portrait of a scratcher

uh, what's that, Josu? what do you want me to do? why are you scratching your head? pointing at the camera?
scratch, point. scratch, point.
oh. you want me to take a picture of you scratching your head. of course - - it makes perfect sense that you would want that. alright, go ahead and stand there and scratch.
well now, that turned out nicely.

oh, and Yesterday we found out from Malachai that his English teacher speaks "half English, half gibberish" . . . . interesting . . . .

off to school, my boys! be educated!

people worry. often, people worry about their own kids. Sometimes people worry about other people's kids. I think that in our neighborhood a lot of people worry about my kids; they worry that since they don't go to preschool at age two, that they will be permanently scarred - - unable to socialize or fit into group activities or learn how to share.

we heard good news from Josu's teacher today as she delightedly told us that she was surprised at how well Josu had done on his first day of school; especially since he had never been to preschool!

good job little man; good job!

purposeful re-integration - - the ugly side of it.

well, two days back now, and I'm working hard to jump right back into life - - I'm excited about meeting up with friends and contacts here in my neighborhood; I'm looking forward to seeing what "strangers" might be willing to greet or be greeted after our summer's absence (it happens - - have you ever noticed? someone who you see on a regular basis, but who you're not quite on greeting terms with, is more ready to say hello or to respond to a hello after you haven't seen each other for a while; it's true! try it! try it! try it!)

So I was thinking about all this purposeful re-integration this morning, and as I was in my local coffee shop, I ran into a girl that I might consider a casual aquaintence. our friendly interaction went a bit like this:

me:"heeeeeeyy! how are you? where is your little boy this morning?"

her:"oh, he's not with me this morning. . . . he's with his mumble mumble

(I couldn't quite catch this last bit- - it's kind of loud in the pasteleria and I'm still clouded with jet lag; I assume that the gist of what she is saying is that she left her boy back home with her husband so that she could calmly read the newspaper and drink her coffee - - a common treat for many of the moms with small children that I know)

me: (with a warm, genuine smile) "ooohh that is so nice!"

her: "uhhh, I'm divorced. that's why I said he was with his 'son of a **** father' - - the one who cheated on me when I was still pregnant . . . ."

oh shoot. oh shoot. oh shoot oh shoot oh shoot!

so, as calmly and carefully as I could, I communicated my most heartfelt apologies - - both for her suffering was well as for the complete idiot I had been to her. and she was gracious, but obviously pained.

I will keep an eye out for this girl, and I will be praying for a clear way to communicate love and care to her. pray with me, if you think of it.

the joy of knowing that you're not the hot stuff you once thought you were

I realized something the other day.

I realized that sometimes, I think that we're some the best parents we know. (do I sicken you? keep reading, keep reading, my friend!)

so these past couple of months we have been traveling around, and have been invited into the homes and lives of so many wonderful families; and all of a sudden we're not the best anymore; there are people out there that are doing such an outstanding, bang-up job of parenting that it puts me to shame.

oh, it's fantastic!

isn't the church wonderful that way? I really am convinced that that is part of God's purpose in the Church - - that as we see other Christians living faithfully, we realize that we're not that great after all. yes. I like the church. I don't mind not being the best, and I'm excited about being better.

"I woke up this morning and decided that I want to follow Jesus - - wherever he leads, because he is so mighty; AND I want to be baptized"

it's what he announced all day long to us, to Josu, to our cashier at the grocery store, to the little lady serving us lunch at the Chinese restaurant (who kept saying, "oh sure, whatever you want; whatever you say . . . "), to any friend or family or any remotely friendly looking person who we happened to run across

and I've been thinking about it, and I feel:
OVERJOYED: to think about my boy now, and eternally, enjoying and serving the God who made him.

GLAD: that he was so confident about it all (previous to this, he would tell us that he was trying to follow Jesus) and that it came out of the blue (well, kind of, I guess - - we are always talking about following Jesus - - I mean, it's who we are and what we're all about, right? ) and that he was so insistent and excited about it all day long.

CAUTIOUS: about ever allowing Malachai to assume that because today he decided to follow Jesus, and that today he obeyed in baptism, that it's "over and taken care of"; I want to be careful to communicate that while true discipleship begins with a choice to follow, it is a lifetime of faithfulness and perseverance that God calls him to.

