Never Assume

The inner klutz in me often surfaces near knives, as was reinforced in last month's mishap with frozen hamburgers and the knife I was using to separate them. Oops, I separated the tip of my finger instead. Yuck!

I've also been known to injure myself around water. The most serious time was when I was about Adam's age. I was showing off for my parents doing crazy stunts off our diving board of our in-ground pool. Carelessly, I hit the side of the pool upon impact, knocking myself unconscious. All I remember is vomiting profusely into a towel in my mom's lap as my dad drove us to the hospital. I remember x-rays and still vomiting uncontrollably. Fortunately, I suffered no lasting effects from that other than staying away from diving boards ever since. I don't even enjoy watching the Olympic diving because I think I traumatized myself for life. I sure hope my kids decide to be on the swim team, not the diving team. I think it would send me to an early grave.

More recently, I remember a time when I was in the shower and slipped. Elise was a baby at the time and I was the typical sleep-deprived Mom.  She was napping and Adam was quietly playing downstairs. Fortunately, despite my lack of coordination, I caught myself and prevented serious injury. What I remember, though, is the fear that gripped me. What if I had been seriously injured, would 4 year old Adam know what to do? It was time to ask him.

Presenting various scenarios Adam did know the right answer. "If you are ever sleeping and I can't wake you up, or if you have hurt yourself and can't get to a phone, I am supposed to call 9-1-1." Good. As parents we had trained him properly. But the Holy Spirit was tugging at me. Yes, he has head knowledge, but I want him to actually DO it. Have him use the phone. Being obedient, I handed Adam the phone.  "Show me."

Adam looked at the hand set and pointed to the numbers....but then said "How do I turn it on?". Huge light bulb, fellow moms and dads. In theory Adam knew how to do it but putting it into practice, a whole different thing. I learned my lesson that day and I am grateful that it came without a price.

A Potty Mouth

It may surprise many of you but I believe in evolution. I really do. Okay, not evolution like humans evolved from fossils...blah blah blah. Nope. What I am referring to is parenting evolution. Parenting has really evolved for me in the last few years.

For the first three years I would call it the Physical Attachment era: In the first year, it's all about taking care of the baby's most basic needs. Lots of diaper changes, feedings, baths--and in Elise's case, keeping one step ahead of her colic; on the flip side of that is the attachment aspect. Getting to know them personally and bonding with them--hopefully teaching them that they can trust us and rely on us. The second and third years can be even more demanding as they learn to walk and talk and begin to gain a sense of self and independence. There is a lot of danger intervention in these years trying to keep one step ahead of the next potential accident. Put on your running shoes for about 3 years, parents. Game on!

In our household, with a 5 and 9 year old, we have evolved into one of my favorite eras. This is what I call the Communication phase. Starting around age 4, I really noticed a sense of independence and increased confidence in my kids' abilities to take care of their needs. Adam has been making his own breakfast and packing his own lunch for a few years now. He makes his own bed, takes showers and is a self-starter when it's homework time. What is interesting, though, is watching Elise blossom into her own little person. She dresses herself (albeit often mismatching), brushes her own teeth, makes her bed. I am finding myself having to do less and less for both kids--which I am totally alright with by the way.

However, I am doing a lot more talking. A lot. That's why I call it the Communication phase. They have a lot of questions between the two of them. Adam is in that "not a baby but not a teenager" phase. 9 is the new 13 so I think its safe to say that he is officially a pre-teen. He is noticing things--lots of things--and has questions, and some tough ones at that. We talk about what dating and marriage is about. Even sex comes up in little spurts (thank goodness for the slow entry into this one!) We talk about school and taking personal responsibility. We talk about what peer pressure looks like and why kids tease. We talk about what his personal beliefs are and why we believe the Bible is the Word of God and why we pray. Adam has always been a good talker. From preschool days on I've always been able to get a dialog going about what happened during his day. He'll tell me who he sat with at lunch and what games they played in p.e. Adam will share what book they are reading aloud in class and what book he's reading with his reading buddy. Which special class did he have that day. Yes, there is a lot of talking going on in my house.

