We Have a Winner!

Or, more accurately, we have 3 winners! I'll get to that in a minute.

First, I'd like to thank all 81 of you who commented. I had such fun this week reading your comments.

For the record, a considerable majority of us never thought we'd be so conversant about poop. Really, we should have known, though, shouldn't we? I mean, my childhood is characterized by inquiries and warnings from my mother about the relative state of my bowels. My mom had the scoop on poop, I tell you. She knew what would give me "the back-door trots", the "green apple quick step" or just your garden-variety "runs". She could also predict what would "stop you up like a cork" with alacrity. When I was having a bad day and refused to be civil, she was pretty sure an enema was in order, the threat of which chased away many a case of Adolescent Angst. This may explain my hankering to hand out Fleet Enemas to the goth kids at the mall.

Coming in a close second in our very unscientific survey: variations on "Because I said so," including, "I'm the mom, that's why" and "As long as you live under MY roof..."

My favorite, though, came from Kristin. She wrote:

i never thought i would say "i love you" a million times a day, but i do!

And then she adds:

i also never thought i would talk about poop so much.

So we know she's really one of us! If you click on her name you'll go to her blog and see a picture of her gorgeous baby that will make you ovulate on the spot. Don't say you weren't warned.

On to the giveaway! We had 81 comments, so I asked three of my kids to each pick a number between 1 and 81. I can't think of anything MORE random than that. Here are the winners, in the order in which they were chosen:

Comment number 17, Shara, chosen by Seth.
Comment number 52, crystal (yahoo email), chosen by Hannah.
Comment number 70, itsahumanzoo, chosen by Olivia.

Check your inboxes, girls!

And now, if you'll excuse me, I think I've only said a hundred or so I love you's, so I've obviously got some catching up to do.

OH! Thanks so much to Chilihead for hosting this great carnival! If you LOVE giveaways, be sure you have Bloggy Giveaways in your feed reader. There's a lot of great stuff being given away there all the time!

It's a Bloggy Giveaway!

My sweet friend Jules at Everyday Mommy was kind enough to forward an email from BabyButler about a product they'd like me to try. I'm trying to get "trying free stuff" classed as "aerobic exercise", so I shot them an email and in a few short days I was the proud possessor of three of these charming devices.



They are made of soft, multicolored flannel and good for holding a bottle. They can also be used as burp cloths, changing pads and nursing covers, making them excellent shower gifts for breast- or bottle-feeding moms. They're dry clean only JUST KIDDING! Just toss 'em in the washing machine and they come out softer and gooder than new!

If you'd like to win a BabyButler Bottle Holder, retail value $19.95, leave me a comment. To make it fun, let's all tell one thing we never thought we'd say before having children. Don't have kids? No worries. Just tell the class your most embarrassing moment. Or the name of your fish. Or just say "enter me".

Here's the fine print:
•One entry per person, please. Multiple entries will all be deleted.
•I'm not psychic so Anonymous entries will be deleted because I don't want to wait on the Universe to bring us together again.
•US mailing addresses only.
•You don't have to have a blog to win, but you do need an email address.
•3 Winners will be drawn Friday, October 31, notified via email and listed here. You will have four days to respond with your mailing address. If I don't hear from you by then, I'll draw another winner (make sure you check your spam folder).

Okay. I'll go first. I never thought I'd ever have occasion to say "That's a very nice poop, Darlin'. Now let's put it back in the potty where it belongs." But guess what? I did.

More giveaways at the Bloggy Giveaways Quarterly Carnival!

Keeping the Destination in Mind

Today I was in the gas station stocking up on provisions for a road trip. I'm so desperate for a change of scenery that I drove 100 miles up the turnpike for the pleasure of lunch with Melanie and Shannon. Also in the gas station was a woman with a preschool-aged boy who wanted a toy and some gum and a candy bar and a soda and a box of matches (!) and on and on and on. The woman told him no...no...NO...NO...I SAID NO AND I MEANT IT DO YOU WANT ME TO BUST YOU RIGHT HERE THE ANSWER IS NO! To no one's surprise, he started to cry. Loudly. So the woman grabbed a candy bar, slammed it on the counter, paid for it and jabbed it at the little boy. The crying subsided, and the boy was obviously torn between the sweet taste of victory and the stinging of the harsh words.

We've all seen it. Some of us (me) have done it. Instant-gratification-type parenting decisions that will not bear pleasant fruit down the road, such as giving in to a child so that the whining/screaming/flailing/cursing-like-a-sailor-on-shore-leave (ZOINKS) will stop. Where does that get us? In my experience, it creates confused, demanding children and resentful parents. Is that the destination any parent has in mind? Of course not.