BLESSED: to have a church family who was willing to drop all previous plans for the evening and to join us in a heartbeat for Malachai's baptism, to genuinely rejoice with us, to insist on celebrating the Lords Table together (even when they know that the way we most enjoy celebrating the Lord's Table is as an entire meal!) and then go out to ice cream with us!

A TEENY BIT DISAPPOINTED: that we aren't in Spain, and that Malachai wasn't able to share his share his exuberance with our friends and neighbors there.

. . . and I'll wait, and I'll watch, and I'll keep loving and teaching . . .

a cakestand, a suitcase, and free flowers

I got a cake stand for my birthday . . . isn't it pretty? Rachel has an uncanny ability to get you the gift you've been longing for for years - - and she usually ups it a notch too - - choosing, for example, a cake stand ten times classier than the one you yourself had imagined:
Malachai and I went to the trastero ( our 10x10 storage room down in the garage) yesterday to pull out one more suitcase, and on our way we saw these geraniums that one of our neighbors had thrown down onto the sidewalk - - cleaning out the shabby ones, I guess. They weren't too shabby for us, though (we're easy to please); we picked them right up and stuck them on on our table. We don't need them to last too long anyways;
just a couple of days . . .
Tuesday we drive to Madrid to fly to Dallas

you know how on the Iron chef, when the panel of judges taste the contestant's culinary creations, and the princess of Japan says things like "oooooohhhh! this is so exquisite - - like a rainbow exploding into a million dazzling pieces in my mouth!"
and then you (the show viewer) just kind of snort and snicker, and roll your eyes that anyone could possibly talk that way about
food . . .

well, it happened to me.
yep, here - - all night long Joshua and I were saying absurd things like - - "this is so good, I feel like I am going to cry!" and "the combination of textures is unexpected and masterfully juxtaposed" and "the flavor is so deep and complex, and yet so clean!" . . .

Really - - the food was that good.
the best part, though, was Joshua - - and me - - and Joshua and me married for NINE YEARS!
it gets better every year, baby.

something you need to know . . .

if you want to be a two year old with any social standing whatsoever in our local park, it is necessary - - absolutely necessary to own one of these little plastic motorcycles (called motos); everyone who is anyone has one.
if your parents don't want to dish out the fifty bucks to buy you your own moto, make sure that you know someone who does own one (in this plaza it tends to be the lovely little Jaquelyn); stand next to it, eying it wistfully and reaching out a longing hand towards it until the mother of the moto-blessed friend pushes it towards you and urges you to get on and do a little loop.

because teeth should be celebrated:

this post is dedicated to Selma.

and her new teeth.

we found this little guy (yes, we know it's a guy; he's clearly defined as such) tossed next to our dumpster this week. the poor baby had been marked up - - probably with every pen its household of origin contained; he was a wreck. we pulled him out - - he's such a nice size and shape, and doesn't have hair (I'm strangely, strongly opinionated about hair on dolls) - - hoping that his markings would come off with a good scrubbing. I've tried a variety of cleaning solutions and, while he looks better, the majority of the markings refuse to go. I have a feeling that he will make his way into the bag that goes next week to our local second hand shop (count on a Spanish woman to know an ink-removing trick that I don't!)

the cheeky cheese guy

we trekked down to Pamplona's farmer's market on Sunday morning.
I asked the cheese guy if I could try some cheese. "oh yes" he told me "you can try it - - and you are going to love it!"
we did try it, and we did love it; and we came home with a pound of artisan castilian sheep cheese.

Joshua likes to throw parties. you did know that about him, right? If you didn't, it's probably important that you do - - it's an essential part of who he is. I assure you, if you haven't been invited to one of his parties yet, there is a good chance that you will be; just hang around us long enough . . .
the first Joshua party I attended was perhaps the one headed up by his roommate Bill Clifton in College - -space lounge 2o10; they lined their entire room with tin foil and make made their guests sign a guest book with their planet of origin; and then there was his 25th birthday superhero party; we had Robin, Super girl, Wonder Woman, Poison Ivy, the Hulk, Mr. Furious, Spock (Spock? Spock?! you have to admit, Frank, Spock isn't really a superhero) show up to that one. And October, 2001 - - our Invasion of the Body Snatchers party - - guests had to come dressed as someone else they knew. March 2006 - - birthday again - - this time golden tickets went out, and a special request for guests to bring a something to eat that looked like something that should not be eaten. It's possible that the the Willy-Wonka trivia went a little bit long . . . but you should have seen the food! ah yes! you should have seen the food . . . there was everything from pretzel butterflies to an entire living room made of cheese and sausage!

