Disappointment, Relief and Radon

Santa had a great idea this year. Seeing as we have a dirt-floored Michigan basement and two rowdy boys who will be cooped up all winter, Santa thought we ought to build a sand box in our basement. Then the boys could spend hours being boys without freezing their fingers off.

I made plans. I priced items at the hardware store. I braved being trampled by horses to haul several bags of sand into my basement. Christmas eve arrived, although Santa had planned to have the box all built on Christmas morning, time constraints and procrastination led to another fantastic idea--Santa would leave supplies and plans and the boys and I would spend Christmas building it!!! I went to the hardware store Christmas Eve morning, loaded up all the boards and supplies, went to grab the plastic sheeting for the bottom and . . . no small rolls of plastic sheeting. Only the enormous contractor-sized rolls remained. I flagged down an employee and asked him if there was more plastic, and/or if I should just use plywood on the bottom. He informed me that I should consider covering my entire basement in plastic because these scary Michigan basements are scary for more reasons than darkness and ghosts. Reasons like Radon.

Apparently Radon (a radioactive, carcinogenic vapor) is emitted naturally from the earth. This generally presents no problem as it is diluted in nature. Except when it pools in the enclosed space under a home. Particularly problematic when small children play in the dirt, releasing the vapors and dust and inhale the stuff.

So, Santa reshelved her boards, supplies and excitement. And instead, purchased a radon test kit. In spite of the disappointment, I was happy to have one less thing to worry about this Christmas. I'll let you know what we find out, and maybe we can talk to the Easter Bunny about building a box this spring.

An Apology

Dear Ms. Prank*,

I owe you an apology. Despite my annoyance with callers who call my home, having dialed the wrong number, and rather than asking "May I speak with so and so?", ask "Who's this?" To which I typically reply "Who's This?" I am now guilty of the same act.

I called you, intending to call my mother. What are the odds that your number differs from my mother's by a single digit and that your name likewise differs by a single letter? I apologize for my rudeness and for sounding like a complete idiot, and disturbing your evening.

I will do my best not to do so again. But no promises, as I truly am a complete idiot. And I am sometimes rude too.

Sincerely,
Jennifer**

*Names have been changed to protect the innocent
**Though not the stupid

(A Transcription of the actual phone call with probable subtext follows)

Ms. P: Hello? (Who is calling me the day after Christmas from this random area code?)

Me: (Thinking this really doesn't sound like my mother, but she does have a cold). Hello!

Ms. P: Hello? (Who in the heck is this?)

Me: (definitely not my mother) Is this the Crank* residence?

Ms. P: Yes, it is. (Probably a telemarketer--an annoying one at that.)

Me: Who is this? (In my defense, I started thinking perhaps this is one of my nephews visiting grandma)

Ms. P: Who is this? (Rude!)

Me: This is Jennifer--You said this is the Crank residence? (I am so confused right now)

Ms. P: Prank. (Idiot.)

Me: Crank? (What is going on?)

Ms. P: Prank! P-R-A-N-K. Prank! (What, are you deaf AND stupid?!)

Me: Oh, not Crank? Sorry. I must have dialed wrong.

Ms. P: That's okay. (dumb-a**!)

Me: Goodbye. (I am such a dumb-a**!)

Da-da Christmas To You

We had a fabulous Christmas with many highlights. They are too numerous to enumerate, so I'll share just one unforgettable moment. I was sitting around in my Fabulous Eskimo Gown and the phone rang. In a distant part of the house I heard Matt pick it up and put it on speaker, then I heard the dulcet tones of my friend Doris singing in her hoarse old-Jewish-lady dialect. The phone arrived at my ear in time for the closing refrains of "Merry Da-da, tooooooo yooooooooo".

I was so touched, I nearly became farklemt, especially when she wished me nakhes and complemented my pronunciation when I wished her a Happy Hanukkah. Then, one of the Mormon Missionaries who were sharing Christmas with us, asked "Is she from Brooklyn" and we had to explain that Doris is actually a 36 year old male actor/cellist from Manhattan (whom I ADORE) and then we had to play for them my birthday message (I like to share this at dinner parties especially, so if you have not heard Doris sing, invite me to dinner, I'll play my messages).

I was so touched you see, Doris is faithful. She calls me every year on my birthday regardless if I've spoken with her in years and I save her message as long as legally allowed. She has startled my husband and confused my babysitters. Yet, I don't believe she has ever called me on Christmas, and what with her being Jewish, I was just so touched.

I've said it before and I'll say it again--there are thoughtful, caring people in this world, and then there are the rest of us. God bless us every one.

Merry Christmas and Nakhes to you . . .

Hypocrisy Pie

Lest anyone get the idea that I am admirable (you see, it's my blog, so it's easy to just write about things that present me in a good light), let me present a wart (I'll limit it to one big fault for this post--but fear not, I have many many more where that comes from).

I am prideful (and self-absorbed, self-righteous, lacking in empathy and tact, and so many other wonderful qualities that come along with pride). We're working on it, slowly but surely. I say we, because there seems to be a higher power out there that every time I start thinking I'm better than someone else, slaps me in the face with my own hypocrisy. Case in point.

Thanks to a decade in Western Washington, I am a recycler. I will not argue the futility of recycling here, suffice it to say that no, I'm not fully convinced recycling is worth my efforts (see remainder of post for evidence), nonetheless I've developed a compulsion to at least decrease the amount of trash I produce and assuage my conscience by trekking to the recycling center whenever I can no longer walk through my back door without tripping over recyclables. Whatever the end result of my attempts are beyond my control.

Nevertheless, every time I go to the Recycling Center, I get a little steamed up. I start huffing and thinking about putting up little signs that say things like "Hey Stupid! CAN'T READ? Only plastics marked 1 & 2 are accepted here--that means don't come dump your kids broken toys, or throw whole plastic bags full of recyclables in here--do you see a number 1 or 2 on your plastic grocery bag? Take those back to the grocery store!" I mean really, who died and made me the recycling police anyway. And honestly, I don't know enough about the process to know whether adding those items makes the whole load non-viable. I just have a fear that it does and hence all my efforts at recycling become futile because somebody tossed in something to destroy the whole load. When in reality, they probably go through and sort it all out, otherwise wouldn't they put out their own version of the "hey stupid" sign? Maybe, maybe not.

So, the other day as I was hauling my recycling in 20 degree weather, I tromped up the platform that accesses both plastics and papers. A woman had just arrived and was unloading little plastic bags of plastics from her car. As I was contemplating whether I, recycling queen, would condescend to say something to her about not putting in those bags, I totally forgot what I was doing and tossed an entire paper bag of paper waste into the PLASTICs bin!! And I'd chucked it so far in that save climbing the rail and getting literally into the dumpster, there was no going back.

Forgive me, I have committed a recycling sin.

So much for my self-righteousness. I slinked down the platform and didn't say a word as she chucked in the full bags. I just hope she was not as self-righteous as I and was not noticing my bag of paper sitting on top. I was also hoping that they really do sort the stuff out, or that the paper would just burn up in the processing and not contaminate the load.

I think I need to start paying someone to pick up my recyclables. The stress is killing me.

Happy Stuffmas Revisited

You may remember my post from a couple of years ago about the phenomenon of seasonal materialism. Well, in the spirit of "he's my kid, so I get to brainwash him how I see fit" I am happy to report that we must be doing something right (or he knows how to play our game very well).

