On Projectile vomiting...

For those of you who find pleasure in the misfortunes of others, this posting is for you. For those of you that wonder if the sole point of this blog is to gross everyone out with stories about the unfortunate accidents of my children, let me assure you that is not the point; it just happens to be the dominate (and recurrent) theme in my life right now, and since I am sure that most people fall into the first category above, I relate to you my misfortunes, for your pleasure.

We have been inundated with company lately; we hosted my wife's family reunion last weekend here at the Foster Farmlet, and besides distant relatives, we have had many in-laws, their children, and applicable spouses along with them staying with us. Mercifully, many of them were able to stay with the in-laws across the road. It isn’t at all that I dislike any of them; it is just merely a matter of different schedules, and different priorities. The main problem has been that I am an early riser, and most of my in-laws are not. That, and it seems the primary objective is to try to successfully pull off what I call a “nap-chain”, which is where there is always someone trying to “catch a little nap” at all times during the day, so as to maintain at least one person sleeping at all hours of the day. All of which isn’t a big deal to me, albeit completely foreign, but makes it difficult to do anything when you are trying to be quiet and have to step over bodies all over your house. Kind of gives you that “Funeral-Home” feeling.

But anyway, one sister-in-law generously brought with her some kind of bug that rapidly attacks the intestines, and affects the both ends of its victim. This bug has torn through my family like so many children through strawberry wedding cake. So far, the current count is (just my own immediate family) 6 vomitings in 2 days, which is why I am at home posting blogs, instead of sitting at church right now. But the worst by anyone’s standards was last night after we put the kids to bed: Grace complained about not feeling very well after going to the big wedding yesterday morning, but reveled in how much punch and strawberry cake she got to eat. Not too surprising that she didn’t feel that well, huh? Well, she was the least of our worries as she has always done well at getting up and making it to the bathroom when she gets sick.

Just an hour after putting the kids to bed, we are all sitting around chatting, me being mostly quiet, as I don’t feel that well myself, when we hear a gagging sound, the tell-tale sound of a child vomiting. We instantly go to the boys’ room, and look around but can find no sign of any activity. We convince ourselves we must have misheard, and it was just a cough, but decided to check on the girls, just to be sure. I walked into their room, bent down to check Emma, found she was OK, then straightened up to check out Grace. Now, those of you who know me well will remember my less-than-impressive stature. The top of the top bunk bed is just about dead level with the bottom of my chin. When I look at Gracie, it sinks in that she is sleeping hard, but with a pool of vomit close to her head. I stare stupidly, trying to take it all in, as she rolls slightly, faces me, and vomits violently, directly in my face, without ever opening her eyes. As I am calmly deciding what I would rather more; getting a very pink coating of vomit or being gutted and dragged behind horses, she does it again. This finally jerks me out of my deep thoughts, and we whisk her off to the bath. Luckily for her, she remembers nothing of it, except a nice late-night bath, and a really aggressive tooth-brushing. Less luckily for me, I have the image of my head and front of my shirt being covered with recycled strawberry cake and punch burned into my memory and olfactory senses. My wife commented that least I took the brunt of it and we didn’t have to clean too much carpet. That’s me, Human Vomit Shield Man. Great! What a slogan: “Protecting carpets everywhere from vomiting children!! Up and away!!!!” That’s not nearly as glamorous as Haircut Harry, the Backwards Cape Boy. I ought to wear a full-body form fitting latex cape.

Oh, and by the way, just for the record, even though Grace actually threw up three times in her bed, I only counted it as once. There have been six completely separate and independent incidents. People keep asking me if what I write about is true, and all I can say is, after a certain point “you just can’t make this stuff up…” and since we are on the “gross-out theme;” if the Ropers will write up their vomit story (just about the only story that I can imagine that would out-do mine) I will post that, too.

Adventures of a lesser known Super-Hero...

In our house, haircuts are a big problem, and the problem keeps getting bigger the more people (boys, that is) that need them. I haven't had a "store-bought" haircut since I got married, and I shudder at the thought of paying someone $60.00 an hour to try to make me look any better. (Well, $15.00 for a 15 minute job equals $60.00 per hour) Regardless, in my case, it seems like I would be throwing good money after bad, so my wife does a good enough job for a job-slob construction type like me, anyway.

The problem is this: nobody likes to get their hair cut, and nobody wants to cut the hair, and nobody has time to do either. This is why from time to time the male members of my family often are mistaken for family sheepdogs, rather than proper family members. After weeks of waiting for just the right moment, we finally broke down Sunday and decided to do it. After listening to the usual whining and crying and tantrum throwing about "I hate hair-cuts" and "I don't like getting hair all over me", I finally told Brynn to quiet down, and that she was setting a bad example for the kids.

