Straight from the Horse's Mouth

800 children and only 40 childcare providers, whew. No wonder they only get one or two diaper changes a day. Pay close attention to the part about what happens to the children with Down syndrome. This is why we are saving Mallory and Peach.

Are You Really Prolife, Really?

I think most Christians would be quick to say that they are prolife, and to their credit for what that label is worth, they most likely are. But in our culture isn’t that label just a more positive way of saying anti-abortion, or perhaps pro-birth?

I am not writing today to argue the issue of choice. Nope, today I am thinking about what it means to be prolife. To me, being prolife means you “do things to give a person all the life to which he or she is entitled (C. Everette Koop)."

But the question is, who am I responsible to do this for? Certainly not just my own children... surely orphans are “entitled” to live as well... aren’t they? “Rescue those being led away to death; hold back those staggering toward slaughter.” Prov 24:11.

So here is my big question... why are so few Christian families adopting orphans? Is it just that they are blissfully unaware that there are languishing children out there desperate for a loving home? If so, news flash friends... there is a child waiting for you.

No, not a cute white American made newborn... other children await you. Children who are facing life in mental institutions... children with repairable medical issues who will eventually die if they are left untreated.

“Once our eyes are opened, we can't pretend we don't know what to do. God, who weighs our hearts and keeps our souls, knows what we know, and holds us responsible to act." Prov. 24:12

These are real people, real children living in orphanages, real children just like Kimani... waiting, waiting. How can you look at them and then turn away? Their pictures haunt me. I dream of going to get them.

Here are two very good reasons why you might not want to go rescue them; You do not have enough money or space for a(nother) child and You couldn’t handle a (special needs) child. Did you know those are the two biggest abortion reasons? Not enough resources and can’t handle a child. You don’t accept those excuses from pregnant women...

I attend a large church. I am part of a large Christian circle. There are very few families who have adopted orphans. I see so many perfect families around me. Happily married, middle-class parents with two or three darling home-made children. They say they are prolife and when it comes to voting against abortion rights, they are.

But what about when it comes to Anna?

Sold Out

Don’t you just hate it when you go to buy it, whatever it is that you really really wanted (like U2 tickets, or half-price Bobux leather baby shoes) and dang, there it is... the big SOLD OUT message. You can’t get one. Other people got theirs and you missed out.

Well, lately that is how I’ve been feeling about Kimani. She’s rare, she’s precious, and she’s beautiful. She’s practically a one-of-a-kind. She’s funny, and unique, and thought-provoking. She’s wild, and she’s mine. Mine all mine.

You may think you don’t want one but you’ve no idea what you’re missing out on. And if you did realize it, and did decide you wanted one, well na na... good luck. Unless you win the baby lottery you’d have to have about 750 kids before you get one like her.

Or you could head over to Reece’s Rainbow and snag one up before they’re all gone.

Holy Ho Ho Ho

Sorry to break the news to you but there is no Santa Claus, and no flying reindeer either. I’ll wait while you run for the tissue box. (And by the way, please don’t call the North Pole to tattle on me for this post... I don’t want coal in my stocking.)

My kids have been told from the beginning that there is no such thing as an all-knowing Santa Claus who sneaks into our house and leaves presents under our tree. They know that the guy in the mall is just that... a guy dressed up to represent another guy from long ago named Nicholas who gave away his wealth to those in need, particularly children. They know that Santa Claus is just a fun made up character who hands out candy canes from his throne in the mall. Before you lament my poor children for their scrooge of a mother, know this: it doesn’t matter that they know Santa isn’t real because apparently the Santa Claus myth is so deeply ingrained in our culture that my three year old does not even believe me when I remind him of the truth...

Jade and I were in the store a couple weeks ago playing with Thomas trains. He was having a wonderful time and got quite upset when I told him it was time to say goodbye to Thomas. He threw an all out, thrashing, screaming, waterworks fit right there in aisle 8 of A.C. Moore. I told him it was okay because he would be getting Thomas for Christmas in a few weeks, that “Momma Santa” would give it to him. “No he won’t,” he wailed, “He’s mean.” After a bit of back and forth about whether or not this particular train would be under the tree on Christmas morning I got terribly exasperated and shouted, “Jade, remember? I AM SANTA CLAUS! And I KNOW you are getting this for Christmas!” He looked at me through his tears and yelled back, “You are not Santa.” And so it went, with me tossing my dear child over my shoulder and heading for the door.

