Monday, April 8, 2013

Wall Winter Fun


We decided to try our luck with homemade snow ice cream during this last big snow.  My kiddos love the snow, love to cook, and most of all love ice cream, so this was right up their alley.  I'd recommend to any family plagued by cabin fever and just looking for some plain old, easy fun.   

SNOW ICE CREAM

Approx 8 cups of snow
2 eggs
4 cups of milk
2 cups of sugar
2-3 teaspoons of vanilla
We played around with the ingredients as we mixed and added more to suit our taste.  

HOW TO

In a giant bowl whisk two eggs until bubbly.  Add your milk and continue to whisk away!  Make some bubbles!  Add your vanilla and...WHISK!  Then add your 2c of sugar and keep on a'whiskin'!  Now comes the fun part.  Start adding big heaps of snow.  Our whisk didn't do the trick, so we broke out the potato masher.  Watching the transformation was super fun, and the best part, eating it of course!  We added sprinkles, of course.  No ice cream is complete without sprinkles!  Hope you try this on your next snow day.  It makes for great memories with the kids!























Friday, February 22, 2013

That Nine Year Itch

Originally, I was going to just do a status, but I thought, what the hell?  I don't get to my blog often enough, so I'll just put 'er there.  So, here I am.  

It's been nine years today.  Nine years ago my whole world was shot down; changed for ever and ever and ever...

Mostly, I miss his calm presence; his reassurance.  Him.  The security he provided in my life.  I feel, at times, lost.  My past is gone.  My parent's have gone.  Every year I think that I can't believe it's been this many years since I've seen his face, or hugged his round belly, or cried to him (hyperventilated).  He always had the paper bags handy.  Maybe David should get some paper bags.  God, I miss him so; to the very depths of my soul--the innermost part of my heart.  I could never convey into words or text how badly I want him here with me.  I just do.  We are selfish humans.  Don't say to me that I'll see him again one day, those words don't help me right now; they bring me no comfort.

He told me to write.  Write something, somewhere at some point and time --I don't care where, just do it.  So, I do.  Mostly about him.  If he only knew that.  My paper thoughts are almost always of him.  

K-


Wednesday, October 10, 2012

It's exhausting trying to be brave all the time.






“Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you like hell.”

― Edna St. Vincent Millay

Sometimes it surprises me how many times a day I think of them. Never a day goes by that I don't, and not just once, so many times a day. The pain, it never goes away, I don't care what people say. You just learn how to live a new life without them because you have no other choice. You have to build an almost impenetrable tough skin just to survive. If you don't, that hurt could kill you. Sometimes I feel like I'm dying anyway. Others, they don't understand, so you just try and keep it to yourself. You don't want pity, you just want back what you've lost. I know everyone loses someone; I know that, but why did so much get taken? Why did they all have to go? I have so much, I know that. I'm grateful for the people and things I've been blessed with, but all through my life there is and will be a huge aching gap that will never go away. So many things I want them to see and experience with me. I want to feel the hugs, I want to hear them say, "Kris, I'm so proud of you," again. I want to hear their laughs, hold their hands and just have my life back with them. I want them to meet my kids. I just want it all back.

Monday, August 20, 2012

I promise...I won't ever let them take your fire.


My only son was born on New Years Day of 2006.  It was a great day.  Ryder Davis Wall was six weeks early, but big, strong and beautiful.  He was the Hulk baby in the NICU.  He immediately pulled the oxygen tubes off of his face.  My boy was born feisty and ready to take on this world, and nothing has changed.  I've always said that when they let me go home with Ryder, they should have sent me home with a lifetime supply of Xanax.  I remember when he was just two years old, sitting on the floor crying, surrendering to him.  

It's safe to say Ryder has always been work.  He was a high maintenance baby, and when his
feet hit the floor, they hit the floor running.  It's been six years, and I'm still chasing him.  He never shuts up; he interrupts incessantly just like his father; he can be high strung; he chews with his mouth open; he jumps off couches; he runs in circles; he hits his sisters; he fights with me about clothes; he has awful aim in the bathroom; he is loud; he is a show-off; he is obnoxious; he is greedy; and he throws fits (yes, sometimes even kicking the floor).  It's impossible to get him to focus unless it's something he is truly interested in; he argues with me constantly; he could stare at the TV for days; he decides what food he doesn't like based on what he doesn't feel like eating on any given day; he has the most hideous cry-face; he embarrasses me in front of my friends and family, and he puts more holes in clothes than Swiss cheese has.

But...






He has the best belly laugh--it's practically music.  He tells me he loves me all the time, and when nobody is looking (and sometimes when people are), he kisses me.  The first thing he does when he wakes up and finds me getting ready for work is to wrap his arms around me or plop onto my lap.  He hugs me so hard he knocks me over.  I love to listen to him read books and sound out the words; it's like listening to him figure out the world one word at a time.  Someday, he wants to be a "worker man" building houses for people who don't have one.  He has perfect red lips and a smile that will light up your world if you just let it. 