My husband and I are determined to correct, encourage, exhort, discipline and, when necessary, punish our children with our desired end result in mind. This means taking the time not just to talk, but to train. Not just to punish, but to examine motives (ours and theirs). When we're on our game, it goes something like this:

Call the child to us. This serves two purposes, first requiring the child to bend his will to ours and second, keeping the exchange private.

Name the offense. "I told you before we came today that you would not be getting a toy from Target. When you keep asking, you are insisting on your own way by badgering me. Badgering is not allowed."

Name the consequence. "Because you were badgering, you will go to bed 30 minutes early tonight."

What happens next depends on the child's response. If he begins to whine and complain, the bedtime will be moved up in 30 minute increments until he relents. There's nothing like going to bed at 4:30 in the afternoon to give you time to consider your ways. Here's the point where I get tempted to get off track by saying to myself, "...but we have karate tonight, and we've already paid and I hate for that money to go to waste and the belt test is next week and...". If my desired destination is having a child who doesn't demand a toy every time we go to the store, I have to be willing to put that goal above his earning a purple belt. Which one will serve him best in the long run? So, yeah, we'll be skipping karate, he'll eat an early dinner of a sandwich and milk, be in bed at 4:30 because Mama means business.

My point is that our driving concern, our Prime Directive if you will, is raising ADULTS who think, act and speak properly; who know right from wrong and choose right, even when no one is looking. There really isn't anything I won't forsake in pursuit of that goal. I will leave a full shopping cart, bail on a birthday party, and get up in the middle of a haircut if one of the children behaves in a way that requires attention and training. I don't have a more important job than training these 5 eternal souls entrusted to my care. It doesn't matter if other people think I've gone off my dot, or if my kids think I'm mean. It does matter that we see results that indicate progress, that we continually evaluate our strategies and make adjustments as necessary according to each child's temperament, needs, strengths and weaknesses. Our kids deserve to be parented purposefully. All children do.

Practical Wisdom

This post challenged me today. I hope you'll check it out. It made me realize that, while I have a reasonably valid excuse for the clutter in my home right now, I have no excuse at all for the clutter in my life and in my heart. I can spend 30 minutes, 8 times a day searching myself for things that fall short of God's standard if I will just take the opportunity. I can confess my sins, pray for my family and friends, memorize God's Word and nourish my spirit while I nourish my little boy. This could cut into my Twittering.

In other news, our air conditioner is out. I know it's October, but this is Oklahoma and I'm a weenie. If it's 85 outside, Mama's got "bought air" inside. Also on the injured list: the dishwasher. It appears to fill with water, but the water, somehow, doesn't spray around enough to wash the dishes. I know. My grasp of Things Mechanical boggles the mind. Lastly, completing the Household Budget Bomb Trifecta, there's a leak under the kitchen sink. It appears to come from nowhere, though that is still under investigation.

Little Jesse seems to be struggling with reflux, and I'm doing everything I can to help the little fella out. This includes cutting dairy, caffeine and chocolate from my diet, among other, less traumatic adjustments. Y'all. I'm down to eating sticks and dirt here. That can't be good, can it?

So, to recap: My house is a mess and so is my life. I'm eating sticks and dirt off paper plates in the stifling heat and I have minihoonies peeing under my sink. This is going to be an interesting week.

He's a Magnet

And I'm made of steel.






Thanks so much to my little sister for bringing her neato camera, the patience of Job and her artistic eye (and her other eye, too).

Mom, Interrupted

It's 10:52pm, and as soon as I finish writing this, I'm going to bed. That presumes that I do actually finish writing this. And if I should manage to finish this post, it will have the distinction of being one of the rare few things I did finish today. I am Mom, Interrupted.

This morning at 7am I was nursing the baby and overseeing the beginning of the "Friday Cleaning". Now, after feeding a bunch of kids a bunch of times, supervising and correcting their attempts to clean up after themselves, and beginning a major clean-up of the little kids' room, I'm dog-tired and done in. The toilets are clean, but the bunk beds have no sheets. The dishes are done, but the tile floors need sweeping. I kept meaning to have someone sweep the front porch but that never got done, and we've had our Christmas wreath up since last Thanksgiving, to our neighbors' delight, no doubt. And my intention to re-claim our bedroom remains just that, my intention. Drat.

