Glory Days

Last Friday night, the adults went out on the town... 80s style!  The McMenamin's Kennedy School hosted their annual 80's Prom Night--a celebration of 80s decadence--where people pay money to dress up like crazies in order to come dance to awesome 80's music.  Jorma and I went last year, and we were quick to rope Kasey and Elven into coming this year.  So, two hours at Value Village and $80 later, I came home with a dazzling array of 80's garb.  The guys all had a theme:  sa-weet ladies wind-breaker-esque jackets, complete with bright colors and shoulder pads, t-shirts in blinding colors, and some fly hats worn to the side.  I scored when searching for outfits for the ladies.  Both Johnni and I sported legit 80's apparel in sizes smaller than what we normally wear--it was like a sporting event getting us zipped in--and Kasey took center stage in a Madonna-inspired black sequined dress, cropped pleather jacket, hair everywhere, and a pink-leopard bow headband.  In a word?  HOT.


If you would have come to our house any time during the week leading up to this night of frivolity, you would never have guessed we'd have made it out that night.  Rolling off our return from Mexico, the flu ran through the house like dominoes, starting with Kasey.  One by one, we each took our turn suffering in anguish on the couch for at least twenty-four hours.  I brought up the rear, fighting off nausea--feverishly trying to convince my body not to be sick--for the last few days of the week, finally succumbing to defeat Thursday night.  After staying home from work Friday morning, and being asked not to bring my germs to school for the last part of the day, I was the most unlikely candidate to enjoy the 80's fiesta.  However, after some rallying, a healthy slice of meatloaf that stayed down, and copious amounts of Sprite, I was ready to walk like an Egyptian.  The evening went on as planned, despite the icky sick that romped its way through the family. 

Our time at the Kennedy School went all too fast.  We boogied on the floor a little bit, jamming to hits like Girls Just Wanna Have Fun and Rebel Yell, celebrating with a big group of friends, three of whom were celebrating birthdays (shout-out to Linds, Steph, and Johnni!), but I didn't last long.  My family entourage was supportive and gave up their spots on the floor to grab a snack with me and rest in the restaurant.  Little did we know, the notoriously slow McMenamin's service would keep us out until the end of the party--probably a result of the school being nestled in a quiet neighborhood.  In general, I am okay with the slow service; the food and beer is so good, and normally the company is so fine, that I don't care how long it takes.  However, the server we had at the school was the most unpleasant guy we've ever had wait on us.  I'm an understanding, empathetic person; in general, I am quick to develop some back-story in my head that explains even the rudest service.  However, because of the way we acted, we seriously felt like we were imposing on his night.  So, an hour, some delicious food, lots of laughs, and one poignantly meager tip later, we tromped back to the auditorium to find the dance over--a quick end to a great night.  

As we cruised home in the mini-van, packed in like sardines, pumping out the jam Smooth Criminal (the Alient Ant Farm remix), I couldn't help but think, "what a great night!"  But wait, haven't I been here before?  I remember a similar scene; switch out the people with my high school buddies and turn the mini-van into that beat-up Chrysler-boat we drove around, and there you have it:  an exact replica from my high school glory days.  Maybe we aren't as old as I feel most days.  While I'm not up for staying out all night like I used to (okay, like I did a few times), I'm definitely still up for a good time, and I couldn't imagine a group of people I'd rather be making happy memories with (not necessarily the specific group that was out for 80's, but the group of people around me in life right now).  Whether it's dressing up like idiots and hitting the town, or staying home for an intriguing game of Clue, these are happy times.  These are the new glory days.


~Megan

Colonel Mustard... in the Conservatory... with the Revolver!

