Painting a picture of Eliza

It occurred to me that I want to use writing to be able to paint a literary picture of things that are important to me. I want to be able to preserve my memory of my kids at specific ages--their quirks, their joys, their fun personalities. We have a camera and videocamera, but describing them with words yields a special kind of pleasure for me.

It's easier for me to describe Sage than Eliza because Sage can talk. Sometimes merely relaying the words she says is sufficient to illustrate my crazy, sweet little three-year-old. It's a little harder to paint a picture of Eliza by use of her daily dialogue. [Although, maybe all her thoughts each day are occupied and consumed with Dora, Sage, Dada, Mama [not in that order of importance, I hope!] ducks, dogs, food and sippie cups ["more"], shoes ["sh"] and cell phones ["hello"].

Here's a special moment I want to preserve beyond the span of my short mommy-memory (a few hours at best). This morning as I was doing an early round of email checking (instead of getting ready for our car trip today to Arizona like I should also be doing now) I realized Eliza was standing next to me, softly stroking my elbow as she happily watched a Baby Einstein about ducks. (She has always loved to rub my elbow--especially right before she goes to bed and when she's nursing.)
A minute later she noticed the cell phone sitting on the desk, and she grabbed it. From the expression on her face, which was priceless, this clearly was pure bliss to her. Who knew that elbow rubbing+ ducks+cell phone+mommy= baby heaven?

And now, once again, I succumb to list-making as a favorite means of preserving memories quickly. (Only permissible today because I'm really supposed to be packing.)

A few of Eliza's other favorite pastimes:

• putting necklaces or purses around her neck (One day I found her wearing a cord that connects the camera to the USB port.) She loves "girly" things much more than Sage.
• pulling out all the wet wipes from a container while I'm not looking
  
• putting little scraps of toilet paper or wet wipes in the toilet and trying to flush them
  
• playing with anything Dora- or Diego-related, chanting the whole time "Dora" or "Dupah," as it has morphed into recently
  
• feeding ducks and watching dogs
• sucking on toothbrushes (anyone's and everyone's)

Morning prayer

A few days ago Sage helped me make waffles for breakfast. Afterwards, Mark said the morning family prayer. Sage clearly thought important things were being left out, and felt inclined to prompt Mark in her funny Spanglish. (Sage's words are in italics.)

"Gracias por la comida que Mommy nos preparó..."

“y Sage también”

"Y te damos gracias…"

“y Eliza shaked the sugar”

"Ayuda nos a tener un buen dia..."

“Ah! A garbage truck outside!”

Do so many 3-year-olds have ADD that we don’t call it ADD for them, we just call it “being three?”

Eliza the garbage girl

It's not 9:00am yet, and Eliza's already dug two empty milk jugs out of the trash and hauled them around the house, and tried to recycle her dirty diaper (also from the trash), and deposited it in the toilet. Good thing she's not strong enough to actually flush the toilet, although she definitely tried.

Actually, when I woke up with an empty milk jug in my face, I was under the vague, short-lived impression that I was being served breakfast in bed. No such luck. However, I was very grateful to Mark for keeping the girls out of my bedroom until he left for work/school, as I attempted to recover from the effects of, yet another midnight posting on Midnight Musings.

Green Snow Globe

Sage is so excited for Halloween I don't know how we'll ever endure the next month. She has already decided that she wants to be a princess with a dress and a crown. [Please no one tell her that "Dora the Explorer" is a costume option. I refuse to let her wear a football shaped wig, which, of course, is necessary if one is going to dress up like Dora.] Sage found a shirt with a witch on it in the bottom of her drawer and that sealed the deal for her that Halloween must be really soon. How do you explain what 5 weeks is to a little kid?

It doesn't help that stores throw us into holidays long before we should even be thinking about them. Sam's Club was selling a pumpkin solar light set a month ago, and today I noticed they even have boxes of truffles wrapped up like Christmas presents. If that's not jumping the gun a little, I don't know what is.