Elise is stereotypically a talkative little girl. She loves to pretend, having long conversations with her stuffed animals, doll house family, and sometimes just to herself. She is also the one who asks the toughest questions like "Was Moses the first baby talked about in the Bible?" Wow, good question. I know the answer is no, but I had to think about who was mentioned first in baby form. I think it was Isaac, but you know I'm not even exactly sure myself. Most of the more well known people of the Bible were already adults before they are mentioned so the fact that she even asked that made me know she's always thinking.

As of late, her biggest obsession is with writing words and sounding out letters. Rarely will she go more than 5 or 10 minutes without telling me what a word starts with, or without asking me to spell a word for her. So last week while I was making dinner it didn't really phase me when she asked me to spell ICUP.  For those scholars out there, I know icup is not a word but again, I would have to say this is typical Elise. She loves to combine letters and ask if they form a word. Surprisingly, some of them do. Like when she spelled A-S-S on a pretty picture she was making to give away. Nice, Elise. Good job!

In that haphazard way where our focus is really on one task, but asked to focus on another, I answered her I-C-U-P. I said it slowly, ready for her to copy the letters as I say them. But, alas, no paper in hand so she says "No, Mommy, slowly". Again, I repeat I-C-U-P and say, "Do you have that now?" and turn back to the stove.  For some reason she appeared a little bit huffy as she left the room,  like I was not playing along, and I certainly noticed that her carefree attitude had switched. In just a few moments time, I hear Adam and Elise talking in a quieted hush. Nothing like a little whispering between your two kids to notice that is there is something fishy going on.. That is when Adam came into the kitchen and asked "Did Elise ask you to spell icup?" to which I said "Yes, twice. What's up?"

"Spell it again, Mom. slowly this time" He said in a voice that sounded exasperated, just like his sister. Giving him my full attention I repeated "I C U P". Adam smiled....then I got it. I-C-U-P.  I returned his smile, "Oh, I see you pee. Cute, Adam. Very cute."

Oh, I had forgotten this inevitable stage of life: Potty Talk. That's OK. I could use a few good laughs.

Coming to America

On this Veteran's Day there is a lot of buzz about being an American and the freedoms that allows us. I wonder how many of us really contemplate what that freedom truly means? I presume that for many Americans it's not something they think about --except on holidays such as this or Memorial Day, Independence Day, and maybe Thanksgiving. And that is sad.

For me being an American is part of my family heritage and an important part of my testimony. My mom emigrated from her Yugoslavian born heritage via the Queen Elizabeth, arriving at the port of New York's Ellis Island on February 24, 1950 at 11 years old. After escaping the third ethnic cleansing camp Gakowa (also known as Kakowa and Gakova) on August 10, 1947 a few months before her 9th birthday, they walked over 100 miles to the first steps of freedom crossing into the Hungary border. Can you imagine their relief and elation taking a step into a country where they were no longer in daily fear of losing their lives?  To understand what 'Freedom' looked like, you have to understand from the situation in which they came. For three years they were under the Russian Red Army control. Over the duration of three years they lived in three Yugoslavian towns -- Molidorf, Gudriz and Kakowa -- converted into concentration camps, surrounded by armed guards. They had been stripped of all their worldly possessions and all the documents that gave them their identity. They were prisoners of war who had no proof of who they were or where they came from. They did not exist in the government of Yugoslavia and had nothing to present to explain their identity. All the documents of today: birth certificates, passports, driver's licenses, state identification cards. None of them existed for them any longer. They had all been destroyed in the attempt to wipe out the Yugoslavian country. They were people without a country. Literally. Stepping out of a country of bondage to the first steps of freedom. You can almost hear the sigh of relief.