So tomorrow we (Joshua, really, is the mastermind behind it, of course) throw another party.
At this party, titled Beloved Ecuador (because all really good parties have titles, you know), we will celebrate the roots of our Ecuadorian friends Jaime and Miriam, and prepare and eat Ecuadorian food and then watch End of the Spear
tomorrow morning I will go for a coffee and see who I run into; Maybe Ana and Miguel might want to join us . . . we'll invite them . . .

on raising boys in Spain

So. the June Cleaver of Spain doesn't have chocolate chip cookies and a glass of ice cold milk waiting for her boy when he comes home from school;
It has come to my attention recently that the Spanish mom that's really on top of it greets her boy at the end of his school day with a fat bocadillo de chorizo (that's right - - a piece of nice crusty baguette with a few slices of our favorite cured pork sausage tucked insde).
I'm slowly figuring these things out; it's hard work learning how to be a perfect mama in two cultures.

paella - - the way we like it

well, to break the monotony of the "gee! my kids are so terribly clever and cute and, don't they say the darndest things?" blog entries, I figured I would dish you all up some culinary inspiration with a paella recipe
Like a good gazpacho recipe, a good paella recipe is never exactly like any other Spanish woman's recipe - - you throw in bits of this and that, and you have a little secret something that you add in to make it your very own - - superb to any other paella about town. but not me; nope, uh-uuuuh. I got this Paella recipe from Janet Davis (she and her family were missionaries in Zaragoza, Spain when we first came to Spain) and I'm not changing it. it's perfect the way she gave it to me. It's not the most traditional Paella recipe you may come across, but it is our favorite (and it may very well become yours!)

in a paella pan (or a large shallow saucepan that can go stove-top as well as oven) fry the following in a bit of olive oil:
three boneless, skinless chicken breasts, cut into thirds, salted and peppered and browned just slightly. (take out of pan and set aside)
one diced red pepper - - sauteed until just soft (take out of pan and set aside)
1/2 link of Spanish chorizo (buy it, along with any other of your authentic Spanish food needs, here), cut into rounds and just barely browned (take out of pan and set aside)

in the same pan, add:
1/4 c. olive oil
one can of diced tomatoes
2c. fresh or frozen green beans (preferably flat) cut into 2 inch strips
a couple of sprigs of fresh rosemary
a few cloves of garlic, diced
a teaspoon or so of salt
cook this up for about five minutes and add:
1.5 c. short grain rice
the set aside peppers
the set aside chorizo
with a wooden spoon, smooth the top of the rice mixture and press the chicken pieces into it. pour 3 c. boiling chicken broth over the top. do not stir. cook on medium heat for about 15 minutes, and then place into a preheated 350 degree oven for another 15 minutes. cover with a clean dishtowel and let sit for 10 minutes. serve it up with lemon wedges, a crusty baguette, and a nice Spanish salad (it's easy - - lettuce, tomato wedges, sweet onion wedges and green olives - - dressed with extra virgin olive oil, vinegar, and salt.)
sigh.
perfect.

in Spanish, there are two ways to relate an event:
there are cuentos - - stories (the fictional kind)
and there are historias - - histories (you know, the true kind)
I like it; I like that in a world where the distinction between the real and the imaginary is too often muddied, there exists a way to differentiate between the two - - that within the vocabulary itself, I'm offered the possibility to tell my boys the STORY of how Jack slew the giant (uuuhhhh . . . althoughI have to admit that in my version Jack doesn't actually slay the giant, he returns good for evil, and wins the giant over to be a dear friend . .. I'm a dork, I know . . . ) and the HISTORY of how David slew the giant Goliath.
It's nice, don't you think?

on a different, though possibly equally important, note - - I think I'm becoming an old woman.
I like blue cheese
I like walnuts
I like blue cheese and walnuts together.
growing old is actually kind of pleasant.

on raising boys in Spain

I was cleaning out the closets this afternoon (nothing like the prospect of summer house guests to get me going) and overhead Malachai . . .
"papa! sabias que Agata se monto siete veces en el tiovivo?
Joshua: "hey, try saying that again, but in English!"
Malachai "did you know that Agata got to ride siete times . . . uh, how do you say siete in English?
Joshua: "seven"
Malachai "did you know that Agata got to ride seven times on the . . . uh, how do you say tiovivo in English?
Joshua: "merry-go-round"
Malachai: "did you know that Agata got to ride seven times on the merry-go-round?"

ahhhh . . . the few months we have planned in the States this summer will do my boy well.

