Santa Has Magic

It was Christmas Eve and my one-year-old was the grumpiest I had ever seen him. He didn't want to eat or drink anything (except candy or cookies, but then he went right back to grumpy). He didn't want any toys. He didn't want to be held. He didn't want to be put down.

I anticipated the formal family Christmas Eve dinner and visit from Santa Claus with trepidation. How could any of us enjoy it with this loud-squawking child in the room? Shortly before dinner, he began rubbing his eyes. Even though it was way too late for a nap, I put him down for one anyway.

I enjoyed a lovely meal while he slept: prime rib, ham, Dixie Salad (our name for a fruit salad made mostly of pomegranates and apples), rolls, salmon salad, carrots, yams, creamed peas, fried rutabaga (the only thing on the table I don't like), mashed potatoes, gravy, and stuffing. My favorite things were the rolls, prime rib, mashed potatoes, and peas.

I had hoped the nap would cheer my baby, but he was still out of sorts when I gathered him from the portable crib. At this point I had given up on getting a picture of him sitting on Santa's lap. He was already at the age when my other children were afraid of Santa. Add that to the monster mood he was in, and you get a big NO WAY.

I was prepared to take him downstairs if it got out of hand. I didn't want him to ruin it for everyone else, especially the part where Santa testifies of the true reason for Christmas: the love of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.

Santa bounced into the room with bells on, and a bag almost as big as he was. My son watched from across the room as the big man plopped into the soft chair. The first gift Santa pulled from the bag had my son's name on it.

If my jaw could have hit the floor, it would have, because my baby ran across the room and climbed onto Santa's lap in pure excitement. In absolute trust of this stranger, he looked at the gift, then at the giver, and gave a nod that seemed to say "thank you."

How he even knew he was supposed to sit on Santa's lap and receive a gift is beyond me. He was still a newborn the last time he saw Santa, and he didn't see anyone else do it before him.

He ran to me from Santa's lap and was his normal, happy self the rest of the evening.

I could not have believed it if I had not seen it myself.

I believe in Santa. On Christmas Eve, 2010, I saw his magic with my own eyes!

O Christmas Trees

I hope I'm not loony, but last week when I looked at the Christmas tree after my girls got done decorating it, I could hear little voices in my head saying, "Hey guys! Climb down lower. Let's bail!"

I smiled when I realized there is even a train for them to make their get-away.

And while we are on the subject of Christmas trees, here is our tree from a few years ago:

This was the first tree I ever put lights on by myself, and because I didn't know what I was doing, I ended up putting every light we had on the thing (840, to be exact). Even though I am now better at spreading them out, I have to admit that I loved the way that tree GLOWED!

And to my dear friend who requested pictures of the candles on the tree, because we do not have candles on the tree this year (some trees just aren't good candle trees), I went into pre-digital photo days and found a couple to scan. The left picture is from before we got the lovely snowflakes and bells my mother-in-law crocheted for us. The right picture was the only one I could find where the candles were lit. I really wish I could just invite you over to see them, Tami!

The Sacred Garden

The first time I walked into the Sacred Garden, I felt like I had climbed into a little fairy hollow filled with exotic flowers and tasty natural delicacies. Miniature green forests grew on tables stacked on top of tables. Small white lights curtained the lower sitting area. I climbed the stone steps to the upper level while water flowed on either side of me, and under my walkway (paved with flagstone). Soft music played as I admired the tiny seedlings and large happy tomatoes. A small pond surrounded by growth was swimming with young fish. It was so much more than I could have imagined a greenhouse to be.

I recently went back again and took some pictures, but they did not do it justice. Photography is not a talent of mine (probably never will be). I even had my husband take a picture of one of the tomatoes that was as big as a cantaloupe (I'm not exaggerating!), but the picture just didn't look the same as it did in real life, even with my puny hand in the frame, reaching for the biggest tomato I have ever seen in my life.

I wanted to write about this so whenever I feel lonely for my little sister, I can picture her in her lovely garden. And I wanted to share one of my favorite poems, "Fueled" by Marcie Hans:

Fueled
by a million
man-made
wings of fire-
the rocket tore a tunnel
through the sky-
and everybody cheered.
Fueled
only by a thought from God-
the seedling
urged its way
through thicknesses of black-
and as it pierced
the heavy ceiling of the soil-
and lauched itself
up into outer space -
no
one
even
clapped.