What is it about playing Clue that makes everyone want to speak in a British accent?  We're not really sure, but our terrible attempts at lofty rhetoric were out in full force last night during our first adult family game night.  After an exciting and tiresome afternoon of digging through the backyard for Maddy's glasses, repeatedly reminding Brayden he was supposed to be in his room (a consequence for his sassy-pants), and an hour of Maddy crying at the table because she had to eat a miniscule amount of bell pepper, we needed a little something-something to liven up our evening.  So, after our delicious dinner of Traeger'd chicken breast, salad, and BBQ'd corn (thanks, Kasey-boo for the scrumptious meal), and after the kiddos were tucked tightly into their beds, it was time to add the key ingredient to a good time:  a board game.  I know what some of you might be thinking.  "Why not take a shot and zone out in front of the TV?"  Trust me, the thought crossed our minds.  I'm sure I don't just speak for myself when I say that the idea of a whiskey-warm-up night of relaxation wasn't a little tempting.  However, the idea of actually interacting with one another, while speaking in ridiculous accents, won out--and I'm sure glad it did!

Kasey Beth

I had never played Clue before, a fact that shocked and appalled Elven, the resident Clue-genius-extraordinaire.  He's what we might call a Clue Prodigy, brandishing detective skills only attainable through a lifetime of practice and discipline.  I'll be honest, for the first few rolls of the die, it was much more entertaining for me to produce mini-conversations and create relationships between the small figurine character game pieces than to actually pay attention to my Clue check-off sheet.  I started out as the burly Reverend Green, and after a scandalous tryst with Miss Scarlet, as well as a small skirmish with Professor Plum, all involving random murder weapons, my competitive spirit kicked in, and I was finally sucked into the mystery.  Who killed Mr. Body?  The smug looks passed between Jorma and Elven as they used their powers of deduction to check off more and more possibilities were infuriating.  And, to no one's surprise, Jorma solved the first mystery.  Bollocks!

After another thrilling round in which we exhausted our efforts in keeping Jorma and Elven out of the room they knew the murder was committed in, I eventually figured out the final piece:  the murder weapon.  I did indeed solve the mystery!  Since the game had dragged on and on in our attempts to keep Jorma and Elven from victory, it was then time for sleep.  What a great evening!  While this might not sound like a hoot-hollerin' good time, it was for us.  Our little game night was just another reminder that we all actually really like one another.  And, we've devised a plan for a new adventure:  Murder Mystery Dinner (some day)!   It doesn't get much better than being silly with people you love and who love you in return.


~ Meg

Mothers Day

Mothers Day has always been one of those holidays I tried my best not to forget.  Generally, I feel pretty good if I remember to give my Mom a jingle to let her know how much I love and appreciate her.  However, this year Mothers Day brought on an strange array of emotions for me.  While I started out really excited to celebrate all the wonderful mothers in my life, I got a bit of a rude awakening when I realized there were some stowed away feelings I needed to deal with.  To give ya'll some inside information that will make everything a little more clear, it has been almost two years since Jorma and I decided we were ready to have children, but--for those of you who don't know us or haven't read the other blog postings--that just hasn't been God's plan.  So, Mothers Day is just another reminder of my unfulfilled dream of motherhood.  It's easy to remind myself that God's timing and plan is better than my own, and it's easy to remind myself of all the good things that have happened to me after waiting on the Lord; however, truly convincing the deepest parts of myself to rejoice in the waiting and suffering is a completely different task.  My heart doesn't respond to logic.

At church yesterday, I was bombarded with an overflow of emotion.  As Pastor Timmy prayed for all the Mommas, he also prayed for those who were yet to become mothers, as well as those who never would be.  The tears flooded as I thought the words, "it may never happen."  This is my biggest fear; the one uncertainty I've been praying to be prepared for.  The church I go to is very small--everyone knows everyone, and many people have known me since I was a child.  As Timmy neared the end of his prayer, I started scrambling for tissues; in a few minutes I would be walking back up to the stage to lead the congregation in our closing songs.  "Ok, God, snap me out of this... please...  just help me hold it in."  The first song we sang was,"Take my hand," a song I wrote about a year ago about finding comfort in our Father amidst the raging world around us:
 
Take my hand.  I don't wanna walk alone.                                
The world may be screaming, but You're drawing close.
I can't believe I'm the one You chose.
And all the matters now is You and me--
in this moment, You're all I can see.

