Tag Archives: mother



I miss my Mommy.

Ok, I know I’m a grown woman with children of my own, but when I’m sick, I really miss my own mom.  Fortunately I don’t get sick very often.  And when I do, I’m one of those people who doesn’t notice that they’re sick until they’re nearly dead.  Doctors hate people like me.

“So how long have you been feeling this way?”

“What way?  Oh THAT!  Ummm, I can’t remember how long that’s been going on.  Maybe a week, maybe a month?”

When it comes to my own health, I’m very dismissive.  I seriously use the advice, “just drink a glass of water” for nearly every complaint known to man-kind.  Someday they will discover that water cures cancer, I’m sure of it.  My kids hate it when I say that.

“Mom, I almost cut my finger off with a rusty piece of metal I found in the street.”

“Oh you’ll be fine, just drink a glass of water.”

Last summer I was so sick.  I don’t remember when I started feeling sick, but I do know that we had a team here.  That means I’m pulled in a million different directions all day, every day for 10-12 days.  I am the back up system.  I run errands, drive secondary vehicles, make meals, manage the logistics of moving people and equipment around.  I am “there for” my kids by maintaining their daily routines as much as possible.  I am “there for” my husband like the best personal assistant a missionary could ask for.  I am “there for” the team, always ready to handle any emergency and crisis… just please don’t ask me to preach in Spanish on the spur of the moment when the preacher doesn’t show.  I’ll flat out say NO!  So being sick during team season put a huge wrench in our well oiled machine.

I was out of commission.  Josh would call and ask me to bring something out to so-and-so for the such and such event.  I would drag myself out off of my death bed, run the errand, and collapse.  Finally at day 7 of vomiting and the “other stuff”, body aches and fever, I went to the doctor.

She googled my symptoms… guess that’s why we pay her the big bucks, she has internet.  And she concluded that I either had Dengue Fever or Rotivirus.  She send me to the lab.  After waiting until I had feverishly sweated through the vinyl couch I was sitting on, I was called into the cubicle to give my blood samples.  I was too dehydrated.  They poked and prodded my veins until I was black and blue… no exaggeration.  I looked like I had been mauled by a vampire.  But they finally got a vial’s worth out of me and sent me home.  I stopped in the bathroom on my way out and threw up again, just for revenge.

Two days later, I woke up perfectly fine.  Very weak, but not sick anymore.  I called the doctor to tell her “never mind” about the hideous tropical virus thingy, I was going to pull through.

I was fine.  But I missed my mom so badly when I was sick.  I wasn’t sure if I just wanted someone to take care of my children and make them meals while I lay sick in bed, or if I really needed someone to lovingly cool my forehead with a wet wash cloth and bring me another glass of water.  I don’t know, but moms have that magic touch and just having your mom near you makes everything that much better.  Now I am the magical mommy that kisses away boo-boos and owies and cools fevered brows.  I am the mommy with the magic touch.

Just because I felt like this guy… “I don’t want to go on the cart!  I’m not dead yet.”  Monty Python and the Search for the Holy Grail:  Bring out yer dead!

Mothers’ Day in Costa Rica


Today is Mothers’ Day in Costa Rica.  We’ve lived in 3 different countries with 3 different dates for Mothers’ Day, so I think I should get 3 presents one on each holiday!  What do you think?

Today, in honor of Costa Rican Mothers’ Day, I’m going to post a tribute to my mother.

This is the last family picture we have from when we came back to Minnesota for Christmas last year.

Seventeen and pregnant, that’s a common story now days.  But in 1974 it meant you felt the full weight of your decisions.  You wouldn’t graduate with your high school class. You wouldn’t wear a white wedding dress or be married in a church.  No college for you.  Your future darkened with ominous storm clouds.  Your family would be furious with you and zealous for their reputation.  Did you wonder how they would react, or did you already know?

You heard whispers behind your back.  Did someone suggest an abortion?  That would have been an easy out.  How would that decision impact the future?  You couldn’t know.  Making the tough choice for ME required sacrifices for YOU.  The ripples of your decision to keep me still flow outward from that point in 1974.  Taylor, Emma and Lucy.

What kind of jobs could teenage parents get in 1974, you would soon find out.  You couldn’t make enough money to pay the bills.  After their anger cooled, your parents set you guys up in a starter home.  Pulling the cord to start the engine of adult life required several good yanks.  But soon that engine purred and the two of you began to move along the up-and-down road of life.  There were joys.  There were tears.  There were stubborn refusals to thrown in the towel and quit.  There were straight spines and stiff upper lips.  There was happiness and laughter.  Two became Three.

A blue-eyed baby was born into the world of 8-track stereos and bell bottom jeans, Chef Boyardee and Pontiacs without seat belts.  My memories are like sunbeams with particles of dust floating through them.  Dusty and vague, cheery and warm.

