Boys Make the Best Kind of Mess

Hello, my name is Megan Clark and I'm a cleanaholic. (Is that a thing?) Well, I am. I admit it...I like clean, germ free, clutter free, organized, and open spaces.

And then God said, "Loosen up; here's three boys to cure you!" And so came the large cumbersome baby apparatuses, the teething toys, the toddler toys, the tinker toys. And then I learned the cold hard truth - kids don't come wired to put things back where they found them.

And my painstakingly organized bins were dumped out and left out, and parts went missing. And my carefully detailed mopped floors were spit up on, food smeared, and finished off with some cutting edge sticky finger painted art piece.

And as my perfect, crumb-free, dirt-free, and mess-free world crumbled around me my screwed up mentality got a transformation in the form of 3 little fireballs who showed me what I'm missing in a life without a mess.

So here's where I find myself presently in my need-for-clean addiction...I like having a reason to clean. What's the point of vacuuming a crumb-less floor? Now as I suck up an entire package of crushed animal crackers I find myself laughing at the discovery of Wilson giddy with himself for tearing open the bag and digging in.

And the purpose for now throwing in load after load of jelly stained, mud caked, ink marked, grass covered blue jeans and t-shirts is to laugh at the moments of rolling down hills, jumping in puddles, laughing at jokes with mouths full, and tackling in the yard.

And the soldier guys put back in the car bin, and the trains found in the soldier guy bin, and the LEGO's left all over the floor nowhere near their bin may cause a small panic attack in my addict self; but I'm working through this. I can't help but be very proud of little guys working together to clean-up all on their own and stand beaming as I praise their hard work.

And the front entry way which stays freshly mopped for about 20 minutes holds stories of hectic departures for doctor's appoints when we were running late, melted popsicles from little boys trying to come inside for a toy, mud and dirt from puddle jumping, and melted snow from drying sleds and coats. It's now become a messy favorite as almost all the hilarity centers around the coming and the going.

And while I am far from giving up my cleaning OCD, I embrace it in a new way with a viewpoint I was unaware existed before these three messy men. It's that the best memories are made with a mess. As Matt and I watched our rain boot wielding puddle jumpers we saw mud soak through pants, fill down inside boots, and cake into fresh haircuts.

Then Matt commented, "Boys are the best, and so are the messes they make." And I laughed out loud as I snapped more pictures of those mud covered rascals finding I couldn't agree more. But that doesn't mean I'm not going to go re-organize the bins ;)

At The Speed of Wils

I look back and laugh for any time I wasted being concerned about Wils' welfare with two big, and rough brothers. 

The guy has packed on pounds and inches to now give him a psychological advantage over the other guys.

I'm not sure what's funnier - The older two boys shrieking for help as they are attacked by a baby half their size, or Wilson actually attacking them.

He doesn't care about size difference, boundaries, off-limits, or brothers hollering, "No!" If he sees it and likes it, he wants it.

I received all kinds of heads-up about third-borns and the reports were not exaggerated. He may look laid back, but he's just plotting his next move.

My mind just doesn't work like a giant game of chess and I can't stay four moves ahead like he can. The element of surprise is on his side when I find him climbing stairs, or shredding paper, or raiding the fridge.

And none of us would have it any other way; even the victimized big brothers. Because at the end of the day, they can't let Wils go to bed without rushing in to give him a 'pound-it' and a kiss and some brother humor name calling which elicits rounds of giggles and choke holds to last them until the morning.

Final Fours

I snagged a window of time to get my workout in the other day so I grabbed some athletic socks and raced to the treadmill. I sat to pull on my favorite NIKE socks and realized they had shrunk a bit.

Just a few seconds of bewilderment passed until it hit me like a ton of brinks...I had on Harrison's new socks! Gone are the toddler socks with the grips on the soles. Gone are the tiny soft fuzzy pairs. His foot now competes with mine in sock size. And it may seem silly to you but sitting there with his NIKE sock on I couldn't stop the emotions that flooded my heart.

In just a few weeks this boy that made me a momma will be turning five and to me that's a huge milestone. Harrison would like us to believe he is now full grown so he can legally obtain his pilot license, concealed weapons permit, and vote. 

