We Put the Random in "Random Act of Kindness"

If you need to, catch up on Day One, or Day Two so that you know exactly what I am attempting to do, and why.  I must say that I have been so encouraged and excited by some of you who have pledged to join in and commit 31 random acts of kindness during the 31 days of October.  I feel blessed by how many people remember Adam's life... not just his death.  

For Day Three, I wanted to do something for the people who work so hard day in and day out to save the lives of children.  I have brought my two youngest kids, Harper and London, to the emergency room for different reasons.  Harper has pretty bad asthma and any germ he comes in contact with seems to turn into pneumonia within minutes.  To the ER we go.  London had to have a series of blood transfusions because she had acute anemia caused by a rare form of bone marrow failure.  Again, to the ER.  I know how fortunate I am to have been spared from the other possible outcomes if modern medicine had not been readily available when my kids needed life-saving medical intervention.  

The doctors and nurses in the ER don't always save lives... but, they always try.  When they can't save a child's life, they have to live with that heaviness.  And when they do save a life, they will likely never get to see that child again... so, the way I see it is that they should probably have assorted pastries on hand.

Our act of kindness today was to take treats to the  Pediatric Emergency Room staff at the hospital where both Harper and London could thank everyone and it would be a beautiful full-circle moment.  I pictured some "yes! I remember you!" and maybe a little hugging, and definitely some high fives all around.  That is not how it all went down.  

Problem #1:  London COULD ABSOLUTELY NOT GET PAST the fact that we had cookies in our vehicle.  She wanted the cookies.  Could she please have all those cookies?  Will the "hostiple" ladies share those cookies?  Will they take blood?  And share those cookies?

Problem #2:  I went to the wrong "hostiple."  All the cookie passion was heating up and I got distracted and pushed the wrong button on the GPS and ended up at an ER that does not have a pediatric wing.  

Problem #3:  I was not smooth about this mix-up.  I knew something felt "off" so I asked the security guard at the ER desk where the pediatric triage was.  He said "We don't have a peds department here.  You are thinking of Strong Memorial."  I say "Oh, well I brought you all a little something."  He calls my bluff, "Welll, you meant to bring them here or to Strong?"  I mean, what does this guy care?  So, I lie "Nope, these ones are for you guys here.  Just for anyone saving lives, really.  Lives of any age."  Oh gracious... I just wanted to  high tail it out there at that point but I couldn't because of...

Problem #4: London was face down on the ground sobbing "I will never have doze treats!"

She was right, she would never have those treats.  And the people that saved my children's lives, they would also never have those treats.  But, whatevs... the acts of kindness are supposed to be random right?  How random to end up at the wrong hospital and give a huge bag of pastries to a security guard who knew I was fibbing about who those treats were for... all with a clinically depressed toddler who went boneless on me as I was trying to get off the premises.

Day #3 was probably mostly a fail.  But, the peeps at Highland Hospital, I hope, would disagree.  

Adam's Apple

So, I am doing 31 days of kindness with some friends, and I am doing it to honor the memory of my brother, Adam, who's story I shared here.

This, I am realizing, is going to take a lot of thought. I want to do something different each day, and I feel like I am already out of ideas! So, day two, I went with one of the biggest American clichés ever... Bring your teacher an apple.

My friend Lexi faithfully overloads us with produce, so we had apples on hand. Since this project is to honor Adam's memory, I want to do it right. See, my brother wouldn't just bring his teacher an apple. He was the kind of guy to root for the underdog, and maybe even put a bully in a headlock so the underdog could gain the edge. No... Adam wouldn't bring his teacher an apple.

Adam would fill a bag with apples and he would give them to the most under-appreciated school employees in the district. So, that's sort of what we did.

I loaded the girls up with apples. One apple for the world's best bus driver, Mary Ann. An apple for each teacher. Apples for the secretaries. Apples for the lunch ladies. Apples for the aides. Even an apple for "the white lady that is really helpful." (As it turns out, this was a hall monitor with such white hair. Apple for her.)

The girls really enjoyed being a part of this, and I loved explaining to them that we were doing this to remind ourselves that being kind to others is one way to love and serve God, because that is what Jesus taught us to do. I was able to tell them about how sad I feel without Uncle Adam, but how happy my heart gets when I love and serve somebody else like Uncle Adam would. Like Jesus would.

