Helga Strikes Again

My husband is a firefighter.  When he is at work, I have to "man up," and take care of everything myself.  You do not call your husband at the fire station just because the kids are fighting, the dryer stopped working, or because you BROKE the chicken coop and they might all get out.  You only call the fire station if you have a fire.  And, even then, you'd better not call your husband.  You better call 911 and embarrass him via the indirect route so that you have witnesses! 

So, I couldn't call to tell him that I broke the chicken coop today.  How on earth a man can spend so much time perfecting a chicken coop, I will never know.  He has painted that thing, added handles, windows, breezeways, a nifty ramp.  Shoot, I'm a little jealous of those hens. 

Apparently, my Swedish Viking blood has somehow created a miniature Helga within my 5'4" frame.  I fed all the squawking girls, cleaned up their poopy water, chirped at them, told them they were cute, and then went to retrieve their eggs.  The fancy door Jason made to access their nesting boxes is a wing type of door that I have to lift over my head.  Think, yellow sports car from all the 80's movies - minus the hydraulics that keep the thing open -over your head.  Except that this door is probably as heavy as my four year old, and I have to lift it over my head while balancing 8 eggs.  Now, you get the picture. 

So, when it's time to close the door, I have one hand holding eggs and one hand on the door.  My thought, drop the door, it will just close, then I can latch it properly.  I drop the door. It falls off completely.  Now, we have a wall-less chicken coop 10 minutes before dark.  Cute.

I'm so glad that I have enough humor to laugh hysterically at my predicament even before I find a solution.  I did manage to block the birds off from that area with a little coaching and a stack of bricks in the doorway to that section of the coop.  Thanks to the fanciness of the building with all of it's separate areas, the girls can't climb up their ramp to access that space unless they can karate chop a stack of bricks. 

I sure hope he comes in the front door before he checks on the chickens in the morning when he gets off duty......

Lucky Charms Kind of Love

Think about the way a kid eats a box of Lucky Charms.  No, not when you give them a bowl with milk on a week day morning.  Think about a kid with a whole box in their lap on Saturday morning in front of the TV while their parents are sleeping in.  Do they eat any old piece of cereal without discrimination?  Of course not!  They only eat the marshmallows.  That is why you buy a box of Lucky Charms.  Nobody likes the rest of the cereal.  You only buy it for the marshmallows. 

So, what's my point?  Recently, I discovered that my children still love me like they love Lucky Charms.  They love all the good things about me so much, that they don't even acknowledge my faults.  I'm still "The Bestest Mommy in the Whole World", and I always receive immediate forgiveness.  They overlook the boring cereal part of me to pick out all of my marshmallows and enjoy them. 

We can learn a lot about love and forgiveness by returning to that child-like mentality when it comes to our friends and family.  I'm going to stop finding fault, start forgiving quickly, and pick out my family's marshmallows so that I can enjoy them!

 Mark 11:25 (NIV)

²⁵And when you stand praying, if you hold anything against anyone, forgive him, so that your Father in heaven may forgive you your sins."

Let's get his freak show on the road!

"Let's get this freak show on the road!"  This is a catchphrase my Mom and I have adopted to describe my family when we're on the move.  Now, since I have been through LIFE ministries, I try really hard not to make the confession that my family and their antics are a "freak show."  So, like any good nerd, I googled the word freak for the modern day definition, and wikipedia describes freak in this way:  In contemporary usage, the word "freak" is commonly used to refer to a person with something unusual about their appearance or behavior.  Okay, so maybe I'm still allowed to use the phrase.

I would describe my family as original and unusual.  I'm proud to say that we try to be that way.  If I start to look like an average American who cares what others think about my convictions, we have a problem.  Fortunately, I don't see that happening.  I'm the girl who wants a Star of David tattooed on my forearm because I don't want a statement posted where no one can see it.  I want to shout it and proclaim it!  Lucky for my husband, I see the down side of that idea.  I'll settle for someplace much more respectable. 

My title "Fun on Purpose," was born from a decision I made this year.  Being a practical person (to a fault), I find it very difficult to have fun when I know (A) we should be getting more work done (B) we could have saved money by not having fun (C) the people I'm with are determined to irritate me someway, somehow (usually my kids).  I know this phase of my busy life is fleeting, and my children will be grown and gone before I know it.  So, I have resolved to have fun even if I have to have fun on purpose.  I will have fun when I'm supposed to be having fun, when I don't feel like doing what needs to be done, and any time I have my girls around me to maximize my family's life experience.  It is really hard to love each other and show God's love to others when you are trying so hard not to have fun.  I know, I've done it plenty.  Note: this philosophy does include trips to Walmart and house cleaning.  sigh...  

I started this blog  as an avenue, or release, for all of the thoughts, ideas, concerns, and revelations that pour, and I mean pour, through my head every day.  I can't even count how many things I ponder, discuss with myself, and stew about on a daily basis.  I've grown accustomed to chattering and blabbing with my Mother on a daily basis about everything that crosses my mind.  We used to pass 4 hour car trips without a single moment of silence.  Now, she's in the Middle East, my husband wears headphones 95% of the time, says uh-huh 4% of the time, & wants to talk about paint colors or yard work the other 1%, and my girls talk more than I do.  My outlets are few.  I don't know how many posts I've written in my mind, and every time I post on facebook, it says I've used too many words.  By the time I'm finished editing to fit my comment in the space provided, all the wit is gone, and I'm left with some boring fact update that says we had pizza for dinner or my dog pooped on the rug.  Not so fun.  Every story is better with more words, hand gestures, and funny sounds.  This, I am good at. 

I'm working on the head-phone wearing husband to do some illustrations to enhance my story telling, revelation sharing, and precious memory saving in this blog.  For now, I may have to stick with a cute photo or two.  Or, maybe I'll pull out my mad MS Paint skills like I did for my brother, the Grumpasaurus.  (It's on his FB wall - the kid named Andy with the ever-changing hair colors.) 

I will not dog my family, so if you're related, don't worry.  If I'm going to pick on you, I'll let you know.  I will definitely pick on myself first.  My favorite line from a country song is, "Lord, please help me help my stupid self."  I will always be the first one to laugh at myself.  Otherwise, everyone around me who is laughing would be laughing at me, not with me.  I prefer the "with".  I can't take myself too seriously because I take life too seriously - planning every minute of every day for everyone within my reach.  So, if you like spontaneity, steer clear, I've got a plan.  Always.

I'll think up some brilliantly funny thing to post soon, I promise.  One day, my kids can read the archives of my blog to remember what they were up to and what their Momma thought about it all.