Halloween (pity) party

I’m feeling really sorry for myself right now. No nesting urges. Just pity partying.

It may have something to do with being beaten out at delivery by my sister, who had the same due date (a full week from today). Darn it, if only I had been hiking the Y twice a week like her (I know!)—hello, I mean, if only I had been walking anywhere other than the house to the car more at least twice a week during the last 9 months….

Or maybe it’s because of an irritating project I initiated with Sage at 8:30 tonight. She was asked to bring 18 treats to her preschool Halloween party tomorrow. We got home late from visiting my new niece, Amy (not Lily, don’t worry), so the project got started way too late.

We decided to make pumpkin-shaped Rice Krispy treats. After using nearly all the marshmallows to make the first batch, which yielded a paltry 7 pumpkins, I realized we were in trouble. What other ingredient has the consistency of a marshmallow? I was even desperate enough to wonder if I picked out enough Lucky Charms marshmallows, would they possible melt down to an appropriate consistency? Right.

That brought me to wonder why in the world I was making 18 treats. There are only 12 kids in Sage’s class (she loves to tell me there are 6 boys and 6 girls), and probably 9-10 who come regularly. Does the number 18 include the teachers? Their kids? Their pets? It was then that I decided there was no way I was making 18, even if it had been physically possible at that point in time.

I set Sage to work making faces out of chocolate chips on the pumpkins while I made another batch (heavy on the Krispies and food coloring and light on the marshmallows). Just as I was finishing stirring, I looked over and noticed that Sage was picking off the chocolate chips we had just put on. “What are you doing?” I asked incredulously. “I want them to have ‘o’ mouths” was her response. The problem was that now that she’d endowed every pumpkin with an “o” mouth, the chocolate chips no longer looked like faces—rather a random sprinkling (due to preschool imprecision with locating the mathematical placement of the eyes, nose and mouth--whether “o” or other).

I know that kids’ crafts and projects just aren’t bound to look great every time. In fact, sometimes I have to reign myself in to not take control of the art projects I set up for Sage. (Like the Halloween foam project pictured below that Danielle coordinated--notice Sage's fluffy pink "pig" at the top.) But Sage's pumpkin Rice Krispy faces were intended for public viewing and consumption. And they looked like monster-alien pumpkins. Which I guess, is a Halloweenish thing. Even if it's weird.

Partly because the marshmallow mixture was hardening, and mostly because I didn’t have the energy to wage this battle, I decided to ignore her artistic license. Distract and conquer. I asked Sage to put the drops of food coloring in the marshmallow mixture. She successfully over-dyed the marshmallows with red (what kid can resist an extra squeeze or two of those tiny, squishy little bottles?), and when she picked up the yellow she looked a little guilty and unsure. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “This one doesn’t work.” “What happened to it?” I asked pointedly, recognizing the look she wore. “I put a sprinkle in it.” What? Sure enough, Sage had found a single sprinkle ball (from a cooking project several days past) that had escaped all my table wiping and Eliza’s hobby of sprinkle-drinking, just to be found and inserted by Sage in the tiny opening of the food coloring bottle. What a perfect fit. Perfect for sealing up the bottle.

My energy, patience and interest in this project and in helping Sage have homemade treats to take to her party were waning. As in, they were gone, and I was trying not to throw a fit. I pried the whole food coloring lid off with a knife, and ignored Sage when she said “What are you doing that for, Mommy?”

I pressed out the last few pumpkins—which were probably ½ as thick as the first ones I made—but hey, we made 16 total! Then I started cleanup, and I looked over to see Sage licking the ice cubes left in the tray. What a classic end to our project.

In Sage's defense, she's usually a great cooking and craft partner. Usually. But it’s going to be a long time before we attempt Rice Krispy pumpkins again. Like until I get Alzheimer’s.

Service can involve dum dums

My visiting teacher is the Primary Secretary in our ward. She told me that she asked Sage to give the prayer but Sage said no. (Believe me, Sage got a talking to about that one.) I told the secretary to assign away, and sure enough, Sage came home with a talk assignment the following week. Her topic was “Because others serve me, I too want to serve.”

