Unsolicited Advice

In case you haven't noticed, I've been very hesitant to use this blog as an advice column. Using it to offer observations about my kids? Absolutely. Observations about other people's kids? Not a problem... so long as I don't name names. But trying to tell other people what to do when I myself have absolutely NO IDEA WHAT I'M DOING? Feels misleading.


Truth be told, I have no insight to offer anyone on how to be a better wife, mother, daughter, or follower of Christ, despite the fact these are my current roles in life. I am, however, an obsessively organized person, and it occurs to me that some of you might be interested in an organizational tip or two. Besides, the kids haven't done anything particularly funny in the last 48 hours and I need to earn my gold star. So here goes...


Three of My Most Useful - Albeit Bootlegged - Organizational Tools

1. I HATE having papers scattered all over my house. Drives me slap crazy. The problem is, I have a husband, four kids, and a postal service agent (yes, mailman) who all bring papers into my house faster than I can file, shred, hang, or toss them. After nine years of pulling my hair out, I've finally come up with some solutions that work for me.


The first solution I stole from a friend of a friend when the girls started pre-school. Three days a week I was inundated with stacks of the cutest little art projects you ever did see. But I have low tolerance for clutter, not to mention a tiny fridge that can't possibly display our vast collection of art. The answer was to find unused wall space - our garage - and create an art gallery.





I strung three rows of clothesline along our garage wall, and used clothespins to hang up the girls' art work. It's pretty cool, because each girl has her own row, and can see the work she's been doing at school each time we pull in the garage. When the row gets filled up, I choose two or three of my favorites to keep in the girls' memory boxes, and then (gasp) toss the rest. It's been a fun use of an otherwise boring space, and hopefully it's special to the girls.

Of course, there are plenty of other papers to contend with in addition to schoolwork: mail, fliers, coupons, shopping lists, appointment reminders, pictures, and the wadded up receipts my husband discards daily on my clean and tidy counter top. (Slap crazy, people. Slap crazy.) The only solution I've been able to come up with in that case is a small file station located in husband's dumping ground, otherwise known as my kitchen counter. I have files for everything in that station - from medical receipts and coupons to "papers I don't know what to do with." Every time I find a stack of papers sitting on the counter, I sort through and do one of three things: 1) trash it; 2) file it; or 3) dump it on a tray hidden in my husband's office that I've designated as the new dumping ground. Now he can deal with it at his leisure, and I don't have to look at it.

2. The second organizational tool that has made the clutter in my life bearable once again is something I call my "Laundry Basket System." Again, I totally stole this idea from someone else, because I'm not really one for original thoughts. This little tip was actually passed on to me by the nurse who cared for my twins when they were first born. I was lamenting to her the fact that my house looks like a 24-hour day care center, and her solution was this: Keep a stack of laundry baskets handy!

I keep one at the top of the stairs and one at the bottom of the stairs throughout the day. When I'm cleaning up the toys upstairs, I toss everything that needs to get hauled back downstairs into a basket. I then do the same when I'm cleaning up the downstairs. The benefits are twofold: 1) I don't have to run up and down the stairs 1800 times a day and 2) if company or my husband show up unexpectedly, I can shove my baskets into the laundry room and have the house looking deceptively tidy. If I'm not worried about hiding a mess from someone, then twice a day, I haul the baskets to their respective levels and put everything away. I know it doesn't seem that revolutionary, but it has seriously made clean-up time a whole lot easier for me.

Ironically, the laundry basket system has spilled over into my errands as well. I usually lug Tyler's shirts to the cleaners in a basket and then reload it with my groceries when I finish shopping. Carrying one heavy basket into the house is a lot easier than making 6 trips out the car. Plus, my groceries aren't scattered all over the back of my trunk when I get home.

3. If you're not an organized person, and you could care less about being organized because there is, after all, a life beyond clutter obsession, you're probably going to slap me for this last piece of advice. In fact, don't even read it. I don't want to irritate you. But for those of us who do find it unbearable to live in chaos, you probably already know my motto: "A place for everything and everything in it's place."

I've spent countless hours of my life coming up with a place for everything. A memory box for each child. A storage container for out-grown clothes. A playroom organized into creative stations. Before you call my therapist and ask her to up my meds, you need to understand this: my husband and I can pick up our house in 15 minutes or less, no matter how big the mess. And that is a big deal to us, because it's only once the kids are in bed and the house is picked up that we actually get to do whatever we want to do! You'd better believe we work fast.

