Tax Time Drudgery

Today I tortured myself doing something I hate. Quite frankly, I despise completing all the rigors of tax preparation. It is not because I lack the skills, but rather because I am not able to look at the end result without anger. I always have the feeling that somehow we should have earned less or perhaps ate less? maybe needed less health care? Whatever we should have done to keep the cost of living our lives to a lower level -- we should have done that. Okay-- I do draw the line at selling extra children, or renting them out as fake families to single adults.

But I hate the work. It takes me about 24 total hours to complete the task with the end result being sent as work to our CPA. He is actually quite good and we have definitely benefited from his services. But he is too far away for my tastes anymore, and we have developed an unresolved game of endless phone tag. We constantly have new questions, new issues and need additional planning since we both do some private practice work, and now we have the farm.

The fact that the farm has become the bane of our profitable existence over the last few years is a source of great discomfort. There is an end in sight, we just aren't that close yet. We keep pouring money into it with the end result being -- no real profit. However, it allows us a few notable deductions. Another aspect of the tax work that takes additional time, additional documentation and even additional planning. We tend to have some issues with successful planning.

The start of doing the taxes is known to the kids as the day Mama starts to yell and cry over paper. They are very happy to be able to go anywhere away from me when I start to lay out the mounds of papers and begin to add things up. Despite the colorful paperclips and happy sounds of shuffling paper, they know that the job does not make me happy.

I am a saver of paper. I have receipts from nearly every purchase ever made for the farm, the house, the cars, the kids, the animals, our small businesses, the thought of any other purchases... I have a pile or envelope full of them. Barry on the other hand, has a greater amount of difficulty locating the receipts. He may have them in his car, his check book, a drawer at work, or even above his car window visor (a pet peeve of mine each time I am hit in the head with the balance of his collection). This obvious difference in our style of organization has caused many long, and loud discussions. Let's just say we have reached an impasse so often, that we avoid each other successfully in order to sidetrack the argument.

To sort and organize our mountains of bills, papers, school information, applications for school, college, and other opportunities, medical receipts and bills, new purchases, maintenance agreements, etc. takes the better part of a weekend and a clean surface that can be held captive for the balance of said weekend. I have tried many tactics to solicit help from Barry and the children to reduce my attention to the task, to no avail. It seems that sorting and stacking bills chronologically, and alphabetically are not the tasks that draw their highest level interest. I was so very shocked to realize that no one else in our family wanted to spend quality time attending to the early phases of the organization process.

Unfortunately for Kyle he won the lottery this year as the number one helper. After he started complaining about needing FAFSA information, he began to throw comments that clarified how he thought I had been remiss in my civic duty and proceeded to declare me un-American because I was dragging my feet at losing a weekend to headaches, endless paper clips and paper piles. I must say that my retort was less than pleasant and I stomped off to be alone. Once I did speak again,I did, however, invite him to the sorting party. Unwillingly he accepted.

Saturday came and he was busy avoiding his senior prom. With no real plans before his carefully scheduled stint at the pizza parlor, he was pacing about the house. I inquired as to his afternoon plans. Stating he had none until work I begged his indulgence to lessen my workload. So he joined me at the 10 foot kitchen table as it became blanketed with bills and receipts. He began to scrutinize each of the piles, and seemed to be adding the dollars spent to provide he and his siblings with a roof over their head, food, and clothing.

with the addition of each Tractor Supply and feed store receipt, the cost of livestock care and animal feed was mounting. This was very distressing to him because it happened despite his efforts to grow feed, or allow the animals to graze. I actually think it was impressed upon him that the money we discuss not being available for other endeavors had been spent on worthwhile things. He could recognize the value of the purchases, despite the frustrations at being told we couldn't afford what he wanted.

He seemed less antagonistic about the length of time it was taking to complete the task once he began to look through the piles to find each bill. He was genuinely caught off guard by the number of places I had stacks of papers. He had no idea that we had that many sources for the deductions or that many bills for different services or goods. As we finished one grocery bag full, he started to leave the table. I went and found another two piles and bags of paperwork that had been stored in my bedroom. Kyles eyes widened, but he said nothing and began to sort though the bag.

He would glance at the amounts and make no comment. I on the other hand, had a remark for nearly every bill. Sometimes I said things matter of fact, sometimes angrily. I hate needing to juggle paying bills, or paying people because of the limits of our salaries. We have worked two jobs at the same time, worked overtime, done without luxuries and everyday conveniences at times in order to pay bills. Kyle knows this and has made sharp remarks about the time we have lost together while working to get things paid off.

We try to keep our children as children as long as possible. We have told them there are restrictions of money, but never attempted to explain in detail why or how they occur. Additionally, we work greater amounts of time or take on extra jobs to offset any shortfall we experience. The children don't have a strong idea about what our finances entail or what we actually make each year. Because of this, Kyle was beginning to see balances and bills he had not acknowledged before. I also believe Kyle was adding up some of the unpaid balances in his head. You could see him attempt to reconcile our perceived wealth against the balances. He was quietly overwhelmed.

I pointed out some of the obvious costs of living. He recognized the electricity and propane, the cable and phones. They seemed to be matter of fact charges to him. Despite his awareness of increases in gas and food costs, he hadn't quite gotten a handle on some of the other bills. The cost of health care staggers even my mind and we have good health coverage.

By the end of the weekend I will have organized and scrutinized our bills, and ultimately the profitability of our last year. Unfortunately, I already know we are operating in the red for now. There are too many things that need repaired to make our small operation profitable yet. There are too many things that we need or too many parallel activities that are costly which will not allow us to move to the next step for our businesses.

I know that next week will begin the tag-team phone calls between the accountant and I. Barry will attempt to answer questions, but really he is not that aware of the process. I am fearful that I may miss some deductions. I am fearful that I have added wrong or misplaced figures. Regardless of the number of years that I have done this, I always seem to find two or three receipts after it is all said and done. This year we just cannot afford any mistakes of any kind.

Like everyone else, I will finish the project and PROMISE faithfully that next year will be different. I will pledge to have all of the things together and ready to file long before December 31. But when the year ends again, we will still be putting away Christmas and waiting on last minute W-2s.

Next year there will be a difference. Kyle will have a different outlook about our income and the taxes. He will have a new idea about the work it takes to keep up the bills, and still be organized for the taxes. Knowing Kyle, he is aware he learned to procrastinate the more complex tasks from me. He also is a perfectionist and hates to feel inadequate when he does things. But he now has the idea of why the task remains undone at times, despite its urgency.