Last week Ethan came home with a story he wrote in school. (Did I mention that my child is a budding writer? He is. He won the "Awesome Author" award a couple of months ago . . . I'm so proud . . . sniff). He's still working on his spelling, so let me share, then translate for you:

Ckrims

by Ethan

ckims is a tin that you selbrate jesise prthday. Omost evrtheg has a sibol to hao they look. Ckrims is a spesoltin. We seuprat jeisise prthday. Tas wiy we seubrat crims.

Translation (I read first-grader quite fluently):

Christmas

by Ethan

Christmas is a time that you celebrate Jesus's birthday. Almost everything has a symbol to how they look. Christmas is a special time. We celebrate Jesus's birthday. That's why we celebrate Christmas.

I am so proud. Not one mention of toys or Santa Claus (maybe it helps that my kids get almost squat for Christmas--I mean really, how many toys does one kid need anyway, and all at the same time?) Nor do they watch commercials (hooray! or I'm told they would be begging for some hamster thing this year).

I'm trying my best to enjoy this season--and considering I could count on one half of one hand how many times I've been into a non-grocery store in the past couple of weeks (thanks to Amazon and Ebay of course--I'm not a total Scrooge, I do buy them a couple of things), I'm succeeding in enjoying the spirit of the season.

Just a moment while I dismount my high-horse . . .

I'm enjoying my children's enthusiasm for giving. We've completed our december ritual of going through the toys and making a pile of those to give away. I'm enjoying my children's enthusiasm at decorating the tree (my FAVORITE part of tree decoration--the very strange tradition that it is--is that all the ornaments are clustered around the bottom four feet of tree. I'll be so sad when they can reach the top). I'm enjoying their excitement about snow. I'm enjoying friends and songs of the Savior. I'm excited to visit family for New Years.

So, once again I wish us all a life less cluttered with stuff, and a holiday season where we only give gifts out of love, not guilt, and a new year where we remember Christ every day of every month.

Merry Chistmas

Long Johns

Forget being concerned about what I'm wearing when I walk my child to the end of the driveway. Let's begin to concern ourselves with HOW MUCH I'm wearing. It is FRIGGIN' COLD!!! When we moved here everyone told me how cold the winters were going to be. Well, we lived in Colorado, we would counter. Lemme tell you Colorado ain't got nuthin' on this place. How much difference can a little humidity make to your icy winter you ask? Enough.

This morning I walked him out wearing my husband's boots, my new pajamas (not the heart ones with holes worn in them any longer), my new full-length hoodie robe (my husband calls it my snuggie, or my winter mumu--I like to think of it as a warm hug, or the northern version of the Fabulous Gown), my coat, my scarf, my hat, my hood . . . oh, and I didn't wear gloves thinking My pockets will suffice, how long really is the driveway? Long enough.

It's days like this I'm grateful for food storage and the ability to work from home. I think I'm going to need some long johns.

PS. The biggest plus to the snowy season: shoe tying. I know, who'dathunkit? Ethan, wanting to wear his new snow boots to school, finally allowed me to teach him to tie his shoes. That way, he can change from his boots to his shoes without the teacher's help like the other kids do. The whole teaching process took about 60 seconds. We'd tried to no avail several times in the past. Did I mention that Ethan does things only when he is good and ready--and then he does them very well. Well, he does. I don't know where he gets that stubborn streak.

Pajama Time

I sometimes feel a bit sheepish about the fact that I walk Ethan out to catch the bus at the end of our driveway in my pajamas (lately I've mostly just felt COLD). Sometimes I feel like holding a sign up to explain to all the cars passing me by on their way to work that says "Hey!! I've been up working since 6 am--this is my uniform! Don't judge me!" But then I don't feel so bad when, on the occasion I pick him up from school in the afternoon, I'm waiting outside the school with moms in their PJs at 3:30 pm. Perhaps they consider their own "Don't judge me" signs for my benefit. Perhaps they don't care.

Then today, it happened. Ethan missed the bus. Mostly my fault. So we jumped in the freezing car and headed to school.

Can I just drop you here?

Will you just walk me across the bus lane so I'm sure to be safe mom?

Can you argue with that?

So, I got out of my minivan with my bed-head tucked under my hoodie, dressed to the nines in my pj bottoms covered in pink hearts. Apparently I'm no longer the carefree college co-ed who once for fun went grocery shopping with my roommates with our wet hair wrapped up in towel-turbans. No, I have to admit I did feel a bit embarrassed as I walked with all these well dressed parents dropping their kids off before heading to work. Where did I put my sign?

Maybe on this sign I'd write something like "Hey, it doesn't matter what I wear to work! I had a conference call yesterday in just my bra!" Then again, perhaps they'd get the wrong impression about my job. (My shirt was just in the dryer--it's not like it was a video conference anyway!--I hope my boss doesn't read this). Maybe I've become too nonchalant with the whole working from home thing. Maybe I'll start getting up at five, so I can be showered and dressed up by 6 to start work . . . on second thought, I'll stick to stumbling from my bed the whole five feet to my office door, rubbing sleep from my eyes as my computer boots up, working for a couple of hours, doing the whole mom thing for a few more hours, and getting showered by noon (most days). Just don't come knocking on my door in the morning. Unless you're coming to see my new pjs.

Awed By Horses

Have I mentioned what a fantastic life I lead? I mean we have our ups and downs, but every day when I step out of my house I think "I LIVE here!--Here, in this amazing and beautiful place!"

This afternoon we were out in the horse pasture scooping sand into empty horse feed bags (long story), when suddenly we were surrounded by about twenty of the enormous creatures. No, it wasn't my animal magnetism, it was simply the fact that we were rustling feed bags. Still, for a very large person, it's a rare experience to be surrounded by living breathing things that are that much bigger than me. Perhaps it was simply this fact, that I suddenly didn't feel quite so big, that was so astounding. Perhaps that's what petite people feel like in a crowd--I'll never know. I mean, I've been near the horses before, but generally from the other side of a fence or next to one in a stall, not out in the open and completely surrounded. They were so curious--nosing into my feedbags. I felt bad when they discovered it was just sand.

We finished, loaded into the truck and tried to drive away. I was boxed in on four sides. A dozen of them were still nosing into the bags in the bed of the truck, while another couple boxed me in from the front. I think they were working together--convinced I was hiding something. Eventually I coaxed them into moving and began to drive off. That's when I noticed one of them running along side the truck. For a moment I pretended there wasn't a truck and I was riding bareback on the black stallion on the beach, my hands flapping at my side . . .

Truck notwithstanding, it was a pretty cool afternoon for me and Elliot.

Another Day Older

And deeper in gratitude.

What a cheesy opener. But oh so true. Tomorrow is my birthday. I'll be 36 (which is not nearly as old as I once thought it was). I LOVE MY BIRTHDAYS!!! Ask me why . . . Okay, since you asked, I'll give you my top three:

1) It's all about ME! And, what self-centered person can honestly say having a day dedicated to themselves isn't fantastic?

2) I've earned every single year. And doesn't life just keep getting better? Like, oh heavens, wasn't getting out of your twenties just GRAND?! Really, by then, you're just more comfortable in your own skin and care so much less about what other people think of you. To paraphrase a friend: Sure, it's nice if you like me, but if you don't, it just doesn't bother me very much. EXACTLY.

3) It's close to Thanksgiving. And I LOVE me some Thanksgiving! What other holiday is completely centered on food, family, food, friends, food and more food. It's the perfect holiday for the food addict. Throw my birthday in the mix and it's like a big party to celebrate ME, the people I like, and GOOD FOOD!

I am very grateful through out the year, but especially now, when I am reminded of all my blessings. Shall I count them? Okay, if you insist, but only the top three again, lest I become gratuitous and boring:

1) My children. What beautiful, wonderful, treasured blessings they are in my life. My life would have been very very different without them.