It's understated . . . .

he's making her do the "YMCA"
she loves it.

It's snowing today.
Not the glorious run-out-and-make-snow-angels sort of snow; it varies between slushy mush and hail.

two days ago were lying in the grass - - a gentle spring breeze blowing the pink blossoms off the trees (see, here's a picture of my own little pink blossom to prove it - - and the hat really wasn't even necessary - - it was just extra precaution)
and it was good to be outside. it was good because that was where everyone else was, and our quick trip to the park ended up lasting a couple more hours than we though it would - - because we saw Amaya and her husband Jesus,
and Amaya introduced us to her mom,
and then then Jesus introduced us to his older sister,
and then to his younger sister Maite and her husband and kids
and we talked about all sorts of things - - both trivial and significant
and they mapped out a tour of Navarra for us - - outlining what towns we should visit and what food we should eat, and then they promised to take us by the hand and take us there themselves on some sunny Saturday afternoon (or day, rather; there were a lot of towns on that list)

it was a beautiful afternoon
but the abuelo was right when he told us that morning that is wasn't good for the trees to be blossoming because it was going to snow . . .

"thanks be to God!" Malachai told me today as we walked to school "the rug in the living room was clean when I woke up this morning!"
um. I guess I should do a better job vacuuming on a regular basis.

On that note, this past week as I was cleaning my living room and noticing the scratches on my wood floor, the chocolate smeared on the arm of my white (yes, purchased before kids . . . but it had a zipper up the back and I thought that I would be able to actually take off the cover to wash it.) armchair, and the black crayon mark that mysteriously appeared on the wall behind the couch one Sunday afternoon . . I was reminded how GOOD it is to be surrounded by these traces of life - - of my Malachai and Josu, and of all those who have come into our home and eaten and played and lived with us; and as I think about it in this way, these marks actually become endearing! (um, not so endearing, though, that I'm not going to give that spit-up encrusted onto my couch a good scrubbing)

Where no oxen are, the manger is clean,
but much revenue comes by the strength of the ox
Proverbs 14:4

Grandpa used to clip our nails; I think it was his way of caring for his crazy grandkids that would cross over the Mexican border with half of Mexico's dirt under their fingernails. He would clip and say "snipp, snapp, snurr" as he went along; I wondered how it was possible to ALWAYS end on a perfectly rounded snurr. weird. how could my nails always need clipping in fractions of three?

I didn't clip any nails today. all three of my kids probably could have used a good nail clipping, but I didn't clip.

we did make butter though, and read about . . . well . . . Snipp, Snapp and Snurr (see, it does all fit together), and how they coaxed the sun to peak his head out from behind the clouds and smile his sunniest smile, so that the grass would grow, so that Uncle Freddie could feed it to Blossom the cow, so that Aunt Annie could milk her, so that mother could make butter to spread on the fresh baked bread.

It went off even better than I expected - - didn't take too long for my (less than dedicated) Malachai to shake that cream into buttery goodness, AND he was thrilled to eat bread and (he made it himself - - woo-hoo!) butter. We'll do it again. in fact, I think it would be a perfect thing to invite a four year old friend along to do it with us. maybe even two.

Joy in my today:

breakfast with the church
and hearing Malachai ask - - "when is the church coming over?"

You've probably heard us talk about this before - - that we are challenged with the idea that we are subtly influenced with the way we use our words. (seriously, we rant on and on about this, so if you've heard it before, go ahead - - glaze over, skim to the bottom of this post, and just write a nice comment with the time you would have spent reading and deeply contemplating this post) for example, if we say we are "going to church" enough times, eventually, it's quite possible that "church" becomes someplace we go instead of something that we are and live and love! Yes, yes, I know that a proper understanding of Christ's church goes far beyond a mere grammatical reshuffling, but it seems a good place to start, and so, as a family, we have taken to differentiating between the church (a group of people who follow Jesus) and a building in which that church meets.
so there you have it - - this next week, as you are getting dressed on Sunday morning, or as you load into the car on Thursday night to head over to the Pue's cozy apartment for dinner and LOST, tell yourself that you are "going to be with the church". Come on now, humor me; give it a go!

in the newspaper today

Child obesity in Europe: Spain ranks number three on the highest percentage charts.

possibly even more important, Pau Gasol - - Spain's claim to fame in the NBA has been traded to the Los Angeles Lakers. contact Joshua for more details.

