Babies, Beans, and Beats

Henry enjoys a little "baby training" with cousin Matthew. It's a good thing Sloan was quick with the camera as this lasted all of three seconds.

Oh no! Anderson and Caleb realize that they've both purchased the same pair of jeans from Hollister. What to do, what to do! (And yes, like the water gun, these ripped up jeans were purchased by Gigi and Papa. Who else?)

Henry, Mommy, and Daddy discover that eating the corn on the cob is not as messy as they'd imagined. Of course, this photo was taken prior to him using the cob as a brush.

Henry's BFF, Nathan, has just recently become a big brother. Most people are cooking the family a meal. I hate cooking, so I'm giving a little childcare. And what is most easy is that Nathan narrates the entire playdate, so I'm actually able to get 4 loads of laundry washed, dried, and folded, my menu for next week planned, and lunch made! Thanks Nathan for babysitting my son!

Because one 2 year old playing the drums was not loud enough.

Seriously?

Henry just received a care package from his Gigi and Papa (my parents). These care packages are usually things I've left at their house that my mother believes us unable to operate with until our next trek to Greensboro. (As if we only have one sippy cup, bib, or pair of pajamas. Or for some reason are unable to go to Rite Aid and pick up more Children's Liquid Zyrtec.)

But sometimes the pickle receives gifts from Gigi and Papa. These care packages are my personal favorites because a)they usually arrive without a note. I simply open a box and find a toy, with absolutely no explanation or way to figure out who sent it save for the return address being a UPS store in Greensboro, NC, and b) often the toys are hysterically advanced or superfluous.

In short, they are items only a grandparent would purchase. As in finger paints for an 8 month old. (Gigi's response, Oh, he will just love it. My thoughts, are you planning on visiting to clean this up?) Or "glitter" crayons. (Mom, we have loads of crayons. Yes, dear, but do you have ones with glitter in them? No, mom. We do not.) Or perhaps you need a pair of pajamas with dogs all over them and the accompanying book that matches the pjs. Apparently the dog is named Fergus. (Actually, no complaints here. Free book. Free clothes. We like reading and not being naked here in the Phillips house.)

Today's care package?

The Super Soaker Max-D 2000. Apparently, this must be the appropriate toy for a 2 year old boy with glitter crayons. It can shoot water for up to 35 feet. Seriously, mom. You're arming my son? Great. Now I've got to go buy Sloan and I guns just to defend ourselves.

I You, Jesus

I funny thing happened to me last night at VBS. I was standing off to the side, microphone in hand, backpack donned (it's a Hiking themed VBS), watching the kids sing Shelter. At the beginning, I was singing and doing the motions to spur on the kids. But the next thing I knew, I was simply singing. No Trail Guide Phillips. No audience but Jesus. I was humbled by the fact that here I've been telling all these kids that because of God's love they were accepted and loved and cherished. Because of Jesus' sacrifice, they were complete, and whole, and set right, all the while disbelieving it. (I mean, I'm the one still vying for the attention of high school boys. Wasn't I supposed to be done with this, oh, I don't know, 15 years ago?) And so I sung loudly--You have been a shelter, Lord. To every generation. A sanctuary from the storm...

And God was not content to leave me with just that one song. Just that one little picture of how He continues to draw me to Him. He wanted me to fully come to grips with my desperate need to be liked and loved by all those around me and how that interfered with my ability to see His love for me. (Seriously, I was considering cussing in front of the teen helpers at VBS just to get my "cool" back after having to play the heavy and tell them to stop flirting with one another and get back to their classes.) So I'm on Facebook (which is really just my 21st century popularity barometer) and put on my Ipod Shuffle.

I will leave you with the song that hit me. The song that caused me to shut my computer down early. The song that took me upstairs to get Henry out of bed to pray with, so I got to hear him say, "Ohmm. I you Jesus." (That's amen, I love you Jesus in 2 year old.)

True Story, Ginny Owens

I am a gifted artist

I've learned to paint this canvas well

I work until I've finished

An ideal image of myself

But you know better

I am a storyteller

Quite brilliant if I do say so

I tell them tales they want to hear

And they believe it's me they know

But you know better

Chorus:

You see my imperfections

Still you say I'm a masterpiece

A marvelous reflection

The image of Yourself in me

You paint with strokes of grace

Undoing my disguise

You say beauty lies in the true story

The world might think me foolish

If they could see beneath my mask

They might find my dreams laughable

Or be embarrassed by my past

But you know better

Of where I've been

And where you've brought me to

Of who I am

All because of you

The Bar is set low (Or why I need a pedicure)

