And not only has my baby girl turned into a big girl who wants to leave my house without me, one of my thirteen year old son’s voice has begun to change!  How does this happen so suddenly?  One minute, he was four years old, the next, when he stands, he looks straight into my eyes–soon he’ll be peering down at me–and his little boy voice is gone.

Really, I can’t stand it.

On the other hand, I believe that all this means that one day, I will have more than approximately three uninterrupted minutes to myself.

*  *  *

Halfway through the day, I decided to sort through the bookshelf in my 8-year old’s room.  That pastime turned into a major overhaul of all his toys and books and containers.  I received a label maker recently as a thank-you gift and so, with great delight, I labeled all the drawers in a stack of plastic bins I bought him recently.  “Legos,” “Playmobil,” “Tinkertoys,” “Nintendo Games,” etc. 

I hauled three large plastic garbage bags full of toys, books, shoes and clothes out of there, plus a bag of trash and a stack of empty Rubbermaid bins. 

Meanwhile, the rest of my house collapsed upon itself and the kitchen sink filled with dishes.  If you stopped by, you would think I am the Worst Housekeeper Ever.  But, then, I’d show you his bedroom and you would bow down and worship at my label-making feet.  (Wait.  Did my feet make labels?  No matter, it’s late and you know what I mean.)

I took my daughter to the swimming pool tonight.  Only one other child swam.  The high temperature today was about seventy degrees, and even though the pools are heated, she was cold, so we didn’t stay long.

We returned home in time to watch “Big Brother.”  I exercised while I watched, then when it ended, I headed to the grocery store (at 9 p.m.) for some provisions.  We were out of milk and I ended up spending a hundred bucks on other stuff we needed, too. 

Only a week until the children are back in school.  Darkness comes so much earlier now . . . I wistfully bid summer farewell and look forward to fall with some bitter-sweetness.  The years with my children felt infinite at one time . . . now, I hear them ticking away, moment by moment, rushing like a stream heading downhill.

My daughter was all mine for a long time.  On her first Thanksgiving, we went to my mother’s house a few miles away.  We planned to eat at precisely her nap-time, so I thought I’d nurse her and lay her down to sleep on my mom’s bed.

My daughter, after three months on earth, declared in her baby-way that she was not happy to see the strange faces–my brother and his wife, my sister and her family, my mother.  She revved up her engines, filled up her lungs and began to scream.

I couldn’t calm her.  Finally, exasperated and frustrated, I left my other children and drove home with her.  Once in a familiar environment, away from other people, she nursed and went to sleep.

From that day on, no one but my husband or I could hold her.  When church people peered too closely into her blue eyes, she screamed.  She cried if someone touched her.  She clung to me like a koala bear in a tree when people stood near.   

I hardly ever put her down because she’d cry.  I cooked with her perched on my hip, I ate with her slung across one shoulder, I carried laundry baskets with one hand.  A friend accused me of never putting her down saying, “She’ll never walk since her feet never touch the ground.”  (She walked at eleven months, though.)

No one could take care of her but me (and her daddy, though she’d whimper and ask, “Where’s mommy?” as soon as she could pronounce the right words.)  I didn’t spend a night away from her until she was three years and three months old.

She’s never had a babysitter, other than her grandma.  (She still won’t let her grandma hold her.)  She refuses to stay in the church nursery.  She’s never been to preschool. 

I would explain to people that she was shy, that she was slow-to-warm-up.  She was my fourth child and I knew that I hadn’t made her this way.  She simply was who she was.  Still, I know people thought I was coddling her and quite possibly, ruining her.

Today, she waved good-bye to me and–at her own request–went to her little friend’s house.  (Her friend is almost 2 years old–we have been babysitting him since he was a tiny baby.)  Yesterday, she went to her other friend’s house–they’ve been pals since they were a year old.  I couldn’t believe that my baby climbed into someone else’s car, buckled up and waved bye-bye.

Both times, when I picked her up, she whined and begged to stay.  What happened to my clingy baby?  Is she really going to go out into the wide world without me?  What is this?

I have such mixed feelings.  On one hand, it’s a sort of burden to be the sole source of everything for one small person.  The house was so quiet tonight without her constant demands.  It was strange to relax without being interrupted every three minutes.

On the other hand, hey!  Don’t you miss me?  Remember me?  Your mommy, the one who held you for hours on end and who woke up every two hours for eleven months to nurse you?

