You Gotta Be Road Trippin' Me

Ahhhhh, summer.  Long days, balmy nights of full moons and mosquitos.  Lightning bugs, greasy sunscreen and slurpees.  Time to run through a sprinkler, grill lots of burgers and wear  flip-flops.  Time to pack away the sweaters and the school books and pack for a roadtrip.  Roadtrip.  The word used to sparkle with possibility, evoking visions of the open road, random fun stops at quirky landmarks, favorite snacks and lots of laughter.  Fun destinations, freedom!  I say “used to.”  Now as a mother of 4, the word Roadtrip hovers like a foreboding raincloud, overwhelming in its dreadedness.  I have disturbing visions of screaming 2 year olds, poopie blowouts in car-seats and fossilized cheerios embedded in the minivan carpet.  I imagine arriving exhausted with a car of cranky children and the grim determination to make this trip worth it.

The contrast between Roadtrip now and Roadtrip then…. hysterical.  Think first of the time factor.  College Roadtripping could begin on the whim of a moment and 30 minutes or less later I could be on the road, ready for adventure with a full tank of gas.  Sometimes it was just a matter of veering left on the interstate and changing my plans in an instant.  “Forget my 8 o’clock.  Let’s go to the beach.  Woooo Hoooooo!”  Fast forward ten years and four little progenies later and a Roadtrip requires the preparation only comparable to a military operation.  Location determined, lists of lists carefully itemized, supplies acquired, route mapped, and van strategically packed for total accessibility and ease of transport.  “We will be leaving in 4.6 days with approximately 200 lbs. of luggage. ETD 4:32 a.m.

This matter of spontaneity ties in closely with the matter of packing.  Throw a change of clothes and a swimsuit in a bag and I was ready to go.  Toothbrush optional.  Now we pack forecast-weather-appropriate coordinated outfits for 4 children and two adults, plus a full regimen of in-car entertainment, a fully stocked medicine cabinet bag, and a portable toilet for roadside emergencies.  Not to mention the furniture required: pack n’plays and booster seats and, possibly, swingy and/or jumpy seats.  There is great joy to be found when travelling to a kid occupied house that already has such items for your use.

Eulogy: 1. A laudatory speech or written tribute, especially one praising someone who has died. 2. High praise or commendation.

I lost my Dad a week and a half ago, but he is not lost.  He is feasting and singing with Jesus, perfectly healed and perfectly happy.  It is for me and my family now to grieve well, with this hope. (1Peter1:3-5)  And when I say hope, I don't mean, "gosh, I sure hope Dad is in heaven and I sure hope I get there."  When I say hope I mean a certainty I am looking forward to, something firm and solid and sealed with the promise of God.  This is the reason I can smile through my tears. I process things best by writing and I will be writing a lot in order to remember and in order to clear my mind and see the things God might be trying to help me see.  I hope to post some things here- who knows, maybe they will help others too.  Below is my part of the eulogy at my Dad's memorial service. 


When I was born, my Dad was on an aircraft carrier in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.  He got a telegram about my birth and he always told me how proud and excited he was to hear of my birth.  Since day one, my Dad has loved me like no other and I have never doubted his love for a minute.  He loved me with his mix of sweetness and toughness and he is the reason I have no problem seeing God as my loving Father. 

When I would read, “your heavenly Father gives good gifts to his children” I could nod and say yep!  Just like Dad.  He would bring me little trinkets when I was little, like a coffee mug with teddy bears on it, or a little lace butterfly pin he brought back from Belgium, or books of poetry that he would sign,” To Merrill, the best girl in the world, Love, Dad.”  Even as an adult he was generous and showed how he loved me with gifts.  Thoughtful things and practical ones too, like the furry boots he sent last winter. 