One trip to Sam's Club was enough to put Sage in the holiday mood. When we got home, she decided to make her own snow globe. Or at least that's what it looked like. Let me explain.

Our internet wasn't working, and I needed to go look at the router. I got Eliza down for a nap, and left Sage in the kitchen, musing over our two (fairly new) goldfish that we had just fed. I headed upstairs, within earshot of Sage, to try and troubleshoot.

Pause. Now, mothers who have curious kids have probably long since guessed the outcome of this entry. But Sage is not your average 3-year-old. For example, when she was two years old, her favorite toy was my pincushion. She loved to take out one pin at a time, with great precision, and carefully put them all back in. If I told her to not open a cupboard and pull things out, she probably never would again. She never dug through the trash and only unrolled a toilet paper roll once.

Don't get me wrong; she has plenty of other bad habits, which have been and will be the subject of many entries on this blog. But disobedience as the result of overwhelming curiosity has never been a problem for us. (Eliza's a different story. No, actually, Danielle's Jacob is a different story.) [FYI: I just had to rewrite those last sentences three times to avoid writing what I frequently find myself saying: the phrase "a whole nother."]

So, due to a small amount of retardation in the technology department, I spent more time than I would have liked to working on the internet connection. When I came back down, I was surprised to see Sage still staring quietly at the fish.

It quickly became obvious to me why Sage was staring so intently. There were no fish to be seen, and the Mason canning jar had been transformed into a pea-green snow globe. There were green flakes of fish food drifting softly down to rest on the bottom of the jar. Another quarter of an inch of solid fish food flakes sat heavily on the surface, waiting its turn. It might have been pretty if it hadn't been so green and ghastly. It was sort of like Christmas snow globe meets Halloween graveyard scene. R.I.P. to the fish.

The fish didn't die, thanks to my quick work. Actually, I got a little queasy thinking of touching the live fish. They didn't seem so bad at Petco when the employee popped them right in, but these could have been half dead! I thought I even saw signs of rigor mortis when I took one out of water. But I couldn't disappoint my three year old, who was cheering me on, certain that Mommy could save them. So with a spoon and a few bowls, we got our two unfortunate fishy friends into a clean jar.

After I liberally sprayed air freshner around the kitchen (you would not believe how much a cup of fish flakes makes a room stink), and washed my hands 3 times, it was time to talk to the instigator of animal-awareness meets arts-n-crafts.

"Sage, we don't feed the fish when Mommy's not here. "
"Why not? "
"Because you gave them too much food this time."
"But why were they not hungry?"
"Too much food can make their tummies hurt."
"Sometimes Daddy's tummy hurts."
"Uh...right."

I'm 99.9% positive Sage won't attempt to feed the fish alone again. And I'm 99.9% positive I won't ever leave the fish food lid off again. But that doesn't mean Sage didn't ask me if she could feed the fish 5 other times throughout the day. [Insert exasperated sigh here.] Three year olds.

Public apologies

Apology #1

To: anyone (especially those without children) that had contact with me between the hours of 5:30pm-7pm today (or during the same hours on any other day in which Sage refuses to nap, Eliza’s two naps total 47 minutes, and I went to bed late the night before). [Mark's absence to a two-day conference has taken it's toll on me.]

For: emotional damage (please don’t make any drastic decisions about future family planning)

Apology #2

To: the kitchen staff at Coney’s (a frozen custard place)

For: the very sticky booth we left, and the number of times Eliza snuck in to tour the kitchen while I was trying to buy three rounds of frozen custard. [How was I supposed to know Eliza wanted more than half of MY cone, and that Sage was unwilling to take the vanilla cone, and that frozen custard is so addicting, and that I would eat half of the one we were taking home for Mark before Sage said, “Save some for me, too, Mommy!”???]

Apology #3

To: the husband

For: the significantly lighter, opened package of Dove chocolates. I got confused when I read one of the "promises" [wanna be fortunes] that said "Write a love note to me." It confused me enough that I had to eat a few more, just to look for more clues.

