My midnight musings

In Case of Divorce

2012-01-30T15:54:00.003-07:00

Sage recently finished reading two books about children of divorced parents that had to choose which parent they would live with, and she told us about it yesterday.

This afternoon, while I was feeding Christian, Eliza informed me, “If I had to choose a parent to live with, I would choose you.”

Before she could continue, I interjected, “But just think about how nice daddy is—he plays the piano for you to sing along with, and watches Youtube videos of Yo Gabba Gabba with you...”

Then it was Eliza’s turn to interrupt me. “No, I’d pick you, because Christian would go with you, because you have milk to drink him and Daddy doesn’t.”

Oh.

At least now I know who the competition is.

Post partum picture

2012-01-23T01:48:00.003-07:00

I think there were five times in the nine months of my last pregnancy that I found myself on the other side of the camera.

With my baby boy growing up before my eyes, I decided to take matters into my own hands. Or, rather, into the hands of the timer on the camera.

It took six rounds of ten pictures on my camera's self-timer, but it was worth it to get this one picture that I love of myself and the little guy that spends over eight hours a day (and night) in my arms.

It may take another nine months of exercise before I'm willing to post a picture of anything below my neck. (Or nineteen. Or ninety.)

But in the sweetness of this little baby, I can find love for myself and even for my stretched out stomach.

Especially if I can be the one positioning the lens.

(Inspired by this.)

It has already begun

2011-12-29T23:23:00.000-07:00

Note the bling bling.

This is the first time, but I'm sure it won't be the last.

Dear Santa Letters

2011-12-19T23:29:00.000-07:00

Eliza's note to Santa: [with translations]
Satu [Santa]
I love you beekus you giv us prezis [presents]
you are vare nis [very nice]
and uor elvz [your elves]
satu see you on christmas
marey christmas i love you plez bren me prezin

Sage’s note to Santa:
Dear Santa,
I HAVE BEEN GOOD but NOT PERFECT. Will I still get presents and candy in my stocking? I LIKE your "Ho Ho Ho!" And there are some people who are giving us the twelve days of Christmas. Do you know who they are? Are they your elfs? (Ending of letter) You don't have to give me any presents though.
Sincierly,
Sage Williams

Just so you know...

2011-12-14T22:49:00.002-07:00

Taking a baby's handprint is harder than you'd think.

And, for the record, I only applied paint to one tiny baby hand. HE did the rest himself. Our own little Jackson Pollock, in the flesh. Or on the flesh.

Censorship

2011-12-13T23:57:00.000-07:00

Remember that rhetorical question, "If you give a 2nd grader an email account?" Well the answer is, she will probably begin reading your blog, and she might read the review you gave her review about the perfect chocolate chip cookie. Then you might be in trouble. Enough said.

There were tears shed and a few insults hurled, which I probably deserved. Then I sat at the computer (like a shamefaced teenager) with the aforementioned 2nd grader watching over my shoulder (like a disappointed mother), as I deleted the Offensive Post #1 from my oh-too-public blog.

My saving grace came through the many kind and complimentary comments about Sage's typing and Spanish, which I shared with her. (Thank you, my friends!)

It made for a much less painful ending to my chastisement than the last time I was taken to task for my writing. During my freshman year of high school, my physiology teacher gave us the assignment to write an anti-smoking pamphlet. I decided to go the extra mile (I thought) and wrote a satirical pamphlet with such ridiculous things as "Everyone's going to die eventually, so who cares if you die when you're 20 (from smoking) as opposed to 75?"

Okay, yeah, so it wasn't brilliant satire or logic. But I certainly did not anticipate being invited to my teacher's office to be yelled at for ten straight minutes. She repeatedly demanded, "What if this got into the wrong hands?!?", which led me to conclude that it certainly had. I redid the assignment the "right way," which took 1/10th the time and creativity of my previous submission.

Unfortunately, there were no kind blog comments back then to ease my teacher's pain or my own. Which is why blogging is way better than going to high school. (You can see I've been working on my logic.) And also why I owe you all for saving my skin.

One month old

2011-12-12T23:30:00.007-07:00

Today my little baby boy, Christian, is one month old. One month!?! I'm not quite sure what I've been doing for the last month. But it involves 1000ish tiny diapers, seeing all hours pass on the clock, and eating a lot of dark chocolate.

Being the math and number nerd that I am, I secretly hoped that I would go into labor on 11-11-11. Which didn't happen. I missed it by a few hours. Next time (did I just say that?), I think I will try harder to conceive a few hours earlier. But I’m not sore about it. Really. Ahem.

It was two weeks before my due date, and I came home from a baby shower to take my standard try-not-to-get-a-migraine nap. When I woke up, I had a few contractions. Since I hadn't memorized "What to Expect When You're Expecting" (like I did with my first pregnancy), I felt a little rusty, so I appealed to Google. I typed in "regular contractions," read a little bit, then stood up, and my water promptly broke. Which is why Google is the best invention on the planet.

I called Mark in a bit of a frenzy and said "My water broke. Come home now." And then I hung up on him. Because there's nothing like a constant dripping of aminotic fluid down your legs to rattle your brain a little.

I made two important phone calls: one to dump the next day's Sunday School lesson off on someone else (how nice, because I had not started preparing yet), and the other to tell my mom to make haste, and then we were off, over the river and through the woods to the big H we go. Labor was shockingly slow (compared to the last two)--only five total hours--which resulted in me actually being able to experience the "munch on ice chips" thing everyone talks about.

Incidentally, they had blueberry ice chips, which I thought were super cool until I realized that our baby's scrapbook was going to be full of pictures of his blue-toothed mom. I will be forever grateful to my friends who threw me the baby shower, because it caused me to actually have makeup on in my delivery pictures. (A first after four kids!) The makeup was nice to offset the blue tint of my teeth.

Our little guy was little, just 6 pounds 3 ounces.

The girls were thrilled to meet him. Lily showed up with Grandma in her witch costume, and apparently sang "I'm a Mean Old Witch" on her way up the elevator. I wasn’t so concerned with the witch costume as with wondering when my [former] little baby turned into a giant.

Eliza wrote on her school paper: "I like my mom and I like my dad. I love Criustin my babe bruthrr." She loves to tell people about the time she saved his life by rescuing him from Lily, who picked him up without supporting his neck.

Sage will be a great big sister. She's been the slowest to warm up to Christian, though. Or, in other words, the only one to not smother him constantly, but she is pretty happy to have another family member with dark hair and possibly brown eyes.

All good things must end, and eventually it was time to leave the luxury of the hospital, with its full-time cleaning staff, menus, and room service that we will be paying for for a good long time, I'm sure.

I made sure we snapped enough pictures of ourselves from the perfect angle so I would have something to send out to announce our baby's birth that didn't show me in that glorious hospital gown with "Central Laundry" printed dead center. Also my teeth were no longer blue.

We were met by a very adorable welcome home party.

My mom outdid herself with caring for our kids. Eliza had made a cootie-catcher that she was thrilled to show off. Sage had made a candy bar poster with leftover Halloween candy. Lily had opened most of my baby showers gifts while I was gone. The girls had all made Welcome Home signs and cards and even helped Grandma write a song about the new baby.

Here is (in the words of Eliza) the “little yellow man” himself (go away, jaundice). Or, the “dorito baby” (burrito baby), if you listen to Lily. But after one tiny trip to the name change office, we're now happy to call him Christian.

Is that a smile or a grimace under that blanket?

We love our baby boy, Christian.

If You Give a 2nd Grader an Email Account

2011-11-08T23:35:00.002-07:00

When Eliza was born, Mark decided we should reserve Sage and Eliza both email addresses. It wasn't until this year that we told Sage she had an email address, embarrassingly enough, named BabySagers. She was totally thrilled about the account, as well as her (apparently not babyish) username. Our only initial stipulation before setting Sage lose on the world wide web was that she had to use correct keyboarding if she was going to send emails. So off she went, slowly typing emails with funny spacing to anyone and everyone she could think of, then staring at screen, willing new emails to show up (apparently this is hereditary).

But none of this is news to my mom and sisters. They have been so kind to indulge Sage with return emails with pictures and emoticons to boot.

However, this week, when one of my sisters forwarded one of Sage's emails on to me, I realized that maybe we need to talk to our budding typist about email ettiquette.

Hey Suz! You know that email I sent you earlier. I've been waiting to get a reply back from you. It's been very tiring not to get an email from you. Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease send me back an email soon.Is it yes or no If you say yes I'll be relived. I command you to say yes Suzy. From, Sage

Reading this brings back memories of what life was like when I had my first email account, with three total contacts. New emails were like Christmas presents. How can I not smile at Sage's antics to procure personal messages in her own little electronic world of BabySagers? Here are a couple of the seven emails from Sage that I found in my inbox tonight:

Dear Mom, I do not care which name our baby brother will have. But I do care about the names you like. This is from Sage. Bye.

Hola Mama!Tu eres una buena Mama. NO podemos leer El tesoro de nieve nada mas. Nesesita leer otro libro ahora. De Sage. Adios!

Mom, You are the only one who sends me emails by them self.I am sad that nobody else will write messages to me. I have to write messages to them first, and then they will send me emails. Thank you a million times for sending me emails before I do. Love, Sage

"If you give a second grader an email account...." "....make sure it's loaded with contact information for lots of aunts and uncles"????

I better write Sage back quickly, now that we all know that waiting for responses is so tiring for her.

Classy halloween decor

2011-10-21T08:52:00.000-06:00

We are nothing if not classy in our Halloween decorations around here.

Instructions to be classy, too: Let your two-year-old and her cousin get into the box of bandaids by themselves. Reap the benefits on current decor, bedposts, stuffed animals, themselves, etc.

Auto pilot

2011-10-05T23:06:00.000-06:00

Sometimes I feel like I'm living life on auto pilot mode. For example, this coloring job by Eliza was hanging up for at least a week or two before I really looked at it.

Awkward!

Thumper said so

2011-09-19T22:27:00.001-06:00

My mom used to remind us "if you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all." That's why I haven't blogged about Lily's potty training yet. Or, in other words, the battle To Poop or Not to Poop in One's Undies. (Scoreboard: Lily: 18, Mom: 0)

Here is a picture of our shower, or as we not-so-affectionately call it, The Underwear Tree.

Crazy Eliza Month

2011-09-15T10:42:00.000-06:00

Last week our school had a "Crazy Sock Day." Because nothing improves school spirit like having kids come wearing crazy socks, right?

That morning, Sage came up for breakfast wearing two different colored socks. Eliza showed up wearing two white socks. I reminded her that it was Crazy Sock Day, and she got an excited look on her face and said, "Mom, I am wearing crazy socks. One of them is clean and one of them is dirty!"'

Speaking of crazy and Eliza, she has always been extremely "creative" in the names she gives her stuffed animals. (Remember the dog "Riding on the Back"?) Unlike everyone else, who calls our cat "Kitty," Eliza's been calling our feline "Kitty on the Radio" for weeks now. But apparently that wasn't good enough, because yesterday she suggested a replacement for "Kitty on the Radio." I had to take a video clip, and even when she repeated her idea for the camera, I had a hard time not snorting with laughter.

Putzin. So we can call her Putz-in-Boots. Awesome. (Maybe all this naming drama came about because she spent 29 days with the legal name of Female Williams? Mark and I better get to work on boy names fast.)

First day of school laughs

2011-08-30T12:28:00.000-06:00

First day of school, 2009

First day of school, 2010


First day of school, 2011

On Sage's first day of school she was insistent about wearing the exact same shirt she wore to the first day of school last year and the year before. Same size even. Either Sage is not growing, or the shirt is growing, or I'm the biggest tightwad ever. I know I'm a tightwad (but not that tight). And shirts don't usually grow (or maybe that's just my third trimester perspective). As to Sage growing, I know there's no way she'd let me put darling little pigtails in like I did two years ago. (She plans to wear the same shirt to the first day of school next year, but with braids in her hair this time.) I just have to be glad she isn't wearing a back to school outfit like mine from the blessed year 1989 (think matching brown shorts and vest and big brown bangs over big glasses).

As for Eliza, she is thrilled to be in kindergarten.

And if you didn't know better, you might think she landed herself a spot in Miss Spider's kindergarten class.

And so Lily won't feel left out, I've enrolled her in a little alternative to preschool that I like to call Grocery Shopping 101, where she and I get to do all the grocery shopping (and other errands) together after we drop off the school girls, and we will NEVER take her older sisters with us again until next summer.

Happy Back to School 2011.

The vomit scale

2011-08-15T23:19:00.000-06:00

How is it that when your own kid pukes 10 times in one night (the number of dirty bowls in my sink let me know it truly was 10), it's like a 8 out of 10 on the lameness scale....

But when a neighbor kid barfs once in your car, it's 12 out of 10 on the same scale?

That is one of the 600 reasons why I will never run a day care out of my home.

To My Garden

2011-08-14T22:21:00.000-06:00

Dearest Garden,
It is really nice of you to carry on, growing tasty things deep down there amongst all those 6 million weeds that I'm supposed to be attending to.

The yellow Siamese twin squash you gave us was unlike any I've ever seen before. I'm a little scared to eat it, actually.

The peas were a huge hit with Lily. One day when I hauled her out of the garden into the bathtub, unbeknownst to me, she brought the peas with her and decorated the tub. She's sad that pea season is over.

I think the tomato jungle is doing well, even in the absence of cages until last week (that was not good planning, by the way). We have quite a hoard of green tomatoes, even though Lily picks them whenever she thinks I'm not looking. I'm counting on some amazing homegrown ones to teach Lily this year that tomatoes are not the worst food on the planet. (So far she thinks they're just green apples.)

When I brought in another huge load of summer squash today, Sage accused me of falsely informing her that gardens are harvested in the fall. Let's just let her think that is true, and I'll keep eating the handful of raspberries that ripen each day that never make it inside.

I think heaven will have lots of sun-warmed raspberries. Just maybe with less bees hovering. And maybe heaven will have zucchini plants that only produce the exact number of zucchinis you need. I'm not complaining, but my compost pit is getting pretty full of zucchinis, which causes me a tiny bit of guilt. As does the number of zucchini muffins I personally consumed today.

Kitty love

2011-07-28T15:42:00.003-06:00

I am so pleased with how brave my girls have been with our little kitty.

j
j

Eliza offered to take a picture of the kitty and me. Behold. The kitty and [part of] me.

Haven't we talked about Eliza's photography skills before? Because it seems like they're just getting worse.

The service chart

2011-07-27T23:39:00.001-06:00

After Eliza's misdeeds earlier this month, my older (and sometimes wiser : ) sister, Krista, suggested I make Eliza her own special chart with places to mark off when she did something good or nice, thus rewarding the good behavior.

Sage was delighted with Eliza's chart, and with trying to help her fill all the squares (aka--"Eliza just smiled at me! Can she mark off a square?"). Sage begged for her own chart, which, unfortunately, has superseded the second round of Eliza's chart.

Sage's favorite thing to do for a mark on the chart is to make an "invention" for someone. Yesterday she made a wallet protector by wrapping Eliza's wallet in a ziploc bag, then rigging a yo-yo string so it stretched around the ziplocked wallet; then she secured the yo-yo string by lacing it through several holes of Lily's croc on the other side.

Today she made me...actually I still don't know what it was. It was something that did some sort of locking up, but it took Sage about 3 minutes to do up the "lock" so I'm not sure it would win the Invention Convention or anything, but it did get a mark on the chart. And that's what matters, right?

P.S. Tonight Eliza asked for her big dog. You know, the trash can one. And then, conveniently, I thought I heard the phone ringing in the other room....