Spaniards do this really well

unisex baby clothes.
they usually come in sherberty colors - - greens, oranges, yellows . . .
While this is wonderfully practical (think - -easy transfer from your first baby girl to your second baby boy, or easy gift stock up for all the pregnant ladies in the neighborhood when you can't remember who's expecting a baby girl and who's expecting a baby boy), it can also be terribly confusing; just this past week, I mistook a baby boy dressed in peach for a baby girl (Arg! why didn't I check for earrings?!)
When Selma was born I scored this cream unisex outfit from my neighbor/friend Maite. Sooooo . . . if you like it, and are expecting either a girl OR a boy, let me know and I will set it aside for you (see, practical, huh?)
p.s. look, mom! Selma is wearing the little hat you knit for her! doesn't it do a nice job giving her outfit a feminine touch?

Malachai, on brown rice:

it's like rice candy!

the one in which Selma gets her passport and I get scolded by an Italian stewardess

we learned our lesson with Malachai - - when you go all the way to the US embassy in Madrid to get a passport for your newborn, don't wait till you get there to try and get passport pictures in the photo booth - - your baby ends up with permanently screaming legal identity.

So this time around, with Selma, we did it right - - we actually went to a photo studio and got her passport picture taken by a pro-fesh-o-nal. yep. it was perfect. she was facing the camera straight on, here eyes were open, there were no parent hands or shoulders sticking in the picture, all six already pre-cut to passport size . it was perfect.

well, we showed up to the US embassy with the perfect picture, and apparently, standard Spanish passport photos are smaller than US standard size passport photos. so off we trudged to the infamous photo booth. here's what we got:
we actually used that passport as we traveled last week, and had no problems making it through passport controls (probably because she was crying as we went through most of them, and she looked just like her photo).

Selma's socks came off as we made a plane change in the toasty warm Milan Airport , and before we reboarded I searched my pockets for her socks. (five years in Europe has taught me enough to know that I shouldn't be too long in public with a sockless baby) I checked all my pockets; no socks. They ushered us down the walkway into the airplane (Joshua doesn't have the socks, Rachel doesn't have the socks . . . ) There was the stylish little Italian stewardess welcoming us all onto the airplane - - and I didn't didn't understand a word she said, but I know perfectly well I was chastised for my sweet baby's cold feet.

a trip downdtown and public transportation evangelism with a four year old

we took the bus to (and from) downtown this afternoon. On the way home our bus slammed on its brakes to avoid hitting a pedestrian and consequently hit another vehicle. we all unloaded from the bus and squeezed into the one that was behind us - - and there we all stood, with our shoulders pressed into each others backs, eyes averted, trying to have as little contact as we possibly could with the stranger beside us.

and then my sweet Malachai begins to work his magic . . .
"my mama is from California" he announces to the hostile crowd "but not me! I'm from Spain!"
the crowd begins to soften . . .
"what's your name?" someone asks
"Malachai Elijah - - I was named after a prophet, you know. BUT I'm not a prophet, nope. "
"oh no?"
"Elijah was a prophet that had to run away from an evil king, and then God sent birds to bring him bread; ha, ha! can you believe it!?"

We chose Malachai's name because it means "My messenger", and we pray regularly that God will use our Malachai to proclaim his truth to the world around him.

I don't know, my little man, I don't know . . . you may be a prophet after all (a little "p" prophet, mind you!! but a prophet nonetheless!)

we had our first snow flurries last night; for some reason this strangely excites me (is that just because I have always lived in snowless Mexico, Texas and California? or does that happen to even regular snow dwellers?) And this morning, all snow vanished, we took a family trip to the Malachai's school to make up the parent teacher meeting that I completely forgot about last week (ummm . . . the one in which I was planning to apologize to Clara for slacking in so many of my parent responsibilities this school year). Clara expressed some concern that Malachai was having a hard time sitting and finishing his class work, and she wondered if maybe this was the result of him not attending class in the afternoon. have I mentioned this before? Although most Spanish children attend class from 9-4:30 (with an hour and a half break for lunch), Joshua and I have decided to send our boy to class only in the mornings - - a decision that, although scandalous among teacher and parent alike, the school has permitted us since legally, a child is not required to be escolarizado ("schooled") until he is six years old. Clara has been nudging and prodding towards us bringing Malachai in the afternoon for a while now, and although we still think it best to have him home with us in the afternoons, we did assure her that we will be working with him at home with some more structured activities. This seemed to satisfy Clara . . . and she was gracious about the missed appointment.

on becoming Spanish

remember this?
this bonnet (along with its matching sweater) was one of the treats we pulled out of the bag.
look at my little Spanish baby girl!

