On the day I snapped this picture of Cruz, I was ready to collapse into that chair myself. Really, it was a trying day. A trying week if you really want to know the truth. Nobody knows the trouble this mommy has seen.

I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t compare motherhood to slavery. Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve seen is a song that originated among slaves in the 1800’s. Sometimes I feel like a slave taking care of my six men, four of them little boys, but don’t be fooled, these boys are men in small packages. They pee standing up. This is why they can’t be trusted.

I told the boys the other day I was going to put Opa’s trail cam in the bathroom, (Opa uses his camera to prove there really are mountain lions in the Buttes). “I’ve had enough of this peeing on the floor. We are going to find out who the real culprit is and he’s going to pay the mommy.” Kind of like paying the piper to get rid of the town’s rats.

I’m not sure what this boy will pay. Four to ten-year-olds don’t earn much of an income, but I’ve had enough of mopping up urine on my hands and knees a dozen times a day. And I’m not really sure it’s the little ones missing the mark. Even the twelve-year-old has come under suspicion.    

A friend sent me this clipping: In their brilliant book Nudge, authors Richard H. Thaler and Cass R. Sunstein cite some fascinating examples of the way small and seemingly insignificant details can have a major impact on behavior. The men’s restrooms at Schiphol Airport in Amsterdam are a good example. When the restroom designer etched the image of a black housefly into each urinal, it reduced spillage by 80 percent. According to Aad Kieboom, the man who came up with the idea, “If a man sees a fly, he aims at it.” Kieboom is what authors call a choice architect.

How brilliant! I thought when I read this. My boys love targets. Tires, lizards, the dead spot on our grass where they all pee off our front porch. I really think a fly painted inside our toilet would work wonders in our bathroom. I will even wear a cap that says, “Choice Architect” as I paint this housefly inside the loo myself.

When people ask, “Are you a stay-at-home mom?” “No” I will say, “I am a choice architect.”

I’m big on my boys making good choices. On Sunday, I had the 12 year old dress the four-year-old for church. My mistake was not inspecting the four-year-old’s outfit before we were halfway to town. Usually all the boys come to me on Sunday morning while I’m getting ready in my bedroom and ask me if what they’re wearing is okay. Often I make them change something. You’d be amazed what a little boy thinks is okay for church. Ninja costumes without underwear are not okay.

So we’re on the road to church. Already in a hurry because we’re running behind. My husband does not run behind. He was once a military officer. So I’m running extra fast to catch up. We’re taking two vehicles since after church we need to help a neighbor move a load of wood. And there’s our dog Nala running down the road several miles from home happily jogging with two women runners. This used to happen all the time, but after locking Nala up on weekends for years to keep her from running off with the runners that love our scenic country road, Nala learned her lesson and has stayed in the yard. Of course she’s being bad this week because everybody is being bad this week. So I pull over beside Nala and the runners and yell, “Nala, you bad dog!”

To my shock, Nala runs as fast as she can and jumps right over the top of me into the car. She lands on the console between the driver’s seat and passenger seat with blond lab fur flying all over the place. I’m wearing a black blouse, skinny pants, and heels, trying to look nice for church. She nearly knocks me down in my heels. The runners are laughing. I’ve got white dog hair all over my black blouse now. Then Nala springs into the backseat to sit beside Cruz in his car seat. This is when I notice Cruz is wearing old, worn out jeans with holes in both knees. “John,” I say, “Why is your brother wearing holey jeans!” I’m ready to kill the dog and a maybe a couple of boys.

“They’re his holy jeans. They’re perfect for church,” John says in all earnestness.

“Really John?!” I whip the car around and rush home to dump Nala in her kennel. I consider running into the house to fetch decent pants for Cruz but decide against it. I’m a choice architect, not a perfect church mom. Cruz absolutely loves these holey jeans. I tell myself we are not holy because of what we wear or don’t wear to church. We are holy because our God is holy and He died for us. That’s it. Period. We are sinners in desperate need of a Savior and some of us dress badly. I know plenty of my friends would not agree with me on this one. Church clothes are important, they would counter, and these friends look so lovely at church. Their kids look lovely at church. But my response is, “Come hell or high water the Bicknell boys have made it to church. It’s the best I can do. Thank you very much.”

So I walk out of the church when the service is over. I’m a little weepy from praying with a friend about our teenagers. I know all of you don’t have teenagers that give you grief, but for those of you who do, can we just high five each other for a moment for hanging in there battling on our knees for our kids. At the ladies retreat I recently attended a woman in the audience asked the speaker if she knew any godly parents with rebellious children. The speaker laughed. “Well, of course,” she said. “God has rebellious children.”

Best answer I’ve ever heard.

And now that we are out of church, Scott is supposed to be taking the boys with him to get the wood. I’m headed to Subway to get my woodmen lunch. I clear the doors of the church and step out into a sea of people still milling around the front entry. My eyes lift and there he flows. The elephant in the parking lot. I swear I can hear Jaws music begin to pound in my ears.

