What to do when your husband is awesome and you are a class A bitch.

So.

An opportunity to buy the house of our my dreams came up a few days ago. I was all gung-ho for it and Scott was not. He does not want to get into another mortgage when ours is significantly paid down; he doesn't feel like the added space which he would have to take care of and stresses him out would be worth the move. I salivate over the kitchen and the bigger living room; he sees more work and more to maintain.

I think about the beautifully maintained yards on their street (of which ours would be the ghetto one), he thinks about the additional 50,000 added to our 15 year mortgage.

I started to pout and act like a grade-A bitch; he sits silently and listens to me moan.

Then, stuff like the tornado in Oklahoma happens and I feel like even more of a brat for being annoyed with my children for not brushing their hair.

"GET OUT THE DOOR! YOU'RE GOING TO BE LATE FOR SCHOOL!"

I yell.

What my husband needs more than anything is not my bitchy comments. He doesn't need me acting like a martyr. He needs me showing him respect, just like he's shown me love in so many ways...

crying with me at the beauty of our firstborn daughter, fresh from the womb, the one they said would die.

talking gently to a 10 year old foster child with a wounded heart. he made me melt.

poring carefully over our finances so that we wouldn't be without but so that we could live comfortably within our means. I think of wives who only WISH their husbands would stop spending money at the boats.

So, this morning I think about my childish and selfish rants.

I think about a man who WOULD move, if it meant that I would be happy. He loves me that much.

You know what the thing is, though?

I could MAKE him move. I could force his hand. I could "wear the pants", "be the masculine one", "give him the what for".

Why would I do that? Why would I act like a brat to the man who takes my feelings into consideration, loves our children without reservation at the end of a long and taxing day, and rubs my back at night?

The words he needs to hear, and the words your husband needs to hear are:

I love you. I respect you. Let's do this life thing together, shall we?

...and then I take off my bitch coat and become the loving, beautiful wife I promised him I'd be when we took our vows.

It's so much better that way.

*************************

Our third giveaway of the year is starting! "Like" Finding Wonder in the Mundane on Facebook for an entry. If you've already done that (or if you want another entry), then "Share" this post using the links below. Another entry would be to "follow" my inane ramblings on Twitter, over there on the left. $25 Target gift card winner to be announced on Saturday the 19th at noon Central time. Good luck! Our next Giveaway will be two boxes of KIWI CRAAAAAAAAAAAATE! Hooray!

confessions of a closet people pleaser. who wears panties.

A few days ago I posted on Facebook about Angelina's new boobs and how she wasn't as brave as she claimed she was. I mean, who wouldn't want to love to lose the saggy rack they've got and trade it in for a new one?

Very simplistic view.

I guess my post came out as judgey and all wrong because lots of people said so. I heard that I was being negative and not giving her the benefit of the doubt, and I wouldn't say those things if she were someone at church or a fellow mom at my kids' school. I hard that I was just plain spiteful and mean for posting it.

When I re-read what I had posted, I realized it DID kind of sound really judgey of her decision.

I pored over the blog last night of a friend who went through the exact same thing - removal of both breasts because of a crazy-high familial risk, and the long process of creating new breasts, which wasn't exactly a walk in the park. FRIEND, I DO NOT JUDGE YOU. (I don't like to say breasts.) Creepy guys who found this blog using that search term, SHAME ON YOU.

Part of the problem is YOU, so breast-obsessed and gross you are.

Panties.

Oh, dear. Now there'll really be some creepy hits. I'll update you on search terms used.

And to you, sir: DOES YOUR MOTHER KNOW YOU ARE LOOKING FOR PORN?

WELL? DOES SHE???????????

Anyway, I guess I get tired of celebrities and their choices trumping the painful choices normal people have to make every day. Women who don't have the vast amount of resources that Angelina does and did. That was my point. I didn't get it across very well. Shame on me for that.

I'm starting to sound like a socialist. Shoot me now. On second thought, if you're a true socialist, you probably don't own a gun. Knife me now?

Someone dear to me commented that I know how painful losing my uterus at age 32 was, so can't I have some compassion for Brangelina? Actually, her comment made me think, as all her comments do.

I was nursing my 22 month old last night and started crying at the prospect of losing my boobs. I'm not actually going to lose my boobs, right now at least, unless Scott goes all Lorena Bobbitt on me, but my grandmother had a double mastectomy and was never offered replacements. I just think about how sad that is and how women all throughout the ages didn't have half of the choices in health care that today's woman has.

