I remember one evening when my sister and I were young. We were staying with our grandparents for the summer, and Grandpa was to put us to bed while Grandma was out at a church function. But after we got ready for bed and had climbed the stairs to the loft where we slept, instead of tucking us in, praying with us, and rubbing our backs as he usually did, Grandpa said, "Let's make a memory." I asked what that meant, and he explained that it meant doing something with people you love so that you could look back and remember it later.

That night, instead of going to bed at our usual time, my sister and I lay on the floor of the loft in the dark and talked with Grandpa. When Grandma came home, we were still talking. "What are you guys doing up there?" she called out when she heard our voices. "We're making a memory," Grandpa answered. It was clear that Grandma didn't understand, but she humored Grandpa and didn't scold anyone. I'm so thankful, because although I don't remember what we were talking about with Grandpa, a quarter of a century later, I still remember the excitement of doing something out of the ordinary just for the sake of creating a memory. It seemed that Grandpa was always doing things to turn ordinary moments into something special. Grandma, on the other hand, was much more practical. She showed her love by keeping us clothed and fed and bathed, and there was little room for spontaneous fun in her routine. Both Grandma's and Grandpa's types of love were necessary for us, but Grandpa's is what I remember more.

Last night as I was getting my boys ready for bed, I announced that I was going to read them their Bible story on my bed, instead of in their room. They excitedly ran to my bed and immediately started to burrow under the covers. I managed to get through the Bible story in the middle of a pile of squirming bodies and thrashing limbs. I'm not at all sure that any of them heard the whole story, and when I closed the book and announced that it was bedtime, it was with a great sense of relief. However, Samuel, my eldest, asked if they could stay in my bed. At first I said no, because–honestly–I had been ready for them to go to bed for over an hour. But then I remembered that evening from my childhood when we made a memory with my grandpa, and I softened. I am naturally much more like my grandma, and while I know there is a place for rules and schedules and nutritious meals, I also want to make room for fun and spontaneity and special treats. So last night I let the kids play gleefully on my bed until my husband came home and asked what we were doing. I smiled and said, "We're making a memory."

Some people absolutely adore children. I don't. I think my own children are adorable, but I often feel awkward and intimidated around other people's kids. Of course, having three children of my own has taught me a few things about how to handle children, so I'm not as intimidated by kids as I used to be. However, I've noticed that I'm rarely the first choice when my friends are looking for a sitter, and I have to wonder if it isn't because my awkwardness shows through.

I won't deny that yesterday was a bit of a stretch, but it was exhilarating too. I'm always up for a good challenge, and it definitely fit the bill. Considering our lack of experience caring for so many children at once, I think we did okay. Everyone liked breakfast, enjoyed building tent fortresses in the parlor, had fun watching the movie I showed mid-morning, and loved lunch, and I was elated by the fact that I was able to get the three youngest children to nap at the same time. When I came back downstairs after putting the little ones down for their naps, I explained to the older ones (only one of whom was my own) that at our house during nap time, everyone who wasn't napping had quiet time, which meant they could choose a calm activity to do quietly for about an hour. The oldest one told me matter-of-factly that he didn't do that at home, so he wasn't going to do it here either. I felt myself deflating as my visions of sitting down for thirty minutes to sip a cup of tea and chat with my husband began to fade, but I quickly rallied my I'm-The-One-In-Charge-Here facade, looked him squarely in the eye, and said simply, "You WILL." I must have seemed pretty sure of myself, because he didn't challenge me again. 

After nap time we all went outside, where all but the youngest child had a glorious time playing in the mud. We weren't sure it was the best idea, but we were all a bit stir-crazy by then, and that's what washing machines are for, right? Eventually we all made it back up the stairs to our 5th-floor apartment, washed up, and had dinner, which everyone liked. Then the older kids helped us put away the toys, blankets, pillows, and puzzle pieces that had managed to spread themselves all over the apartment over the course of the day. 

For me the highlight of the day was interacting with the two girls. The almost-2-year-old is objectively one of the cutest little girls I have ever seen, and she was more than happy to snuggle in my lap anytime I was able to sit down and hold her. Spending time with her made me rethink my assumption that I'd like for our hypothetical baby #4 for be another boy. Now I'm sure that I'd be thrilled either way.