It was hard to write that story last night, the story of when we lost Adam. I asked my sisters and my mom for their permission first, and part of me was secretly hoping that someone would forbid me from saying it out loud. But, after such a kind and compassionate outpouring - comments, texts and emails - I am really thankful.

I felt lifted up today, supported, and thankful that Adam's life, while short, still makes an impact. I realized that if we don't talk about the fact that he died, how can we talk about he fact that he lived!?

So day two: apples. It was pretty simple, but it reminded me that what I do is a lot less important than who I am. The apples are just a small thing for my kids to see me do, but I am really hoping that when I join my big brother and my Father in heaven... It will remind them less of what I did, and more of who I was trying to be.

And maybe, just maybe, they will pay Uncle Adam's apples forward in some way.

This is how my kids eat apples.  Seeds, core... everything but the hat.

The Hardest Story I Never Told

I am going to tell you a story.

I haven't done this before, told this story, so detailed and so publicly.  But, I am going to try something big this month, and I think I need to tell this story in order to do it well.  So, here goes nothin...

It was Halloween night many years ago, and my 17 year old brother, Adam H. Provencal, was driving home from the Regional Championship Soccer game.  He was a senior in high school and the captain of the soccer team, and this victory was worth celebrating, and it was news worth spreading for our small Michigan town.

When my brother (and his friend Mike) were driving home and passed some of their friends out playing some harmless Halloween pranks, it was the perfect time to spread the news.  So Adam pulled the car over and was telling his friends about the big victory.  I have no idea what my brother was thinking or feeling in that moment but, my guess, is freedom.  I imagine a boy - crazy about sports, working so hard to maintain his 4.0 GPA in mostly advanced placement classes, editor-in-chief of the nationally recognized school paper, and all-around nice guy - and the pressure that that brings on a kid.  I imagine him in this moment, and the hard work (for now) is done and has paid off with a regional championship.  And he's free.  He is young and free, and he wants to tell to his friends.

So, he pulls over and he and his friends are joking around and talking and hanging out, and they are young and free in this moment.

The whimsical youth of the moment ends when a homeowner comes out and is irate about the pranks and, though my brother had not been involved in them, he had the car and perhaps that made him seem to be the ringleader somehow.  I don't really know if that was why Adam felt the need to go to the door or not, but he did.  He decided he would walk up to the door, to apologize for being there and to offer to clean up the toilet paper in the yard, and he no longer felt young and free.  He was probably terrified that he was going to get in trouble.  So, he dutifully walked up to the man's door and knocked twice.

The man did not open the door and hear him out, he did not yell at Adam to leave, he did not call the police. When my 17 year old brother knocked on the door that night to have a hard conversation, he had a baby face and scrawny limbs and braces in his mouth.  And when Adam knocked twice on that door, the man gave no warning before he pulled the trigger of his shotgun, sending one, single bullet through the front door.

One bullet.

One bullet changed many lives, some lives even devastated.  But only one life was ended.  My only brother, my parents only son, my hero, my friend... the only person strong enough to jump on a trampoline with me on his shoulders, and the boy who led me to Christ, and taught me to dance like M.C. Hammer, and to be funny enough to joke my way out of trouble.  He was gone.

His murderer was in and out of jail after two years, for a boy's life taken in a rage over some harmless pranks.

Needless to say, when October rolls around I get stuck.  It is almost like my body involuntarily braces for a trauma.  The crisp fall air, the smell of leaves and bonfires... they are all beautiful reminders of fall, and nightmarish triggers that put my physical and emotional self on high alert, tragedy-ready.

So, here we are, heading into the 31 days of October, and I am 31 years old... outliving my big brother by 14 years.  I need to do something.  I need to be productive and I need to spend these 31 days focusing outwardly, or I will implode with my seasonal misery and depression.  So, I accepted an invitation from two beloved friends, a plan designed to get out of our own heads and focus on other people.  31 days of kindness toward others.

Day One: a total bust.  I woke up with two fractured hips and a migraine.  Welcome to October.  Okay, not real fractures... but, something in my back is out of whack and my hip is paying the price.  I did not leave the couch today except to go to my first round of physical therapy with my friend Marci who braved the battlefield of bad insurance companies that (I am certain) is run out of a basement in Philly.  There is no actual coverage happening.  We are always billed.  Nothing is ever actually IN network.  But, she got me pre-approved and she zapped my hip with a buzzing thing.  So, my first chance to randomly act kind toward a person in the outside world, was to give her a headband... my only current useful skill is making accessories, so I acted at random with as much kindness as my old hips could muster.  I think she liked it.