 How far we've come!

How far we've yet to go! (Yes, scary Boob Porn Guy, I'm talking about you.)

Not every American woman can afford Angelina's choice! Bet you didn't know that.

Did you know that two American women woke up this morning, went into labor, had a baby and will never be going home?

That's the statistic. Two every day. That number hits pretty close to home for me.

If you're still reading this post, congratulations. I've started down five rabbit trails and haven't successfully chased the proverbial carrot down any of them.

Last night I laid in bed, waiting for my allergy pill to kick in and praying that Scott wouldn't be in "the mood". He wasn't, unless "The mood" is really code for "watching three episodes of '24' while wearing underwear with lots of holes."

I guess what I realized while lying there is that I've noticed a change in myself. Even six months ago I'd have been horrified that someone was possibly upset with me over something I'd said in real life or on Facebook, and that I had to apologize immediately.

The thing is, though, is that I'm realizing that my point of view is just as valid as anyone else's. Just because someone else thinks I'm wrong and they're 100% sure of it,

DOES NOT AUTOMATICALLY MAKE THEM RIGHT.

Do you know how freeing this is?

I do.

I love it.

So, I didn't immediately take the Brangelina post down. Instead, I left it up so other people could think about the same things that were presented within it. I had some ladies email me, telling me they were secretly agreeing with me, but they weren't about to enter THAT cat fight.

That's the problem we women have, you know? We usually can't have a debate. We just get angry.

So, I am proposing a group hug, me with my one ovary and me with my saggy boobs.

I may not have a uterus in that equation but, dammit, I WILL still wear panties.

Group hug?

Yes?

Come 'ere, you.

what happens when you don't listen in foster care class

I am watching a show with Keifer Sutherland and he is saying to the hot model costar, "I just need everyone to do exactly what I say and not ask any questions, OK?"

KIEFER! YOUR NAME SOUNDS LIKE SOMETHING NAUGHTY PEOPLE SMOKE! YOU'VE JUST DISCOVERED THE MEANING OF LIFE!

Why did I not EVER think of this before?

"Rachel, you're going to need to step it up a notch. I have the imprint of a piece of Malt-o-Meal Apple Zingers on my thigh after going to the bathroom."

"Scott, I just need everyone to do exactly what I say. Don't ask questions. I got it covered."

"Mommy? Why did you arrive 30 minutes late to my field trip?"

"I don't know, honey, I was busy buying shoes at Target for Phoebe so she wouldn't look homeless when I dropped her off at Friend X's house, a fellow foster-parent friend whose children look like they just had a photo shoot for Gymboree Holiday. YOU didn't put her diaper bag (I don't have a diaper bag) in the van like I asked you to. Just don't ask questions, OK?"

She got the blue ones, if you were wondering

Oh, Keifer Sutherland, how you and your gun-toting ways have changed my life. Have I told you lately I adore your button nose? Especially when it's up against the wall because you're being arrested/beat up/interrogated AGAIN?

We had the girls for 20 days. We should have stuck with our guns and said we could not take kids older than our oldest, which is what we decided at the beginning of our foster care journey. (Doesn't "journey" make it sound so much more spiritua and serving and 'we are called by God on a holy mission' than, say, "trainwreck" or "hey, let's do foster care, sounds fun and the pay is great?")

But then they were playing in our back yard and roses were blooming and that dead tree suddenly blossomed and Jesus whispered in my ear that we should keep them.

Things were great until they weren't, and then after that we had a discussion like this:

"We can't be what these girls need."

"I know."

"Call the social worker."

"OK."

(I edited out the cussing, crying, and that scene from the Exorcist where the kid's head actually spins off into her mother's bowl of Special K, and then someone tears stuff up and I re-hide the knives.)

What they don't tell you about foster care is this:

freaking EVERYTHING.

oh, also:

children aren't puppies, in case you were confused by the random crapping that both tend to do at inopportune times.

Yesterday I went to a friend's house, bringing everyone, even the two year old, overpriced Starbuck's drinks. I was singing in my car to a really bad Macy Gray song (are there any good ones?), and then I took that cheezy Facebook picture of my Starbuck's cup so everyone else could know how cool and hip and just plain blessed I was:

I then promptly ruined the day by posting about Angelina Jolie's new boobs on my page. Let's just say that rainbows and puppies are easier. I am a martyr, just so you know. "Like" so you can join the conversation, or DON'T like, and just stalk like you usually do. "Unlike" if you hate what I post and don't want to see it in your news feed any more, and "sort of Unlike" if you don't like Starbuck's. "Like" again if you think that Ross Perot is cute.