None of your friends had kids yet, but you took me along with you anyways.  I remember falling asleep in a pile of coats in the corner while adult conversations drifted from the table.  I remember your 21st birthday.  I remember what gifts we gave you.   I remember camping and canoeing, bike rides to the public library, picnics on a blanket under the trees, the kiddie pool in the back yard.  I remember Rocket Park and Brown-Zipper-Buckle-Boots.  I remember late nights sleeping in the back of the car, waiting to pick up Dad after work.  “Why do birds suddenly appear” and “Rain drops keep falling on my head”.  I remember footie pajamas sliding on vinyl seats.  I remember you playing Winnie-the-Pooh on the piano for me.  I remember your soft humming voice in contrast to Dad’s rowdy, roaring, chasing voice.  I remember you.

When I held MY first baby, suddenly I knew you.  I heard your echo in my soul, and I understood you for the first time.  I cried.  Thank you for my life.  I love you Mom!

My Parents now.

Guest Blogger and Investigative Mother Jodi Abbott: Gross.


Yes, this is actually the photo she sent to me. My options were a photo of her, of poop, or of a llama.

My Guest Blogger today is a long time friend (in real life) and someone guaranteed to make me laugh every morning when I read her Facebook status updates… no pressure, Jodi, no pressure.  But get ready to giggle at this story.

Gross.  I’ve learned in my 10+ years being a mom, that gross to one isn’t necessarily gross to all.  My son, Sam, who is almost 11, cannot stand cleaning off dishes after supper…the thought of rinsing and loading them into the dishwasher….his little eyes get red-rimmed and the gagging noises start deep inside him…to him, that’s gross.

To my daughters, nothing is too gross.  Smushed earthworms, picked boogers that resemble smushed earthworms…nothing.

But to me, “gross” are the questions that have to be asked all too often: 

“Poop or chocolate?”  “Poop or CHOCOLATE?”  “POOP OR CHOCOLATE???”

“Why is my baby crawling on the floor at church, chewing on….chewing on someone’s used piece of floss??”

“Where did you stick that q-tip to make it that brown?”

“What do you mean, your head has been itching for days??”

“What do you mean, your tummy was upset, but you’re all better now….and why are you in my bed?”

“How did you find out the cat doesn’t like to be touched there?”

The questions could go on and on…every day it seems as if I’m astounded at how gross my children can be…or maybe how sanitary I’ve become?  My husband is, luckily, the one with the steel stomach.  He can smell the vomit erupting and have his hands ready for the catch.  I, on the other hand, find myself in another room, dry heaving and mad because it’s quite possible I’ll now have TWO areas of vomit to clean up.

The grossest gross for me would be after the birth of my third child, Suzannah.  She was born on a weekend so I had Sunday morning, in the hospital, to be with just her and not one visitor, cause they were all at church listening to my husband preach.  I decided that I would give Suzannah her first bath.  I got all the stuff ready…shampoo, clean towels, new outfit, little socks.  I got the water all nice and warm, got her completely undressed…and just as I was lowering her into the sink, an elderly man burst into my private bathroom, completely naked and plops down on my toilet and starts having the grossest, smelliest, noisiest bowel movement I’d ever had the privilege of experiencing.

Poop was flying everywhere, he was grunting and groaning, going on and on about how those nasty nurses had him chained to the bed and wouldn’t let him poop.  In the meantime, I’m pulling every switch and nurses call buttons I can find.  Suzannah’s howling at this point, having been partially submerged and now cold and wet.  My hospital room quickly fills up with nurses and doctors…and one very nervous nurse’s assistant who was supposed to watch the older gentleman.  The Haz-Mat team had to come and swipe the man’s poop off every thing…it was so gross.

The smell…the visual…the residue left in my mouth…it wasn’t chocolate, that’s for sure.

Guest Blogger Noelle Glidewell: The True Reason that Mother’s Day Exists


Everyone looking smart for Easter, job well done Mommy!

Today’s blog is brought to you by homeschooling mother of four from Montana, Noelle.  I love that when I asked her if she had any gross mommy stories to contribute, it took her about 30 seconds to fire off two stories with the promise that there are PLENTY more where these came from.  Noelle deserves a very special gift for Mother’s Day this year.  Here’s why:

When my son Zeke was about three years old, he was finally out of diapers.  One day he was sporting his favorite boxer-type Spiderman undies and a pair of very loose sweat pants.  I was in the living room reading with my older two kids when he came running to me and said “Mom! My poop is in Addie’s room!”  I thought,“huh?”  I hopped out of my chair and went running to my daughter’s bedroom.  Sure enough, those nice loose undies and sweats had permitted a large, solid log to fall right out onto the floor!

I grabbed a wet wipe to pick it up as he stood there watching me.  I looked at him and saw that he was starting to gag!!  “NO!!!” I yelled at him! “Do NOT throw up!”  Well, there he went- his own poop on the floor grossed himself out so much that he had to throw up right on the carpet as well!  I was dumbfounded!!  Not even done cleaning the poop off the floor and now it’s vomit as well. Wow!  (This is why she needs a special gift in my opinion.  Poop with a side of vomit is above and beyond the call of duty.)

Or how about this story??  (notice that this takes place on the very day I asked her to write a gross mommy story.)

Today  I was driving the kids into their homeschool co-op classes.  I’m perpetually late, so I was trying to make up some time by driving as quickly as possible.  Unfortunately, both my husband and I have passed on the most severe motion-sickness genes onto our kids.  So, as we were driving this morning, six-year-old Caleb announced from the back of the van that he was feeling sick.  He had his head back and eyes closed and looked miserable.