The third camp Kakowa was known as the 'escape camp'. If you were fortunate enough to be taken there and had the financial or physical means to bribe a guard, escape was entirely possible. My family is among the 'lucky' ones who were able to convince the guards to turn a blind eye to their escape, even aiding them to start out on their trek for Hungary. Walking was done only at night in the darkest hours so they could not be seen. Refuge from the day had to be found in fields or barns and often in the safety of homes and farms along the way who were sympathetic to their cause. No one had much in this time of war but people were generous in sharing what they had. Our family had nothing but a kind smile, a thankful word and a grateful heart to give back.  The journey lasted nearly a month. Another image plays in my mind when I think about this long, arduous journey. My great grandparents were in their late 40's by this time but their bodies were broken. To quote my grandma's newspaper interview "My mother was beaten with slats with nails in them because she would not tell where (her husband) was. She could not. She did not know. She was like a clump of dead meat, all black and blue. She died several years ago, never able to fully recover from the mistreatment she endured".  My grandma who was sent to Russia to work as a slave laborer while the rest of the family resided in the camps in Yugoslavia endured her own terror as she would worked to the bone, nearly dying from overwork. These physical ailments had to be overcome to travel the hundreds of miles that lay in front of them. And my mom at the tender age of 8 -- incomprehensible to me to endure what she did in what should have been a carefree childhood. Personally, I cannot wrap my brain around the pain and fatigue and fear that accompanied every step.

From Hungary, my mom, my grandma and great-grandparents then traveled on foot to Austria where they lived with distant relatives. It was reaching Austria that they finally felt safe. Now in neutral territory they no longer had to fear being turned over to their homeland.  From Vienna via the train, they travelled to a refugee camp in Schalding, Germany. It was there they found a sponsor, a distant relative (The Andersen's) of my mom's to leave from the port in Cherbourg, France to sail to America on the Queen Elizabeth. From New York they traveled to Chicago to work for the Andersen's as indentured servants for three years.

To finally arrive in America and to live in freedom for the first time in many, many years was nothing less than a miracle. God's hand of protection was with them at every turn. They were given a second chance to create a life--a new life. And they did. They worked hard taking nothing that they had been given for granted. They learned the language and worked hard to become honest citizens of this great country of America but never forgetting the life that they had left behind and the men and women who sacrificed to save them.

The Cardinal Bird

Last year on the last day of  August, Adam stepped onto our front porch and heard a rustling deep within the prickly needles of our bush. There was a sweet baby Cardinal trapped within the confines of the buds, eagerly flapping his wings, hoping to find footing in this chaotic environment in which he found himself.

Without hesitation, I scooped him up into the safety of my hands. Certainly still a baby, he had soft gray and brown downy feathers. Upon closer inspection it was clear why this baby appeared to have been abandoned or had fallen out of his nest: His left wing was badly injured.  Having little to no experience with birds, I called a local wild bird rehabilitation center. They were an organization I knew and trusted. The first Mother's Day following my mom's terminal diagnosis she asked in lieu of buying her a gift to donate to one of her animal charities. Knowing my mom's deep affection for birds, particularly hummingbirds, I had selected this local group.

They confirmed for me on the phone that most likely the bird, who was probably born in late July, was being forced to become independent by his frustrated parents. The dependency on parents is very short for wild Cardinals--often being forced out of the nest as young as 3 weeks old.  The harsh reality was that the parents were probably tired of caring for him and despite his health, or actually because of it, over time they would abandon him completely.