Confused yet?

I'd like to take this opportunity to apologize to my across-the-street-neighbor for the show we put on. What? You guys don't try NOT to get locked out of the house while standing in the middle of your driveway, waiting for the kid-transfer, no shoes on?

WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU?

Next up: That time when the social workers came to visit and I FOLLOWED THEM OUT TO THE CAR! BEGGING!

TAKE ME WITH YOU.

the baby photographer

Mother's Day 2013 is yawning to a close and I wanted to say something.

I had to "hide" the maternity/baby photo shoot updates of the woman who is taking our family's pictures next week because it's just too hard for me to see these pictures of all of these women and their perfect, perfect babies and then compare myself to them and think of all the ways my body failed me and I failed my body and the ways my body failed my kids and pregnancy was always hard for me and I never got it right, and I never can now.

That chapter's over.

Of course, I stupidly assume that none of these women, the mothers of these newborns, has been through anything hard or harrowing or verging on emergency or death. In my mind, and especially in Facebook land, everything is rosy and the pictures are painted in varying shades of pink.

The other day I joined my daughter Lucy's field trip at the zoo. Spring was everywhere; everywhere I looked there were pregnant mothers. The season for some reason has popped up this unexpected feeling of panic; maybe because two years ago at this very time I was 7 months pregnant and had no idea what was about to happen.

I don't have the energy to explain it, but if you've been through something traumatic like that you get that sometimes you just have to be "ok" with the feelings and that the trick is letting them come and go. You can't try to rationalize them or make yourself NOT feel them or tell yourself they aren't valid.

That only makes them stronger.

"Just think how lovely those pictures will look on your mantel," my friend the photographer wrote me in an e-mail after I had explained to her my sadness at not having beautiful baby photos like the ones she takes of any of my babies. "You'll be reminded of that evening with your family and you'll always have those photos."

I logged onto Facebook quickly tonight, and this photographer friend's status update caught my eye. Really, it just knocked me back into my chair and I have had a hard time breathing ever since:

In truth, this day every year is the hardest for me. It never gets easier watching everyone else celebrate what I've longed for the better part of a decade, longer than so many have even known their spouses. But I'm thankful for all my dear friends & clients who bless me with the opportunity to love their sweet babies with as much adoration & sugar as I could give my very own. Every single one of them leaves a little imprint on my heart when I hand them back. You are luckier than you could ever possibly know. xoxo

So, there's her truth, this woman who takes these amazingly gorgeous baby photographs. A woman who is there as new life enters the world, who laughs and murmurs and wipes tears off of her camera as she captures moments that are unique and so special, never to be repeated again.

I think of this friend, the one who is taking our pictures next week and whom I haven't met yet, but who I know I will adore.

I think of all of those moments she has captured for families, selflessly and without reservation. She's probably listened to birthing mothers complain about how horrid the epidural is; overheard couples laughingly explain to the new nurse on duty that this baby was an "oops".

I imagine her, this Mother's Day, leaning over the dewy-smelling head of a luscious little newborn. She's angling, f-stopping and micro four-thirdsing and doing all those weird light tricks that camera people do.

She's looking for the perfect shot.

I think of the tears as they catch in her throat as she steals for posterity those first-meeting-moments-in-time of another mother who cradles her baby.

Do you know what I wish for her? I wish that one day, there is a very talented photographer in that room, but she's not it.

She's the one in the hospital gown, or maybe she's standing right next to the lady in the hospital gown, sobbing and leaning over a beautiful, perfect newborn.

Tears don't drip onto a camera this time. Her tears are smudged all over his cheeks.

The camera clicks, stops.

Clicks again.

She whispers, and the camera doesn't catch it.

The thing that she whispers is,


"hello".

love in this house

Do you know what?

So much has happened in the last three days. Where do I start?

Do I start with the story of my youngest foster daughter getting her fingers stuck in the handle of the van door on the day she was FINALLY going to be on time to school? She ran into the school yelling, "I was NOT going to be late today! I was NOT going to be late today! I even got up early!"

Tears streaming down her little Dennis the Menace cheeks.

She is hilarious - the female version of Dennis the Menace. You tell her what you would like her to do. She cocks her head, looks at you with her pale blue eyes, listens politely, and then does exactly what she was intending to do in the first place.