As you can see, we are not Santa sanitizers... I mean, his name does come up and we do tell the kids when they want something to put it in on their Christmas lists for Santa, wink wink. But we were very clear with them from the first time they saw the guy who he is and who he is not.



Christian parents get all weird on me when I say we don’t do the Santa hoax in our house... Really what harm is there in perpetuating the Santa Claus myth?

First of all it is a lie. A big lie. A big big big lie that gets bigger and more detailed as your kids grow in sophistication. And last I checked God still wasn’t into lying.

Second, it confers God’s characteristics... omniscience, the right to judge, supernatural abilities... onto a dead guy who through his unwavering generosity got sainted and made into a cultural icon. (And no, Santa is not an allegorical God and even if he were, the second commandment might be an issue ;-) It is also kind of hard to convince your children that the Jesus (they can’t see) part of Christmas is still true after they find out the Santa (they see everywhere) isn’t.

Next, it seriously detracts from the real meaning of Christmas. A visit from Santa becomes more important (and certainly more exciting) than the greatest birthday celebration of all.

And last... it goes against everything we teach our kids about strangers... Yes, Jade go hop on that strange guy’s lap and take candy from him... he’ll be sneaking into our house later this week...

So why do we do it and why do we get so upset when someone suggests that maybe we shouldn’t? That is not a rhetorical question... if you know the answer, tell me. Do you think Mary would have pulled the Santa lie on Jesus... “Guess what Jesus... you've been such a good boy that for your birthday this year, some made up magical guy in a red suit is going to fly in on a sleigh pulled by magical reindeer to drop off your birthday presents while you are sleeping... isn’t that nice?”


Get your own Jesus and Santa figurine.

The Joy of Boys

It is barely 7 a.m. and I am still sleepy. Gecko is eating breakfast in the kitchen, getting ready for school. Little Jade is in the living-room running around still in the buff...

Gecko, yelling loudly: “Hey Jade, if you play tag with your penis, it always wins! Because it is attached to you!”

Jade, yelling back just as loud: “My penis isn’t attacking me!”

Boys are such funny creatures, aren’t they? Do you think Mary ever had to deal with this hilarity?

If Jesus Were My Son

Or rather what if Mary had a baby with Down syndrome... would she have asked her son Jesus to take away it away?

I’ve already said what I would do if given the choice but I wonder what would Mary do? She didn’t mind asking him for a little wine to get him started on his long train of miracles... And what’s a bit of wine compared to an extra chromosome?

Jesus cured a lot of things. Some of them were probably congenital defects. Nobody brought a person with Down syndrome to Jesus for healing. Were there no children with Down syndrome around? Was in not considered something that needed fixing?

In Mark chapter 8, a few verses after Jesus heals a blind man, he has this to say, “For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? Or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?” What would I gain if Kimani’s Ds was gone? What would she gain? What might she lose?

I am thinking that Mary would not have asked Jesus for this “miracle” because... well... wine isn’t very life-changing. I am sure that throughout her time with Jesus there were probably many, say more meaningful, things she could have asked him for. Surely she knew people who were dealing with sickness, or infertility, or some other life-altering sorrow but when it came down to it, she asked for wine at a wedding.

Wine? Really? Come on... this was his MOM, she had an IN...

But maybe she already knew that her son’s miracles were more about lessons to be learned and majesty to be shown than “normalcy” to be gained.

Maybe I am wrong about Mary. Maybe I don’t really have a clue what she would do. Maybe I should head over to Seedlings In Stone and leave a comment so I can win the book she’s giving away this week, The Real Mary by Scot McKnight.

Umm, Yum Yum Yum

I like to watch my children eat. Not candy or cake, no not sticky or dried-up things.

I like to watch them eat strawberries, watermelon, and icy popsicles. Their little bodies maneuvering however necessary to get a tasty chunk captured and stuffed into place. The juice dripping over lips and down chins. Their eyes lighting up, perhaps fueled with the frenetic energy generated by their taste buds.



I feel great pleasure as I watch.

Sometimes it is a guilty pleasure as I can’t help but think how many children in the world have hardly even a bowl of rice to eat each day while my children eat fresh fruits, vegetables, and treats.