On the news tonight . . .

out of every ten Christmas letters written by Spanish children , three are written to Santa Clause, and seven are written to one of the three kings.

Last week Malachai's teacher, Clara, asked us to make a list of ways that we celebrate Christmas in the United States so that the class could learn about Christmas in other counties. So we made the list, AND
Last night Malachai and I made gingerbread men to send along with the list.
As we mixed and rolled and cut, we chatted; he was so cute! he was giddy - - telling me he couldn't wait till the other kids tasted them - - that they would say to him "oh Malachai! que buenos!"
and we also practiced:
"what are they called in Spanish?" - - hombres de jengibre
"what if someone says 'yuck! this is disgusting!' ?" - - no pasa nada!
I listened to Malachai pray with Joshua tonight, and I heard him say "thank you, God, for helping me to remember to say 'no pasa nada' (no big deal) to Andy today when he said that he didn't like the cookies"
I'm glad we practiced; I'm glad God reminded him!

feeling the love

even Josu known it's something to celebrate; when he sees the mailman at the door with a package in hand . . . he runs to the package, arms held wide calling SI! SI! SI!

yes, we've received that many wonderful, generous, creative, exciting care packages this past month; we are loved, we are cared for, we are blessed.

Why I love my local meat shop/grocer: when I special order my thanksgiving turkey she asks me if I want the head cut off and the insides cleaned out before I pick it up.

we had a lovely, wonderful thanksgiving, by the way. It was good - - really good. we had (church!) family, friends and friends of friends all sitting around our table;
the pies were a hit, meaningful conversations were had, plans were made for future get-togethers . . .

It was a lot of work - - after the door closed behind our last lingering guest yesterday evening, I felt like I had just been through another labor (well, almost!) . . .but I would do it all over again in a heartbeat, of course. It has been a long time since we have had such clear opportunities to live and speak very specific aspects of the gospel among Spaniards.

it's tradition . . . and I'm thankful

el abuelo (the grandpa) goes to the coffee shop every morning to drink his coffee and read his paper, and he always, always brings along with him an assortment of cookies - - wrapped in paper, and fastened with a rubber band. And when he sees my Josu, the abuelo calls him over and has him reach his little hand into his bag and pull out the package. The exchange of cookies for (somewhat superficial, I admit!) toddler excitement and affection is a spark of joy in the lives both of my Josu and of the abuelo . . . and I am glad for it!

the sink behind the chocolate cake was full of dirty dishes (and other dark confessions about my previous post)

Let's get things straight. I'm no super missionary. I think that I need to explain that postpartum hostessing doesn't come naturally or necessarily inherently delightfully. In fact, my last blog entry may have just as easily read like this:
invite like crazy: work really hard to control my thoughts away from "I wish I didn't have to invite anyone; I wish instead that people would be calling me up and begging to come over and see us and the baby; why am I the one who always has to take the initiative in relationships? Surly, if I lived in (fill in your favorite city) this wouldn't happen to me!"
OR
entertain the guests: hold back the tears when two neighbors happen to drop in in the least opportune moment possible when my house is the messiest it has been all day (not even time to shove the dirty laundry under the couch) and my bacon is burning on the stove top and my boys are rude to the guests and all they talk about is what movies and video games they play (as if that is what they did all day! - - there goes my parenting reputation!)

what is true: Spaniards, who are normally hesitant to take the huge relational step of accepting an invitation into our home (and personal lives), are strangely and beautifully softened to do so when it involves a newborn. Understanding this, I am trying to make the choice to invite them in. And of course it is (almost always!) wonderfully fulfilling, not necessarily because I did such an amazing job hostessing, but because it has yielded good times with people.

