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The Great Easter Hug Hunt

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As far as sporting events go, Easter is the Superbowl for those of us who follow Jesus. It’s a big deal. We get to celebrate THE REASON we exist. The reason we get up every morning. The Person who loved us first. Man, it is just awesome! And if you don’t celebrate, thank you for supporting those of us who do. Just know, the roster isn’t full yet and the winning team could always use a few more players… in case you’re looking for the greatest coach to ever play the game.

It will never cease to be special to me, but this year it was missing some of the magic… like every single holiday of the pandemic. Part of it is simply a construct of having four kids under eight with a baby. Every little task just seems monumental, especially the thought of trying to do a special weekend or a special dinner. Or a special… anything.

And because of viral concerns, my family hasn’t gathered in a year. I know you are all with me on this. We’ve seen bits and pieces of family, but the big fun holiday gatherings where there are tons of arms to pick up the babies… aren’t happening. No meeting on the field… everyone sits in their own locker rooms… and plays football over zoom.

So we found ourselves on Easter weekend tired to the bone like every other weekend. Dave and I talked briefly about how we both basically do shift work. He shifts in the morning from about 6AM-9PM then sleeps. I’m up from about 7AM-midnight doing all the things. All. The. Things. Janitor, concessions, referee, back-of-house sales, finance and corporate. Everything. And when all of those things are done… suit up and play the game of your life.

Hiding Easter eggs and making pretty candy baskets were not at the top of my fun list of things to do. Screw you, you dumb bunny. Now you make me stay up even later. I was so tired I didn’t even want to picture my kids’ faces when they saw the Easter Basket. Bunny and Santa… you’d better hide because there’s one pissed off mom who does NOT need one more thing to do.

That was tired Sara talking to myself as I trudged up the stairs to try and wrangle the crew in bed. I sat in my room and played with Rachel putting off the inevitable… the boy tribe.

But before I could enter the boy locker room, Josh came peeling into our room crying his eyes out. It was not an “emergency room” cry… it was a “somebody hurt my feelings and I’m going to make sure everyone knows” cry.

In between gulps of ugly-cry fit he managed to tell us that Sammy had slapped him hard. On the face. I looked for a hand print but I was darkly disappointed that I didn’t see one. Definitely “Illegal Use of the Hands.”

I asked him why Sam did it and Josh replied he didn’t know. I can usually tell if Josh was instigating, but he seemed too shocked and broken this time.

Time to suit up and get on my gear. I closed my eyes and sighed, breathed a prayer and went to confront Sammy. When I got in the room he stood there with the guilty eyes. In Sam’s case, they’re the cutest expression his eyes make so it’s not good for the referee who finds it hard to resist such sway.

“Sam… why did you slap your brother really hard?”

He wandered around with some bizarre explanations until I brought him back to the field. “So what you’re saying is that ‘You slapped him because it was fun and you felt like it.'”

He muttered some affirmatives and I had to start in on the mom explanation of “Illegal use of the hands or you’ll incur a penalty. More blah blah blah of the mom pep talk. You guys know. You do it all the time. I ended with “You owe your brother an apology.”

I brought Josh in the room and said, “Josh, tell Sammy how that slap made you feel.” So he did that and I could see Sammy’s eyes go a little watery and back and forth between anger and hurt.

Sammy copped up to a pretty sincere apology. Josh still had angry frown and stone face. Josh could make an entire career of being butt-hurt and even have time for a side hustle of selling drama and holding grudges.

“Josh, what do you say to Sammy? Do you forgive him?”

Josh: “No.”

I leaned in really close to Josh’s ear and whispered, “I can tell he really means it.”

I stood up. I saw both faces soften in the slightest.

Josh: “OK, I forgive you.”

I was trying very VERY hard not to be triumphant. I was close enough, I decided to go for the two point conversion. “OK guys, why don’t you give each other a hug.”

At the same time they both looked at each other and said, “No.”

Me: “OK, OK, I can respect that. Maybe that can come later.”

Messy.

Messy, messy, messy forgiveness. But headed down that road, nonetheless. I didn’t care so much about the words and actions, I was studying their hearts like a player watches the game plan on the chalk board.

I saw glimmers of progress. And that was good for that night.

As I finally laid my weary head down that night after making the baskets and eggs and treats, I couldn’t help but think of Jesus on that awful night. How his mother had to watch him be slapped and brutalized and spit upon. And as we explained to our kids, Jesus chose it. He chose every bit of it for us. He knew that he had to lose in order to win… and did it all because He loves us. Endured the most hellish “game” ever imaginable because he knew our souls hung in the balance.

Jesus isn’t into neat and tidy forgiveness. He’ll suit up and meet us on our home field turf because he loves us that much. And he also loves us too much to watch us try to keep scoring touchdowns on our own end zone. If we stay down after a hard tackle, He will pick us up, dust us off and turn us toward victory.