When Mark came home, I told him about the bewildering message. He expressed doubt in my "fortune." I looked through the trash to prove him wrong, resulting in two tragic things. 1. I had to admit how many chocolates I had actually eaten. 2. I had to admit I probably am going crazy, because it actually said "Write a love letter this week."

This is a bad sign. I would like to blame it on dyslexia, but I think it probably has more to do with overconsumption of chocolate...several days in a row.

Memorable picnic food

Tonight we traveled up American Fork canyon for a picnic. At the end of the night I asked Sage what her favorite part was.

"Was it the s'mores or the pretty red trees or the tin foil dinners, or the big fire?" [I was sure she'd pick the s'mores. She had even told the ranger what s'mores ingredients we brought.]

Sage didn't have to think for long. "Nope, Mommy. It was the chips."

Maybe next time I want to plan a special event for Sage I'll just take her out to the backyard to eat Baked Lay's.

For the record, Sage does love s'mores. What kid doesn't love a 3-in-1 sugar fest?

Wanna drive me crazy?

Mark has a new hobby. It's watching a music video called "I Wanna Love You Tender", which, incidentally, is listed as one of You Tube's Worst Music Video Ever. Should that tell us something? Like, don't watch it, for one? And definitely don't watch it more than once!? Or at least more than once an hour? Please, someone agree with me...

I can't quite tell his motive. It could be
1. Drive me crazy
2. Set off new waves of IBS from laughing so hard
3. Memorize the words to inflict pure torture on me at some future time when we have our piano back. (He will just need to find some red pants first.)

And, no, Mark, I won't allow you to dress up like the lead male singer for Halloween. And don't even ask if I will...I won't.

I move that we rename this movie "I Wanna drive you crazy in three minutes and forty-three seconds."

And special thanks to Paul Huff for "culturing" us with this little treasure.

(Anyone who appreciates Mark's taste might also enjoy "He's Large" from Popeye.)

Song time with Sage

Yesterday in the car, I heard Sage singing “I’m Trying to Be Like Jesus,” a song for the Primary Program this year that we’ve sung at home. I was pleased to hear her initiating it on her own (and not just as a stalling tactic prior to bedtime), and I complimented her on her choice of songs and singing. She turned to me with a mischievous look and began singing a different version of the song. “I’m trying to be like Jee Jee….”

Jee Jee? Jee Jee is the word[s] that Sage’s younger cousin, Jacob, uses for Jesus. That was relatively harmless...or so I thought. A few repetitions later, Jee Jee had morphed into “Hobo,” and then “Eliza”, and then another obscure hodgepodge of syllables. At least obscure was better than "Hobo."

The obvious “righteousness” of my 3-year-old had turned into obvious blasphemy, and all because I complimented her. I’ve got a lot to learn about three year olds.

A Few of My (LEAST) Favorite Things

Things I don't like to do:

• Process return deposits for my dad’s tenants (especially when my own mistakes in record-keeping create more questions than answers. For example, what possessed me to write in the records that So-and-so paid a total of $260+$260, with the explanation next to it reading "260(sep),260(dec),110(apr)? What am I supposed to make of that? I ask you.)
• Wash the dishes multiple times in one day (What am I, a dishwasher by profession? One time per day is more than enough. Many days it's actually too much. I just hope my counter space can accommodate such a convcition. My idea of a great setup is this: someone else watches my kids while I cook dinner; then someone else does the dishes, puts the kids to bed, does the laundry, cleans the kitchen, while I prop up my feet, pop in Dove chocolates (dark, of course), and read and write till my bedtime. : )
• Confess to Mark where the other half of the German Chocolate Cake that he made yesterday went. Uh...Eliza? The neighbor's cat?
• Call Sprint to dispute, yet another grossly incorrect cell phone bill. This involves an initial wait on hold of at least 15 minutes and being called "ma'am" around 35 times by an ESL customer service representative in India. Also, what is it about the mere physical act of me picking up a phone that sends my kids into instantaneous pandemonium? If I’m on the phone, Sage will inevitably want a new sippie cup (“Not juice or water, mom. I need milk!”). Eliza totters after me, stalking me through the house, with big blue puppy eyes, hands stretching high up towards the phone, repeating in her soft little voice "''lo? 'lo?" [hello]. How can I deny the little angel? Wait…it’s coming back to me: Eliza was responsible for two Directory Assistance charges last month, and the big crack in our cell phone. And I’m still on hold with Sprint. No ‘lo for you, Eliza. In fact, I wish it were no ‘lo for me, either.
• Go to bed on time (My blog lists the times of each post and these are very much proof. There are just so many possibilities when the children are in bed…)
• Finish a blog without an attempt at a clincher ending. I guess as long as I’m stopping the party and going to bed somewhat on time, I might as well break another rule and just end this blog in this terribly boring way. The End. Just like that. Sorry.