Of course, the side benefit to having a spot for everything is that our kids know where it all goes as well. They are slowly but surely (emphasis on slowly) learning how to put things back where they belong. In fact Ella - who, I admit, is a girl after my own heart - is obsessed with keeping her room clean. Of course, so long as her room is clean, she could care less about the rest of the house. During her daily quiet time, she routinely opens her door, throws something out into the hall, and screams, "THAT DOES NOT LIVE IN MY ROOM!" There's usually quite a pile stacked up by the end of her quiet time (a misnomer if ever there was one); I dump it in my laundry basket and haul it downstairs to figure out where it does "live".

And so there you have it - my first and probably only advice column ever. Take it or leave it; makes no difference to me. Just please don't come over to my house for the next few hours. It's a mess. And if you do happen to show up, DON'T OPEN THE LAUNDRY ROOM DOOR.

My Poor, Neglected Number 4

We took my baby boy in to get his first haircut today. It seemed like a pretty good idea, since most of the comments I've received of late have been something to the effect of "Awwww... You have four of the prettiest little girls!" But it was still heartbreaking to watch the barber shore off his sweet baby curls. Even more heartbreaking was when my husband whipped out his camera to capture the moment and announced, "Oooops. The battery's dead."

That figures. I have no before and after pictures of Ty's first haircut to place in his less-than-complete baby book. Ella's first haircut, on the other hand, is documented by 15 minutes of video and some 20+ pictures. Her baby book is splitting at the seams with keepsake paraphernalia from all of her "firsts." But as most parents - and frankly any last-born child - out there can attest, it's all downhill after the first kid.

It's true. I was the best mom ever when Ella was born. Or at least, I was the most super organized mom ever. I had not one, but three completely stocked diaper bags accessible to me at all times. And when I say stocked, I mean the we're-packing-for-this-trip-to-the-mall-like-we're-traveling-to-South-America-because-you-just-never-know-what-might-happen-along-the-way kind of stocked. I had one bag that I used during the week, one bag stashed in my trunk for emergencies, and one bag for church...because if she spit up on her adorable pink church dress, I was darn sure going to have another adorable pink church dress there for back-up.

Ty, on the other hand, doesn't even have a diaper bag. Oh, he started out with a bag. It was one of those black vinyl things from Similac that the OB-GYN nurse hands you at your 28-week visit. But other than a too-small diaper and some melted crayons, there was never anything useful in it, so I finally gave up the pretense of carrying around. Now I just put a diaper in my purse with Ty's name written on it in magic marker. When we drop him off at church and the nursery volunteer asks for his bag, I whip it out and hand it off with a smile: "Here you go!"

Sadly, though, Ty's neglect occasionally goes beyond the lack of pictures and well-stocked bag. A few weeks ago, as my husband and I were making the pilgrimage to Brownsbridge, I turned to him and asked, "You fed the baby, right?" To which he turned to me and replied, "No, I thought you did." Great.

I wasn't sure what to do. After all, there were four kids dressed for church and strapped into the back of our minivan. We were almost there anyway, and with my husband there is no going back, no matter what the circumstances. But there was also no emergency diaper bag in the trunk, and a quick survey of the back seat revealed only a small handful of discarded Cheerios. Why did I have to vacuum the car this week? I thought.

We walked into church, and handed Ty and his diaper off to the nursery worker. Not wanting to reveal too much, I said as nonchalantly as possible, "Ummm, he seems a little hungrier than usual today. Do you happen to have any snacks on hand?" The worker assured me she'd find something if he got a little fussy. Which apparently she did. Because apparently he did.

"Boy, you were right!" she told me when I picked him up. "He really is hungry today. I think he ate half a box of Cheerios!"

Poor kid. I try to make up for it. I'll remember on occasion to pull out the camera, and snap 50 pictures or so - all of him in the same outfit, mind you. I also do make a point to feed him - most days anyway. Knowing that he's a boy who's going to be a man someday, I doubt he's even going to care if he has a baby book. I just hope he's able to look back and know - without a hint of doubt - how much his mother loves him. Because I really do.

Earning Gold Stars

Okay, time to 'fess up. I am officially intimidated by blog world. I don't know what I was thinking when I signed on for this task, but clearly I didn't do my homework.