My baby will be four in a week and a half.  She’s growing up.  She’s practically registered her college courses, gotten a secret tattoo (against my wishes), earned her MBA and met the man she’ll marry.  Tomorrow, she’ll probably walk down the aisle and have a couple of kids. 

At least it will seem like it. 

I wrote a post about the start of school (in a week! where has the summer gone?!) at the LargerFamilies.com site.  (Click over there for that one!

By the way, I was accused of “shameless self-promotion” not so long ago, but kind of made me laugh because, if anything, I’m terrible about tooting my own horn . . . which now makes me sound falsely humble.  Which reminds me of the song: 

Oh, Lord, it’s hard to be humble

When you’re perfect in every way

I just can’t wait to look in the mirror

I get better looking each day

To know me is to love me . . .

(Something, something, I can’t remember the words . . . oh well, never mind.)

Way back, a thousand loads of laundry ago, I agreed to review two books for Discerning Reader.  I don’t know what I was thinking, as I have approximately eight dozen too many things to do at any given time, but I did.  Book-greed overtook me and so, I offer this extremely tardy and apologetic review of two really terrific books.

C.H. Spurgeon on Spiritual Leadership and D. L. Moody on Spiritual Leadership were both penned by Steve Miller.  (The back of the book informs me that Steve “has worked in Christian publishing for twenty years as an editor and writer.”  He lives in Oregon with his wife. 

A letter that accompanied his books (provided to me free of charge, just so you know) says that his “goal in writing these books was to help ‘inspire by example’ through the lives and words of these two great leaders.  These books are not academic studies; rather, they let the words of these two men speak for themselves in regard to the character qualities God desires in a spiritual leader.”

I have to say, Steve accomplished that goal.  I read the first book while hanging out at a game arcade waiting while my son attended a birthday party.  (It was a long party.)  I felt that I had glimpsed into the life and heart of Spurgeon who was a well-known minister in the 1800s.  (“Everywhere he traveled, crowds of 10,000 to 20,000 would gather to hear him.”) 

Now, if you didn’t attend Bible College (as I did), you might be unfamiliar with Spurgeon.  But he is a legendary minister who organized and ran a college, an orphanage, an “Old Ladies Home” (no political correctedness in those days!), and more.  He wrote books that sold millions of copies, including seventy volumes of sermons.

Really, this kind of man makes me despair about my own feeble efforts to follow Christ, but this easy-to-read book offers insight into the key qualities that stood out in his life.  The book is intended to “encourage you and give you ideas you can put into practice as you fulfill your leadership responsibilities.”  Owning this book is kind of like having a portable mentor at your fingertips.

The second book, on the spiritual leadership of D.L. Moody, is equally inspiring.  Steve Miller did an admirable job of weaving together quotations and narrative to illustrate the leadership of this nineteenth century preacher.  (Moody also founded Moody Bible Institute.) 

Now, although I graduated from Bible College and sat through more than my fair share of theology classes (and even one semester of Greek), I tend to shy away from “spiritual” books.  I know.  I feel a great deal of guilt over this glaring shortcoming–after all, I’m a pastor’s wife!  I should love theology and its relatives!

I make that confession to say that I liked these books.  I really did.  I hope that one day soon, my boys will read them and be inspired by these men of God who devoted their lives to serving God by serving people. 

(And Steve Miller is an eminently readable writer.  I hope he has more of these books on spiritual leadership up his sleeve.) 

The little things thrill me.  For instance, at our town-wide garage sale this weekend, I bought a new Olympus camera to replace the one I dropped while on vacation at the lake.  Five bucks.  I purchased a daybed with a beautiful wooden frame for my son, who requested a downsize from his queen-sized bed.  Twenty-five bucks.  When I ran into a friend, she asked me, “So, what are you looking for today?”  I said, “Bunkbeds, but I know I’ll never find them.” 

An hour later, my husband called me to tell me that Sandy had called with news of bunkbeds.  He relayed the bunkbed lady’s phone number to me.  I called, went and bought. . . and the lady actually loaded up the beds into her van and delivered it to my house!  One hundred bucks.  (And the set is gorgeous, solid oak.) 

Sunday, I assembled the top bed (it’s actually a loft bed and a free-standing bed that fits under the loft at a perpendicular angle, though we have arranged like a traditional bunkbed at the moment.)  I also put together the daybed and everyone’s delighted with their new sleeping quarters.

In other news, my almost-4-year old daughter has given up her naps, but instead, has a daily fit.  After her mid-day fit, she’s fine and dandy the rest of the day.  I, however, am frazzled.