Care Bears

Care Bear stare!!! Is there anyone today (youth or middle-aged, at least) who doesn't know exactly what that came from? Well, if there is, they certainly didn't belong to the Wilson family, or live by Sounds Easy Pizza/Video. I remember watching many a Care Bear video on a Friday night (or maybe we just watched the same one many times). I probably prayed for a Care Bear, like I did a Popple, but that wish never came true until Sage was born, and dear Aunt Carolyn bestowed on her a set of three plush Care Bears, which hung from her jungle gym and became favorite teething toys.

During Christmas 2006, Krista gave Sage a set of Care Bears checkers. The checkerboard was never used, but 1 1/2 year old Sage insisted on keeping the crumply packaging the Care Bear playing pieces came in. She took each Care Bear out, then carefully put each one back in its place in the packaging 20 times a day. It was a devastating day, although inevitable, when the packaging broke. The Care Bears have, nonetheless, retained their importance in Sage's life, even sans plastic package.

Sage's favorite Care Bear is the turquoise one (of which, thankfully, there are about 5). One day I took the kids to IKEA, and I didn't realize Sage had sneakily brought a beloved turquoise Care Bear with her. Of course, the excitements of the children's section and 25 trial beds were too much for Sage's loyalty, and the Care Bear gained a new home. An hour later, Sage realized her mistake, but it was too late. Have you ever tried to turn around in IKEA? Impossible. Nor did I have any desire to go look for the stowaway checker-piece, who happened to have 4 Siamese twins (quintuplets?) waiting at home. This meant nothing to Sage. It was trauma...but luckily we got to the children's furniture section, and Kim, Kelly S. and I were able to distract her with some sweet chairs.

Last weekend, I forgot to bring extra diapers for Sage to a wedding reception. Thankfully, Danielle and Adam were prepared with a size 3 Care Bear diaper. Sage normally wears size 5, but she was happy to make an exception. The velcro-like straps barely reached all the way around Sage's chunky torso, but Sage was bursting at the seams (literally) with happiness about getting to wear a CARE BEAR diaper.

Apparently, Eliza thought she deserved a turn, too, because the next morning, I found her carrying around the used diaper that Sage had removed and deposited in the trash. Maybe it's time to bring back the more sanitary plush Care Bear toys out of storage. Now I know to keep a vigilant "Care Bear stare" on the trash can if we are lucky enough to get to use any more of Danielle's extra diapers.

Maybe I should get my own stash of Care Bear diapers...for heirloom purposes. If they've survived this long, who's to say our furry friends won't be protecting happiness on earth in 20 years, too? For now, I better just protect the trash can, so Eliza can't build up her own stockpile of Care Bear friends and really give our visitors something to stare at.

Guess My Age

Our screen saver is set to randomly shuffle through all the photos stored in our computer. I find myself evaluating Sage’s age in each picture based on a single aspect of her appearance: the status of her hair. If her hair is less than ½ inch and adorned with a small bow glued to her forehead [washable Elmer’s], she was less than a year. If her hair is between 1-2 inches and very flyaway and mullet-like, she would have been 1-2 years. [I was pregnant and uncoordinated. Cut me some slack.] If she has uneven bangs (ask Mark) and short curly hair that is always in two top pigtails, she’s sure to have been 2-3 years. If her hair is a total rat’s nest with a few yogurt dreadlocks and the 3-day-old hairdo is matted down with a fresh spray of water and some clips, she’s bound to be 3 years old, with opinions about everything, and vocal cords the size of Manhattan to decry parental abuse during hair fixing time.

