship in Heaven. 

Now all I need to do is try and track down a full length denim jumper outfit and a shirt with 3" shoulder pads because I've got a 'homeschool Mom' uniform to put together. If you see any plaid seasonal, fabric painted vests or a pair of acid washed, elastic waisted jeans- send them my way. I'm currently accepting donations.  

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"Train up a child in the way he should go, even when he is old he will not depart from it." Proverbs 22:6

 Written by Solomon, the wisest king who ever lived on the face of this Earth in the history of the entire world. Also, my homeschool/parenting motto. 

An Ode To VBS Teachers

I always loved Vacation Bible School when I growing up. Seeing my church building decorated with all the props and posters and displays always got me PUMPED for our nights of classes, crafts, and lessons. I always loved and appreciated VBS, but it wasn't until I became an adult with children of my own who are students that I really, truly appreciated what Vacation Bible School is. 

You see, it's easy, as a kid, to take all of the hard work and planning and preparation that goes into making a VBS possible for granted. It's easy to see the fake clouds suspended from the ceiling and the huge painted cardboard rainbow or the super sized airplane/puppet stage combo and think "Awesome! VBS decorations!" without thinking about the actual work that went into painting a 20 foot rainbow or dinosaur or airplane or hot air balloon or castle or palm tree or whatever else you could think of that is on display in the church building. 

*(By the way, have you ever knelt on a hard, linoleum floor for any length of time while wielding a foam paintbrush tracing outlines on bulletin board paper while trying desperately not to stray from the pencil lines that were drawn on it? Because adult knees can only take so much pressure before their kneecaps begin to protest and their joints seize up. When they finally straighten up from their hunched over position, they don't really straighten up from their hunched over position. They stand up and sort of hobble around for a bit, limping like a blind chicken looking for a feed bucket while they wait for the blood to begin circulate through their aching and abused joints. Then, after a few minutes of the 'blind, hungry chicken' dance, they can begin to walk normally again. This exercise has given them just enough time to refill the paint on their paper plate before they need to get down again onto their greatly protesting knees for yet another 12 minute round in the "Follow-The-Faintest-Pencil-Line-Ever-Drawn" game.) 

Being an adult, I can see now that VBS is a marathon filled with glitter and stapled butcher paper decorations and lessons and snacks and costumes and silly songs and prayers. It's a grueling race and sometimes it seems like you'll never see the finish line. But you KEEP GOING. Every night. Because it's an event that children will remember always and an opportunity to teach them Christ in ways that only a week of VBS can offer.

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 So, to anyone who has ever completed this marathon-like event called Vacation Bible School and lived to tell the tale: THANK YOU.

