Kitchen Naming

In recent months, it has come to my attention that I hate my kitchen.

"Hate" is the word my mother always responded to by saying "Hate is a very strong word" in order to deter us from saying it.

I still stand by my assessment.

My kitchen doesn't bring me peace. In order to unload the dishwasher, I have to put most of my dishes on the counter, close the dishwasher and then put them in the cabinets. Though it's a good size of kitchen, the storage is horrible; things get lost. I use two other closets on the first floor for overflow. There are myriads of other reasons that I dislike this room, which is a shame because I enjoy cooking for my family.

I have had three other kitchens before this one; this one tops the cake.

I have bought scores of organizing do-dads for this kitchen. No matter what I do, it seems to put a bandaid on something that is worthy of surgery.

Recently I came to the conclusion that the hate I have for my kitchen is so large that it is about to swallow me the way my 2 year old tries to swallow Munchkin Donuts: whole and entirely.

*Gulp*

So in a weak moment, I finally decided to pray about my kitchen situation. I think I might have told God that I hated my kitchen so much that I wanted to burn it down. That I didn't know what I was getting into when we bought this house. And that I'd really like the hate to subside. And that I'd like another one, please-oh-please-oh-puh-lease.

I'd like to tell you that, as a result of the prayer, the Internal Revenue Service found an error on our taxes and essentially paid for a brand new kitchen for us.

Instead, I re-named my kitchen. I named it "Faith Kitchen". This nomenclature hasn't kept items from plummeting out of cabinets onto my seething head, but it has placed something into God's hands instead of mine.

What's more, I need to wait for the right plan to be revealed. I have no idea how I would want my kitchen redesigned even if I were ready to go.

I do know that I want a kitchen where people feel welcome and invited. If anyone comes into my *new* kitchen and feels overawed by hoity-toity design, then it has lost its heart. I've been in kitchens like that: Show kitchens. Nope, I want it to be a place of peace, of nurturing and of good conversations.

So keep me accountable. If you walk into my kitchen one day and find me screeching smack about it, remind me to leave it in God's hands.

On Aging

I can't tell you how many times I have attempted to write this blog post. I've written it in my head a dozen different ways... snippets, really. Today I'm attempting to navigate some emotions which may not make sense to some and may irritate others, but that's half the fun of blogging anyway.

*ahem*

A few months ago, I was laughing with my hair stylist and conversing about the latest signs of aging I've noticed on my person. I asked her, "So when does one give up trying to fight aging and just let it all happen?" She stopped and her tone became very serious: "You must never, never, ever give up. You must fight it all the way." Uh-huh. I gulped. I tucked that nugget in my "note to self" file.

In recent days, I have found a small family of bright white hairs which settled nicely on the crown of my head. I immediately plucked them out and grimaced at them, daring them to produce more.

Other signs of mortality include extra smile lines and a gentle relaxing of the skin. I stare them down in the mirror until they don't bother me as much anymore.

I've started to workout again and secretly spurn my younger self for thinking that all one had to do was sweat a bunch to achieve a certain image. Mercy, this is hard.

I do manage to find gratefulness in the midst of these observations. Instead of speaking ill of my body, I remember its purpose: Legs are for walking and serving my family. Arms are for hugging and making dinner. Lips are for smiling.

And then: There is my dear Morgan. She's seven years old and doesn't know that she is pretty yet. I tell her she looks beautiful, but I don't have the guts to tell her that I think she is one of the most beautiful creatures I know. Somehow in the past seven years she has developed into a somewhat confident, amazingly creative and downright good looking child.

Now here is the part that I find difficult to express because it will sound like I want to be complimented or pitied and I may sound vain, none of which I desire:
Like most people, my inner junior-high-age side of me remembers the awkwardness of learning to do my hair and wear makeup and have people like or not like me based on how I looked that day. So it strikes me to my core when I see that, by golly, something beautiful came from my life.

And in the midst of that thought, I see a little girl looking into my eyes and telling me in not-so-many words that she is looking to me to see how to be a woman.

*Gulp*


I must be brave, I tell myself. I must shun thoughts of self-deprecation.

The sharp chin I've always disliked about myself? Hush, self. She's inherited it from you and she looks beautiful.