Sage, 3 months

I find myself evaluating my own screen saver appearance by my size of stomach in each picture. Over the last 4 years (two pregnancies), my body weight has followed the rise and fall of a mathematical sine curve. The period isn’t 2 pi, but rather 2 years. 9 months to inflate with baby Sage, 15 months to deflate. 9 and 15 more for baby Eliza, and I’m back to pre-motherhood weight…(I only made the 15 month cut this time thanks to a little cryptosporidium parasite I picked up last month). You'll notice that the only pictures I post of myself will be at local minimums (right before I get pregnant), and local maximums (when I'm an obviously pregnant woman), and definitely no in betweens. : )

Janel, 9 months pregnant

[Lest you wonder why my email is jwsquared, I’ll reveal a bit of math nerdiness about myself: I’m actually trying to construct a sine curve that will literally approximate my weight over the last four years. I’ll get back to you on that. Focus!]

How to estimate Mark’s age in each picture? By his haircuts. A great haircut meant we were in the first year of our marriage. He went to the barber while I worked up courage to learn to cut hair. A 1/16” haircut: 2^nd year of marriage. Mark is a very forgiving, generous husband, who learned how to wear hats during this year of marriage. Most notable cut of this period: the week of our first daughter’s baby blessing. Does Photoshop have a Rogaine feature?

A haircut where Mark’s crazy cowlick sticks out: Well, this could be any time. Mark’s right-side cowlick is the bane of my stylist dreams, even after 5 years of marriage.

Sage's baby blessing

Eliza’s age can be best estimated by her weight. At 2 months old, she was a chunky little butterball. She then began her descent into the tenth percentile, where she happily resides now, the little waif. While Eliza's height (in percentile) has always stayed constant around y=75, I think her percentile weight could be described with a linearly decreasing function like y= -40t+50. Approximately, of course. Please don't extrapolate the data to find when y=0 (Eliza's weight) in such an equation. Maybe there's a reason I don't write math book questions...

Eliza, 14 months

Confessions of a Readaholic

I just finished the third book in the Twilight series by Stephanie Meyer. I love reading and enjoyed the books.

Several reasons I’m depressed:

1. My life is not exciting like Bella's, the protagonist, who is in love with a vampire. [Although I did get bit today by my 1-year-old when I released the chicken nugget too slowly into her mouth full of teeth.]

2. It’s fun to look forward, throughout the day, to moments of free time when I can pick up the book. When the book’s over, life seems slow and dull.

3. I read the last two books in the last 48 hours. Translation: my children, husband, hygiene, good sleeping and eating habits got ignored.

What have I gained by hauling through these books?

1. A long year to wait for the next one.
2. No fights with Kim about whose turn it is to read the books I convinced Mom to fund.
3. Sleep deprivation
4. At least 5 pounds from munching on crud instead of making healthy snacks and dinners
5. A mistrust in my ability to make good decisions (i.e.—reading past 2:00am for the third night in one week is not a good idea).

Mark says I have an addiction. It’s true. But only as long as the book is unread. (hee hee). Here's my disclaimer: The Twilight series was enjoyable, but they were not the most amazing books ever. Yet I still crave reading and knowing the ending. Uh oh...I think I'm addicted to reading for the sake of reading and the unknown, not just for good literature. [Five words: 4th grade, "Sweet Valley Twins." QED.]

Moderation in all things. So easy to say, so hard to do. Especially when fantasty fiction is involved.

Bewitching Hour of Blogging

Why do all my creative juices get going late at night? Say, midnight-ish?
Go ahead and check my 3 total posts [I know, I'm a proud blogger]. It looks like I must officially change the name of this blog to "Midnight musings." Done.

