Mad Mama Charmers

Sometimes Motherhood is really hard. Sometimes I lose my cool with the people that mean the most to me. Sometimes lack of sleep and stress gang up on me and I'm not the nicest person to be around. Sometimes I say something really awkward in front of my teenagers and embarrass them....and me. (Sometimes I do that on purpose.)

The wonderful thing about being a mother is that the very children that give me an excuse for being a deranged ranger are the very same children that make my world go round. The little people that watch Miss Bella dump out a box of cereal and then walk away from it....are the same little people that I find hugging each other better when a trip down the slide takes a turn for the worse. They bicker until I want to bang my head on the wall and the next thing I know they are giggling in my closet together. (Usually a sign that my Peanut M&M's have been discovered and are now being annihilated.)

As hard as it can be some days, I wouldn't change a thing. Not one itty bitty thing. The work is hard but the paychecks are extraordinarily fat.

When I've been a bit on the grumpy side, my little ones like to bring me things to help me find my happy place. Sir James has a great imagination. He slid a diamond ring under the bathroom door today and insisted that he observe the reaction on my face from such a gift. He unpicks the lock and I have nothing to do but proudly smile while wearing the leftovers of a plastic ring pop he had magically coaxed out of the seat cushions of Moby Dick. (All because of his Harry Potter "scar".)

Sir Matt is of a more practical nature. He knows I have a thing for homegrown. Today he served up wild plums and Sir Tom added giant crab apples. Yummy! (I might have some tummy trouble later on.)

Sir Sean wins the prize for changing mommy's mood, though. I was sewing my little heart out, listening to them speak but not hearing what they say. Hazy words make it to my brain like found, keep, cool, look mom. I look. Two inches from my nose is a snake. It is being dangled from the fingers of a very proud, grinning ear to ear, little boy and his posse.

I'm not lost in thought anymore.



(Photo Credit: Brianna) #bettermood#brotherlylove#happy

Pwincess Bwide

When Sir James turned three he still hadn't begun speaking. He reacted to loud noises and would sometimes respond when given simple directions, but no speech. Miss Nichole has some significant hearing loss so I thought I would take them both for another hearing check up before she became an adult and moved on with her life.

His hearing tests came back normal. Puzzled by this, I started doing some amateur sleuthing (internet surfing) to find an answer. I came across one person's theory that younger siblings tend to have speech problems simply because they are younger siblings and aren't required to talk for themselves.

Intrigued by this hypothesis I became an ardent observer of Sir James and the speech habits of the entire family. What I discovered was a complex system of communication that would baffle even a highly trained professional. Especially where my Five-Pack of little boys was concerned.

Miss Sarah has the most unusual ability to talk while breathing in. Scientist will tell you that this is physically impossible, but I promise you I have witnessed this for myself. Especially when she gets excited.

Sir Tom has large gaps in his teeth which cause a slight hiss at times and since Miss Sarah is just older than him, her breathing in techniques were passed on as well. Sort of. He speaks really fast, takes large gulps of air while doing so and the whole shebang is intermingled with extended S sounds.

I've always found all of the above adorable.

Sir Matt is the next in line and was blessed with very large (and if you ask him, very kissable) lips. Being trained to utter words by Sarah and Thomas and their idiosyncrasies, and then added upon by his uniqueness, he has the cutest fast talking, deep breathing, huge smiling, lisp lingo ever. I love it!

Then comes Sir Sean. We haven't figured him out yet. He has a Brooklyn accent. Absolutely no idea where that came from but we're keeping it. Could just hug him every time he speaks. Teenaged girls swoon at his feet whenever he utters a word.

That brings us back to Sir James. I don't think his lack of verbiage was a result of not having to speak, but rather not having any consistency as to the mechanics of the deal. Really. Wouldn't you be confused, too?

His mouth isn't helping. He has one of those touch-the-tip-of-your-nose-with-the-tip-of-your-tongue set-ups.

At any rate, we decided to put our shoulders to the wheel and all work to help him out. He began to talk but no one could understand him.... for nearly a year. Then a friend suggested that I make him smile when he tried to say important words. Huge success!

We still have our work cut out for us. Everyone pitches in. Today I heard Miss Sarah patiently helping him with a new word.

Sarah - say "in".
James - "in".
Sarah - say "con".
James - "con"
Sarah - say "ceive".
James - "ceibe".
Sarah - say "able".
James - able.
Sarah - say "inconceivable".
James - "income thieve a bowl".


I don't think that means what you think it means.

