My apologies {or excuses}

I'm bored with my own thoughts recently.

Does anyone else get that way?

Re-reading Anne of Green Gables, and all I want to do is shut myself up in an old attic with a writing desk in front of a bright window and write about girlhood and sisters and so many romantic notions that I hold dear.

Seeing as I have no character of my own, just a conglomeration of all my favorites {Jo March, Jane Eyre, Anne Elliot}, I'm losing myself in Anne Shirley's provincial life.

That and my sewing machine.

News bulletin: I got a new sewing machine!
I can't remember if I bemoaned my broken sewing machine when it first started to go {while I was quilting a gift for a baby being delivered the next morning}. DH slaved over it for hours and restored it for one more use. Only to have it break again mid-project {due that evening - must stop procrastinating tomorrow}. I was done fighting with that machine. Hubby could see it in my eyes.

My old machine for its temperamental nature, had sentimental value. It was DH's gift to me when big one was born, a 'push present.' At that time, I only sewed at Christmas when I felt compelled to make homemade gifts using my grandmother's original 1930's Singer. A beautiful, tiny powerhouse with a perfect straight stitch. Perfect because it could do nothing else. I made a tragically home-ec Christmas skirt that my dear sister still wraps around her tree every year - I love her for that.

Maybe it was the 40 stitches or my new identity as a SAHM, but I sewed the stuffing out of that welcome-to-maternity machine. Sewed through tension nightmares. Sewed through layer after layer of thick fleece and flannel. Sewed my first dress and my first free motion quilt. Until the machine cried, 'uncle,' seized up, and died.

{Did I mention I got a new sewing machine??}

I spent days hours reading reviews, consulting more experienced seamstresses {everyone has a different, equally valid opinion} trying to spend my very respectable budget wisely. Between sewing machines and baby names, I cringed at the computer screen. Until I made my decision {in case you are curious - the Brother PC-420 PRW}.

Then I couldn't be bothered with the computer screen because I have a brand new LED screen on my brand new sewing machine with 200 stitches {!!}. Which is of course why I'm working on my most monotonous project since diapers - fabric banners for the nursery.

Despite the excitement over the new machine and the escape into a good book, this week has been a trial. My girls are whirling through the house leaving the damage path of a tornado.

A glimpse into the tumultuous routine at the renaissance house: Just this morning, the girl wonders took apart their princess tent and used the poles to knock all the 'no touches' off of their dresser. Momma's not up for much these days, certainly not cleaning up raging messes. I've resorted to competition and prizes {a third 'third trimester' is ruining my parenting ideals} - the best cleaner gets to choose the before lunch movie. The first day, Gwennan thought she would strong arm influence her sister into the movie of her choice. Afton raced from toy to bin and proudly announced that we would be watching The Lion King, again. Since then Gwennan has cleaned with a desperate frenzy to ensure that we get to watch a princess movie.

After reading this, you may be bored with my thoughts this week, too. I don't blame you {and I did warn you}. Some weeks are just unliterary. I guess that's my excuse and apology. My brain is fogged by screaming kids, hormones, and nursery decor. While my brain clears, might I suggest re-reading a childhood favorite? I hear Anne of Green Gables is pretty good.

Crunchy messes

I avoid you on days like this. Days when I have nothing to offer. At least nothing positive.

I'm angry and frustrated, and maybe I'm not honest enough about these days.

I'm angry about how much of my day is spent watching other people poop. That's the real result of early potty training. You can't trust them to wipe or call you when they're done. So you sit in the bathroom awkwardly {is there any other way?} while they strain. And I get angry.

I'm angry because big one sang through her nap, which happens to be my nap too. So this insomniac prego momma hasn't found rest yet.

I'm angry at the sponge cake that was supposed to be awesome for hubby's belated birthday dinner - it's a flat, crunchy mess. Which reminds me that I'm also angry with the loaf of bread which stubbornly refused to rise.

I'm angry that my kids can't find a single safe, legal toy when I'm in the middle of a project. I think the collapsed cake had something to do with the sand fight that erupted during the 2 minute 'watch carefully' step.

And I'm angry because my heart is wallowing in the frustrations around me. I have been given truth to overcome these days. And I seem to have lost it.

I don't post on these days because I don't feel godly or helpful.

Instead of hiding in silence today, or posting a recipe, I'm opting for more dangerous transparency. Because I know every mom has these days. Days when we want to give our children away, or envy anyone who talks to adults all day. Days when we know joy and peace are out there; they are simply eluding us. If I hide these feelings, these ugly days, do I leave you feeling lonely and broken on your angry days? I certainly feel lonely and broken today.

Even now I'm searching for a wrap-up that leaves on an edifying note. I have none. Nothing to offer. I'm merely a sympathetic virtual shoulder to anyone else whose day stinks.

A gift for life

Dear Son, my little man,

You don't know it yet, but before you even arrive, you have a tremendous gift... your dad. Not just the genetic potential for a Paul Bunyan-like beard and bones that never break. You have a dad who lives like a man should, who loves The Lord, shoulders responsibility gladly, and leads his family. Not every little man has that example.

I pray that as you grow, you look to the Word like your dad does. That you trust the Bible. That you study the Bible. That you see the Bible as your greatest resource on this Earth. Because it is. Nothing else answers your questions and guides your life like the Word. Your daddy knows that. If you watch him, you'll know it too.

I pray that as you grow you pray for your family like your dad does. That you trust God with your family to do the real work in their hearts. That your first posture every morning is one of humility and recognition of your Father.

I pray that as you grow you watch out for your sisters like your dad does. That you treat them with respect and keep their best, that is Godly interests in mind. That you speak up when they are in danger. That you tell them everyday that they are beautiful. That you value their girlish view on life. That you include them in your grand adventures so that they don't need other boys to take them.

I pray for your future wife that you will love her well and sacrifice for her like your dad does. That you will joyfully pull weeds when she is too pregnant to bother. That you will always thank her for mundane chores and never treat her like a babysitter, a roommate or a sexual ATM. That you will always kiss her goodbye and praise her often and highly in front of your children.

I pray that you will serve the church like your dad does. Sure he's paid, but look carefully and you'll see how much unpaid work he does that no one ever notices. Be busy about that work. That's the work the church needs.

If the list is daunting, remember that these are my prayers. I don't expect you to manage on your own. God is fighting for you and in you. And He has started the fight by giving you a dad to lead the way. You are blessed!

Love, momma

To my dear husband - I love you! Thank you for showing our boy how to be a real man. Happy Birthday, Hun.

Two fewer fish in the sea

Full week {or is it two?}. Sis married the pilot of her dreams Saturday. Beautiful day for a sweet couple.

My thoughts are still scattered across a couple states, so this post isn't coming together as I'd like.

Instead a few pictures from the 'day off' mid-wedding week.