Everything but the kitchen sink

2011-07-16T22:27:00.002-06:00

We are down to two kids at home for the weekend, and I'm sorry to say that I've been enjoying it quite a bit. We jumped at the chance to send Sage to Las Vegas for a quick 3-day trip (down with Aunt Lorene and back with Aunt Danielle), as her cabin fever has become a little much (not so much her cabin fever as the manifestations of her cabin fever, which almost all consist of using "Mom" and "mean/meanie/meanest" in the same sentence, at high decibel levels).

On the morning of departure, I asked Sage to pack her suitcase for her 3 day trip. This is what I found crammed into her backpack, along with the 3 outfits, PJs, shoes, socks, undies and toothbrush that I requested:

Ruler

1 inch piece of chalk

Washcloth ("for spills" she explained)

Blue belt (that was only used once in the last year)

Pen

3 toothbrushes

3 flossers

1 broken princess comb

Beanbag

Empty toilet paper roll

2 tubes of toothpaste

Stuffed turtle

Jumprope

3 pairs socks

2 rubber bracelets

Hello Kitty watch (not functional)

Purse with mirror and hand sanitizer

Heart pillow

Basically everything but the kitchen sink. I hope she survives without that piece of chalk that I snuck out.

Two down

2011-07-01T21:33:00.002-06:00

Yey for our second successful birthday party in a week. (First one.)

Today's theme was Under the Sea.

The kids ignored the water obstacle course I set up and just slip'n'slided.

Homemade octopus pinata=big fat pain. But it was cute, until it dropped off its string before actually being broken by that noodle. (We wised up and used a noodle instead of a frying pan.)

You've got to have an M+M machine, regardless of the theme.

Thanks to Becca--photographer and party manager. : )

Some news

2011-06-30T18:46:00.002-06:00

After dealing with Eliza's antics yesterday (including, but not limited to scattering birdseed in the carpet, glue on her bed, face paint on Lily and the sheepskin rug, half our Sam's Club carton of gold fish in a bowl of water, and a quick pit stop on her bedroom floor), I guess I should be feeling pretty happy that the results of our ultrasound were....

XY!

It's a boy!

Just think how many years it will be before he can climb up bathroom shelves to reach my Halloween face paint stash!!!

The old stuffed animal who lived in a trash can

2011-06-30T14:35:00.001-06:00

There once was a woman who lived in a shoe.
She had so many children, she didn't know what to do.
She fed them all broth without any bread
and spanked them all soundly and sent them to bed.

And that woman was WAY nicer than me today. Because at least she didn't throw anyone's stuffed animals in the trash can.

P.S. I chickened out and pulled out that ridiculous dog minutes before the trash collector arrived. That doesn't mean I gave it back to her...I'm a long way from that.

I'm a monkey's uncle

2011-06-20T15:40:00.002-06:00

What do Tigris, Meower Power, Cheeto and Pippi have in common?

They’re all in the running for the name of our new kitten.

I know. I’m a monkey’s uncle.

I would explain all about my longtime professed dislike of cats, and Mark's last email address (MyHeroScranz[dead cat's name]@yahoo.com), and Sage and Eliza's paranoia around animals, and that naughty billboard run by the Humane Society (with 12 foot tall pictures of lonely, orphaned animals), but our little orange furball is trying to climb up the back screen door (with the intent of unhooking the screen at the top and coming inside).

Excuse me.

Worst picture ever of the naughty kitty in action

P.S. Don't you think Pippi is the best name for a rambunctious cat who LOVES to walk in between people's legs and climb up screen doors and win over three formerly animal-paranoid children? I've been totally outvoted.

Darn screen saver

2011-06-05T19:07:00.000-06:00

Maybe it's a bad idea to have our computer screen saver set to roam through old pictures on our computer.

Eliza, 10/2009

Lily (with Eliza's encouragement), 6/2011

Good self-esteem summer

2011-06-04T08:56:00.002-06:00

Yesterday Sage asked if she could play with a friend. After I thought for a minute I said yes, and this was her earnest response:

"You are the best mom in the whole world.

You have made so many plans.

You are thoughtful and kind.

You think fast.

And you are loving."

I think this is going to be a good summer for my self-esteem.

After all, I have been honing my fast-thinking skills lately. And it's nice for someone to notice all those plans I've been working on, and not the last six weeks that I've spent lounging around eating saltines and drinking gringer ale.

Teacher Appreciation

2011-05-05T22:12:00.003-06:00

This week is Teacher Appreciation Week. Or so a helpful (or presumptuous?...I can't decide) little note that came home in Sage's backpack reminded me.

I thought of a few ideas that seemed nice for Sage's English and Spanish teachers, but I wanted her opinion, too. When I called to her to come hear my ideas, and see a picture of one on the computer, she was deeply engrossed in an American Girls book. I had to call a few times before she appeared, book in hand and angry eyes in tow.

I missed the warning signals (or subconsciously ignored them...I have lots of practice at that), and began explaining my ideas. "We could give them a loaf of bread and jar of jam, or we could give them a gerber daisy plant, or we could give them a log of cookie dough to make at home, or...[I geared up for the grand finale that I was a little excited about trying]...we could make them THIS! And I showed her this picture:

The irritation on her face was totally unmistakable now. Sage she turned to me, practicing to be a teenager, no doubt, and said--AND I QUOTE-- "No, Mom. Give them cookies. Not cookie dough. Cookies. And why did you make me come in here just for that?"

So, there you go. There I go asking for advice from someone who's six going on sixteen and busy appreciating Kirsten Learning a Lesson.

I'm thinking next week should be "Mother Appreciation Week." At least I know I'll get cookies.

(Lest you think Sage doesn't love her teachers, fear not. Her interest in Teacher Appreciation Week spiked 600% when I announced it was bedtime. Suddenly it was absolutely imperative that she show her love for her teachers with intricate, hand-made cards. Behold the inside of one.)

Rude

2011-04-30T10:02:00.001-06:00

This is rude.

But this makes it almost worth it.

The middle one

2011-04-27T22:20:00.002-06:00

I have been sick the last few days. Today I threw up in the bathroom sink. All three kids heard me and rushed to see what was going on. Their reactions were amusing (...well, they were when I thought about it after the fact). After I’d emptied my gut, Lily continued to stare at me silently like I was some freak of nature. Sage rushed over to me with a glass of water she’d filled up in the kitchen. And Eliza asked me (in THAT tone of voice that says "I'm trying to be patient") if I had forgotten to get her shoes.

Nurture or nature? Middle child syndrome? Second child syndrome? (That hits a little too close to home for comfort!)

Happy General Conference

2011-04-02T09:02:00.001-06:00

In case you wondered, General Conference is where we listen to this guy:


President Monson, by Sage

Not to this guy:

Satan, by Sage

A lunchtime visitor

2011-03-29T12:48:00.003-06:00

Even though Mark's work is 12-15 minutes from our house, he never comes home for lunch. Which is good, because he might be astounded at the number of chicken nuggets and bowls of rice and cheese that pass for good enough nutrition around here. Really it probably has more to do with his tendency to take two and a half minutes to eat and then it's back to work.

But I have a suspicion that today might be an exception to his stay-at-work routine, because we have been counting down March 29 for a LOOOOOOOOOOONG time...

Maybe you know what I'm talking about?

Or do you need a clue?

Or two?

Yes, we are the proud and very excited owners of the movie Tangled!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Lily keeps saying "Not at the library. At our house." Meaning, can you believe that we actually got a movie that we're going to keep?!?

It's been about 5 years since I last bought a movie. Curious George, to be exact. And prior to that I bought a whole slew of other ones that sit around and collect major dust now, including Dora the Explorer and The Lord of the Rings [two separate movies, by the way]. That was back in the era when I didn't really consider the mathematics of student loans--those lovely little things that need to be repaid several times over after law school ends.

I have it on pretty good evidence that Tangled will be well used and loved (unlike The Two Towers). Based on the number of times we have watched clips from it on Youtube in the last month. And based on...is that the garage door opening? A visitor coming home for lunch (or rather, for Tangled)?

This is the "BEST. DAY. EVER."

The Law of Moses

2011-03-23T14:26:00.001-06:00

Right now I am the one and only gospel doctrine teacher in my ward. Which means weekly lessons. Which translates into, I feel strange writing things that don't end with my testimony. To ease me back into blogging, I'll try to split this blog entry evenly between the New Testament and my kids.

Tonight [actually written a few weeks ago] I almost put the kids to bed without scripture time because it was close to 9. Mark had gone back to work, and he usually coordinates scripture times since I am nearly always out of mommy energy by that time. But I remembered (with guilt) the girls' primary goal of reading every day, and I decided to tell them a story relating to something I’ve been studying.

I taught the Sermon on the Mount on Sunday, and while that isn’t necessarily chock full of interesting stories, the idea of Christ changing the laws from really specific to “vague” is important and interesting and, I decided, comprehensible by a six-year-old. So I told the girls about how the children of Israel (previously slaves) having a hard time obeying and even “getting” spirituality. Then I told about their arrival at Mt. Sinai, and the golden calf incident while Moses was up receiving the law.

(Eliza got a little fixated on the idea of worshipping idols [which are HARD to define…dolls, sometimes golden, that were supposed to remind people of religious figures, but sometimes became more important than the religious figure itself?]. Following my attempted definitions of idols, Eliza proposed several examples of idol use, all involving Lily playing with idols in her bedroom at playtime.)

I gave them some examples of the detailed rules of the Mosaic law and Sage and Eliza were totally amused. (Sage was momentarily distracted over and concerned about whether or not we took more than 55 steps (the random number I threw out hypothetically) on Sunday. And Eliza, after hearing about “an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth,” had great fun extrapolating to “what if you cut off someone’s head…then they get to cut off yours?!?” (She usually asks weird questions like this anyway, but it was extra exciting to her that this was a legitimate issue in someone’s law.)

But then we talked about Jesus’ “upgrade” to a more celestial law during his sermon on [another] mount, and they totally got it. And they were excited about it, because it made logical sense to them—much more than the 55 steps business. When I posited the “new law” of “love thy neighbor,” Eliza proceeded to rattle off four examples of how to “love your neighbor” at the exact same time as Sage excitedly recounted a long story she had read in the Friend about (as far as I could tell) a child who included a wheelchair-bound child in their game of basketball. At least that’s what I could make out of their excited tones, since I couldn’t quite bring myself to curb the enthusiasm even the tiniest bit by making them take turns to express their new ideas.

And that is how the scripture time that was going to be a minute or less (in my mind) turned into an awesome story-telling session and discussion about truth that lasted ten or fifteen minutes. And I didn’t regret a second of it.

Desperate times call for desperate measures

2011-03-07T13:10:00.003-07:00

We're going on two weeks of sickness for Lily. Which means my energy is waning, and my desperation to keep a cranky 2-year-old happy is waxing. So we've resorted to a few unorthodox measures.

Like storing markers in a rainboot

Or having multiple tea parties per day. (No shirt, no shoes, no Shout stain-remover needed.)

Lots of reading with Daddy

(not an unorthodox or unusual measure, but too cute of a picture to pass up)

(Supervised) filling of Mommy's pill case. And then repeating it again the next day. And the next.

Lots of Mommy-doesn't-care-what-toys-you-want-with-you-as-long-as-you-nap naps

Some of which result in some pretty awesome hair.

Lots of baths each day. Some three minutes long. Some thirty minutes long. But all with huge puddles on the bathroom floor.

Parties with Lily's dog friends. This one was a gum party, and each guest got a piece.

Not pictured:
Lots of tylenol and amoxicillin, and lots (I mean like danger-to-the-Amazon-rainforest lots) of Kleenex boxes.

And (thankfully) we've had lots of snuggle time, too.

Yep, that's a swimsuit.

The Pink Cow Day

2011-02-17T14:44:00.000-07:00

On Monday, before anyone got up, I decorated the kitchen with a few balloons and streamers, and set out individual plates with valentines and candy (including homemade chocolate molds) for each of my girls.

Breakfast was heart pancakes and pink milk, thanks to a nighttime visit from The Pink Cow, which is a tradition that has lived on since my childhood. Just ask Danielle's friend, Alice.... Sorry, inside joke. But too good of a joke to not share.

I grew up drinking powdered milk, and on one V-day, my little sister, Danielle, took a thermos of Pink Cow (Powdered) Milk to elementary school as part of her lunch. In the lunchroom, one of Danielle's friends, Alice, noticed Danielle's BEAUTIFUL pink milk, and delightedly reached over, picked up Danielle's cup, and took a big slurp without even asking. The slurp may or may not have stayed down. For Krista and me, this was the best thing that had ever happened on a Valentine Day.

Thankfully The Pink 1% Cow graced our house and thermoses this year.

After breakfast we loaded up Sage with all her homemade Valentines, which she had worked on for hours, to make no two alike.

Hypothetically speaking, if a mom were to sneakily change the message inside one of her daughter's Valentines, would that be a retraction of free agency? Even if it weren't a love message? I found something questionable on the valentine Sage made for the one boy in her class that can beat her at math.

Notice the casual placement (by me) of that red heart? Hopefully he doesn't have a two-year-old sibling that likes to pick off heart stickers, because beneath lies the big ol' contraction: 't. Them's fighting words, and not so appropriate for Lovers Day, don't you think? I took the easy road out and covered it up without bothering to use this as a teaching moment. Blame the excessive sugar in my blood.

After half a day of Valentines excitement had passed, Eliza graciously suggested to me that "It would be a big help if you could give me a valentine, Mom." Which I took with a grain of salt and an Aspirin to warn off the impending sugar shock headache that was already forming behind my temples from my balanced breakfast of heart pancakes and oreo truffles.

By lunchtime, even Sugar-Tooth Eliza was ready to forgo sweets for the real four food groups. But by the time dinner rolled around, I was chomping at the bit to make this recipe for the grand finale of Lovers' Day.

Except something went wrong. A lot of somethings, actually. Because my version looked psycho (and much as I'd like to blame my lack of a fancy camera or beautiful cake platter, I know it lacked something else, too...). Especially when, after frosting the cake, I went to get the plates and forks ready, and the top layer started to crack.

As anticipated, I ended up with layers of cake and frosting that looked like pancakes. But I assumed that this labor-intensive dessert wouldn't actually TASTE like triple-sugar-quadruple-butter-pancakes.
(Though that may have been the effect of all that high fructose corn syrup in my bloodstream, inhibiting neurological capacity.)

Mark and I sat down to large slices of our pancake cake with high hopes (no pun intended). We took the first bite with gusto. The second followed a little more cautiously. And by the time the third and fourth loomed, we met the other person's gaze apprehensively (Mark not wanting to offend, and me not wanting to cry, and both of us not wanting to barf). Thanks to eight Valentine's Days and eight years of marriage under our belts, we reached a mental agreement without saying a word, and, simultaneously, we pushed the plates of sugar-bomb-pancakes away and began to laugh.

Then we washed it all down with some Pink Cow Milk, set the timer on the camera, and took twenty pictures of us making disgusted faces at the horrible cake (of which maybe three were actually in focus).

And, all sugar-coating aside, I felt happier than ever that I am married to my best friend.

Doritos and dog drama

2011-02-12T21:43:00.001-07:00

Research companies declared the Doritos' pug commercial the most recalled ad of the 2011 Superbowl season. When I showed it to Sage and Eliza, they sat glued to our computer screen, watching a tiny dog knock over an adult (not to mention a door) for a bag of Doritos.

At first I thought they liked it because they could relate to the little dog's obsession with Doritos.

(In March 2010, I recorded the following: Eliza was munching on a bag of Doritos. Sage got antsy for Eliza to share the chips. When Eliza finally passed over the goods, Sage said with a look of disgust, “This bag smells like lots of hands have been in it.”)