Returned with Honor

SHE'S HOME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I was really planning on this being a pictures only post. I had envisioned tons of super fun photos of everyone hugging and crying and laughing and hugging again. But true to Crisis Center protocol, there just had to be a story involved.

When a missionary comes home it's a big deal. We Mormons love to make it even a bigger deal. I wanted to be an uber cool mom and make sure Hermana Crosgrove had no doubts what-so-ever that we were excited to have her back.

When I take the Little People into public (try not to do that more than I have to) I like to put all red shirts on them. They are easier to keep track of that way. That backfired the last time. At the yearly town celebration I gathered up some children for lunch that weren't mine....they were wearing red shirts.

The Man and I decided we should have family shirts made just for such occasions and they should be really bright orange or some other color that would mark for certain a Crosgrove as a Crosgrove. We also decided that Nichole's homecoming and the trip to the very public airport would be the perfect place to try out these shirts of awesomeness.

And then there were the signs that must be made. A giant banner, twenty feet long at least, stating "WELCOME HOME NICHOLE" that could be held up for her as she walked down the airport corridor. And another sign to be displayed on the highway for the whole community to know that she was back and we were ecstatic about it.

Things didn't quite work out as planned.

First the shirts. Because of all that went on last week (Miracle, Still) I didn't get them ordered. When I went to the shop on Monday they were back logged and assured me that shirts could not be made in time. I decided to just make the signs extra cool and maybe add some balloons.

Then life happened. Our basement flooded. For three days we were able to nothing but rip out sheetrock, carpet, and insulation. Instead of putting things in order and arriving calm cool and collected we were back to flying by the seat of our pants and just hoping to get to the airport in time.

We didn't.

Her flight was half an hour early.

No banner. No shirts. No balloons. No cameras. Not even her family. Just a set of Grandparents to greet her (thankfully).

The Man dropped me and the children at the entrance and then drove away to park the van. The banner drove away with him, still rolled up and stowed away.

As we came down the escalator at the airport there was a crowd. Over a hundred people all holding "Welcome Home" signs. There were balloons, posters, flowers. These were the cool families that have it all together. I spied my father-in-law and I could tell something was wrong. Nichole had already come through and she had made a bee-line for the bathroom.

Guess where Mama Crosgrove and her entourage of Little Peoples went? Right into the bathroom after her. I couldn't help it. I wasn't waiting another second. We caught up to her as she was washing her hands. The bathroom is now filled with screaming, crying, hugging, oh my goodness let me hold you some more Crisis Center inmates.

And a couple of really confused women just trying to use the restroom.

I would have loved to have had those first moments captured on film. I would have loved to have done everything like normal people for a change. I was more than a bit disappointed in myself.

And then I heard Nichole's side of the story.

She had been reluctant to even get off the plane. She wasn't ready. She knew there would be a massive family and lots of fanfare waiting for her and she didn't want it. She had just spent the past year and a half of her life completely forgetting about herself and focused on bringing souls to Christ. Her stomach was roiling at the thought of having all of the attention just on her.

She was praying that somehow all of the hoopla and commotion would go away and she could just have time to slowly adjust to this new life of hers. As she came down the corridor and saw all of those signs and balloons and eager faces she prayed again. "Please don't let any of these people be my family."

God answers prayers.

My name is Hermana, but you can call me Sister!

For the past couple of months there has been a count down on the dining room chalkboard. (Doesn't everyone have a ten foot chalkboard in their dining room?)

It drives me nuts.

I'm not real big on countdowns. Prefer to live in the moment. Actually, I prefer to not be constantly reminded that something major is coming down the pike and I should probably be preparing for it whether I have the ability to do so or not.

In this case the impending something is definitely of the major event sort.

My little girl is coming home.

Tomorrow.

I just started shaking a bit.


A month ago I had the privilege of meeting a new friend. (Hi Greg!) He is not of my faith but he knows a bit about the people referred to as Mormons. He lives close to where my son is serving his mission and told my husband to call if ever Elder Crosgrove needed anything. I can't tell you how much that means to a mother of a missionary. I was excited to meet this very generous person and was very happy that the Man and I were able to spend an afternoon touring Sheboygan with him.

The first thing Mr. Greg has to say to me throws me off a bit. He asks me why a religion that is all about family would excommunicate their children from the family for a year so they could serve a mission. I had to correct that. We don't send our children off for a year.

We send them off for two years.

His comment does make me think. Why do we do that? Why would anyone send their teenaged children away for two years, eighteen months for the girls, and know that the only way to communicate with them would be through snail mail and e-mail? (And Skype on Christmas and Mother's Day if someone is generous enough to share some technology without being asked to do so.)

