Our House - Thanks

I am not a gift giver. Once, I gave K socks for his birthday. And before that, I gave him a book that I wanted to read.

Once, I promised to make homemade baked goods for friends, for a year....

I held true to my contract for about three months.

And when I was in grade school, I picked out a ceramic pig for my friend's birthday. It said, in big black letters, "You are worth your weight in gold!"
She kept it, but she didn't like it. She still brings it up to this day. She was sure I was trying to tell her that she was fat.

I am an Acts of Service kind of girl.

So, here is my dilemma. Lots of people from the church have sacrificed most of their lives for the last three months for our family. They have eaten luke-warm sandwiches for lunch and packaged cinnamon rolls for breakfast. Their cafeteria is the basement of the parsonage. Their early mornings (before the sun) and late nights have been spent working on the house that will soon be our family's home. Fingers have probably been hammered once or twice. Muscles are sore. A few wives are sick of their husbands being away. And we basically, through their sacrifice, have been given a new home. New walls. New ceilings. New floors. New counters. New reason to cry...

Instead of crying because the place is butt-ugly and really disgusting, I have been crying because I feel like a spoiled brat.

And I feel like I want to give back. And I thought about using my natural gifts, which would be Acts of Service, by offering to clean their houses. But all of their houses are HUGE! I don't have time for that! Ahahahha! How's that for really wanting to "give"?! I do want to give something though. To the guys who worked their butts off, and for their wives who were stuck home alone for the last many weeks.

I am at a loss.

What can you give to a large group of people when you have not-so-much money and pretty limited time? Creative givers, email me. Or call me. Or something.

A dumb ol' Hallmark just doesn't seem to accomplish what I feel like they deserve.

George

B likes order in his world. He likes to know what to expect. When he asks a question, he likes short, prompt answers. Sometimes he tricks me by asking a question that requires a specific answer. Usually, an answer that only B holds. For instance, the other day he said, "Mama, what did you go in?" I tried to answer. Honestly, I gave it my best shot.
"A car?"
"NO!"
"A boat?"
"No...what did you GO in? (He must have thought I didn't hear him correctly. Why would I give such frickin' stupid answers otherwise?)
"Um, sometimes I go in to school."
"No, WHAT did you go in?"
"I really don't know the answer, B."
Seriously crying now, (real tears), "An Ambulance! You goed in an ambulance!"
"Oh. Yup, FIFTEEN YEARS ago, I went in an ambulance, when I had a seizure."

(S adds her two-cents here: "And I went in an ambulance because I wasn't breathing." Well, kind of S, except for you forgot a few KEY WORDS: You weren't breathing AS EASILY AS USUAL. You were breathing SOME.)

One question often asked in the car is, "Mama, who is in that yellow (or blue or red or brown) car?"
I never know, but if I admit that, tears follow, along with more questions, "No, WHO is in that car? WHO? Who is in the YELLOW CAR? Who, mama? What is his name?" It is sometimes (often) easier to just say, "George is in that car, B. Wave 'hi' to George!"
Last Thursday, our good friend, Diana, had her parents staying with her.
Her dad's name is George.
B, introducing himself (ok, his introductions are more of a question...again), said, "What is YOUR name?"
"My name is George", replied George.
And OH! the light went on in B's eyes, as he could finally put a face to the millions of George's that ride by every day in different cars and in different parts of the city. Oh, the joy. Oh, the clarity in B's now peaceful life.

(And the lies I will have to admit to later, maybe in his teen years....maybe along with Santa and the Easter Bunny.)

Super Girl

We went to a community playground yesterday. The kids did not stop until they reached the swings. Like always, I swung my kids carefully, making sure their little butts were on just right...reminding them to hold on tight...slowing them down when they got too high.
We were just fine. We were having fun.
Then another mom with a younger kid, probably about a year younger than our kids, joined us. She placed her kid on the swing, and off he went. He was fast. Our kids were left in the dust. Let's face it. They looked like giant wimps.
"Undoo Hawg!" yelled the kid.
And Under Dog he got, sailing with his toes pointed to the sky, laughing joyfully.

I watched for awhile, trying not to let my competitive side kick in. My kids aren't going to be shown up like that. I'll show her.
"Hold on, S. Mama will give YOU an Under Dog!" (Watch this, little boy and not-any-cooler-than-me mom!)
Now, I didn't give S a COMPLETE Under Dog...more like a 3/4 Under Dog. But still, when I looked up after letting go of the swing, S was not on it anymore. She was sailing high, away from me and the swing and the I-guess-you-ARE-cooler-than-me mom. She was soaring, legs flailing, eyes popping, and then....
She was plummeting towards the ground, face first, into the wood chips.
She cried, hard. And to add to my embarrassment, another kid came running over to see if she was hurt. (S told me later she was not hurt, just "REALLY SCARED!")

She refused to go on the swing the rest of our time there, no matter how much I tried to convince her that she had to "get back on the horse". She didn't care about the horse. She cared about not plummeting to disaster again.

Overheard

Z's LeapPad:
"Where is Sergeant Murphy's foot?"
Z: (pointing), "Right there!"
LeapPad: "You're right! What do you use to draw?"
Z: "Your hands." (Pushes hands on LeapPad)
LeapPad: "Good! What is your favorite body part?"
Z: (Smiling wildly), "My butt!"
Surprisingly, he couldn't find Sergeant Murphy's butt on the freakin' page.
Why ask a question that the poor kid can't answer with his little electronic pen? Whose going to tell him "Good job!" to that answer?

Our Darling Baby Boy

S's smiles are because Z FINALLY agreed to act like her tiny baby.