When I would read, “God will take great delight in you,” I could smile and say, of course, just like Dad.  We had secret games and special silly nicknames he would call me like, “Hollywood” or “Creature” or “Whirly.”  He would kiss and hug me and hold my hand and sit me on his lap while he read or watched tv.  We would laugh together and joke and be completely silly and goofy.  We would sit on the front porch and watch thunderstorms together.  We would discuss the books we’d been reading.
And when I would read “God is your Comforter” and “God is wise” and “God loves you” and “God really loves you!”  I could smile and nod again and again.  Just like Dad! Holding me when my cat died; Teaching me to drive a stick and change the oil in my car; taking me out to lunch.  Encouraging me in every pursuit and talent- and always bringing me back to the main thing- trusting in Jesus alone and following him.

I did not deserve such a Dad, and it makes me weep to think of God’s goodness in showing me his love through the love of the Dad he gave me here for 33 years…. So I wrote this for him and I say:

“To Dad, the best Dad in the world”

Love, Merrill

true confessions

I could have put more photographs on here.  But I think a little real-ness goes a long way.  Here you see some of my "mess."  The kitchen drawers were B-A-D.  The laundry room was a D-saster.  If Martha Stewart saw this she would go weak in the knees and vomit.  If Better Homes and Gardens saw this they would grab the red telephone, call in a team of professionals, stage an intervention and "repurpose" my laundry space.  If that guy with the funny name who used to do stuff on Oprah saw this he would break into a cold sweat and recommend lots of baskets and a label machine on steroids. 

But it is just me and my junk, facing off, doing battle.  Eyes locked- who will glance away first and go home defeated?  NOT gonna be me, EL JUNKO!  You are going down!  Case in point, check out these Before and Afters from the kitchen.  I have to say that these are like those B & A diet/workout photos where you KNOW they put the person in a bad color and made them frown and took off all make-up and made them stand facing front with their feet flat on the floor.  Then, like magic, in the second photo, after a month of grueling workouts and eating nothing but gruel, they are happy, oh so happy!  And they are tan and wearing a cute color and smiling and standing at an angle with their hands on their hips.  What a transformation!  But seriously, these drawers make me so happy!  I should have put myself in the first picture, covered with baby spit and a bit of babysnot on my shoulder, haggard face, frizzy hair, sweatpants, wrangling my crying baby.  The second picture I would have mascara and a smile and a cute ruffly 1950s inspired apron, with soft curls framing my face, my hands gently poised at my side. 

TA-DA!  Thanks to my kitchen purge and some drawer organizers from my dear friend IKEA, I was able to transform my drawers into sleek models of efficiency and economy.  Just think of all the time I save by being able to see the exact utensil I need right when I need it.  Bliss. Or close to it, I guess.  And here's drawer number one, up close and personal.

Eat your heart out Marfa!

(Stay tuned for scenes from the Laundry Room.  It is a whole'nother kettle of fish to fry.)

tender buds

Today the freshness of Spring was in the air.  The trees were alive with the cheerful twittering of the birds.  They know that the grip of winter is almost gone.

Delicate lavender crocuses in a lush green patch of clover.

I've been watching this nest all winter.  It was concealed by greenery until the falling leaves of autumn left it bare for us to see.  I wonder if it will hold some feathered mama this Spring; then a few smooth warm eggs, and then hungry gaping mouths crying for nourishment?  You can see the tiny leaves starting to come out on the branches- this year's green lushness, fresh and waiting to burst forth.

A beautiful, reluctant bud, unfurled by the warmth and golden sunlight.  Maybe not trusting that Spring is here to stay. 

babydays

written this past June when Pete was 3 months old...