Not fully aware of the extent of his injuries and hoping that she was wrong and perhaps he had fallen out of his nest and his parents might still be looking for him, I conclude that he should stay in our yard to see if his parents would come. Under my watchful eye, I hoped he would improve and I would not need to bring him to the center. Our next door neighbors became aware of the situation and the teenage daughter Kate helped me prepare a small box to serve as his nest.                                                    

While I really didn't know much about birds or what was involved in caring or rehabilitating them, I did know that this little bird was going to be my answer to prayer. Just 11 days earlier, we had to put our dog Boo to sleep after a lengthy illness and my own selfish attempt to keep him with us. With the death of Boo, we were pet-less. Our two cats had passed away in the previous two years and I found myself without a pet for the first time in my life. Ever. The silence in the house without Boo was deafening. Not that my sweet old dog was loud; to the contrary he was just an old dog who did little else than sleep--he certainly wasn't capable of running and playing like in his golden days. But he was still my faithful little companion for 14 years--before husband and children--my little guy, and my life was a little too quiet now.

Having this bird to care for filled that void. I diligently fed him water from an eye dropper and fed him seeds and fruit, while Kate collected insects to supplement his diet. I nursed his wing, hoping that while he may never use it, the wing would heal and he could live a quiet life. During the day we kept him outside, where his parents did in deed come back to sit with him and feed him. Yes, they found him and when we were not outside with him, we saw his parents taking the time to care for him. At night we brought him indoors. Coyotes, deer -- even stray dogs and cats-- were a threat in the night. He certainly wasn't able to defend himself and did not want to make him easy prey.
So this schedule continued for a few days. The kids enjoyed holding the baby bird and caring for him the best we knew how. The parents were on-looking in a nearby tree, never too far from where their baby was. But, alas, he wasn't healing and I knew that my feeble attempts to take care of him wasn't cutting it.

Perhaps I already knew it in my heart, but when Carol looked at him from Wild Bird Rehab she said that his injuries were too great. In my ignorance, I did not notice that under the soft belly and downy feathers laid his intestines partially outside his body. There was no way to save him. We were doing all the right things for him and he seemed to not be experiencing discomfort, but he couldn't recover from this. Taking in a deep breath and sighing heavily, this was almost too much for me to hear. I had lost all three of my pets--and my mom-- over the previous 2 years. Could I at least take him home and care for him until he dies naturally, I wondered aloud. To my utter shock and disgust, I heard the words "No". Wild birds are federally protected. Caring for him in a home-care situation was against the law. She could not let me leave with him. While I totally understood the precarious situation she was in, I was at a loss.  Really, I thought to myself. I understood the nature of the law -- to prevent people from taking in wild birds and domesticating them, interrupting the nature of the life-cycle. But this was extenuating circumstances. Surely there was a loop hole. To my frustration, I left with my empty homemade nest and two children who believed that he was going to be treated and released. They didn't need to know the truth. They saw their mom doing the right thing and I was going to give them the happy ending.

At the end of that day knowing that I had unintentionally sent him to his demise, I had the peace in my heart that my intentions were pure and my motives honest. I took the time to care for the least of God's creatures. In the end I had only bought him a few days time--or maybe I had shortened what time he would have had if we had not intervened, but this experience had taught me that as much as it hurt losing one pet after another -- and having to say goodbye to a mom I thought I'd have another 20 years with -- I could love again. Perhaps the baby Cardinal was the just the little soft whisper I needed to hear from God to embrace the idea of another family pet.

Enter Twinkle, our cockatiel. But that story, my friends, will wait for another day.

Meet the Kruegers

Bonnie a/k/a Mommy

Emotional. Analytical. Approval seeker. Insecure
Blogger. Writer. Cropper. Genealogist. Cook.
Leader. Extrovert. Bold. Dreamer. 80's music fan.
Ice cream fanatic. Breakfast skipper. Mom misser.
Stay-at-homer. Volunteer. Organizer.
Bible reader. Christ follower. Truth seeking.
Strength trainer. Insomniac. Animal lover. Good listener.
Wife. Mother. Daughter. Sister. Aunt. Friend.

