Ghosts

There are days that I have my doubts as to my qualifications as a parent. There are days when I wonder how I got here and who decided I was fit to make important decisions. Today is not one of those days. Tomorrow I may regret letting the boys stay up late, but right now, I’m not regretting our move to Fairyland. It was this time last year in fact, that I dubbed the place Fairyland.

There is apparently a two-week window in late May, early June wherein the Phausis reticulata or Blue Ghost fireflies appear. Just as the weather starts to get a bit overly warm and muggy and the frequent afternoon rains begin, these little blue-lighted wonders come out to play.

The summer staff has arrived. We joined them for a campfire this evening—pushing the stroller over the rocky terrain to the wooded amphitheater on the edge of the lake. We stopped and listened to the gurgling stream, the peeping frogs in the marshes. We watched the bats dart and swoop overhead. I felt compelled to reiterate to Ethan what a lucky child he is. I think he gets that he’s lucky, but I don’t think he’ll fully appreciate just how lucky until quite some time into the future.

We sat watching the blazing fire, singing silly songs and important songs and eating s’mores. The boys wore their pajamas and Elliot wore a shiny carnival mask from the dress-up basket and his favorite blanked draped over his shoulders. Ethan carried a large flashlight for security and snuggled up to one of the college girls who just can’t get enough of the boys. Elliot showed off his roaring tiger flashlight to everybody. I hope to burn these images permanently into my memory.

We live in a world full of gadgets, gizmos, constant noise and constant rush to amass material wealth, a world where we’ve forgotten about the things that really matter and where there is never enough of the things we don’t need. At times like these quiet moments this evening, I remember why we chose to forgo so much of all that. As I stood in the pitch dark of a trail through the rhododendron spiked forest, watching the little blue lights swarm around the stroller, I listened to Ethan’s amazement and Elliot’s tired giggle. We are blessed with very little in the way of material wealth, yet somehow tonight, I feel richer than all the kings of the world.

Old

The other day, in discussing growing up, Ethan pointed out that

“Mom, you must be old.”

“Why yes I am, how can you tell?”

“Well, you’re bottom is really big, so that means you’re old.”

Really?

Excuse Me, But Your Disbelief Is Not Properly Suspended

The other evening, my husband and I sat down to watch a really stupid movie. I generally try to avoid such dumb movies, but hey, it showed up in the mail and I was exhausted. I’m sure many of you have seen it, it’s titled “Blades of Glory” and the storyline is that of two idiotic men’s figure skaters, banned from competition for fighting who join up together to skate pairs. The movie is intentionally stupid and, as expected (by most viewers) is literally drowning in improbable scenarios. Let’s just say, the filmmakers did not strive for any kind of accuracy. In fact, I dare say that the inaccuracies intentionally heighten the humor.

We neared the climax of the ridiculous kidnap and chase sequence. As the characters chase each other through the Olympic ice-skating venue, plowing through the souvenir vendors, the chaser appropriates a crossbow from one of the vendors.

At this point, my husband, a stickler for safety, bless his heart, says adamantly:

“They wouldn't be selling a crossbow at a booth in an Olympic venue!”

No Dear, they certainly wouldn't.

Some Pig

My two-year-old likes to watch the "Daddy Movie" (or "Daddy Moomie" to be precise). The Daddy Movie is a Fairyland Promotional wherein Dad is interviewed. Yesterday he requested we watch the "Mommy Moomie".

"I'm afraid we don't have a mommy movie."

The five-year-old chimes in:

"What about the shows you said you used to be in?"

"Well, I worked backstage."

"Don't you have any movies where you can see you wearing black pushing things on the stage?"

"I don't think so . . . why don't I see if I can find the super-artsy puppet show fairy tale I directed . . ." That oughta go over well.

Then I saw it. My claim to fame. The biggest acting role I've ever had, and I did happen to have it on tape: Charlotte's Web.

Yes, when I was in college, I auditioned for a Children's Theatre touring production of Charlotte's Web, and, by happenstance, or the fact that not that many people auditioned, or perhaps because I was overweight, I was given the part of Wilbur.