I thought of an easy outline, then asked Sage for specific details on how Mark, her sunbeam teacher and I serve her, and specific ideas about how to serve Eliza, our neighbor, and Jesus. Here’s what we came up with. (Don't be blown away by the amazing new doctrine contained here:)

Serving others means helping them.

My mom serves me by helping me do art projects. [hold up a noodle art pumpkin]

My dad serves me by helping me read. [hold up the picture scriptures he uses to teach her to read]

My teacher, Sister Rose, serves me by teaching me about Jesus. [hold up pic of Jesus]

I can serve others, too.

I can serve my sister, Eliza, by sharing toys with her. [hold up a doll]

I can serve my neighbor, Mary, by taking her treats. [hold up a sucker]

I can serve Jesus by saying kind words to everyone. [hold up pic of Jesus]

In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Now here are my disclaimers:
I wanted Sage to say “I can serve my neighbor Mary by helping her in her garden” but she insisted on the treats one. And, just so you know, we don’t always take our neighbors Dum Dums. And I'm almost too embarrassed to admit that on the "share toys" part, Sage held up the little miniskirted Barbie she got from her Happy Meal the night before. And I know an elbow-macaroni pumpkin is not your standard Halloween craft, but Danielle got Sage really hooked on noodle art. So there.

In spite of Sage's regular history with stage fright (many talks having been whispered into the side of my skirt and then translated by me to the Primary), she pulled through on this talk. Perhaps it was the tiny little podium that inspired her. Or the fact that every kid was staring attentively, no doubt interested in how a noodle-pumpkin, Happy Meal Barbie, and dum dum sucker related to church. Or maybe it was the promise of the Dum Dum sucker that instilled courage in Sage, but she got right up (holding my hand tightly during the whole talk) and gave the whole thing from memory.

As I wrote up Sage's talk experience for my journal, I decided to make my own version of service ideas, because, quite honestly, with my birthday coming up in a few months, I don't want anyone to think that my "Love Language" is the gifting of a tasty Dum Dum. Here’s a few I thought of.

Mark serves me by reading my blog and taking the kids so I can exercise and helping the girls clean up the house so I don’t have to bend down or play cheerleader at the end of the day! [I know, “Acts of service” is my love language!]

Sage serves me by smiling at me with her mischievous grin and not holding grudges when I get upset at her for things that all 4-year-olds do, and a few things that other 4-year-olds don’t do.

Eliza serves me by having outgrown her habit of finger-painting in her poopy diaper and by wrapping her skinny little arms around me and giving me tight bear hugs and calling me “Little Mommy” after I call her “Little Liza.” [She’s the only one who calls me little right now!]

Krista and Bryce serve me by not stealing Mark and my now number-one choice for baby #3's name, Lily!

I can serve my neighbors by being less nervous to talk about church, Jesus, and my beliefs.

I can serve my family by spending less time at the computer and getting in bed on time.

I can serve myself by procrastinating less and by trying to resurrect my piano skills.

I can serve my husband by being less anal with money, cell phone minutes and miles put on the car.

How about for you? Do Dum Dums make the cut?

One donkey and one elephant in the family

In the car, I had a little political discussion with my toddlers after we dropped off a neighbor to complete her early polling. Sage asked where our neighbor was going, and I tried to explain voting to her (again). I told Sage that there were two men [the preschool version] that are trying to convince people they can be the best president of the United States, and we have to say them which one we want by voting.

In an effort to provide more information without introducing concepts such as deficits and entitlements, I told Sage that one of the guys has white skin and white hair and looks like her Grandpa Williams and is named McCain. I told her the other has darker skin, like her friends at preschool (except he’s not Latin…shh!), and his name is Obama.

Based on the wealth of information I had provided her, I figured my 4-year-old was now empowered to make an informed decision. Or at least an amusing one. “So who do you think we should vote for, Sage?” I asked.

“The Cain” she replied without hesitating--clearly forgetting everything we've ever taught her about the book of Genesis.