Tony a/k/a Daddy

Hard Working. Dedicated. Driven. Meticulous. Devoted.
Introvert. Unempathetic. Short-fused. Bone-marrow donor.
Mr. Fix-It. Sound man. Ice sculpture carver. Christ Follower. Lamborghini wanter. Blue Angels fan. Travel lover.
Boy Scout. Mountain climber. Imaginative.
Selfless. Talented. Family Leader. Brilliant.
Husband. Father. Brother. Son. Uncle. Friend.

Adam

Third born. Lego brick master. Medalled Gymnast.
Basketball player. Cellist. Cub Scouter.
Bike rider. Tree climber. Ice cream lover.
Sensitive. Follower. People pleaser.
Loyal. Role model. Kind. Rule-follower.
Servant's heart. Diligent. Son. Brother.
Grandson. Nephew. Cousin. Friend.

Elise

Youngest child. Dramatic. Talkative.
Spirited. Leader. Adventurous. Performer.
Taggie blanket-lover. Dog lover. Shoe lover.
Confident. Curious. Learner. Artistic.
Secure. Rule breaker. Leader. Independent.
Intuitive. Compassionate. Loving. Daughter
Sister. Granddaughter. Niece. Cousin. Friend.

Michael

First born. Adult. Independent.
EMT.  Mind-changer. Free Thinker.
Risk-taker. Emotion driven.
Dreamer. Drifter. Approval Seeking.
Son. Brother. Grandson. Nephew. Cousin.
Friend.

Brandon

Second born. Teenager. Dish Washer.
Rebellious. Tattoo wearer. Avoider.
System challenger. Bold. Leader.
Gadget lover. Impulsive. Talkative.
Extremely intelligent. Unapplied.
Music lover. Car lover. Plane lover.
Son. Brother.Grandson. Nephew. Cousin.
Friend.

Lesson to Be Learned

My heart is burdened today. I've just come off a refreshing three day scrap booking retreat. Along with completing multiple pages, I took the time to really slow down my life. I enjoyed three leisurely solitary walks along the paths of the retreat center. The weather was gorgeous...a short but appreciated Indian Summer, if you will.  I drank in the sun, saying goodbye to the warmth and brilliance in yellow, preparing my heart and mind for the short days and long nights of winter--my least favorite of all the seasons. I lost myself in the second book of the Twilight series, recalling days of my youth when falling in love was new and totally intoxicating. Good food, good conversation and even a little restful sleep.

Returning back home, my mind shifted to the demands of the week....a cooking class with my daughter, a den leader's meeting, fall parties, Halloween, sending in the corrections for the school fundraiser, and at the top of my list, finishing my Bible study for this week's time of teaching and worship.  I'm studying the book of Esther, a specially designed study guide for women by Beth Moore. Esther has been a revealing look at God's character, his faithfulness and how He provides for those who trust Him, even through events most of us would see as tragic. The struggles of life recorded in Esther between 460 and 350 B.C. and  the struggles of today haven't changed much and are still quite pertinent. Along the way I've learned a lot of historic facts of times and places and political/social climate in those pre-Christ days and have noted over and over within these pages that history has found a way of repeating itself into the 20th and 21st centuries.

On Thursday night I found myself mid way through my Bible lesson and emotionally drained. This week was a tough lesson. Genocide, ethnic cleansings, a pre-Hitler holocaust captured and recorded within the pages of Esther. As I closed the book telling myself I would finish the lesson on Monday, a heaviness began creeping in my heart and stayed with me. Even during those quiet walks I found my mind wandering back to the lesson and they continued to sow heaviness and sorrow within my heart and mind. Returning to that lesson today re-opened those raw emotions for me.

One of the greatest gifts we have in today's century is the ability learn about those past events, both blessed and horrific, that have shaped us as a people or nation. The Holocaust is undoubtedly one of most horrific events experienced in our {parent's} generation and there has been a wide array of publications--books, newspaper and Internet articles--even a historically accurate film Schindler's List--to educate and remind us.