After some more thought about the Pug commercial, I realized that even greater than Sage and Eliza's love of Doritos is their fear of dogs. What I took to be an interest in fake orange cheese powder was more likely a visual representation of Sage and Eliza's deepest fear and firmest suspicion: that every dog on the planet wants to jump on them and knock them down. Interestingly enough, this commercial might actually be a cure for my girls' love of Doritos. (Example: If I eat Doritos, dogs will knock down doors to jump on me.)

But a discussion of fear of dogs (mine as well as the genetically inherited case of my girls') will have to be saved for another post. The real question remains--is a love of Doritos and Cheetos and fake orange cheese dust hereditary? In the simple random-ish sample of me and my posterity, I'm forced to conclude yes.

Genetics of a sweet tooth

2011-02-09T21:06:00.002-07:00

Yesterday was a pretty busy day for me, and in the evening, I looked back to realize, with dismay, that Lily had eaten cold cereal at three separate meals.

That girl has a sweet tooth problem, which is compounded by my inattentiveness on busy days. And by her ability to finagle treats out of any occasion. (Lily, you ate two pea-sized bites of cauliflower? Have a doughnut! You let the dentist count your two big teeth? Have a sucker! You took off your diaper for the tenth time today, and used the big potty? Have a sleeve of oreos! You didn't cut your hair or stuffed animals or my sheepskin rug? Have a three layer cake!)

Maybe it's just because she's so easygoing, or maybe it's her little dimple on her right cheek, or maybe it's just that I know whose genetic material produced Lily's sweet tooth, but it's hard to resist this cheery little face.

Cupcakes from here: raspberry lemonade, toasted coconut, grasshopper, root beer float

Eliza's extracurricular activities

2011-01-29T22:23:00.000-07:00

It's hard to believe this innocent little face belongs to the same body as the arm that picked up a rock in the parking lot today and drew a picture on the side of a neighboring car.

The same little arm will be doing a lot of jobs next week to earn money to fund her extracurricular artistic activities.

Proud as a peacock

2011-01-13T14:45:00.001-07:00

(October 13, 2010)
I spent a lot of time at the computer last week. Like every single spare moment. The project I was working on was an example of biting off more than I could chew. Almost. But luckily my kids took their mommy's little hiatus in stride, and were more than happy to watch a hundred movies and subsist on chicken nuggets, fruit snacks, and the occasional string cheese, washed down by sips of water from the bathroom sink.

The project I was working on is part of the culmination of something that I went out on a limb for ten weeks ago. A friend invited me to join her choir. When I asked about it she merely said, "It's the best part of my year." As for me, I thought the best part of my year wasn't getting off to a good start when I had to pay $45 for the music (because sometimes I’m too much of a tight wad to even rent a Redbox). But when we got a stack of 14 awesome (and some crazy) songs, and I did the math of how many rehearsals we had (10…okay, that wasn’t really hard math), and how fast paced this choir was going to be, I got a little excited.

Fast paced and exciting it was. And spiritual and moving and powerful it was. And totally different than I had been expecting, or would have even dared hope for in a non-audition choir. This is a description that comes from our choir blog.

WE ALSO SING
"We are 364 women who come from Ephraim to Logan. Many of us are wives and mothers. Some of us are divorced, widowed, single. We are housewives, employers, employees and students. Some of us are rich and struggling, others are poor and struggling. We laugh, we cry, we try to make a difference."

And now it's concert time! I spent the last week writing program notes for our concert, because I believe in the power of the music and of our incredible director and of our choir.

My final draft of a week's worth of work was four pages of wonderfulness. And then I remembered what my selective memory had pushed out of my mind--that our program notes had to be only one page. And, with great sadness (tears may have been present), I began to cut and whittle down my program notes to one teensy page.

But our director posted the extended version on the choir blog. And now I'm published! A little.
And that's why I'm proud as a peacock.

And if you want, JOIN OUR CHOIR! It WAS the best thing of my year. And I have big plans for it to be the best thing of my husband’s year, because I made him join this time around. I bet you a week’s worth of chicken nuggets, fruit snacks and cheese sticks that it will change you, too.

For the love of scissors

2011-01-12T22:53:00.004-07:00

When I got to thinking about Eliza and scissors, I remembered that she has a history of inappropriate snipping that goes beyond her own hair (and poinsettias).

Including, but definitely not limited to...

--The ties on my bedroom quilt. Two of them were snipped right down to the little knots. I didn't even ask if it was Eliza. I just know. Without a shadow of a doubt. It's got her name written all over it.

--The princess pillowcase I sewed for her. (During the first week of her ownership, she cut the entire corner off. Why? "So I can see the pillow through it, Mom!"

--Some parts of pictures. Do you recognize this one? (It's the after Eliza version.)

Here's the before Eliza version.

--Jewels. One of Eliza's very favorite past times is "making jewels" which means drawing colored circles on paper and cutting them out individually for collection in a jar. Here are pages of her jewels waiting to be cut out.

Also, have I ever mentioned that half of this blog is going to have to be deleted when Eliza learns to 1. read and 2. surf the internet? In the meantime, I consider it therapy for me.

1-11-11

2011-01-11T22:19:00.002-07:00

Today is 1-11-11. I love exciting dates like that, and numbers. When I was little, I liked to do "math" on the clock--like pointing out (to anyone who would listen) that the clock said 11:55, and that was awesome because 55 divided by 11 is 5.

So given my love of numbers, you would have thought I could have caught a trend.

1. 6-22-09

2. 3-18-10

3. 1-11-11

Or, for those who prefer pictures to numbers,

Given the observed arithmetic ratio of 10 months, with a standard deviation of 34 days [okay, I'm totally bluffing...I remember next to nothing from statistics], Eliza's next haircut will be on December 3, 2011. So mark your calendars, because starting on 11-11-11, I'm plastering mine with the gentle reminder: "HIDE ALL SCISSORS."

Cub scout letters to soldiers

2011-01-10T22:53:00.002-07:00

(December 8, 2010)

A few weeks before Christmas I was looking for a good service opportunity for my cub scouts, but nothing seemed to pan out. We had made cookies the week before, so taking cookies to someone seemed lame. There was no snow to shovel, and it was too wet to rake leaves for the elderly. It was too cold to pick up trash. We had one too many singing-hating boys to Christmas carol anyone. The time was ticking down to the moment when six balls of energy would descend on my doorstep. In my desperation, I almost invented Elective 25: “Clean Your Den Leader’s Bathroom for a Christmas Service.”

But almost at the last minute a great idea came to me; we could write Christmas cards for soldiers serving overseas. It was the perfect project, since two of the boys’ dads have served overseas in the last few years.

When the boys arrived, I let them make up plates of nachos for a snack. After 20 minutes had passed, I had to call it quits on the “snacking,” since my six scouts (times three servings each) had managed to take out a huge two-pound bag of tortilla chips, an additional two pounds of grated cheese, a jar of salsa, and one teaspoon of beans amongst them.

With their bellies full, the scouts spoke not a word, but went straight to their work (well, sort of). Armed with construction paper and sharpies, the boys resumed their weekly challenge of who could say the silliest thing in the loudest possible voice, and not focus on their task.

A really funny thing about 9-year-old boys is that they have no issue with how stinky it gets when they take off their shoes, or how nonsensical their jokes are, but when you ask them to write in a thank you card, they suddenly clam up, and spend as much time covering their work so no one will see their ever-so-personal message: “Thank you. From, David” written in cursive handwriting, and sometimes accompanied by a picture of a light saber or basketball.

I didn’t get to supervise the card-making very closely, since I was busy sweeping grated cheese out of every crevice of my hardwood floor and trying not to look like I have OCD…but, seriously, how can nine year olds drop SO MUCH FOOD on the floor?

Later that night, when not a creature was stirring, I finally stopped to read the cards. I know I didn’t ask for “Media Release” forms on these, so I won’t be contacting Hallmark, but I hope no one from the BSA sues me for sharing some of the messages destined for a few lucky soldiers. Need I say that all the original spelling and punctuation has been preserved?

Letter #1:

I am thankful for you awsome and honorabable and brave soldiers.

God bless America!

Call me! [phone number, including area code]

--[First, middle and last name], age 9

Letter #2:

my dad went to war. His name is [name] have you met him. You guys rock. Merry Christmas! Love, [full name], age 9

Letter #3:

dear mr. soldier dude

you are doing a good job serving our country. I bet you miss your family. I wish you a merry Christmas. Thank you for defending our country. See you later mr. soilder dude. [full name, address, phone]

Letter #4:

dear soilder,

thank you for giving us freedom You are doing good. I know you miss your family. Merry Christmas soilder I hope you do good I hope you kill all the bad guys and win look at the back. Love, [name].

[On the back was a full-length picture of himself he had cut out of one of the photos we had for our den scrapbook]

In hindsight, I should have taped up a big sign with the correct spelling of “Soldier” on it, and we’re definitely not having nachos again for a while, but I think it was a good activity.

“Happy Christmas to all [soldiers and their families] and to all a good night.”

Holiday Picture Catchup

2011-01-10T00:04:00.000-07:00

Lily caught redhanded.

All Eliza wants for [next] Christmas is a bangs trim.

(Actually she has threatened me extensively if I should ever think about cutting her bangs again. I have threatened her extensively if she ever thinks about hacking out chunks of her own hair again.)

Whose job was it to clean the glass behind the fireplace? Perhaps that person's time would be better spent learning how to photoshop out fingerprints on glass!

After I put up our Christmas decorations, Eliza took it upon herself (daily and sometimes hourly) to rearrange them in a more beautiful way. Here is the fireplace mantel after Eliza moved half the room onto it.

And here is Eliza's "Santa" shelf.

More of Eliza's handiwork

Making neighbor gifts this year. (Hot chocolate on a stick)

Eliza decided to trim the poinsettia plant, and spread the Christmas cheer throughout the house. (I should be grateful it wasn't on the fireplace mantel, too.)

Lily being cute while I worked on presents. (My kids have spent way more time squished into this crib than any of their dolls have.)

Catching up with some old Notre Dame friends, the Mears.

(The Mear kids and Sage back at Notre Dame...thank goodness Kelly taught me to fix little girls' hair)

Happy holidays, from the Williams family who did not get out any Christmas cards this year.

The calm before the storm

2011-01-08T15:42:00.000-07:00

Things have felt altogether too calm around here. Which probably means something awful is on the horizon. In fact, it is. It's called Potty Training.

A little while ago my sister, Danielle, sent me something I had written in my last round of potty training. It seems appropriate to post now that Danielle's in the throes of potty training one of the most stubborn three year olds on the planet.

For any mother who plans on potty training. Before beginning:
1. Buy rubber gloves. They'll get used, trust me.
2. Buy lots of air freshener. Maybe several kinds. Maybe 10 kinds if Sage lives in your house.
3. Buy lots of lotion (for dry hands b/c you're going to be washing YOUR hands a lot!).
4. Buy lots of foamy soap (easier for kids to use)
5. Buy a bathroom book (for you to wait out the LONG hours your kid will spend trying to earn a chocolate chip. Or candy bar. Or car, depending on how desperate you are when you promise rewards for JUST POOPING IN THE POTTY, for heavens sake!)
6. Do NOT cook a roast if you think your child will poop that day. Trust me.
7. Hide the book "Love you forever" (You know, the one with the little boy putting a watch in the toilet.)

A goal to create

2011-01-07T17:33:00.007-07:00

'Tis the time for New Year's Resolutions, which is right up my alley. I've neglected this little blog during the last few months since I received the call to teach an adult Sunday School class on the Old Testament.

I wrote a lot of half-finished, never-posted blog entries, but my heart and imagination were fixated on the Messianic prophecies of Isaiah, the Babylonian captivity, the hidden treasures about temples (Ezekiel 40-47), and how to share my passion with others in a meaningful way.

But still, my soul yearns to create.
"The desire to create is one of the deepest yearnings of the human soul. No matter our talents, education, backgrounds or abilities, we each have an inherent wish to create something that did not exist before." (Dieter F. Uchtdorf)
Next to crafting a good lesson and making tasty chocolate chip cookies, the way I love to create the most is through writing.

Last month, my mom asked me to write a Christmas program script for a very different audience than this blog ever reaches. It took me a while, and stretched some new muscles, but when I was done I felt grateful for the chance to create something meaningful.

So much of my day is filled with repetitive acts, like cooking, cleaning and exercise, which totally build character (and sometimes threaten sanity), that I have gotten into a rut of not making time for meaningful creation.

And so this week's Comprehensive Reform (aka New Year's Resolutions for those with Goal-Setting OCD) will feature a new item: Create something meaningful by dusting off the half-finished thoughts of the past three months and posting them each day this week. I've got lots to share, from how the Old Testament influenced my thoughts about airport security, to cub scout letters to soldiers, to my first dip into musicology. That may not sound exciting, but I feel excited by the prospect of bringing meaning and creation into my daily life.

How about you? What is your preferred form of creation? To jumpstart your thinking, I've included one of Eliza's creations. The medium is white paper, and adornments include dry pasta, fresh pine needles, and even an entire hot glue gun stick. I think it's a Christmas piece. Possibly.

lAnd Lily's been hard at work creating new hideouts where she can scarf stolen goodies in privacy.

And Sage recently wrote a story for her uncle's birthday and made darling puppets on paint sticks (my mom's genius idea) to go with it.

A winter itch

2010-11-24T04:50:00.001-07:00

What is it about a big snow that gives me the irresistible desire every single year to post excessive amounts of pictures of my kids in the winter wonderland? It's like trying to ignore an itch (which I have a lot of practice doing from my years in marching band)...an itch I successfully resisted at Halloween costume time and during our double birthday week in the summer (for lack of profound or witty things to caption my deluge of pictures with).

But, apparently a little bout of insomnia and the sentimentality of assembling the Christmas tree with our kids during last night's blizzard in a Hallmark-like moment has weakened my resolve to be a "purist" blogger. Whatever that is.

Without further ado, or disclaimers, may I present, the snow lovers.

Our little elf

All she wants for Christmas is her two front teeth and lots more snow and to not be made to wear the darling Christmas coat that Mom loves and she hates

I know it's blurry, but Lily's face is priceless. As is the fact that they are sitting in snow on the trampoline. Which, apparently, is a lot cooler than the snow on the ground.


Pure bliss: getting pulled in a sled around the yard by daddy

A close up

Sage's second round outside (note new, dry coat); she was throwing snow at the window at us

The beautiful sunrise

Lesson learned

2010-11-08T21:51:00.001-07:00

As of this week, Sage isn't allowed to face paint without supervision anymore.

Think that's harsh? Take a peek at the rainbow she painted on Eliza's face.

It's hard to imagine a more excited subject, isn't it?

I'm still trying to understand how the black neck fits into the whole "rainbow" theme.

Helping Others

2010-11-03T22:12:00.003-06:00

In the past month Sage has written two "long" stories, both of which feature a protagonist named Heather (the name of my youngest sister!). I had to include (below) the "talk" Sage wrote and typed by herself after listening to the Primary Program. It took her about two hours to write the whole thing. I just love how her little testimony of service morphs into a pep talk on recycling that is strongly reminiscent of last week's unit on Community Helpers in first grade.

To perform her talk, Sage conscripted our music stand to act as podium, and she constructed an adjustable microphone out of a bendy straw, a cotton ball and some masking tape. She and Eliza have spent many hours "introducing" each other and then giving "talks" at this podium.