While I fought my hardest to not feel anything during this song, to try and hold in the tears that remained just behind my eyes, I couldn't help but cry out to God to give me the kind of peace in which He would be all I could see, to truly feel as though all I need is Him.  The small cracks in my mask of normalcy shattered by the end of the two closing songs, and Tim prayed again at the end of the service, this time including a plea that God would bless a certain married couple in the church with children.  I'm sure most people knew he was talking about Jorma and I.  What a blessing to be loved and prayed for so much, but my heart just wasn't prepared for the emotion. Tim prayed for us again after church, and once with me before I left; we are so blessed to have him in our lives.  I am so thankful for the pastor's family and all the support they have given me throughout my life.  By the end of the prayers, I could no longer respond appropriately--the emotions had washed out everything.  I'd seen my mother crying, but I couldn't even talk to her about it.  Hugs only.  It breaks my heart that she also has to grieve for me.

Romans 8:28  And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.

I pray for comfort, patience, and peace in the midst of my disappointment.  Comfort comes in many ways, the wonderful pieces of my life:  my husband, work at a job I love, a bustling household, and the amazing relationships I have with my friends and family.  Patience seems like the easiest, so long as I can convince myself that I will be a mom someday.  This thought brings the most challenging part:  my battle for peace.  It's easy to wait when you know you'll eventually get what you want, but the heartache comes when I pray for peace regardless of whether or not I'm blessed with my own children.  It's odd; sometimes I can convince myself that I would be fine, and I can rest in the comfort of being a part of the lives of the many children around me.  That's the peace I pray for on days like today.   

On days like today, it's difficult to fight off the seductive comfort of slipping into the numbness depression offers.  While that darkness isn't something I enjoy, the alternative can be much worse:  surges of emotion I'm not ready for, which almost always result in crying, mood swings, and general wallowing in self-pity.  I despise all of those things.  While I understand the therapeutic importance of a "good cry," it's not high on my list of favorite things to do.  It also seems futile to waste time grieving something I haven't even lost.  So then, what is there left to do with the sudden rush of feelings which sporadically invade my peace? Most of the time I feel as though there is truly no resolution for this pain, except to just wait for it to pass.  It's a hurt that gets a band-aid, but never heals, and I never know when the band-aid is going to get ripped off again.  There's nothing anyone, including myself, can say.  How many times can we say "wait for God's timing," or that "God's plan is perfect"?  I've heard all of the right responses, repeated them over and over to myself, but that doesn't fix anything.  What it does do, however, is remind me to turn my hopes, thoughts, and uncertainties over to God.  There is comfort in His promise.

Right now I am very thankful for some important people in my life, who have, in particular, helped me with the daily battle.  My amazing husband, Jorma, who just wants to give me everything I could want, has been an incredible support through all this.  We both desire children, and we both battle with the emotions related to not being able to conceive, but he maintains his role as our spiritual leader in a way that points our marriage back towards God and His plan.  My family and friends are so supportive and loving.  I spent about an hour texting with my friend, Stacy, this morning, debriefing what happened yesterday at church.  I know all my besties--you know who you are--would drop everything to talk to me if I was having a hard day.  And I am also very thankful for a new blessing in my life:  the Hillmans.  While it might seem like having children around me all the time would be a constant reminder of my sadness, the effect is just the opposite.  Having the privilege of being such a big part of Brayden, Maddy, and Bethany's lives has given me an outlet for my pent-up maternal energies, and while I am not their Mom, I get the experience of doing some of the "mom things" I've missed out on up until this point.  I also know that I will be able to be an important part of their lives as they grow up, which is such a wonderful feeling.

Whatever it is God decides to do in my life, my constant prayer is that I would be ready and joyful to take the next steps.  My hope is not only that I will find encouragement, but that you might also find encouragement in my story.  We never know what God has in store for us; I can't control whether or not I will have children.  What I can control is my attitude.  The mantra I've been working into my life is that "happiness is a choice we make beforehand."  So, by God's grace, I choose to be happy regardless of my situation.