Already his little head has outgrown my hand.  I stroke it’s downy softness in the waning light of the day.  Already his little self has outgrown the crook of my arm.  Chubby legs protrude, wigglier as the days go by.   I think his eyes may stay blue.  They are piercing in their blueness, fringed by long lashes.  Already he is laughing, smiling and flirting with friendly faces.  He laughs at Daddy tickling his chunky thigh, or brother’s face pressed close to his own.  Today I wiped away a chocolatey kiss that I found on his cheek.  That was another brother’s sweet kiss, a fierce sweet sticky sort of love. “See Baby Pete” he says, with a hard “T” at the end for emphasis.  Seeing means not just with eyes but with a 2- year- old’s smackey kiss.  A little hand pressed on his head.   And I remember when he was just such a baby.  So I try to gather these moments and tuck them deep in my heart.

He wakes just before dawn, needing mama’s milk, and I don’t mind so much.  I flip on the night light and pick him up, squirmy in his crib, settle into our chair and he nurses contentedly.  I look for the first light between the cracks of the blinds.  I listen for that first birdsong, the trilling of dawn to a sleepy world.  I gaze at the soft curve of his cheeks, his nose, his forehead.  All soft and sweet and perfect.  I keep my hand on his head, the one growing so fast and I must stop and gather these moments before they pass.

I lay him back down to sleep, his eyes already shut tightly, his mouth sucking little sweet sucks as if he were still at my breast.  He sighs and I smile and touch him gently on the chest, reassuring him, mama is still here.  It won’t be that long really before the crib that held all my babies is packed away, sold even, and these babydays will be over.  The emotion of that catches in my throat and my eyes well up.  Yes, these days are not easy and I am easily overwhelmed with the needs of my home and my little ones.  But I love them.  These days and these babies.  My oldest who still likes to pretend she’s my baby girl and snuggle as I stroke her hair, who says, “sing to me, mommy” at bedtime.  My oldest boy child who always puts his little hand on my arm when we’re sitting on the couch reading, who cries sometimes if I don’t go in and kiss him goodnight.  My 2 year old who says “hold you” and reaches up his little arms at all the most” inconvenient” times but I can hardly resist; whose chubby hand presses my head down to his kisses at bedtime.  I want to freeze these moments and the love that wells up in gratitude to the True Father of these precious ones. 

But time is inexorable and the days fleet of wing so I must press the soft faces close to mine and beg for these moments to print themselves indelible on my heart.  So when these boys pull away from my kiss or speak words that cut, I can close my eyes and remember the tender baby boys that were and I will love them as fiercely.  And when there are slamming doors and rolling eyes, I will think of that sweet blue eyed baby girl who first called me “mommy” -of all the gathered moments, the sleeping faces, the patter of feet down the hall, the “kiss it better tears”, the laughter and chasing and eyes scrunched in prayer; the things pondered and tucked away that keep my heart tender and brimming with joy.

Be Kind, Rewind

I mainly post this picture because of that dear little baby sitting there grinning at my pile of books that got the boot.   I want you to know that the household purge is in effect. This is also a noteworthy picture because you can see in the foreground an actual VCR.  Yes, folks, that is an electronic device that came before the DVD player and is actually the grandfather of the Blue Ray.  VCR stands for Video Cassette Recorder and the video cassettes were these huge black rectangles containing actual tape that had to be rewound after one watched the movie.  I explain all this for sentimental reasons, so we will never forget how far we've come. 

Yes, we are just now getting rid of our VCR.  What is wrong with us?  Good grief!  We got rid of our videotapes years ago!  I think this VCR became like that weird out of place mole you might have on your arm- you see it but you never really SEE it so you forget it's there and you don't realize that it's pretty dang ugly and needs to be cut off.  Bye Bye VCR.  I think there's really no use for you anylonger.  Well, that sets me to thinking....Possible repurposes for said VCR:

1.  Convert into an EZ bake oven for kids.
2.  Paint it blue and nail it to our house as a mailbox.
3.  Cut it in half, modpodge cute paper onto it and use the pieces as bookends.
4.  Use it for a game, like Elf on the Shelf.  VCR Buddy on the Shelf.  The kids can find it in random places all over the house, like in their closet or under their pillow when they wake up.
5.  Put cheese in it and stick it in under the sink as a mouse trap.  (The mice are another story.)