Today, what is aggravating me the most is all of the things that are half done. I wish I could go around the house and put a half-done bathroom with some half-done laundry and come up with one wholly-done something. So far, I haven't had any luck there. I want to look at how I'm going about all this stuff and see if there's not some way to streamline the efforts and end up with more completed tasks, even if it means fewer tasks begun. Does that make any sense? I'll keep you abreast of all developments, as I know this is riveting stuff.

In other news, I made a play date for next week with Shannon and Melanie. Can I just say for the record that I CAN NOT WAIT! I've been hankering to go ANYWHERE for any reason, or for no reason at all. This explains my eagerness to ride shotgun on Dan's trip to the Apple Store (the geographical center of the Universe, as far as he's concerned) to drop off his mom's computer to be repaired. The Apple Store is in the mall. I have a confirmed allergy to the mall, and yet I slapped on a little spackle and my dear Daring LipSlick (my little act of public service), put a semi-crabby baby in the car seat and rode my rosy pink rear to the mall. And I was glad to do it. So, yep, I'm definitely hard up for action.

And now, I will declare this post finished. It's 11:15pm and I'm going to try going to bed in the same day that I got up. Novel concept, no?

Why Photos Are Best Done By the Pros

Last Sunday, we loaded up the minivan and made the 2-hour trip to visit Dan's grandfather. Grandan, as we call him, had turned 95 the week before and we had some homemade goodies to bring him. Also, we wanted to introduce him to his namesake, our 6-week-old baby Jesse Winston. The trip was uneventful, if, by uneventful I am understood to mean minimal bickering and only one bathroom stop. We arrived and paraded the herd into Grandan's home, which he built in the '50's and lives alone in today. Let's just say that as we tromped in, Peace tromped out, dragging Quiet along behind.

One of my primary goals for this visit was to take pictures of baby Jesse with his great-grandfather Winston.

Now, our child is not normally cross-eyed and my husband doesn't normally smile like a used-car salesman. Poor Grandan had to endure an eternity of high-pitched baby calls, puncutated with every mild expletive I know, with the occasional "get down from there, Seth." It was torture, I tell you.

I took 61 pictures.
These are the best of the bunch.
It's the thought that counts, right?
To appreciate the full catastrophe, click on the pictures to view them full size.

And Now, For Your Reading Pleasure...

...a meme! Jules tagged me, and I'm in the mood to play along. Here goes.


SIX RANDOM THINGS ABOUT ME

6. I'm not sentimental. I don't have all my kids' baby teeth or their first locks of hair. At times it makes me feel terribly practical. Other times, I just feel kind of terrible. I've tried to manufacture sentimentality, but it just won't come. My mother-in-law is alternately puzzled and horrified by the stuff I don't hang on to.

5. My brain is a vast repository of useless knowledge. I know the lyrics to thousands of songs, I can remember every phone number I've ever had and the names of our neighbors when I was 3. I have to call the pediatrician to ask which of the kids have had chicken pox. Strange but true.

4. I was stung by a jellyfish as a kid. My stepmom made me let my stepcousin (is that even a word?) pee on my foot. Then she put meat tenderizer on it and wrapped it in gauze.

3. I always know two ways out of any place I'm in. I'm certain that the day will come when a fire, tsunami, terrorist or someone with really bad gas is going to alarm and disorient everyone in the room and I will need to have already scoped out all exiting options. When faced with an emergency, most people will automatically try to leave through the door they came in. I, on the other hand, will be safe and sound while everyone else is stuck in a fire or cloud of flatulence, may God have mercy on your souls.

2. I made a record when I was 12. In the interest of full disclosure, I made the record with a couple hundred other 5th and 6th graders, but I'm on the album cover. With the other couple hundred kids. You can pick me out by the large afro and the reflection in my giant eyeglasses. It's a good picture because you can't really see my buck teeth.

1. I'm thinking of hiring a professional organizer to arrange my iTunes. I've made a few false starts, but I got overwhelmed. I know there's got to be some way to arrange and sort my music library, but I'm having the darndest time. As a result, I'll pop my headphones in, hit "shuffle" and end up jamming to "I'm the Map!" I can handle the garage, the attic and the kids' bedrooms, but the iTunes, it mocks me.

Now, I'd love to know 6 random things about YOU! If you play along on your blog, let us know in the comments so everyone can come check it out. I know many of you have done this meme or one like it, so I hope you'll leave us a link to your random things list.