Sometimes when I observe him involved in recounting of some tale I catch my breath at the glimpse of the man emerging. But then a little brother won't cooperate with his vision for a sword fight sequence and the ensuing outburst dispels all thoughts of adulthood.

But even with slapstick humor, LEGO mania, ninja skills, and food fights, Harrison has begun to balance the line of manhood. I see God molding and moving that heart of his in mighty ways and I firmly believe God has an incredible plan for this soldier of His.

For all the times he is breaking my vases, leaving Doritos finger prints on my couch, and mountain climbing the stair cases, he is teaching me how to pray without ceasing and to be still and listen to the nudging of the Holy Spirit. Many times he stops us right where we are saying we need to pray at the moment for something. He loves to memorize scripture so he can have more "swords" to fight Satan.

While it's hard to believe I can pretty much share socks with my first born I can believe in the incredible man that he is growing into. I can see The Potter working the clay and I feel honored sitting on the front row watching the masterpiece be created. I am sure the next few weeks will be a mess of emotions as I soak up the last days of 'four' and celebrate the arriving 'fives'.

Dear Summertime,

 I'd ask how you're doing but you'd give some "rub it in" answer about how nice the Southern Hemisphere is this time of year. But regardless of your enjoying constant perfection, I do miss you...a ton. On the one hand it seems like you were just here. But on the other you've been gone far too long.

My sundresses and sandals are still right where we left them the last time you were here. The frisbees and baseballs are not as much fun without you around either. They can't be thrown as far indoors and if we take them out, the cold quickly puts an end to the throwing practice.

You've got three little boys who miss you about as much as I do. You should hear the audible groans when I tell them they have to wear coats to go out. They are having a hard time remembering what you look like. I bring out pictures of mud pie making, snake catching, picnics and hikes. But when you are 4, 2, and not yet 1...memory only goes but so far back.

But don't worry, they are saving a ton of energy for when you do get back. My couches, the stair wells, Sunday School teachers, and Target employees would probably all prefer your prompt arrival due to their energy stores.

I'm ready to ditch hoodies and blankets, for flip-flops and t-shirts and watch these little guys get to know you again. But there's another side to your return. It's been 365 days since your last arrival. That means 365 days of little boys growing far too fast. I feel I've barely had time to blink and yet it's been another 365 days.

You will hardly recognize these guys. One is a full head and shoulders taller, 3 times braver...or impulsive, take your pick, they are interchangeable, and about 5 years older in his thinking. The next is stronger, brimming with mischief and I have a feeling you will have a hard time keeping up with him no matter how long your days are. The youngest is not the infant you last remember. He'll be taking his first pudgy toed bare foot steps in your greened fields and this Momma's heart can't compute the equation...

...How can it feel like you were just here, but at the same time like it's been forever? The pictures and memories of 3 mud and melted popsicle covered little boys are all I have from your last visit. And these 3 stair jumping, brother tackling, snowflake and hot chocolate covered little men will be the memories from the time we waited for you. So while I can't wait...it's ok you aren't here yet. I'm not about to wish away the time that already goes by too fast...but that doesn't mean you should take your time either ;)

The Mommy Melter

Do you see this little guy right here? Oh I could eat him up and he knows it! The stinker knows every way to push my buttons and make me melt all at the same time.

And it wasn't like he read a manual on "Mommy" he just is way too smart for his own good. He observes and processes and then spits something out later you have no hope of preparing for.

He's the king of conflict. One minute he's smearing oatmeal through his hair and stuffing it down his jammies so I think it's "all gone". Of course I survey the breakfast carnage, quickly becoming upset as he sits there with his baby blues and disarming grin.

His tragically cute head tipped to one side and huge puppy eyes looking up stop me in my tracks. And now he is adding his expanding vocabulary to his arsenal. So as he sits surrounded and covered in his protested breakfast his concern is AWOL as he launches his defense.

"Mommy," I hear in that tiny little non-guilty voice, "my bowl is all empty of oatmeal. It was a little bit too hot. Then a little bit too cold. And then I can't eat it. So it can't be finished. I'm just sayin'." And with that I laugh and he does too and I'm in trouble since he is winning in this game and we've only just begun.