I have no idea what this 31 day challenge is going to teach me.  And I have very little faith in my ability to stick with this.  So, this is me going on public record promising to let these next 31 days not be all about me, and all about memories and sadness and lost life.  Rather, I want to commit myself to honor all the good Adam would have done if his life had not been cut short.  I wanted to be just like him when I grew up.  Well, here is my chance... 31 is pretty grown up, so here goes nothing.

The Lie That Love is Enough

Five years ago today, I met my son.

No, I didn't bring him into this world five years ago, another Mama did that. I just met him. I went and got him.

So, we call today his Gotchya Day, and we celebrate it with a donut in bed. I tell him the story of his birth (the little that I know) and the story of our first meeting him. He loves every minute o it and thinks he is awesome.

Something in the back of my heart is keenly aware, though, that it won't always be this easy, or this fun, to tell his story. My guess is that he will reach a point in his pre-adolescent identity crisis where a donut and a story from his white mother won't cut it.

In a way I look forward to the day that we will hash this thing out, the day when we talk about the tragedy and the miracle that is adoption. It will almost be a relief to say out loud that being separated from the woman who grew you into a person is an actual tragedy. It will be a relief to affirm what I assume he will always feel but not be able to articulate.

I say it will be a relief because I feel so much pressure to do this adoption thing right. I just want to do it honestly, and give him permission to do it honestly. To grieve, to be angry, to be thankful, and to forgive... just to feel whatever it is, with authenticity and unabashed freedom. I will feel relieved when the temptation to shape his perspective on his experience is gone. I will always want to positively shape his experience, but I look forward to no longer having any say over his perspective.

Gone will be the days when he asks me "is it hard when you don't match your mommy and daddy?" By then, he will know that it is, his perspective will be formed and there is something freeing about that. As terrifying as it is, there is something appealing in just getting to that hard truth of it all and taking it from there.

I am certain that some of you may be thinking what many have already said to me: "Does it have to be such a big deal? Can't you just parent your adopted children the same way you parent your biological children? Isn't love what matters? Isn't love enough?"

The answer is no. Love isn't enough.

Sorry to blow the fairy tale wide open, but the way people love - the way I love - just ain't gonna cut it. People love too imperfectly to heal wounds that deep. People love with expectations and selfish motives and busy schedules and fearfulness and baggage of their own. At my best, I got donuts and a desire to do life and adoption honestly. At my worst, I am totally useless. I don't know what the fairytalers' lovin' looks like, but in my world... love isn't even close to being enough.

So, we did donuts and the story of how we "Gotchya" and for the first time, we watched the home video of meeting Harper. And holding him close while he saw himself as a newborn for the first time, it was sacred.

The thing I realized today was that not only is love not enough, but all of my intentionality and my effort and my communication isn't enough either. The bottom line is that nothing I try to do will prevent Harper from experiencing the pain he will eventually have to process. Love isn't enough, and neither are hope or good intentions.

So I thank the God I love for being enough. For being the one and only one Parent that has been with him, start to finish. I thank Him for His love, which is perfect and pure and whole. I thank Him for creating such a remarkably gifted boy, and for the joy and responsibility of raising him.

Saying "love is enough" is a joke and a lie and it sets us all up for some serious disappointment when we are loved well by another person, and still feel broken and empty. So, I thank God that He actually is enough, so that my love doesn't have to be.

Baby's First Blasphemy

Me: Jesus is who?
London: God!!

Me: And what did God make?
London: He made all thingth!!

Me: Why did God make all things? He did it for His...
London: ...For hith private awea!!

Ooooh... We were looking for "glory" on that one. Jesus did all things for His glory, never for His private area.

Perhaps this is indicative of the age, with all the focus on potty training and privacy and what is and isn't appropriate, but I can't help but wonder what on earth she could possibly be thinking!

Meh, two out of three is a good start. We will keep working on (survey says...) "glory!!" You don't need to go to seminary to know that survey doesn't ever say "private area."

My Daughter's First Real Kiss

Almost nine years ago, when I was in labor for Annalee, my firstborn daughter, I had no clue what I was doing.  I knew a few things: I knew that it was going to hurt (because during my whole pregnancy that seemed to be all people could talk about... but when it was actually game time, all I could think was "How come nobody warned me it would hurt this bad!")  I also knew that I wanted to have a natural delivery, with as little intervention as possible.  And, I knew that I wanted to be strong and controlled, and I wanted Tom to be proud of me.