• To anyone who has ever dressed up in a VBS themed costume despite the sweltering summer heat: THANK YOU.
• To anyone who has ever stood outside in the afore mentioned heat while little children make vain attempts at playing yard games: THANK YOU.
• To anyone who has ever stayed up late into the night painting wall decorations: THANK YOU.
• To anyone who has ever taken a frightened (and often times screaming) child who is new to your church, to your class, to VBS, under their wing so they aren't scared: THANK YOU.
• To anyone who has ever scarred their retinas by staring into a projector while trying to trace Bible character outlines: THANK YOU.
• To anyone else who has volunteered to be the song leader, thereby forcing them to participate in all of the action songs, and thereby having to sing all 319 verses to Father Abraham: THANK YOU.
• To anyone who has ever cleaned out a WalMart shelf of black acrylic paint at 10pm: THANK YOU.
• To anyone who has ever driven two towns over in search of chocolate gold coins (or any other lesson manipulative that you absolutely had to have): THANK YOU.
• To anyone who has violated the rules of time and space to calculate individual class/snack/craft rotations for 5 different 35 minute rotations between 7 individual locations: THANK YOU.
• To anyone who has ever made a palm tree out of a pool noodle, some butcher paper, a few fake fern fronds and some fishing twine: THANK YOU.
• To anyone who has ever written 3,481 different children's names on sticky backed name tags at a registration table: THANK YOU.
• To anyone who has ever taken the 17.2 hours required to make that layered rainbow Jello snack to go along with a Noah's Ark Rainbow lesson: THANK YOU.
• To anyone who has ever walked a neighborhood in the thick summer heat to pass out flyers and invite your neighbors to VBS: THANK YOU.
• To anyone who has used one of those staple-remover claws to pull out 291 staples out of classroom walls after the VBS decorations have come down: THANK YOU.
• To anyone who has swept, vacuumed or mopped a floor after a night of crafts and glitter and sand and sticker paper and glue dots: THANK YOU.
• To anyone who has ever taken somebody else's child on a bathroom break: THANK YOU. (You just wiped a hiney for Jesus.)
• To anyone who has ever stepped outside their comfort zone and invited their neighborhood children to ride along with them to VBS: THANK YOU.  
• To anyone who has laminated and cut out little, tiny, itty bitty, individual versions of memory verses or book marks or crafts to hand out to the students: THANK YOU.
• To anyone who has ever burned their fingers on a hot glue gun: THANK YOU.
• To anyone who has ever glittered every scrap of construction paper in the building (and themselves in the process): THANK YOU.
• To anyone who has ever watched the VBS teacher's small children so that they can teach classes: THANK YOU. 
• To anyone who has ever prayed, in advance, for the work that will be done and the souls that will be reached at VBS: THANK YOU.
• To anyone who has ever done anything that could touch any soul for Jesus through Vacation Bible School: THANK YOU. Your effort has not been done in vain. 

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"...Behold, I say to you, lift up your eyes and look on the fields, that they are white for the harvest." {Jesus, speaking to his disciples about the spiritual harvest.} 

James 4:35

"Momma! There's Lightning In The Kitchen!"

My oldest, Luke, ran into the nursery with that announcement around 5:00 last Tuesday evening. He wasn't lying. That sentence began, what would turn out to be, the longest feeling 3 minute panic attack of my life. 

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It all started with a preplanned play date, a few good intentions, a house filled with my rowdy hooligans, a lot of butter and some sugar. It all ended with a malfunctioned fire extinguisher, a few melted kitchen appliances, a house filled with firemen, a lot of soot and some tears. 

We had plans to play Wednesday morning at my dear friend Amy's house. She's got two kiddos that my three hooligans love and adore, a Keurig that just won't quit and a toy selection that is to die for. In short, it's basically heaven for all parties involved. My best friend Sara had made and recommended some homemade caramel corn recently so I thought it might be the perfect snack to bring and take along. "Make it!" she said. "It is SO EASY!" So, I happily stalked her Pinterest page, found the aforementioned recipe, and set to work. 

I opened the recipe, pre-read the instructions, and started cooking. Sara wasn't lying. The recipe did seem delicious. And, in her defense, it seemed pretty straight forward: Pop your popcorn, make your caramel, coat everything together, bake, cool and eat by the fist full. The big kids were in and out of the kitchen while I was cooking, (which was totally fine and completely normal) and Nathan was happily chew/teething on some rubber toys in his Pack n' Play in the living room. We had an episode of Curious George to keep us company, our supper was in the oven, (My cousin-in-love Mary's Chicken Enchiladas. YUMMM. It still pains me that my entire 9x13 pan of cheesy deliciousness was sacrificed in the fire. Bummer.) and Matt was battling the Pensacola Beach traffic as he was heading home from work. It was a fairly normal, but somewhat rowdy kinda evening.

 I got the popcorn made, and worked on getting my caramel started. I plopped my stick of butter down intp my biggest gumbo pot, added in my brown sugar and just as it was getting melted and yummy looking, Nathan started wailing. He's cutting teeth and fighting some MAJOR congestion, so I figured the best bet would be to put the caramel corn on pause, freshen his diaper and see if that might help improve his sour disposition. I switched the stove off and went to tend to my fussy fella. 

And it all went downhill from there. 