See, I love to journal. Before I had kids, I filled pages and pages of pretty blank books with random thoughts and prayers and story ideas. After Ella was born, though, I lost my energy for writing. Then the twins came, and I lost my time for it, too. By the time Ty was born, there wasn't a reason for me to even buy a journal. I was never going to fill it; it was just going to sit on my nightstand and remind me of a time when I had... well, energy and time.


Last spring, however, I was sitting in church and ignoring for what seemed like the hundredth time an overwhelming desire write. I was ignoring it, because there didn't seem to be much point in my desire. I was a mom with four kids under four - still with no energy, and no time, and now, no journal. But as I wrestled with my frustration, inspiration struck. I know what I need, I thought. Accountability! Of course I'm not motivated to write, because I have nobody keeping me accountable to the task. After all, why would I write, when I can sleep?


I brainstormed awhile more, and decided that the best approach to creating accountability would be a weekly e-mail to family and friends. Just a little blurb about my days at home with the kids; something to help me hone my skills through consistent practice. Up until that point, I'd never even heard of blogging - except in the form of professional journalists writing on important topics such as last week's American Idol performances. But when I got home from church, there was an e-mail waiting for me in my inbox from the dear friend you all know as Mom2Drew; she was "outting" herself to family and friends as a blogger.


Blogging? I didn't even know that could be used as a verb! But Mom2Drew seemed to offer a solution to my problem of accountability. If she can put herself out there like this, then so can I, right? Over the next two weeks, I wrote a few practice blogs, worked up some confidence, and e-mailed my friend for her blessing - which she gave, since clearly I was clueless as to just how many people are out there doing this blogging thing!


And now here I am, completely intimidated by the world I've been writing in for the last eight months, because I had no idea until recently how big blog world really is. And how pretty every body's blog backgrounds are. And how many pictures can be posted on a blog. And how creative everybody is, reminding me that I don't really have anything new to offer to a world that obviously has is all.


Wow.


Isn't that just like the enemy? I mean, God didn't speak from a burning bush and tell me to write. But He did give me a passion and a desire to write. Yet for years I've avoided doing the very thing I love because I didn't feel I had the time or because, more recently, the confidence. The enemy gave me plenty of excuses, and I've been using them all.


The truth is, I really don't have anything new to offer blog world. Even Solomon, arguably the wisest man to ever live, said, "What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun." (Ecc. 1:9). Obviously, I'm not the first mom to have four children in four years. For crying out loud, TLC has an entire program dedicated to a mom who had eight children in four years! So my thoughts and advice aren't going to be original. But I'm going to put them out there anyway. I just need the right motivation: accountability.


When I was a kid, I loved gold stars. It didn't matter that all I got was a gold star; I worked hard for that sticker. But occasionally, I got to cash in my gold stars for a bigger prize. So I'm thinking, why not make myself a gold star chart? I have ten weeks until my 33rd birthday. I'm going to commit to blogging something twice a week for the next ten weeks. Every blog = 1 gold star. And when I get twenty gold stars, I'm going to cash them in for.................. drum roll please................ a blog makeover! (Because how cool is Mom2Drew's new blog? You've got to check it out.)


Unfortunately, I don't know how to make a cyber- gold star chart, so you're going to have to trust me on this - or start counting my bogs. (Because you don't have a life, right?) Unfortunately, you're also going to have to read my blogs on this depressingly bland page, because I'm going to use it to motivate me. However, I will, as per my mother's request, try to start adding more pictures. Because my kids - however insane they make me - are pretty darn cute. I'll even include one now:

See? Adorable.

OK, so wish me luck, and keep checking back. Hopefully the kids will give me some material to work with - and leave a portion of my mind intact - so that I can write some moderately entertaining blogs for all of you out there in blog world.

Ooops, gotta run. American Idol just started.

The Stockings Were Hung...

It's hard to believe it, but Christmas is over. Again. And although I dread this process every year, I know it's time. Time to pack up the ornaments, the tree, the dishes, and all the other vestiges of our wonderful family Christmas in preparation for a new year. But as I was taking down our family Christmas stockings - hung by the chimney only a few short weeks ago - I couldn't help but be reminded of a conversation from three Christmases past.

It was the first Christmas in our new home, and the first time I'd hung those family stockings. The kids' grandmothers and I had worked hard to get them beaded and sequined and stitched in time for the holidays. I was excited about showing them off, and my dear friend Cristie had stopped by to admire them. She was sweet enough to "oooo and ahhh" over them for a few minutes before we sat down on the couch for a chat. But as we made ourselves comfortable, she glanced over towards the mantel and said, "It must be so neat to look up there and see that row of stockings. I don't know how many stockings we'll eventually have, but just think - that's your whole family up there. It's complete!"