Well....I guess because I get it. I get that the happiness that comes from knowing Christ shouldn't be hoarded. I get that not everyone has had the opportunity to know that there is a difference between the happy times that the world brings and the pure joy that knowing my Savior infuses into my life.

And I get that when a teenager learns to think only of other people, the entire universe opens up to them. Life is no longer about making money and impressing friends. Having the latest and greatest fashions and hanging out on the weekend becomes irrelevant. A certain clarity is developed and major life decisions are easier to make. And I want that for my children.


In an odd series of events, my first two teenagers left the same day. The exact same day.

There are quite a few hoops that have to be jumped through to serve a mission. Medical exams, shots, dental appointments and usually wisdom teeth removed. Personal study and worthiness to attend to as well as buying a wardrobe for two years. Lots of white shirts for Elder Spencer and lots of skirts for Hermana Nichole. And when all is finished they turn in their papers and someone else decides where they will be serving.

Their mission calls came on the same day. They were both called to serve in the Spanish language, Spencer to Los Angeles and Nichole to Dallas. I thought at the time this would be a great excuse for me to learn a new language, too. The time has flown and about all I can say is mui bueno when I'm asked how my enchilada tastes.

So here we are. Hermana Nichole Crosgrove will be under my roof again tomorrow night at this time. To be honest, I am nervous. I feel like I know from her letters that she has spent the past eighteen months loving people that she's just met. But I'm worried about how she'll feel about being home again, with the Crisis Center in full swing.

Quietness is something you can get used to.

Our home is anything but quiet.

I feel like an expectant mother again. I've even been nesting. We painted her room, washed her clothes and made sure her bed is just the way she used to like it. And I'm emotional. Hairy Mooses I'm emotional. Just anyone bring it up and out spring the tears.

But mostly I just can't wait to hug her. I just want to hold her for like forever. I might not even let her out of the house for a few weeks and throw all of the young men that come around off of the porch. (I know there will be young men!)


To answer a few more of the questions: I did not make Nichole go. She has been looking forward to serving since she was old enough to decide which clothes to wear. Yes, I have missed her. Yes, there have been times when I wanted to just scoop her up and have her with me.

And even though you didn't ask, yes, I will be crying tears of joy when she sees her littlest sister for the first time!

A Miracle, Still

 It's been a week.

 I'm just today allowing myself to process all the growing that has been required the past few days that seem more like a year.

It's because of a cousin that is more like a brother. I blame that on my mother. She has a tendency to just love people because they are people and she just loves him. And he loves and accepts her and calls her Mama T. Which means he's stuck with me as a sort of a sister.

Lance is married to a most remarkable woman. I just love her. Even more so after the past few days.

 I got to see firsthand why they are so amazing together.

I have given birth thirteen times. Giving birth is sacred to me. If I had it my way there would be no one but my sweetheart and the throngs of heaven with me when a sweet child comes into this world. That isn't practical, I know. Most of the time it isn't even possible. I've needed help of some sort or another and I'm thankful there have been others there to fill those needs.

Having other people around doesn't make it less sacred. That's one of the things that I learned this week. Another is that sacred things remain that way because they are treated with respect and dignity. So I hope that Lance and Kim will understand that I am not writing their birth story.

 Birth stories belong to the parents.

 Especially to the mama.

Only she knows the deepest feelings of her heart. Only she knows the things that were of the greatest worth that day. Only she knows and understands where the power and strength to carry on came from. Only she knows the things that must never be forgotten.

 And the things that must not be remembered.

I need to write about the experience, though. I need to allow my heart to say some of the things it has felt this week. I need to work through the emotion that has built up.

A baby. No heartbeat. A Mommy. A Daddy. Pain. Sorrow.

What can I do to alleviate some of the pain? DOING becomes a need. I need to be able to have some control over a situation that no one has any control over.

I get to spend an afternoon finishing the inside of a beautiful little casket. I have to stop now and then as waves of emotion flood over me. I'm remembering back to just a few hours before, when the tiny body that will rest here is cradled in my hands.

When I first saw little Matthew, it was too much. I became weak and had to leave the hospital room. Babies are not supposed to be born sleeping.

As I tried to gather myself together I learned something else. Caregivers have emotions, too. A sweet nurse that was all business in the delivery room was now with me in the hallway. We exchanged hugs and tears and then she took a deep breath, put on a brave face and went on with her work.

 I decided to learn something from her.