~Megan

Tell The Drama To Your Mamma....

Waking up to my alarm clock going off for the fourth time and Madison yelling at the top of her lungs, "Mom, I peed in my underwear," really threw off my morning groove today. In my strongest effort to be optimistic, I hopped out of bed smiling and followed Maddy upstairs. Breakfast and teeth brushing went unusually smooth, and before I knew it Brayden and I were getting in the van headin' out.

As we pulled away from the house, I zoned out listening to Brayden sing to the songs on K-Love. When we neared 205, Brayden stopped singing and, in a concerned voice, said that a girl at school has been acting really mean to him. To most parents, their son getting pushed around by a girl is no big deal. Brayden is not like most boys. Brayden is very sensitive, dramatic, is all about talking things out, and laying all your feelings on the table. I wasn't concerned, just curious as to what was happening.

I turned off the radio and asked what was happening at school, and in an almost hysterical voice he blurted out, "She pushed me at the drinking fountain, she goes under my swing and knocks me down and takes it, and whenever I sit down she yells that I took her spot, and when I move she says that she wants the chair I'm in. I try to tell the teacher, but she didn't do anything. I say please don't do that and she doesn't listen. Mom, I even pushed her once."

If you're like me, at this point you're smiling and chanting in your head, "Brayden's got a girlfriend, Brayden's got a girlfriend!" I tried very hard to keep a straight face as Brayden went on about her using big arm motions and mean faces. I waited patently for Brayden to finish explaining. Once he finished and looked at me like, "well, Ma, what are we going to do about this," I explained that sometimes girl tease boys when they think the boy is cute. Brayden was not OK with this explanation. He started again about how she hits him, pushes him, and in no way is ever even "sorta nice."  Now, my instant thought was, "hit her back!" (I grew up with 5 sisters and 2 brothers, so I learned to stand up for myself early on.)  Immediately after thinking this I thought of Megan. I was thinking about what Megan would say if Brayden had told her about this. She would never even think to tell him to hit her back or yell at her. I was now thinking rationally.

I talked to Brayden and explained that he didn't have to endure that kind of relationship. It was OK to be stern and say, "Stop it now. I don't like it when you do that." Also to just try to avoid confrontation with her and try to surround himself with friends who treat him well. It was brought to my attention once again what a blessing it was to have Jorma and Megan in not just our life, but our kids' lives as well. Having four different adults with different experiences being able to come together and teach, love, and learn from each other is incredible.


~Kasey

"don't throw trash on the mooooon..."

Tonight's main event?  Brayden's grade school choir concert, an exciting choral extravaganza featuring the charming classics "This Land is Your Land," Zippity Do Dah," and--for the neo-hippie Portlandians--the new hit, "Don't Throw Trash on the Moon."  While Brayden's singing, dancing, and outrageous drum-solo were outstanding, it was the excitement happening behind the scenes (i.e. the back row where Kasey, Maddy, Beffers and I were piled haphazardly into two chairs, overflowing with coats and cameras, after offering our third, "relief chair," to a friendly neighbor).

With Elven working and Jorma sick, Kasey and I were Brayden's representative parents for his concert.  Now, in order for you to envision our little family unit for the night, I need to provide a little back-story:

Very recently--last week, in fact--the four parents were in Mexico.  While there, we marveled at the women braiding hair on the beach.  In excitement to have the experience, and save money, Kasey and I decided that I would braid her hair into cornrows.  It looked awesome.  After we arrived home, we realized that the "80's Prom" event at McMenamin's Kennedy School was only a week away, and what better way to produce perfectly crimped hair, but to have Kasey leave her braids in for the week and take them out the day-of?  If any of you white girls have ever tried to keep braids looking tight, you know what happens next:  an array of hats and head-scarves to try and camouflage the cracker-fuzz.