My talk is on helping. I like to help when people are sick or when people are hurt. I can help when we make a meal and when I am at school. I can help wash the dog. I can help buy the groceries. I can help my family in many ways. I can help the grass grow. I love to help and helping is a thing that god loves you to do. have you ever helped someone? I have helped lots of times. helping makes me happy. helping is one of my favorite things to do. I can help by going to church too. I am going to tell a story to you. once there was a little girl named heather and after she had done her jobs she went outside and then she heard something. she ran and ran till she got there. she saw a little boy lying on the ground. he was crying lots and lots and he was bleeding. heather helped the boy up and helped him find his mom. they found his mom and heather went home very happy. the end. when you help someone it gives you a warm feeling inside. a happy feeling. helping is a thing you can do any time. when you help you feel very happy. you can help the world by cleaning it and you can help the world by recycling too. you can help your community in many ways. can you help your school? Yes you can you can help your school in many different ways.

Some days are busier than others

2010-10-25T22:14:00.001-06:00

Oh look, a cute little baby that loves to carry around spoons and open the fridge.

But wait, what's that white goatee?

No problem, Lily. It's only a cake for Daddy's work that has to be there in five minutes. I don't think anyone will ever notice you went mining for gold in the cream cheese frosting. [And gave up when you hit cake--did you really think it was going to be a big sheet of straight frosting?]

(three minutes later)

...Is that silence I hear while I've been trying to make the pockmarked cake presentable? Of course it is. And of course someone's been busy in the bathroom.

I have learned that cakes are just not a safe thing to leave lying around this house. [I also realize how obvious that last sentence sounds, but somehow it's easy to forget that some people have no shame when it comes to sugar. And that they come by those genes honestly from their maternal side. : )]

A few weeks ago I made a cake that I was going to have my cub scouts decorate like an American flag. I left it out to cool, and rejected Eliza's many pleas to have a little "taste test." Exactly two minutes before my scouts showed up I returned to the kitchen just to find huge handfuls gone from the cake, and Eliza was nowhere to be found...until I followed the trail of cake crumbs to the bathroom. No time for pictures then. Good thing the scouts will eat anything.

The Latest Family Home Evening Lesson

2010-10-04T22:19:00.001-06:00

It's Monday night. You know what that means--another battle waged in the epic story of "Who Will Give The Family Home Evening Lesson."

Today, surprisingly, Sage and I had a challenger. At dinnertime, Eliza dared to challenge the incumbents when she announced that she wanted to teach "an experiment" for our Lesson.

"What's your experiment?" I asked Eliza warily (whispering to Mark that the experiment would surely require the use of Ziploc bags--a new favorite thing around here that has been recently rationed to one per kid per week).

"It has to do with water, wheat kernels, and soap!" Eliza announced gleefully.

Mark and I then joined forces to filibuster that motion. It was pretty easy to distract and conquer, since we had chocolate cake on our side, and our four-year-old would-be scientist has the biggest sweet tooth on this side of the Mississippi. And possibly the other side, too.

And I gave the lesson. : )

I'm losing the power

2010-09-27T18:27:00.000-06:00

If I'm being honest, I have to admit that I'm also in the middle of a power struggle with my six year old, Sage. It's not over whether she should eat her veggies or clean her room or wear socks with her super stinky brown slip on shoes. It’s over which of us will teach the lesson at our weekly Family Home Evening.

Last week I made a batch of cinnamon rolls, which were timed to be hot right at family home evening time, so we could deliver them to some specific neighbors following our lesson (by me) on service.

Sage had other plans. She gerrymandered her name onto the "lesson" spot on our Family Home Evening chart, announced that we were having a lesson on "camping" and procured a hand drawn page with pictures of camping activities, and a page of a campfire. (Mark had just planned and carried out a Fathers and Sons campout the week before.) To avoid what we knew was an inevitable argument, and in light of her extensive preparation (darn that girl), we decided to humor her and hear out the ever-so-spiritual lesson on camping.

Interestingly enough, the lesson sounded a lot like our family had been drafted into first grade. “First we’re going to split into two groups,” Sage announced authoritatively, “and then we’ll rotate through the stations and learn about camping.” (Insert private eye roll between Mark and me.) “The first station will be Fishing, and the next one will be sleeping in a tent, and the next one will be the campfire, and the last one will be watching the camping part of the movie ‘The Parent Trap’.” (Insert more eye rolls, and Mark shutting down the movie watching part and me complaining (in a teenage-like fashion) that my cinnamon rolls were going to get cold.)

But, bless his heart, Mark convinced me to let Sage run her show. So I tried not to grumble as we pushed the couches together and brought out a queen-size quilt to make a “tent.”

And then I had to try not to laugh when we all had to pretend to go fishing.

And I surprised myself by procuring a stick for us to use to roast invisible marshmallows over our paper fire.

And, thankfully, Sage was willing to swap out “The Parent Trap” for taste testing and delivering my hot cinnamon rolls.

And then I got a chance to consider my own message about service more carefully. As nice as it is to take baked goods to neighbors, isn’t it more important for me to serve the people I live with? (And, seriously, what makes kids happier than a fort built out of couches?) If this resolution to serve my family better means I need to bite my tongue while Sage teaches us to cast for fish amongst the strewn about couch cushions, I guess I can do it.

Especially for the reward of happy faces like this.

I've got the power

2010-09-24T10:09:00.000-06:00

I’m in the middle of a power struggle. With a four year old. Which actually happens more than you might think. Unless you’ve had a four year old—then you know about the need for need for choosing your battles.

Is this one worth fighting? I need some input from an impartial observer who doesn’t react emotionally to being challenged by a four year old four (or forty) times a day.

Last week I bought a Disney Princess wet wipe container for our bathroom with the special lid that pops up and allows one wipe at a time to be removed that, in theory, eliminates the need for all the wet wipes to dry out each time a person under 28 opens the container and leaves it open.

Fortunately, Eliza (one of the worst offenders of the dry wipes problem) loves my taste in wet wipe containers and is enthralled by the little flip top.

Unfortunately, Eliza decided that the container would make a perfect treasure box for herself. “It doesn’t even smell like wet wipes inside!” she announced after she emptied it of wipes and loaded it with "treasures."

Fortunately, I know by now that wet wipes can be rehydrated after they are left out of their container.

Unfortunately, I have to assume the role of detective just to find the MIA wet wipes that are suffering from what’s becoming quite the drought. At first Eliza merely deposited the wipes near the scene of the crime, on the bathroom counter. Since the initial scolding that ensued, she’s been known to leave them on her bedroom floor, and once she even disposed of the evidence in the trash can. Which, unfortunately, requires sanitization as well as hydration.

It's not news to me that Eliza is a hoarder. A while back I made a batch of homemade pretzels that I left to cool while Mark and I were watching a movie. (The girls had eaten theirs earlier.) Eliza, who had already been tucked into bed, snuck out and collected most of the pretzels (in a towel I save for mopping the floor) and hid them under her pillow. It was only by accident that I discovered them, when I came in to see why she was still awake, and found her arched unnaturally (and unrepentantly) over her pillow.

Is it worth the fight to reclaim the Princess box for its rightful duty, and out of the principle of “Mom's The Boss”? Or should I suck it up and fork out another $2.50 to replace the Princess box with a thoroughly unexciting non-princessy-or-other-kid-icon wet wipe box? Now that I know better, I’d pay an extra buck for a blank container.

Fringe benefits

2010-09-01T00:18:00.002-06:00

You might think that there are not a lot of good things about having two surgeries on both feet in two months.

Sausage-shaped toes, for one.

But surgeries come with fringe benefits, I’ve learned.

Like lots of [working] visits from family

And someone else gets to teach your 6-year-old to ride without training wheels

And even the kids get in the spirit of service

And you get to [have to] give yourself permission to ignore the weeds in the garden and just enjoy the harvest, which is collected daily by willing kids who are almost as excited about daily bean growth as you are

And you get help on your zoo trip [which you HAD to take because you already bought 12 packages of butter to get free admission at the zoo and it expires after August]

And there’s lots of time to sit back and delight in the delightful things, instead of missing them while you multi-task

Sage becomes Mrs. Sage

2010-08-27T22:37:00.002-06:00

Today was Sage’s first day in her school’s dual immersion program. As soon as she got home I grilled her about the details of all-day first grade and the Spanish half of the day and how she found her carpool without me having told her where to go (whoops). Trying to get information out of her was like pulling teeth…aided by the fact that I’m not above bribing with candy to satisfy my own curiosity.

The only information Sage volunteered enthusiastically was which girl had the same lunchbox as her, and which of her friends had also brought a ham sandwich to eat. (There were three, by the way. One had no mayonnaise, though.)

Sage did tell me proudly about how she “translated” for her class when her Spanish teacher asked Sage what “favorito” meant. That’s my girl—rockin’ the cognates.

In spite of Sage’s reluctance to give me a play-by-play of the previous seven hours, I know the day must have been a success because she and Eliza shut themselves in their bedroom and organized “School” for a bunch of stuffed and furry (but oh, so attentive) pupils.

By eavesdropping on the bedroom session of “School” I found out that Eliza was the appointed “Teacher of Washing Hands” and Sage (I mean “Mrs. Sage”) was the teacher for all other subjects.

Oh, and for the record, Sage didn’t appreciate it when I put Lily’s dress on my head (think hairnet) and pretended to be the lunch lady calling them to come for snack time. (I'm glad she didn't think to make me a card that I could turn from green to yellow for my little stunt.) That Mrs. Sage sure runs a tight ship.

My green-thumbed confession

2010-08-25T23:20:00.002-06:00

When I was in junior high my sister gave me a shirt that said, "Help! I'm on the phone and I can't shut up!" Now I need an updated version: "Help, I'm obsessed with my garden and I can't stay out!" I can't get enough of the garden. Oh, sure, I’ve got zucchini up to my eyeballs, and my arms always smell like tomato vines, and if I never saw another weed again in this life it would be too soon. But I keep going back out—several times a day, and always on the pretense that “I’ll be back in just a second!”

Sometimes it’s to admire the pumpkins (but, oops, there’s a few weeds…I’ll just grab those), or to pick the raspberry bush’s daily yield of three magnificent berries (oh, wait, I forgot to water the basil plants, and I better pick a leaf for my fingertip perfume), or to check on the zucchini plant so I know how soon the next round of neighbors will be getting zucchini bread (is that a slug?--Smash it! Is that a ladybug?—Go get the girls! Is that a 6-foot long green monster? No, it’s just yesterday’s zucchini putting “Little Shop of Horrors” to shame.) Then, what do you know, a “quick check” turns into two hours.

Sometimes I proudly take pictures of my garden goods, and I realize I’m not so unlike Cupon Clippers. Here’s a picture of today’s haul.

I've recognized a form of my addiction in each of my kids.

Sage loves our beans (22 harvested today), corn, and, naturally, the sage plant in our herb garden (which only she is allowed to harvest). After helping to plant the corn kernels, Sage made a chart and tracked how many kernels sprouted into little green stalks each day. She considers herself the authority on which ears of corn are ready to be picked (though earwigs have provided ample, and fearsome, competition). Of all the harvested food, Sage and Eliza are totally in love with fresh corn on the cob--especially when they get to roll the hot cobs over the whole stick of butter. We have to limit them at two fulls cobs a night, and not because we don't have enough in our garden.

Eliza is our flower girl. When the tulips were in bloom, I found her outside praying over them individually. She monitors all the new blooms, and exacts a tax for her services—regular picking, which she uses to fill all the vases we own. Sometimes she brings the vase with her when she moves from one room to another.

You’d never guess from her pale skin, but next to me, Lily has spent the most time out in the yard this summer. When her older sisters had long since deserted the backyard for otter pops or a show like Backyardigans (how ironic), Lily could be found picking peas (during pea season she asked to go out for peas five times a day), exclaiming happily over a pill bug or anthill, or picking green grape tomatoes. And more than anything, she loves to confiscate the hose for her own purposes, including to create mud puddles (usually at the bases of our peach trees) to splash in.

Mark likes to go in the garden whenever he wants to not come in for two hours, since I always insist on giving him THE LATEST tour, which is always drastically different from the last tour that I gave him forty-eight hours ago. I'm sure he goes to bed at night thinking, "To everything there is a season..."

19 pairs

2010-08-20T16:14:00.000-06:00

Today while I was making dinner Eliza wandered in and casually remarked, “Mom, I have a fat bum.”

"Preschool anorexia" and other horrific thoughts popped into my head, and I quickly turned to look at her, concern lining my face, as I countered, "No you don’t! Who told you that?”

With a little giggle she confessed, “It’s my undies,” and she pulled the waistband of her shorts down just an inch to reveal 19 pairs of panties stacked on top of each other.

The funny thing was that 19 undies weren't even enough to make her look fat. But it did look like she might lose circulation soon.

Eliza enjoying some frosting

The Tooth Fairy is Going Broke

2010-07-16T14:56:00.003-06:00

Five year olds beware--the tooth fairy may soon be broke from all the loose teeth Sage has discovered in her mouth this past month.

When the dentist told us Sage had a loose tooth it set her in a frenzy. Her first loose tooth got hours of "mirror time" before it literally popped out of her mouth while Sage was eating a taco.

After tooth #1 (aka The Big Star) made its exit, Sage proudly carried it around in a Ziploc bag, which she managed to lose at least once every five or ten minutes. This resulted in instant panic, and tearful requests for family prayers on behalf of the tooth’s recovery. With a firm belief in the power of prayer-over-lost-teeth (since it worked three out of three times in the space of thirty minutes), I had to reign in the spirituality after half an hour and relegate the tooth to its celebrated position under the pillow, and out of Sage’s butterfingers grip.

The Tooth Fairy was happy to make a visit that night, as much to remove the tooth as to leave the anticipated prize. This tooth dollar nearly burnt a hole in Sage’s little purse before she bought herself a genuine Made-in-China jar of fingernail polish from Walmart.

With three more loose(ish) teeth awaiting, Sage recognized her financial interest in her baby teeth, and she began to request tacos for dinner on a regular basis, in addition to demanding rights to sit in the exact chair in which she lost her first tooth. For good luck. On her path to becoming a millionaire. One dollar at a time.

Tooth number two was a little more stubborn about getting displaced, and we began to explore the vast array of suggestions YouTube has for removing a tooth. These include, but are certainly not limited to, extraction by rocket, dog, Harley-Davidson motorcycle, and remote control car. Once I recognized that the common denominator in these successes was just a swift jerk, I opted for a more subtle choice—tweezers, which worked like a charm. So well, in fact, that the next day Sage asked me “peel out these two teeth” with my tweezers. She claimed it was so she could look like her friend from school, but I think it was so the greenbacks in her purse could have a few more friends.

Sage's birthday and tooth money get acquainted

Following the loss of her second tooth (which, incidentally, took place on a taco night), Sage went to the sink to wash her hands and tooth off, and the poor little bloody tooth slid out of sight down the sink. When Sage realized it was gone, panic set in. Thankfully the live-in tooth fairy remembered where she had saved Tooth #1, and in a moment of careful word choosing, Tooth #1 was presented as Tooth #2, and all was well.

Who would have thought it would be so much work to be a Tooth Fairy?

What the Kids Do While I Garden

2010-06-21T19:48:00.005-06:00

Now I know.

In case you couldn't tell at first glance, that is Eliza cleaning out the mini M+Ms from the freezer. I literally took this picture seconds after walking in from the garden and capturing an unsuspecting and completely unrepentant snitch. (I have no idea how long she had been at it.)

A close up of the red-handed sweet tooth

Ignorance was blissful while it lasted.

No apologies from the garden

2010-06-16T12:56:00.001-06:00

I have a strict personal policy to never apologize on my blog for “not writing for so long”--which is how almost every single one of my journal entries started for about 5 straight years when I was younger.