2) My husband. Ditto. My life diverged at one point, heading down an unexpected and life-altering path with him. And that has made all the difference.

3) My family--especially my parents. I would not be the person I am today were it not for the tantamount sacrifices made and patience exhibited on my behalf year after year after year after year.

4) The gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ. Without which, this life would have no meaning, and my life would be utterly wasted.

So that was four, but I couldn't help myself.

I am thankful.

Fun Facts With Jen

Of late, I have needed to obtain some information from state government websites and occasional phone calls to agencies. From this foray into the world of online governent services, I have learned much more than I had ever wanted to know. For your reading pleasure, here is a brief sampling of my extracuriccular fun facts:

1)Typically, there are different standards for handling medical waste that is still in recognizable human body-part form, than those for just generic blood, urine and feces. I would certainly hope so. Otherwise, it'd be quite a shock to those landfill monster compactor drivers.

2)Remember the days of flushing your expired pharmaceuticals down the toilet? Well, no more. Since we're getting healthy doses of the neighborhood's medicine cabinet in our drinking water, everyone is scrambling for some kind of guidance. Some of the best ones they've come up with so far are suggestions such as hiding your extra narcotics inside a sealed box, inside another sealed box in hopes that no errant drug dealer or small child happens upon it before it makes it to the landfill for the seagulls to get stoned on--seriously, that's the best they've come up with so far. Perhaps on that outer box you should write "Nope, no drugs with any kind of street value in here, mr. oxycontin addict!"

3)Any conversation with a government official that involves phrases like "so, suppose you're undergoing surgery and in the course of that surgery, blood is sprayed everywhere . . ." is just plain wierd.

4) Some states spend their tax dollars on useful, clear websites and online tools. Others apparently spend their funds on posting pictures of their lovely elected officials in various pantsuits with matching shades of lipstick, smiling at you, nay, laughing at you, as you laboriously attempt to navigate their painfully poorly designed sites (ah-ah-ah-chwestvirginia-ooo!!!--excuse me!)

Who would've guessed back in the days when I was obtaining my Bachelor's of Theatre Arts, that one day, I would be putting my incredible talents to use in such interesting ways.

I'm sorry I can't tell you any more about my assignment, I may have already said to much. Don't worry though, if it turns out I have to kill you, I'll be sure and properly dispose of both your body parts and fluids.

Karma for Martha, a Tragedy in Two Acts

Luke 10: 38-42

Act One: Fool Me Once

Scene
A woman, alone in a kitchen. Her husband has recently had hand surgery and she has been caring for him. Her child has taken ill as well. Her family is asleep after a long day.

Woman: Boy, don't I feel accomplished! I'm the ultimate caretaker! I've cooked, cleaned, sewed, cared for my child and my husband. I think I'll make me a cup of something warm and soothing before bed. You know what sounds oh so good right now? Orzo! I don't drink coffee, and hot chocolate is a bit too sweet tonight, so I'll have a bit of this barley drink--it's like liquid dark chocolate. Now, how do you use this little espresso maker anyway?

She fills it up, sets it on the stove to brew, finishes cleaning the stove and doing the dishes, when suddenly, the espresso pot explodes, spewing barley grounds all over the clean kitchen.


Woman: Well, that was dumb of me! Now I have to clean it all up again. I wonder what I did wrong? Oh well, a woman's work is never done! I sure wish I had help, woe is me.


Act Two: Fool Me Twice

Scene. Three nights later. Woman is again alone in the kitchen, exhausted, having taken ill herself along with her other child. She has spent all week caring for them and is feeling sorry for herself.

Woman: I really should just go to bed. I've spent all day caring for my family. I'm spent, I'm ill, I'm exhausted . . . but there are dirty dishes all over the kitchen, and who is going to wash them if I don't? Woe is me. Woe is me.

I know, I'll put on some water for a cup of something warm and soothing, and do these dishes. It won't take but a few minutes, I'll be in bed with a warm and soothed tummy and a great sense of accomplishment. I've read the instructions on the box, and surely I can make the espresso pot work this time.

She begins unloading the dishwasher, all the while feeling like falling over. The pot begins to spit. She rushes over to it, but neglects to remove it from the heat.

Woman: Here we go, look, it must just be up too high, the grounds are clogging the little vent. If I just stick a fork in---

EXPLOSION! The pot spews boiling water, scalding steam and barley grounds all over the woman, searing her exposed neck. She screams, takes off her clothes and runs to the shower, crying as she douses herself in cold water.

Woman: I should have just gone to bed.


END

Fables & Food

You know the one about the Grasshopper and the Ant? How the ant worked all summer and fall, storing food for the winter and the lazy grasshopper just played and played until suddenly it's cold, he's hungry and knocking on the ant's door for assistance and the ant slams the door in his face.

I once read an alternative version about how the grasshopper was welcomed with open arms by the ants who were so bored they were dying for some entertainment. The grasshopper contributed his music, the ants fed him, all did their part, yada yada.

Upon reading that I thought THAT'S IT!!! I'M A GRASSHOPPER! I think I'll go major in theatre . . .

That was a long time ago. Here's my new version:

Once upon a time there was an ant that worked very hard all day every day, all summer long gathering food for the winter. A young grasshopper watched the ant very carefully, envious at her fine abilities to store and preserve, at her patience for seemingly mindless tasks, at her knowledge and wisdom. Then, easily distracted, the grasshopper hopped away, singing and playing. The ant smiled and kept working.

That winter, when the weather turned cold and the ant was cozy in her home, the grasshopper came knocking, hungry and cold. "Of course you can come in!" Said the ant. And she welcomed the young grasshopper in.

The grasshopper entertained the ant, they kept each other company swapping stories and songs and recipes (which grasshopper tucked somewhere in the depths of her mind). Then spring would return and each would return to her labors.

This continued for several seasons, the ant working, the grasshopper watching, the two sharing a hearth for the winter. Then, one spring, the ant paused in her work to smile at an older, stronger grasshopper attempting to gather some seeds. She did it poorly and inefficiently, and with much distraction, but by the end of the season, she had a small store as evidence of her labors. That winter the two again shared a hearth, but now grasshopper had begun to ask more questions.

Just how do you store your grain for maximum nutrient retention? She would ask. And the old ant would impart as much wisdom and knowledge as she could. And the grasshopper remembered. The next several seasons the grasshopper became better and better at her work. She no longer played as much, though she still loved a good story and lovely music. But she was finding new joy in a new labor.

One year as the two now old friends shared their winter hearth, a knock was heard at the door. A young cicada was shivering, cold and hungry. The two friends smiled at her and at each other and welcomed her in, sat her by the fire, and gave her something yummy to eat.

The end.

Do you want to see what I've been doing lately?














Canning is my new obsession.

Though I think it's just a new incarnation of my old obsession; food.

My assistant


















My next victim:

Have I mentioned how much I LOVE FALL!?!? And how much I've grown to LOVE my basement? But these are both food for other posts . . .

Baby You Can Drive My Car

The other day in the car, Elliot says: Mom, you sure are a good driver.

Me: Thanks. I try and keep us safe.

Elliot: But sometimes you get pulled over.

Will I never live that down?

Yesterday he said he wishes he was tall enough to drive (he is currently three years old). I told him some day he would be tall enough to learn how to drive. He explained that he already knows all the rules and proceeded to list them for me:

1) Try not to crash.
2) Don't get pulled over.
3) Honk at people in your way.
4) Watch out for trees about to fall on your car.
5) Turn into your driveway and don't crash into your house.
6) Don't crash into your cellar door.
7) Don't go near traps.
8) Don't break your steering wheel off.
9) Don't break your window out with your steering wheel.
10) Don't drive on trails, only roads.