She was right, of course. My family was complete. After all, Cristie knew the hell of my last pregnancy, and she knew that the doctors and my family were firm in telling me, "No more babies!" She also knew that I'd finally decided to go through with a tubal ligation to ensure that there were, indeed, no more babies. So her comment should have encouraged me with the lighthearted spirit in which it was given: Your family is complete. No more pregnancy complications, no more hospitals, no more home medical equipment. You can move forward in your identity as the mother of three daughters.

But for some reason, I felt my spirit sink at her words. But she's right, I told myself. Our family is complete. I know it's complete. It has to be complete...

Why doesn't it feel complete?

I was totally aggravated with myself for allowing the thought to even enter my mind, much less to fixate on it. But for the next three months, as I waited for my scheduled surgery date, I wrestled with feeling that something was missing in our home. Maybe we just need to get a dog, I thought, as I squelched my longing for just one more baby.

Then, a few short days before the surgery, my friend Rachel asked me how I was feeling about getting my tubes tied. We were with the kids at the zoo, so I figured she was looking for the short answer. I gave her my patented, "Great! It'll be so nice when I don't have to worry about getting pregnant again. I mean, I just don't think I'd survive another 9 months. Besides, I think it's so neat that God has blessed me with three children, since you know I lost three before I had Ella..." I trailed off. Everything I'd just said was true, but it wasn't the whole truth. And suddenly, I just wanted to tell someone the whole truth.

Standing next to the kangaroo habitat, I shared it all: how I felt about being "sterilized" after suffering infertility; how I felt about potentially closing the door on God's blessings; how I sensed that my family just wasn't finished. I ended by telling her, "I know this is for the best. I've prayed about it. I've sought wise counsel, and I know my husband wants me to do this. So I'm trying to be at peace. Besides, I certainly have enough faith to know that if God wants to expand our family, He will. Who knows? Maybe we are meant to adopt."

Two days later, I was staring down at the bright blue plus sign on my ClearBlue Easy.

It's funny how God stretches our faith. Sure, I believed that He could expand our family. I even had a list of appropriate means by which He could accomplish the task. But another pregnancy was not on the list. I was scared to death when I saw that positive test. I just kept thinking, Four children. Four children in four years. How are we going to do this???

Were my faith bigger, I would have trusted that God had everything in hand. That He was blessing us with a sweet-natured, happy son who delights us everyday. That He was arranging not only help for me, but a great new friendship in the form of my next-door neighbor, Jackie. That He was ready to give me the grace I'd need for each new day as the mother of four precious children. And that He wanted me to look up at my mantel this Christmas and see a row of not five stockings, but six: my complete family.

Find That Smell

There's a little game we like to play in our family called "Find That Smell." Maybe you've played it before. If you haven't, the rules are pretty straightforward: When something stinks, start sniffing. Whoever discovers The Source of the smell first is declared the Winner and gets to dispose of The Source. It's not really a game you want to win.

In our house, the game can start at anytime. Often it begins when my husband comes home from work and asks, "What stinks?" I consider this a head-start for him, since clearly he can smell something that my nose is already accustomed to. That's good, I suppose, since I want him to win. But still, the game is on and we head off to sniff the most obvious sources: the kitchen garbage, the upstairs diaper genie, and our children. Personally, I like to save the children for last, since they are the most frequent Sources.

The thing about Find That Smell is that it's a versatile game that can be played at home, at school, and even in the car. However, it may take weeks to find the source of that particular smell, since "car stink" tends to be very gradual. Several weeks ago, I got in my car and took a good whiff. Ugh! What is that smell? Since I was running late and needed to drop the girls off at pre-school, I only had time for a preliminary search. I found a few suspects -two sippy cups of solidified milk and three dirty socks - and removed them from the car. However, rather than dissipate, the smell only intensified as the day went on. That evening, I rolled the windows down to let the car air out, and did a second check. No luck.

The smell was even worse the next day. Tyler got in the car and groaned. "Ugh! What is that smell?!?"

"I don't know," I replied. "I checked the car twice yesterday and didn't find anything... Wanna play now?"