I prayed to my Father in Heaven for strength. I was immediately overcome with an entirely new perspective as an answer to that prayer. I was no longer focused on this sleeping child that would not wake, but on the absolute miracle that had occurred. Here was a precious body for a spirit that had returned home. Such a beautiful face! Tiny nostrils and perfect lips. Sweet fingers on a hand that was smaller than my finger print. 

And those feet! Absolute perfection. How could toes that were no thicker than my fingernail be so precise, perfectly detailed, and so adorable? I just couldn't get over those feet!

Miss Brianna was asked to record this sacred time with photographs. It was my privilege to be by her side. We both felt the guidance that comes from the other side. We both felt the spirit of this little person. 

We both felt the sense of humor that came with that spirit.

Now and then I notice little moments of growth in my children. Sometimes I witness womanhood come on over night. Brianna astounds me. I am so proud of her for developing an interest into a talent and then sharing that talent for so much good.

As Miss Brianna and I left the hospital we were humbled and quiet. There weren't many words to share. Words hadn't even been formed yet. We started out in the darkness of night but as we drew nearer to our home the light began to erupt from over the mountains in all directions. Miss B, as tired and worn as she was, had to stop the car. She ran out into a field, got down on her knees, and started snapping pics of the sunrise. I was reminded of my post Chasing Light. I know the timing that morning was a special gift to us. And hopefully to Kim and Lance as well.

I wish I could stop writing now. But I can't. There's more in my heart. 

My brother Seth left this earth just before I entered it. I never knew him and yet he has had a large impact on my life. His life and death changed my parents. It reminded them of how strong they are. His earthly experience drew my parents closer to each other and closer to God. They learned how to let things go that need to be let go of and they learned how to cherish the things that should be cherished.

And they learned the difference.

My father offered to have Matthew interred with Seth. At the graveside service I witnessed a great man stand at the head of his own son's grave and dedicate that soil to receive yet another special body. I can't begin to comprehend the faith, the understanding, and the love he possesses.

 When I asked about it later my father said he only wished he could have done the same for all of his  grandchildren and great-grandchildren that were born sleeping.

I don't welcome hard things in my life. But I am grateful for them. I am learning that mountains in my way can be marched around or climbed. If I choose to climb them I get a much better perspective.

Thank you Lance and Kim, for letting me be a part of your climbing expedition. The view isn't completely lovely yet, but it is becoming clearer.

Better Than New

I heard a very wise man once say that all good stories come about as a result of poor judgment.

I have a lot of really good stories.

The thing is that my decision making abilities don't seem to be impaired when I'm in the moment. I guess that's why it's called hindsight.

So here's how it happened.

We brought home some kind of stomach flu this week. No biggy. Done this before. And by day four the majority of the house had dealt with it in phases one, two, and three. And other than Harriet (my washing machine) desperately needing a twin sister, I think we came out fairly well.

Friday rolls around and I have to cancel everything because of the bug. Most of the children are subdued and content with Netflix and a Popcicle and my poor Steve is miserably sick in the bedroom. He likes to be left alone when he's ill so I get a brilliant idea. If I take the noisiest children with me, I can go to town and run a few errands! Steve gets a nap somewhere really close to the toilet, the Little People get a movie, and I get something accomplished.

It's kind of like If You Give A Moose a Muffin. If I'm going to town I might as well get some lumber for the project in the garage. And if I'm going to the lumber store I might as well buy some paint for the front porch. And if I'm going to buy the paint I might as well get some primer to go with it.

The primer came in two varieties, really good, and this-will-cover-everything-under-the-sun-and-never-come-off-no-matter-what. I chose the second kind. Just to be safe. You probably see where this is going.

I pulled in to the driveway. The Little People have been conditioned, just like Pavlov's dog, that when the van pulls in they should not walk, but run to help unload the food that must certainly be inside. They know that if they get there first they might be able to dibs something edible that otherwise might evaporate before ever having entered the kitchen.

 My little Sir Sean became caught up in the excitement of emptying Moby Dick (I'll have to explain the van's name another time) and grabs the primer before anyone can stop him.

He made it to the middle of the driveway before he stumbled and the never-come-off-no-matter-what is dumped upside down and all over.

My first instinct was to try to salvage as much expensive primer as possible. Things went downhill from there. I grabbed a brush and a plate and frantically tried to get up some primer and then quickly brushed it on un-prepped porch pillars and then ran back for more. Then the wind really started to blow. It took longer than it should have for me to realize that I was making a bad situation much worse. And that all that primer was permanently drying onto the concrete.

And that my little boy was watching out the window and wishing with all his might that he hadn't made a mistake.

Time to improve some judgement skills.