yeah . . . it's been a good couple of weeks

postpartum hostessing:
invite like crazy (anyone we could think of - - neighbors, Malachai's classmates, the church, individuals from the class Joshua is taking on inter-cultural mediation, contacts from the coffee shop and park . . .)
clean the house ("is that the doorbell? quick! close the kitchen door! throw the diapers in the trash, light a candle and stuff the laundry basket under the couch!")
feed the guests ( we've fed them a pumpkin pie, the carrot cake, the sour cream bundt cake, one of the chocolate cakes that were made and frozen while we waited, and finished up the five boxes of chocolates that were brought to me at the hospital)
entertain the guests (pass the baby around; assure everyone that no, we are not worried that she will become spoiled from being held too much.)
yeah . . . it's been a good couple of weeks

a week ago:

and I'm still finding coffee grounds in strange, obscure places. I think it happened because I didn't screw the top on tight enough.

oh the thrill! oh the joy! oh the delight!

we are so glad for the blessing of this sweet life!
Selma Rachel Smith
weight: 3.13 kilos*
length: 49 centimeters **

* 2.2 pounds per kilo
** 2.54 centimeters per inch

the one that didn't get posted

. . . because I wanted to make sure that they really were contractions; and then we had to run out too fast . . .



oh dang! is that a contraction?

I've established one thing this past week - - forced nesting doesn't
encourage the onset of labor. nope - - it doesn't work. true nesting is the overflow of a woman who is genuinely prepared to give birth; nesting, in and of itself does not actually make a woman ready to give birth. I think it's a bit like the good fruit/good tree images in Scripture.

on the positive end, I ("I " in the sense of "me and mom", mind you!) do have a defrosted freezer, my tomato plants are pulled and replaced with Jonny jump-ups, I am caught up on laundry, have made a cozy little moses basket out of a wooden chestnuts box that I salvaged from the farmers market, and I have two coffee cakes and a chocolate cake in my freezer (I'm scheming up a plan to have"come and meet and hold baby Selma" coffees with our friends and neighbors as a way to invite people into our home). I feel pretty good for being so miserable!

on raising boys in Spain

When we came back from spending a leisurely morning in downtown Pamplona to pick Malachai up from school we were rerouted by school personnel to the local emergency room. We did find him there; he had just finished up his pineapple juice - - bought for him by his teacher after he had tried convincing her that he needed a cafe con leche.
It turns out he had been playing toritos - - one of his favorite recess games in which one child, with fingers up as horns chases after a group of running, taunting boys; and he fell. five stitches baby.

. . . and we made sure that the school got our cell phone number.

Victoria Beckham on Spain

"Spain smells like Garlic"
. . . or at least that is what my neighbor told me that everyone's favorite Spice Girl said when she (my neighbor!) was giving me her recipe for pochas (fresh white bean soup) and was explaining to me why she doesn't add garlic.

it's unfortunate, really . . .

our sweet Josu is talking more and more lately. to his great delight he has discovered that he can say his brother's name -- he lives his life gleefully calling out for Malachai - - "caca!"
"ma-ca" we prompt him . . . "caca!"
"chai" . . . . "caca!"
"hmmm . . . chai-chai" . . . . "caca!"

thanks for all the encouraging and challenging thoughts on my last post. Here's my follow-up - - it consists of three notes to self; read along if you are interested:
Note to self #1. know your boy
he loves ice-cream; he's a sucker for story telling; I cashed in on this and found the right moment to dish up a bowl of ice-cream and incorporate my teaching into the best dramatic rendition of the Exodus account I could muster up; he was hanging on to every word.
Note to self #2. know your boy's limits
Malachai's question was a tough one - - one that I think can certainly be answered from the text, buuuuut I didn't think that the text was as "four-year-old-clear" on his specific question as it was on say, for example - - what God's purpose was in hardening Pharaoh's heart. Soooo I did what any good bible teacher would do - - I tweaked his question and focused on that re-crafted question .
and . . . as to not to give an overbearingly lengthy blog entry here, I really, really want to encourage YOU to read the Exodus account and underline every time that God hardens Pharaoh's heart and the corresponding WHY - - it's fascinating! do it, do it, do it!)
Note to self #3. know and love your bible
I read the account a few times over before I sat down with Malachai; this not only helped me to understand the text better and help me to know where to focus my answer to Malachai, it made me excited about the text (I'm sure I wore poor Joshua down over the next few days - - telling him "did you know that . . . . ?") and when it comes down to it, I guess that that is what I want to transmit to my boys - - not primarily a right-on answer every time (although I will try my darnedest!) but even beyond that a love for the Bible and, of course, the God of our Bible.