Well that was a fun exercise in being green and trying for one of the three R's (you know...reduce, re-use, recycle).  I think I'll go with the Run it out to da Trash option.  Unless you want it.  Let me know.

Simple Things

"I believe we would be happier to have a personal revolution in our individual lives and go back to simpler living and more direct thinking. It is the simple things of life that make living worthwhile, the sweet fundamental things such as love and duty, work and rest, and living close to nature." — Laura Ingalls Wilder

I have come to the point in my life where I need a "personal revolution" in order to function and thrive in this present phase of life.  I am not an organized person.  I struggle with order and organization in a home with four little ones and it has come to a head in the form of an overwhelmed, exhausted mom and a house that borders on out of control.  Stuff accumulates, piles grow, and I tread water, almost drowning, looking around for a life preserver.

Our universe is orderly, our Creator is the one who made this complex, orderly universe, and he can certainly help me bring order to my little world.  When I need to learn about a subject I read books.  In this case I am reading "Organized Simplicity" by Tsh Oxenreider.  Her book is, like the title, organized and simple, concise and readable and practical.  It begins at the beginning and attacks the problem our society has with possessions and accumulation and even living to excesses.  Then she challenges you to create your "family purpose statement" and re-evaluate everything you have and every room you live in from the perspective of your family's purposes and goals.  She tackles the subject of money- urging a not-obsessive but wise and simple approach, including getting out of debt.  Oxenreider walks you through the creation of a Home Management Notebook, which has pages for each day's tasks, menu planning, projects, the monthly budget, and more.  Then she walks you through a "purge" of your entire house. 

Okay, Ms. Oxenreider, I am game.  I'm feeling "ruthless" as I eye my piles and heaps of stuff.  I actually already started with the easy room, the living room.  It is the room with the least clutter.  I did send piles of magazines to the recycle bin, and stacks of books to the giveaway or yard sale pile.  I've gotten my husband on board- he is as frustrated with our plight as I am- and we purged away, together.  It was serious marital bonding.  Next on our purge-o-rama will be the dreaded kitchen.  I'll let you know how it goes and post a picture of the most interesting thing we will be selling/giving away.  It will NOT be the Big Chief Opener.  I promise, Big Chief.

(this jewel I inherited from my grandmother)

Flashback: Army Hospital

This was originally published on hodgepodge in November 2009, soon after we moved to a new state and entered the world of government health care.  Thought I'd share it here.

Army Hospital

This is the saga I've been promising about our first trip to the Army Hospital. It is long, hence the word saga. Just think of it as a magazine article.

I found myself with all three kids in tow several months ago for our first visit to the DeWitt Army Hospital on Ft. Belvoir, the wonderfully convenient Army post we have been assigned for our medical care. I found the hospital and the adjoining building where I thought Harris’s appointment would be. I scoped out the entrance on my first drive by, looking for a ramp so I would know if I should attempt a stroller entry or not. There did not appear to be one. At this point in the adventure I shift into “new situation” mode- trying to think of what I needed to do, where to go in, how I could manage the kids and bags with no stroller, etc.

The parking lot was packed- not a good sign. The spot I got was only the result of divine intervention. (Didn’t someone once say there are no atheists in parking lots?) The bag situation was ridiculous, but unavoidable- I had a diaper bag for Harris, a bag with books, small toys and sandwiches for the kids as this was unfortunately a lunchtime appointment (unavoidable- you take whatever you can get at this place I have since learned), and my breast pump bag. This day I was feeding Harris bottles and off schedule with when I fed him and when I pumped, so I knew I would have to feed him in 30 minutes and pump about an hour later.