The melodramatic creativity? Be patient, Emily. She's a mini version of you.

The enthusiasm for making gifts for people? You.

The way her day is "really really good" or "the worst day ever"? You again.

And years from now when she finds that the magazines are telling her to do the impossible to look a certain way... she will look to you, Emily, to tell her how to be grateful for the way she is made.

God willing, I will be there when she delivers her first baby. I'll be there in the days after when she doesn't feel pretty and that her whole purpose is to produce milk for her baby. Which, in truth, it is.

God willing, I'll be there when she is a radiant bride. And a breathtaking date for prom. And a sleep-deprived mother. And a middle aged woman.

For today, I'll enjoy being her middle aged mother who needs to embrace all that God made me so that she will have the confidence to do the same. Spurn those white hairs.

Cooking with Evey

It's Saturday afternoon and I am spending time with Eve. Or rather, she is spending time with me.

I am in the kitchen at the peninsula preparing a Cheddar Jalapeño Cornbread and she is on the other side of the peninsula. She has pulled up a chair and immediately began scanning the countertop's vast wealth of food and ingredients.

She wants to help.

Eve is one of those wonderful kind of people who lets you know in no uncertain terms that she will be a part of your life and that you will like it. She's very adept at ignoring body language (what 2 year old isn't?) and plunges herself into any project I am doing with great vim and vigor. I have watched this child push herself in the middle of a group of older children, beam a dimpled smile at them and win over children twice her age... children who had earlier shunned her as unsuitable play-friend material.

I mixed the dry ingredients. Eve saw the sugar lying on top of the dry mixture. She grabbed a cracker sitting on the counter and plunged her fat little hands into the dry mixture, trying to grab as much sugar on top of her cracker.

"No thank you," I say as politely as possible and quickly take it away from her.

I add the milk and eggs. "Don't touch," I warned her.

"Counta da eggs! One. Two. Fee. Four." She eyes me, hoping I'll look elsewhere. "No touch," I remind her.

With lightning speed she confiscates the whisk. "I stir! I stir," she celebrates. I tell my nerves to hush as I marvel at her "skill". Or tenacity.

Next came the shredded cheese. Oh, the cheese. How I forgot how much she loves cheese. I pour 2 cups of shredded cheddar in the bowl. I barely catch her from plunging both her hands into the bowl. I offer her a bowl of her own. She shoves the entire bowl into her mouth, pushing the bits of cheese with both hands. I love watching 2 year olds eat.

I add the green onions. "Hep you! Hep you!" She runs to the utensil drawer and pulls out a very dull knife. It's practically round; it's used for spreading soft cheeses. She helps me cut and we put them in the bowl. She stirs the concoction once more.

Next I cut up the Jalapeño. She nearly chomps on a ripened pepper and bawks at me as I rip it from her hands. "It's ouchy, Eve. Ouchy." Sweet mercy, this child keeps me hopping.

We mix the last of the ingredients. I pop it in the oven, thankful that it's safe from little hands.

Truthfully: I'm exhausted. I can't do one thing without Eve wanting to be in the mix. Ironically, this is one of the things I adore about her.

Years from now, I will have a clean-er kitchen. My grocery shopping trips will be quicker. My laundry will stay folded when I put it in the basket. I'll cook dinner wicked fast.

Something tells me that it won't matter and that I'll miss my little helper.

Thanks for your help, Evey.

Discipline

Queen Anne's Lace

Hello, Abandoned Blog-

I have missed you, but I haven't. I have decided that I want my time to matter. Sometimes blogging matters; lately something else has.

I have learned a great deal about myself lately.

I started working out... I've been a bit more regimented than I usually am. This involves getting up earlier than my family and picking up cold metal objects and having some man on a DVD convincing me that this discipline will result in something wonderful. It has resulted is something wonderful, but not what I expected.

It has resulted in discipline.

I didn't know I could like discipline. The artsy, right side of my brain tells me to shun all things rigid. But I find an odd freedom in being disciplined.