The other girl was the 6-year-old, and she gave me a valuable parenting lesson, one that I've been starting to learn with my 5-year-old. She was perhaps my greatest challenge during the day, because she whined and complained more than all the other kids combined, and I really dislike whining. I was tempted just to ignore her, especially as the day wore on into the evening, when her biggest crisis occurred. She came screeching and crying to me, and I inwardly rolled my eyes. How many times can one kid cry wolf in a single day? But whether it was because she was so upset that it stirred up some compassion in me or because God gave me an extra measure of grace for the moment, I found myself sitting down with her and really talking with her, person to person, not guardian to child. It helped both of us. She calmed down and realized that she had been at least partially at fault in the situation, and I was able to see beyond her whiny exterior to the heart of a little girl who can be really sweet when you take the time to get to know her.

I suppose it may sound laughably obvious, but kids are people too. I'm realizing more and more how much they just want to be known and understood, and when you take the time to do that, they are so much happier and much more willing to cooperate. 

When I first went on the missionfield a little over nine years ago, I had this preposterous idea that I was something special. Now, I know that each and every person on the face of this planet is someone special, because we all are of infinite value to God, but this was different. I was convinced that I was something special. Although I never would have voiced it like this, deep inside, I think my thought process probably ran something like this: I am intelligent, an intellectual even. I am a language whiz and an aspiring polyglot. I am a gifted writer and an articulate public speaker. I am a musician, and I can sing. And most importantly, I am spiritual. I know the Bible better than some pastors and am able to study and interpret it for myself. I have suffered much and learned to trust God explicitly. And now I am going on the missionfield, embarking on my life's work. God is going to use me mightily!

I'm embarrassed to read those words now, sorry that I was so smug and self-congratulating. And that last part about God using me mightily? Well, I'm still waiting for that to happen.

When I arrived in Kyiv, Ukraine in late February 2003, I felt useless. The church where my husband and I were serving was filled with intelligent, articulate, musical, spiritual people, all of whom communicated in a language I could not speak. They didn't need me or my perceived talents. And though I fancied myself a language whiz, Ukrainian became my arch nemesis. I found it too humiliating to speak when I knew I was making grammatical mistakes, so for the first year, I almost never opened my mouth in public except to exchange casual pleasantries. Over time, I began to suspect that people saw me as a non-person, someone without intellect or personality, and this was also humiliating. But I don't think that true humility comes through humiliation.

So God threw culture shock into the mix. Coming from the suburbs of cheerful Southern California, I found it difficult to adapt to life in a teeming metropolis like Kyiv, where everyone seemed to be in a perpetual bad mood that they were determined to take out on me. Besides that, I didn't understand the culture, so I was always running into unexpected barriers and upsetting people for no apparent reason. And when they would yell at me, I couldn't defend myself or even explain, since I couldn't speak the language. Every now and then I would have a little emotional breakdown, and they weren't pretty. They revealed ugly things lurking within me that I was ashamed to recognize. Self-pity. Resentment. Anger. Rage. Seeing myself in the mirror of my cultural struggles, I began to be truly humbled. I wasn't something special. I was a mess. 

My first few years in Ukraine were rough, but gradually things improved. I did learn the language. I made a few good friends. The culture became familiar. As far as my day-to-day interactions with people went, I was much less of a mess. But how much of that was due to real inward change and how much was merely the result of having adapted to my surroundings, only God can tell. All I can say is that there must still be a lot of work to do inside me, because as soon as I started to feel like I was getting my act together, He started to send me kids. And now I'm pretty sure that I will never feel sufficient again for as long as I live. 

I don't have what it takes to be the wise and gracious mommy I would like to be. I am learning that I have far too much selfishness and impatience, and this revelation came as something of a shock to me. And so the humbling process continues. It's difficult and painful at times, but I rejoice in knowing that as I submit to it, I can look forward to a greater measure of God's grace at the end of the road. It's like the picture at the top of this post. When we admit our inability to get ourselves where we need to go, God will step in and carry us there. Oh, how I need that!

This morning after I put my youngest down for a nap, I curled up on the couch with my Bible. This ritual is one of my favorite parts of the day. Samuel and Kiyoshi were playing quietly, because by now they know that when Mommy is reading the Bible, they are not to disturb her. Or so I thought. Before I was halfway through, Kiyoshi began to bounce around my little retreat, making all sorts of little boy noises. I put aside my reading for a bit to have the following exchange:

Me: Kiyoshi, what is Mommy doing right now?

Kiyoshi: Reading the Bible.

Me: And what do you need to do when I'm reading the Bible?

Kiyoshi: Flush the toilet?

*****

I just want to know―how would you have responded to that one?
I have to confess that I laughed. It just burst out before I could stop it!

Other wacky things my kids have said.