Sometimes it is a confused pleasure as I wonder why I am obsessed with watching them as they devour morsels of egg salad sandwiches and spoonfuls of peanut butter. There is always a bit of the food that gets waylaid and ends up decorating their faces like some artist’s masterpiece. I don’t remind them to wipe it off.

Sometimes it is a horrified pleasure as I watch them use two hands to speed up the process, and elbows to protect their treasure from one another, like junkies.



When my oldest son was just three he used words like delicious, scrumptious, delectable, succulent, tasty, and luscious, and of course, yummy. It became a bit of a game coming up with a string of adjectives whenever he ate something enjoyable.



I think the draw for me might be because my children like to eat. They don’t worry about getting food on their fingers or chins. They aren’t distracted by making meal time conversation. They don’t feel compelled to avoid choosing the biggest berry out of politeness. They aren’t trained yet to eat the things they like the least first.



I realize I am making them sound a bit like wild dogs pouncing greedily on their prey but... Well, maybe so. Maybe it is the naturalness of it that I am so enthralled by.


Picture credit... I don't know who the artist is but my friend Dan bought this painting. I'll bet his wife is thrilled.

Triple Play Date

Our playgroup, Triple Play, got together for lunch last week. Getting five little ones to all look the same way and smile while five mommies are trying for that perfect shot is a tough. (Where is Artist Anaa when you need her?)

We took the kids to the store today and I realized that I am still watching people watch her. I wonder what they see. I am so crazy about her and I see so many children with Down syndrome all the time now that I no longer see it. I only see them.

Then I take her out. You would think babies have magnets instead of poop in their diapers or something. People just gravitate to her carseat and stare. Surely it is because she is so darn cute.

So let's just suppose Mary had a baby with ds. She, Jesus, and the rest of the gang are wheeling the baby around the market square and over come the "lookers". Does a popular tune run through Mary's mind, "Don't you wish your baby was cute like mine?" Does she ignore them? Does she speak up, "What the Sheol are you staring at?" What would Mary do?

Exactly What They Were Staring At:

Scraps of the Good Life

I arrange photos of my busy children on the 12 by 12 inch patterned paper. Then I rearrange them, wanting to get it just right. It is not a birthday or holiday layout, just an ordinary moment in the backyard. Two boys playing in the dirt pile. I stare into their happy faces and try to think up a catchy page title.

And then it hits me. There is no picture of the older child pushing the younger one face first down the pile. There is no record of the little guy’s muddy face and his frightened, angry screams. There is also no picture of the little one throwing a Tonka truck down the hill into the bigger child’s back. Nothing to remind anyone of how that boy fell over screeching “mama, mama, he hit me.” I’m not scrapping the ugly stuff.

In my defense, it would probably be poor parenting to run for the camera, instead of a washcloth, when your howling two-year-old’s face is caked with dirt. So there really aren’t any pictures of the bad times. But, I didn’t mention it in my page journaling either. Hmmm, I pull out a stack of scrapbooks and flip through them with new vision. I am struck by my lies of omission.

I am recreating their childhood. I am memorializing the parts I am pleased with. I am embellishing the pages and their memories. I am showing them what to keep and hoping that they will forget the trucks to the back, especially the ones I have thrown (put the phone down, it's a metaphor). I take a moment to contemplate this, wondering if it is a bad thing or not.

My nearly pictureless childhood weighs in on the matter. There was so much dirt in my face. Suddenly a great lie of a page title pops into my head, A Little Dirt Never Hurt. Pushing my sad thoughts away, I reach for my die cutting machine.



p.s. Billy has been thinking about memories too. Turns out there is a new name for my style of scrapbooking... propranolol.

What's She Worth?

There I was sitting on the couch, crying, and wondering aloud to my husband whether we should decorate the nursery with bedding previously used by our other children or buy new for this baby... our last baby. Up until the prior week there had been no doubt in my mind. Our little caboose would have a sage and chocolate colored, organic cotton crib set with matching curtains and a mobile too. But now that we knew there was an 80 percent chance of Down syndrome, the question lurked about in my mind.