I was pretty sure I had skewed Sage’s vote in McCain’s favor by commenting on his resemblance to her grandpa, or that she subconsciously must be associating him with McDonald’s. So I asked why she chose McCain. The matter-of-fact response: “Because I like his name better.” To which Eliza piped up, “I like Obama.”

So, I guess we’re officially split down the middle.

A little pressure

Now that I’m down to three weeks before the baby comes, I’ve begun to feel a little pressure—both that of little fetus elbows investigating places she should not have access to, as well as that pressure of choosing the perfect name to go with the baby who I only know by the way her extremities feel when being rammed into various parts of my torso.

I don’t consider myself a very stubborn person, but when Eliza was born, I may have exhibited some stubbornness in rejecting certain proposed names. And my dear husband, who even less people would call stubborn, decided to join my new game. And thus it was that Eliza was officially, according to the state of Indiana, Female Williams for 29 days. Finally, on the day before our insurance would refuse to pay for her hospital bills if she didn’t have a name, Female became Eliza in what I like to call “The Great Compromise.” It was almost the “3/5 Compromise,” in that I felt my contributions in the area of pregnancy/labor/delivery warranted me an extra 1/5 of the total vote. But I also wanted to remain happily married, so “The Great Compromise” was built: Mark and my favorite names were both discarded, and Eliza’s name was born—just in time to be a 1-month birthday present for Female.

Lest you think we were lazy or unconcerned about choosing a name, allow me to assure you that I read through book after book and checked out website after website of “Best Baby Names.”

You wouldn’t believe the suggestions out there, my friends. No wonder it was so hard for me to choose. I kept getting distracted by websites that offered me the chance of a lifetime to “Give Yourself a New Name.” The appeal of that website didn’t last long, as, following my best analysis of my personality, it chose me the new stunning name of “Lucille Uta Williams.” Even Female Williams sounds better than that.

Other than to have my baby named before she is born, another wish that is high up on my list is to have the book called “25,001 Best Baby Names” censored from the face of the earth. Not only does it make a fraudulent claim in the title, but it also contains approximately 24,001 of the dumbest name suggestions I’ve ever heard. For each suggested name, the author included its origin and meaning. And I’m pretty sure she (or her elementary school aged kids) made up half of them.

For example:

LaTeasa (Spanish): a flirtatious woman.

Who said “LaTeasa” has any kind of Spanish origin? Because of the La? Then is LaDawn Spanish, too? I’m not buying LaTeasa's origin or meaning, and certainly not its inclusion in a book of “Best Baby Names.”

Or:

Radcliffe (English): of the red cliffs.

That definition seems like someone’s bad attempt at giving a Balderdash answer.

A few other special ones include:

Arwa (Arabic): female mountain goat [Just what every kid wants to explain to their middle school peers.]

Lerola (Latin): resembling a blackbird [Not sure this is a flattering comparison.]

Gath-rimmon (Hebrew)—referring to the pomegranate press. [I promise this was in the girls’ names section.]

Lo-rumahamah (Hebrew): one who does not receive mercy [Nothing like this to give a kid a complex from the start.]

Podarge (Greek): one of harpies [No commentary necessary.]

Radella (English): Elfin counselor [I don’t like Lord of the Rings quite enough.]

At other times, while thumbing through the baby names book, I thought I was reading a dictionary of verbs instead of a book of names for people. Kiss, Flirt, Favor…?

The crowning offense of “25,001 Best Baby Names” was that my name (with any of its spellings) was nowhere to be found. Best names, my foot.

So, there you go. There’s my best defense as to why we didn’t name Eliza for so long. And why, with three weeks still before the [as yet unnamed] baby’s due date, I’ve begun to develop an ulcer.

P.S. Someone thinks Lily is a better middle name than first name. And the way I see it, he has 2/5 of the vote at this point in time. We'll see.