Not three minutes after I left the kitchen, Luke came streaking back into the nursery proclaiming that there was "lightning in the kitchen"! I peered down the hall, but didn't notice much, so I finished fastening Nathan's fresh diaper and set out to investigate. I rounded the hallway corner into our living room and noticed the smoke. The billowing, black, you've-just-scorched-some-butter-and-sugar-and-that-is-gonna-be-a-nightmare-to-clean-outta-your-pot, kinda smoke. I quickly deposited Nathan back into his Pack n' Play and dashed into the doorway of the kitchen where I discovered that there were camp fire sized flames coming from my gumbo pot. About that time is when time slowed down to a crawl. 

It felt like I stood there for hours, just staring. I had this unreal and bizarre scene coming from my stovetop. It felt surreal, standing there, seeing those bright, orange flames in my kitchen. I'd seen fire, sure. And I'd seen my kitchen, of course. But seeing both of those scenes meshed together made me feel like I was in the Twilight Zone or something. 

I shooed the kids into the living room, far away from the kitchen stove and grabbed my fire extinguisher off of the top of my ice box. "Man, this extinguisher is gonna make an even bigger MESS.", I thought to myself as I pulled the pin out of the handle and got ready to squeeze the lever. I found the tab on the top of the extinguisher, pushed down... AND NOTHING HAPPENED. I quickly looked at the canister, feeling like I'd somehow suddenly become deaf, blind and mute. I really thought I knew how to operate a fire extinguisher, but I couldn't get this one to work. So I shook and squeezed and after two or three more tries, I realized it wasn't going happen. 

Meanwhile, the fire was getting bigger and the smoke was starting to get thick as I walked closer to the stove. That's when I saw what I had done: In my hurry to go get Nathan, I'd switched the knob on the stove past "OFF" and onto "HIGH". So I reached around the pot, turned the heat off and nothing happened. My stove is a flat top, so the eyes hold heat like crazy, even after they've been switched off. So I picked up a kitchen towel, grabbed the handle of the pot and jerked it to the other side of the stove where the eyes were off and cold. Still, though, nothing happened. Even on the cold side of the stove, the flames were just as high as before, reaching all the way past our microwave hood and starting to hit the upper cabinets. I briefly thought about trying to smother the flames with my kitchen towel, but thought better of it as the corner had already smoldered after using it to drag the pot off the heat. Carrying the flaming pot of caramel to the sink also briefly crossed my mind, but remembering a similar incident my Mom had in our kitchen growing up, I quickly ruled that out, too. She jerked a flaming pot off her stove and put it in her sink only to burn her arms, neck and face as well as her kitchen windowsill and sink. So I found the pot lid, quickly put it on the top of the pot and IT STILL DIDN'T PUT THE FIRE OUT. The flames kept leaping out from around the edge of the lid and that's when I knew there was no way I was going to be able to get this fire out by myself. 

I grabbed my cell phone and dialed 911. I gathered up my three precious priorities (and the dog, of course) and got us out of the house. I didn't know what my kitchen would look like by the time this was all said and done, but I knew that I wasn't going to stick around to find out. I kept myself together long enough to relay the situation to the emergency dispatcher, hung up with them and called my husband, Matt. I hung up with him just as the Sheriff's deputy arrived to see my front door standing open with thick, black smoke billowing out. The fire department showed up seconds later, and by the time they all made it inside, the fire had finally gone out. Midway Fire Department was amazing. They pulled some fans off of their truck to help suck the smoke out of my house, came over with some stickers for the kids and spent the next 45 minutes in my driveway while the house aired out. 

About 20 minutes after they arrived, Matt got home and we were able to go in and survey the damage. It was pretty awful to look at, but it was so, so, SO much better than it could have been. And I felt awful. After I gave my statement to the Battalion Chief for the fire report, I asked him if there was anything else I could have done or should have done to better react to the situation. And bless that man's heart, because he looked me straight in the eye and said "Ma'am, your response to this very real, very serious fire in your house was textbook perfect. It's fires like this that can burn houses to the ground. Homeowners panic, run without thinking, and that's what takes something from being just a burned out kitchen and turns it into a pile of rubble. You had an extinguisher, you had smoke detectors, you killed the heat source, you attempted to cut off the oxygen supply. There is literally NOTHING ELSE that you could have done to stop this fire." Well, as frazzled and embarassed and guilty and scared as I was feeling: That made me feel just the *tiniest* bit better. 