We made it to the Pediatric Clinic, where it took them a while to find Harris, because his name was entered incorrectly in the system. The desk lady and I went through one of those “who’s on first” routines together.
Me: They have him as Morgan but his first name is Harris.
Desk Lady: So his name is Morgan?
Me: No, his first name is Harris, but they have it as Morgan. Harris is his first name but they have it as his last name.
Desk Lady: So Hodges is his middle name?
Me: Strangled cry etc. etc.
Finally they tell me his appointment is in the Family Practice clinic. I was a little upset because in my mind I wanted a pediatrician for my children- they are doctors who specialize in what my children are- children. Makes sense to me. But I try to keep an open mind.

A kind orderly/nurse shows me the way to the clinic- me hauling three bags, a baby in an unwieldy car seat and two children moseying along behind. Oh, by the way, there was a wheelchair ramp but I missed it. I guess the army decided to camouflage it behind a large hedge. The army is good at camouflage, as we all know. So are chameleons. That ramp was invisible to even a well-trained mom’s eyes. I arrive at the clinic, starting to be overwhelmed- not sure of the process here. I approach the long counter across the front. The man looks at me like I am an intruder (maybe the desk should also be camouflaged) and says, “The line’s over there.” Now I see the faint, worn, tiny red line of paint, randomly on the floor across the room. No one is lined up behind it, except me now. The man calls me a second later so I cross the room with my entourage once again. He can’t find Harris. You know why. I try to explain the situation, but now Harris is ready to eat and he’s getting loud.

The man finds Harris’s info, hands me a clipboard with sheets to fill out and I somehow find a seat and fill out the papers. They call me back to check his weight, and the nurse helps me with the car seat. The first scale doesn’t work so we go to another room- now Mac is losing it because he is hungry. It’s like there is no advance warning system for these little kids. They are all of a sudden STARVING, and writhing on the floor in misery. I have to eat, NOW, or I will die. An exam room was unavailable so we had to caravan back out to the waiting room with Harris now inconsolable and Mac saying, “I’m hungry” over and over again as if I am a genie that might pop out a sandwich if he says it the correct number of times which he thinks is approximately 200.

Now I need a sink to warm up Harris’s bottle but there is no way I can take my stuff back through that door again. I need a luggage cart and a personal valet. I think this was the point when I started clicking my heels together and murmuring, “There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.” The wonderful man beside me speaks kindly, says he’s been where I am in life with three small kids- he offers to watch the kids. I slap a sandwich in the kid’s hands and go to warm the bottle. I come back and begin to feed Harris- the kind man chats with me. I say ruefully, jokingly, “right now I’m the mom people look at and shake their heads and say ‘poor thing.’” He is encouraging and I cry a little because of his kindness. For a moment I am ok. Ruthie now has to go potty- ummm, impossible. Go in your pants I tell her. No, I would never say such a thing. She just has to wait. This is one of those other things for which children have no warning system, slowly alerting them that their bladder is filling up and soon they will be in an emergency pee-pee situation. No. It is- BOOM. All of a sudden she has to go so bad she will explode pee everywhere if she can’t get to a potty. I have to go, NOW, or I will explode pee everywhere!

Harris has finished his bottle, the nurse calls us back to a room, we’ve made it. The nurse watches Harris in the room while I take Ruth to the potty with Mac along for the ride. The kids enjoy the moment, “it smells good in here, mommy.” “Don’t touch anything, Mac.” Back in the exam room the doctor shows up. He is kind, he asks about Harris and I have a breakdown. I manage to explain about his feeding issues, how concerned I am. The doctor is wonderful- sympathetic, patient with my post-partum emotional wackiness (hey, I can still claim that 3 ½ months later). I settle and he asks questions and we discuss what could be the problem. He wants to help- he gives me advice on the new hospital, I tell him I think he’s wonderful and I ask him to be Harris’s godfather, I mean, I ask if we can always see him specifically and he says yes. At this happy moment Harris grunts and blows out the nastiest poo ever; I smile calmly and watch it squishing out the side of his diaper and running into the corners of his car seat. It was like the 1812 overture, at the end when the cymbals are crashing, the music has reached a crescendo, the finale that brings us to our feet! The final release! Poo! It was poo-etic. I had had my breakdown though, I had been emotionally immunized. I could take anything at that point.

