The birds and the bees and bugcatchers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

The Biggest Loser

"Exercise is a dirty word. Every time I hear it, I wash my mouth out with chocolate." ~Author Unknown

Last week was Mark’s family reunion. One of the first items of business on arrival day was for my sister-in-law to award the prize for the “Biggest Loser” of the family (since January). Unfortunately, my EZ Bake oven diet did not carry me through victorious. While I did not win the Biggest Loser award, I may have been the Biggest Loser of the losers of the Biggest Loser competition. If that makes sense. My measly two pounds were smoked by Mark’s brother’s eleven pounds. And to add insult to injury, he even shared his chocolate prize with me. And I ate it.

One of the highlights of the Biggest Loser competition for me was the moral support Sage and Eliza provided for me in my pilates quest.

We only have one exercise mat, which Sage claimed as her own. This made Eliza cry, so I found Eliza a little doll sleeping bag to do pilates on. This worked for about two minutes, before Eliza decided that trying to zip herself up in the sleeping bag was far more interesting than doing exercises. Before losing interest, though, Eliza heard the narrator encourage “pull your bellybutton in.” She sat upright, in her footy PJs and said, “I don’t have a belly button.” And then proceeded to unzip her PJs to look for her bellybutton. Because if you can’t see it, maybe it’s not there. Maybe that’s why the pilates girls are all decked out in bikini tops.

As for Sage, she took the exercises very seriously. Adorned in her own footy PJs, she followed the instructions to a tee. Or at least to what she thought was a tee. In reality, her “Swing your legs back and forth like big scissors” looked more like she was following the instructions, “Pretend it’s 5 hours past your bedtime and your mom suggests it’s time to turn off the TV.” Temper tantrum leg thrashing burns calories too, right?

Sage was fascinated by the pilates girl models, and took interest in the “fingernail polish on their toes!” Which, for some reason, seemed more scandalous to her than the girl’s olive colored bikini and skin tight leggings. (The way I make myself feel better about the immense difference between the size of my stomach and theirs is to make fun of their outfits. Just let me be a little immature.)

Although there were five pilates champions on the video, the coach only referred, by name, to the one who demonstrated the “low intensity” variations. Dagne. Or maybe it's a code name. Dag-knee? Dagh-neigh? Anyway, I could tell that Sage thought Dagne and her toenail polish were pretty cool. Sage often encouraged me to “just do it like Dagne instead of the other girl.” And last month when someone asked Sage who her favorite movie star was, Sage picked Dagne.

Sage and Eliza’s interest in my pilates workouts may not have lost me any inches around the midsection, but it sure provided for some great entertainment. I won’t forget how much Sage laughed when the pilates coach encouraged, “Squeeze your tushie!” or how often Eliza found it necessary to repeat that encouragement randomly throughout the day (occasionally accompanied by a squeeze to my leg or bum).

Some fun exercise quotes:
--Exercise is the yuppie version of bulimia. ~Barbara Ehrenreich
--My idea of exercise is a good brisk sit. ~Phyllis Diller
--Aerobics: a series of strenuous exercises which help convert fats, sugars, and starches into aches, pains, and cramps. ~Author Unknown
--The word aerobics came about when the gym instructors got together and said, "If we're going to charge $10 an hour, we can't call it jumping up and down." ~Rita Rudner