I achieved my goals and was able to give birth three times with no medical intervention or pain medication, and I will happily speak for Tom and say "Was I proud!? (Guffaw) Proud is an understatement, Lara is my hero, and she should be your hero too. And she gets more attractive with age, in fact, I don't see any sings of aging at all.  And she is a delight to live with, and at weddings, her dance moves are superior to all others."

Aww, isn't he sweet?

Anyways....

I achieved my big goals.  Each birth was amazing and wonderful (except with Marlie, when I threatened to kill Tom because he ate pretzels.  In his defense, the whole thing lasted 32 hours and the poor guy needed a little snack.  In my defense, I made a person from scratch.  And her way of thanking me was by attacking me from the inside out.. for a day and a half.  Aaaand pretzels are the crunchiest food you could ever eat, and nothing infuriates me like a crunch while I am laboring.)

I knew that these experiences would be precious and rewarding, but one thing I did not expect to come away with was a little red dot on under my right eye.  This little red annoyance was a just a tiny capillary that had broken when I was pushing.  It really didn't bother me, I was even a little proud that I had a visible war wound as a reminder that I did it, I actually birthed someone.

It wasn't long after Annalee was born that my little badge of honor healed up and turned peach again.  At some point during the 32 hour delivery with Marlie, it came back with a new sense of commitment, and it hasn't even considered the option of going away.  It was not as tiny as the first time around, and I am not as pleased as I was then.  Now, it is just another reminder that 1) Not all concealers are created equal, and 2) Behind every pretty face there is a (proverbial) broken capillary or two.

This little flaw has been on my face for the better part of nine years, so I hardly think twice about it... or at least I wouldn't think twice about it if London didn't ask about it once every 48 hours.

She calls it my booboo and she is very, very concerned.  Tonight, when I was tucking her in to bed, she grabbed my face between her two chubby hands and she tilted her head to one side, and leaned in, like she was ready to give me the closed-mouth-Disney-finale-kiss, and she said "Oh my Mama LyLar, (which is how she says Lara) I love you and yoy sweet hoyt and all dis booboo in da whole whole woyld."  And she Disney-frenched my little wound with such passion that I think she might have made it worse.

She proceeded to kiss every possible bit of face that she could and tell me that I was "so happy bout dat."

And she was right, I was really happy 'bout dat.

I am so blessed to have had the gift of biological children, AND the gift of adoption.  I feel like I have been given such a rare, but full look at all the different ways that God loves us, and chooses us, and brings us to be known as His children.  I know what it is like to labor and wait and break parts of yourself to bring a child into this world, and I know what it is like to sacrifice your comfort and security and your finances to wait for someone else to bring a child into this world and into my heart.  It is such a picture of what Jesus did for us, to bring us into His family by blood and by choice.

I don't know if I will ever feel loved the way I would like to feel loved.  I honestly don't know if I am even capable of feeling loved the way God intends me to be, but one thing I am learning is that I AM loved, whether I am capable of accepting, acknowledging and feeling it or not.  The way I delight in my children, and they way London delighted in me tonight is such a picture of loving in spite of flaws and scars and broken places.  It is the spirit of adoption; loving by choice, and loving on purpose.

If I died tonight, I would go with a full heart and thoroughly kissed face, and I would rejoice in meeting the One that created me - flaws and all - the difference in that moment would be that when He held my weary face in his pierced hands, each kiss actually would heal and perfect me, and I will finally feel as loved as I already am.

I'll Tell Ya Where You Can Put That Cobbler, Marsha.

I keep telling myself that life will settle down.  Or, that I will spontaneously develop a remarkable skill set that will allow me to manage life better.  And that my house will stay clean.  And since we're throwing out total pipe dreams, in all these scenarios, my hair will be long and flowing.

As it stands, life is full of tragedy and my hair is refusing to budge past my shoulders.  I just want to swish it back and forth like Marsha Brady, that witch.

Where was I?  Oh yes, all my shortcomings.  So, I am just not the superstar I want to be.  I want to be one of those wives that says things like "Oh honey, don't be ridiculous, I've already bathed all the children!  Aaaaaand I've made cobbler."  Or maybe even something like "Who wants some cobbler that I just made?"  Or, let's say that this has nothing to do with cobbler, and that maybe I just have a hankerin'.  Either way, I want to be the kind of wife who has all the laundry put away and has things to say about cobbler.