WFMW: Turn Down the Volume

I wrote in this post that I don't yell at my children. I meant that sincerely. I really don't yell. Shannon emailed me about another subject, but asked me to tell her how I managed the not yelling and subsequently pronounced my reply post-worthy, so here it is.

Of course, I never intended to yell at my kids. I had been yelled at, and I knew how it felt. I knew I'd never do such a thing. Then I actually had the kids. Yelling came frighteningly easily to me. I didn't yell profanities or threats. I didn't scream vulgarities. I simply raised my volume because I wanted to be heard. Or to make a point. To a three-year-old. I can't think of anything more frightening to a 37-pound child than a giant grown-up towering overhead and yelling. I knew this wasn't the kind of mother I wanted to be. I always meant to never yell again, and when I failed I felt like a complete monster. I brought up the subject with my Mothering Mentor, who said, "Yelling is lazy mothering." Ouch. She added, "Purpose in your heart not to raise your voice." I thought that was what I was doing after every yelling episode, but I was mistaken. She went on to tell me HOW to go about it.

First, she told me to pray about it specifically every day for 6 months. Whether it was currently a problem or not, I was to bring this habit before the Lord every single day. This had the effect of keeping me acutely aware of my desire not to raise my voice. The result was that the instances of yelling immediately decreased dramatically.

Next, she had me search the Scriptures for specific passages relating to this struggle. She didn't give me any hints, either. I found a few that really spoke to me and I committed them to memory.

Lastly, she suggested that I make a plan. I was to come up with a new routine that I could employ instead of yelling. Now, when I need to make myself heard, I stop what I'm doing and go to the person I need to address. I put my hands on them in a loving way and wait for them to make eye contact with me. Then I tell them what I have to say in a soft, controlled voice. This serves me in that it ensures that what I say is exactly what I mean, no more and no less. It keeps me from just popping off with the first thing that comes to mind. I have stopped the van at times to get out, go around to the passenger side and lean into the back seat to deliver instruction. The children know that if I've stopped the car, somebody's going to lose a Nintendo DS.

It takes a lot of extra time at first, but now, 15 years down the road, I can honestly say that it saves me time, since I don't ever have to repeat myself and my children have been trained to attend to my voice and obey the first time. I've received a return on the extra time a hundredfold. Another benefit is that, in this household of 7, there isn't any yelling.

Not yelling works for me. For more great tips, head on over to Rocks in My Dryer.

Never Underestimate Your Influence

Thank goodness for Twitter! Another of the fine ladies I follow, Natalie Witcher, posted a fine piece o' bloggin' today. As I was composing my comment and began my third paragraph, it occurred to me that I didn't need to hijack Natalie's comments. I HAVE A BLOG! Of my very own! So here is another post, brought to you, in a round about sort of way, by the fine folks at Twitter.



I have a 12-year-old daughter. She loves animals, particularly horses. She is learning to apply makeup. She tends to write or draw out her feelings rather than talk about them. She also plays the harp. She has occasionally lamented her calloused fingers with their short nails and thick, muscular construction. Her friends have dainty fingers, and a few of them sport stylish manicures. This child has gorgeous, chocolate-brown eyes, legs for days (NOT inherited from her mother. Whatever.) and what can only be described as "Jhirmack Bounceback Beautiful Hair" (and if you're not old enough to get that reference, I'm not sure we can be friends because I'm obviously old enough to be your babysitter). My point is that she's a lovely girl with many attributes that I would think would be much more noticeable than fingers, but what does she think about when she looks at herself? That's right. Her fingers.

Yesterday, there was a plumber here. He saw the harp in our music room and asked me if I played it. I laughed and told him that our daughter was the harpist. He remarked that he'd never seen a harp in person, so I asked if he'd like to hear her play. "If it's not too much trouble, yes ma'am, I'd love to hear a song," said the giant black man in the plumber's uniform. Olivia sat down, pulled the harp back and adjusted the pedals. The plumber pulled a chair up close and watched in rapt attention as she played Beethoven's Glissando Waltz. When she finished, he gave her a standing ovation that I could tell came from the bottom of his heart. He said he'd always remember that day and told her that if she stayed with it, she would bless a lot of people someday. She thanked him, I paid him and he went on his way.

Later, Olivia decided to polish the short nails on her thick fingers a startling shade of blue.

I have a feeling we may have entertained an angel unawares.