To wrap up this saga/misadventure- the wait at the pharmacy for Harris’s reflux medicine was 45 minutes- the pharmacy described by the doctor as “like Calcutta- tons of people sitting around looking despondent.” I remember the Calcuttas of my youth, when I could sit and read every Reader’s Digest and National Geographic and leave an hour and a half later with some drugs. Now as an adult with three kids I would need the drugs for myself upfront, so I left- Jay could stop by after work.

Back in the car, all bags and kids stowed, I breathed in and knew it would be so much better next time. I could bring four bags, one containing a baguette and a bottle of wine for myself, plus hire a Sherpa to haul my gear.

These moments, days, are my continuing education and my ongoing sanctification. I used to think I was patient, that I could handle anything. I used to think I was loving, kind, self-controlled. Well, I’m not. Or at least not like Jesus. He must have just been amazing. Seriously. Imagine just living with him and watching him handle life. Of course in my situation he would have known ahead of time that there was a wheelchair ramp. And that would have changed everything for me. But I love a good adventure, and good misadventures are great in the retelling, and Harris’s car seat needed a good cleaning anyway.

Some 'Splainin to do

Oh the power of a blog! Four letters that form an odd little word that sounds like the name of a friendly monster that might be found under my bed. I am very excited to have this little corner of cyberspace to myself- to exercise my mind and share a little of my soul with whomever might care to listen. I feel like this moment should be heralded by trumpet playing or a ribbon cutting with huge shiny scissors, but alas, it is just me, sitting solitary at my uncomfortable desk, wrapped in a fleecy blanket and thinking about what I need to be doing right now because my baby is taking a nap.

So began the life of the blog "hodgepodge" on November 2, 2005.  2005?  Seriously? Has it been 7 years since I began typee-type-typing away and hitting the publish key?  Yep.  And now I announce the birth of a new blog, a new venture, a new phase, a new corner to become attached to and in which to, well, write some stuff.

You may frown, crinkling the skin in the middle of your eyebrows, maybe even squinting a suspicious eye my way and ask, "why now, why a new blog?"  Good questions, squinty eyebrow scruncher.  Simply this: I love to write.  I need to write.  Writing is right for me right now.  My dear old vintage hodgepodge has become mainly a record of a family's doings.  This is great and needed and I love keeping up with our doings this way- it is very good for long distance friends and family too.  But in looking back through the archives I found that I used to "write" more.  I thought more and was free and fun and silly, sometimes serious, but I wrote, and that is the point.  I want to write again.  (Strangled sob....not really.) 

So what's to come?  Oh, you know.  Photos, and book reviews and poems and maybe a rant or two.  Deep thoughts?  Maybe.  Giveaways?  You should be so lucky.  Fashion advice?  Prrrrrobably not.  Political prognostications?  Doubt it.  Big words?  Yep.  I do love them.  Chapters from THE PAST?  Sure, why not?  I might even take requests. 

So here I am, Sincerely yours, again. 

Changes since inception of hodgepodge, circa 2005....
Then/Now
1 baby/4 babies
Alabama/Virginia
Husband not military/husband military
me young/me old
good knees/bad knees
did not love Chinese food/still doesn't love Chinese food
had never eaten at Mystic Pizza in Connecticut/ have eaten at Mystic Pizza in Connecticut
had a cat/no longer have a cat (so sorry, Wally)
showered frequently/not so much anymore
loved antiques/ still loves antiques (AKA "junk" according to dear military husband)
had never heard of, much less been to, an IKEA/have been to IKEA and is a little obsessed with it
ANNND I could go on, but I will not pain you anymore.  Needless to say, wow(!) alot can happen in seven years.  So stay tuned for the next seven, dear reader!