If you gain nothing else from this post, I want you to remember what I am about to tell you. Forget everything else, but please, please, PLEASE don't forget this. Tell your family, share it with your friends, holler it across the fence to your neighbor as she's watering her petunias: The reason my fire extinguisher didn't work was because the powdered fire dispersent (basically baking soda) had settled down to the bottom of my canister like a brick. Over time, gravity can cause the contents to settle into the bottom of the can, and if that happens, when you pull the pin and squeeze the trigger, NOTHING WILL COME OUT. To keep this from happening, twice a year when you change the batteries in your smoke detectors, you need to shake your fire extinguishers. If you shake yours and it feels like there's a brick is at the bottom- it's already settled and it isn't going to work. Go get a new one. Or twelve. If you turn yours upside down and it feels like there is sand falling, you are good to go. Keep it close and check it regularly. My can's gauge read 'FULL' and it was not expired, but even so, it still.didn't.work. Before last Tuesday, I had never heard anyone, anywhere mention that you needed to shake your extinguishers. But from now on, I will. And I hope you will, too. 

We've got a lot of clean up and construction in our future. We will be due for a new microwave hood and possibly probably stove. There are some cabinets to be replaced and some doors to be refinished. Ceilings have been scraped and lights have been removed. For the next few weeks, my front door is going to be a revolving door of adjusters and contractors and inspectors. I am frazzled and fried and overwhelmed. I'm on a pre-kitchen-repair-Pinterest-inspiration overload. But more than anything else, I am grateful. I'm thankful. I am blessed. Because even though there were parts of my home that were ruined, nothing of any real value was harmed. 

God spared us that evening. His hand protected us and His peace gave me the clear head I needed in order to keep my family safe and out of harm's way. I managed to keep myself (mostly) together that day while the firemen were here. I didn't cry when Matt drove up and surveyed the damage with me. I was pretty calm while we got Chinese take out and went to my sister-in-love's to feed the kids and get them ready for bed. But later that night, when everything was quiet and everyone was sleeping, I cried. I sobbed. I ran every possible 'worst case scenario' through my mind as I fought sleep. I didn't sleep much that night. (Or for the next few, if I'm being honest.) I prayed and thanked God for keeping us safe. For safeguarding us. For keeping us under His sheltering wing. Because as long as we're there, the fires can rage. The walls can crumble and the roof can turn to ash. As long as we remain faithful, we will always be found safe. My material possessions may be ruined, but my true treasure will forever be safe as long as I store it with Him. 

"Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust destroys, and where thieves do not break in or steal; for where your treasure is, there your heart will be also."

Jesus, speaking to a crowd on a hillside near Capernamum, during the Sermon on the Mount. {Matthew 6: 19-21}

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The Day I Proved Sure-Jell WRONG

A few weekends ago, my Mom and Dad came to see us for a few days. The kids, of course, loved seeing them- especially because they've become conditioned to expect MawMaw to arrive with cupcakes and for PawPaw to buy them donuts for breakfast in the mornings. How these traditions started, I'm not quite sure. But I get to reap the sugar coated benefits, so I'm not complaining. 

A while back I'd mentioned to Mom that I'd like to have her show me how to make homemade jelly. I'd seen my Grandmaw Elaine (her Mom) make homemade jelly a ton growing up. However, when you're seven years old, you pay more attention to licking the jelly froth off the spoon than you do to the actual jelly making part of the process.  

So, Mom arrived with some plum juice from plums she'd just picked that week. SCORE. She brought a 25 pound bag of sugar, boxes of Sure-Jell (yeah right), some new wax lids, rings and a crate of Mason jars. To the untrained eye, we had all the necessary equipment needed to make up half a dozen batches of some really good, really delicious, really authentic homemade jelly. "What could go wrong?", I thought. 