That being said, even if I don’t apologize explicitly, I can a least point the finger at what is to blame. 1/3 of an acre of yardwork and gardening, that’s what. I’m convinced that my fingernails and finger creases won’t be presentable for the next three months. Which means that this blog, if it gets any action this summer, will likely be along the lines of “Adventures in Gardening Day After Day” or “What the Kids Do While I Garden…Actually I Don’t Even Know” or “How Many Places Can Lily Find Dirty Water to Splash in While I Garden?”

It all started with me being born of goodly parents who always had a garden. They were (and still are) like the Johnny Appleseeds of tomatoes and corn and peach trees. My childhood memories are peppered with recollections of dropping dried corn kernels into freshly turned dirt, lifting up bush plants to search for green beans for dinner, peeling back husks and silk to peek in at corn cobs, and long hours spent watering fruit trees with a faded old hose. Of course there were also earwigs, weeds to pull as punishments for fighting, and the interminable canning days each fall. But for all the annoying times, I am forever bound to gardening by my addiction to fresh peaches and ice cream, garden tomatoes to garnish mac’n’cheese, and corn on the cob as a perfect side dish to any summer dinner.

In all honesty, my husband does not love gardening. Which might have been a good issue to probe more carefully before we bought our yard (and house) last year. But I am totally content to do all the gardening. It brings me an inexplicable sense of contentment and fulfillment (and often gets me out of washing the dishes or putting the kids to bed). Barbara Kingsolver wrote this in her book "Animal, Vegetable, Miracle" (which I am loving right now):

"Every gardener I know is a junkie for the experience of being out there in the mud and fresh green growth. Why? An astute therapist might diagnose us as a codependent and sign us up for Tomato-Anon meetings. We love our gardens so much it hurts. For their sake we'll bend over till our backs ache...We lead our favorite hoe like a dance partner down one long row and up the next, in a dance marathon that leaves us exhausted....What is it about gardening that is so addicting? That longing is probably mixed up with our DNA. Agriculture is the oldest, most continuous livelihood in which humans have engaged....Growing food was the first activity that gave us enough prosperity to stay in one place, form complex social groups, tell our stories, and build our cities...." (177-178).

As for me, I'm in it for the garden gnomes. They don't get any cuter than this.

New photographer

2010-05-28T16:44:00.003-06:00

Now that I've got a new hair stylist, I need a new photographer.

Preferably one with more than three years of experience....experience being alive, I mean.

Impressing the In-Laws

2010-05-18T19:44:00.003-06:00

Tonight I was cleaning up our basement, in preparation for some of Mark's family, who are coming to stay at our house for a wedding. As a fairly new homeowner, I'm so happy to finally be able to host other people. As I was organizing the basement and getting one room ready for Mark's dad, I had a visitation of the old "Impress the In-laws" complex, and tried to think of things that I could display or casually point out that would make Mark's dad proud of us.

I think he'll be impressed with our new fruit trees and (albeit half-planted) garden--for which I awarded myself a mental point. We'll be sure to open our closet under the stairs for him, which contains the bulk of our food storage (two points). I refuse to eat, prepare, or even buy beets, so I'm bound to lose a point on those grounds. Tomorrow I can stockpile Adams peanut butter (bleh) before our guests arrive (one point).

It was then that my eyes rested on some of the only visible food storage that we have in our basement, and I got a little pit in my stomach. As important background information, you have to know that Mark's dad once gave him a book called "The White Powder That's Legal" (ahem, that's refined sugar, for those of you who were wondering...or just thinking of powdered milk). And although we own plenty of brown rice, beans and wheat, this particular visible food storage stash just happens to contain a sampling of every imaginable form of high fructose corn syrup and refined sugar. From ice cream cones to Captain Crunch (times three) to fifty 74-cent cake mixes, to graham crackers and granola bars and chips (thank heavens the year's supply of chocolate chips are tucked away somewhere else), it's like Refined Sugar Heaven.

Do I best minimize my losses by spending an hour tomorrow shopping for Adams PB, or crafting an impenetrable curtain to cover our shrine to the White Powder That's Legal?

Family wedding

2010-05-05T19:45:00.000-06:00

In honor of the family wedding I have this week, where I get to line up for countless pictures in matching outfits with my six skinny sisters, I have to post this picture I found here.

It's called "Realistic Depiction of How I Feel on a Scale" (or "At a Wedding")

There is someone in my family who is looking forward to the wedding. Or at least her own.

Box tops

2010-04-26T20:46:00.001-06:00

Oh, Box Tops. You have my kindergartner and me wrapped around your little finger. Or corner, I should say.

I know this because last night I woke up around 3am with the sudden realization that I had thrown away a package without clipping out the little Box Top rectangle that would bring my daughter’s school a whopping ten cents. Yes, I dug in the recycling bin for it this morning. And, no, I wouldn't have lost sleep or gone dumpster diving if I remembered I accidentally threw out a dime.

I began to suspect the addicting power of Box Tops because instead of staring at the back of a cereal box at breakfast time like a normal kid, this morning Sage made towers of Box Tops, sorted according to size.

Perhaps other people have been sucked into this addicting phenomenon of collecting box tops. I have designed a test to help other diagnose possible Box Top addictions.

1. Have you ever bought a box of Tuna Helper just because it has three box tops on it, and not because you have any plans to eat it?

2. Have you searched for Box Tops on Ebay to save yourself some trouble? (Do it--I promise you'll be amused.)

3. Do you get an involuntary little surge of adrenaline when you see a pile like this?

...well, Sage and I both got that adrenaline rush when my sister presented her with 60 (!!!!!) box tops from her in-laws last week. It was like Christmas in April. All of which can be redeemed for six whole dollars for Sage’s school.

I spent more than six dollars last time we were at Sam’s Club because Sage noticed a monster size box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch bearing…wait for it, THREE box tops! She begged and begged to get it until I, like the unjust judge in the book of Luke, plopped it in the cart to save myself the mental anguish, "lest by her continual coming she weary me."

I guess it's my own fault for being a pushover. Which is probably what General Mills is banking on.

Multi-tasking

2010-04-18T20:08:00.008-06:00

Lily is all about multi-tasking.
I think she'll play the marimba someday.

Bunnies or Bitter Herbs

2010-04-07T14:05:00.004-06:00

After capturing this on camera yesterday morning...

Lily trying to empty the entire contents of a candy-pooping chicken into her mouth

...I have declared war on our Easter candy.

Sage hasn’t been the problem. In fact, following an Easter egg hunt with her cousins, they all sat down and traded their goods. She ended up the proud owner of four packages of microwave popcorn (“for our movie nights, mom!”), having traded and given away her chocolate and quarters. I had to resist the urge to lecture her about the value of money and the abundance of popcorn residing at our house already, in honor of the Easter spirit (which, incidentally, has nothing to do with chocolate, quarters or popcorn).

As for Eliza, well, she hasn’t eaten more than 3 mouthfuls of stable food (without being bribed) since we stopped by the Easter’s Bunny’s hutch last week (aka Sam’s Club).

And Lily is obviously happy with chicken poop candies that are hard as rocks and were probably assembled somewhere in China five years ago. Though she hasn't been known to discriminate against sugar in any other form, either.

On the spiritual side, thanks to my dad’s emphasis on Easter, Sage and Eliza can tell about Passover (going all the way back to Joseph in Egypt), and name many of the events of Jesus’ last week (even if Eliza thinks he suffered in the Garden of Eden.)

As I took the chance to tell stories about Moses and the plagues, the raising of Lazarus, Mary at the empty tomb, and more, I was astounded at the kids' interest. What I thought would be a quick scripture thought about Passover turned into a 45 minute storytime for kids who listened with fascination.

Mark and I (and my sister, Suzy, who is knows a lot more about bitter herbs!) fielded many questions that tested our knowledge of the scriptures. (You try naming all the Plagues without a cheat sheet). And while I was a little uncomfortable over Sage's interest in Judas' suicide, I had to hold back a chuckle when Eliza drew pictures of Jesus on the cross and Mary at his feet today on our white board. [Incidentally, Eliza told me Mary was counting, since Eliza's pictures came rather close to Sage's math problems.]

I'm confident that once all the Easter candy runs out around here and all our cavities are filled, Sage and Eliza will still remember about Jesus' Atonement. And maybe next year they'll want to hear stories about the Last Supper as much as they want to see if Peeps are really as gross as they remember.

"He is not here, for He is risen." It's not too late to celebrate the Easter message. This is a great video. And so is this.

Happy Easter.

Migraines

2010-03-31T17:22:00.003-06:00

Dear God,
Thank you for not sending me to earth before the invention of migraine medication, DVD players with a "continuous play" option, and Little Caesar's pizza stores.
Love,
Janel

Warning

2010-03-29T11:16:00.006-06:00

Our district's Spring Break started last Friday, and by evening, I wondered how I would make it through an entire summer of no school.

The next day, Mark and I broke out the trampoline we had bought for the kids' birthdays (in June/July). The trampoline pamphlet reminded us no less than 5 times of the imminent-death risk associated with use of their product. But ducklings can peck to death, too, so we forged ahead.

The user's manual was peppered with advice including, but certainly not limited to, the following:
--Avoid bouncing too high. [ha]
--Avoid bouncing when tired.
--Do not use the trampoline while under the influence of alcohol or drugs. [okay]
--Avoid bouncing when tired. [No joke--this was repeated twice. I think the writer was getting tired thinking of new rules to list.]

After muddling through the warnings and the assembly instructions, we were finally able to celebrate our 3 3/4 year old and 5 3/4 year old by presenting our new (possibly lethal) babysitter, the trampoline.

It was pure torture for the kids to be banned from jumping on Sunday. But between Saturday and this morning, Sage and Eliza have each logged HOURS playing on the trampoline.

And I realized that the Trampoline Manual forgot one very important warning.

WARNING: Giggling in your backyard will likely increase by 600%.

Calling all decorators

2010-03-22T13:23:00.003-06:00

After last month's successful call for recipes, I turn again to my talented blog audience of 7 people (hi, Mom and sisters) and ask for help on my rug dilemma. This time I have the added excitement of needing to make a decision soon, due to a large amount of procrastination (by me) and a bad return policy (by the store). Which rug do you prefer? The first (red/blue accents) or the second (brown)? (There are a lot of disclaimers I could and probably should make--about the fuzzy pictures, the lumpy couches (that need and will eventually get recovered), the tragic collection on the fireplace mantel, etc. Ignore all those things I just pointed out in detail. Focus on the rugs.)

Rug #1

Rug #2

I'll put a poll up on the sidebar, but feel free to leave a comment if you'd like. I know I'll like it! Maybe the winning comment will get an honorary decorating degree from the Janel Williams Academy of Home Furnishings and Procrastination and Chocolate Chip Cookies.

Snip, snip, snip

2010-03-18T14:55:00.000-06:00

Last week Eliza decided to cut her hair. I guess this shouldn't surprise me, since she has a history with scissors). In addition to diminishing her already depleted right side, she cut herself a jagged line of bangs. Is there a word for obsessive compulsive inappropriate scissor use? (Trichotillomania, but with scissors?)

Now, I have my own unpleasant history of bangs. More unpleasant than the hugeness of the aforementioned bangs was the length of time I sported these bangs. Okay, fine, and the height I was able to attain with years of practice and a can of Extra Hold Aqua-Net. (How did I miss the hairspray's implications that my hair would look like a net?) It's a wonder Denny's never came to recruit me as a server with the likes of my bangs. Perhaps they were scared of my tiny lycra shorts and boat-like shirt.
Enough about me.

Sage had her own few scissor problems, but they never involved hair or clothes. Well, real hair, that is. When her preschool asked for a picture of her, I cut Eliza out of the other half of one that I had lying around, and Sage decided to further doctor it up. Needless to say I didn't turn it in for the preschool Wall of Fame. I thought the fact that Sage had included underwear in her self-portrait was probably enough revelation for one semester.

Then there was the time Sage decided to trim her birthday money to a more beautiful or manageable (I'm not sure which) size. I'm just glad I caught her on the second bill.
It appears that Mark and I have not been sufficiently thorough in our admonition to the kids to not run with scissors.

Confidence

2010-03-12T20:07:00.005-07:00

A while back Eliza passed me a page out of her coloring book (the one that never seems to run out of hideous pictures) that she had been working on and said, "Mom, this is you when you're older."
I hope she wasn't talking about the dog.

And as if that weren't enough for my self-esteem, last week she asked me, "Is this how you spell 'Mom'--B-U-M"?

And when you throw in yesterday's squishy bum comment, you might be wondering, as I am known to do between the hours of 3pm and 5pm on weekdays, if the pay is worth all the emotional abuse I suffer on the job.

It's a wonder I have any self-esteem left at all.

But the funny thing is--and I am certain about this--being a mom gives me confidence. Maybe not confidence to prance around in a bikini or win a political debate (okay, definitely not to do those things). But I certainly have confidence in my ability to distract children in a long checkout line, or to think of a creative solution when one child has an accident in a public place where I am without a diaperbag. Or to get stains out of clothes, or to shop for a week's worth of groceries in under 10 minutes (when 11 minutes=mutiny).

I am confident that I have chosen the right occupation. Even though my job sometimes pays me in extra pounds around the midsection, it also pays me in countless little kisses and in "I love Mom" signs, and in ten second back scratches from little hands (or bum massages from little feet).

I'm not giving my thirty days notice yet. To my boss or to Weight Watchers. But maybe to my hairdresser (the one that makes me look like a poodle).

Ducklings

2010-03-11T14:53:00.003-07:00

Today when I was trying to take a nap while sharing my bed with two insomniatic preschoolers, I was reminded of a quote that I read last week, "Raising children is like being pecked to death by ducks."

Just as I was trying to remember if the quote was about ducks or ducklings I felt two feet poke me in the rear and a little voice rang out, "Squishy bum!"

Peck, peck, peck.

Calling all chefs

2010-02-24T16:48:00.005-07:00

Does anyone have a recipe for a nice aromatic dinner entree? Something with a strong aroma that could, hypothetically speaking, cover up the smell of an unauthorized, un-New-Years-Resolution-ish batch of afternoon chocolate chip cookies?

And if anyone asks, it was the baby that made me do it. Hypothetically speaking, that is.

And, also, I was just trying to rotate my food storage. I don't know if you know, but the shelf life on chocolate chips is surprisingly short. Especially around here.

Valentines Day

2010-02-15T22:27:00.009-07:00

Oh, Valentines Day, how do I love thee?

Let me count the ways.

Mark’s dark chocolate pie (2 slices)
Sugar cookies, straight from South Bend
Mom’s Reese’s cookies
More of Mom’s Reese’s cookies at 10:45pm
….What is this, a Weight Watcher’s confessional?
Mark's love note to me where he called me his BFF.
The heart sign (complete with arrow!!!) that Mark and the girls made for me

Five days before Valentines Day, Sage and Eliza spent a very happy afternoon making Valentine boxes with Grandma and Aunt Becca. I had the grand idea to help Sage make some amazing box to wow all the kindergartners, but Sage was very clear about wanting to be able to put stickers on and color hers. And color she did. For several blissful hours. And I was glad that I stayed out of the designing process. Because she doesn't need to have the BEST box to impress all her friends until at least first grade, right?

Becca had the honor of putting the first Valentine in each of Sage's and Eliza's boxes. And that untouchable Valentine drove Eliza crazy. She asked me every day if it was "Valen-steins" day. And then she moaned when I said no, and begged to be able to open her Valen-stein from Becca. Even though I'm 100% sure she had already peeked at it a few times.

Sage and Eliza worked as hard as elves at making their Valentines for friends. They got upset when I tried to print their Valentines out on colored paper, sparing them the need to color each and every one by hand. [I obviously have so much to learn still about butting in on elementary school preparations.]