It has splashed over into other areas of my life. I reserve a portion of the afternoon for a hobby of mine which I hope will turn into a business one day. I quietly work on my hobby with no one prodding me on. It's all because of working out, really. When you're disciplined in one area of life, it feels amazing to be disciplined in other areas.

The bad side to discipline is when it turns to rigidity, when it pushes away the people or ideologies that matter more. Discipline and flexibility need to work together for beautiful balance.

This morning my flexibility is being tested. My sweet husband struggles with epilepsy and it has reared its ugly head once more. On "seizure day", everything stops. Schedules are tabled. Doctor is called. Sometimes a hospital is in order.

I'm not sure what is most evil about epilepsy... the way it disrupts or the way it corrupts the image of Dan. It reduces the beauty in our life and we must fight to not let it become us.

This morning I have a yearning to sleep and to design and to sleep again. I want rest to restore my mind and design to recreate that which was lost.

Discipline and flexibility. May the dance be perfected.

Pizza

I must have suffered a severe blow to the head because I took my husband up on the offer to go out to dinner tonight.

Did I forget the screaming and bouncing 2 year old who accompanied us to the Chinese restaurant?

Or the time she declared the Thai food in the Noodles restaurant to be "STINKY POOPS! STINKY POOPS!" (That's the worst smell she could think of.)

Upon being seated at the Pizzeria, Eve immediately confiscated the pepper, salt and red pepper flakes. She began to shake them upon her napkin. She had several napkins because she took all our napkins as well. Normally a grown person can stand up to a 2 year old and get the napkins back, but after you see what she does to them, you really don't want them back.

There was a silver springy contraption in the middle of the table which held several specials that the restaurant had to offer. Eve immediately ripped out the offers and began licking the contraption, which we promptly stopped.

After eating chicken nuggets, french fries and noodles, she screamed "Mine! Mine!" upon seeing that Dan and I ordered pizza for ourselves. It's hard to eat pizza with someone screaming in your ear, but it can be done. I'm that talented.

Throughout the dinner she eyed the food at other tables and declared that she should also have "JUICE! JUICE". The poor table next to us was celebrating a birthday. Lucky for them, we have our own personal lover of birthdays who noticed that she was not partaking of "BIRDAY CAKE! WAN SOM BIRDAY CAKE."

One day, Dan and I will see a young couple sitting in a pizzeria with a toddler and smile appreciatively at them. But for today, that couple is us. We're ordering in next time.

Morning and Evening

The days are just packed.

With a young lady who is extremely creative and smart and funny and conniving.

She is the one who asks questions that older people would be embarrassed about, but she wants to know. Bodily function questions, mostly.

She's also the one who told us that her "close friend" (a boy) at school didn't want his sister to know who she was at the School Open House tonight.

She's the one who wants to know how we're getting to heaven. "Is Jesus going to come down and dig us up from the ground?"

She's the one who wears a breezy cotton scarf for a little spring color.

She's my Morgan.

Then there's a two year old who is toddle-y and energetic and a bit mischievous.

She found out how to open the peppermill tonight. A dozen little black balls of fun bounced on the kitchen table as I ran to stop her.

She's also the one who seizes my (sealed) vitamin bottles when I get home from the grocery store. I recently learned that she likes how they rattle and has been hiding them behind the couch cushions.

She's immensely concerned that everyone has their water bottles and shoes. It's just her "thing".

And tonight when she held a precious little 4 month old baby girl, she sang "Jesus loves me" with her whole heart, the way it should be sung.

She's my Eve.

My heart is full.

"And there was evening (Eve), and there was morning (Morgan). " Genesis 1, parentheses mine

Sanity

I'm cutting down on blogging because, well... you'll see that I'm the only sane one around here.

My in-laws brought the kids these Sesame characters.
And then I found them like this. Disturbing, I know.

I can't tell you how many times a day I find Eve doing a headstand.
I've never seen anything like it.

Morgan made a bathroom out of Legos. The seat of the toilet flips up and down.

Not to be outdone, Dan spent a good deal of time on a Saturday afternoon making this gumball machine out of Legos. It's a clown head... It actually works.

1. Open the head of the clown.

2. Put gumballs (or Lego pieces) into head.

3. Pull clown's nose out.

4. Catch the treat as it comes out the clown's mouth.