Cheaper Than Therapy

I follow Stephanie (who writes so engagingly at Adventures in Babywearing) on Twitter. Tonight she linked to her post at Close to Home and I clicked over because I really don't need any more sleep. She took up a challenge from Heather at The Extraordinary Ordinary to write about what she's doing right as a mother. After reading Heather's original post and then reading the comments generated by that post, I determined that I would participate. I need to think about what I'm doing well as a mom. I really need to think about it right now. Today. This minute.


My first inclination is to say, "Well, I do have these couple of things that I probably suck less at..." I realize that defeats the purpose of the exercise and is not an encouragement to me or anyone else. So now, stream-of-semi-consciousness, I will simply list the things that I do well as I mother the 5 children God has seen fit to entrust to my care. My hope is that you will read this list and see some of the things that you do well and that will get you thinking about other things you're good at, and perhaps even rock at, and your head will be lifted. I don't know about you, but it's past time for me to look up and get a little perspective.

Here's the list:

I make my kids laugh
I love their daddy, and I let them know it
I tell them when I've messed up and ask their forgiveness
I read the Scriptures to them
I pray for them
I'm consistent in discipline
I don't yell
I make a priority of helping them grow their relationships with each other
I praise them sincerely

I've been told that I am a good mother, to which I generally respond, "I just try to be good enough." I realize now that that is a terrible response. When my mother or husband or friend tells me they think I'm doing a good job, I will thank them sincerely and acknowledge that it is by the grace of God that I am able to do anything well at all. To Him alone be the glory.

I'd love to read your list of what you do well as a mother. Leave a comment here and a link at Heather's place if you decide to play along.

Because I'm Too Broke to Go to Target

I'd love to have a new purse. I can't justify the purchase right now, mostly because I'm too weak to serve my family gruel while I have a stylish new bag thrown jauntily over my left shoulder. But I have hope. The generous folks at www.handbagplanet.com are giving away goo-gobs of handbags and I've registered to win one. I might get a new purse, and there might be meat in tonight's dinner. It's what we like to call a might win-might win.

I've Been Thinking

Having Jesse, and him being such a new little thing, is naturally making me think back to when the older four were tiny and new. To my great disappointment, I don't remember near as much about those days as I would like to. Then there are the memories of mistakes and wrong turns and so very many things I'd do differently if I had the chance. Of course, what's done is done.

I tell myself that I'll take more pictures and more walks. That I'll read more books and give more praise. That I'll be more patient and more fun, pray more and yell less. That I'll get it right this time. I feel like the David, the writer of Psalm 40: "...my sins have overtaken me and I cannot see. They are more than the hairs of my head, and my heart fails within me".

So, what's a mother to do? The only thing I know to do is look to the God who made me. I find encouragement and correction in the Bible. There is instruction and reproof. I see my own failures and God's great provision. I find the Truth, and that Truth sets me free. I can work myself into a world-class funk thinking about my own failures as a mother, but I don't have to. I can decide what to think, and I choose whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things (Phillipians 4:8).

I encourage you to do the same.

Twitter

Oh, how I love Twitter! I said one time that Twitter is to blogging what bungee jumping is to suicide: all the excitement, none of the commitment. In 140 characters, I've managed to sum up just about everything in my life. I'm not sure if that makes me very clever or boring in the extreme. I can sign on to Twitter and all of a sudden, I'm walking into a really cool hangout where there's always someone there I like and they're always saying something interesting, informative, entertaining, offbeat or thought-provoking. It's like being allowed to eavesdrop on people's lives, and it's crazy addictive. I use Twitterrific on my iPhone so I don't have to miss a single tweet.

Don't even get me started on the followers. Y'all. I have 72 followers. Do you have any idea how long this type-A, first born has wanted FOLLOWERS? In the great Twitter scheme of things, 72 isn't that many followers, either. Lots of folks have hundreds upon hundreds of followers, which is fine. I'm grateful that, for reasons known only to God and possibly the Keebler Elves, 72 people want to be notified immediately when our cat yaks in the laundry basket or I find my son's Booger Wall. Let us all take a moment now to thank God for the Information Age.

Amen.

I do have a few questions, however. "Retweeting" eludes me. I get the purpose, but I can't seem to figure how it's done. Also, how/why do people I've never heard of find me? My updates are protected simply because I got tired of the spammy-type followers, so when someone wants to start getting my updates, they have to make a request. If they don't seem spammy, they're in. But how in the world did they find me in the first place? It's a stumper, my friends. Lastly, what is the '#' for? What does it do?