He is funny...so, so funny.  He loves to cook.  He is amazing with babies and adores his cat and dogs.  Even though he doesn't like his sisters most days, he will tell you one of his favorite things to do is to spend time with his family.  He swings a bat like a boy who eats Wheaties everyday.  He understands more about Heaven than any little boy should because he has people he loves there, and although he misses them, he knows he will see them again one day.  He is smart; smarter than people give him credit for and smarter than most people realize.  Even when he is mean to a friend, he knows that it's wrong and will say so later. 

Out of my three children, he is the most sensitive about what people think of him.  He is scared others will make fun of his clothes or hair.  He is frightened of making a mistake during sports and hates public performances for fear of messing up in front of others.  He gets embarrassed very easily; it's heartbreaking because you can see it in his eyes.  Most people don't know these things about him, because they don't look past the rambunctious, loud boy.  

I've bitten my tongue when I've been told medicine might benefit my child, but lately I've been feeling so defeated as a mother that I decided to do some research, some soul searching, and to get some opinions of a couple people I trust most.  I've never even more than glanced down that road before.  It is my personal belief that too many children are falsely medicated because either the parents have lost control (or never had it to begin with), or are lazy and don't want to face raising anything more than a zombie-child.  It is an easy out, and it makes it very difficult for the children who truly need that sort of care to be recognized and treated properly.  However, I don't want to shortchange my child.  If my stubbornness on the issue hinders being open to something that might benefit him, then maybe I need to step out of the box, out of my comfort zone, and do my homework.  




I started to research the difference and common confusion between being "all boy" and having an actual medical problem.  Twenty percent of American school-aged children are now on behavioral medications and nearly one million children per year are misdiagnosed with ADD/ADHD.  If I had listened to a few people who thought they knew my son better than I did, he would be one of those children.  Most of Ryder's problems are in school, but like some studies say, humans were not meant to sit in a classroom for eight hours a day being told what to be interested in. I

I love this paragraph out of the article: ADHD and School: The Problem of Assessing Normalcy in an Abnormal Environment:

"From my evolutionary perspective, it is not at all surprising that many children fail to adapt to the school environment, in ways that lead to the ADHD diagnosis. All normal children have at least some difficulty adapting to school. It is not natural for children (or anyone else, for that matter) to spend so much time sitting, so much time ignoring their own real questions and interests, so much time doing precisely what they are told to do. We humans are highly adaptable, but we are not infinitely adaptable. It is possible to push an environment so far out of the bounds of normality that many of our members just can't abide by it, and that is what we have done with schools. It is not surprising to me that the rate of diagnosis of ADHD began to skyrocket during the same decade (the 1990s) when schools became even more restrictive than they had been before--when high-stakes testing became prominent, when recesses were dropped, when teachers were told that they must teach to the standardized tests and everyone must pass or the teachers themselves might lose their jobs."

I'm writing this because I need to tell Ryder I'm sorry.



Ryder, I'm sorry because I doubted you.  I'm sorry because I've questioned whether I should try to calm who you are as not only a child, but as a person.  Anything negative you do is a direct result of my parenting and the result of us learning together.  You being you is NOT a negative thing.  I love you.  I should have listened more to the people that believed in you and to my own heart and less to those that were intolerant of your boisterous personality and never-ending curiosity; those people either don't have kids, don't have boys, or have boys that are girly-men. 

I've had so many people tell me the wonderful things you will do with your life because you are who you are, but I've been so focused on worrying if you were good for your teachers, if you used your manners, and if you acted like I thought a six year old boy should--a six year old boy that wouldn't embarrass me...that I just missed it.  I've been so worried about the people in your life that you drive a little crazy, to truly appreciate what the people who love you for YOU and see you for YOU think.  I should have been your advocate.  I should have spoken up for you more when I saw people treat you differently.  It took a  very wonderful aunt of yours just today to tell me, "No, don't let them take his fire."  I promise I won't.  I never ever will.  I promise to never again try to turn you into something you're not.  I love you so much, and I will not let them take your fire. 