For me the Holocaust is personal. Way personal. From October 1, 1944, to August 10, 1947, my mom Hilda, my grandma Anna and my great grandparents Anna and Thomas were imprisoned in the Yugoslavian genocide and slave labor camps that were established by the Russian Red Army under communist Marshal Tito in retaliation of the war.  Few people are aware of this genocide. Two million ethnic Germans died in this massacre. No, they are not considered part of the Holocaust nor are their numbers included in the estimated 11 to 17 million people victimized in the hate crime. It is important to make the distinction between the Holocaust and this Donauschwaben account. While linked by the revenge of war, this genocide was a slap in the face to the Germans.

As a society, we are tragically uneducated in this part of our history. Even my own mother was dismally mis-informed of her own history. Let me go back to 1993 and the release of Schindler's List. I grew up with knowledge of my mom's history and when asked, she would speak of those years she spent as a child in the camps. The movie release started a dialogue in our country and Steven Spielberg created The Shoah Foundation (Hebrew word for Holocaust) to educate and document actual eye-witness testimony in a visual history format.  While my mom openly spoke of her experiences, my grandma would not. My mom was the tender age of 6 when they were initially taken from their homes but my grandma, a very young mother, was only 22 years old. Because she was young, healthy, strong and beautiful, the Russians sent my grandma to Russia to work as a slave laborer. Her experiences were so horrific, so terrifying and so life-altering she could not and would not speak to us about what it was she suffered. Up to her death my grandma refused to speak of those days. Those emotional and psychological wounds were too deep and by sharing her story, she would be sharing the pain--or so she believed. My mom pleaded and begged her to give account--to leave the history for her grandchildren and future generations. Ultimately probably in part because of my grandma's silence, my mom gave me her blessing to contact Steven Spielberg on her behalf. I smile in amusement as I recall her stating that while what her mom went through was important, nothing a 6 year old lived through would have any impact on the world. Mr. Spielberg, she added, would never be interested in her story....
 
"Never" came in 1997 when they contacted my mom and came to her home to videotape an interview for their visual history file. My mom died nearly 10 years to the day of this interview and I cannot convey in words how important those tapes are to me. It gave my mom a safe place to talk about what she saw, heard, felt and experienced. She was able to share about the years leading up to the imprisonment and what it was like to be an immigrant stepping off the Queen Elizabeth in 1950. She shared how those experience shaped her as a wife, a mother, a daughter --and the hand of protection God gave her from beginning to end. Fifty years had passed as she spoke of those events but she could recount beautiful and terrifying images. No, her story is as important as any other. While my grandma went to her grave with secrets and pain, my mom was able to alleviate some of the burden she felt about those days and lay them at another's feet.
 
In the shadow of Shoah, it became abundantly clear to Tony and me that while my mom recalled the dates and experiences, they were not lining up with the Holocaust. She was too old for the war. It was in the awesome age of Internet that Tony and I spent probably hundreds of hours researching her history. I began meeting other survivors via the Internet, finding books published about these special camps. In a year's time we were able to present to my mom details of what she went through and why. We began to grasp what it was my grandma had suffered and lost.  It was in my quest to understand my mom's heritage that I began to understand the importance of leaving a legacy for our children and to preserve the history. For our history to be correct and documented.
 
In the final months of her life my mom wondered why she suffered so much in the beginning of her life -- and now again in the end. Hadn't she paid enough as a child? I told her that I didn't know why God would allow one person to suffer so much but I said that her testimony gives hope to the hopeless. She not only overcame the obstacles in her life, she triumphed and chose victory over defeat, determination and will over failure, and God over Godlessness. Her story needed to be told....needs to be heard.....Maybe now my heavy heart will find that peace.

Pleasantville

Upon retrieving a bowl from our fake lazy Susan cabinet, my finger stuck to the wood. Then just one step to the right, I opened the utensil drawer and my hand brushed across the grain near the handle and it was sticky--again. Related? Probably. Any less gross? No, not really.