This whole last year, I seemed to be lying flat on my back with the wind knocked out of me… gasping for breath and sleep and whatever else while the other tiny little football players ran around me and laughed. But I do know this: I can’t be helped up by a loving hand when I’m already standing. E’en so, Lord Jesus, quickly come. Sorry not sorry for the flagrant running football analogy. I am, after all, a mom of little boys.

#superbowlsunday #heisrisen #forgiveyourbrother #momlifewins #boymom #boymomadventures #boymomsrock #boymoms #boymomforlife #helives #helivesinme #upfromthegravehearose #easter2021 #easter2021🐣🐇 #forgivenessisfreedom #forgivenessofsins #reconciliation #reconciliationday #truthandreconciliation

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The Gross Zone

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I was talking to a friend the other day about a favorite topic among boy moms… the gas boys pass.

And they seem to pass a lot.

“But hold on, Lin. Humans pass a lot of gas. Girls pass a lot of gas.”

You are correct. Let me not steer us wrong. I am assuming that both genders pass the same amount of gas. There is nothing in our chromosomal makeup that would preclude one gender from passing more gas than another.

That is purely up to genetics and probably more influential, the food we consume.

The difference is, boys tend to call attention to it. Trumpet it from the mountaintops. And think it’s hilarious. There are exceptions, of course on both sides, but on a whole, boys are to farts as girls are to… nothing. I simply cannot finish the analogy.

From a female perspective, boys are so very gross. I grew up with three brothers and I spent my entire childhood rolling my eyes at the antics: the absurdly gross things they did.

And now, I have three boys myself and I am in the gross zone once again. I have the nose of a bloodhound for sniffing out gas and pride myself in smelling it the moment it happens. Between the booger-picking, the dirt-rolling, the bug-smashing and puddle-jumping, my eyes are stuck in the up position, beseeching Heaven for commiseration.

Except, God made them. And He loves that about them. He loves the dirt and the freedom and restlessness… all the things He put into their little bodies. Their mom, however, wants to see them freshly bathed with clean ears and noses wiped.

Listen closely dear readers, for what I’m about to tell you has never been breathed before. It is too horrible. If you have a weak stomach or you are prone to nausea, leave now. This article is finished for you right here.

Those of you who are now reading these words, proceed with caution at your own risk. What you are about to read is a train wreck and you will not be able to look away.

It was an ordinary day where two of the three boys were getting ready for school. TJ was a baby, all of 1.5 years. He had probably just learned to walk and was making good use of those skills.

I was downstairs probably doing fifty things at one time including but not limited to: making lunches, making breakfast, feeding the dogs, making coffee and paying bills.

It was relatively quiet and I heard Sam start screaming. It was a strange scream that sounded like he had been hurt. Or seen a ghost. It was a scream of horrification.

I dropped what I was doing and ran upstairs, skipping stairs in between.

I heard the screaming from the bathroom: I ducked through one bedroom and ran to the bathroom and stopped dead in my tracks.

I tried to take in everything I was seeing but it was too awful.

TJ was standing by Sam who was sitting backward on the toilet. TJs hands were covered in poop. He had smeared said poop all over Sam’s back.

There was poop on the floor and TJ had stepped in it. Sam was screaming in horror. Even though he was only 3.5 at the time, he knew that just wasn’t right.

I started screaming… an animalistic high-pitched squeal. Dave came running in from our bedroom. He saw the scene. He started screaming.

“What do we do oh my gosh where do we start,” were the words tumbling out of both of our mouths. I had been there longer so I took control.

“You grab TJs wrists so he can’t touch anything else! Take him to our bathroom and don’t let his feet touch the ground because he has poop on the bottom of his feet. Wipe him off then sanitize him in the shower! I’ll take care of Sammy and the mess in here!”

We sprang into action like a Nascar pit crew. After all, changing a tire certainly can’t be more difficult than this.

Dave managed to get TJ in the bathroom and wipe him down before he touched anything and I cleaned up Sammy and the bathroom explosion.

Afterward, we looked at each other. We look at each other a lot this way. The look contained so many words.

“I see you.”

“That was disgusting.”

“I’m tired.”

“No one would believe this is real.”

This is the same man who still giggles at farts. But at least he puts up a good front for the boys. His glances after each incident help me through the cleanup and get me through the day.

There is a new outrageous “gross” incident or three every day in this house, but I’d rather that than constantly worrying and chasing after with hand sanitizer and telling them not to get dirty. Because dirt is the outer shell of creativity.

One of these days, little sister and I will have a running commentary on the gross boys and I will teach her the fine art of rolling my eyes. And she will teach me how to giggle at the farts.

#boysaregross #momofthreeboys #momofboyslife #momofboysrock #raisingboys #booksforboys

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The Great Stock Market Crash of 2021

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 People ask me “What is it like to be a mom of three boys?”

Some days, you watch the stock market rise and you watch the stock market fall.