What we usually do is sit Isaiah down and let him watch ol' dad get his hair cut first. Sometimes after I let him inspect me and when he sees that I have survived with only minimal ear loss and often have suffered very little blood letting, he is OK with getting in the chair. This time he was adamantly, vehemently opposed to it. It took some quick thinking on my part; I knew that like most kids, he has a fondness for super heroes. This was most likely first fostered by family friend Jeremy Goering giving us the "punching bag" that stands upright and has the bottom filled with sand so that it keeps popping up. The one that Jeremy gave my kids had Spider Man on it. Isaiah was so fascinated with it that dragged it everywhere he went, for the entire week before it got destroyed, even though he couldn't keep the name straight. He kept calling it "Mosquito Man." Heh, some things you just can't make yourself correct...

But anyway, I finally talked him into the chair, because I convinced him that he was really the lesser known super-hero known as "Haircut Harry, the Backwards Cape Boy." (you know, the haircut cape...) Some of H.H. the B.C.B.'s adventures that we discussed include: flying backwards everywhere (bottom first, to prevent the cape flapping up over his face of course), making sure that kittens everywhere had the shortest hair possible, and at the end of every adventure: a bath with dad, which for some reason unknown to me is the pinnacle of fun for my little H.H. the B.C.B. Then we practiced making good super-hero poses in our tighty-whities and saying "Up and AWAY!!!" and stuff like that. I think that maybe the next haircut may not be quite so bad...

boy oh boy

I'll admit it; sometimes i struggle as a parent. I feel as if i am somewhat disconnected from my kids, at least from their thought process. There are times when it is really hard for me to come up with a explanation for their behavior. I think it is a personality thing, but it has been emphasized by being the youngest kid, and not being around many little kids as I was growing up. I have one recollection when I was in junior high of my grandmother and an aunt thrusting someone's baby onto me, and telling me to burp it. You couldn't imagine my horror, and they were quite shocked at my reticence to hold my little relative. I didn't even know they burped. But all this is to say that there are times as a parent that I can really nod and say; "yeah, right on, I know how you feel". I have recently realized that more and more it is Isaiah that I am identifying with. Now, I am sure there are all kinds of psychological assumptions that go along with that statement; like me being a little boy at heart, never growing up, etc., but we're not going to go into that today. It is just a bit of a relief to realize that these little people might really be my own offspring and have put serious dents in my ever-growing conviction that i was an unknown surrogate father for some alien spawn-farm for growing their young while the real parents go conquering galaxies far away, only returning to collect their mostly matured larva's and destroying my wife and and me to get rid of any evidence of their existence. (actually, I still had not formed a real solid opinion of which side Brynn was on) Not to say that I don't like my girls, of course, even if they are little alien larvae, but there are just things that boggle me, time after time. For instance: "The Jungle Book" is really sad at the point when you think that "Baloe" is dead, right? Sure, but how many times do you have to watch it before you realize that HE AIN'T GONNA DIE???? You don't have to cry every time!!! That is so obviously something alien going on there! Another case in point: what is it about really old, stoved up, gray-muzzled labs that necessitate you holding their poor old heads and weeping incessantly over them? And there is really something strange about these girls' fascination with finding little human figurines and almost obsessively dressing and undressing them. I don't know what that is all about, but it must be something alien. But take the boy, now. Now I can relate to him. He is just so "surface" and shallow that I can really identify with him. Like his "big" complex: he doesn't know he's actually a little fella; and I have to be perpetually told myself. I don't think of myself as short. Sometimes when people make short jokes, I look around for a little before I realize they are directed at me. And when he gets hurt, he doesn't to be fawned over and showered with kisses, he just wants to be left alone for a little while until he gets over it. Brynn says that he just wants some time alone so that he can be mad about it for a little while, then he's ready to go again. He is also really into peeing outside standing up; "it's what big boys do." He also has a singular delight in (as we call it in construction) "Big Iron". I've coached him as well as I could in the differences between front loaders and skid-steers, in back-hoes and track-hoes, and of course the difference between a crane and a boom-truck. I was quite taken aback the other day when he told me, quite crossly I might add, that he didn't want me messing with his 'grader. I didn't really think we had gone over that road building part of equipment. Oh, well, what could be better than the student someday surpassing the teacher? Young Grasshopper and all that. One thing that really warms my heart towards my little boy is how he loves animals. I also have a somewhat abstract or hard to define relationship with animals. Isiah loves toads; he sometimes literally loves them to death. He doesn't mind their ordinarily beady eyes starting, even bulging from their head as he firmly brings them to his lips to give them a nice little toady kiss. He does love to spit on cats, too. His riotous laughter that rolls out of his little body usually scares the cat away when he makes a direct hit, then he has to start all over, talking nice to the kitty in order to get close enough to do it again. Today he put a small plastic potting cup (that seedlings come out of) over the head of a kitten. To his delight, the kitten just backed up all over the place, until it fell off of what he was standing on. Again, after the first time, you have to talk nice to the kitty. I can so relate... I remember being a boy, too. Dogs are never as anxious to come to you after they have been tossed over the bridge the first time. Anyway, I'm sure that some of you wont understand any of this, but then, you probably don't pee outside standing up, either. Goodnight,