This year Kyle was the one to learn the facts of tax season and what it requires every month to keep it current. He had heard the discussions and argued against the lost time to the family. But now the impact is felt by him directly. I hope this means I have a partner in the process. Like I said, I hate doing the taxes.

Images in the Mirror

I have a hard time identifying with the woman that looks back at me from the mirror. Especially first thing in the morning, when I am not really awake. Okay, so I can be a little scary first thing. The hair is disheveled, mostly curling back upon itself and standing in rolls up on my head. One side of it looks more squished than the other. Occasionally I have those lovely indentations of every crease and fold of the pillow case or the palm print of my right hand across my cheek.

The prettiest mornings are the ones that show my "after the allergy hits" face. Swollen eyes, running nose, and itchy skin patches all over my face and arms characterize this distinctive look. If I had braved make-up the day before, the raccoon eyes develop Alice Cooper drips down my face and add to the intensity of the contrast of my generally pasty white pallor and the leftover make up smears against my skin. Those tend to be the days that even small children cannot help but ask if I am okay.

But yet those days are not what make me question who the woman in the mirror actually is. I began having conflict with identifying with her after I turned thirty. Somewhere that woman had become a mother to three beautiful children with one on the way. She had a husband, lived in a two story house, worked but wanted to stay home, and had two cars- a minivan even!

She rarely bought clothes for herself, and had lost track of the last time she had gotten her hair cut and highlighted on a regular schedule. She even had traded her regular beautician for the latest Great Clips close to home. That woman bought nail polish and forgot to do her nails. She had jewelry, but generally had left some or all of it beside the bathroom sink. She even struggled to keep her wedding ring on, because it was starting to feel tight on her hand as her fingers swelled with another pregnancy. So she opted to put it away for a while. Besides, everyone knew her as someone's mom. She was definitely taken.

The lady in the mirror looked a bit tired as the days passed on. Her mind seemed to be racing miles ahead of herself and preoccupied with today's list of things to do. You could see she had the grocery list, children's medicine, soccer practice and ballet class, church functions, work projects, the dry cleaner pick-up, and school assignments revolving in her mind. She didn't seem to have much time to notice that her hair had begun to gray beyond her temples. She could glance in the mirror, but really not see herself. She was just brushing away the hair from her face and contemplating where the scunci was to hold her hair back in a quick ponytail. At this point, it didn't make her look younger anymore, just preoccupied with other things than the latest hair fashion.

For the longest time, she had sold and told the latest fashions. She had a closet full of the latest new things, because she was in tune with the perfectly dressed sales associate. It was part of her job and she loved the opportunity to wear the latest. But the things currently in the closet are not the latest. Some of them are even re-runs from the last time they were popular. They don't look or fit anywhere near the same. Shopping no longer was as fun. It had become a chore to find something, anything that fits the body of someone who has had more than four children.

Why can't the lady in the mirror look like the lady in my mind? Why is this such a relatively cruel joke? The woman in my mind still looks relatively young. Not as naive, but confident. She has an air of optimism about her. Something that draws curious looks and friendly faces to her. She is not afraid of anything- though she might benefit from a little caution at times.

The mind lady has goals that seem to fit every situation. She has the solutions to most of the issues that cause sleepless nights and days fraught with frustration. The mind lady is a good and tireless mother. She looks forward to days and evenings spent with her children and never seems to tire of the joy of working with and for them. She loves the challenge of keeping everything current, the cleaning, the laundry, the house, and the homeschooling. Really she appears the little dynamo that never sits still. There can be a disgusting air of perfection about her.

For a few years, I kept this woman to myself. Slowly as I became more and more familiar with the lives and thinking of some of my elderly patients, I would venture to question them about how they saw themselves. Many of them had easy answers. For some of the women, they appeared almost heartbroken when we would talk about giving up the household chores of laundry, cooking, cleaning, and gardening. They could not fathom a lifestyle that did not allow for them to continue those everyday tasks that had reinforced who they were and what they stood for and took pride in. They wanted to continue their daily lives as they had for every day before.

For others the transition was like the proverbial rolling off a log. They did not see themselves any different than the family or staff members they talked with every day. I struggled to reconcile this difference between each of these groups. I asked more questions. I sought subtle and blatant differences between education, careers, or housewife duties, healthy or dramatically ill. There was no great "ahah" moment to explain why there could be such a difference between the lady in the mirror and the actual image of ourselves for some women.

I asked more questions and grew older myself. I had hoped and prayed for more wisdom to accept the stranger's image I continued to see in the mirror. The only answers I have found are these. I was the happiest back when I had my first children. I felt I had a true purpose and optimism about who I was becoming and the destiny of our family. I had faith that God would show us his path and his ways, so that we could delight in them and serve Him. I was comfortable with myself, my life and with my God despite the challenges back in those days.

Please don't read this to mean I was not happy having more children. There is nothing further from the truth. We asked God for each of our children and he gave them to us without reservation and we received them with great joy and pride.

What has happened is that I have become saddened by the losses of life after having our first few children. With every new pregnancy came a greater awareness of what a tight rope life is stretched between the beginning and end of the future for our children and ourselves.

I have become more wise and perhaps more jaded. I trust fewer people and fewer opportunities. I sit in much lengthier deliberations about choices for our family and for myself, sometimes agonizing for night after night seeking the best answers. The woman in the mirror reflects my fears, and deliberations. She seems to live tenuously at best. She shows evidence of having seen too much at times during her life.

Occasionally the woman in the mirror seems sad to the core of her being. She shows the signs of having cried herself to sleep for not having all the answers or all the resources. Her cheeks have the stains of floods of tears at the loss of 3 miscarriages and the fear of never having another child. Sometimes she seems to be searching for answers to questions that have no answers, but they continue to be questions she cannot let them go.

There are times the lady I see is happy and busy. She seems to suffer the "shiny bauble" distraction, as she half heartedly runs a brush through her hair. She is daydreaming as she dashes out the door to work in the garden, or see the marching band at the football game, or meet friends at knitting. Those times she can be scattered in a happy way. Too consumed in the joys of life, of having things to do, and people and family to share them with.

I have seen the woman in the mirror look thoughtful and concerned on the days she is driving a child to their first day at school, preparing to drive for the ballet audition of a lifetime, dressing to sit and watch a graduation, or going off in search of the new dorm for college across the state. Pride underlies all of her concern as she plans, and rehearses to herself in the mirror the supporting role she must play for each of their children as they grow up and away from the family.