Thursday, December 24, 2009

Merrry Christmas From Heaven


Something I read each year at Christmas:


Merry Christmas From Heaven

I still hear the songs
I still see the lights
I still feel your love
on cold wintery nights

I still share your hopes
and all of your cares
I'll even remind you
to please say your prayers

I just want to tell you
you still make me proud
You stand head and shoulders
above all the crowd

Keep trying each moment
to stay in His grace
I came here before you
to help set your place

You don't have to be perfect
all of the time
He forgives you the slip
If you continue the climb

To my family and friends
Please be thankful today
I'm still close beside you
In a new special way

I love you all dearly
Now don't shed a tear
cause I'm spending my
Christmas with Jesus this year

I miss you so very much Mom and Dad and this Christmas has such an emptiness without the joy that you both brought to this holiday. Once upon a time Mom, you decorated your house in Santa's year-round. I can't say I miss that, but I do miss you. Although I have to feel the loneliness and sadness of being without you this Christmas, I do find comfort in knowing you are spending your Christmas with each other and Jesus this year. I pray that you are so very happy. I think of you everyday, every hour, some day's every minute. Thank you so much for making all the Christmas's you were here for so memorable and beautiful for me. The memories with be with me until the day I see you again, and for now, that will be enough. Love you more than you know, Kris.

Thursday, October 15, 2009

I Fell Off The Burp Cloth Wagon





First let me recap the past few days. 3 days ago I decided out of the blue to test Sawyer. I put her down for bed to see how long she would cry for her beloved burp cloth aka burpee. As I closed the door I heard her cry, "bee-bee
Mom, bee bee." I was fully prepared to run in there and save the day and give her one, but her cries only lasted about a minute. So, I went to bed-but first I set out a burpee in my room to grab when I heard her middle-of-the-night cries for it. They, my friends, did not come. It was then that I realized I wanted her to have this fixation. She holds onto her cloth, intertwines her fingers within it just so, then puts her right thumb in her mouth. To me, it is the cutest thing; it may not be in 5 years, but right now it just really is. I don't know if it's proof that she still "needs" something which means she still "needs" me. I didn't know it would hurt this much. Moving on with my story, the next morning I heard her cries letting me know she was awake. "MOM, I unt out!" over and over...I proceeded to go into her room to get her dressed. When I took her out of her crib she cried, "bee-bee!" over and over...she threw herself a nice sized fit and I waited it out thinking her behavior wouldn't get any better and eventually I would give in and give her the darn thing. I was counting on that. Surprisingly, for the next two days she didn't mention it. Today, however was a different story. Today was a set back. She, er, I, fell off the wagon. I was in the living room folding laundry, I had 3 basketful's sitting around me and I was elbow deep into my folding when I came across one of my, er, her, safety nets, security blankets, lovies...burpees. I hesitated; should I bury it quickly so she doesn't have time to see it? Should I act as if nothing has happened and just go about folding and see if she notices? I sat there pondering my decision, knowing that it could directly affect the next several months or years of our lives. On one hand, it would be great to not have to make sure we have burpee's every time we leave the house, but on the other hand, it's so sweet, it makes her, well...babyish. Not that I want another baby - Hell no. It's not even that I want her to stay little. I don't know what it is, that's the problem. I never envisioned myself being one of those types to coddle the "baby" of the family. So, to end, I'm ashamed to admit my behavior, but I'll tell it all the same. I laid it carefully on top of a basket, called her over and asked her for a kiss. She runs over, kisses me, looks down, sees "it", hesitates, exclaims "BEE-BEE" like she'd found a long lost friend, picks it up, laces her fingers within it and pops that thumb in her mouth. Ahhh...relief, more for me than her, I'm sure, but relief all the same. I may regret this decision a couple years, but for now, I'm going to let her take all the time she needs (I need) and when we're both ready, we'll go about the journey and recovery together.

Sunday, May 24, 2009

The Man With Half A Face

So, there's this man. I see him almost every Sunday in church. He usually makes his way in after I'm already seated, but almost always sits where I can directly see him, his profile anyway...the part that matters. His face is never hidden behind people. This man is always in plain view to me. He's always in front of me, but to the side. Although he sits in different spots every Sunday...it's always the same. I look...stare actually, my heart swells, my eyes smile, then I reprimand myself for letting myself go there, at which point my eyes burn, and my stomach turns. I don't want to get caught, surely that would make me seem insane, I just want to look, to take it all in...to let myself pretend, if just for a moment. I know it's not healthy, it hurts, but in some sick way it makes him feel closer too. It's bittersweet, to stare at this man. I wonder what he would do if one day I raised my hand and touched his face, or wrapped my arms around him and laid my head on his chest. The differences are subtle, subtle enough that if I purposely blur my vision when I'm looking I wouldn't be able to tell the difference, that is, if I didn't know the difference. His hair is the same color, but straight. The cut and length are the same. His skin, a little less weathered and whiter than it should be. His nose, HA...his nose. When he smiles or laughs, I smile, because it's a smile I know, although when I knew it, it wasn't this man that was wearing it. The resemblance is uncanny. And I know each time I'm staring at him, the person I'm imagining him to be, is probably staring at me, shaking his head, telling me to invest in a good shrink. But to him I say, "I know Dad...I know I'm crazy, but I really do wish it were you."