the fulfillment of boy-hood dreams

One reason I enjoy construction work is that there are so many ample opportunities for fulfilling boyhood dreams, like running big pieces of equipment; cranes, forklifts, backhoes, and I even got to run the penultimate in construction equipment, (albeit briefly) a track-hoe. This morning was a new experience, and a good one. In a search for leaks on a certain city roof, I suggested that we abandon the sissy garden hose and bring over the fire truck to flood the metal roof. In less than 20 minutes, here came several of the city's Bravest, in stereotypical boyish-but-bored, waiting-for-something-exciting-to-happen fireman attitude. They pulled right up to the building, hooked up to the hydrant, and cut loose. This was great fun for all; er- at least all that knew what was going on. The firemen, with typical zeal and wanton lust for excitement didn't tell anyone that actually occupied the building what was going on. As we saw streams of telemarketers (headsets still attached) pouring from every fire escape, we only then realized that they thought their building was burning down around them. Not that I wish ill on anyone, but as they milled around catching up on what was going on, I did have to chuckle to myself and felt compelled to ask them "how do you like YOUR day getting interrupted" I refrained, of course, exercising my exemplary self-control as usual.

While the firemen selfishly didn't let me actually let me run the hose, I did take great pleasure in watching the 1200 gallon per minute hose blast water all over the roof, even clear over the ridge of the roof and down the other side. This also provided excitement, as the telemarketers figured that while they were shut down for a while they might as well go to their cars for a smoke. Let me just say that when they walk around, those who had left their windows down, well, they wished they hadn't. 1200 gallons per minute, baby!!! There were some very unhappy citizens that weren't too impressed with the local fire department today.

My fun was cut short by a sweltering trip in the crawl space between the metal roof and the old asphalt roof; and i use the term "space" quite loosely. Let it suffice to say that I was the obvious choice for the job due to my specific physical appearance, and leave it at that, other than to say I don't think that my dashing good looks had much to do with it. In an area that has no movement of air and in near triple digit temperature outside, it makes it very much triple digit temperature inside. I also learned that, disturbingly enough, that sheet metal can get hot enough that when pressed against bare skin that you can actually wonder "who is cooking what smells so delicious", before you realize that it is YOU cooking. That's alright, it was all worth it to be the guy responsible for interrupting a telemarketers day, then ruining it (and possibly some upholstery). I "heart "construction!!!

In regards to an earlier post mentioning that someone paid for my family's meal, I've had several people ask me if that really happened. I think I will save that for another day; it is sorta long, but kinda funny.

just peachy...

heh, tonight during supper, Isaiah was eating his peach, and noticed for the first time certain anatomical similarities to the human bottom and his peach. He briefly commented, gave his maniacal chuckle, took a huge bite out it, then pronounced that he "chomped the peach bottom". I thought that it was pretty astute for a 3 year old, as I remember discussing the same similarities in a college British Literature class under the tutelage of one of my favorite profs, Mr. Keller. I have no claims as a prophet, but I foresee a lot more head-shaking at dinner time in my wife's future...

On Parenthood.

On Parenthood.

I can’t image anything that is both as rewarding and frustrating as parenthood. There has been nothing in my life that compares to it in relation to learning about myself. I remember previous to marriage, that I felt that I was this well adjusted adult, and would benefit not only my spouse, but also the institute of marriage and therefore the world and our society in general just by getting married. Permanently attaching yourself to another human and committing the remainder of your lives to each other before God is an excellent tool to provide a magnifying glass for some of your otherwise imperceptible character flaws. We both did a lot of growing that first year or so and emerged from our 1st anniversary feeling as if we had this whole thing licked, and were looking forward to also benefiting the institution of marriage (and therefore the world and our society) with several well behaved children that would be potty-trained by 9 months of age, that would grow up very calmly, marry well, and support their parents in their dotage. At this point, none of these expectations have been realized, and I have wondered at a society and world that would just let an absent-minded near-lunatic person such as I even reproduce, for fear of what the offspring would bring to said society.