Across the wide expanse of lawn, I see my sons running around Scott’s truck. The seven-year-old is climbing out of the truck bed onto the top of the cab. He could fall and get a concussion. Or brain damage. I want to scream at Scott to deal with his spawn, but I restrain myself. I can hear our boys yelling all the way to where I am. The twelve-year-old has the ten-year-old in a headlock. The ten-year-old is hollering. And in the middle of this madness stands Cruz with his pants around his ankles peeing behind Scott’s truck. The problem is the truck is backed up into the parking space and is facing all those people milling around the entrance of the church. Cruz’s little, white butt is like a beacon near the Lighthouse. This is what we call the children’s church across the lawn from our big church. The Lighthouse. I am horrified and cannot look away. Scott is standing at his truck talking with another church man. They are oblivious to the boys monkeying around. I’m sure they’re discussing the Bible. Scott is always discussing the Bible with other church men.

And to my shame, the truth is, this isn’t the first time one of our sons has peed in the churchyard. But I don’t think it’s ever been so obvious. A full moon in front of the pastor, his precious wife, and everyone on the church planet. My only saving grace is that I’m not parked next to Scott’s truck. I literally duck my head and make a beeline for my car like a bad dog.

On top of this, everything is breaking at our house right now. Both our cars have been in the shop. Luke’s truck broke down this week, too. The fireplace has been broken all summer. The front door knob isn’t working. All week, I’ve been trying to find the part to repair the fireplace because we warm our home with wood and winter’s coming. The nearest fireplace store is at least an hour away. Trying to figure out how to order this part on line is like reading Greek for me. On top of this, the water heater has given us trouble for at least six months. Scott or one of the boys has to light it several times a day. This week it refused to light. So we’ve been taking cold showers. I can’t help screaming when I step in the shower. Kind of like screaming when you fall into a frozen pond. You just can’t help it. Luke has threatened to move out of the house if we don’t get the water heater fixed. That part is ordered too. Supposedly the water heater valve is in the mail. Twice today I heated water on the stove to bathe the boys. I also heated water to wash our dishes and to cook dinner. I really do feel like a slave carrying a pot of steaming water down the hall to the bathroom that smells like urine that I scrub all the time without much success of it smelling any better.

The good news is Scott was redoing my blog last Friday and wiped it off the map. So I haven’t been able to rant about any of this to you until today when my website provider rescued my blog from cyber space. I also could use a red tent right now. I really could. I don’t know why this practice was done away with in Israel. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if once a month we could go to our women’s tent in the backyard and not not have to worry about our menfolk for a week. This could be like a she-shed where we Pinterest all day long. No men allowed, of course. Our tent would smell pretty. Look pretty. I would get pretty there. Paint my toenails and eat a salad out of a mason jar like I saw on Pinterest and watch my favorite movie: Seven Brides for Seven Brothers without five boys wrestling in front of the TV, trying to reenact all the brother fights in the film.

Okay, I’m rambling now. Just like Cruz flopped around that chair into a dozen different positions without waking up. See, he’s wearing his favorite holey jeans. Of course this late nap while I cooked dinner cost me big time later that night. He wouldn’t go to sleep and I ended up lying in his bed with him till after midnight to get him asleep. The next morning, I’m making my men’s lunches at six a.m. and I’m wearing my reading glasses so I don’t spread the mayonnaise on something other than the bread. I feel like I’ve been on a bender with my girlfriends back in college. I’m so grateful I haven’t been hungover in nearly 20 years. Waking up with a raging headache the day after my 30th birthday, I decided I was done with that business.

I know. I’m spilling my guts here. The truth is I adore my boys, I really do, but raising them is like running after rabbits in the pasture most days. Please tell me you can relate to some of this. That you’re a choice architect like me, and you’ve chosen to stay at home raising children who give you a run for your money. Every. Single. Day. That you’re not perfect, and that your little darlings are not perfect, and maybe even one of your boys has peed in the church parking lot, too. Or some other place that embarrassed you so badly you felt shame roll through you like the Crimson Tide football team. If you only have daughters, you might not understand my pain. Our Good Lord really has made boys and girls differently. Don’t let the media fool you. There’s nothing neutral about gender. Girls are born with brains and boys grow their brains later in life. Say around 40. I know I’ve said this before. But it’s the truth. At least around here.

And around here we do have our sweet moments. Like when Nala and Cruz mind their manners and stay on the rug. This is Nala’s rug, but Cruz loves hanging out here with her.

Before I go, I want to share with you the sunrise on Friday. I snapped this picture below while I was out feeding our horses. Scott and the boys usually feed them and the chickens on their way to school, but Scott and the boys have returned to men’s prayer breakfasts on Fridays, leaving the house insanely early, so now I’m out in my pajamas feeding the critters on Fridays. I’m not happy about this, but standing outside for the sunrise does have its rewards.