I wish I could better know and like the woman in the mirror. I find her aloof and afraid of her own shadow sometimes. She tends to be overly self-critical and rarely measures up against the other women she sees. She wants to be thinner, prettier, smarter, more faithful, and sometimes even younger than the other women she finds herself surrounded by. Not because there is a real competition, but because perhaps if she were some how different, she could somehow be enough to each of the people in her life. She could solve problems, heal wounds and comfort sorrows better than she has been able to do up to now. She somehow would be able to leap small buildings in a single bound and still be ready and willing to be with a child or her husband. Whe would be all she dreamed and wanted herself to be.

Jesus and the Easter Bunny

Easter as a holiday can be quite the event at our house. Because we engage in the tradition of donning new clothes, white shoes, dress pants and ties, along with the occasional hat, the going to church thing on Easter Sunday is a big deal. The getting of new clothes is not an unusual thing, but the number of people getting new clothes for Easter is the monumental thing. I, of course, make this a greater issues trying to get everyone to match to a color theme. I have even gone as far as a design theme. Sometimes I have taken this to greater heights of stress by making the dresses, vests,pants, skirts, etc. to match with my own hands. (Another contribution to my last post on sleeplessness.)

We are faithful in our beliefs and teachings to the children about the story of Jesus Christ and his life. We teach the beginning of his life at Christmas celebrating his humble arrival and beginnings. We follow the rest of his life through seasons of preaching and gathering of his disciples and believers. We enter Lent to acknowledge and contemplate the end of his life. The weeks before Easter are times of fasting of meat, the giving up of treasures and pleasures for Lent, and the awareness of what we must reconcile to God to grow closer to Him.

Easter week also has become for our household a grave and somber time of reflection. We attend church more frequently and discuss the life of Christ during that time frame before his crucifixion. There is much discussion of the Last Supper and the washing of feet. How Christ humbled himself to his disciples and showed his servant heart. We include all the children in the conversation, young to old. The younger children are the most interested in the stories as they are new. Even the youngest, Aidan is captive to the unfolding story.

We also plan for the meal of Easter Sunday and the coloring of Easter eggs. The meal planning and egg coloring are tradition. Although this is somewhat time consuming with the number of children awaiting their turn to color eggs. We begin the ritual by boiling 2 or more dozen eggs. The boiling potatoes and eggs symbolize the start of the Easter weekend to the kids.

Soon they are gathering newspaper, and crowding around the table in the kitchen. Each one reaching for the dipping sticks or package of coloring pellets. Each one planning stickers, colors and designs for their assigned number of eggs. They get louder and louder as the coloring solutions are created by the fizzing pills. The older children trying to trick the younger ones by changing the color pellets in the bowls before their eyes.

We would not be coloring eggs without the sound of a dropped egg, landing solidly on the table. Shouts of "I'll eat it!" can be heard as they all thrust their hands to grab the broken egg from the spot it landed. Pushing and fussing begins as they see each egg being placed in the coloring bowls.

There is laughter and chaos. Each one of them trying to color the number of eggs they have been assigned. The shades of color are beautiful. Almost like make believe, the newly dipped eggs creating a rainbow in the basket as they are placed. Each of the artists proudly picks their favorite and shows it off to the onlooking older brothers and sisters.

Baskets and candy have been bought and hidden from their inquisitive eyes. Generally in my closet, but this year in plain sight. Early this year discovered that the field mice had invaded the shelter of the closet. Yet none of the kids had uncovered the hidden treasure. The arrival of the fabled Easter Bunny would bring the candy and small gifts for the day. Each child had shared their hopes for what candy the tricky rabbit would bring. Their anticipation was growing as Saturday night came to a close.

Easter morning came and the traditional coffee cake breakfast came with it. Every hungry belly ran to the kitchen to find their baskets. Laughter rang out as they could sneak chocolate for breakfast along with their coffee cake. Two treats in one day!!! More than they could remember having from every other year. Loud cautions of don't eat too much candy and no candy in your Easter clothes could be heard repeated over and over. The noise masked the meaning with giggles and shouts.

A parade of happy faces entered the single family bathroom to shower, comb and put up clean hair, view new clothes, and brush teeth. The line on this day seemed to be endless. They were behind yet happy, even as we herded them to the van. Each one again searching for the perfect seat to ride to church. Each one hoping to plan their seats in church.

As should be expected, church was crowded. More so than we had ever seen it. So full that we were encouraged to take our places in auxiliary seating at the back of the sanctuary just as mass got started. Among other families of three or more children we took our places. The mass began and we were blessed by the priest in acknowledgment of our baptism. We began the story of the resurrection and the glory of Christ's rising. The children again heard the story they had been shown throughout the week.

Shortly after mass ended they changed their clothes and sat down to the dinner we had planned. Happily eating ham, and sharing stories of their week and short vacation from school. They were excited about later in the day. They would go and hunt Easter eggs at the home of a friend. A tradition we had continued for nearly 20 years once Lyndsay had become big enough to participate. They were extremely excited about the opportunity, and it became the focus of joining our friends.

Generally Aidan had been interested in finding the eggs, but mostly for the joy of the candy. Other small trinkets had been included in the plastic packages, but he rarely showed an interest. Hurriedly he would find an egg, and open it to discover candy vs trinket. Candy would be popped immediately in his mouth. Trinkets occasionally had been cast aside like the paper that covered the candy. This year was different. He showed much more directed attention to the task of egg gathering. He was counting the number of eggs, and not opening them for their chocolate treasures. He was discussing how many of each color and pointing out their differences.

As he came home, he was still holding onto one or two of the plastic eggs. He chattered about what he might find inside them. He had found true treasures.

On Wednesday, we took the crew to their normally scheduled CCD classes. Aidan and his brothers and sisters each went off to their classes. They enjoy the classes and generally come home with treats and stories of what they have learned. Excitedly each one will tell of a story, prayer or the revelation of the meaning of a Catholic symbol or religious tradition. As the stories and explanations slowed, Aidan was very thoughtful.

Climbing up onto my lap, he looked very seriously into my face as I asked what he liked about the evening's class. Holding my eyes with his steady gaze, he said they had talked about Easter eggs.

"Oh", I said. "What did the Easter egg mean?" I was not sure what he had been taught. The older children had been taught during a children's sermon many years ago that the egg symbolized the tomb. The symbol meaning that life came from the tomb as chickens come from the egg.

Aidan looked at me very seriously. "Jesus died in the tomb." Never wavering he repeated, "Jesus died."