This is not to be meant as a discouragement, though; and as I alluded to earlier, I can’t really think of anything else in life that has frustrated me as much but that I would be still so willing to give my life for. I often think how similar our relationship with our children is with our own “Heavenly Father”. Don’t you think that He often shakes his head one moment; then is nearly bursting with pride the next, just as we do with our own children? I remember one child was having a difficult time learning the lesson of staying away from the toilet. Emma always liked to splash in it, and whenever the opportunity arose, she would make a bee-line for the bathroom, despite very consistent and insistent disciplinary actions. Of course, as in many parenting situations, there is always the oblivious relative that makes statements such as “Why don’t you just teach her not to do that?” This from the same person that can’t even remember to at least flush the thing when he was done with it, much less put the lid down over it.

Anyway, I happened to be there when she really “got it”. Unseen, I was watching (with a spoon) as she crawled over to the toilet, pulled herself up and looked into her favorite toy, and you could just see the turmoil of making that decision go all over her face. Finally, she sat back down, and started crawling off, away from the temptation. It struck me then, how pleased our Father must feel when we make a similar decision to do what is right, despite how pleasurable it must seem to indulge ourselves in such luxuries as splashing in dirty toilet water, juxtaposed with the disgust of watching us revel in filth when we choose to disobey and give into whatever temptation is before us.

But I often think that it is in our own failures that we really get to know the mind of God. In our house, we struggle with anger. Unfortunately, as you may have already guessed, our children aren’t privileged with having perfect examples for parents. When we see our children react in a negative way to a stressful situation in a manner that brings to mind how we as parents react, it is a painful reminder that we are still always responsible for how we act. This is not something like “oh I wish we were more organized”, or “our kids make our house so messy” but something that will affect our children, and our children’s children from this point forward. This is sin that is in our very nature, and left unattended will not only fester, but if I know anything of human nature, will grow. This is something that is only remedied by being brought before our God with constant prayer, begging Him for help, asking forgiveness from our children, and sometimes the saturation of the Word by copying relevant verses onto note-cards and posting them all over the house, where it is perpetually brought to mind, and the Lord is faithful, and gracious, and we have seen progress.

On the more positive side, it also becomes obvious when you are doing something right. Social norms and mores doesn’t come very naturally to children ages 1 through 7, and it’s a very good thing that we can always just fall back onto the simple, catch-all explanation of “its just rude”. Not that we have it all figured out, by any means, but I think it would be considered unusual for a perfect stranger to approach you at a restaurant and tell you that he was so impressed by your kids’ manners and discipline that he had already paid your bill. I tell this not to brag, but to say that (again) like our relationship with our Heavenly Father, our children are emissaries of ourselves, and when they behave in a righteous manner, it brings glory to us. Now as far as free meals go, we have the benefit of an ever-downward-spiraling society that no longer any grasp what-so-ever of propriety, dignity, self-control, or just plain “manners” especially in small children, so it is pretty easy to look good.

We have delighted in our children, we have yelled at them, we have kissed them, we have hugged them, we have prayed for them-and with them all, we have literally seen the power that prayer has for them and on them, and we have mourned and still do mourn for one very small one, but most of all we give praise for them.

But looking back at our first child’s birth, I can still quite vividly recall the flood of relief that washed over me after a difficult delivery, when the doctor and all the nurses were gone from the room, the lights were dimmed and it was just us and this brand-new, nearly blind, very pink, healthy wriggly thing that was obviously uncomfortable in her new surroundings, understandably quite bewildered with what had just happened to her. All the anxiety that had built up over the course of the last 24 hours just broke away as I lay back with this gift and breathed a scrap of a prayer to a gracious God, “thank you Lord”. And yet even at that point, I had no idea at that time how very much I had to be thankful for.


List of frustrations
· Children finger-painting with poop
· Slow moving children
· A house that clearly demonstrates the principle of accelerated entropy.
· Kids get in the way of “getting stuff done!”

List of joys
· Obedience when they don’t know your looking
· Seeing siblings being best friends
· Seeing spiritual interest in your children
· Eating together
· Kids that love to snuggle, even though YOU know you really are a jerk