Wednesday, August 14, 2013

Guess Who's Back!

-from Jeremy

A gap in communication is one of those things that vary in acceptance depending on the relationship. I can go for a long time without talking to a State Trooper and it doesn't bother me. If I go a few hours without talking to Christy, then I lose my bearings a little. I don't know where this blog ranks in those standings, but I think by any measure it's been too long.

Some of you may well ask why we have abandoned our post (tee hee, pun intended), and some of you may not have noticed at all. There is no one reason why the spigot of hilarity and reality was squelched - it's the conspiracy of the mundane. Everything in life can pile up on you at times, right? For us, the pile consists mostly of feces with some mental illness sprinkled on top.

So, if you're curious about the 2nd-grade-aged boy running around my backyard in nothing but the skin the good Lord gave him for covering, yes, that is one of my sons. If your mind is of the steel-trap variety and you clench onto the question of, "what happens if he poops?" then your answer would be, "familiar calamity." He doesn't like clothes. And since he has endured more pain and difficulty in his short 7 years than most of you have known in your entire family tree, he gets to be naked in the backyard if he wants. I assume in the preceding statement that your family tree doesn't comprise surviving genocide or multiple generations living under the same bridge.

Josiah occasionally poops in the yard. Yes, from time to time the unthinkable becomes reality. I actually prefer the carport poop to the grass by the fence poop, but opinions will vary. Christy will likely say that the grass provides a natural mechanism to bio-degradation, but I like to know where poop is in relation to my feet, and therefore prefer the concrete. The tricky one is the traveler. This is a road-trip of a poop that may start in the shady environs of the carport but then move through the driveway and end by the swing set.

If we get lucky, then we catch him in the act. He is never allowed to be alone, yet watching him jump and holler in the yard can wear on the senses, so some of his guards will distract themselves. Olivia is more bookish than even myself, and our shared downfall is the page-turner that becomes the turd-smeller. Christy loves her some social media on her iPhone, but often will get a friend request she wasn't expecting. Jack doesn't require outside influence to be distracted - he is perpetually distracted. Jack can be literally standing on the offensive element and not realize it's disposition. As I've told him many times, in that father voice I've learned to affect, "one day you're gonna get hit by a bus."

Why do we put up with it? Why don't we do something? Well, what? After you've chased him down and diapered him for the umpteenth time, you start to feel like a Republican Congressman and just give up. You tell yourself that he pooped earlier and maybe you'll get lucky. Such delusion. You become dulled by his repetitious activity and think he won't deviate. A fool's paradise. Then he gets still all at once and it's all over but the Clorox.

Listen closely, my beloved. He was gonna die. You heard me, the doctors at the prestigious university medical center had given us a small chance at him surviving. Yes, we had heard the same thing about his brother Jack a few years before, but one is not bold in these matters. He was in a tight spot, medically speaking. We were terrified. We trusted God. We prayed that our little boy not escape our grasp as soon as he fell into it. Just let him live, Lord. And he lived. And he is still living! He's a fruitcake with nuts for icing, but he's ours and he's an answer to prayer.

So I put the question to any of you with precious little ones that are the apple of your eye. Would you rather them be snatched from your life or poop in your yard? I think I know the answer.

*For those parents looking for tips on how to prevent fecal smearing, check out our post entitled Poo Diggers. These outfits have been tremendously helpful, but, in the heat of the summer, Josiah insists on stripping when outside. And for's not worth the meltdown.

1 comment:

  1. I always enjoy reading your posts - the honesty of this one was refreshing. I was reminded of the words of a song (which I admit I have never looked up to listen to) by Steven Curtis Chapman that he wrote after their 5-yr-old daughter died and that I read in his wife's book "Choosing to See". The words encourage me, and I hope they will encourage y'all too.

    Our God is In Control

    This is not how it should be
    This is not how it could be
    This is how it is
    And our God is in control

    This is not how it will be
    When we finally will see
    We'll see with our own eyes
    He was always in control

    And we'll sing holy, holy, holy is our God
    And we will finally really understand what it means
    So we'll sing holy, holy, holy is our God
    While we're waiting for that day

    This is not where we planned to be
    When we started this journey
    But this is where we are
    And our God is in control

    Though this first taste is bitter
    There will be sweetness forever
    When we finally taste and see
    That our God is in control

    And we'll sing holy, holy, holy is our God
    And we will finally really understand what it means
    So we'll sing holy, holy, holy is our God
    While we're waiting for that day

    We're waiting for that day
    We'll keep on waiting for that day
    And we will rise
    Our God is in control


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