I asked if he knew Jesus rose from the tomb. He nodded. Again, very seriously, he said, "Jesus is alive." I smiled and agreed.

He stared at my face, then said, "He died for my sins." I was awe struck that he had remembered any part of the story. But to know, that my four year old had heard and remembered the story of the risen Savior definitely surprised me. It made me again aware of how important each day and opportunity to teach the children our faith actually was.

I don't take credit for all that Aidan, or any of the children know about our faith. They are taught and encouraged by many dedicated friends, family members, and fellow parish members who donate their time and share their faith. They do so without reservation or limit to their dedication. We are blessed by their steadfast faith.

But this year for all of our children, not only did they remember the Easter Bunny, but all of them claimed in their hearts the risen Savior.

Thanks be to God!

Making the Switch

I am becoming convinced that I have made my life too hard. Perhaps by my own design, I have added obligations, outrageous sized work caseload, occasional personal appointments, and general things to busy up my world. I thought at one point that I had set my sights on being a more philosophical person. Almost transcendental with my approach to the rearing of the children and the balancing of my job. I wanted an ebb and flow of energy to make each day successful and rewarding. I like the challenge of work outside the house. I love the rhythm of a well-organized day. There is something zen about the flow of organization and planning done well.

Unlike most people, I am happiest when I have a plan for most of my day. The start to finish kind of plan that allows for rest, moments of reflection and rejuvenation, and some flexibility, but shows progress at the end of the day. For that reason the simple everyday tasks of laundry, cleaning, and homeschooling are indeed some of my favorites. There are fruits of the labor no matter how short lived they are.

For me to take mountains of dirty, grimy laundry from wadded messes shoved under beds, tied in knots, and hurled across rooms in four foot stacks and convert them to clean, neatly stacked and hung clothing feels like a significant accomplishment. When you consider that the average amount of laundry for our household consists of 7-8 loads per day in order to eliminate a hallway full of 4-5 baskets of clothing, the task takes on a new meaning.

My day job also has accepted piles of monumental work. Weekly notes and summaries for every patient. Evaluations and discharges for completed work, not to mention the assorted staff training for specific tasks. Each person to be seen for treatment for the prescribed time. Maintaining the continuum of collaboration with other professionals within the daily time frames becomes an added challenge. There are always newer ideas, and varying descriptions of treatment plans and diagnosis. If done well, the pace of the job can become demanding and obsessive.

Varying complexities of patients and their needs are added hurdles to meeting the care of the patients. Changes in documentation regulations and adherence to insurance demands alter the reams of the documentation. The alternating availability of the patient due to schedule changes compounds the day's scheduling conflicts. The give and take among the three therapies to best meet the patients' needs also creates the occasional conflict. It has created a vacuum on my time away from home. A sense of never being done, a festering frustration of imbalance.

Home has its own issues. As a parent, I am to understand and mediate the differences between children. Master the schedule of schooling, play, activities and diligence tasks. I am to plan the day to meet everyone's needs to the best of my abilities and with the assistance of other members. I was to maintain the household similarly to when I was at home. The current vacuum of time has changed my ability to meet that level of involvement with my own children and household. For my husband, Barry, this has changed his duties more and more. The complexity of the task slowly growing as he attempted to re-connect as "Dad" to our growing brood.

The original plan was for him to step into my shoes temporarily in order that I might work more to pay off more bills. The plan was a short term fix to eventually shift my schedule to less structured time away and less dependence on my portion of our income. Barry thought he would easily be able to work a later shift and keep up with the children during the day. Ultimately, as soon as the bills were caught up, I would again be the one responsible for the rhythm of the household. Barry would be the main income earner. A return to the most fulfilling arrangement for our marriage and family life.

He entered into the role with a strong desire to complete the everyday tasks, have time to improve upon the organization, experience the homeschooling, enjoy the kids, and hopefully, end up with the occasional needed nap. The task seemed straight forward enough. We had a plan of sorts and he had experience from past years when he was laid off. Then there were only seven or eight children, but fewer older children. A decided trade off of numbers and maturity. That of course, was pre-farm era. The children initially were cooperative to the change. No anticipated problems were seen on the horizon.

Thank goodness for a sense of humor. Thank God for grace. Thank heavens for the ability to step back and laugh at one's self and each other despite your anger and frustration.

Since our switch out, many days the poor man has been shouted awake to the frantic call of "the cows are out" or "the pigs escaped". With only two or three hours of sleep, he begins to rise from the comfort of the bed. Climbing from the fog of recently entered REM sleep, he groggily fumbles for his pants and shoes. Stumbling and kicking bed legs, he growls as he turns the corner of the bed to race out the kitchen door clutching a coat around his shoulders. Slightly dazed by daylight, he lumbers in the direction of the barn and shouting voices.

The cold and generally wet air hits his face with a slap to waken him. No longer dazed, he begins the chore of cornering the errant animal toward the pen or barn. Yelling to each child the directions of where the food should be located and how they should angle the stubborn beast back to their rightful place in the safety of the barn.

It is comical to look out the back windows as children clad in nightgowns and jeans tucked into work boots are running with their gowns waving in the wind. Their waving arms and shouts of excitement occasionally scaring the animals they chase. Their cheeks flushed and red both with the energy of chasing the animals and the bite of the wind. Once cornered and secured, the animals return to feeding. Heads hanging as if to acknowledge the chaos they created.

I can surely say, this is only the illusion of hope of some level of remorse for their actions. They don't seem to be at all intimidated not to attempt the next daring escape at a moment's notice.

In come the children, laughing and talking excitedly about the escapades of the current foiled escape. Talking loudly they outline for any missing assistants, the way in which they managed once again to herd the head strong steers back to their field or the stubborn pigs back to their pen.

Behind them walks their father. He is tired and still flushed by the chase. Cold and sleepy, his only desire is to return to the comfort of his warm and somewhat cozy bed. But the children have seen him. He is now in their minds - awake. He has no hope of returning immediately to his deserved rest. They don't intend on torturing him with the thought of sleep, they do it naturally.

Once they have seen the whites of his eyes they are set on him as the target. Calling for everything from permission to referee, his name is in the air. Grumbling, yelling and quiet responses rarely quell the din of children calling his name. Reluctantly, after trying to fall back into the bed with muddy pants, and exhausted sighs, he once again struggles out of bed.

They love those days. They are the days of eggs and bacon. The pancakes and sausage days. Where oatmeal and brown sugar flow from the microwave intermingled with the scent of the world's strongest coffee. Coffee so strong the cup could be dropped and the "liquid" would not be displaced. His elixir for forcing his tired and weary body awake to "be the dad".