My beloved seminary professor, Henry Simmons, taught me that saying No to one thing means saying Yes to something else. Saying No to a committee that meets at nights means saying Yes to quality family time at home. And that when we feel that should we say No to someones request that the world will cease to exist or a program fail to be run, we need to step back, recognize our arrogance, and embrace that while God loves us, He's not silly enough to leave His plans all up to us. There is much freedom in these wise words.
So in an effort to lower the incline on my ever moving treadmill, I've decided to lower the bar. To lower the expectations I have set for myself. To say No to all the silly rules I've made up about what it means to be good. To shift the definitions of good wife, mother, friend, sister, to fit the fact that Sloan has been out of town for thirteen days this month (so far--end of fiscal year and all), my sister has had a baby that I desperately want to get to see more of, and oh yeah, it's VBS.
This morning, I realized I set the bar so low I may be stubbing my toe on it.
For the past two nights, while at VBS, Henry's and my dinners have been what I like to call "Baggy meat plus" meals. As in deli meat in a baggy + some type of fruit + dairy product + some time of carb snack. As in pepperonis + fruit cup + cheese cubes + pretzels. Or turkey slices + strawberries + cheez-its (which in my mind perfectly combines carbs and dairy into one snack.)
And since we're not getting back from the church until around 9pm, Henry has been sleeping in his clothes from the night before. For the past few mornings, we've been sleeping in. And by we've been sleeping in, I mean to say that I've been ignoring the fact that I can plainly hear that Henry is awake at 7am and not going in to get him until 8 or so. He has books in his bed to read and Dog Dog and Hop Hop (the animal formally known as Mr. Bunny or Dog) to keep him company. This morning, "8 or so" meant 9:15. Henry was out of his bed, playing with blocks, completely naked with his wet diaper and madras shorts resting on top of his diaper pail. Ouch, I think my toe is bleeding and wait, what is that? Did I just step in a pee puddle in the middle of Henry's room?
Quite possibly, my real moment of toe stubbing glory came after swim lessons. Henry was eating lunch (feeling guilty about the whole naked play time, I fixed him a quasi-healthy lunch of apples and a cheese and black bean quesadilla), and I, too lazy to go upstairs to change, changed out of my wet bathing suit into clothes straight from the dryer. I've never been one to turn my nose up at getting dressed from the folded clothes in the hamper. But today's fishing for whatever turned up in the dryer is a first. Today's catch--pink and white polka dotted pajama shorts and a red T-shirt. Nice.
And I'm wanting to add a baby to the mix. Goodness, gracious, I need either my husband or Jesus to return. And pretty darn quick.

Treadmills and Roger Murtaugh

Life's been crazy as of late. My sister had a baby. My parents were in town. Sloan took a couple of days off. Father's Day. Henry has swim lessons this week (why did I sign up for these?). We're neck deep in adoption papers. And the bugger of all buggers, last night was the kick-off for my church's VBS and I'm the MC. Yes, I'm one of the few people who isn't afraid to talk in front of large groups of people and am pretty comfortable with a microphone in my hand, but geesh, I think it has been since Henry was a newborn that I've been this tired. And now Sloan is back on the road so I have to juggle swim lessons at lunch time and early naps to make it to the church on time for evening VBS all by myself.

I feel like I'm running on a treadmill, two steps away from flinging myself off and getting stuck so that the track just rips the skin off my knees and nose. Just chasing a stupid carrot that were I to finally catch, would leave me completely unsatisfied. In the midst of this hullabaloo, I've noticed two things (three if you count me noticing we have no milk, eggs, or butter in the fridge). First, like Ted on How I Met Your Mother, I need to compile a Murtaugh List. You know, a list of things that cause me to say, "I'm getting too old for this ship." (And yes, I know he doesn't say ship.) And second, I'm chasing all the wrong things. It is making me too tired to chase the right things.

Some running on the treadmill is just the everyday business of life. And that's okay. The adoption agency needs to know about our income and life insurance, so I've got to just buckle down and find out about all that stuff and get Sloan to call all the appropriate HR people at his job. There's nothing wrong with the swim class. Henry is the oldest kid in the class and so for once (because most of his friends are a good 6-8 months older than him), he gets to show everyone how it is done. Even one of his nurses from the NICU is in the class with her 13 month old. It's just that with VBS this week, it is cranking up the incline on my treadmill.

And even though I moan and groan about VBS, I love it. I love working with the teenagers in my skit group--bonus that I don't have to actually interact with the 10 and unders unless I want to. I like hanging out with the teens, talking about Facebook and Deadliest Catch. But, I may be getting too old for this ship. The other day I was faced with the following ethical dilemma--do I just stand here and nod, acting like I know who they are talking about, keeping intact the facade that I'm young, cool, and hip, or, do I fess up that I have absolutely no idea who Soldier Boy is. And who was that chick, other than someone inappropriately dressed, that sang last week on So You Think You Can Dance?