Fortunately, he has 13 more years to study for the test.

Pottery

My husband is ill. I gave it to him. This is my excuse for taking a week to write about the fantastic anniversary weekend with which he surprised me last week. Back in July he told me to clear my calendar for a weekend in September. Hmmmm . . .

Then, not only did he make weekend arrangements, get this, HE MADE BABYSITTING ARRANGEMENTS! Complex ones involving a babysitter for the babysitter. Husbands don't do that do they? (Now if he'd just make date night arrangements, including babysitting . . . I know, let's not get carried away).

A week before we left, he got sick and tired of all my questions (Do I need to bring my passport? My bathing suit?) and spilled the beans. This is where we went. This is where we stayed. Nice huh? This is a part of our new state of residence I've been wanting to explore. It was peaceful. It was lovely. It was yummy. Oh, and Saturday night I was stricken with a sore throat and fell asleep about 8pm. Oops.

We ate chocolate and slept late, and watched the food channel and went shopping.

We even started to miss our kids. We got back and Ethan started yammering on and on and Matt says This is why we don't talk.

It's been nine years. Good days, bad days and some in between. I was quite the commitment-phobe when we started all this. But I have to say, I'm glad I decided to go for it. I can't imagine where I'd be if my kind, intelligent and good-natured husband hadn't looked beyond my flaws (as he still does every day) and saw something worth fighting for. I'm still a work in progress, as is this marriage and our little family. Every day. It's still worth fighting for.

Did you know that 9 years is the pottery anniversary. So I'm told. It kinda makes sense when you think about it. You take this lump of clay, or say two lumps, smoosh them together, add a little water to make it stick, shape, smoosh, shape, all the while you keep on spinning through your every day duties, still trying to smoosh and shape together. Even to figure out just what shape you're going for. After some time, it begins to take shape, to really start to evolve in to a beautiful form. But it's not done yet. There's still the fiery kiln of trials that harden and solidify the piece. And then some time to cool and set. Then the shiny glaze, more time to dry and voila! That lump of dirt has become something that is not only beautiful, but functions well.

We didn't buy any pottery--maybe I need to learn to make my own.

To Pee or to Cough, That is the Question. . .

I started coughing in May. May is the start of the allergy season around here and I've encountered numerous people that have sworn they never had allergies until they moved here. Oh, and we're surrounded on four sides by pastures of grasses. So, naturally I assumed I must be having allergies as well. It's been really, really annoying. Not just for me, but for my family and friends and all those strangers in public places that give me the swine-flu-stink-eye as I try and loudly say something about the pollen in the air.

After four months straight of sleep interrupted by coughing fits, I finally went to the doctor. A chest x-ray and an asthma test later confirmed . . . allergies. And the pill-popping commenced. I spent several long counseling sessions with pharmacists regarding which allergy medications to take in what order at what time of the day to minimize coughing and daytime drowsiness and maximize the ever-elusive sleep. Then, back to the doctor for yet another prescription allergy medication. Nada. Still coughing.

Then I realized something. May is not only the start of the allergy season around here, but it is also when I got a physical and started taking medication to treat my high blood pressure. Ten minutes quality time with my friend Google and I've discovered that my medication can cause a chronic dry cough in a fairly significant percentage of those taking it. Hmmmm, should I ask for a refund of my copays? I'm torn between being annoyed that none of the three medical professionals I saw regarding this (who reviewed my chart indicating what medication I'm taking and how long I've been taking it) caught it, and just being relieved at the thought that I may be able to sleep again.

At my request, my doctor switched my medication. The side effect of the new one? I have to pee a lot. So, my lungs have given up the late shift to my bladder.

The Song of the Albatross

I bought a piano. This is a huge step. We have moved every two years for six years now. I feel that buying a piano is a sign of a major commitment. I don't want to move it again, for a long time. And besides, I like it here.

It was a major investment--not of money, but of energy (discussion, argument, search, arrangements and so forth). But, it is here. It is ours. And Ethan will begin piano lessons in October.

This makes me feel a little grown up, and a little like a kid on Christmas morning. Our living room is starting to feel like a grown-up room. I'm not used to being a grown-up.

Wanna see?


I know, it's nothing spectacular, and it's probably older than me. But, it was a GREAT deal. And it's ours.

Nobody in our home really knows how to play it--yet. Even so, the sound of it in our home tonight made it feel like, well, home. Like family. And we're going to learn to play a little, or maybe a lot.

(I have to say, what with the downturn in the economy and living in the state with the highest unemployment rate in the nation, Craigslist is a GOLDMINE right now. )

Where am I and what have you done with my life?

I called my mother today and tried to quit my job. You know, the motherhood thing. Really, I'm just not qualified. I really think they should have given a prequalifying exam with questions like

Section 2, Potty-Training

Question #1
Your older child comes running in to tell you that your newly potty-trained younger child has just peed all over the kitchen floor in front of the fridge. What do you do?

A) Strip him down in the kitchen and throw him in the tub and everything else in the washer, then mop.
B) Cry
C) Spank him
D) Send him to Grandma

Question #2
Your older child comes running out of your bedroom yelling something about his little brother that contains the phrases "no-underwear" and "poop on your pillows". What do you do?

A) Kindly remind him that after using the potty he needs to ask for help wiping and, at a bare minimum, always remember to put his pants back on.
B) After having him assist you in changing and washing your sheets, meticulously comb the rest of the house for signs of poop, including, the guest bed, the carpet, the dining room floor, etc.
C) Scream at him
D) Call your mother and quit your crappy job
E) Both A & B

Question #3
Your well-potty-trained 5 year old child calls to you for assistance in the bathroom. You open
the door to find him standing there, poop all over the toilet seat, his thigh, the bottoms of his feet and, of course, your rug. What do you do?

A) Tell his father his son needs him.
B) Throw him in the tub and hose the place down.
C) Hand him a bucket of bleach water and go for a walk.
D) Call CPS and turn yourself in.

I would have failed to qualify for parenthood--not necessarily for incorrect answers, but for incompleteness--I'd have just put down my pencil, walked out of the room and went back to my former life wondering "what was I thinking?"

This why there is no test, no qualifications and no manual. If we realized what we were getting ourselves into, the future would only be in the hands of the competent and prepared, instead of the naive and idealistic.

Priceless . . . Sort of.

On our fun little vacation to Chicago, we opted to pay a little more for a hotel with a pool. It was fun. The boys really enjoyed it. Now we're paying for it. Here is my pool expense summary to date:

$100 (extra $20 per night for five nights for the hotel with pool)
$20 (initial doctor's visit copay to diagnose ear infection after we returned home.)
$50 (ear drops)
$10 (antibiotic)
$10 (appx cost of various over-the-counter pain medicines for ear ache)
$20 (second doctor's visit copay to diagnose continued ear infection after course of 1st antibiotic)
$20 (second antibiotic)
$10 (antibiotic ear drops)

Total: $240 and counting. The doctor would like to see him again in 10 days to verify it is gone. That's another $20 copay, and I'm running low on Tylenol and Motrin. Not to mention the inevitable snacks at the drug store while we await prescriptions. I figure we'll be lucky to get out under $300.

Cost of the pool on vacation $300
The pain of listening to a six-year-old cry about his ear for three weeks . . . extensive.
The joy of swimming . . . priceless

"I Wish We Lived Here . . . "

(Ethan, age 6, who doesn't always grasp how lucky he is to live where he does)

We had a fabulous family vacation this past week.