I called to Sir Jake to move the vehicles. (Any type of driving is still exciting to a 14 year old.) Dish scrubbers, car washers, and even The Man's wire BBQ cleaning brush went to task.

Sir Sean was right by my side and worked harder than anyone else.

The rain came down and one by one everyone else called it good. But Sir Sean stayed and did his best to make things right. As the last of the paint faded we had a little talk together. I got to tell him how proud I was of him. I had the opportunity to teach him that mistakes are just jumping off spots for learning. That when he makes mistakes in his life, after he does everything he can to make them right, there is Someone Greater who will make up the difference.

We probably won't be cleaning the BBQ any time soon.

Under Where?

 

Miss Lula and Sir Harley are taking over the farm!

Dollies and leopards and all.

FYI - Sir Harley IS wearing unders.

This brings a new meaning to organic farming though, right?

Moving Mountains

 "How do you do it?!?!?!" I get that a lot. I'm not sure exactly what is meant by that. I usually answer with some sort of sarcasm or reassure the woman (it is usually a woman who makes this comment) that I don't do as much as they think I do. But I always wish there were more time to give an in depth reply.

When I was younger I didn't want a mega family. I am the seventh of 12 children, my father is the third of twelve children, and my mother is the seventh of thirteen children. I watched the women in my life. I saw first hand how much work they did. I viewed with my own eyes the emotional grit required to be at the helm of such a large ship. They each had their own way of running a household....and none of those ways looked easy. I knew for a fact that I wasn't up for it.

Yet here I am. The Mama. The captain of my own destiny and I'm at the helm of a freighter, not a canoe. And I know how I got here. (And yes, I know where children come from...get asked that a lot, too.)

I've learned a couple of things over the years about emotional grit and about myself. I am amazing. And so is every other woman out there. I can do hard things. I can make mistakes and learn from them. I can get things right now and then and accept sincere praise when it comes.

I can recognize all that I have accomplished today and be good with it. And if I need to let go of all the things I didn't get accomplished today I can and I will.

The laundry pile seems to grow right along with our family. At one point, when we had three or four little ones, I felt it such an achievement to be caught up with the wash that I marched around the house blowing my imaginary trumpet and at the top of my lungs sang, "Hail the Conquering Hero!" This became a tradition and once a week or so I could be heard singing and marching proudly.

Then as more children blessed our home, the conquering occurred twice a month. And then a few times a year. And then.....well let's just say the hero hasn't marched since 2008. Man, that was more difficult to admit than it should have been.

But this week I found myself in an unusual place. I have had four really good nights of sleep this month, which is more than I had all of last decade. I woke up rested, not sick, and ready to pick up a few of the things that I have had to let go of since forever. I decided it was high time to march again.

I was able to put all else on hold and I washed. Not just the normal 4 or 8 loads a day. I washed from the time I got up til the time I went to bed, determined that the walls would be resounding with imaginary bugles before sundown the next day.

But the next day brought little boys that needed a ride to Cub Scouts, friends that needed a shoulder, a cross baby getting her first tooth, a migraine, drivers ed, ripened green beans, a sweet mother that actually asked for some help (almost never happens), the dog was sick in the basement, a parade, boys high on parade candy, and of course the ballroom team had costumes that were in need of help.

But I persevered.

By evening I had just two more loads. Watch out world, I'm coming back!

And then I went in to my bedroom. Sir Harley had fallen asleep on my perfectly made bed. Clean sheets. Clean blankets. Wet Harley. Two more loads of laundry.

The next day was a family reunion. I had a choice. I could visit with my siblings, some that I see once every three or four years, or become once again the Conquering Hero.

It was a lovely reunion.

So I didn't get to sing. I'm a bit bummed. Some of my children haven't lived long enough to see that side of me. But it's there just the same. I am still amazing. I can look at what I did get accomplished and be okay with it.

The next time I get asked, "How do you do it?" I'm going to be honest. I do my best every day. And then I go to bed tired and pray that He will make up the rest. And someday, if I am really lucky, I might just march down the entire street blowing my imaginary bugle.

All for One

The Daddy took the little boys fishin'. Sir James got the catch of the day. I love that the rest of the crew was happy for his success. He was so proud that we actually ate it! It made my heart skip a beat at the delight my son takes in being a provider.

If you want a really good laugh just look at their feet. Sir Harley had his shoes off  before the van even made it out of the driveway. #raisingtomsawyer. We just give thanks that he has pants on.

And Sir James has this idea that socks and shoes are interchangeable. One or the other will suffice. Discovered that after they arrived at the lake.

Still the BEST DAY EVER!!!