We got out of our seats for a round of Find That Smell. Still nothing, though I suspect neither of us looked that hard. Fortunately, it was a short drive and a nice day, so we just drove to the store with all our windows down.

By evening, the smell was so bad that I considered calling in a Haz-Mat team. But I decided to do one final check of my own before calling in the authorities. The smell had to be coming from somewhere, and I actually found myself determined to find The Source. I checked the grill of my car, under the hood, in the trunk, and under the seats. And then I found IT. Where is Tyler??? I thought, gagging. I ran into the house for a trash bag and rubber gloves, and then came back to remove a Tupperware full of moldy mac and cheese. When did we have mac and cheese in the car? I wondered. Tyler and the kids are claiming innocence; I confess I still have no idea.

Believe it or not, however, the absolute worst game of Find That Smell I've ever played was not the moldy mac and cheese round. Although it was a car stink that, surprising, we could not link to our children. A few years ago I came in the house and announced, "Something has died in my car! It smells horrible!!!" I was trying to be dramatic, but after a few days of suffering through a stench that permeated not only the car and garage, but the entire house, Tyler discovered The Source: something had indeed died in my car. A dead bird was wedged in the grill of the mini-van; at least, we assume it was a dead bird, since all we could see were a bunch of feathers and a beak. Since Tyler was the Winner, he went out with a garbage bag and shovel to remove the remains, while I hid in the house and retched.

I feel bad that he got stuck with such an awful job, since I was probably the one who hit the bird in the first place. But those are the rules of the game. Whoever finds The Source of the smell has to dispose of it. I don't always love that rule, but I'm getting older and I think my sense of smell is starting to go. Maybe it will be completely gone by tonight. There's a two-week old jack 'o lantern rotting on my front porch that I'm hoping not to find.

Naughty Sticks

With three little girls experiencing the "terrible twos" roughly all at the same time, my husband and I have experimented with a lot of different forms of discipline. We've tried room time. We've tried the time out chair. We've tried the nose in the corner. We've tried the ticket system, going to bed without dinner, and the wooden spoon. All of these strategies work to varying degrees, but we've yet to find one technique that just really succeeds. So today, we tested another one. It's called the "naughty stick."

The naughty stick isn't actually a new idea, although I suspect the politically correct will find it horrifying. (My general experience is that the "politically correct" aren't usually parents yet.) Nonetheless, the naughty stick was recommended by a friend who tried it out after a counselor recommended it to her. The basic concept is this: Put a paint stir stick in every room of the house. When the child disobeys, give him or her a swat on the bottom with the naughty stick. In other words, give that disobedient kid a spanking!

Of course as I was picking up a load of stir sticks at the hardware store this morning, it occurred to me that the sticks by themselves didn't look particularly threatening. I thought they needed some motivational "embellishments," so I ran next door to the craft store and picked up some additional supplies, including black paint and stickers. By the time I went to pick up the girls from pre-school, there was a black stir stick hanging on the doorknob of every room in the house. Each one was decorated with the scariest stickers I could find, which weren't all that scary since all I could find was a collection of smiling bugs, spiders, and bees. But white letters spelled out the ominous words NAUGHTY STICK, and looked very threatening to me.

When we got home from school, I introduced my kids to the naughty stick: "Girls, this is a naughty stick. There's one in each of your rooms. If you disobey mommy or daddy, or if you yell "NO", you will get a spanking with the naughty stick." Ella was thrilled.

"Mommy, will you use the naughty stick on Emily if she says 'no'? And on Evie if she says 'no'? Can I put a naughty stick in their room? Don't worry, Mommy. I'll put mine in their room too!"

The twins, however, were not so enamoured with - or threatened by, it seems - the naughty stick. Within minutes of nap time starting, they were out of their beds and battling over a Barbie doll. I walked in and picked up the naughty stick. "Do I need to use this girls?" They both screamed "No!" and ran for their beds - one with the Barbie and one with her leg. I confiscated the maimed doll, tucked them in bed, and walked out into the hall. Ella was peeking out her door.

"Did you use the naughty stick on Emily and Evie?"

"No, Ella. Close your door and get in bed, or I'll use it on you, though."

"Okay, Mommy." SLAM.

Moments later, I heard a second crash. Emily and Evie were out of bed again. I sighed; it was time to make good on my threat. They each got a firm swat on their diapered bottoms. "Go to sleep!" I said in my sternest Mommy voice.

