Camping converts

I've always held that camping is just not my thing. I joke that the La Quinta is as close to camping as I care to get. I don't love dirt and fishing and the smell of campfire in my hair.

But I love Garner State Park.

We went for the weekend a few weeks ago and stayed in cabins, along with five other families from our small group at church. I believe the official count was 12 adults and 18 kids. And the oldest kid was nine. And the bulk of those kids were 3 to 5 year old boys.

It was wild.

The best quote of the weekend came from Blake, of course. He said, after we'd been there for a few hours, "This is way more fun than I thought it'd be."

Poor kid. He'd been poisoned by his mother's bad attitude.

Blake hiked, played in the Frio, and played every sport anyone suggested. He was right in his element, and I'm not kidding when I say that I think he would be thrilled if we told him we were going to live permanently in one of those little cabins.

And he actually cried when we left.

Brady and Max played with friends and cars and dirt. Someone brought a bubble machine, and all the little boys had a blast just running through them.

All the kids are already asking when we're going again, and I'm thinking we might just be camping converts. It was a wonderful weekend, full of new friends and outdoor fun. God gifted us with perfect weather.

I know some of you are laughing out loud that I think staying in a cabin is actually camping, but just remember that it IS more rustic than the La Quinta.

I say a lot of bad words.

Or at least that's what my son claims.

Blake told me this evening that he told some kid on his bus that his mom says a lot of bad words. When I asked which words those would be, he answered, "You know, Mom, the d- word and the s- word."

God bless my sweet 6 year old who believes the worst words you can say are "dumb" and "stupid". May he always be so sweet and innocent.

And may I learn to control my tongue better.

Adventures in potty training

 

Anyone who knows me well knows I love being a toddler/preschool mom, but I HATE diapers. While I would not wish that my boys grow up, I am living for the day that they can (a) potty in the potty; and (b) wipe their own butts (yes, I just said "butts").

Because I am so eager to rid my home of the dreaded diapers, I decided to potty train Brady and Max together. Seemed like a good idea at the time.

In their Easter baskets, each boy got big boy underpants. I bought two little potties, thinking I could seat them simultaneously and read one book to both boys while they magically learned to "make something" in the potty. Seemed like such a brilliant idea.

On the appointed morning, I got them both out of bed, announced my plan, stripped them of their diapers, and put their new underpants on them. Brady was delighted with his Diego underwear. Max screamed at the sight of his Lightning McQueen underwear. It took me several minutes just to get them on him.

When it was time to sit on the potty for the first time, Brady immediately "made something". And by something, I mean the smallest drop of pee I've ever seen. But I cheered anyway, because it was better than nothing, right? Max screamed at the sight of his adorable little frog potty. I literally held him on the potty with one hand while shouting the book I was reading over his tantrum. When I'd finally had enough, Brady said very seriously, "Max didn't make nothin'". I was beginning to sense that my brilliant idea may not work out so well.

The entire morning, every time I put Brady on the potty, he squeezed out a few drops like a real champ. And Max screamed bloody murder and refused to make anything.

Then all at once, Max, standing (praise God) on the tiled kitchen floor, began to pee, frozen in his tracks and screaming "Oh, no, wa-wa, oh, no, wa-wa!" over and over again. All I could do was laugh. Oh, how I wish I had a video of that.

Side note: It reminded me of the first time Blake realized what was going on as he peed, naked and running in circles screaming. Again, wish I had a video.

It was then that I decided that one for two isn't such a bad record, and I could just let Max be a baby for a little while longer.

So Max's first potty training adventure lasted about four hours. I guess I'll continue buying Luvs in bulk, for now.

But the good news is Brady is still doing awesome.

I warned you

I did, didn't I? I told you that I might be getting a little religious, and here I go. I haven't historically written much in the way of personal thoughts and (dare I say the word?) feelings, but I'm gonna.

Right now, as a matter of fact.

A couple of letters I've written lately prepared me for this post, and I feel like I have no choice but to write it. So here goes.

This morning, the Lord woke me up early.

And by that, I mean that Brady was screaming for a drink from the top bunk at 5:15.

And that screaming woke Max.

It took me about 15 minutes to get them both back down. Brady was easy enough, but Max took a little cuddling, which I've learned to enjoy, no matter what the hour.

But by the time I got back into bed at 5:30, I knew He wouldn't let me rest easily. I knew He was calling me to my kitchen table. To my Bible. To Him.