They love watching tv in his lap as he pretends not to be napping; sleeping sitting up on the couch once they won't allow him to return to his bed. They revel in climbing all over him, chasing each other, kittens, puppies and toys across his stomach. He tries so very hard not to be too tired to smile and appreciate their play and devotion. But he is worn out.

I sometimes get angry about this. I am angry that we cannot make ends meet without my income. I am angry that I cannot do more for each and every one of them. That my full energies are taken by my job and my patients. I am angry at times that things are not organized and done "my way" because I understand them better that way. They seem simple to me and reasonable.

I get angry that he is forced to try to be a part of me that I am not ready to give up, and that I cannot find the energy in me to be. Because he is unfamiliar with the ways I do some things and the reasoning behind them, he, too, is angry. Angry that what I think is easy, to him not only seems like rocket science but also rocket science in a foreign language. He is angry right now, that he cannot change how much he makes. He is angry he cannot make me stay home and say we will make it regardless.

He also is angry that I, too, am worn out. That our weekends are lost as I climb into bed and find myself hurting so bad that I cannot move. That I can sleep away entire days without eating or talking to him and the children. That the medication that once held the pain at bay, is not as effective. He has a right to want more from me. But right now I am unable to give it.

Values of Truth

Truth apparently has many faces and values. It must have a range of levels of effectiveness. Apparently there at least five theories of truth that I have overlooked. I must have missed that somewhere in my limited cognitive development. Was that a lecture I slept through in college? Or a group lesson I skipped during high school?

As I have no familiarity with a wide range of the concept of truth, I am stuck with my singular definition. My construct is one fold. Accordingly my instructions to my children on truth are direct and simple. A lie is a non-truth. The truth has no variations from its origin or content. I am fairly black and white about the concept of truth. Either it is the truth or -- yeah you guessed it --it is NOT.

For our current society the limited definition of truth has met with a great deal of controversy. The growing belief is that the lie of omission is not a lie whatsoever. Just a mere oversight of fact. An extension of the truth you might say. For me that just doesn't work. If you knew about it and did not tell the whole and accurate truth - well frankly my dear, it is a lie. It forces the entire piece of information to come into question. Beginning to end it is a lie.

The stretching of the truth is also a lie. If it is intended to change someone's perception about a situation or person, the lie has some degree of intent. This is called "spin" in our society and seems to have gained additional value. People are paid great amounts of money to re-create a favorable reality from the truth. It is an everyday part of life, just watch the news. I guess I didn't get the memo.

I was once told by one of my patients that when someone lies, contrary to their protests, the only person they are protecting is themselves. They only seem to care about how they are perceived and how the lie will effect them. An indication of their short-sighted view is the developing realization that the lie only preserves them for a short period of time. That is where the situation becomes almost desperate. The liar seems to react like a trapped mouse jumping to scale the walls of lies closing in on them. Liars begin to spin more and more lies to extend their sense of safety from the truth.

That suffocating and claustrophobic feeling is the one liars hate to experience. What they do not realize is that the "lie-ee" (for lack of a better term) has the same heart thumping, cold sweating, nausea feeling as they realize they trusted again and were taken advantage of. It develops a fear of rejection that ranks up there with the fear of being taken advantage of. The "lie-ee" does not have the security of being able to take back control of their input to the relationship as the power is apparently held by the liar.

The recipient of the lie is left feeling vulnerable, and cheated. They feel foolish even though they did not perpetuate the deception, or volunteer to be a part of it. For adults, the act of being taken in again not only is painful, but devastating as it usually involves someone with whom they would desire the greatest amount of reciprocal trust. Trust is hard to come by in any situation. Trust is something not given easily, especially in our day and age.

As I was growing up the majority of business transactions involved a handshake and few contracts. A man's word was indeed, his bond. There were few complaints or frauds. The world functioned with the Golden Rule. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Some businesses tout the motto Platinum Rule. Do unto others as they would have you do unto them. They both honor the same consistent sentiments, to treat others fairly and honestly.

It seems overall society has left that level of thinking. Whether it is omitted fact during a verbal presentation for satellite television or the omission of not completing a task that one was asked. They are both defined as lies. Again, a breakdown in the economy of life. No good faith exchange. The lack of trust destroys the transaction.

Throughout the last few years of raising children the challenge of teaching the truth has had its ups and downs. The use of the white lie to avoid hurting some one's feelings or avoid uncomfortable situations has become obsolete. The fact that truth is paramount begins to tear away at false gestures of compliments or carefully veiled dislike. Children are not very forgiving of adult variations of the premise to keep societal face.

Older children seem to have a unique perspective on truth. They have the belief that they should be knowledgeable about every aspect of their parents' lives regardless of its direct impact on them. They, on the other hand, have the pleasure of sitting within judgment of each situation without regard to how it impacts themselves and others. They tend to be very harsh judges. Although, they again are seekers of mercy rather than justice when the opportunity arises for their own definition of truth to come into question.

Our household really has a thing about truth. Overall the belief is shared that lying is bad. The concept is generally challenged by age 4 or so and then, the correction seems to eliminate the issue for most of our charges. However, there have been a few standouts of insubordination.

Rarely do we deal with black and white blatant lies. More commonly we deal with the veiled lie. The subtle near truth that cannot be easily detected as a lie. The almost truth that shadows all edges of truth in order to allow some one to continue upon their desired path. It will propagate who they are to the family and others outside of the family. Seldom in their haste, do they look at the collateral damage to relationships within the family and outside of it.

Sometimes the children are lead astray by others, both adult and child alike. They are encouraged to hide a portion of the truth from one or both parents. Overall the deception is generally short lived. Sometimes it is rather innocent. Other times it is with great and ugly intent. The ultimate challenge to override the decisions of the parents. It is quite amazing how fast news is able to travel about the party on Friday night, or the last minute trip to Taco Bell that was not on the original agenda. It seems being an informant has a greater value than keeping the secret.

It can be extending the work day by an hour or two beyond the schedule to allow them to go with friends, or "forgetting" to tell someone the game/practice was canceled. It can be the use of situations to allow them to accomplish what they want without fully acknowledging the intended goal. Or it can be the obvious choice of ignoring the rules because they believe they are grown and above the rules. Their outward success is hidden as the goal becomes a side show to the stated direction identified.