I dream of having a genie

My daily wishes

3:30am A catheter for my bladder

7:30am Fifteen (or fifty) more minutes of sleep

7:31am The day I don’t have to wear compression hose (repeat every hour)

8:00am That naptime were almost here (instead of in 4 ½ hours)

2:30pm To not drool when I nap

4:00pm For Mark to be home

5:30pm For Eliza to eat her food without a fight or a bribe

6:00pm For a magic dishwasher that loaded itself while I sat on the couch

8:00pm For kids who liked to snuggle all day long, and not just to stall at bedtime (even though it always gets me!)

9:30pm To be in the middle of a great book

9:31pm To have a great blog entry ready to post

9:32pm Cookies’n’Cream ice cream (BYU Creamery’s)

10:30pm To have three more hours before my bedtime

A few hotel pictures:

Sage and Eliza's "beds" on the floor. Mark and I each took a queen bed to ourselves. So nice!

Sage and Eliza riding on the luggage rack

Pool time with Daddy
(Did I mention that I hate wearing compression hose? Yes, I believe I did. Sorry--it just pops out.)

Life on the highway

I’ve noticed a difference in the way Mark and I describe certain things. Maybe it’s because I’m an optimist and Mark’s a pessimist. Or maybe I like to make certain things sound more glamorous. Here’s an example. If you ask Mark where he went to law school, he’ll tell you “South Bend.” If you ask me where he went to law school, I’ll say “Notre Dame.” If you ask Mark where he works, he’ll say he works at a not-for-profit organization doing immigration law. I’d say he’s an immigration lawyer.

So, if I were to describe our weekend trip, I’d say that the girls and I tagged along with Mark on his business trip to southern Utah. On the other hand, a few days before the trip, I overheard Mark telling a friend on the phone that this weekend he was going on a road trip with a nun. We’re both telling the truth, but I like how my version sounds better.

Wednesday we hit the road with Mark’s boss, who is, indeed, a nun. Mark had a moment of concern when he called the hotel and found out they had only reserved one room for him and his female boss (yep, the nun). It was then that Mark extended a firm invitation (request) that we come with him on his “road trip.” The promise of a free hotel and swimming pool and breakfast buffet was too much for me to resist, so we packed up and left on Wednesday.

When you jam two kids and a largely pregnant mommy in the backseat, with a nun/boss (who has never had kids) driving and daddy/professional colleague in the passenger seat, a few awkward moments are bound to arise. And they did.

Like, an hour down the road, when Sage decided she urgently had to go #2, and we were at a near-dead standstill in freeway construction, with the nearest exit a mile away. (To put this in perspective, it took us an hour to drive twelve miles. During which time we crawled past sixteen hundred orange cones and eventually saw eight total men pretending to be productive construction workers. And Sage worked up a bowel movement to celebrate. And also enlightened us with commentary about the tar smell like "This does not smell like flowers" and "I think the stinky smell is coming from those orange cones.")

Other awkward moments included (but certainly were not limited to):

1. When I realized, around dinnertime, that Eliza’s diaper hadn’t been changed all day, and the damage had been done.

2. When I had to use the bathroom for the third time in our five hour car trip.

3. When I assured Mark’s boss multiple times that Eliza would definitely sleep on the 5-hour trip. Unfortunately, it appears that a steady diet of Cheetos and Bug Bites puts all normal habits of a 2-year-old out of whack.

4. When I fell asleep for 20 minutes and Sage colored green marker stripes up her entire arm.

5. When I realized that the reason Mark asked me to pick up his prescription before we left is so that he could have it on the trip. Oops.

6. When Mark’s boss wanted to head home thirty minutes before the breakfast buffet opened on the final day. I had to put my foot down. I hope she doesn’t fire him on Monday. But those eight pieces of French toast I packed in were delicious.

7. When I offered to take the car to vacuum it after our trip and Mark's boss accepted, explaining that no one is supposed to eat in the car at all.

I don’t know when Mark’s next out-of-town clinic is, but I don’t know that the girls and I will be invited. [Mark would probably say that they don't want us to come.]

And maybe that's just fine.

P.S. It turns out Mark's boss did request two rooms, but the hotel made a mistake. Luckily for us (and especially for Mark's boss) , they gave us another room.