So, tonight before we left for the concert, I carefully wrapped Kasey's fuzzy-noggin with a subtle-cheetah-print scarf, and we headed out the door with the kiddos.  To all tolerating, hyper-sensitive, modern parents, it looked like Kasey and I were there as two moms (Kasey, the doo-rag wearing lady-thug, and me, the feminine wifey; we basically could have been cast-typed characters on "Modern Family").  Watching people smile politely and nod, thinking they understood that we were a "different" kind of family, then force a friendly, accepting greeting was quite the experience.  Both of us felt a stark difference from the ways we are generally perceived and interacted with when we go to events with our husbands.  Aside from our inside-joke chuckles as we watched the shock in their faces fade to over-compensating friendliness, the experience makes me consider how my responses to others might be hurtful.

Food for thought:  instead of dropping our jaws or working too hard to be over-accepting, why not just attempt to love all people the same?  Now, I'm not naive enough to believe everyone is capable of simply dropping all our preconceived notions about others or completely do away with the biases resulting from who we are and where we've come from, but why not make a conscious effort?  Then we can worry about bigger issues...  like trash on the moon!



~Megan

Welcome, welcome...

....welcome to our new blogging adventure! (an introduction from Megan)

These are exciting times, and our family has a lot going on.  I'm going to take a few moments here to introduce you to us and our one-of-a-kind family.  Let's start off with a little narrative about the men who brought this family together:

Elven & Maddy

Elven and Jorma grew up in southern Oregon.  The details about their escapades down south are a little hazy to Kasey and I, as during that time I was battling out my youth in central Oregon and Kasey was keepin' it gangsta in our state's capitol.  The guys have known each other since they were just kiddos.  The complete unabridged tale of how we got to where we are today would take more than this tiny blog post, but let's just say that after a whirlwind of affects--friendship, mold, circumstance, prayer (yes, lots of prayer), and laughter--we have arrived in a unique and awesome household of blessed chaos.  Suffice it to say, it was Jorma and Elven's sustained friendship over the years that brings us to our present situation:  a combined family of eight, all living under one roof. 

So, where do Kasey and I come in?  We are the wives and BFFs that hold the house together.  Now, don't get me wrong, we are far from running the place like a well-oiled machine, but we are well on our way.

Elven & Kasey, Jorma & Megan...  that's four people; we're only halfway there in introducing our brood!  Elven and Kasey come with their adorable kiddos:  Brayden ("Bray"), Madison ("Maddy" or "Maddy-cakes"), and Bethany ("Beff" or "Beffers"...  sometimes even "Finny" or "Befferee"), ages six, three, and one respectively.  And last, but definitely not least, we have Johnni, our housekeeper, nanny, daughter, sister, extraordinaire!  Johnni is actually Jorma's little sister, but she's been a part of our household for the past two years.  There's the eight people, and then throw in a couple awesome dogs (Jack & Jill) and now you've got a brief idea of everyone in the house.  The house with one bathroom... did I mention that before?

Jorma & Beffers

Amidst all the excitement that comes with children, a house in mid-remodel, potty-training, one bathroom, noise, laughing and crying, but mostly more laughing, we find the heart of our family.  Eight people who, by the grace of God, do life together.  We are each others' support, backbone, accountability, and back-up.  Sometimes it's hard to believe how much God has blessed us with; He is good, He is faithful, and He is smack-dab in the middle of our blessed chaos.

Through this blog, it's our hope to share snippets of our journey.  We have the strange ability to be mothers in a house where one of us stays home with the kiddos (Kasey) and one of us goes out into the workforce (me).  There are obviously challenges to be faced with so many people in such a small space, but there are also great joys.  We experience blessings, failures, happiness, frustration, and definitely some good (and sometimes bad) cooking.  We hope to bless others by the honesty in our writing, and share with friends and family the bass-pumping, potty-training, corn-dog throwing, free-for-all, holy mess, pandemonium that IS the Hillson household.

Until next time...

~Megan