One Thousand

They say a picture is worth 1000 words. I sometimes question that since more often than not pictures leave me speechless. An image forever frozen is a piece of art that conjures up secret memories and leaves me breathless. And now I have 1000 posts filled with images of thousands of seconds of life stopped in a frame and forever cherished.

Like the very first picture I ever posted on my first blog post. The heart stopping image of crossed blue lines. Those terrifyingly precious lines that mean your world will forever change.

And the "1000 words" of pictures and posts roll on through the breakneck pace of life when 2 became 3 and my heart experienced the fierce love and pain of becoming a mother.

The words on these 1000 posts won't let us ever forget when jobs ended and there were none to replace it. When housing was taken away, and new doors were opened.

Or when life ended too soon and our broken hearts were drowning in a sea of  'why'. When we had no idea how to grieve a child we never held and ungracefully waded through letting go, asking God to hold us just as He was holding our child.

Or when life again screamed existence from little blue lines and our nervous hearts groped the ledge of doubt and trust as we counted the weeks between the first heartbeat and viability. And the undamming balm that poured sweet love into ache as we held our precious second gift for the first time.

Or the time that God shook us up and poured us out into a place of complete and total trust in Him. Our lives became a demolition site of anything we ever tried to build ourselves as we spent two years striving, failing, yearning, and falling over ourselves learning to get out of God's way and surrender all to Him.

And the precious oasis of companionship and accountability God hand picked for us in the desert of our stubborn wandering. The moments and days of life with these friends who have become family are captured forever within these 1000 posts and will always be a cherished part of how God used them to grow us beyond the present.

And somewhere in that desert wandering, God laid waste our pitiful plans and passion for diving head first into His will took root. He lavished gifts of travel and celebration, and we experienced what life can be when lived in the freedom of holding onto Him. Within months, death of self gave way to life again in the form of another set of little blue lines and then to the re-birth of a heart's desire gifted from our Father.

The posts written through tears and stubbornness of accepting a greater plan won't ever let me forget the embarrassment that lies in between the lines of fighting God; and I don't want to forget. These 1000 posts have followed through the insane battle of self and sacrifice, documenting the embarrassing, the insecure, the cherished, the treasured, the falling, and the fear.

Our lives are written in these 1000 posts as a testament to show our children the unending ways God chases after us, in our denial, in our doubt, in our loss, in our wins, in our questions, in our joy, in our moments of glory and moments of wonder...God always was. God always is. These 1000 posts are a story of pictures that leave me speechless...

...because 1000 words for every picture would never be enough to shout my praise for all God has done. In death, in life, in the left behind, in the new, in the growing and going on, every breath, every glimpse, everything is in You. For the last 1000, for the next 1000 take us, teach us, use us, all for You.

What Dads Are For

 Around here, a mom can tie a shoe, wipe a nose, crank out a batch of warm cookies, kiss away tears, and even attempt sword fights.

 But there are some things that just need Dad. With three little men in the training it only makes sense.

 Dads have a way of laying out the fine points, going over technique, and after a quick review, kicking the bird out of the nest, so to speak.

 Lately "lessons with Dad" have included everything from changing light bulbs and batteries, refilling engine fluids and jump starting batteries, to sledding and snow flake catching.

 Yes, who knew snow flake catching was a must-have course with Dad, but according to Harrison and his perfectionism drive, he wanted only the best to instruct him in the wintertime art.

 And my first born, who is entirely too hard on himself if he fails after a first attempt, did indeed fail after his first lesson...according to him, since he didn't catch a "huge one like Daddy did."

 And then Harrison got a lesson he didn't know he signed up for; the art of "getting back on the horse." Dads are great at teaching this since they don't operate on the "emotion" like moms do.

And so Matt lovingly told this little man to get over himself and pick his head up. And that's exactly what he needed. Harrison thought he was getting a snowflake catching lesson, but ended up a better man with the lesson his wise Daddy ultimately taught him, the value of hard work, practice, and never giving up.