It’s Been a Year…

since I’ve seen my cute boy


as of today–June 4, 2009.

He is happy and safe and learning Russian as well as Lithuanian and fumigating his apartment for fleas, and loving it all.

He met a man who introduced himself by saying, “Hello, my name is Jesus.”

Without missing a beat, Dane answered, ” Nice to meet you. How can we help you?”

Sheesh–I miss that boy.

I’ll just have to walk around saying, “One year left…one year left…one year left.”

Tick…tick…tick. The countdown begins…

The chanting does help.

I am brave…I am brave…I am brave.

I am trying…




Read Jillian’s “Walking On Sunshine“” post about her brother.



Someone Please…

tell me…


What is it with boys and guns anyway?

Have you ever noticed that you don’t have to actually hand them a play gun, because everything–EVERYTHING magically has the ability to become one? Rakes…tripods…cd cases…balloons…bread.



In their mind, every inanimate object within their reach, has the innate ability to maim. This is a skill that only boys have–or, I might add, want.

From birth.


Of course, this skill puts everyone in their rifle scope every waking moment. We wouldn’t want to waste precious practice time, would we? Consequently, no one is safe.

In fact, I remember helping 3 year old Daney boy get dressed one day and his little thumb-and-finger-gun kept being loaded and fired too dang close to my head for me to like it.

Finally, after having my ears and chin and both eyes taken out by Hop-along’s imaginary bullets and a bit weary of his gun hand waving in my face, I held on to his arm and said, “Hey! You know, it isn’t very nice for boys to shoot at their mommas.”

His eyes immediately filled up with tears and he collapsed in a heap in front of me.

“I wasn’t shooting my momma.” Oh, he was wailing now.

“Reeeeally?” I said.

And I’m Mother Goose.

He pulled himself up and wiped at his nose with his sweatshirt sleeve. To the washer with that one.

“I was killing the bad guys….


they don’t…





The “Mother of the Year” title¬† just flew past me…



One Phone Call

My boy…my other boy, you know the one with a tiny bit more hair than the bald kid—-the far, far away one?

Well, I got to speak to him today. Christmas and Mother’s Day are the four days in two years that we get to actually talk to our missionary boy on the phone. After 25 minutes of trying to make the calling card work and the crowded, Mother’s Day phone lines work, and the crazy land line work–we finally got through.

It was so wonderful to hear his voice. I spoke to him first, because I’m the mom–then everyone else had a turn. As much as I loved talking to him personally, it was easier to relax and enjoy the call by just putting him on speaker phone and listening to everyone else talk to him. Every time it was passed to me, I had to fight–really fight the urge to yell, “What are you doing on the other side of the world?!!”

The good news is that he is well and safe and happy, and while he is still my boy, he says he wouldn’t choose to be anywhere else in the world right now. We talked to him for about an hour until we realized that with it being 9 hours ahead for him–it was well past his bedtime.

He asked if he could say a prayer in Lithuanian for us. It was incredible to hear him speaking so confidently in a language I have never heard. I tried to be brave when he needed to say, “good-bye,” but it was hard.

I console myself by remembering that in less than one month, he will have been gone a year. He is learning and growing and serving and becoming a very wonderful young man. I am so proud of him…but I miss him so much.

No matter how old my children get, I suppose I will never stop counting them, over and over whenever we go somewhere together. It’s a mama bear instinct to make sure they are all here…safe. “One, two, three, four, five….one, two, three, four, five…one, two, three, four…dang it.”

This is good. This is right.

This is tough stuff for the wuss mom of the year.

I’m working on it–and it is getting better.

Kind comments will be gratefully accepted and may even give you 25 Celestial points…

you never know.

Ain’t he cute?

The Ancient Art of Omelet

Having “sporty” boys in our house always means—that eggs are on the menu. Anytime. Any way.

Want to strike terror in the heart of one of my sons? Just shout, “We’re out of eggs!”

I’m not kidding.

Many a job in these parts, has been accomplished with the promise of an omelet, fried egg sandwich or a scrambled plate. If someone needs cheering up after a disappointing game–we whip up the Classic Egg Bake.

Beats a LifeSaver any day.

When the whole troop is here we make what the bald kid calls “a full skillet.” No, I don’t eat that sausage–

–but the big boys will fight over it–so I let them.

They are bigger than me.

In truth, I could probably get the house painted in exchange for those Egg Cups–that we save for Easter.

Since omelets are the quickest, I probably make them the most—luckily, they are really easy.

Melt a dab of butter in a small non-stick skillet. That’s probably too much in the picture–I know. So a little less than that.

Whip 1-2 or 3 eggs–depending on the size and hunger level of your audience–in a cup or bowl. I use a glass measuring cup and a fork. Add salt and pepper.

Pour into hot pan.

Gently scoot the edges of the cooking egg toward the middle of the pan–letting the raw egg move to the edges. Do this all the way around the pan…

…until there is hardly any undone egg left. Keep your heat down so that the egg doesn’t cook too much or scorch. I can’t stand brown egg–blaugh!

You may need a larger spatula than I was using to carefully turn the whole egg over. I’ve been really impressive at times and flipped the egg over in the air. I’ve also humiliated myself on numerous occasions by missing the pan entirely and wasting someones breakfast on the floor. So, I’d say–do “air flips” or flops as the case may be–at your own risk.

I use a big spatula.

Add cheese, or bacon bits, or ham or veggies.

Fold egg in half and rest the spatula on top-for a minute or so, to keep the egg from unfolding. Garnish with shredded cheese.

Feed it to the masses.

You’ll be worshiped as a Goddess…

..and life will be complete.

Week #6 Food Storage Prompt is:

1- Bottle of Asprin (500 count)

Pucker up!

Don’t be afraid—or disappointed–this is not a post about kissing. Well not completely. It might, possibly come up, in passing–but that would purely be a coincidence.

It’s much more about the pre-kiss thing people do…you know…the PUCKER. I sincerely believe that some people are genetically predisposed to a natural pucker–whether or not they have any prospects close at hand. They just scrunch up their lips like they are just waiting for something.

Don’t you find that odd?

I do. Especially since there are a raft of these sorts at my place.

Take Dane for instance. He makes this face when he’s being all serious and stoic.

Then there’s Jillian–she makes this face when she’s being demure and playful.

Lyndi swears that she never makes a pucker face ev-er. She is incorrect. She makes the face when she is really mad. Almost too mad to speak. You know, the spitting nails kind of mad. I can’t show you a picture of that because how would I ever take a picture of someone that angry–and live to blog about it?

I’m not an idiot, for Pete’s sake.

April makes the face as more of a smirk–as if to say, “Why am I constantly surrounded by stupid people?” So her’s is an attitude pucker. Again, I have no picture of that because, well, I have no desire to be spontaneously¬† incinerated.

I believe it could happen.

And the bald kid? Well he may be the exception in our pucker-face gene pool…for now. I can’t say that I’ve actually seen it, but I believe it’s in there. He just hides all traces with the willpower and stamina of Jason Borne. Someday I’ll capture that kissy face on film, and prove it to the world.

Likely be his wedding day and involve a pretty girl–but I’ll get it.

It’s in the blood, I tell you.