I realize that I am at it again.  Comparing myself to others.  Or to the idea I have of others.  It was just over a year ago when I wrote this post about the comparison trap.  Here I am a whole year later, and I have made almost zero progress.  It comes in waves, and it is particularly worse when I am overwhelmed with everything on my plate.  Perhaps that is why these were both August posts... as fall looms before me, I realize with great clarity that apart from God, I am helpless to successfully accomplish even the most basic task, let alone do everything required to run a household, small business and family of six (almost seven!)  I become so aware of my limitations that I shut down a little. (so much more than a little.)  I shut down because this life is hard and painful.

I spent last night in the emergency room with Harper because he couldn't breathe properly.  Pneumonia and asthma combined caused his oxygen levels to plummet.  I laid with him on the stretcher watching his little chest retract as his body tried in vain to suck in as much air as possible and his belly moving in and out so fast and his heart pounding from the steroids and he just laid there with these big, brown eyes that pleaded, "Mama fix it."

 I couldn't fix it.  I couldn't do anything.

 I do not have what it takes to navigate this life and this world, not without Jesus. I really do not understand how people do not have faith.  Don't get me wrong, it is not a judgmental thing at all... I mean I get WHY people don't believe in God.  I just don't get HOW they can survive.  I just know that I need Him.  I can't get the laundry done, I can't do an at-home dance party without crampin' up a good amount, I can't stop comparing myself to others, and I can't fix broken lungs.  I can't give my friends the babies they want but can't have, and I can't give back the babies that my friends had, but lost.  I want to fix all the lungs, and the brains and the hearts that are broken in my life... but, I can't do Anything. At. All.

Apart from Jesus, my hope would only be in this world, and I would be in for some serious disappointment.  So, I choose to believe.  Even when it makes me look stupid, and even when I am totally alone in that belief, I choose to believe.  So, I am kicking the habit again.  I quit comparing.  I am all done beating myself up for what goes undone and I am done expecting more from myself than I am even capable of giving.  I am clinging with total desperation to my capable God, the God who sees.  And if He sees, I am banking on the fact the He probably also cares...about lungs and lost babies, and maybe even laundry.

But, probably not about swishy hair and cobbler.  That might be pushin' it.

There is Not Voodoo Happening

As you could imagine the adventures do not stop when our family camping trip ends. It seems like this past trip is a great representation of how our lives go... We narrowly escape some disaster, we are blessed beyond belief, then we hold our breath waiting for the next crisis to avert.

So much of life is like that - our travels, our adoption journey, some of our family relationships, our mission to sell our house... People make the comparison of a roller coaster ride, but we spent our first day back home at a local amusement park, and trust me... The ups and downs on an actual roller coaster are a lot more fun to experience. (With the exception of the jerky stops on the Jack Rabbit, something ought to be done about that. Seabreeze of Rochester, NY.)

I guess life IS like a roller coaster, sometimes, but it can also be a lot like water boarding. My problem is that I often see God for what He does or chooses not to do, instead of worshipping Him simply for WHO HE IS. My sense of feeling loved by God, or blessed, or protected by Him, is way too closely linked to how I think He's handling the task of giving me what I want. (I realize this is a heinous and selfish expectation, and embarrassingly immature. It's also a true story.)

Sooo... I am working on it. I am working on my lack of faith in a God who loves me in tropical thunderstorms, and in 106 degree heat. He loves me when I inadvertently squeeze the eyeball of an innocent bystander, or when I frisbee the children's breakfast out the car window. He loves me when I get my way, and He loves me enough to NOT give me my way all the time. Or ever, as it sometimes seems. I am learning that what circumstances I face do not change the simple fact that He is who He says He is, and I get to be loved by Him, even though I don't deserve it and I fail and fall short in every possible way.

I do not know how long it will take me to actually get it, but I am trying reeeeally hard to get over my obnoxious self and see the big, fat picture because I know the bottom line is that regardless of how crazy life, or a trip (or the real-estate market) may seem... God is for us and His plan is always for our good, and He is always for me, even when it feels like someone is out there with a gangly, curly-haired voodoo doll, just a-pokin' away.