Since we live at a camp, we vacation in cities. This year it was Chicago--a fabulous town, and educational too. My boys learned a great deal visiting the museums and landmarks (Ethan can tell you more than you ever wanted to know about German submarines). Here are a few things I learned:

#1

A four hour train ride is not always four hours. It is sometimes closer to seven. But that's okay because, as Ethan likes to point out, you can walk up and down the train (and up and down and up and down and up and down) and you don't have to wear a seat belt.

#2

The Sears Tower is no longer the Sears Tower, it is the Willis Tower. But people look at you funny if you actually refer to it as the Willis Tower.

#3

Hotwire can get you a GREAT deal on a fancy hotel in a fabulous location.

#4

The walls at a four star hotel are not necessarily any thicker than the walls at any other hotel. Oh, and your passionate neighbors aren't any quieter either (but, if you pound on the wall and yell "KEEP IT DOWN!!" they are less likely to come over to your room in their wife beater and tell you to keep it down your own self--so pound away. It worked for me).

#5

If Bill Clinton stays at your hotel, you probably won't bump into him at the pool, but there will likely be a lot of men in dark suits hanging around talking to their watches. Which is pretty cool if you're a kid.

#6

I should budget more for eating out on vacation.

#7

My mission president and his wife are still as FANTASTIC as they were 12 years ago (I am getting old)--they even put up with my poorly behaving 6-year-old at dinner. I wish I'd remembered to take a picture.

#8

City buses and transit trains are more fun than taxi cabs--even when you're tired, but especially when you're driving.

#9

A good babysitter on a vacation is worth her weight in gold, and I still enjoy great theatre, I just don't get to experience it very often any more. You can see a video clip of the fantastic show we saw here.

And most importantly

#10

Vacations are more fun when dad can come.

As I Was Saying . . .

I talk. A lot. My mother tells stories of how my father would come home from work and I would follow him around jabbering incessantly. He would look at her and ask: Does she ever stop talking? My husband laughs at me now when I ask him the same thing about my 6-year-old. I mean really, I can't seem to get a word in edgewise around him. Actually, I find myself standing in my father's shoes, tuning out the continuous monologue, nodding and mm-hmm-ing every so often. Then I question my patience and fitness for motherhood, yada yada . . .

So yesterday, when I sat next to a woman at a social function whom I hadn't met before (and whom I noticed no-one had chosen to sit next to) and attempted to make small talk, I began to have some serious self-doubts.

Hello, I'm Jennifer--

I'm Chatty Finland (names have been changed to protect the self-absorbed).

And this is my family Matt, Eth--

It's easy to remember my last name because it's a country. These are my kids Larry and Mertyl.

Hi Larry, how old are you?

He's two. He doesn't talk yet--or chooses not to talk.

I'm beginning to understand why.

He's the one always screaming in church.

Oh, I understand that, my--

You know, the really high pitched scream? That's him. He does that at daycare too.

I know, I gave up--

I did too. But he's got to go back. I'm going back to school.

Oh, that's--

He'd scream all day--10 hours! I'd come back to find him in the corner, sucking his thumb.

Perhaps it was the only time he could say anything uninterrupted.

Oh, look at the time . . .

Like I said, I talk a lot. I talk about myself a lot. But I like to think I enjoy listening and learning about others too. I'm not self-centered, I'm just terribly interesting!

Maybe this is how other people feel around me. Perhaps I'll work on not talking so much, and particularly not so much about myself. Go ahead. Tell me something about you . . . Seriously, post a comment with something you don't think I know about you. I'm dying to read it. Anyone? . . . Is anyone still reading this? . . . . Hello?

Confessions of a former pet-lover

I'm ready to talk about this. I grew up loving cats. All I wanted was a cat. I cried for cats and envisioned the day when, free of my father's allergies, I would have a home literally crawling with felines. Then I grew up. Then I had children. I am no longer a cat person.

As childless newlyweds, my husband and I acquired a cat. As full-time employees with long commutes, we acquired a second cat to keep the first company. I can admit, with not too much guilt, that I've never been particularly fond of our behemoth cat Tibby. Yes, she was cute as a kitten (they all are). But as she grew, and grew, and grew, she developed some annoying, though tolerable habits. Yes, it was fun to watch her play fetch like a dog. She's not a bright cat--which was often humorous as well. But, when I was pregnant, bloated, uncomfortable and just wanted to be left alone, she just wanted to sit on me. The "must be in constant physical contact" with me thing continued and continued. Wherever I would sit, I'd suddenly find a paw on my shoulder. Cute huh? Unless it's you. She also liked to whine for any and no particular reason--incessantly.

We've gone through 8 years of this. After I had children, my caregiver bank was completely maxed out. I had nothing left for felines. I wish someone had explained this to me years before in explicit terms like YOU DO NOT REALLY WANT TO GET A PET. YOU WILL BE UNABLE TO EMOTIONALLY AND PHYSICALLY CARE FOR THIS PET ONCE YOU HAVE CHILDREN. NO ONE ELSE WILL CARE FOR THE PET BUT YOU, SO YOU WILL GROW TO RESENT THIS PET.

The only person with a somewhat remotely beneficial relationship with this cat was my husband. The cat loved me, I despised the cat. The boys loved the cat and she despised them. The cat tolerated my husband almost to the point of affection, and he tolerated her almost tothe point of affection. Yet none of this was so intolerable as to get rid of her. Until she began peeing on my rugs.

A line was crossed. I am not a cruel and heartless person (depending on who you ask). I took this kitten in and cared for her for 8 years, annoying habits and all. But, there is an invisible line drawn in the sand at peeing in inappropriate locations. For me anyway.

For others, there may not be such a line. Look it up online. You will find hundreds of suggestions and tips for retraining a cat who has strayed from his litterbox. And while your patiently redirecting his behavior by playing calming background music, and being oh so careful not to give kitty a complex by telling him he is bad, your rug is being pee-ed into oblivion. I don't have that kind of patience.

I tried, I really did. A friend suggested she may have a bladder infection (because the first thing I do when I get a UTI is pee on the floor). They were right. I spent $200 to diagnos and treat a kitty UTI (here kitty kitty, pee in this cup). Then I was told that I would now have to feed her exclusively $50 per bag special bladder health food. Um, you are aware this is a cat, right? I tried again. But, when she began to pee and poop on the carpet this time, not just the rugs, my secondary, back-up line was crossed into oblivion. Kitty spent several days between a pet carrier and my bathroom awaiting long discussions of my heartles cruelty and painful phone calls to no-kill shelters:

How old is she?

Eight.

No one really wants an 8-year-old cat with litterbox problems.

No kidding.

Have you tried playing calming music near the litterbox? . . .

So, I gave up. I threw in the towel. I even sprung for the expensive pet-hospital euthanization rather than dropping her at the shelter, just so I'd feel better about it. And no, I don't want to watch, nor keep the ashes.

The funniest thing about it all (I can laugh about it now) was that when I hauled this cat to the pet hospital for her last rights, I was a mess. I cried--quite a bit--for a cat I never really liked. Here's how it went down.

I steele myself and get my emotions all in check, drop the boys off with dad (it's okay mom if Tibby has to die--she used to scratch me anyway). I drive to the hospital, haul the cat inside and wait. and wait. Everybody and their dog was there. Loving pet owners, crooning over their sick animal. I was hoping the waiting room would clear out before I stepped up to the counter and stated Please kill my cat. Close, but not entirely. By the time I got up there, there was just one lady in the room, standing at the counter next to me with her lap dog.