{Famous last words, y'all.}

We got the first batch cooked and finished under Mom's watchful tutelage and I was pleasantly surprised to see how smoothly it was going. The kids were begging her to sit down and watch a movie with them, so I felt confident in my ability to man the next batch solo. And that's where I made my first HUGE mistake. If you're a novice like me, don't try to make homemade jelly by yourself. It's not going to end well. I promise. If you get too big for your britches, you'll end up with a dozen jars of Plum Syrup like I did. (King Solomon knew what he was talking about when he wrote Proverbs 16:18... because I'm pretty sure he probably tried to make jelly once before, too.) 

So Mom sat down, happily watching Brave with the kids while I briskly stirred my soon-to-be-boiling plum juice, feeling quite industrious and rather proud of myself. As I stirred, I thought back to the times growing up when I saw my Grandmaw Elaine making jelly in her kitchen. I remembered this same exact "hot-steamy-boiling-fruit-juice" smell. Except now, instead of that scent coming from her kitchen, that smell was coming now from mine. My little sentimental heart was so full. 

I got a little misty eyed as I remembered her. I can still see her, standing at her stove with her apron on and a long handled spoon in her hand. She was stirring and talking and teaching me how to tell if the jelly was done by holding up the spoon horizontally and waiting to watch if the drops would hold to the back or not. So I took a brief, 7.5 minute walk down memory lane while I waited for my juice to boil. The big kids were settled in with Mom to watch Merida choose her own fate and Nathan was napping. "I really think I'm gonna do an alright job at this." I thought. If I only knew... When the juice came to a boil I added my sugar to the pot and stirred some more while I waited for it to come to another, rolling boil. 

After I got the sugar stirred into the boiling juice, I found my way back onto memory lane for a while. It felt good to me, as an adult, to be doing an activity in my kitchen that I'd seen done in my Grandmaw's kitchen so many years earlier as a little girl. I think that food, that cooking, really, can do that for us. I think that recipes, that those traditions can help bind us tightly together as a family. I thing that handed down pots and pans and spoons can help connect us to our past generations in ways that can only be found in front of a stove.

 When you're standing in front of a range, stirring a pot that used to sit on your Grandmaw's stove, with a spoon that your Mom used in your childhood kitchen, it's as if, that for just a moment, those objects can connect you all together. It doesn't matter where you are- if you're just separated geographically or even farther away than just a physical address: for that brief moment you feel like you are all together. I know that happened to me that day. Because, for a few minutes, my kitchen smelled just like my Grandmaw's did all those years ago.  

My kitchen looks vastly different than my Mom's and even more unlike the one my Grandmaw cooked in. Yet, despite these generational differences, despite the technological changes that have taken place in the last 30 years, given a few of the same tools, some fruit juice, a couple cups of sugar, a box of Mason jars and a pouch of pectin, and they are still the same. Cooking, unlike so many other things that change with time, is a constant. It is a method that can be handed down from generation to generation without fail. The scent of boiling jelly will always smell like my Grandmaw's kitchen to me. And, in 30 years, that same scent might remind Josie of what my kitchen smelled like when she was growing up.  

So... back to reality. My jelly is now boiling. IN A BIG WAY. It's time for me to take the pot off the heat and skim off the foam before I need to ladle the now cooked jelly into jars. I'm not feeling quite as confident in my ability to fly solo for this part, so I call Mom in from the living room for a little moral support. 

She comes back into the kitchen to watch me try not to burn myself and to offer me necessary words of encouragement/advice/caution as she sees fit. As she walks up to the stove, she asks me an immediately terrifying question in response to her quick visual scan of the items on my countertop. "Did you add in the pectin, Katie?" I stood there, blankly, staring at her like she'd just spoken to me in Mandarin. "Umm... PECTIN???" 

::And that is when it all went South, y'all.:: 

Gone are the wistful memories of generations connected by cooking. Vanished are all the warm, fuzzy feelings I had about connecting three generations of women in my kitchen because, I realized with horror that I didn't add the pectin to my jelly. (If you've never made jelly before, pectin is what MAKES YOUR JELLY JELL. Without pectin, you're basically just boiling a big pot of fruit/sugar. You'll get fruit syrup. Which is delicious, don't get me wrong, but it ain't jelly.) 