Keeping a clean house is a challenge for me and I am a self-proclaimed neat freak and Type A personality. Everything has a place; everything in it's place. So what's the problem here? Sometimes I just get overwhelmed at the task at hand. I like the whole house to be clean and all at the same time. Therein, my friends, lies the problem. Who has the time or energy to do it and to do it well?

Let's take my kitchen as an example. I am messy around food. Chef Ramsey would complain I use too many pots, pans and mixing bowls and I am as big a mess as my surroundings. Once the meal is made I am fairly efficient at loading the dishwasher or hand-washing the big stuff. I'll even wipe down the counter tops; but that doesn't make the kitchen clean. The single man who remodeled the kitchen shortly before selling was brilliant in choosing a white corian counter top. White, really truly? The stainless steel appliances were a beautiful choice too--unless you have children who think it is their job to keep the fingerprints freshly adhered to them.  Even our back splash is stainless steel. Impossible to keep clean.

Walking across our ceramic tile floors your toes will collect a plethora of food particles, dried bird droppings, dust bunnies, etc. The list of possibilities is endless. How often do you move your refrigerator and stove out to clean behind and beneath them? Good Lord, just the amount of food stuck to the sides of my appliances would feed our hamster Little Dude for days. And the inside of the oven? Self-cleaning. Uhh. not really. As duly noted above, my cabinets could really use some attention. Sticky, stained and dirty cabinet faces breed just as many germs as our frequently wiped down counter tops. When I wipe up spills I seem to catch the counter tops and the floors, not really thinking about the pretty little liquid line adhering to the cabinets on the way down. Anyone think to clean their floor boards lately? Then there's our butler's pantry. Even though it is in the kitchen, it seems to collect less food and more paper and dust dirt --that is when you can actually see the counter top. Normally it is piled high of papers, bills, school work, mail and magazines.  Our cute little white TV in the kitchen isn't so white anymore. Years of neglect has tinged it an ugly little shade of  dust. No matter how much I work for it to regain its beauty and crispness, it's just gone, gone, gone.

Back to the bigger picture. We have an average sized home at roughly 2,000 square feet with 2 1/2 baths, 4 bedrooms. That is still a lot of house to keep clean, much less be diligent enough that all the bathrooms, bedrooms and floors are clean at the same time.  Cleaning service? The thought makes me laugh--not that I am not totally in support of it for my ever-growing group of friends who use them. Most of the women I know who use a cleaning service are full time stay at home moms. No judgment coming from me. I tried to get my husband on board with that one, but alas, he couldn't wrap his head around the idea that someone who doesn't "work" can't make the time to keep house. His suggestion was to cut back on my other commitments. Point made but when the activities often revolve around the kids, I have to wonder what exactly should I not be doing in their lives, something that I can actively give up. I don't think that cleaning should trump being present in the midst of the Fall Party, or taking Elise to a Kid's in the Kitchen class. Granted, I get busy filling roles within the school, church or cub scout pack where there is a need. I have found that "high profile" involvement helps you know what's going on in your child's life--getting to know the other families while serving. Even when I am crunching numbers for the fundraiser, which doesn't directly involve my son, I am gaining a sense of community and of the families I do and do not want my son to know better. Believe me, if my husband would agree to just once a month cleaning service, I'd be like a flea on a doggie.  I won't be holding my breath on that one, though.

I daresay my house is more neat and orderly than clean, which is totally not the way it should be. I suppose I am in the mindset that if the piles are minimum, the toys are put away, and dishes in the dishwasher then I can call my house clean. Just don't do the finger test to see whether I've dusted any time in the last week. Just thought I'd put this out there for anyone who in recent weeks have given me accolades to being a Superwoman (Supermom, Superwife), amazing and high-energy. I appreciate the kudos--really I do--please don't stop believing the best in me because I truly do my best to do it all--and well.  I need to know I am not alone.

But if you'll excuse me, I think I have a cabinet or two to wipe down before my company arrives!