Lucy and Asher are doing incredibly well with the new additions, though Phoebe is taking 4 hour naps. I actually had to go up to her room the other day because she was sleeping so long. I thought the fear of SIDS left after the child is one year old, but who am I kidding?

What they don't tell you about being a parent is that there just isn't a time -  um....I lost my train of thought. Maybe that's what I wanted you to know about being a parent.

Also, their nightly requests:

Clean my room.  Turn on the fan. Turn a different light on. No, not that light, the other one. I want to talk to my mom. I want to talk to my sister. No, not that sister, the other one. My jammies feel wrong. Why didn't you get me the right size of nightgown? Why does older sister get to stay up and we don't?

Last night I took oldest girl out to Target for a foster mom/daughter date. She was delightful and so thankful for the new clothes she got. I just really, really like her. I don't know what it is about her but she has this resilience and beauty about her. I don't ever want her to sell herself short, and I've told her that repeatedly.

All three girls want to know when I will be adding their names around my neck. Scott informed them that we don't have an engraving machine in the back yard.

I cried and they cried tonight when we talked about them leaving. This is what they talk about in MAPP class. This crazy "there are six kids in our house and this is crazy" and then all of those sweet moments where they're all playing together, my kids and our foster kids, all my kids, or when one of them unexpectedly takes Phoebe outside to swing in the swing.

Lucy and Asher have learned a lot. They've learned a lot about sharing, and about the importance of making good choices (I talk with them a lot about that), and how sad it is when some kids can't stay with their mom or dad and it's good they can stay here.

Youngest girl was pushing Phoebe on the swing tonight. I looked out my back screen door window and my eyes lit on the apple blossoms of the trees and heard their sweet giggles.

Earlier, of course, I was chasing everyone around outside (they on bikes, me on foot) with my wine opener, and I'm sure I was a sight for the neighbors.

What I'm saying is that I still haven't blogged about my sweet, sweet son's appointment. I'm still digesting it all and that's coming tomorrow.

I want these girls to remember love in this house, even though they won't be here that long.

I think they will.

saving you from yourself = arrows out.

Last night our pastor talked about how everyone is a dot, and human nature makes us naturally want to grow the dot bigger. That doesn't make us happy, though. Not really...it just gives us more bills, more stuff to take care of, and higher blood pressure.

He talked about some graffiti that was on the outside of the church when it was a furniture store and before it was the church. There were four arrows, pointing in all directions, coming off of a single point:

Arrows out.

Right now there is an orange, glowing light sitting on the basement stairs.

The hubbub of little girls (and the male announcer, of course) getting ready for their first fashion show in our basement.

Foster care is super hard. There are phone calls to parents, and I have to try and navigate that hard land of knowing when to let them talk to parents and for how long, and I'm trying to protect their hearts along the way.

How do you explain, in terms a child can understand, that mom or dad just isn't capable of caring forhim right now?

A few days ago the middle girl came riding over to me on her prized pink bike. She looked around to make sure no one was around us and said, "Um, Rachel? I don't want you to buy me any more new things. I don't need anything more."

"Why are you saying that, Audrey?"

"Well, Lucy is sitting over there crying and she says she's jealous of my new shoes. I don't want her to feel bad, so I don't need anything new."

I picked my jaw up from the bicycle-strewn pavement in time to announce,

"Baby, you don't need to protect Lucy. She can be sad about not getting new shoes at the same time you do. You're responsible for you; you're not responsible for her. I appreciate you being so sweet about it, but it's OK for you to have nice things, too."

This girl is gorgeous. All of them are. They love Justin Bieber and fighting over who gets to carry nearly-two.-year-old Phoebe around. They tell me they don't want me to kiss and hug them at night because it reminds them too much of their mom.

Last night I got to sneak in a kiss and sing to them, anyway.

They love Apple Jax, and they have a love/hate relationship with Lucy and Asher, just like siblings. My kids always ask when they are coming back.

that's Lucy in the middle. Yes, she is quite neglected...

I don't know how these girls have gone through life with the happiness and sweetness that they still have. I don't know how their little hearts aren't totally blown to smithereens because they've endured stuff they shouldn't have had to.

I alternate between feeling crazy we're doing this and feeling like there's nothing else that we as a family should be doing.

I think it's hard when, as a people-pleaser, I know that people are saying and thinking, "but what about your own kids? What if they're overwhelmed by all of this or you don't have enough time with them?"