So after another 15 minutes of trying to convince God that I'd have plenty of time to talk to Him later, that right now, sleep was more important, I got out of bed, made a pot of coffee, and sat down to listen.

My sister-in-law, Sara, told me recently that she's adopted the philosophy that if she hears something three times from three different places, she listens particularly close because it's usually God speaking to her.

If this holds true, then God has been shouting at me lately.

Here's what He's been saying: He knows my name.

I know. Seems simple, right?

But in this season of my life, I've discovered, for the first time, that He loves ME. Not we, the people. Not we, the church. But ME, Amy.

He knows me and loves me in a deeper way than I can even imagine, though I catch glimpses of it at 5:15 a.m. when my almost-two-year-old snuggles into me.

In Exodus 33, God tells Moses that He knows Moses by name. And then he lets Moses see His glory. I've always been fascinated by this story. I'm such a visual person, and I wonder what Moses actually saw. It used to frustrate me that God only allowed Moses to see Him from behind. I mean, really, who is He to tell me that I can't see ALL of Him?

Um, God, that's who.

He loves me so much and longs to meet me face to face. But He knows what I'm ready to see. He reveals little bits and pieces of Himself to me every day.

When I believe that He's holding back from me, Satan wins.

My God, Creator of the Universe, knows my name. HE LOVES ME.

And He woke me up early this morning just to tell me so.

We got rhythm

So dinner at our house was actually very fun tonight. We laughed and talked and for a half-hour (because that's about as long as it takes for the boys to eat their single bite of everything on their plates), our evening was just what I always imagined life with four kids would be.

Almost.

I don't remember how it got started. But Andy started banging on the table, clapping his hands and singing "We will, we will rock you..." You know the tune, right? So of course, Blake joins in. Then Brady, despite having fever and feeling crummy, found great delight in being one of the "big boys". And then, of course, because Brady can't do anything without his personal copycat mimicking his every move, Max started in, too, laughing maniacally the entire time.

Sydney and I just stared with our mouths hanging open. We are so outnumbered around here. And neither of us bothered to remind the boys about the "no singing at the table" rule.

The good news is that all three boys show excellent rhythmic talent.

Good thing they now make electronic drum sets with headphones. It doesn't matter what they cost. The day one of them says they want to play the drums, I'm so buying one.

Feast or Famine

That pretty much sums up my blogging life. I hit a stretch of pretty regular blogging, and then go for weeks without a word.

Not that anyone really reads this, but I'd like to journal for the benefit of my own memory.

I'm gearing up for another feast, so if anyone is reading this, check back soon and often. I have all kinds of things to say about Blake's soccer season, Max turning two, Sydney's talent show audition, and Brady's potty training adventures.

I'm also toying with the idea of stepping outside the usual "blogging about kids only" to talk about a few things the Lord has written on my heart lately. He has revealed Himself in big ways to me these past few months, and I might explode if I don't get it down in writing.

So there's lots brewing inside my head. I'm making a commitment to write 30 mins. per day. We'll see how that translates into actual posts.

Peace out, y'all.

Crazy things you see on the Riverwalk

We've lived here in the San Antonio area for about eight months now, and I've now been to the Riverwalk all of three times. We went once with some out-of-town guests and once with Andy's parents at Christmas to see the lights.

And Monday, we went for dinner in conjunction with a convention something-or-other in town for Andy's industry. I nearly laughed out loud as I found myself one of two women on a river taxi LOADED with guys in suits. Guys in suits sitting knee to knee and shoulder to shoulder, most of them wondering why on earth river taxis don't have first class seating. What a sight we must have been. Oh, how I wished for my camera.

When we arrived at our destination (note to self: the Westin Hotel is different from the Weston Centre), there was a little Latin man in a fedora and white suit coat crooning jazz. Another photo op missed.

The music was great. Dinner was okay. But what I found out that evening is that my husband is a stud. He is apparently very good at what he does, and all his peers like him. Really, really like him. Not that I'm surprised. Okay, maybe I'm a little surprised at just HOW awesome he is. He's always been the best-looking man in any given room full of refining-industry types (not that it takes much). And he's always been what I refer to as "scary smart". But I love that he's so well-liked and respected. It makes me proud.

I felt like a princess that evening. But only because I was on the arm of the prince.

I am certainly blessed well beyond what I deserve.