Can I help you?

Yes, I need to have my cat seen.

What is the problem?

Well, I just need to have her, um euthanized (my voice quavers unexplicably).

Okay, here's a box of tissues. I'll get the paperwork.

And I started crying. The lapdog lady next to me puts her arm around me and says

I had to do the same thing last week.

I turn around with the paper work and a box of tissues and suddenly the room is full again. People leaning over to sneak peaks at the terminally ill cat in my carrier, wondering if she's contagious. I dunno, does mispeeing spread?

Did you want to keep the ashes?

Um, no thank you?

Do you want to watch?

What, are you nuts?--Not unless I have to

Okay, we'll bring the carrier back in a couple of minutes.

The room began closing in on me. I grabbed some tissues and stepped outside. After a couple of minutes the vet brought me my carrier and left with some final words:

Be careful driving alright?

Thanks. sniff.

And that was that. I went home and poured a whole box of deoderizer on the carpet, cleaned my bathroom and felt much better. I think of her every now and again and wonder if I did right by her, or if I'll have to some how do penance in the afterlife. I've also thought quite a bit about the meaning of the term "stewardship" and if I've been a good steward. I suppose it's all in who you ask.

I wish someone had said something to me before we got the fish. Oh, and the hermit crab.

Business & Travel

We left cloud 9 for a bit, but we're back now. For a bit. The boys actually did quite well with all the flights and layovers and such. Well, except for Elliot's rolling around, screaming tantrum on the floor at the gate of our initial return flight. So much for the idea of removing him to allow him to finish his tantrum where he can't disturb others. Sure, let me just grab his older brother, our 3 backpacks, the stroller and my carry-on and rush with the screaming child to . . somewhere, to finish his fit. Sure.

I expect, and do my best not to tolerate, some impatience and inappropriate social behavior from my children, but from grown men? Come on people. Let me explain. Near our departing gate (this was just prior to the fit described above), the men's restroom had been closed down for some reason. It was blocked off and a sign posted that said "Closed. Please use restroom near gate B10". Pretty simple instructions don't you think? It is an airport of course and I'm sure you'd run in to multiple men's restrooms on the way to baggage claim as well--choose your direction, you are bound to bump into a toilet sooner or later.

So, instead of patiently following those instructions, what did a whole host of gentlemen travelers decide to do? Use the family restroom of course. So, I stood there, with my carry-on baggage and stroller, breaking up fights between my two boys who needed respectively to pee and have a diaper change, waiting in line behind half a dozen men doing their business. Now, one would not assume that if the men's room is closed, that it would be appropriate to file on into the ladies room, right? So why is it okay to use the family room? Because men are allowed in there perhaps? Okay, point taken (men with their families however). But why, in heaven would you assume that, while justifying your use of the inappropriate restroom, you should have priority over those for whom the restroom is intended? I suppose I could have used the ladies room, but I've found that my 6 year old child, that looks like he's 8 or 10, is generally frowned upon in ladies rooms. And, I try to avoid sending him alone into a crowded men's room for obvious reasons. Come on people!

So, when my children began to complain about the wait and that they needed to do their business, I loudly explained that the men's room was closed and all these gentlemen, rather than walking to the one down the hall, have chosen to use the family room, so we have to wait behind them. That garnered me a couple of smiles from the men ahead of me, but not one of them budged. Two other parents came by with their children during all of this and loudly asked "Is this the line?" before moving on to other restrooms. Both of them however, had a same-gendered single child and a diaper in hand--obviously traveling with another adult with whom they could leave their luggage and such.

The guy in front of me commented that there isn't a bathroom down there by B9. I explained that it is down the escalator by B10, as the sign indicated. Rocket scientist. Finally, his wife exited the ladies' room, gave him a questioning look, and he left the line with her, explaining the bathroom closure and mumbling something about the big hurry I was in. Big hurry?!?! Have you ever traveled with two small children with small bladders and little patience? Obviously not. And so, we were finally at the top of the line. At which point, I noticed that not only were the men using the family room, but they, for some inexplicable reason, had been using it with the door open (the toilet being conveniently located outside of direct line of sight from the hallway). What, does it not count if the door is open? And, I noticed the light was off. Do I even ask what is going on in there? Maybe, while berating the last gentleman, the first exited without my noticing. "Hello, is anyone in there?" "Yeah! The light went out!" That's to deter men from going in and out of the bathroom with the door open--the light only stays on so long. Most people turn the light on and shut the door, idiot. So he comes rushing out, leaving us of course to flush away his pee. Nice touch.

Things got better, I worked out my annoyance with the male gender and we went about our flight home. I need to clean the house and unpack, but I'm thinking since we're leaving in just a few days for our family vacation in Chicago (we're taking the train, thank heaven), I may not bother to fully unpack.

Just Another Day in . . .

Wow, has it really been so long. I am sorry--and not just to the handful of you who read this, but to myself. Strangely enough, this blog is good for my soul. But then again, so are a great many other things--several of which have been occupying my summer. It's been a soul-soothing summer so far. When I dubbed FairyLand FairyLand, it all just sort of made sense. Here, in this rural paradise, I'm at a loss to capture and name it. I considered Never Never Land, but Michael ruined that context for me. Originally I gravitated toward Arctic Tundra, but to experience this magic land right now, the name would not fit. Perhaps you can help. Let me roll out a typical day in my life right now, just for a glimpse into my summer.

In the morning, I get up early and work for a couple of hours. When the boys roll out of bed, we make pancakes and plan our day. Mornings are lazy--maybe a little cleaning, maybe a movie or books for the boys. Ethan was working on his airplane in the play room this morning.

As lunchtime approaches, we decide whether to bike over to the dining hall, or drive, or pack up the bikes and swim bag to go with us. Today we drove and brought Ethan's bike and Elliot's tricycle. After lunch, I sat in a rocking chair enjoying the warm breeze while the boys ran around and talked to me on the walkie-talkie. Then we strolled out to the teen-camp with Matt, Ethan darting ahead on his bike. While Matt met with a co-worker, we strolled down to the waterfront, dipped our toes in the lake and walked on the dock watching for fish. We headed out exploring a new trail, stopped for a few minutes to pick sweet, ripe mulberries from an overhanging tree before stoping in a forest clearing to let the boys play FBI for a bit (hiting trees with sticks, throwing "bomb" sticks and so one). We then strolled back, jumped in the car and headed home for a little "down-time". I took a 20 minute power nap while the boys put the finishing touches on the airplane.

In the late afternoon we threw the swim bag and an empty bucket into the bike trailer, buckled in Elliot, and biked on over to a friend's house with a more hospitable lake access (ours is all reeds and mud). I read a bit while the boys' played in the water. Then we spent an hour wading in the shallows under a low-hanging mulberry tree, filling our bucket with berries.

At the sound of the dinner-bell we loaded up the bikes, road over to the dining hall for dinner. After dinner I sat and rocked and read while the boys played in the field. After a quick good-night trip to Dad's office and a few final black raspberries, we got back on the bikes and headed for home. I watered my garden, pushed the boys on the tire swing, PJs and stories and bed. After a warm shower I find myself at the computer, a little Corinne Bailey Rae in the backgorund, ready for a little reading and my own bed.

I say it often, it is a rough life I lead . . . you should come visit.