I am especially proud of having figured out (to a small degree) StumbleUpon. GIANT TIME SUCK, but fascinating on so many levels. I stumbled some of the most bizzarre content on the Internet today, which explains why my shoes are in the middle of the floor and my preschooler had instant oatmeal for dinner. I'm pretty sure the Mother of the Year people will be calling any minute. I just hope they find me before the Health Department does.

We Think He's Pretty Great

Our new little guy is 6 weeks old now, and we think he's the cat's pajamas. I'm a little concerned about what he thinks of us, since this is how he looks at us much of the time:

On the Occasion of His 9th Birthday

Here's a reprint from my first attempt at blogging. I wanted to put something on here to commemorate my first son's 9th birthday. He's on a break from vision therapy (I'd call it maternity leave, but that would seem weird), but the story bears telling. Mercy me, how I love this boy!

Seth is such a fascinating creature. Being his mother has taught me so much about God, faith, growth and slickin' down hair (his always looks like he just combed it with an egg beater).

He was born with a cataract in his left eye. When he was 5, he had surgery to remove the clouded lens of his eye and have an artificial lens put in. Since then, he's been in vision therapy to correct his strabismus, esotropia and amplyopia (which is what I'd have named triplets if I'd ever had them).

Because the vision in his two eyes is so disparate, his brain had shut off his cataract eye and just interpreted images from his intact eye. One-eyed vision provides no depth perception. Even with the cloudy cataract removed and a crystal clear new lens implant in place, Seth's brain still didn't recognize the signal coming from his "bad" eye. So we began vision therapy to reintroduce his brain to his left eye and get them on speaking terms again.

Blah, blah, blah, and so on and so on. <--That's me skipping the technical stuff. In August '06, Seth had no depth perception. Not a glimmer. Not a whit. Depth perception is measured in arcs per second. 40 is about perfect. 80 is okay. 800 is the worst that can be measured. Seth's was incalculable. More than 800. Probably more like a patrillion, but that's just a guess, and (I'll tell you since it's probably not obvious) I'm not really that technical. Eight months later, he scored 100.

ONE OH OH.

On the chart. Measurable, repeatable, reliable. It was a banner day at the Wilson Domicile, as this one little victory represents daily, difficult, exhausting visual work. There's still so much work to do, but this little measurement is like a Gatorade and Powerbar combo meal that will keep us going a while longer. We will run with perseverance the race marked out for us. He marked it, we'll run it. To God be the glory, we'll glory in our portion.

Establishing the precedent that I can spiritualize anything: I will now give my theological insights on the above experience:

Seth was born with a condition that got worse as he grew (like sin). In fact, the mere act of growing increased the severity of his problem (like sin). His brain's way of coping with the visual deficit was to shut off the signal from that eye. Just ignore it. Make do with what the right eye could see. It was the only solution his brain could provide, and it gave him better vision than a mixed-up, partly cloudy image. We were created to see clearly and that was his brain's way of dealing with the problem.

Enter a great physician. He examined the problem, identified it and made a plan to remove the cloudy lens and replace it with a specially made, specifically calculated, individually designed replacement. A cut was made, the offending object was smashed to bits and sucked out, and a pristine new one was perfectly placed. Hooray! Success! Salvation!

End of story. Not.

The bad lens is out and the good lens is in, but the brain doesn't know the difference.

We spent at least an hour and a half every cotton pickin' day giving Seth's eyes specific jobs to do that would wake up and train his brain's visual system. Stimulate with light, train with exercise, deprive the "good" eye with patches. Stimulate. Train. Deprive. And wait. Just like the good work begun in us.

There are encouraging signs, little ones, that those of us who know Seth can see. And occasionally, there are big signs, like the test results above, that can be measured. Make no mistake, friends, the work is being done with the end nowhere in sight. The road is long and rocky and pretty lonesome sometimes, but God is here. Pulling us up, pushing us on, lighting the next step.

Depth perception. Seeing not just height and width, but perceiving that the object being viewed has depth. Lord, give me depth perception.

Welcome!

I've decided to try my hand at this blogging thing again. Not that I have such a terrible lot to say, you understand, but because sometimes it feels like if I don't get the random out somewhere my head will explode. I'm having a hard time even knowing where to begin. Over time, I'm sure I'll cover all the bases. For now, I hope a few folks will stop by now and then and leave a comment or two. That would be grand.

Also, if you'd like the chance to read every brilliant thought that skitters across the landscape of my mind, you can follow me on Twitter. OH, and because I have SO MUCH free time, I also have a page on Facebook. Everything you ever wanted to know, and then some.