Off to work ...

I love this picture. I loved it the minute I snapped it. Little man thought he was "working" around our new home site. Daddy was around the corner doing the actual work. Mamma was following Little Man and his brothers, snapping pictures for the scrapbook. Little Man ventured up the hill, shovel in tow. I saw the picture before I could even raise my camera. It was there; I just had to capture it. Those are the best pictures. Not posed. Just life. I try to imagine what was going through his mind at this moment. Can you just picture him thinking, "A man's work is never done," as he trudged up that hill? I've already blown up this picture, and it'll hang in Daddy's office for us to smile at forever.

Parenting manual needs camp chapter

When the first-ever, all-inclusive parenting manual is published, it should include a chapter offering advice for parents sending their sons to summer camp.

I’m even volunteering to write it.

Chapter 99: Church camp.

Men, listen up. This advice will help you not only through sending your son to church camp, but to realize exactly what little boys are all about. Oh, you were a little boy once? Well, then, hug your mother and tell her she’s the most fantastic individual on earth.
 
Walking into the dorm to pick up my second son’s belongings after his first stay at church camp, I immediately noticed the blue towel sopping wet and soaking my quilt was not one of ours.

Lesson No. 1: Mothers know their towels. Even if we have 50, one in every color, we still know which ones are ours. I sent an old steel blue towel, not periwinkle. I don’t own a periwinkle towel. (Yes, periwinkle is a color — one word that men will never use. Ever.) With two fingers, I picked it up with disgust and moved it off the quilt. That’s when a man, a few years older than myself, said, “You here to get Lucas’ stuff?”

I nodded, and he replied, “Well, there’s a bunch of stuff in the shower room. You might want to go in there and see if anything belongs to him.”

With great trepidation, I walked into the shower room with my 6-year-old who had to use the rest room. He walked toward the stalls, while the man — obviously a camp volunteer — followed me into the shower area. There, to my dismay, was a pile of wet, nasty clothing — inside-out socks, swimming trunks, beach towels and underwear.

My gasp must have been audible, or the man sensed my anguish. “Worst group we’ve ever had as far as clothes. They just dropped them wherever they took them off.”

I thought, “Little boys dropping their clothes wherever they landed, then taking off and forgetting about them? Who would’ve thought.”

Looking through the mess, trying not to touch, I realized quickly the towel I sent was not among the debris. It’s why I send an old towel, old washcloth and cheap clothes. I learned long ago those things rarely make it home from camp.

Nearly running from the shower room to escape the clothing massacre, I happened upon my 6-year-old who was zipping his pants.

That’s when the man said, “This group was bad about clothes, but at least they seemed to know how to flush.” He then walked over and flushed after my 6-year-old.

Whoops. Another lesson: Not only do little boys leave clothing strewn about, they find it hard to flush, aim or put the seat up.

Apparently this, too, was news to the counselor. (He obviously raised girls and hasn’t spoken to his mom about his own long-abandoned habits.)

Later, after arriving home, my son’s bag was dropped in front of the washing machine. Emptying it directly into the washer, I noted several pairs of the underwear I sent were still folded as I placed them. Yep. This is a church camp lesson, too: Changing undies is optional when mom’s not looking.
And the bar of soap I issued was unopened, as was the bottle of shampoo.

“Did you take a shower while you were at camp?” I asked my little guy.

“They wouldn’t let me,” he replied.

Lying after church camp? Nope. Not hardly. The translation that can only be interpreted by mom: “I asked to take a shower 30 seconds before dinner, or in the middle of our Bible lesson.” Every chapter in the manual should end with, “Whatever they say shall not be taken literally.”

And whether or not little boys ever shed that quality can be argued later in life with their wives, long after we moms give up. Soap will go unopened, and undies may not get changed. The washing machine may revolt, and we’ll lose a few towels along the way. But in the end, we just shrug, laugh and know boys will be boys — especially at church camp.

It's not the walls, but what's inside them

It required careful planning. It required a lot of saving. It involved worry, scheduling and in-depth conversations about want vs. need.

We didn’t know if our dream would come true in the timeframe we selected. We had no idea what financing would be possible, and to be honest, we had no idea if that dream of a new home would ever really happen.

It was, after all, just a dream.

We just knew that six people, including four very active little boys, were quickly outgrowing our 1,200-square-foot abode. That was becoming painfully obvious on rainy days, friend overnights and through winter storms.

Hubby would just look at me and say, “Boy, we need a bigger house.” I’d reply, “What did you say? I can’t hear you over the wrestling grunts, truck sounds and your football game!”

Our little home doesn’t bother me. It’s my sanctuary. It is where I belong, and surrounded by quiet woods, most days there is no place I’d rather be living. But our home was increasing wearing on hubby, who desired something larger – built with his own hands – that he could be proud to call his.

So here we are. Land purchased, developed and now featuring a long drive and a giant hole. There’s not quite much there to see these days, but we see our dream coming alive.

On Saturday, we signed the construction loan paperwork for the biggest loan amount either of us have been responsible for, and the first time we secured financing together during our marriage.

And at some point this week, likely by Friday, we’ll have a concrete basement, patio and front porch slab where that big hole now stands.

Come September, hubby will begin driving in nails and securing screws, building our home from the ground up.

What that means to me is imaginable. To think of living in this house, one I could only dream of, with the love of my life and the most precious pieces of my heart, watching them grow with love and respect within the walls that I watched go up, is amazing.

People say building a house is the most stressful thing a couple can experience. They talk about layout, colors, space, light fixtures and cabinets.

I’ve never lived in a home I designed, so I know nothing of the sorts. I only know that as long as I share that space with the five guys who make my heart sing I’m going to be happy.

Sure, the house is nice, but I’ve always known that what lies within those walls is truly what’s important.