Bubble Wrap

You shouldn't report me to CPS--at least I don't think you should. There have been moments this week when I have wondered. Am I a neglectful parent? Or is my child just plain accident prone? Here is my week in review:

Monday, 3rd degree burns: We're having guests over for a BBQ. I'm in the kitchen making a salad. Matt goes out to light the grill. Elliot wanders out a few minutes later. I assume Matt is out there. He is not, he has gone back inside for something. One of our guests brings Elliot in to me a few minutes later, screaming with blisters on four fingers. The upside is of course that he probably won't ever use his fingers to check the status of the grill again.

Tuesday, near drowning: I take the boys to the pool. I'm playing catch with Elliot while he stands at the railing on the ramp in water to his waist. He throws the ball way past my head. I swim 6 feet away to grab the ball and turn to watch as he swings himself under the rail and sinks into the 4 foot deep water. I reach him just before the lifeguard does and drag him to the surface sputtering.

Thursday, head injury: We're taking a couple of neighbor kids home, everyone is attempting to pile into the minivan. An older boy opens the auto door slider on Elliot's side just as Elliot rounds the back of the van at high speed, crashing noggin first into the edge of the slider. Fortunately just barely splitting the skin over a nice raised goose-egg.

Saturday, double knee injury and near suffocation: I may have mentioned that bad knees run in the family. But it generally does not manifest itself until at least the teenage years. However, Elliot seems prone to twisting his knees constantly. Today we went to the Big Truck Event downtown to check out all the trucks the had on display for little boys to climb in and honk the horns--loudly and repeatedly. We were just about ready to go and I let the boys go in one of the blow-up jumping house things. All was fine until I heard crying and dragged Elliot out complaining of two twisted knees. As I was tending to him, someone pulled the plug out of the thing and the whole inflatable collapsed on the kids inside (Ethan included) as we frantically extracted them before they could suffocate.

I don't think they're too much worse for the wear. We wrapped both knees and he recovered enough to want to participate in the square dance tonight. Hopefully we've got all the accidents out of our system for a little while. Maybe I should wrap him in bubble wrap.

Seeing Double

Do you see the humor in the following items I happened into recently? Or do I just have a strange sense of funny?

A sign that reads:

"Cosmetic Surgery
The Vein Center"


An ad for an airline seat belt extender had this at the end of the ad:

"These extenders add an extra 24" of length. Rated to 3000 lbs and conforms to FAA TSO."

I'll post a comment explaining why I find these funny. Lemme know if you thought so too.

My Happy Place

I've been occasionally attending an old-lady water aerobics class. At one point in the class we need to spread out and find a suitable depth to stay at for a bit. The instructor always says "Okay Ladies, find your Happy Place". I think I'm already there.

Do you ever feel guilty about being happy? I mean I hate to even mention it because there's a little superstitious bit of me that thinks that if I talk about how happy I am, maybe it'll all come crashing down around me.

Don't get me wrong, I have good days and bad days (case in point, I'm running on about 2 hours of interrupted sleep today due to a nasty cough), sometimes my children are very trying, sometimes I'm grumpy and things certainly don't always go my way, and sure, I could lose a hundred pounds or so, but all that stuff so doesn't seem to matter when I consider just how blessed I am.

This evening, I was sitting in our big plastic primary colored Ikea chairs (we need to invest in some outdoor furniture) with my boys, eating the pizza we'd made together and relishing in the gorgeous lake view, our lovely big grassy, tree lined, yard, discussing just how blessed we are. I feel compelled to remind my children that this life we lead is not typical. I want to somehow make them realize just how lucky they are so maybe they'll cherish their childhood more. Although really, it'll probably be well into their adulthood before it truly hits them. I don't mean to beat them over the head with it, but I suppose I do.

Do you boys realize that not everyone gets to live on a beautiful lake and roam around a camp all day?

Yeah.

Do you know that lots of kids don't have moms that can stay home with them, but have to go to work?

Yeah--we're lucky because you can do your job on the computer.

Do you realize . . .

Lately I've been having many gratitude days. You know, where you just sit around and count your blessings (The Restored Gospel of Jesus Christ, a beautiful place to live, a righteous husband, the peace that comes from living within our means, my children, my children, my children, lilacs, tomato plants, Indian food, a good job, and on and on). It makes me want to sing praises from the rooftops. But I suppose that would be a bit gratuitous wouldn't it?

It also makes me wonder what challenges lie in wait, but then I remind myself to enjoy the present and deal with the future when it gets here. It also makes me feel a little bit guilty, that perhaps I should have more children with whom to share this. But not guilty enough to consider pregnancy and infancy in any real terms--as if that were still feasible. But it does make me take more notice of ads for foster parents. But then I selfishly wonder if my idyllic days might come to a crashing halt if I were to upset the balance in such a dramatic way. And then I feel a little bit guilty about that.

But those little bits of guilt and wariness are swallowed so wholly in gratitude as I watch my children laugh out loud as they run through the sprinkler on the eve of summer. Right now, I think I'll just enjoy it.

Be Nice

I have always struggled in getting through Alma in the Book of Mormon. Which is unfortunate considering that Alma constitutes a very large portion of the book. Why Alma you might ask? Well, there are obviously some very good bits throughout there, but when you get into the latter chapters there is just so much war and carnage that I begin to become dismayed and disinterested. Not so for my children however. The blood and carnage portions are their favorite parts. Perhaps Moroni included all this with the understanding that the Priesthood of the latter days may be more readily persuaded to study the scriptures in their youth with a heavy dusting of violence. Just a theory.

Last night I was reading the scriptures with my boys. Ethan likes the pictures in the Book of Mormon Stories, but I like reading the actual scripture to them. They like to flip through the pictures, select the most interesting (read most bodies, blood and carnage) ones for me to read. Then, while they looked at the pictures, I read aloud from the actual book. We discussed the Lamanite army destroying the city of Ammonihah and Elliot points at the picture.

Is dat da army?

Yes, the Lamanite army.

Do dey have missiles and bombs?

No, this was a long time ago before missiles and bombs.

Do dey have bullets?

No, they didn't have guns or bullets either.

Mom, you're wrong and I'm right. Dey have missles and bombs and bullets.

Okay.

So how does my three-year-old know so much about armies and missiles and bombs? Oh yeah, I did take them to the air zoo after all. I do have to admit that gratefully, either by nature or by constant maternal vigillance, my boys are very nice--relativley speaking.

We wento the park yesterday and it seems we were constantly surrounded by boys of all ages being rude, inconsiderate or downright mean. I even had to break up a physical fight between a group of kindergarteners--me being the only parent on the playground. I am happy to say that my children were not involved in the fight. Hopefully this is not just due to my presence. On our way home we had a conversation:

Is Nathan always that mean?

No, he's pretty nice at school.

Really, so he's just mean at the playground after school?

How do you feel when kids are mean?

Bad.

Does it make you want to play with them?

No, I just walk away and play with someone else.

Good. Do you think kids would want to play with you if you're mean?

No, I'm nice.

Glad to hear it. Is it just me, or does it seem that it's somehow become acceptable for boys to be mean? I hear it, I sometimes think it--boys will be boys. And that is true. Boys are rough, boys are sometimes rude and inconsiderate. But this does not mean that becaue it is natural, this behavior is acceptable. This is also not something they will learn on their own. Someone must stand up and correct inappropriate behavior, not just excuse or discount it. My Grandfather's advice to my husband and I on our wedding day was Be nice to each other. There is infinite wisdom in this counsel. I'm doing my darndest to teach my boys to be nice. And to their credit, they are. Most of the time. Even though they like to read about people not being nice.

Good Enough

On Memorial Day I got up and took my boys to the Air Zoo; a pretty cool air and space science museum nearby. As we were getting ready to leave, I began to panic a little at the pile of dishes and general state of disarray of my house.