At the time I didn’t realize that I was actually questioning the value of a “defective” child. 90 percent of children with Down syndrome don’t make it out of the womb alive because their parents answered no to a question about value much more significant than if new bedding was in order. Ah, but still, I am just as guilty of misjudging my child’s worth because the underlying belief was the same.

I am angry that I ever considered such a thing. I had forgotten that God created this child for His own purpose and glory (not mine), forgotten that God himself was weaving this child together in my womb. And, I had forgotten the gentle admonition that this child has its own angel in heaven who always sees the face of God (and can probably see what’s in the nursery too...)

Who am I to tell God that His work is flawed? He sees this child in ways I will never be able to. Perhaps the Holy Spirit lives in this child in a special way that I will never experience or comprehend. God knew then, while we were on the couch, that it was a girl and that she would be a great teacher. He knew then that He already loved her as much as He loves me... or you. If the King of Kings sent His own son to die for her, surely I could buy her a new layette.

So what is she worth? Everything.



(Isaiah 43:7, Psalms 139:13, Matthew 10:18)

Pink Frilly Underpants

The young green-eyed boy reaches out for his mother, who is sitting on the thread-worn couch and not in the mood for hugging. She lifts an arm to block his advance. Not right now. She is tired and her afternoon show is coming on. Today the world will find out if Hansen really is baby Amelia’s father. This can’t be missed.

“Go finish your lunch,” she instructs him pointing to an open Ramen noodle cup sitting spoon-less on the edge of the coffee table. He is insistent and pushes back toward her. “Love you mommy,” he says, ending with a high note that turns this proclamation into a request.

Familiar music plays on the television set announcing the start of today’s episode. The mother leans forward, edging around the boy, and squashes her cigarette down into the crowded green glass ashtray where it continues to smoke for a few more seconds. Her eyes are fixed on the handsome dark-haired man who has just stormed into the camera’s eye. The child pulls at her sweatshirt sleeve, “Can I have a drink?” The mother does not hear him anymore and does not answer. Louder now, “Mommy, I‘m thirsty!”

A beautiful woman is leaning against a high-backed gold upholstered chair in an elegant t.v. livingroom. There are tears welling up in her mascara-ringed eyes. Her right hand is covering her mouth as if some great big secret is trying to escape. Handsome Hansen is watching her intently and asking something very important.

“Maaah...meee” The mother turns toward her whining child just long enough to shout, “What is the problem? Eat your freakin’ lunch. I am trying to watch this.” The chastised child holds still and quiet. His lip trembles as he sizes up the moment.

“Hansen, there is something I have to tell you...” the honeyed t.v. voice says and then pauses.

The child tries to climb up onto his mother’s lap. He is crying now. The television scene jumps to a dishwashing soap commercial and suddenly he has his mother’s full attention. She takes him by his arms and gives him a shake, “What is wrong with you? What are you bawling about? Do I need to buy you a pair of pink frilly underpants?”



I know this mother. If you ever questioned her love for her children, she would probably attack you, physically, really. So I wonder, can love still be love when it isn’t 1 Cor 13 love?

WWMD? (Introduction)

Remember a while back when the WWJD fad was everywhere... tee-shirts, pens, hats, bumper stickers? Well, while I do wonder what Jesus would do in certain situations, I find myself more often wondering what his mother did, say when he did the equivalent of flushing her cell phone down the toilet.

There is the off chance that when the Angel came down and announced to Mary that she would be the mother of God, she may have negotiated a bit, "Um, okay, tell God that I agree to be the vessel provided He gives me divine parenting skills so that I never lose my patience and spank the Lord of Heaven and Earth." But I doubt it. Seeing how she was a still teenager and had no children yet, Mary had no idea that she needed to secure this type of deal.

Oh, I can hear you reminding me that Jesus was perfect and probably potty-trained himself when he was 8 months old. However, let's not forget he had plenty of siblings (Matt. 13:55-56). They were not perfect. They probably did all the same things my little dears do.

Did Mary ever scream at the top of her lungs, "Use your inside voice!" Did she ever swat a little bottom while admonishing, "Don't hit your brother!" What DID she do when young James bit a chunk out of Simon's leg? I don't know but I will be contemplating the possibilities here and there in this blog.

I do know that it would be nice if Pampers would print a WWMD? logo on the back of their Cruisers diapers... a deterrent for me as I am swooping in for the whackeroo.