Our trip ended with Robb and Tab Hibbard taking us in and becoming great friends (no longer almost-friends) who took us sledding in July and fed us cupcakes. Our curse of bad happenings followed us there and broke their dryer. We got the call about a maybe-baby and then a call saying definitely not. We explored the deepest caverns on the east coast (which seemed fitting because of how emotionally low we were at the time). And we almost went into wax museum, but the children were afraid of seeing "boys made out of ear wax" with "frozen faces."

So it wasn't all bad... We got to see "Honest Dave" (honest Abe) and some other really great things. We were able to teach the children a lot of great lessons... Like, when life gets rough, it's okay to quit if you can blame the weather.

But the best part was that the day we got home we got another call about another maybe-baby, this one a boy, due in October who's birthmother felt a strong connection with our family when she viewed profiles.

We don't know if this will be our baby for sure because a million roller coastery things have to happen between now and then... But the hope of new life and the possibility of welcoming this baby and his birthparents into our family was a sweet and beautiful homecoming... One that we desperately needed.

Below are the last pictures from our trip, and one of Marlie and me on her first roller coaster ride! The last one is a picture of London's camping uniform... Underpants, visor, wand, and so much mung on her face. (There is a definite age when this outfit is no longer acceptable.. It just wasn't as cute on Tom.)

gone baby gone

I am very sad to say that we are on our way home.

Yesterday we got a call from our adoption social worker about the possibility of adopting a baby girl who is due in a few weeks. After hearing and praying about all the specific circumstances, some of which may be challenging, we decided to go ahead and submit our family profile for the birth mother to review.

Right after that our realtor called to let us know that a potential buyer wants to look at our house.

These two things felt like the last of a million arrows that were pointing us to go back home early.

So, we left with the intention of showing our house and saving those vacation days for when we need to bring the baby home if we were chosen. Sadly for us, the birthmother decided that she preferred a childless couple.

Deep down, I am thrilled for the couple that will become first-time parents. But the more shallow, self-focused part of me is just plain sad. It felt like all the junk that kept happening on this trip was going to make perfect sense, because it was all leading up to our baby.

Unfortunately, we have come to the realization that all the junk that happened was probably leading up to a bear mauling, and God knew that only the possibility of more babies was gonna tear mama away from this trip.

When Should You Call it Quits?

I think we can all acknowledge that what began as a rough start has morphed into a rough trip altogether. I keep asking Tom if he thinks we should just go home and he said "No, we're not gonna go home, I just wanna keep toying with the idea when things go bad."

We have had a lot of fun, and obviously some memorable hiccups (disasters) in our plan. We have had to change course so many times that we are a couple of days behind schedule. It may seem like no big deal to switch gears, but when each day you are in a different state... Being a few days behind means that we are hundreds of miles behind schedule. It also means that campsite reservations have to be canceled and new campsites found, and that all of the planning and research we have done ahead of time (and some fees paid) are all out the window.

We spent three nights in Virginia beach with Uncle Paul. We had a great time visiting with him, and the kids loved every second of playing "lobster meat," bird watching, crashing the neighbor's sleepover to jump on their trampoline helping make the pancake breakfast. And despite the flash floods... We got to see most of what we hoped to.

We got all of the laundry done, re-ziplocked all the clothes, re-packed the car and re-stocked groceries for the next week's meals. We drove a few hours through the Outer Banks, NC to do the driving trail through the Alligator River National Wildlife Refuge. It is said to be the one place in North America where you can predictably see a black bear. (This is why we opted for the driving trail instead of hiking right into a bear's mouth.)

We got there at 4:32pm (32 minutes after they close the gates.) One of the park service police officers saw us sitting outside the gate and came to see if we needed help. When we explained that we needed some tips on where to go from there since our plan fell through his only advice was to "take a Xanax and go to a hotel" because we are "crazy."

Quite the outdoorsmen.

When we arrived at our campsite, we were greeted by a very crowded, wet, swamp of a campsite, and the top third of a large man's butt crack.

We knew that if we stayed there we would be at risk of drowning in our sleep, and we would also be at risk of getting a peak at the other two thirds of the big, bad b-crack.

That's when we called for reinforcements. A few days ago we got an offer from some friends, Robb and Tab Hibbard, to come and stay with them in Virginia. We know them well enough to be excited to see them, but definitely not well enough to actually take them up on an offer that I am certain they made thinking "Let's just put it out there, I mean... There is no way they'll take us up on it! That would be so rude! We hardly know them!"