Adults outside the family seem to view this in a variety of ways. I often hear the adage that boys will be boys or all children go through the stage of lying. Without question I am not easily swayed by the apathetic acceptance of the beliefs. Children and adults, alike, are not exempt from abiding by the rules of conduct. They are not excused from the rules based upon age or gender.

What concerns me more about those ploys for leniency is the reality that our country seems to recognize only the shades of the truth. That we, as a constituency, have come to expect there to be multiple versions of the truth. We don't condemn politicians for their lack of truthfulness or the spin they place on their choices. But rather, we expect and allow for the spin in every aspect of campaigns and everyday workings of the government that is supposed to represent us as a people.

The lack of concern for lying and its impact on the structure of our society has shown many flaws in the development of our recent affairs. Look to the the "Bail Out" bill and decide for yourself if we were given enough of the facts to have our opinions heard. Ask yourself if you believed what the news stated about the economy or the change of political status by the everyday media. If we have no concern for the truth we have lost a general tenant of the foundation of our country. We no longer strive to be the trend setters but merely the blind followers to the deceptive tune of the spin doctors.

Give A Kid A Break

Sometimes my children are terribly disappointed that they are not always given a fair chance at sharing their ideas, excuses, explanations or general information to me in order to avoid my parental determination. They are quite accurate that being the parent, I have the uncanny and recognizable ability to be annoyingly judgmental and indeed, downright punitive. Often, as pointed out by a very good friend of mine, they are met with justice when they were actively seeking mercy.

I have however, had a week in which I am not the person suffering from quick parental judgments. I am now in an area of unfamiliarity. I am currently the one hoping that mercy should be extended to one or more of my children.

As you read this, you must be asking yourself why I am asking or actually beseeching mercy rather than perhaps justice? Because some times it is merciful to allow children to be children and have seasons of poor judgment and the making of many mistakes. The age and severity of their poor judgment can vary. The result of their judgments can be either permanent or temporary-- annoying or devastating. There really is no consistency in the matter, but there is the realization that any one decision can ultimately change the course of one's life. Hopefully that decision is the right one.

Some decisions are the result of ignorance or arrogance. Not enough information to make the most appropriate decision. Others are the result of believing one has all the answers. Those decisions made from these levels of poor judgment usually have human effect as well as a lasting effect on the consequence of the decisions. Some of them again, are mere annoyance. However, many of them result in the devastation of some one thing or person.

I have struggled throughout the time we began raising our children to show them the natural consequences of their behaviors. Some times I am as level headed as Solomon as I levy both the discipline and explanation of their consequence as deemed by their choices. I am stronger and more precise when the offense appears to be intentional and defiant. I am calculated as I hand down the penance for their wrong.

Defiance in our household is a strongly punishable offense. We are not very tolerant to the child who's selfishness seems to force them into the wasting of the resources of the family. The choice to boldly stand against diligence tasks, family values, or ignore the moral integrity they were raised with will ultimately cost the children pleasures such as toys, lessons, or rewards. We generally are not lenient when it comes to waiting for them to correct the issue of their own accord. We expect expedient results, without comment, without question, without delay as noted by Ted Tripp in his book. We work to strongly encourage their obedience to the ways of the family and ultimately the will of God.

It is the transgressions that appear to be unintentional or collateral damage that leave me to doubt my skills as a parent. They occur as the result of ambivalence to the consequence of the action. These flaws of character are those that resist correction. They seem to happen by circumstance. Example: The bathroom was not completely clean of dirty clothes, dirty counters or trash by bedtime. This occurred because everyone got up late and was leaving for an activity in a hurry as no one was ready on time. The larger problem is the lack of follow-through or planning with adequate time. The result was an even greater deficit of incomplete work. Multiple things which make up the maintenance of the bathroom were not completed.

Assessing the collateral damage sometimes is the fastest and straightest line to add the checks and balances for the tasks. The summary of what did not get done may not be the accurate description of the impact of the missed chores. The incomplete tasks were actually a by-standing influence. The actual transgression again pointed to arrogance and selfishness. No one was available to do the right thing. Everyone was busy with what they wanted, but not available to do the work needed.

Sometimes the transgression is an act of humor gone wrong. The attempt to be funny can cause pain. In this case it has raised the question of being true to one's upbringing. There was no evil intention. There was extrapolation. The person responsible for the remark was not the one to fully suffer the impact of the over-generalization of the remark. Even sadder is the realization that the original person making the remark was too young to understand the statement.

How does this extend to someone else and their interpretation? The remark caused shock and created aspersions of less than honorable intentions. The aspersions have caused hard feelings. It has created a rift between families, children and adults. Some of them my children.

No ill intent was designed by a four year old who made a comment everyone thought humorous. He was and is innocent. Because the story had been told and re-told without misunderstanding and with the full awareness of its meaning, the belief was that EVERYONE knew its origin and its harmless meaning. Well, that was what was believed.

I am someone who seems to give innumerable chances to people. I always think they will rise to the occasion - no matter how many times they have not made it before. Sometimes I am very wrong and hurt. Other times I am allowed to bask in the shine of their success as if it were my own. I love those moments. I live for them. One of those moments can make up for every unsuccessful attempt in the matter of seconds.

Although my first instinct is to be hurt and angry, I eventually convince myself that there was no intentional harm done. That the damage was an occurrence of the collateral influence of another intention. I am indeed a master of deceiving myself. It has become a way of life and a survival technique. I cannot bear to think that most human beings are less than benevolent.

Because of this quirk of personality, I tend to look for the good intentions of most people. I can look for the motivation rather than the actual action which caused the hurt or consequence of pain. It has allowed me great insight into most situations. But it has not helped me with this one.

Another child carried forth the story of the four year old and his crush. His statements were quite funny. His sincerity even stronger. Adding to his story is the fact that he competes for the attention of the young lady with his older brother. But that story has an even more uncertain ending.

I only know that there are well educated, honorable young people in this story. They were raised well by their parents. They are mutually loved and cherished by their parents. The hope of their parents is that they will court some one who will become the love of their life.

As one of their parents, I hope they do it better. I hope they wait longer to get to know each other and their dreams, and aspirations. I want them to learn to love and respect each other as God's children and faithful Christians, no matter their church. I want them to understand that the union of marriage is truly among God and two people. That it is not to be entered into lightly and requires full knowledge of God and His word to make the commitment to each other.

I pray that they have the opportunity to find their beliefs and possibly find each other. But I acknowledge I do not know all about them. I believe they are good, strong Christian children who may find in each other their life mate. I believe they can bring out the best in each other and themselves by being together. I choose to trust their judgment about who they are and what they stand for. Because they need the growing room to find out for themselves what they are and can be.