It was one role I felt I did rather well (there's a reason I direct and stage manage). It was a fun semester with a great group of girls, wherein I was sainted by the sole Catholic at BYU, but I didn't realize it would come back to haunt me 15 years later.

So, for the last couple of days we've been watching a lot of the "mommy moomie". Ethan's a bit bored, yet intrigued by it.

"Mom, when is it going to get interesting?"

I don't think he quite believes it's me in the pink sweats behind the foam pig mask.

"Mom, how come your tummy isn't big?"

Because I put on 30 pounds since college dear.

At least Elliot appreciates it.

"Where's Mommy?"

"MOMMY! RIGHT THERE! PIG!"

Tick Talk

Today was Mother’s Day. I try and take it in stride. I know you’re supposed to feel all warm and fuzzy all day with all the appreciation wafting your way. Don’t get me wrong, I do feel warm and fuzzy as I remember why I do what I do, and the wonders of my children and the privilege of being a mother—and I do appreciate the kind gestures. But, to some degree, celebrating Mother’s Day just serves as a reminder of the other 364 days in the year a mother likely feels overworked and under appreciated. Not to mention the fact that I cannot remember a Mother’s day wherein I didn’t change a diaper, do at least a little housework, prepare at least one meal, or respond to someone else’s needs. Perhaps this is what Mother’s Day is really about—going about being a mother, yet being more aware.

This Mother’s Day was a bit more eventful than most. You see, yesterday, we were a three-hour drive away at the temple. My husband and I had helped arrange a nice temple day for our branch. The Primary would meet outside the temple hear from the Assistant Matron, the parents could do a session if desired and the youth could perform baptisms—a lovely spiritual experience for all. I was elated to hear that 15 children planned to attend! In our little branch, Sunday attendance of 10 is outstanding, so getting 15 children 3 hours away to the temple would be a miracle! I was warned by the Young Women’s President, and should have realized, considering the habits we’ve come to expect in this area, not to count our children until they arrive. I brought my two sons, and the Primary President shuttled three children whose mother was in the hospital. The remaining families planned to meet us there. The children we brought with us were the only ones there. We had 5 of our expected fifteen. It was indeed a lovely day. I’m thrilled my children came and experienced the spirit and beauty of the temple. I’m saddened that more couldn’t have come—I’m disheartened by the cavalier attitude that abounds.

This takes me to Mother’s Day. Most churches have a surge of attendance on holidays. Around here, Christmas, Easter, and apparently Mother’s Day tend to be excuses for staying away from church. This was probably for the best, as I was scheduled to speak, and given that I had been arranging the temple excursion all week, I hadn’t prepared until late last night, and wasn’t sure my thoughts were coherent.

We sat in the chapel and the excitement began. I hadn’t touched base with the chorister to see if he expected the Primary to sing. I had somewhat had them prepare—in case. Sure enough, 2 minutes before the meeting began, I was informed we would be singing—right after my talk. I hoped enough children would wander in by then.

As we sang the sacrament hymn, I noticed something on my 2-year-old’s scalp. I pointed it out to my husband who confirmed it was a tick—likely picked up in the wooded picnic area near the temple. So, we rushed out mid-hymn to dispose of the tick—reverence out the window I suppose. We made it back in time for my talk. Elliot began screaming as I went up to the podium and had to be carried out again. I finished, called the Primary up to sing. All six of them came up and did their darndest. My husband spoke (by the way, prior to our arrival in this branch, my track record for speaking was one talk approximately every four years—my husband and I have now each spoken four times in the last year and a half). I then cajoled my husband into a diaper change (considering his talk admonished men to do more dishes and change more diapers . . .

Then we moved on to the second hour of the block. I had arranged a substitute nursery leader since the regular would be out of town. A traveling teacher, bless her heart, arranged her own substitute. Neither substitute showed. So, I taught an impromptu lesson to the Valiant class with the nursery on my lap (granted, my son was the only nursery child). Then, during the third hour, I led the music as I do every week.

