No camera = no pictures

I'm officially living up to my claim to fame as the world's worst photojournalist. I drove 20 hours with 6 kids from Michigan to Florida without a camera. I decided the big, bulky, fancy camera wasn't worth the work of hauling it and the charger for the little 'throw it in my purse and we're good to go' camera was no where to be found.
We're having a great time, but there are so many photo opportunities that I am missing.
Like, the mansion atop the mountains in Tennessee...
the many creepy, crawly things that we've seen in the "jungle yard" that we help to clear out...
the fantastic mini pool (only 1.5 feet deep and perfect for our Littles) at the hotel...
and of course the awesomeness that we will witness at LegoLand tomorrow...

I'll just have to pray that my children make enough memories to make up for Mom's lack of pictures.

Parks are for kids... aren't they?

I used to think that a swing set was a sign of a friendly place for kids... but, apparently, I was wrong. Dead wrong.

Awhile back, just as the weather was getting really nice here in Michigan and we were having some balmy spring days, I decided to walk the kids to the park. It's about 6 blocks from our house. I pulled the littles in the wagon and the bigger boys rode their bikes. It wasn't the nicest park, but it was alright. It had a slide and swings and monkey bars; a good spot for boys to run off some energy. There was no one else there, except for a police car parked in the road. I didn't pay much attention, but enjoyed being outdoors while the boys ran and played. When they were hot and thirsty, we headed home.

Later that week, I mentioned that we had walked up to the park.

"What park are you talking about?" the local ladies said.
"Oh, you turn left out of our drive and then a left at the corner and you go straight about five more blocks..." I explained.
"Oh, you can't go there," one lady said and others shook their heads. "People get shot there."
WHAT!?

Now, I believed them and haven't been to that park since. The ladies also explained that the police officer was probably wondering what in the world I was doing there.
Last week, two people were shot in that area - not in the park, but nearby - in two separate and supposedly unrelated incidents. In one case, the shooter was found right away and it is believed that he had a "grudge" against the victim. In the other, the shooter is still at large and his motives are unknown.

This stuff freaks me out. I told my husband that I want to go live on a farm in the U.P. He says that people get shot there too. But, I can understand that kind of shooting. It happens accidentally when someone mistakes you for food. I know how to be safe in that environment - it's called shockingly bright orange clothing. Also, you don't go in the woods during hunting season and never let your children wear those little antlers that Walmart sells at Christmas time. I understand how to be safe in that world.

But, this other kind of shooting - the I just don't like you and think you should die kind - I don't get it. I hope I never get it. I pray that it never makes sense to me. I don't know how to protect myself in that world, and I wouldn't know how to teach my kids to be safe there.

As our vicarage comes to an end and we start to think about filling out paperwork for a call - we talk a lot about where we might want to live.  I don't want to live in a place where I have to wonder if the local parks are for kids or if they belong to a gang or a drug dealer. How do you put that into those questionnaires?

Something's missing

Two of my little boys were fighting today, and I was about to admonish them when I thought of something that Gramma would say. It was what she always said when we were naughty and our mother admonished us. She would say, "Let them be. They're not hurting anything." 

I let them be, and then I cried. It's probably because I'm pregnant... well, okay, I know it's because I'm pregnant. But, it's not just because of hormones; it's because of what is missing this time. I wanted so badly to call her and talk about life in the "seven club".

My grandmother had seven children. I am pregnant with my seventh child.

When I was pregnant with my first, I called her. I had all sorts of questions, like "you had seven kids, how did you do this and that and the other thing?" She had buried two of her children before I was even old enough to think about having any. I asked her how she survived. She told me that she missed them, but she knew where they were. I've never known such a faith as hers.

She had two girls and five boys.
I had two girls first. Over the years, I turned to her for advice and guidance. She always gave me faith and wisdom. She knew so much more than I could ever imagine knowing. Even now. Which is why I need her so much.

When I had four: two girls and two boys, I called her. We talked about the differences in boys and girls. She told me that girls will hold a grudge for weeks, but boys will be over it in one fist fight. She was right.

Now, that I have two girls and four boys, I wonder if I will have another boy and my count will match hers. I wonder if she would be proud of me for the way my kids are growing up. She'd have never said if she wasn't, but I wonder just the same.

I want to ask her about life with seven kids. What's it like?
I want to ask her about raising a multitude of boys.
There are so many things I want to ask, but she is gone. I miss her, and I know where she is, and thanks to her amazing faith, I know that we will be together again. But, now, in this earthly life, I have so many unanswered questions. I miss her, and all I can do is cry.