I guess my kids come by their holiday OCD honestly because my own Valentines Day preparations for my kids resembled Christmas preparations more than they probably should have. I even pulled out the old Halloween 2009 candy that I had frozen for future holidays, but the amount was excessive even for our Christmas needs. (Maybe that’s because Lily ate more Cheetos than I thought was humanely possible for a one year old.)

Some creative spirit possessed me at 10:30pm the night before Chocolate Day…I mean Valentines Day, and I made treasure hunts with clues for Sage and Eliza, eventually leading them to find the Gerber daisies Mark hid in the oven—one for each girl. (Lily yanked three petals off hers in the first five seconds, so hers reverted to me for safekeeping.)

Sage was so thrilled with the “pink cow” that came to our fridge on Vday that she is already talking about the green cow that will come on Mar 17, and speculating as to the color of our Easter milk (which she might find a little disappointing). This morning Sage generously regifted one of her Valentines to me. She crept into my room while I was still sleeping and pressed the folded paper into my hand and said, “This is one of my Valentines that I didn’t like, and Eliza didn’t like it, so I gave it to you. I erased Melanie’s name and put mine in the 'from' spot.” (Note: the candy from Melanie had been removed.)

And, like most other holidays involving gratuitous candy, Valentines was over all too soon.

Lily was disappointed to wake up today and not find an unattended pile of dum dums waiting to be stuck into flowers, or mouths, as the case may be. (She has spent the last few weeks happily growling at all the huge stuffed bears she sees in every store. Thankfully she never figured out what was in all those red heart boxes they were holding or we might have been in trouble.)

Eliza was the quickest to recover from post holiday blues by looking to the future. Today in her blessing on the breakfast she made sure to “Bless clovers day.” I, personally, was praying for sanity to get through this post-holiday sugar detox phase. And to be able to spend a lot of time on the treadmill. Or with my BFF.

Feeling the love

2010-02-06T14:20:00.003-07:00

I think Cupid may have loosed an arrow in the general vicinity of Eliza lately. She is full of love.

On Thursday when I warned Eliza that she had an appointment with her pediatrician, she asked me if she had to get shots. When I told her no, she smiled dreamily and said, “I think they just want to love me.”

She created her own Valentine for me on our kitchen table a few days ago. And I literally mean ON the table.

(I thought about gifting her a heart-shaped piece of a Magic Eraser in return.)

A few days ago when I told Eliza “I love it when you share,” she responded happily, “I love it when you make me food.” As if both of our actions were equally elective. (Do Cupid's arrow pricks leave visible marks?)

I remember Sage saying some funny things about love, and when I checked my blog archives, I found it was exactly two years ago today that Sage monologued about love.

If boys are made of snips (whatever those are) and snails and puppy dog tails, my girls are made of sugar and spice (or maybe just more sugar) and all things pink and glittery. So it should come as no surprise that they love Valentines Day.

But it never surprises me when Sage and Eliza decide to decorate something. I found this scene on their bedroom wall.

(Note the decorative square of the toilet paper, as well as the carefully labeled "ball" of toilet paper.) Eliza explained that they were "making the wall prettier."

And before we leave the subject of what little boys are made of, I must mention that during the entire hour of Cub Scouts this last week (which happened to be about knives and whittling) I wondered if I actually have a class full of aliens wearing 9-year-old boy masks. I, who have never used a pocketknife before, didn’t know what to say to the boys who had cleaned fish or cut into raw elk with their knives. Following that enlightening discussion I sent the boys out back for a nice vigorous whittling session on a block of soap, while I called the bishop and asked to be released.

Actually I only daydreamed about being released. In reality, I just kept wondering what snips were and don’t these boys know that they might get hurt if they jump off my playground?

That’s love, too, right? Protecting 9-year-old alien-boys from imminent death? Maybe Sage and Eliza can help me make Valentines this week for all my scouts, with the rules of knife and swingset safety inscribed in pink glitter glue on the front.

Joining the pack

2010-01-21T00:04:00.005-07:00

Tonight was my first Pack Meeting ever. If you are like me (or rather, like I was three weeks ago), you wouldn’t know a pack meeting from a pep rally. (Having six sisters and three daughters might do that to you.) But watch out, world of Scouting--Here I am—Assistant Den Mother Extraordinaire. Ghastly pale yellow shirt and all.

I am in charge of the Bears, which I now understand to mean extremely energetic nine- and ten-year-old boys who should never be allowed to take off their shoes during any scout gathering. After my bishop gave me this assignment, and after I had picked my jaw up off the floor, Mark’s first words to me (raised eyebrows don’t technically count) were “I’m so jealous.” YEAH RIGHT!!! They were actually “Don’t you dare wear the ugly yellow shirt.” If he had known better he would have said, “Don’t you dare buy that ugly yellow shirt for $40 even though that’s the cheapest you can find one for.”

I wish the BSA would at least give us a complimentary box of girl scout cookies for the purchase of our mandatory yellow shirts. Or maybe I can sell GS cookies to pay for my uniform. And while we’re talking about moolah, I learned tonight that I am allotted twenty-five cents per boy per week for our lesson and treats. According to my calculations, each boy will get 1/3 of one girl scout cookie each week on this budget. It’s gonna be slim pickings, children.

But I digress. It’s just so easy to get carried away in this strange world of BSA. Tonight at the Pack Meeting… (am I using my articles right? Do I need to say ‘the’ in front of Pack Meeting? Do I need to capitalize Pack or Meeting or Denmother/Den Mother?)…the Scoutmaster introduced a series of "Olympic games" for the kids. And tonight the “pack” included my own excited little Sage. She looked like a little waif out there with all those blue-shirt-and-crazy-bandana-clad scouts. But last week when Scouts was at our house, Sage was totally fascinated with them. She sat on the sidelines and piped up whenever she felt brave enough.

The first Olympic game was a physical fitness relay. I admit I couldn’t focus on my bears since I was worried about Sage. She made it through the bear walk just fine, and faked some seriously tragic pushups (involving bum action only), but the crab walk across the entire gymnasium proved too much for her little underexercised legs. She ran to me, with tears running down her face, and through her sobs I could hear “That was not fun. That was too hard.”

I tried to calm Sage down and was eventually able to shoo her back into the line of kids waiting to shoot a Nerf gun at a target. At that moment I was having all kinds of misgivings about my parenting, and about my calling to the scouting program. And suddenly I noticed that one of the older scouts had made his way over to Sage and was talking to her kindly. Then a short scout reached out and patted Sage on the back. And a few minutes later she was talking animatedly about the target made out of a vacuum box with her neighbor.

And then I realized that I need Scouting. I don’t need the pale yellow shirt, but I’m willing to accept it, along with all the lessons my family and I have to learn from this BSA adventure.

Until next time...Be prepared. Or whatever.

Also, I cannot resist slipping this in.

Mark, 1990

Sometimes I'm mean

2010-01-14T15:55:00.001-07:00

Sometimes I'm mean, and I go for the camera before the solution.

Like when Lily got a ring pop base jammed in her mouth. [Don't worry--I made sure she was breathing, and it definitely wasn't going down the chute. It was just wedged in there.]

Nobody ever died from ingesting dandelion, right?

Or dafodill?

Or toe jam?

I hope my posterity will thank me for it someday. Maybe when all their therapy bills are paid off.

"Put down that camera and help me!"

The Blues

2010-01-05T22:55:00.008-07:00

Just call me the Grinch. Or Scrooge. Or meanie (if you're 5 or under and live at my house).

It all started with me taking down the Christmas lights in the girls' bedroom.

And then continued with me breaking up the rousing game of ornament-golf when I found Sage and Eliza teeing off down the stairs (and calling it baseball).

And the last straw was me making zucchini casserole for dinner. I tell you, I practically had mutiny on my hands tonight when Mark got home.

If the truth be known, I'm a little grumpy, too. I hate taking down Christmas decorations. And delightful art projects. I hate life going back to "normal" after the holidays. I love Christmas lights and music and my snowflake luminaries and olive wood. I love not needing a good excuse to drop off treats to neighbors whose names I can't remember.

(And I love caramels and fudge. And I don't love treadmills, but I am going to learn to love mine this month with Discipline 501.)

Sage just came in and threw up zucchini casserole. I guess the joke's on me. It's settled--the tree is staying up until Three Kings Day. Because if I have to be up during the night to do laundry, I definitely deserve to walk by a beautiful tree.

Goals galore

2010-01-04T00:47:00.004-07:00

‘Tis the season for making goals. Back in early December, before plates of delicious goodies began appearing at our doorstep, Mark and I decided to set some general goals to keep treats to a minimum. We were feeling confident in our ability to resist overcooked gingerbread cookies and divinity and cherry chocolates, so we set the goal to “be moderate” in our treat eating. A few weeks later, after neighbor treats started pouring in and cranking up my blood sugar levels, we had to opt for a more specific goal: “Do not get a Costco membership in order to buy butter and sugar in bulk.” But once we succumbed and bought our first candy thermometer, it all went downhill from there.

Interestingly enough, we were asked to speak in church on goals. Mark and I have a super long history with making goals. In 2007 there was Comprehensive Health Reform. In 2008 there was Pregnancy for me, which meant that if anyone tried to tell me to eat veggies they would get locked out of the house. This last year Mark outdid himself with new spreadsheets every couple of weeks which were entitled “Discipline 101” (then 102, 201, 202, all the way until 401/402: The Senior Year, after which, apparently, we were supposed to graduate, but unfortunately I still never went to bed at 10:30, so I think I flunked out).

Naturally, Mark and I love New Year’s Resolutions. In case you are a New Year’s Scrooge/Grinch (aka Goal Hater), think about this quote, which sums up my perspective. "Goals lend purpose and direction to our living. They excite imagination and stir interest, and they generate a strength of anticipation which can rally all the powers of one's soul." (source)

And speaking of exciting the imagination, I don’t think I have ever heard of more imaginative goals than those of my youngest sister, Heather. Her goals are legendary in our family.

When Hez was in 2^nd grade, her class made headbands out of yarn for their Thanksgiving presentation. Following the program for which the headbands were intended, Heather decided she would make a goal to never take off her bright purple headband. And she didn’t. The days turned into weeks, and the weeks turned into a few months. Our family was shocked at the resolve of this 8-year-old, and a little uncomfortable with the state of the purple headband, which didn’t come off, even in the shower! Finally some months later, we were able to convince her to swap her headband for a necklace. (And when I say we, I mean “I,” but when Heather and I were talking about this last week she told me that I represented Satan in this example. That’s why I said “we”—so I could share the blame a little...And since she called me Satan, click here to see a picture of her loom.)

With the abandonment of her purple headband goal, Heather decided to fill the void with a new goal: no eating cheese. Just so you know, in addition to buying sugar and butter in bulk, my family always buys cheese in bulk. This goal lasted just a weekend (thankfully).

When my dad brought us all home little prayer rugs from Turkey, Heather made a goal to pray on it every night. And with a very few exceptions, she kept this goal for THIRTEEN years and is still going. (I think her prayer rug should have a passport for all the places it has been.) It was certainly not surprising to me to find that three years ago Heather made a goal to read her scriptures every day and she’s still going strong.

So what I’m trying to say is, I think goal-making runs in my blood. Goals excite and inspire me. And maybe, someday, I will get to bed by 10:30 at least two times in a row. And that might be the day I change my blog name to Nine o’clock Musings and knit myself a purple headband (with Heather’s help, of course), and perhaps even celebrate with some treats. Unless that’s against Discipline 501. In which case I will probably have to eat two veggies before eating the treat.

Naughty or nice

2009-12-24T12:11:00.001-07:00

Unfortunately for Eliza's chance with Santa, this naughty face has been all too common lately. It showed up several months ago. Since then it has become rather common, as has the accompanying behavior.

This has been a hard year for Eliza. I have wondered what to chalk it up to. Middle child syndrome? Terrible Twos/Threes? Or is it just that she got ousted from "baby" position and retaliated in negative ways to get the attention back? She was fully potty trained a year ago, so she doesn't get attention for that. It's Sage who started school this year, and Lily who is first to get immediate needs met. And then there's Eliza--the one that's always stepping on Lily's hands and feet and pushing Sage's buttons. It's been a struggle for me to know how to deal with my first ever Middle Child.

Yesterday my sister-in-law stopped by and she was telling me about her Christmas presents for the kids. She told me that her nine year-old son's Christmas wish was to go on an overnight horseback riding trip with only his dad. So that's exactly what they planned for son and dad to do on Christmas night. How awesome is that? (If only Sage would wish for an overnight stay at Embassy Suites with her mom for her Christmas wish!)

In all seriousness, I think my sister-in-law really stumbled onto something genius--giving kids exactly what they want. Not the "Barbie Diamond Castle Princess Dress Up Lounge" wants but the perfect-activity-to-do-with-just-my-mom[or dad] want. Perhaps it's not a stretch to even call these needs.

Doesn't every kid crave undivided attention from a parent? And not just the time associated with timeouts. [Eliza gets plenty of that kind.] In a moment of honesty this year, I realized that every single time my dad calls on the phone I find myself racking my brain for clever things to say to make him laugh. Even though I'm an adult with kids of my own, deep down I still desperately want to make him proud of the "witty and clever daughter" he raised. I don't really want to go on an overnight horseback riding trip with him, but I know that I still crave his attention and approval.

So last night, Mark and I put out of our minds all of the wrapped presents we have for our kids in order to think about what they really might want/need. And we decided to give each kid the gift of choosing a date with Mom and Dad (separately).

My guess is that Eliza will want to be read to, maybe at the library. And my guess is that Sage will want to go to Lagoon (and we'll say no), and then she'll pick to go to the swimming pool--not the kid part, but the laps pool. And I don't think either of them will mind stopping for a frostee at Wendy's on the way home. And if she could talk, I'm almost positive Lily would ask to be able to climb up and down our stairs (with no baby gate) for an hour. Pure bliss.

And who knows? Maybe we'll see less of the naughty and more of the nice after our parent/kid dates. Or maybe we'll just end up with three requests to go a McDonalds playplace, which is not my idea of pure bliss. If that's the case, I'm asking Santa to send Mark and me to Embassy Suites.

Merry Christmas!

I need intervention

2009-12-24T10:46:00.000-07:00

There should be a law that requires that anyone who purchases a candy thermometer must also purchase a bathroom scale. For accountability.

Dear Santa

2009-12-19T22:01:00.001-07:00

Dear Santa,

This year could you please bring my neighbors lots of tasty treats? It’s not their fault that I made such delicious caramels that Mark and I had to eat most of them ourselves even though we knew the only ingredients are sugar and butter and variations of sugar and butter (or is butter a variation of cream?). Adding those pecans to part of the caramels made us feel a lot healthier about eating the horrific number we did. But I have to admit our twin tummy aches didn’t allow for much self-deception about how many butter/sugar blobs is too many for one night. (I’m certain the answer is less than 15, although further testing will have to be done to verify how much less.)

And while I’ve got your ear, Santa, I just wanted to give you a heads up about the number of stockings hanging around our house. There are 15. And lest you think it is a plot by my three greedy kids to rake in more loot, I assure you that they merely represent hours of happy work by two artistic children. And lest you think this a plot by two greedy parents to rake in more caramels…well, I’ll have to think about that one. Anyway, please don’t fill the stockings with anything other than old frozen Halloween candy. That’s what I would do if I were you, knowing that my kids would lick a rock if it were covered in sugar. Even freezer burnt sugar.