I've been thinking about that a lot, and I'm realizing that mostly those feelings are leftover nonsense guilt feelings from my childhood, and generally how my mind works. I always want everyone to be happy and cared for, and *I* have to be the one to do it.

Right now I must rejoin the fashion show already in progress. Three little girls have just been announced...

the Exterminator,

the Electrician,

and the Schoolgirl.

(They've found props in the basement - don't ask.)

Once you've opened yourself up to the hurt in the world and the things that God wants YOU to do about it, you can't turn back.

It's impossible.

Sometimes all you need in order to get the focus off of SELF is to point your arrows out.

Trust me. There are more targets than you could have ever dreamt, and God will equip you.

What're you waiting for?

6 ice creams from McDonald's on a sunny after-school day

why waiting to see the doctor is worse than the 7th circle of hell

you guys. YOU GUUUUUUUYS.

Yesterday I took everyone (that's my three biological children, plus our three Hannah Montana-aged foster girls) to the doctor.

OK. There's a sick area and a well area. We are all well. (I may be sick in the head for taking all this on, but that's another post quite entirely.) Teen sat in the sick area; I wasn't about to argue. By the way. Those of you with teens?

EVERYONE BREATHING SALUTES YOU.

We get there, sit down. The teenager is angry with me because, well, that's her job, and the younger two are pounding on the fish tank next to the receptionist.

"whatshisname?whydoeshelooklikethat?whereistheotherfish?
howmanyfrogsareinhere? doyoudyeyourhair?"

the receptionist keeps staring at her computer, spouting out random answers that don't have anything to do with the questions:

"three.yes.maybe.salivaryglands."

"Girls. Please. Step away from the fish tank." I'm carrying all three girls' state foster care books, which are big binders of all of their information. My arms are totally full and we are quite a show for the other sickly children in attendance.(Look, Mommy! That lady's butt crack is showing while she chases those kids around!)

Phoebe (21 months) is running around the office like her butt's on fire, and Asher is playing with some sort of horse sculpture that doesn't really look like a toy.

The music level on teen's iPod = how angry she is with me at the current moment, and right now we're at a level where I'll be surprised if she's able to hear the sound of the song that she plays on repeat by the end of the doctor visit.

The lady calls us back, weighs everyone, and during the vision check the youngest asks the middle to whisper her the answers. Her sister obliges.

The nurse is not laughing, and I am near tears. "Please, sweetie, just tell her the letters, ok?"

She tells her all the wrong letters, and the nurse mutters something about glasses. Suddenly teenager spouts out, "I need glasses!"

Keep in mind her iPod is tuned up at full volume, an angry Adele song.

NOW, the waiting to see the doctor room:

the scenario:

1. drawers and drawers full of fun medical things to play with.
2. one adult, trying to think of questions to ask the doctor.
3. six children
SIXXXXXXXXXXXXXX CHILDREN

You guys. We were in there FOR AN HOUR AND A HALF OF MY LIFE THAT I WILL NEVER GET BACK.

Kids yelling and laughing, thinking this is better than the Dragon plus cotton candy at the local amusement park. Two are over in the corner toying with the idea of breaking into the medical waste can.

Teen is sprawled all on the table, iPod ever louder.

Middle kids are taking turns running to the bathroom, then middle girl gets a bloody nose.

A nurse comes by, raises her eyebrows:

"These are my new foster kids!" I tell her, hoping to God she'll realize I didn't raise them from birth.

"Hey, why are you telling everyone we're foster kids?" Middle girl answers.

Doctor FINALLY comes in after all of the band-aids are gone, the sanitary paper is ripped off of the table, and I have begged the kids to be just a little bit louder so the doctor will finally come in.

"What can I do for you today?"

I whisper the name of a medication into his ear that I am desperate for him to dispense. He looks around the room and says,

"DONE!"

I cling to him and ask him to marry me.

Meanwhile, Asher and Lucy are cleaning each other's ears with ear picks and everyone holds the youngest girl down for shots.

On our way out, some lady stops me and says, "I see what you are doing. You are doing amazing, you know."

God, next time you want to give me a calling, I'd prefer the one where I'm sitting in church, LOOKING amazing, slipping Benjamins into the offering plate. You can even have my Diet Coke money and I'll even switch from Pantene to Suave shampoo again. See? I know how to sacrifice!

Just sayin'.