Hard for me to do, is not fight against someone else who may see them differently. Someone who has a difficult time letting them develop mature relationships with others and each other. The struggle of a parent that never ends is the opening of the hand to let go or the clutching to draw them nearer.

Building the Next Business

Our family is starting a group of family businesses. We are in the process of developing our independence. There are two businesses we have started to make that happen for our family. One is the website we are planning to launch this spring. the other is the greenhouse. We will be growing mums and poinsettias because of the blessing of the greenhouse. Which is truly a great and wonderful gift. The thought of the greenhouse meant a great deal to Bill, the owner, myself and to our oldest daughter.

Lyndsay can see the idea of promise of the greenhouse and the possibilities of the future of the greenhouse. For her the greenhouse is another way to explore her love of flowers and plants. It is a way to make our family grow like her flowers and all the things she loves to make grow. Because she is older, she can see the bigger picture of having a family business. She sees how the family business means that we can work from home. Her enthusiasm for the project was contagious with every one of the girls.

The first needed step was to move the greenhouse. There seems to be one problem. The greenhouse is a behemus!!!! About 27 feet by 70 feet with only one actual end with a door and the other part is attached to a garage that we are not actually moving. Although there are no actual pieces of glasses, there is a frame for what should be multiple panes of glass from one end to another. The whole idea of moving it from its original space to our small 5 acre farm sounded simple enough. But I am told I am beyond optimistic.

The greenhouse sits on the land where Bill, the orignal owner, is trying to sell his house. It is not considered by most prospective buyers as a sellng point. Moving it becomes important to the sale of the houses. Having it on the premises as the house is being shown complicates the sale. It would help to have the building moved. That puts another layer of pressure on the project. Another point of frustration in the project management of the household and the movimmng of the family businesses forward.

The greenhouse originally was covered with heavy plastic sheeting, which had a few significant tears. But each of the sheets seemed to have a salvageable portion for use once it was moved to its new location. Mother Nature had another consideration. Shortly into the new year, there was another strong wind storm. This storm lifted long streamers of plastic off of the wooden frame to dance in the wind. Multiple shreds of plastic hung in declaration of the rough storm of the night. It was another set back in the moving forward of the business plans.

When Barry, and the crew arrived to begin to take down the greenhouse. Barry began the project with some hesitation. He felt overwhelmed by the massive frame and yards of plastic. He wanted a blueprint for the move. Something to make the complex task more simple. To be honest, I had hopes that once the tear down began the enthusiasm to move it and have it set up would fuel the process. I said I was optimistic.

A good friend of ours, Phil, had arrived and began to plan the order of events and the ultimate way to move the greenhouse. Phil has a way of making each project, regardless of the work, a can-do thing. The two boys, Sam and Kyle, worked with the two men to make the dream move forward. Phil and his good humor gave the project a nudge. Despite the conflicts of work schedules and practices of other children, the work moved on. They worked until almost dark.

We, girls were at home working on things at the house. Well, to be honest, I had actually spent a good part of the day lying in bed with a headache. During their time away we worked to do laundry and plan dinner.

Laundry always seems to steal time from all other projects. Two or three loads were run through the cycles. Clothes folded and put away. Rooms were dusted, and floors scrubbed. Dishes washed and put away. Dinner was planned. Okay, dinner ultimately became carry out pizza- but it was a plan.

The sky slowly darkened and in they came, cold, tired and frustrated with the work. Barry looked to me, and told me the work was far from done. His frustration written on his face. He knew how much the moving of the building meant to me. He knew that the plans for our family seemed to hinge on the building. The thought of working for days to tear down the building in order to move it to our place seemed somewhat useless. My optimism was soon slowed with the reality that one entire cold and windy Saturday was spent primarily in the removing of the plastic and planning the order of unscrewing of the frame. Not nearly as far as we hoped it would be. Barry grumbled that I had no idea how much work was left. Most likely he was right. But it needed moved.

Kyle came in tired and cold, not anxious to return to the site to move the building. He supported Barry's thoughts of how much work remained to be done. Kyle was also frustrated that he had other things that needed to be done in the barn, and chicken coop. This was not where he wanted to place his energy. Not where he would choose to spend his time.

It was Sam that was excited about the project. Sam told of taking off the plastic, unscrewing the plastic from the frame and having the opportunity to work with his dad at something important, shown brightly in his eyes. His excited face spoke volumes of what the experience meant to him. He was suddenly near grown-up as he recounted his day to us.

Only Sam seemed to be interested in doing more. He somehow felt a part of the project. He wanted to help make this happen and make it happen very soon. For being 10 years old, he seemed to understand how important moving the greenhouse was to me.

A few weeks later, the greenhouse still stands on its original spot. We had hoped for good weather. Instead this week we had snow - in April! Another slow down in moving the business forward. A delay in the finishing of the first step in the plans.

A call came in and theBll's house is being shown to prospective buyers. The greenhouse needs to be moved even faster than before. His daughter called to say the buyers were interested in the house. Another push to make the project happen.

Being "Done"

A day or two ago I read a post on "Larger Families" about a writer who recently had another child and posed the question when does the more logical side step in and say "Okay - that's enough". She asked if anyone else suffered baby lust immediately after their last child was born. Inquiring how each of the other moms to large families dealt with what she believed might be unique to her and her husband.

The post actually made me cry, well cry again. For me that feeling remains and seems to be growing stronger each day since our last child was born nearly five years ago. Now we have been told directly, pointedly by friends and family alike, that we should be DONE. We should feel a great sense of satisfaction and pride that we have the family and diversity of children that we have.

Somewhere that fills a void for everyone but us. We have decided that we are not done. We are blessed by our family. They are everything people tell us to be proud of and look forward to their maturity. They have been both blessing and inspiration since the day each of them was conceived. We trusted that God had knit each one together in my womb. We have worked to place them in the belief that they are on earth for God's good purpose.

But that does not stop the yearning for the sense of completion of our family. Many hours of prayer and reflection have been placed on this subject. So much attention to it, that I have a hard time being around babies without tears in my eyes. I not only ache for another child, but mourn the loss of the ones I miscarried. The sorrow is deep enough that the older ones see it in my face despite my work to hide it. It has become something that Barry struggles to help me with at each wave of grief. The sorrow can last for what seems like a lifetime.