Why midnight, I ask myself? A quick reflection on the day provides some obvious answers:

• 7am-9pm: Intense, crazy, organized chaos of being a mother. (That's right...sunup to sundown).
• 9pm-10:00pm: Clean house from day's chaos.
• 10:00pm-11:00pm: Eat deserved chocolate snack and let nerves calm down. Get brain back to normal functioning speeds and capacities [this requires slowing down from the high paced world of potty training, "Dora the Explorer," sibling rivlary break-up fests, snacks, diaper changing, naps, errands and dishwashing.]
  
• 11:00pm-1:00am: Brain sufficiently rested (and sugared up) to begin processing creative thoughts. Computer time. Creative writing time. And possibly round two of chocolate snack time. [Around 1:00am I pull a Danielle and purposely don't look at the clock so I don't have to confess the exact minutes I guiltily slunk into bed to Mark the next morning. Good trick, Danielle.]

Well, now that it's 12:06, I guess I can publish this post. Midnight Musings. QED.

Smell the roses

It's easy to get carried away with the demands and tasks of every day living and forget to "smell the roses." Today I smelled the proverbial roses in an orchard.

I was walking between two rows of peaches in my dad's orchard, when, like in Saturday morning cartoons, the floating fragrance of the peaches (many of which were over a pound each) crept under my nose, and, like a cartoon character’s, my feet lifted off the ground to turn in the direction of the softball-size peaches. It was bliss. I was floating on air. Of course, the ecstasy ended abruptly when Sage, my 3-year-old, stepped in a thin ditch where the old water pipes had been and got stuck. Screaming ensued. Time out from the peaches.

My peach-sniffing experience was sort of the opposite of the classic rebuke to ‘get one’s head out of the clouds’. The hands-on demands of motherhood leave little time for getting my head in the clouds. If only peaches were in season year round. The scent and taste of peaches from Grandpa Wilson’s orchard are really a little piece of heaven.

Is it blasphemous to say it was a religious experience? I think not. [Alma 30:44]

(Thanks for the pictures, Kelly)

Other “roses” to stop and “smell”:

From nature:

• Freshly cut grass on a summer morning
• Sunsets (especially over the mountains or lake)
• Huge flowerbeds of petunias outside the BYU Library (especially at nighttime)
• Crickets in the backyard at night
• Stars

Man-made:

• Fireworks (or watching little kids do sparklers)
• A marching band performance
• A ballroom dance performance
• Performing with a good musical group
• Finishing a good book
• Arriving (on purpose) to a church meeting early and getting to sit and think
• Writing something creative that’s not required
• Making bread
• Pruning something that really needed it
  

Following dreams

What a task: coming up with a name and blog address! I've stewed for months about what would truly sum up the part of me I want to develop, understand and illustrate through blogging.

I have done and been known for different things throughout my life. A musician, a mathematician (ha...better said, a math student), a mother, a linguist (okay, I'm obviously being generous in assigning myself such titles!) Different interests and hobbies have waxed and waned through my long and fruitful 25 years! But one thing will remain constant, even beyond the grave: I am a mother. I live, breathe and sleep motherhood. I see the world through a mother's eyes. Other things come and go, but being a mom is a calling. And that's fine with me. I love my husband and I love my kids. This is where I want to be. [Although if there were an option to eliminate diaper changing and potty training, I'd vote that out of this motherhood calling.]

The world doesn't understand motherhood, or families. I think I've only begun to brush the surface. But I've learned a ton by having the faith to accept the call, beginning with marriage and continuing with children, and ending in eternal glory.

I have a dream. It came to me after I read "My Antonia" by Willa Cather. I literally cried of happiness at the good feelings I felt after I read the chapter that describes Antonia's family--all 8 or so kids. That is the family I'm talking about. The family that, though big, and maybe poor in the world's eyes, is rich in love.

This is my dream: that somehow I can contribute to the literature that illuminates the God-given, inspired social unit: the family. The family with lots of children and lots of love. That's what I grew up in, and that's what I hope to be building now.

Here's to following dreams. May this blog be the start.