I knew a woman once who said she vacuums every day because she likes the lines. Okay. Somebody shoot me if I ever have enough time on my hands to vacuum every day--just for the lines. I admit it, there are things that I frankly find to be more pressing and more important than immaculate housekeeping--though I do find value and import in a clean home. Or clean enough.

I'm coming to terms with my attitude toward housekeeping. There is this little voice inside me that yells: How will your boys ever learn the value of a clean dwelling place if the home they grow up in is a disaster?

Likewise there is another voice in my head that screams: These children will not be children for long, enjoy the here and now, enjoy them, enrich their lives, housekeeping can wait. And I imagine long years of having plenty of time to clean my house.

Then, lest you think I just might not be schizophrenic, there is yet another often louder voice that yells: Hey you! Slob! How dare you go to bed with dirty dishes in your sink! And check out that toilet! Wow, wish someone would vacuum around here! Because you and I have both been in one of those houses--you know what I mean right? Where you can't get out soon enough, where you don't dare let your child off your lap, where the countertop has not been visible in some months. And it's not so much that I want to judge the cleanliness of someone else's home, it's just that I fear that I have reached that point unawares.

But then, there is another voice that quietly soothes: A day or two of clutter is easily rectified and is not so important as the time you spend with your children. A wise man said: If you are still in the process of raising children, be aware that the tiny fingerprints that show up on almost every newly cleaned surface, the toys scattered about the house, the piles and piles of laundry to be tackled will disappear all too soon and that you will—to your surprise—miss them profoundly.

So, my new philisophy on motherhood and a clean house--Cleaning will wait, childhood won't. I do my best to keep up with it all, but frankly, some things are more important and although those voices still scream at me, I'm learning to ignore them--or at least drown them out.

A wise woman I knew once said that housekeeping partially done, still blesses my family. I like to chant this to myself (and to the voices in my head) every time I quickly, but partially clean the bathroom, or do enough dishes to fill the dishwasher and (heaven forbid) leave the rest to another load in the morning rather than staying up to spotlessly hand wash every last dish. I've learned from too much experience that staying up too late to complete some domestic duty on the pretense of blessing my family actually results in marked detriment to my family in the form of my exhaustion and complete lack of patience the following day. So nowadays, I go to bed, regardless of the dishes sitting in the sink. Oh, and sometimes, I neglect my blog too. Sorry. Oops, look at the time. I must to bed.

There was an old lady

So when does one become officially old?

When your eyes fail? Your ears? Your knees? Or perhaps when your doctor prescribes high blood pressure medicine?

I never had high blood pressure until I was eight months pregnant. Since then I've been in denial. Until today. Damn babies.

Perhaps she'll die . . . unless of course she takes her high blood pressure medication as directed by her doctor.

Unconsoled

When I resigned myself to not being in Spain this week, I considered sitting around, homebound with two small children. There was some appeal to this in that I still have many household projects to accomplish--including my garden. I am a terrible, yet hopeful gardener. I'm hopeful that someday (maybe this year since I'm not pregnant, nursing and both my children can walk and I'm not planning to move anytime soon) I'll be a better gardener. So, when I saw that the library was offering a gardening workshop--for free--I signed up, despite the fact that it would be today, whilst my husband is in Spain.

No problem. I need to find a babysitter in my new territory anyway and this is as good of an excuse as any. So, I did it. I found a sitter to take my kids not only Saturday morning, but for a good portion of the afternoon as well so I could attend a church conference. I've been sooooo excited for my Spanish Consolation Prize!

Then last evening, my stubborn, grumpy child got even more stubborn and grumpy and fell asleep in the late afternoon--unheard of. Unless he's getting sick.

Being stubborn myself, I nonetheless got up early, packed our picnic lunch, showered and went to wake my children. Ethan was not feeling well. Sure enough he was running a fever ranging from 101 to 102 degrees.

NO!!!! I had my consolation prize day all lined up. Alas, I called the library, called the sitter and cancelled. So here I am, homebound, with sick, grumpy children. What were those projects I was going to do?

Don't Tell Dad

I have a secret. But don't tell my dad. Dad's lawn is always immaculate. If there was an award for the thickest, lushest, greenest, most manicured lawn on the block, Dad would have always won. And it was great to play and lay on.

But my lawn, that's another matter. Here's my secret: I like dandelions. SHHHH! I like to think of them as a little bit rebellious as they burst out of the sea of sameness. And I like the grass to get a little longish--and not purely out of laziness. It creates a little sense of wildness and disorder. I live in a place where the property owner is responsible (or so I've been told) for lawn care. I'm kinda hoping he takes his time . . .whilst my lawn is meanwhile being overrun by dandelions and pansies.
The trees out my kitchen window shelter a nice shady patch of grass that is bursting with dots of yellow, purple and white. I almost enjoy doing the dishes. Almost.

And to think 3 weeks ago it looked like this:

Clue Me In

I'm looking for a motivational speaker that specializes in three-year-olds.

Anyone?

In potty training my eldest child, I learned three things:

1) You can lead a child to the potty, but you cannot make him pee.
2) Children potty-train themselves.
3) My child will only be successfully potty-trained when he wants to be.

So, here I am again. My child is 3.3 years old. When asked if he would like to sit on the potty his typical response is: NO! (and no, this answer does not change when there is a candy bribe involved). When asked when he's going to start using the potty, his typical response is: In five years.

May God grant me patience.

I wish I kept a better journal. I know that Ethan was somewhere between age 3 and 3.75 when he up and decided he was ready. Then, potty-trained himself--day and night, numbers one and two, in the space of about 5 days. So, my husband keeps reminding me that though I likewise feared sending Ethan to kindergarten with a diaper bag, or worse, handing his diaper bag to his bride, he did, in the end, pull through and this too shall pass.

I remember the day distinctly. At the urging of my dear friend, mother of five, (and shortly after Ethan threw the potty seat at me) I gave up the battle. I put the pull-ups and the big-boy underwear away in his closet and said nary a peep about the subject for some weeks, even months. Then, one morning as he's dressing he says: Mom, I want to wear big-boy underwear today. Alrighty then, you are in luck. There was that subsequent moment of panic when he pulls up the briefs and says They're Cold!! Knowing my child's clothing sensitivities and his propensity to never try anything again if his first experience is less than thrilling, I improvised. I grabbed the undies, tossed them in the microwave and zapped 'em for 30 seconds. Voila! Warm underwear! He never complained again.

Here I am now with Elliot. When? When?! WHEN?! WHEN will this child decide he is ready? We've tried bribery in all it's variations but wild horses cannot motivate my child to use the toilet (I tried--we played outside on a lovely spring day last week, watching the horses in the pasture. Elliot was coaxed into briefs and allowed to run around. Not 10 minutes later he was soaked to the skin). I keep thinking that tomorrow, I will set a timer and lead the child to the toilet every 20 minutes as my sister-in-law does in her potty-training-in-one-day madness. But let's face it, I am not that consistent nor committed. I tried to do this. I forgot to set the timer the first time and before I know it, it's afternoon. Besides, who's really being potty-trained here? Sure, a child may use the potty if he spends half his waking hours on the toilet. And mom is now trained to take him there every half-hour. And what happens when he refuses to respond to the timer or any coaxing? Did I mention I have stubborn children?

Alas, I am ready, the big-boy undies are ready. Dad and big brother are ready. We're just missing one piece: yagottawanna.

I guess it was Elliot, in the bathroom, with the potty-seat . . . Yes, but, what is the motive?