In addition to the fast driving, my hands were so chapped that I grabbed some lotion.  But it was a highly scented one and in hindsight I realize that was probably pure torture for a motion-sick kid.

We finally arrived at our destination.  My 3-year old, Gizelle got out of the car, whined for a second and then threw up on the pavement!  Then Caleb piped up from the back and said, “I don’t feel good!” He hopped out of the van and threw up too!  Gizelle ended up throwing up three times, and Caleb four times!  Fortunately it was all on the pavement.  But then a bunch of kids came out of the homeschool co-op building and I had to tell everyone to avoid stepping in the seven puddles of vomit!  Both kids started jumping around and laughing two minutes later, so I knew all was well, but WOW!  That could’ve been disastrous if it had happened 5 minutes earlier IN the van or 5 minutes later in the building!

I feel bad for the janitor that had to hose down the parking lot after that episode.  Everyone needs to begin planning ahead for Mother’s Day this year to be sure that you sufficiently thank your mother for years of cleaning up after your bodily functions.  

Behind the scenes, she gave her kids Ring Pops for breakfast on Easter morning! Dang, why didn't I think of that?

Guest Blogger and Mommy Robin Malcolm: How Much Do I Love My Kids?


Robin's child covered in spaghetti sauce... not the other thing.

After a bunch of Mom friends on Facebook started sharing their Mommy Horror Stories, I asked my friend Robin to write a Guest Blog for me describing her worst gag-inducing story.  Here it is in all it’s gory glory!

Warning: This article is not for the faint of heart.  It contains references to diapers, throw up and other assorted grossness.  Experienced Moms and most Dads should be fine.  Everyone else, you have been warned.

Kids are harbingers of grossness.  The first few months with the first new baby are, for the parent, a baptism into the world of diaper containment failures, reverse-ejected formula, nasal stalactites and all other manner of revolting things.  What I can never bring myself to tell a new parent, their eyes still glazed with new- baby euphoria (or maybe just lack of sleep) is that it gets worse before it gets better.

When my son was ten, he got sick in the middle of the night.   My husband was out of town and my mommy-senses started tingling when I heard a cry in the night. It registered in my sleep-heavy brain and as I was pulling myself out of the haze, I heard it.  You know: IT– That awful, gut-wrenching sound precluding a full-on violent heave.

In a time measured in nanoseconds, I went from half-asleep to a dead sprint twenty feet to his door, yelling, “TO THE BATHROOM!  TO THE POTTY! HURRY! MOVE!”  in a voice that probably woke the neighbors.

It was not to be.  My poor boy, sleeping on the top bunk, had not had enough warning to climb down the ladder, walk across the hall and toss his little cookies in the toilet.  But bless his heart, he had tried.

This is your final warning.  Weak stomachs, turn back now.

His bedroom looked like a crime scene.  Remnants of dinner trailed from the top bunk, down the wall, across the ladder, across the lower bunk and all over the floor.  And there he sat, on the top bunk in his dirty pajamas with tears streaming down his face.

“Mommy, I don’t feel good.”

How can a mother not have pity? In the midst of it all- the smell, the sight, my own fatigue, my child needed help.  So after giving him a bath and a fresh pair of jammies, I did something only a parent would do; I put him back to bed IN MY OWN BED.  With no reassurance whatsoever that he wouldn’t do it again, I tucked him in, strategically placed the obligatory bucket, prayed for him and turned out the light.

Then, armed with a portable carpet-cleaner and a lot of rags, I cleaned.  And I cleaned. And I cleaned.  I think I even heaved a few times myself.  And I kept cleaning. Never in my life have I had to clean up something so awful.

How much do I love my children? Enough to let them sleep in my own bed while I clean up their vomit.  Enough to clean their diaper blow-outs and kiss their little face when I’m done.  Enough to reach into the toilet and pull out a treasured toy.  Enough to sacrifice my last bite of chocolate cake.  Enough to share a sip of my soda, knowing it will end up with flotsam.

God’s love for His children is infinite and sacrificial.  While we were still lost in sin, wallowing in the mess we had made of our lives, God reached across time and cleaned up the mess.  He sent His only Son, allowing him to be sacrificed on a cross, to pay the penalty for the mess sin makes in our lives.  He loves us as a parent loves a child.    All we have to do is ask him for help.

“How great is the love the Father has lavished on us that we should be called children of God.”  1 John 3:1 (NIV)

I will waste my life


I Will Waste My Life

By Misty Edwards

I will waste my life

I’ll be tested and tried

With no regrets inside of me

Just to find I’m at your feet.

I’ll leave my father’s house

And I’ll leave my mother

I’ll leave all I have know

And I’ll have no other.

I am in love with you

And there is no cost.

I am in love with you

And there is no loss.

I am in love with you

I wanna cling to you, Jesus

Just let me cling to you Jesus.

I’ll say goodbye to my father, my mother

I’ll turn my back on every other love and

I’ll press on, yes, I’ll press on

‘Cause I am in love with you, Jesus!