Once again, I arrived home exhausted. I can’t seem to figure out why I’m so exhausted and feel spiritually underfed each week. I do realize that there is a season and a reason for everything. This is the season in which I give much and get little from church. The reasons I do it are manifold—not the least of which is to provide my children with an example of service.

Once home, I tried to lay down, but just couldn’t seem to tune out the children yelling for me, so I got up and helped my husband select a recipe to cook us for dinner, then called my mother while I folded laundry. I laid back down only to be called to the kitchen to assist with the dinner. Later, we struggled again with getting the boys to sleep, then finished folding the laundry and I finished up the dishes my husband had started.

I’m not really complaining—I’m just logging my exhaustion into the roll book, so that perhaps some day, I might feel justified in taking a break.

Happy Mother’s Day

Fungus Among Us

My child has had a terrible case of diaper rash for a good 4 months now. Two months ago I finally took him in to the doctor. I was told it is a yeast infection, given some anti-fungal cream and told to let it “air out” as much as possible. So, I began using the cream and allowing him a few minutes of air time at each diaper change.

Nothing happened, unless you count pee on the carpet. So, I called the doctor.

“It’s not getting any better.”

“Are you airing it out?”

“For a little while.”

“Well, try airing it out more.”

Great, I’ll just send him over to your house without a diaper for a couple of hours every morning. . .

After another two weeks, I called again and was told to come see the doctor. I was given a second prescription for another topical anti-fungal, several refills and told to wait it out. Oh, and to keep airing it out. So, I filled the prescriptions, bought some more carpet cleaner and headed home.

My child has been very healthy his whole life. In fact, between copays, prescriptions and pet odor and stain remover, this is easily the most we’ve spent on him medically since he was born.

Oh, and in case you were wondering, he is unfortunately not ready to be potty trained.

“Tell mommy when you need to do poo poo or pee pee.”

“Mommy! Poop—GROUND!”

“Perfect, I’ll get the carpet cleaner”

“Mommy! Rag? Help?”

I’ve taken to letting him wander around outside in big-boy underwear and rain boots. We’re the talk of the neighborhood.

Yesterday we tried the pediatrician instead of the family practitioner. Now we have an oral and a topical anti-fungal. I’ll keep you posted.

Today he peed in his rain-boots.

“Mommy! Boots WET!”

Self Storage

As I was cleaning out the back of my all-to-cramped closet, my rear-end sticking up in the air, I thought of the events leading up to this moment. Let me frame it in the form of a children’s book:

If you give a Mormon a commandment, she’ll ponder the commandment.

When she ponders the commandment, she’ll realize she needs money to fulfill it, so she’ll set aside some money for food storage.

Once she sets aside the money, she’ll realize she has find a place to purchase the wheat, so she’ll start calling the nearest home storage centers.

Calling the centers will remind her that she needs to find someone to care for her children during the hours of canning and the six hour round trip drive.

Arranging a babysitter for the drive will remind her that gas is now $3.56 a gallon. The high price of gas reminds her that the church now ships wheat from Salt Lake. She’ll do the math and realize that it’d cost as much money and much less time to order the wheat than to drive to get it.

When she places the order, she’ll realize that she has to explain to the office staff who normally picks up the mail. They’ll all get strange looks on their faces and ask “why do you need eight cases of wheat?” Their questions will lead her to explain a bit of the peculiarity of her religion (though she neglected to tell them that eight cases will really only bring her family up to 6 months worth) and she’ll offer to go to the post office to pick it all up.

When the wheat arrives, she’ll drive down to get it and load it into the minivan. Loading it into the van will remind her that she needs a place to store it, so she’ll clean out the remote recesses of her closet and start shoving the cases into the back corner. Storing the wheat will remind her that she needs more wheat (and rice and oats and beans and . . .)

I have to say that living in 800 square feet with two children, two cats, one husband and no storage space whatsoever outside of two really small, very poorly designed bedroom closets and one water heater closet, makes food storage an interesting challenge. A challenge which has taken me back to my days in the Relief Society and the manual that suggested using your food storage as furniture. You know, a water barrel with a lace doily makes a great side table.

Excuse me, I need to go sew a table cloth for my new wheat-based coffee table.