Some days, you think about everything you just made in stocks going right out the window and taking a one-way ticket to the local Emergency Room.

Yesterday was the latter. Let me elaborate:

We play the stock market a little. We like to think that we’ve made semi-intelligent choices based on our current financial situation and appropriate research. Sometimes we’ve won big. A few months ago, in the middle of the pandemic, we were watching a pharma company’s stock rise almost unchecked. We knew that it was largely over-speculation, but hey– the numbers don’t lie and we were getting excited thinking about all the ways we could use it.

In June, the stocks were sky high and we thought, “Maybe we should cash out.” Dave reasoned (logically so), “If they are actually first in the vaccine race, the stocks are going to keep going up and we’ll be sad that we cashed out early.” I agreed. The next couple of days, we saw it take a nose dive as the FDA hit the skids on the trial. We drank our tears for breakfast.

Such is life with boys. Volatility is the name of the game.

When you think you’ve won, it’s a big, fat lie.

The other day, all boys were banished to their room for the main reason they were irritating the heck out of me and the noise was next level annoying.

My brother was coming over that night and he walked in the door. He played with Rachel, then the three of us started walking up the stairs to say “hi” to the bedroom inmates.

Unbeknownst to me, Dave had arrived home early. And by “early” I mean, before it had actually gotten dark. He had walked into the side alley where our garden was to start watering his plants.

Will & I climbed the stairs and we walked into the room. I assessed the situation with the beady eyes of a hawk, scanning for rodents about to become dinner.

Three boys froze and looked at me. I felt a cool breeze on my face and turned to look toward the window. It was wide open.

The screen in front of the window had a hole in it the size of my fist.

All three boys started in at once. “Mom! Mom! The screen already had a hole in it… we just made it bigger!,” said Sam. How helpful of him.

Josh threw TJ under the bus, per usual. “Mom! TJ was on top of the dresser throwing stuff out!”

“Are you guys actually kidding me right now?” …my favorite phrase uttered a million times daily. But of course, they are not. I just say that to raise awareness in the current company of their complete lack of intelligence and impending doom.

With a slack jaw, I looked out of the hole in the window and saw my blue-scrubbed husband in the alley holding up TJ’s stuffed bunny and bunch of other various and sundry pieces of paraphernalia from their room.

The look on his face was some horror mixed with disbelief. For being a less emotional person than myself, he truly nailed it on the expression.

Let me pause, dear reader and assure you that we saw a pile of cash in the ER and also broken little boys tied to gurneys. That moment was not funny. It was horrible and real.

Dave looked at me and said, “I walked in the side alley, saw the stuff, looked up and there was TJ pressed against the screen, held in his room by some flimsy metal mesh.”

Friends, these are not unsupervised children. Feral, yes. But still under constant supervision. Like wild animals caged at the zoo. And yet, right under my nose, they were about to kill themselves out of a two-story window.

Needless to say, that night, after a severe boy-gang chastising, Dave and I discussed options and “window locks” were the final conclusion.

I’d like to comfort myself and think, “that day was extraordinary” or “that day was special.” But I don’t have the luxury of fooling myself. It was simply a day ending in “y.”

We say a prayer and thank God He has an entire army of angels around our house. Because He knows we need them.

As for the stocks, that pharma company is now so low it’s laughable. But tomorrow may be a different story. Some people play stocks. Some people save for college. And some people have “window” insurance.

#boymomlife💙 #momof3boys #shenanigans #happystpattysday #leprechauns

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Go Mommy!!!

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For whatever inexplicable reason, TJ decides that putting on his diaper and PJs is not on his agenda tonight. Sorry kid: Diaper because you just ain’t potty-trained yet and PJs cuz you’ll be cold in the night.

Commence an almost 30 minute fit with me wrestling him to the ground like an angry hissing little Gila Monster where my only hope was just wearing him down and tiring him out.

I’m sweating bullets and pulling from my years of athletic endurance. It’s a mind game now. He‘s red faced and contorting himself in every which way his little body would go. Secret: It’s a lot of ways.

My arms are tired and my core is aching. I really want to give up, when I hear two little voices behind me start quietly chanting:

“Go mommy… go mommy… go mommy… go mommy…”

Then get louder:

“GO mommy… GO mommy…. GO MOMMY…. GO MOMMY”

I strengthen my resolve and hold on for dear life. The gasping little thing begins to slow his roll and the rage subsides. I turn around to my cheering squad and we all high five. TJ, now tired from throwing the fit about the thing he can’t even remember is hiccuping loudly. I put on his PJs. I give him a big hug. He hugs my neck and kisses my cheek. He rolls off the floor and runs downstairs.

The cheering squad follows. After they leave, I stretch and close my eyes, processing the emotions. Sometimes, it takes a village and just sometimes, the village lives right in your own home.

High fives all around for surviving another night in the village of Crazy Town.

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