I scrambled and searched and located the Sure-Jell insert and read hastily until I got to the section where there was a section titled "What To Do If Your Jelly Doesn't Set". BINGO. This is what I need. The insert said to add in extra sugar and return to a second boil, and to pray that your jelly will jell. (That last part wasn't on the insert. I just added that on my own accord. Because that's what I felt like I needed to do.) 

So, that's just exactly what I did. I added in the forgotten pectin, about 17.4 extra cups of sugar, and prayed. And stirred. And prayed. And stirred. And prayed some more. And stirred even more. I brought it up to a THIRD boil, and boiled it for what felt like 36 agonizing minutes, took it off the heat, skimmed off the foam, (Which is the BEST part of jelly making, if you ask me. Tasting that bowl full of lagniappe sugar/fruit foam is DELICIOUS.) ladled it into jars, wiped the tops and threads, covered it with the hot wax lid, screwed on the ring.... And waited. Anxiously. Like a woman who's a week past her due date in the middle of summer in Florida. (Because I've done that. Twice.) 

I washed the pots and bowls and spoons and got ready to cook the next batch while I waited to see if the jelly would jell. I finished up these little chores and I tilted a jar to the side- It was still runny. I wiped the stray drips off my stove top and checked it again- It was still runny. I gathered up the trash, straightened up the countertop and checked it again- IT WAS STILL RUNNY. At that point, I waved the white flag on that batch, transferred it to cool on my dining room table and got ready to start the next batch. Life went on, and so did the jelly making.

We made three other batches of jelly that day, and I'm proud to say that they all set up PERFECTLY. So, in my mind, to mess up one batch out of five on my first time ever making jelly as an adult- I can't be mad at that. Mom and I had a great day. We laughed and talked and tasted so much jelly that we were both sugar sick by the end of it all. And now I've got two boxes underneath my bed full of (mostly jelled) homemade jelly waiting to be eaten. And, considering that I make at minimum 20 PB&J's a week, I'd say that they will all be put to good use. {Thanks for sharing Grammy's tradition with me, Mom. I can't wait to cook our next batch!} 

Canning jelly isn't easy. Especially when you've got three small kids in the house. It's not something that I think I'll be able to do every month, but it is something that I'm glad I can do. And, as the kids get a little older, it's something that I know I'll be able to do more of. And it will help to connect me to the women in my family. I'll be able to cook a batch of jelly and remember my Mom. My Grandmaw Elaine. And so many other women in my family that have helped shape me into the woman I am today.

So, if you've got a handed-down recipe in your box that you've been anxious but maybe a little intimidated to try- let me give you some advice: TRY IT! Are you intimidated because of the number of steps it has or the amount of work it will require? Are you worried that you'll fail? Don't! You won't always cook every recipe perfectly the first time you try, but here's a secret: NEITHER DID YOUR GRANDMAW. AND NEITHER DID YOUR AUNT. AND NEITHER DID YOUR MOM. They practiced and cooked and tasted and tried their recipes loads of times before they got it right. So you can, too! 

I've got several heirloom recipes that I want to fix, namely a recipe for Cream Pie that my Nanny gave to me back at Christmas time last year. Her's were always the best, and I'm confident mine won't come out just exactly like her's, but I hope I can get pretty close with a couple practice trials. And, once I master her Cream Pie, next in line is her Homemade Divinity. Because successfully making candy is on my bucket list. And I can't wait to try it. Wish me luck!

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(Pre-jelly. The soon-to-be-boiling goodness of fresh fruit juice.)

(Thassa whole lotta shugah.)

(25 pounds, to be exact.)

(Quick and Easy? LIES.)

(The most important section I referenced all day was at the bottom of that page. It also validated me in my mistakes because it meant that there are probably thousands of other women out there who had jelly that didn't set. Hooray for not being the only one!)

(Lagniappe jelly froth. Swiped from the spoon and onto my finger. Because I'm still 7 years old when it comes to jelly froth. I can't resist it. My kids loved it too.)

(Getting ready to pour the Plum syrup into jars. I was praying on the inside.)

(I will savor every.single.spoonful.)