Here we are, posing for the photo booth camera.  People say we look alike.  Do you think so?  She is hair-challenged and has fine, blond, ringlets.  Although you can’t tell, her eyes are blue and mine are brown.  Her daddy likes to say that we share the same personality, and he usually says this while she is whining and demanding and driving us stark raving mad.

That husband of mine, what a joker!

So, our car died.  A couple of months ago, a mechanic charged us about a thousand dollars to fix the starter and a sensor.  The mechanic assured me at the time that it was worth it to fix this 1993 vehicle because it only had 90,000 miles on it and was an otherwise great car.  (Meaning, other than the fact that it didn’t run, it was a great car.  Whatever.) 

A few days ago, while my husband drove, smoke wafted from the engine.  (Justifying his caution–remember when he insisted that I rent a car on August 1 to drive to Portland?  I thought that was a crazy expense.  He was right.  Our car was unreliable.)  The mechanic called me yesterday to let me know that the radiator had a leak (thus, smoke) but that the bigger issue was the cracked head gasket.  I laughed, actually chuckled, because I knew a blown head gasket was bad having owned a Chevy Blazer with the same problem years ago. 

I said, “How much?”

He said, “Fifty-four hundred.”

I said, “Ha ha ha ha!”  If I were the cursing type, I would have let loose a string of profanity at that point.

So, our only car now is a 1995 Chevy van, a super-big one that looks like a disco-dance floor on wheels.  It’s great to haul the kids around, but for daily driving and errands and such? 

I don’t even want to talk about it.

School begins in two weeks or so.  August 31 this year–the first time we’ve ever started before Labor Day.  I have this list of things in my head that I want to accomplish before school starts–crazy stuff like making a two-week menu and matching shopping list, painting and redecorating my boys’ room, organizing the spices, cleaning out the storage room, scrapbooking all the photos since 2002, solving the Mid-East crisis and of course, giving myself a pedicure.

Oh, and I get to buy school supplies!  I am overly fond of school supplies and always buy too many crayons and bottles of glue.  My love for school supplies is irrational and passionate.

Lastly, I have a free children’s ticket to see the movie “Cars.”  It expires August 31.  If you’d like it, leave a comment.  I’ll pick the winner in a random drawing.  Deadline:  tomorrow night, about this time.  (You can log onto www.hollywoodmoviemoney.com to find a participating theater.  Promo code 31104.)

I wish I had something coherent to say, but I just used up the last of my brain power writing about eating over on my other blog about my diet, The Amazing Shrinking Mom.  I also posted a few pictures, one taken this morning so you can see my new shorter hair.

Speaking of my new hair . . . the other day, my colorist was here to banish my roots with her magic highlights.  She kept remarking about my new short hair:  “That hair cut makes your face look so thin!”  I never bothered to mention that my weight loss of 36 pounds (so far) might have something to do with the appearance of my thinner face.  She really thought it was all because of my miracle haircut!

This afternoon, my husband was supposed to take the boys to a birthday party in Seattle.  (Tukwila, if you want to be picky.)  Then, alas, he remembered that a church leadership meeting was scheduled for tonight, so not only did I have to take the boys, I also had to bring my daughter.  (The party took place at one of those super-loud places where you buy tokens and play miniature golf and ride in go-karts and more!)

Everyone had fun (I will post a photo-booth strip of pictures tomorrow as proof!), but we were there from 5 p.m. until 9 p.m.!  Add travel time to that and you will understand why my brain is liquefied and why I have nothing to say here.  Don’t you just hate when the weekend vanishes before you get around to cleaning out the storage room?  Yeah, me, too.

The sun shone from behind clouds on the horizon as we left the pool at 8:00 p.m.  On the way home, my 3-year old daughter reached her hand toward her 8-year old brother, causing him to rebuke her:  “Stop it!”

She retaliated with a whiny shout.

A 13-year old in the backseat yelled out, “Hey, knock it off!”

I said, from behind the steering wheel, “PLEASE EVERYONE!  STOP!  I’m at the end of my rope!”  (You would be, too, if your ears were full to the brim with whiny pouts and indignant yells and endless taunts.)

The 8-year old said:  “What rope?”

The 13-year old said, “Mom’s rope.”

The other 13-year old said, “Mom doesn’t have a rope.”

The 8-year old says, “Who has a rope?”

The 3-year old screams, “I DON’T HAVE A ROPE!”

The 13-year old says, “Not you.  We’re talking about Mommy’s rope.”

The 8-year old, “Oh.  Mommy has a rope?”

Me:  “Please!  Stop!  Talking!”