Well, surprise! We really are that rude. Or desperate as the case may be. So, we are doubling back about 5 hours to stay in a not-swamp with almost-friends who, I am certain, will keep their cracks concealed. God provides.

So, we are not calling it quits just yet. We will collect ourselves and forge ahead with a new plan. Or we will just join the Hibbard household permanently, depending on how it goes.

Big shout out to Uncle P and to Uncle Robb and Auntie Tab for their generous and hospitable willingness to house the pathetic. And an even bigger shout AT the man who's trousers were just low enough in back that it made you want to gouge out your eyes.

Day 8 - fail

Day 7 in Review

We successfully made it to Colonial Williamsburg. We paid a small fortune to rent gowns and bonnets for the girls... Which fulfilled a dream of mine and theirs. Harper tipped his colonial cap to all the fair maidens and offered a "g'day" to all in sight. One shop-keeper asked if we could take the credit for such well-bred and finely dressed children.

They loved being in character and they fussed over their gowns and bonnets all day. They felt less fine and well-bred when we were sprinting back to the visitor center when the flash floods first started.

Yep. That is how it went down. We were having a lovely time discovering what the children thought was "Colonial Williamsburger," when the on-and-off rain switched to full throttle monsoon. We tried waiting it out, but it just seemed to get heavier and heavier... So we made a break for it.

I have never seen anything like it! Within minutes of our run back to the car, the walking paths had turned into streams complete with baseball sized rocks rolling down the stream! There were some places that were ankle-deep!

It goes without saying that we didn't get the full Williamsburger experience... but the kids had a great time and I got to quote lines from Pride and Prejudice all day.
And even if we didn't get the full, historical experience... We will always cherish great memories of our first Colonial Flash Flood.

My Dear Young Maiden

We made it to Colonial Williamsburg!!!

Okay, Maybe It Was A Pity Party.

Alright... Maybe I was being a touch negative when I listed everything gone awry in one 24 hour period, but you gotta admit that this trip has gotten off to a rough start.

We did not make it to Colonial Williamsburg because of the constipated tunnel, but we ended up spending the day at Virginia beach... And if a day on the ocean is our plan B, then can I really complain?? Now that I have some perspective, I can give the overview of the past couple days without spiraling into the deep-dark.

After Washington DC, and after the urgent care stop, we finally made it to Virginia beach, where we have been saying with Tom's Uncle Paul. We got in around 11:00ish at night and the kids were exhausted and starving.

Uncle Paul, being a more-than- gracious host, greeted us with homemade personal pizzas and a bucket of toys from the "sand bunny." (thanks a lot Uncle P, we had sooo much room in the van for more loose items.) :) We were also greeted with indoor plumbing, which we had been missing sorely.

After spending day 6 at the beach with Uncle Paul, we had an amazing dinner and spent the evening sharing ridiculous stories (and critiques of the various stages of Tom's facial hair growth) with Mr. Todd and Ms. Julie, Uncle Paul's neighbors.

I don't know if Uncle Paul knew what he was getting himself into when he allowed the six of us to visit, but I have a feeling it is a bit of a departure from his cool, bachelor living. I have a feeling that there have been more spills (and food eaten) in his house on our two night stay than there have been in the past year before we arrived.

In keeping with tradition, some things had to get a little crazy. I discovered that I had some sort of poison ivy, JUST under my wedding ring. So, for the first time in 9 years, I took the ring off for the day. And it got lost.

After a thorough search of every drain and surface, we finally found it in the dirty laundry pile. It was a little stressful, but all is well, expect for my finger is itchy.

We are heading now to Colonial Williamsburg, the tunnel appears to to be flushed free of all blockages and we traded the defective stroller in for one with ALL FOUR wheels! Things are looking up.

Because of all the craziness, we have had to rearrange the itinerary several times. This means that we are gonna cramp Uncle P's style for one more night... And then we head to North Carolina.

Well, that is the plan... But we've all seen how well our plan goes. So, I guess we'll see. We had a little conference with the kids, and we talked about how the trip has had a rough start and that it seems like maybe we should pack it in and go home... But after a family vote, we unanimously agreed to push our luck, and push through in the hope that the worst of it is over and that we can still have a great time.

I am a little skeptical about how the rest is going to go, but I will take skepticism over the desire to fake my own death. I consider this an improved state of mind, so on we go, like total fools ignoring major signs to go home.