Two nights ago an acquaintance called my husband and asked if he could see us. Though it's not unusual for people to want to come over and talk (my husband is a pastor, after all), this guy attends a different church, so we were curious and maybe a little puzzled. It's not like he doesn't have his own pastor. When George asked why he wanted to come over, he said that he just wanted to "bless us." We were a bit nervous, since he was so vague about his intentions, but we set a date and waited.

He came this morning. He started by giving us a thoughtful and valuable gift, and I relaxed. Then he began to tell us, sometimes with tears in his eyes, about different ways that God had worked in his life and about how we had been a blessing to him. He even shared a few Bible verses. I had just settled back in my seat for a leisurely and pleasant conversation, when he said it.

"I'm a businessman, and there's this company . . . "

Although it took him several more minutes to get to the point, I immediately knew where he was going. He wanted to sign us up as partners under him in a multi-level marketing business. Right there, I shut down.

Now, I have no doubt that this business is legitimate and that its products are quality. In fact, I've even used some of them. However, my husband and I are not salespeople. In fact, we are such bad promoters, that if you had a product and you knew what was good for you, you'd pay us NOT to promote it. We are so non-confrontational that when we have the misfortune of being forced to try to sell something, we come across as apologetic and uncertain.

"There's this product, and, um, maybe you'd like to try it? I mean, well, you don't have to, or anything. You can think about it."

Yeah. Not the greatest PR.

But this guy just wouldn't take no for an answer. He kept saying he didn't want to take up too much of our time or pressure us, but he dragged on and on, and I, for one, felt pressured. Besides that, in an effort to convince us that we really needed to get on board with him, he began to ask to see our toiletries and household cleaning supplies so that he could criticize them and tell us how much better the products he sold were. When I told him that I use vinegar for my household cleaning, his astonishing response was, "That's harmful. It's an acid. The stuff I sell is so gentle that you can wash wool with it."

I wish I had said, "Oh, so can you also drink it?" but I was so dumbfounded that anyone would criticize an all-natural, non-toxic substance like vinegar that I couldn't say anything at all.

We finally gave him $7.25 so that he could sign us up for a trial membership in his team. While we have every intention of saying "No" when the trial period ends, at least signing up made him happy, and $7.25 seemed like a small price to pay to get him to leave our apartment.

As he left, beaming smiles left and right, he said, "I really hope I've blessed you. That was my intention." I believed him as far as his intentions went, but I didn't feel blessed. I felt assaulted. And insulted. He didn't bless me. In fact, I think he ruined my day. But I'm almost over it now.

At least he did give us that nice gift. Maybe tomorrow I'll feel blessed by that.

So, here's the mommy part of the post:

If you're anything like me, you try to limit your children's exposure to harmful chemicals, and you also try to find ways to save money at the grocery store each week. To this end, for years I've been using baking soda and vinegar in my laundry. I add about 1/4 cup of baking soda as a detergent booster, and I put white vinegar in the fabric softener dispenser instead of fabric softener. It's inexpensive, and I love the fact that the vinegar removes stale odors without infusing our clothing with chemical fragrances.

Recently I discovered that vinegar has many more uses. For about the last month, I've been experimenting with using vinegar for a number of household chores. My favorite is using it as a natural disinfectant. The acetic acid in vinegar kills a variety of microbes, and in one experiment, it even out preformed an FDA-approved kitchen disinfectant! I keep several spray bottles of vinegar around the apartment so that I can quickly disinfect countertops, toilet seats, bathroom floors, the baby's potty, and the entryway floor. And since it's completely non-toxic, it's the perfect thing for disinfecting toys.

But besides disinfecting, there are many, many more uses for vinegar. I'm becoming convinced that I can replace our cupboard full of toxic and expensive cleaning chemicals with a simple bottle of vinegar!

 <——— All these products . . .

(Plus several more, I'm sure. This picture shows a multi-purpose household cleaner/disinfectant, toilet cleaner, carpet cleaner, fabric softener, and window cleaner.)

. . . Replaced with this  ———>

(For all you non-Ukrainian speakers, that's a bottle of plain white vinegar.)

I'm so excited about this discovery that I want to share my new-found knowledge with all of you. I could type out a long list of uses for vinegar, but others have already done that here. Check it out and let me know what you think!

Kiyoshi, age 2: "Look! The poops is hugging each other in the toilet!"