Sincerely,

Lily goes to the dentist

2009-12-11T16:23:00.005-07:00

This week I went to the dentist. It was hard to not think of my last appointment. Lily was one month old, and I must have been severely sleep deprived when I made the decision to take her with me to my appointment. What was I thinking—that I would nurse her while the hygienist flossed away?

As fate would have it, that’s almost exactly what did happen. And I was not sleep deprived enough to fail to recognize the awkwardness of that situation.

Lily made it through the hygienist part and decided to be inconsolable right after the hygienist left to go get the dentist. I picked her up and began to nurse her. And who knew, but that mauve-colored dental bibs double for nursing aprons!? A minute or so later the dentist came bustling in. He was busy assessing my cavity-ridden x-rays and I don’t think he noticed the bundle under my bib.

He took a minute to discuss my options (which were get the cavity filled or get the cavity filled). Then, just as I was contemplating bringing Lily out of hiding the dentist stepped on his pedal and my chair began to recline till I was staring up at the ceiling with wide eyes. I think Lily has a bright future as an astronaut because she totally multi-tasked during that roller-coaster-like ride and she nursed away without a hiccup.

Now that I was fully reclined I felt much less inclined to unlatch Lily, since I no longer had gravity on my side in the modesty battle. And the dentist’s mouth was moving again. It was hard to pay attention to what he was saying, since my mind was racing with the possible explanations I could offer if (or when) my mid-section began to cry or hiccup or even squirm.

Thankfully Lily was just happy to fill the canteen quietly while the dentist worked. I was almost giddy with relief when the dentist declared me finished (for now) and the chair began to move again.

They are right when they say to not bring your kids in for dental checkups until they’re two. Or at least until they’re done nursing, I’d say.

Awkward

2009-12-06T22:13:00.002-07:00

Sage decided that for her daily homework she would draw her own handwriting paper and practice some letters. She made the cutest paper, complete with solid blue lines and dotted red lines. She randomly chose the unfortunate letter combination of U, K and F to repeat over and over again. (Should I slip it out of her homework folder before she delivers it to her teacher?)

It reminded me of the time when she produced this awkward painting, where she selected watercolors as her medium, and then finished up with acrylic paints, which really gave the knight and his trusty steed a noble look. Don't you think?

Half full

2009-11-28T18:17:00.008-07:00

Would you consider it a good thing or a bad thing to find your daughter who's had the flu left her mark on the Sam's Club block of cheese?
Good because she's obviously getting an appetite back? Or bad because she may have compromised the entire two pound brick?

I guess, here at Thanksgiving time, the answer should be a no-brainer. I should be happy and grateful. I am grateful. (That she didn't nibble on every corner. That she didn't throw up cheese all over the carpet. That my family didn't mind us hanging out with them even though we probably got every other grandkid sick.)

My goal this Thanksgiving is to be grateful not just for the things that are easy to be grateful for, but to look for the silver lining on the things that aren't easy to be grateful for. I'm working on being grateful for my weight. If there is a gigantic famine, I can hibernate on all the chocolate chips I've stored up for winter while my family starves away around me...

Okay, so it's obviously still a learning process--this being thankful for trials.
But I'm pretty sure it's possible--to always see the glass as being half full.

Six years ago I put up a little Thanksgiving thought and I've had it up near my sink ever since (except for the last month because it's still in an unpacked box). It's crinkled with six years of watermarks, but I'm not done with it because because I haven't yet learned the lessons well enough to not need its constant reminder. And for six years it has been helping me and irritating me (because it refuses to let me feel sorry for myself).

I'm Thankful For...

The mess to clean up after a party
because it means I've been surrounded by friends.

The taxes I pay
because it means that I'm employed.

The clothes that fit a little too snug
because it means I have enough to eat....

A lawn that needs mowing, windows that need cleaning and gutters that need fixing
because it means I have a home.

All the complaining I hear about our government
because it means we have freedom of speech.

The space I find at the far end of the parking lot
because it means I am capable of walking.

My huge heating bill
because it means I am warm.

The lady behind me in church who sings off key
because it means I can hear.

The piles of laundry and ironing
because it means I have clothes to wear.

Weariness and aching muscles at the end of the day
because it means I have been productive.

The alarm that goes off in the early morning hours
because it means that I'm alive.

Author Unkown (Printed in Ann Landers 11/22/01)

As for me, I'm thankful for this bunch of ragamuffins.

They may not be very photogenic, but they are the silver lining that makes all the clouds of motherhood worthwhile (even when they sometimes cause the clouds).

There is no ill that won't be lessened when Eliza's tiny arms wrap around my neck for a hug. Or when Lily totters out of my room into the hallway, just to circle around via the bathroom, and peeks her head in with a victorious smile. Or when Sage draws me a picture and crosses out my real name so she can write "M[heart] M."

I am thankful for the father of my three little silver clouds. (Even though he does love cats and playing "Santa Baby.") I am thankful for his love of dark chocolate, his sense of humor, his commitment to do what's right, and his own perseverance through trials (some of which are me).

I am thankful for the scriptures and what they teach about silver linings on clouds (otherwise known as tender mercies) .

Please enjoy this little video when you have a minute.

Doors and windows

2009-11-12T22:02:00.006-07:00

I don’t have any clever introduction for this post. And beware, there’s no clever ending either. There’s just a tired, grumpy mommy who’s looking for a tiny bit of sympathy or empathy or chocolate.

I am exhausted from keeping an eye (or two) out for Daughter Number Two this past week. I’m giving her name the silent treatment because I’m so aggravated with her “free spirit.” (“Free spirit” being a euphemism.)

When I was the mother of one sweet little two year old (whose middle name could have been Obedience), I decided I would reserve my sharpest angry voice (and hopefully all other variations of the angry voice) for those scary moments when my child is about to step into the street in front of an ongoing bus. Unfortunately the same technique will not work with Daughter Number Two, since she seems to get (and DESERVE) this voice several times a day. [I can’t tell you how many times I’ve said “We don’t step on Lily’s hands!” And I was a math major, so that’s saying something.]

Here’s Daughter Number Two’s week in review.

7 days ago: Hid in the master bathroom for thirty minutes while we were visiting my parents. [This was the third of such occurrences in the last two months.]

6 days ago: Split open several unfrozen otter pops over the carpet. Covered her foot in several tablespoons of toothpaste. Rubbed excess toothpaste on towels and in corner of carpet in her bedroom for me to find later.

5 days ago: Used her pasty white skin as a canvas.

4 days ago: Accessorized the white molding in her room with yellow highlighter.

3 days ago: Got caught with pen poised above some checks I needed to deposit.

2 days ago: Decorated our front porch with marker. Added finishing touches to her nose and papers from my desk.

Today: Painted a monkey with green paint, using my bedroom carpet as a dripcloth.

Other “projects” include painting faces on pumpkins and bath toys with makeup, decorating Lily with marker, and slathering Vaseline, lotion and chapstick on herself.

What’s a mom to do? Invest in stock for Magic Erasers? Eat chocolate? Blog for sympathy and eat more chocolate? [Done.]

My sister, Danielle, reminds me of a time when Sage was going through a trying phase. I quoted Maria (from The Sound of Music) saying "'When the Lord closes a door, somewhere he opens a window.' Eliza's my window." I feel blessed that right now I have two other open windows.

And moments when the door opens. (I just haven't caught any of them on camera yet.)

(Thanks to Julianna for taking Sage and Lily's pictures!)

The (dreaded) sound of silence

2009-10-19T12:44:00.006-06:00

I think every mom craves silence and yet, at the same time, knows that silence can be very dangerous. This dichotomy in my home is most apparent with Eliza. Nothing is better than the days when she actually naps, aka silence without fear. On the other hand, when she's awake, I have learned to beware the silence. Because too often I find something like this:

Looks innocent enough, right? But a closer inspection reveals the truth.

On the other hand, if Sage is left alone for a half an hour or so, I often find she has arranged things in interesting ways. Here are just a few such "projects" I snapped pictures of.

Plastic spoons dressed in Polly Pocket clothing

A beanie baby strapped to a ballet slipper

A leopard getting a bite to eat. Of eggs.

Two dogs with puzzle pieces on their tails

A dog clipped into a two-ring binder.

Lily enjoying a neck pillow

The little old carebear that lived in a shoe

A leopard taking a nap

The entire leopard is stuffed in one of Sage's socks (Trust me, this took a while.)

Princess wearing...something

Leopard taking a nap in his ziploc sleeping bag, with a puzzle pillow

A sleepover

Belle's new do

These reptiles are getting a drink from two straws

Sorting, sorting, sorting

How can two kids be so different?

Lap of luxury

2009-10-13T10:40:00.006-06:00

We moved into our new house last weekend and now we are living in the lap of luxury. At least that's how I feel every time I use my GARAGE DOOR OPENER!!! Never mind that right now I'm sitting next to a chain smoker at the library computer, borrowing the internet for now so I can post enthusiastically that I LOVE HAVING A GARAGE!!! (Can you believe they don't even include that in the square footage of a house? Hello?!?)

As for Mark, I think he'll agree that we are living the high life just as soon as we locate our towels and get up a shower curtain.

Lily loves the four full-length mirror-closets where she can dance and play and wave to her newfound "twin."

Eliza and Sage go out each day on treasure hunts in the expanse some people call a backyard and found balls (6) and old receipts and a squirrel statue with a broken ear and they pick grape tomatoes and grapes and line them up in their "clubhouse" (our empty shed...no lawnmower yet).

The only treasures I harvested today were 94 spaghetti squashes that the sellers left behind. Perhaps it's the new zucchini here in Utah. Except I've never heard of spaghetti squash bread or cake. But I did unpack all my bread tins, and my heart did a little leap of joy. Maybe it's time to see if zucchini and spaghetti squash really are cousins.

Speaking of spaghetti, Sage came home from kindergarten with a detailed narrative about one of the rules her teacher outlined for the class. No noodle sleeves. It took me a while to realize Sage was talking about "spaghetti straps."

That's all for now. I can't take the thirdhand smoke fumes any longer. Back to the lap of luxury. Where Mark and I play music at 10pm at night just because we can, and we encourage the kids to jump off the couch again and again, and where we head downstairs every couple of hours to make sure the garage door opener is still working. Just because we can.

Packing shmacking

2009-10-07T10:23:00.007-06:00

This weekend is our big move. Our ninth move in seven years. How is the packing going, you ask? Well, I'm blogging. So obviously, it's not going very well.

I've lost my best roll of packing tape already. (Either packed into a box on accident or hiding in a Dora backpack with my cell phone and other things Eliza likes to cart away while I'm not looking.)

Sage has been relatively helpful. She is currently on a mission to earn quarters to buy fancy pencils at the pencil machine at her school. She will do anything to earn a quarter, including pack a box. Unfortunately, she feels that two minutes of haphazardly dumping things into a box deserves at least a quarter. Haggling over her wages has proven to be a major liability in my productivity. Plus, how do you pay tithing on a quarter? By having mom up the payout to twenty-eight cents, so three cents can go to tithing, leaving a full quarter for that stupid 5 cent pencil from China? No wonder I have only packed four boxes. (Half of which I have opened to get something out of them later.)

Sage has also been making labels for the boxes. The problem is we have discovered that small post it notes are not conducive to big words written in large, wobbly letters.
Take, our "kitchen" tag, for example.

Lily has been relatively helpful in the packing process. She has spent several hours crawling around and peering in boxes and sucking on their corners and shaking them to test their sturdiness--or just to sharpen her teeth. (Better that than sucking on the spaghetti sauce mix and butter package in the shopping cart earlier this week.) Who needs Baby Einstein when you've got your own personal jungle gym of boxes?!?

The (only?) good thing about this being our 9th move is that we have learned to save our boxes, and most of the boxes still have labels on them. So by reading the labels on the empty box, I know that although it seems improbable, I will be able to squeeze my wok, my crockpot and half of my tupperware collection into the "Eggs" box.

I've decided that my next packing project (other than banning myself from blogging) should be to take down all my decorations. Then maybe it will dawn on me that instead of preparing baked goods for neighbors I should be preparing baking dishes to be trucked to a new neighborhood. Or instead of planning the menu for the "thank you" meal I provide my mover friends, I should pack so they actually have some boxes to move. I had an emotional battle this morning when Sage plopped all my bread tins in a box. I haven't taken them out yet, but I did label them on the outside, just in case. It's an illness, I think.

I need to remember that this is not spring cleaning time, but rather fall cramming. Maybe I can award myself a quarter per box I pack. To be donated to our mortgage fund.

I hate moving.

But I LOVE new houses!!!! The edible and inedible kind.

2039

2009-09-28T23:37:00.004-06:00

In honor of Mark and me signing our names fifty times today and seeing the year 2039 written out for the first time ever, we decided to decorate house cakes for Family Home Evening.
(Our real house actually looks a lot like the cake house, just with about 1800 more square feet. It's also a little more expensive to come by, but I have faith it will be worth it.)

Killjoy

2009-09-25T12:53:00.008-06:00

There are some days that I feel my middle name should be Killjoy. At least to my kids.

It’s hard for them to understand that I would like to see them live to adulthood (though I might regret it when I’ve got three teenage girls living under my roof).

I know they think I'm being mean and unreasonable in outlawing so many of their good ideas. And since I'm starting to get a complex about it, I'd like to present the evidence to you, for some reinforcement.

Here is a sample of some of the events I've put my foot down on in the last week.

...A toddler sifting through a 5 gallon bucket of flour.

...A preschooler putting her hands or feet on the baby twenty times each day (Actual quote heard in the car: "Lily laughs when I put my toe in her mouth!") I will refrain from quoting my response.

...A kindergartner wedging an exercise ball between my bed and the window and inviting her sister and friends to try out her homemade trampoline.

As well as being the recipients of my lecturing, Sage and Eliza know how to reverse the roles.

Just this morning, at the breakfast table, Eliza told me, “Mommy, it’s not your job to take a bath with an alligator."

And Sage has spent the last few days playing "school," where she is always the teacher. (The exercise ball-trampoline stunt took place at "recess.")

I enjoy a good time as much as my kids do, but I tend to reject the "activities" that involve excessive cleanup, germs, or gravity-defying moves.

And while I'm not willing to compromise on some things (like putting toes in the baby's mouth), I think I could ease up a little--particularly those that require extra preparation or cleanup on my part.

Like eating breakfast in the garden.

Or letting the kids use straws more often (which is synonymous with asking for puddles of milk on the table).

Or have "kitty day" like my mom sometimes did (where we got to eat without using our hands).

Or letting my kids help me cook.

With aprons, though.

Because when it really comes down to it, I know I'd rather my girls remember how much fun we had in these special (fleeting) years together, rather than how sparkling clean my kitchen floor was.

Okay, I admit it; the floor is only sparkling for about thirty seconds every third day. I guess my real hope should be that I can cover up the memories of a constantly dirty floor with memories of how many fun activities we did in the kitchen together.... Like letting the baby sift through the flour bucket so I am forced to sweep the floor??? Hmmm.

The girl who didn't cry wolf

2009-09-16T13:48:00.003-06:00

Today I heard Eliza calling "Mommy, help!"

This is what I found.

And to serve her right, I left her there while I went for the camera.

Once she had been extracted and sterilized she chuckled and said, "That was a good one."

Show and Tell

2009-09-10T23:34:00.003-06:00

What is elementary school without the timeless tradition of Show and Tell? Is there any kid that doesn't love bringing some treasure from home to brag about? On the other hand, I can't help but wonder if there is any teacher that does love Show and Tell?

This month I've had a chance to rethink Show and Tell, what with the kindergarten teacher's invitation to Sage (and her 23 other classmates) to bring an item to show every day of their Colors unit this month.