Moreover, these teenagers are making me see my 14 and 16 yr old nephews in a new light. When did Anderson and Caleb become people I actually enjoy hanging out with? When did it stop being disrespectful and become okay for them to jokingly make fun of me? And hold the phone, when did they get girlfriends who are models and look 24? Why am I sucking in around their girlfriends? I'm definitely too old for that ship.

I keep coming back to the ice cream truck. It came the other day during nap time so we missed it. But I still find myself listening for it, putting my change in the jar, and I am convicted by how much time and energy I put into prepping for the ice cream truck and how little time I put into waiting and listening out for the Lord. I'm just too busy navel-gazing and running on the treadmill to be aware of what He's doing. And most of this running I'm supposedly doing for him. The truth is He is at work--in my family, my heart, my little corner of the world. But I'm too busy running and saying, "Whoa is me, I've got too much on my plate and I'd really like a nap and maybe an hour to just sit down and finish my book" to see Him. I'm too busy chasing after all this other junk. (Seriously, how demented is it that I asked my husband if I was as pretty as my 14 year old nephew's model girlfriend? Literally, she is a model. I'm not just saying this because she is leggy and blond. Sloan's response, "What is wrong with you?") I am too old for this ship, and yet, here I am, dancing to the music, while all the other women and children are getting into the lifeboats.

The lesson of the the ice cream truck is that the truck comes to you with the ice cream. That you don't have to chase after it. That because of the Cross, Jesus says to us (over the whir and thump thump of the treadmill), "Hey, that thing you are running after, I'll give it to you. It's right here. Just get off that treadmill and come sit with me."

And yet.

Whir whir, thump thump.

Monkey Business

Sloan has taken a Stay-cation for the past few days. (Otherwise known as the "fiscal year is almost up and you've got some extra vacation days to take" vacation.) So we've made full use of his Father's Daycation going to the zoo, out to dinner, and to the pool. (It seems my declaring Mother's Days a weekend event has come back to bite me in the tail.) As I type this on Saturday morning it is 9:30am and the King is still asleep. (When is it my weekend again?)

The Richmond Zoo is a little ghetto. Well, they have lots of animals and Henry loved it, but NC has a great zoo and Sloan grew up near Philly, which has the oldest and one of the most beloved zoos in the country. We have been spoiled. There are lots of chain linked fences at the Richmond Metro Zoo, but you do get to get very close to the animals, ride a train through the animal yards, a ski lift over the animals, and even get to feed a few giraffes. Henry loved it and we upgraded our day passes to season passes since it is only 15 minutes from our house.

Feeding the giraffes.

Is it just me, or this photo a little obscene? What's grosser than gross it that this giant black tongue touched me on several occasions.

And oh yeah, the giraffe almost ate my kid. Which Henry thought was absolutely fantastic.

We told Henry we were going to take him on a train ride at the Zoo. But we were talking about the tram whose car that pulls it looks like a train and does, in fact, have a train whistle. A ride aptly named the Safari Train because it actually takes you through the Asian and African yards so you can see the gazelles and various other horned beasts up close. But Henry climbed up on this. Having no quarters (having cleaned out my purse for the ice cream truck jar), I had to honestly tell him, "Sorry, honey, Mommy doesn't have anything less than a fifty."

Feeding the Baas.Finally, on the train. Where Henry pointed to all the beasts and bleated "Baa" as unknown animals have apparently moved from the dog category to the sheep category (or maybe goat?). Between bleatings, he also provided the train with very accurate train sounds--Choo! Choo! Peep! Peep! Poop! Poop!

Matthew Gunning Pusey

Matthew Gunning Pusey,

aka "The Ocho".

He arrived at 2:25 am on Friday, June 19, 2009. He came quickly, with my sister progressing from 3 cm to 10 cm in an hour. Luckily the progression did not occur prior to receiving an epidural. He weighed 8 pounds and no one seems to be able to tell me how long he is. According to my dad, "long enough". According to his big brother Caleb, he will be a vampire, because he is "squishy, red, and has really long finger and toes and is kind of weird looking." According to his Gigi (my mother), he is "beautiful and cuddly."



Henry is no longer the youngest grandchild on my side, thereby no longer receiving the title of cutest grandchild by default. He will pass the torch to his yet to be disobedient cousin. We've labeled bunches of Henry's clothes, gathered up the swing and the Bumpo, and will be heading off to meet the little muchkin this afternoon at my sister's house. Yes, my sister has figured out that after her eighth kid, she really only needs to stay in the hospital one night.