(Ahem, this quote had nothing to do with the hugging in the above picture.
He was really talking about his poop in the toilet.
I didn't look to see if they were actually hugging or not.)
~~~
Other wacky things my kids have said.

Rather than being the serene and gentle mother I would like to be, I just feel vexed and grouchy as I scurry from one disaster-waiting-to-happen to the next, all while trying to cook meals, keep house, and manage to maintain a semblance of personal hygiene. I find a bit of consolation in the fact that none of our boys has figured out how to throw things out the window . . . yet. That's a good thing, because much of the time, my patience is about ready to exit by that route. I always considered myself a patient person―until I had kids. It's humbling, which is probably good for me, and it's forcing me to rely moment by moment on Jesus, and as far as I'm concerned, nothing could be better than that.

When people meet us for the first time, they always seem a bit surprised to learn that all three of our kids are boys. Those who don't immediately assume that we're done having children invariably make some comment about us having a girl next. And I always smile and nod and say that we hope so. And we do, I think. I mean, all along I've wanted each of my babies to be a girl. So why is it that recently, when I catch myself daydreaming about the possibility of baby #4, I feel a tender smile settling on my face as I picture him as another little boy?

My sons may exasperate and bewilder me, but each is irreplaceable and precious. I hope it goes without saying that I wouldn't trade any of them for a girl, even if given the chance to go back in time and carry a baby girl in my womb instead. In the occasional moments of clarity when I can step outside of the situation enough to stop worrying about whether or not our landlord's furniture or remodeling job will be damaged by their antics, I realize that there is something indescribably endearing in the cheerful rowdiness of my boys.

And there is so much more than their rowdiness that is endearing. My 5-year-old loves to do little chores around the apartment for me and takes great pride in saying that he's a good helper. Multiple times a day, my disarmingly cute 3-year-old looks at me with his big brown eyes and says, "Mommy, I love you so much!" And my 17-month-old, who started life as a super content baby, is growing into a little boy who seems to be the personification of happiness. My cup of blessings is full, but not too full for another baby boy!

P.S. If anyone was wondering where I've been the for the last three and a half months, I was on furlough, literally. We're missionaries in Ukraine, and after 3 years on the field, this winter we went back to the States. I had every intention of continuing to write while we lived out of suitcases, slept in other people's homes, and traveled extensively, visiting 5 states, driving 2,700 miles, and riding on 12 different airplanes . . . but somehow I never managed to squeeze it in. Can you believe it?? But I'm back now and hope to post here regularly from now on.

So it still takes me by surprise when my children do something that lets me know they reciprocate my love. Recently I picked up my 13-month-old, a happy, lazy child who still isn't crawling (never mind walking) because he has found that he can get everywhere by scooting around on his bottom. I picked him up and held him close, as I've done thousands of times, but this time was different. This time he snuggled against me, put his chubby little arm around my neck, and squeezed! As I basked in the warmth of his baby hug, I knew that nothing prior to motherhood could have prepared me for the exquisite yet piercing joy I was feeling as we held each other.

I remember a phone conversation with my dad around November 14. "The baby's just waiting to come on your birthday," my dad joked. "He is not!" I retorted. "I am not going to share my birthday with one of my children!" But when I felt the first contraction at 5:30 on the morning of November 19, I knew that my dad had been right. I briefly considered trying to stall my labor with mind power alone, but I quickly realized that 1) I probably didn't have enough will power to do it and 2) I didn't really want to drag out an uncomfortable experience any longer than necessary. So I resigned myself to the inevitable, and just over twelve hours later, my second son made his entrance into the world.

Everyone at the hospital thought that it was wonderful that our little Elijah Kiyoshi was born on my birthday. They said things like, "Oh, that's so special!" and "Isn't it the best birthday present?" I smiled and nodded politely, but I didn't agree. My idea of a good birthday had been a leisurely day spent with family followed by dinner with my husband at a nice Mexican restaurant. But instead of doing what we had planned, I spent the entire day in labor and the following night in sleepless exhaustion. My midwife brought me a cupcake with a candle in it from the hospital cafeteria, and my mother-in-law and sister-in-law brought me gifts from the hospital gift store, but in my mind, these kind gestures didn't really make up for being made to walk through the valley of the shadow of death on my one special day out of the year.

That night, after all the well-wishers had gone home, and my husband had fallen asleep on the couch in my hospital room, I found myself wide awake in bed, unable to sleep because of the joy and excitement bubbling inside me. I realized that what I was feeling was similar to how I used to feel as a child after receiving an especially longed-for gift. I rolled onto my side and gazed lovingly at the precious little bundle nestled in the bassinet beside me, and my heart felt like it would burst from the force of the indescribable and powerful emotions surging through me. Maybe this was the best birthday present ever.

Today is my 33rd birthday. And it's my second son's 3rd birthday. Happy birthday, sweet little boy!