In order to understand our lives, and our desire for more children, people have inquiring minds. They ask us how we can afford our family? They ponder the mountains of laundry, the hours of homework and study, the miles we log on our cars going from home to soccer, to dance, to school, to church, etc. Some worry about the size of our vehicles. Others focus on the cost of food, clothing, toys or electronics. There are times we struggle. There are times when there is not enough money. But those times occurred when we had two, three, or four children.

We can be criticized for our trust that God will eventually provide for some of those things in His time. Sometimes the wait can be agonizing, like when we needed a new van and could not find the right one for months. The struggle to go anywhere as a family was immense. We had never relied on two cars to travel before. But God found the best deal and the right van. We just needed to trust and He provided.

God gave us each child in His time. They came when He alone planned them. Even after we were told there might never be one child. God sent all of them to show He had dominion over us, over our family.

The sheer number of children can intimidate some people. We don't see their numbers. We look at each child so individually, that we can not process them in the group everyone else sees. As the older ones manage to leave for college and their independent lives, we feel even less complete at times. Their roles are so diverse that we look at them as the arms or legs of the body of the family. As they mature, having the whole family together has become harder and more scarce.

Our economy within the family is very interdependent. Each one of the children has their place in work, in fun, in worship, and in learning. They bring to our family their independent personalities which are alike and different to each other all at the same time. So much so that times we rely on their talents can bring sorrow. Smaller children seek out the wisdom or empathy of their older siblings during good times and times of sorrow. There is no consoling of a small sibling when they are 'homesick' for the voice or presence of their older brother or sister.

Much credit to Ohio Bell, "reaching out and touching someone" has become the lifeline of the cell phone. The careful dialing of a newly memorized cell number has soothed troubled hearts and angry kid sisters and brothers. The cool mediation of an older brother or sister has solved many fights and hurt feelings between their siblings.

So how can we feel a void? I am not sure that I have the words to express the knowledge that God has the number for our family in His heart. That I believe that we may add to the number of our 'born' children with the hearts and lives of other children once we have a slightly larger house. We recognize that this is not the choice of other people. At times it is not the choice of our friends and family for us. But it is our choice.

The Glory of Sleep

Over the last few years, Barry and I have entered into a realm of sleepless nights and days. Like "youth is wasted on the young" from It's a Wonderful Life, sleep is the gold of parents and the bane of a child's existence.

We began the cumulative sleeplessness somewhere about child number nine. After surviving all the other odd sleepers and non-sleepers, Chloe began to create a challenge for both of us. Initially after she was born, Barry was laid off. I returned to work when she was about 4 weeks old. Note to mothers of advanced maternal age (anything over 35) this was not my smartest idea and I am still suffering the consequences of that decision. There is strong family sentiment that the demise of my sleeping cycle began in that year.

Our lives became eat, work, feed, run other children to activities, sleep or not sleep. Repeat and repeat again. Sometimes we might change it up a bit and add a nap. On weekends, as I soon became pregnant and also very sick with an infection I caught at work, I began spending hours at home in bed on Saturday and sometimes Sunday. After work each day I would wonder into the house in a coma-like daze and climb the stairs to our bedroom. As I would begin to shed my work clothes, I would directly put on some version of pajamas and sweats, crawling head first into our king-sized bed.

Miraculously food would appear. I would attempt to eat, take medicine, and nurse the current baby. The time for baths would arrive and the parade of freshly laundered bodies and pajamas would crawl across our bed seeking attention. We would wrestle and chase across the room, and settle into quiet right before evening prayers. On good nights I might nap between rounds. On the not so good nights I would be lying in bed begging for peace and quiet and some semblance of rest.

Along the line I lost a way of catching up on my sleep. There were days that I drug myself out of bed, crying for the comfort of sleep and quiet. Those days were full of physical pain and psychological torture at times. Hurting from every moment lost to wakeful periods and restless nights. God, more than once, heard my prayer for super human strength as I was on my knees crying as I showered each morning.

Some days were numbly tolerated with no real emotion expended. Sleeplessness is almost like an opiate when it allows you to see and hear things that do not exist, see and hear things that do exist, but keeps you from reality as you drift in and out of your day.

For many years baby cries were the source of our disrupted sleep. We have somehow left the majority of sleepless nights be-fraught by the cries of babies in the last year or two. The outward cries we hear now are generally those of sick children or fearful nightmares. The fumbling footsteps of the once sleeping child are heard outside our door and miraculously the child appears within the warmth and comfort of our bed.

This of course, meets the immediate need for comfort of the child and our bed transforms into the torture chamber of the adults. When we were younger the adding of a small, freshly bathed being into our bed was at times comforting. But as they grew, there was nothing loving about having one's body kicked mercilessly multiple times in the rib cage by the pointed heel of a sleeping child. Nor is there rest from repositioning yourself around a fitfully nightmaring child.

Despite all attempts, the child becomes the champion of space on even the largest beds. Parents pushed and crowded to the edges, with a spread eagle child sprawled diagonally across the middle domain of space can attest to the discomfort of sleeping with the restless child.

Occasionally the nights are pierced with cries of sleep walking and talking. Loud yells of anger, bursts of laughter are heard by adults but don't waken the dreaming child. We crawl out of bed to check each noise and investigate the source. What happens to me after those attacks of nightmares, is even less sleep. I lay in transient sleep waiting for the next round of yelling. Jerking awake at the first hint of kitten feet walking across the wooden floors. There I am poised tensely lying on my side hugging the edge of the bed waiting for the next cry of distress.

As each child has cycled through this stage, we work to re-establish a rhythm of sleep. Sometimes the season of night terrors is short. Other times the terrors are re-lived over and over again, even within the same night. But by now the odd hours of work, and the years of disrupted sleep allow the season to continue to plague even the quietest of nights.

We recently spent an entire weekend together in a hotel-- key word here-- ALONE. No interruptions. Not even a call from the children on the cell phones. Utterly blissful, relaxing quiet. Most people would find the quiet and alone time soothing and restful enough to lull themselves to sleep. Not us. Neither of us managed to sleep comfortably either night. I laid awake one night until 3 or later in the morning.

I was comforted by the sighs and noises of my darling as he slept. I even avoided the urge to nudge him to roll over and try a new position to quieten his noises. But still no rest. We mentioned the issue of sleep to other couples on the weekend. They too, were sleepless on those nights.

Day by day we are working to re-capture the bliss of sleep of our youth. Generally with no success. Our oldest daughter had remarked that sleep is over-rated, and "there is plenty of time to sleep when you are dead". I am beginning to think she may be right.