The first day was "Brown Day." I had visions of digging through my souvenirs from other countries so Sage would have something awesome to show. My excitement was short lived, as I discovered that Sage was dead set on bringing her stuffed dog.

On “Purple Day” we forgot to bring something, but Sage proudly related to me that she showed her class a purple crayon from her backpack. She was excited to tell me that another girl ALSO shared a purple crayon. What fun that Show and Tell must have been!

On “Blue Day,” when I was unpacking Sage’s backpack after school, I found at least 20 blue toys in there! With wide eyes, Sage claimed she had no idea how they got in there. Whether that's true or not (aka not), Sage's teacher couldn't have enjoyed Sage's 20-piece-show very much.

By "White Day" I was wondering when the Colors unit (aka "Dig Through the Toy Chest Each Day") would end. I jokingly suggested that Sage bring a bag of marshmallows to school. Her eyes lit up before I realized that my joke was her idea of heaven. It wasn't hard to imagine Sage imagining herself carefully distributing tasty marshmallows to each of her classmates. We resorted to Plan B instead. Another stuffed animal.

There really is nothing like Show and Tell--where each kid gets to produce a crayon, a junky old toy, or a piece of lint and bask in the limelight for thirty glorious seconds. It seems almost therapeutic. I bet even adults could benefit from some Show-and-Tell therapy every now and then. (As for me, I'd probably have a hard time choosing between my Lisa Frank binder from fifth grade and my old retainer to show.)

{screaming}

2009-09-03T21:43:00.002-06:00

I JUST found out that the offer we made on a house yesterday was accepted. Two minutes ago.

What the heck were they thinking?!? Don't they know we're just kids?

The thing that keeps going through my mind is that now we have to buy a lawn mower. That feels very....adult-ish. Especially for someone who's been buried in a juvenile fiction book (Fablehaven) all day. And who decided against veggies for dinner tonight just because.

I think Sage prayed us into this situation. She is SO sick of "house hunting," even in spite of the many outrageous bribes we offer for good behavior...and that we deliver regardless of behavior.

The best and worst of the bribes (to the kids and the parents respectively) have been two Disney princess microphones that play only a (very) few stanzas of "Bibbidi Bobbidi Boo." I'm genuinely surprised the batteries aren't dead by now, for the number of times they've been played. My thanks goes out to Disney for making the "on" button also function as an "off" button. (Though heaven knows they are "on" much more than they are "off" during house hunting.) And (no) thanks to Disney, I often wake up in the night with those 4 measures of "Bibbidi Bobbidi Boo" floating through my head.

Sage and Eliza like to play duets with their microphones. They do a countoff, and try to start them at the exact same time. This usually results in Eliza's going off 5 seconds after Sage's. But occasionally they are close enough to bring total chaos to the back seat...not unlike the chaos that comes when they don't have microphones. Without the microphones, they suffer and we suffer. And with the microphones we suffer. This is what I call parental sacrifice. They better buy me a beautiful coffin some day.

Though I joke about Sage praying us into this soon-to-be-home-owners situation, Eliza literally did. Here's a quote from her morning prayer today: "Please help us find a house with all kinds of cool stuff."

Cool stuff, huh? Well, Eliza's easy to please. As long as the Disney microphones move in with us, Eliza will be happy. But cool stuff this house does have....including a dog run (snort snort), a large swingset, a huge yard, and plenty of room for GUESTS and visitors. (And this time, Heather, you won't have to sleep on our living room floor, and your friends can have the entire dog run to themselves!)

So mark your calendars, my friends. It's time to plan a trip to beautiful Salt Lake! And please bring your lawn mowers.

It's time

2009-08-26T10:05:00.008-06:00

Ecclesiastes 3:1

"To everything there is a season,
and a time to every purpose under the heaven"

Our Ecclesiastes:

A time to house hunt and screech to a halt in front of these signs [much to the dismay of my kids]

And a time to refrain from blogging and checking any websites that are not Utahrealestate.com.

A time to be grateful for the husband's job and promotion,

and a time to learn how to manage at dinner without the husband.

A time to hold back sniffles

And a time to hold back giggles

A time to back up computer files [oops...that time was actually two weeks ago]

and a time to be grateful for computer geek friends. [Really grateful.]

A time to put away chocolate and make lots of trips to Dad's orchard

[Your photo still makes me drool, Kelly S.]

And a time to ignore the dishes and go outside with the kids

[Because you might find them outside painting themselves with your fabric paints.]

The birds and the bees and bugcatchers

2009-07-23T00:27:00.003-06:00

The other day my sister-in-law was in town, visiting from Las Vegas. I babysat my niece and nephew while my sis-in law took one of her sons for a special outing that’s become a tradition in their family. She took him to Temple Square for lunch and a talk about eternal families and the birds and the bees. (I love this picture they took of themselves from the Joseph Smith Memorial Building.)

This made me think about my own plans for this chat, what with Sage having what seems like a preliminary round of PMS in her little dramatic 5-year-old life. I remember my own special chat with my mom (or at least the first round) came after I posed some awkward questions during a scripture time on Mary’s becoming pregnant with baby Jesus.

As for our family, we have been avoiding scripture topics like "Mary's conception" since I have no specific ideas about how to carry out this “Mother Nature” chat. Except that maybe I already have…rather poorly.

Earlier this month my kids were playing with a neighbor girl and we passed two box elder bugs that were, um, “stuck together.” The neighbor girl piped up, “My mom says that when two box elder bugs are stuck together, that means they’re married.” As I considered this, I was surprised to hear Sage’s quick reply. “My mom said that when two box elder bugs are stuck together, that means they’re having a baby.”

I cringed, not knowing exactly how to amend the lesson Sage had so carefully committed to memory. I do not remember ever saying that. Except, apparently I did. Nice work, self. Way to think through that one carefully.

And, speaking of the birds and the bees, last week at a nice park, Sage and her box elder bug friend spent an hour collecting treasures in a little bug catcher. When it was time to go, I noticed Sage waving around a shiny package that turned out to be a condom wrapper. It wasn’t until a mile down the road that I thought to inspect the contents of the bug catcher (what with the shiny package being empty and all). My heart sank when I peered into the little cage and noticed there were, not one, but two used condoms inside the bug catcher. Red ones.

The cup of hand sanitizer (or “hanitizer” as Eliza calls it) that I emptied onto each girl’s outstretched hands was not enough to dull the stomach ache I got as I thought with revulsion about not just the lack of manners, but also the casualness of too many people today. Just last week I read an article in the paper about a new sex-ed pamphlet in the U.K. that promotes casual sex and includes a section called “An Orgasm a Day.” The world wants to teach my daughters that adventure is a package of red condoms and a midnight stint in the park with a boyfriend, and that happiness can somehow be found in unchaste behavior.

My kids are growing up in a world where they WILL learn about the birds and bees at a young age, whether I like it or not. And since that’s not a subject I’d like to leave to the maturation or sex-ed teacher’s discretion, or to their friends, and CERTAINLY not to Hollywood, I need to make sure that they learn about it from me.

Although I may have handled the box elder bug conversation awkwardly, at least my girls will learn about the birds and the bees and eternal families (and maybe what they found in their bugcatcher) from someone who loves them to death. Someone who can (and will) promise that they were welcomed with joy to a family that wanted them. Someone who would give anything for them to find true happiness.

Temple Square sure seems like a good place to begin.

Deja vu

2009-07-16T12:49:00.016-06:00

Do you ever feel like you're just repeating exactly what happened two and a half years ago? Just maybe with different colored bathroom tile?

And then there's other times when you think, "How could this possibly have happened at all?"

For example:

Eliza climbed on the table and stepped into a warm candle. On purpose.

Sage getting gussied up.

One of Provo's patriotic parades last year. They were singing "Three cheers for the red, white and blue."

I found this picture on our camera. Photographer and perpetrator: Sage. Way to incriminate yourself.

Sometimes it's not enough to just wear a Mardi Gras mask in the middle of July.

I guess this just proves that it's bound to be a very repetitive and very interesting next two and a half years.

Birthday squared

2009-07-08T23:04:00.011-06:00

Since Sage and Eliza's birthdays are so close, we decide to kill the fatted calf. In other words, we forked out money for Kangaroo Zoo (aka overpriced, over-germed kiddie heaven).

Lily enjoying a snuggly moment on what was probably the orange inflatable equivalent of a petri dish.

Eliza jumped on this dinosaur, and two other kids climbed on with her. They had never met, but they all enjoyed shifting their weight, which made one of the trio dip down suddenly. Why don't adults make friends that quickly? Maybe if there were more adult-sized purple inflatable brontosauruses we would.

I poked my head into the frozen yogurt store next door to get directions home and felt so bad for the nice old gentleman that owned the empty place that we unpacked the girls and brought them in for a treat at the SELF-SERVE bar (aka bar of happiness).
I had to rescind the "self-serve" invitation when Eliza decided she needed an entire pound of gummi worms on her frozen yogurt. I also had to rescind some of my sympathy for the owner when he said business had been good all winter long, and then proceded to charge the near equivalent of Kangaroo Zoo highway robbery for our pile of frozen gummi products. When we got in the car I realized that I had really dropped the ball on all my college math training when I failed to calculate what "39 cents per ounce" really meant. It means that we paid $6.24/lb for circus animal cookies, white chocolate chips and gummi worms, that's what.

Later we made Eliza a really lovely birthday cake. Lovely, according to our newly 3 year old means pink, hearts and M+Ms. She showed her approval by digging in for a taste test long before dessert time.

The next day we had a tea party birthday bash for Sage and Eliza. (They wanted a princess party, but I just couldn't do it.) My neighbor loaned me all sorts of beautiful table decor, and we set up a fancy tea party/lunch on the front lawn.
Here's Eliza after she served herself a pile of about 20 lemon drops (before tasting one).

You would not believe how much better cheese tastes when it's painstakingly cut into star shapes.
What's a of party without a bunch of olives? Because we are just classy like that!
Mark made a neat 4-layer cake for the girls.
If the truth be known, I deserve at least most of the credit for the fact that it was 4 layers. I wanted a thin sheet cake, so I mixed up what I thought was half the package and cooked it. The result truly deserved to be called a "sheet" cake because it was as thin as a pancake. After a little improv and another "half" of a cake mix, it ended up with four layers.

And lest you think I'm rambling about a cake, and who cares anyway, the answer is, you're right. Eliza did not care. She did not eat one piece of her birthday cake. She was too busy smearing herself in her new present--a makeup kit. I'm not sure if she's trying to keep her lipstick from smearing in the picture below, or if she was just irritated that I made her stop beautifying herself for a ten second photo shoot. I wonder if pink is really her color, though.

And this little girl played in the grass (in her PJs) during the entire party. And for the record, I'm not sure if that pink forehead is from Eliza's makeup kit, or a little nose dive. I was busy snitching olives and cheese stars.

Sleep therapy

2009-06-28T23:02:00.002-06:00

I think someone in our family needs sleep therapy.

Here's how we found Lily at 9pm. (Dreaming of swimming and praying?)

Here's Lily at 11p.m. (Dreaming of yoga?)
And here's Lily at 8a.m. (Attacking the enemy bumper pad?)

1 in 100

2009-06-24T21:55:00.000-06:00

My dad has been managing a few apartments since before I was born. When I was about 12 I started doing some (very) basic financial record keeping for him. I still help him with some managing. Over the years I've seen a lot of different renters (and especially rent checks...since that's how I knew them best in the early years) go through. Many of them are forgettable. Some are unforgettable for the wrong reasons. And then, some are just unforgettable.

Like a group that just moved out in April. Perhaps it was the fact that they, like the 1 in 10 lepers, and 1 in 100 tenants, sent a thank you note. Or maybe it was the fact that they thanked the "landlords/ladies." Or maybe you just have to read it all. (Please imagine the handwritten "Super" above the printed "Thank you" on the front of the card.)

"Dear Janel, thanks so much for being a most excellent landlady. If we had a million dollars, we'd consider giving some of it to you. May you live long and conquer every one of your enemies." Sincerely, the Yellow Sub boys (5 original signatures included...none faked)

Now, maybe they just wanted their return deposits back sooner, so they buttered me up with this note.
Or maybe they're grateful that I let them keep THIS hot tub long enough to pull of this stunt.
Or maybe they were just good guys.
1 in 100. Or 5 in 500, I should say.

I just hope, for the sake of landlords everywhere, that their oompa loompa hot tub stunt was a 1 in 1 billion moment. Because I heard you can get leprosy from drinking the orange soda that you've been sitting in.

Barbershop

2009-06-22T22:19:00.004-06:00

Should there be a punishment for children who decide to cut their own hair?

Or is the natural consequence of living with their new "do" punishment enough? Or is that only punishment to their mother? (In the picture it may look like I'm squeezing the heck out of Eliza's neck, but rest assured that I didn't actually do that. I only thought seriously about it.)

Today, for the second time in a week, I found locks of hair in the sink. Last time it was brown; today it was blond. Hopefully tomorrow it won't be a few of Lily's blond locks, I mean, quarter inch strands. She's challenged enough in the hair department. Today I also caught Eliza smearing a massive dose of body cream (thick lotion) on Lily's head. I hope she wasn't prepping it for a trim or shave or artwork session like she gave our couch cushion.

I guess I should be impressed at Eliza's ability to give herself a razor-like trim with a blunt pair of preschooler scissors. Instead I'm feeling nervous that she will grow up to be a tattoo artist or Sweeney Todd.

An apple a day doesn't work

2009-06-14T23:49:00.003-06:00

Because I am a glutton for punishment, I scheduled two doctor appointments for tomorrow. I’ve already laid out the diaper bag, immunization records, 10 packs of fruit snacks (one per girl per twenty minutes) and a whole bottle of Tylenol (for me once I’m finished).

There is no “excitement” like that of taking three kids to the pediatrician. [Except, maybe, taking eight kids. How did you survive, Mom?]

Last month I took Sage for a UTI check (with the rest of the crew in tow). Sage was instructed to urinate in a cup. I took all three kids in the restroom, and we sat back to wait for Sage to work her magic.

Nothing.

Three more minutes.

Nothing. [“Don’t touch the garbage can, Eliza.”]

5 cups of water later.

Nothing. [“Don’t lie on the floor, Eliza.”]

5 minutes of letting the water faucet run.

Nothing.

“Come quick Mom!” [Finally.]

“Oh, sorry for getting you wet, Mom.”

At last we can go back to our little room and wait another 30 minutes for the doctor to come tell us Sage doesn’t have a UTI.

Then there was Lily's rash last week. The nurse asked if it was all right if a medical student came in with the doctor. I said it was fine. I just didn’t realize that the med student would be playing doctor like I used to play house.

Here's a bit of our dialogue:

Med student comes in first, without doctor. [I try to kick two pairs' of pink crocs out of the way before he has a chance to trip on them.]

Me: “Lily has a rash that she keeps scratching.”

Student: “Let’s look at her history. It looks like Lily had some reflux when she was 1 month old. How’s that?”

Me [to student]: “Fine.”

Me [to kids]: “Keep the lids on the markers.”

Student: “And how is Lily doing with her diarrhea? No, wait, it looks like she had that when she was…let’s see…3 months old.”

Me [to student]: “She’s fine.”

Me [to kids]: “Those Cheetos are for AFTER the appointment.”

Student: “And how is Lily’s GERT?”

Me [to student]: “What?”

Student: “Her torticollis.”

Me [to student]: “Fine. We’re working with the therapist on that. What do you think about her rash?”

Student: [opens mouth to speak]

Me [to kids]: “Do not color on each other, and wipe off those Cheetos with this wet wipe.”

Etc.

Thank you (doctors’ offices) for teaching me patience. I’m sure the feeling is mutual.