But it wasn't to be. I walked in and spanked them three more times before they finally got wise to me. Oh no, they didn't go to sleep. They hid the naughty stick. I eventually found it this evening when I was digging through a drawer for clean jammies. Sure enough, there was my naughty stick, crammed in the back of their underwear drawer.

My kids aren't dumb. They may grow up to be sleep-deprived hellions, but they aren't dumb. I guess I'm going to have to find a higher place to hang my naughty sticks. But I'm determined. I am going to make this work!

There Once Was a Woman Who Lived in a Shoe...

I was three months old when my grandmother passed away, so I've always regretted not getting to know her. Like me, she was the mother of two singletons and a set of twins - the same ironic combination of four children in three years. I've always craved her company and a good long chat, but probably now more than ever. If God ever allows us an afternoon together, we'll find a quiet corner and sip on some tea, and she'll answer the burning question, "How did you do it???"

I mean, I never aspired to be like Grandma. Even as a child I recognized the huge responsibility she bore as the mother of four young kids. It was actually kind of a joke the day my husband and I announced we were pregnant for a second time (just 9 months after Ella's birth); Dad laughed and said, "You know, my mother had four kids in three years."

"Yes, well your mom was a saint as far as I'm concerned. I'm NOT trying to fill her shoes!"

The next day, I called my dad. "Uh, Dad. You know how Tyler's always wanted two kids and I've always wanted three? Well, I win."

There was a moment of silence and then, "What? Noooo... You're carrying two?"

The ultrasound that morning had confirmed it; I was pregnant with twins. I suddenly envisioned my feet getting a little bigger than planned. But I still wasn't about to fill Grandma's shoes. After all, four kids in three years is just crazy! So a year after the birth of our twin girls, I asked the doctor about tubal ligation. He sent me to his surgery scheduler, who in turn informed me that I would have to wait at least three months before she could fit me in. No worries, I thought. There's no WAY I'm getting pregnant again.

Of course, two days before the scheduled procedure I was staring down at a giant plus sign on my ClearBlue Easy. In shock, I wasted no time spreading the news. My mom nearly drove off the road when I called, crying hysterically and screaming, "I'm...PREGNANT!" Tyler didn't handle the news much better; he wasn't driving and I don't think he actually cried, but there was definitely a manly whimper or two. Finally, though, I accepted the truth: I was stepping into my grandmother's enormous shoes. They have to be big, I thought at one point, because isn't that how the nursery rhyme goes? "There once was a lady who lived in a shoe. She had so many children, she didn't know what to do." Well, I sure don't know what to do!

People who heard about my situation didn't really seem to know what I should do either, because almost overnight I became "The Story". You know - the story that everyone tells their friends in order to make them feel better: "Oh, you're having triplets? Well, don't feel bad, because I have a friend who knows this girl who heard about this mom who was having her tubes tied when found out she was pregnant with her fourth kid in three years!"

Of course, nothing is worse than when someone tries to tell you "the story" and it turns out to be YOUR story. This actually happened to me shortly before Ty's birth. I was shopping - alone, amazingly - in a local boutique and the shop owner asked me about my pregnancy.

"Is this your first?"

I sighed. "No, this is number four."

"Wow! Well, don't feel bad. I heard about this girl who was going to get her tubes tied and found out she was pregnant with her fourth kid. She's going to have four kids under the age of four!"

"Yeah, uh, that was me. You probably don't recognize me with make-up, but I was in here a few weeks ago..."

Of course, once people find out that you're "the story", the inevitable question gets asked. And it's the same question I want so badly to ask Grandma: "How do you do it?" More and more often though, my answer is, "By the grace of God."

Don't misread this. If you've ever truly experienced the grace of God, you know that there is nothing pat or cliche about God's grace. And if you have ever truly experienced His grace in your life, you also know this: God doesn't give it ahead of time. If I'd known from the start what motherhood was going to be for me, I'm not sure I would have started the journey. Instead, God revealed His plan just a little at a time. Three miscarriages. Severe hyperemesis. Multiple hospital stays. Drugs, tubes, and machines. Surgery. And four of the most precious and amazing gifts I've ever received: my children. God extended His grace to me in each of those circumstances, day by day, sometimes even moment by moment. He didn't pour it out ahead of time; I wouldn't have needed it or appreciated it anyway. But step-by-step He gave me - and continues to give me - what I need for each part of this journey as a mother of four.

So I'm trusting Him to provide. Even if what I need is a giant shoe...