Suomi (the Finnish Word for Finland)

Today as I drove to town to do some of my procrastinated Christmas shopping (I don't know what happened this year because I'm usually done by now), I heard on the radio that today is Finland's Independence Day. I hardly ever listen to the radio, so it was a meaningful coincidence that I would hear about this today: the day when the Christmas season usually begins at our house: one month before the last day of Christmas in Finland, January 6th.

There is much of Finland in my family's holiday traditions, decorations, and music. We go to the sauna on Christmas Eve, we put candles on our tree, and we listen to some of the most beautiful carols I have ever heard, in a language I will probably never learn (though I truly wish I could).

Tonight I will help my children decorate the Christmas tree while we listen to Finnish Christmas songs for children. We will practice the words to the song "Tonttujen Jouluyö" in preparation for the song/dance we will do with Mummi (Grandma) at Christmas, each one of us wearing the perfectly fitted elf hat she sewed for us. If you would like to hear the song and see the actions CLICK HERE to see the You Tube video I found.

So today, I send my love to that beautiful land far away...Happy 93rd birthday, Suomi! Thank you for all you have given to my family, at Christmastime and always.

When in Finland

A decade ago, I found myself on an airplane for the first time in my life. Funny, that the first time would take me somewhere so far away from home. We flew from Las Vegas to Detroit, then to Amsterdam, then to Helsinki, then to Rovaniemi. It took a day and a night to get there and about three weeks to get over the jet lag.

Luckily, we still had two weeks left after that.

Rovaniemi was beautiful. I had never seen a place with so much water and so many trees. There were five times as many mosquitoes that summer as the summer before it. Lucky us! My husband must have been the most tasty because he returned home with more polka dots than anyone.

We spent most of our time with family. When it was time to go, with flowing tears, we embraced loved ones we knew we may never see again. I grew to love them in such a short time.

I went with an aunt to an activity for Relief Society (my church's organization for women). It was a sauna social at a summer cottage next to a lake in the Arctic Circle. When she first invited me, I declined. Running around naked with a bunch of women I hardly know is something I just could not picture myself doing. Even in junior high and high school I took my showers after gym class with my towel on. Somehow she convinced me I should give it a try.

To this day, I'm glad I did. It took a lot of self control to not hide myself with my upper limbs, but as I saw how easy it was for everyone else, it became easier for me. Not easy, but easier. Most of all, I loved the feeling of the wood burning sauna, the fresh forest air on my heated body as I tiptoed down the dock, and the invigoration I felt after I jumped into the chilly dark water. I don't know how the Finns bear to get into that water in the winter, because in midsummer, it numbed my skin in seconds. The cycle continued as the penetrating heat warmed my cold skin again, in preparation for another dip in the Arctic waters. Like a kid at a waterslide, I kept going back for more.

I have never slept so well as I did that night. I can't help wondering if I will ever experience sauna like that again.

I'm glad I did it when I had the chance.

My First Chick Flick List

My husband does not do chick flicks. I never really cared for them either, at least of the few I had seen. Last year, I decided to start watching some of them, just to make sure I wasn't missing anything (and I am a chick, after all). I like to watch movies while I iron, and as long as I was able to borrow them from family, friends, or the library--or watch them on Netflix instant, (because I didn't really want to pay to watch them), I figured I might as well.

First of all, I have discovered the necessity for me to watch these movies alone because even if I think the movie is absolutely ridiculously absurdly stupid, they almost always make me cry. I don't know why I'm even telling you this, because it is actually quite embarrassing to me!

I have also found an interesting phenomenon in many of these movies. The climax consists of the lover/lovee literally running to profess his/her love, often getting stuck in traffic along the way, or, my favorite, running through an airport.

I thought it might be fun to write a list of "running to declare love" movies. So far I have come up with: Sabrina; Ever After; Sleepless in Seattle; Six Days, Seven Nights; Serendipity; Someone Like You; The Proposal; Notting Hill. If you know any, let me know and I'll watch them and add them to the list (but I don't watch rated R movies). And feel free to tell me what your favorite chick flick is so I can watch it too!

I loved the first three on the list and hated the last one. The others in between I disliked for one reason or another, usually because of the swearing and/or nudity and/or steamy scenes. (Call me a prude if you like, but I always think the movies would be better without these things.)

So, I have to know: Is this really how love happens to people? I don't remember the first time I said "I love you" to my husband, but I know it wasn't associated with any kind of emergency. Am I the only one who missed that?

I do remember telling him I was afraid to fall in love with him. He asked me why, which I considered to be the green light on the matter. Do you remember the first time you said "I love you" to the one that you love?

Quoting the Cute: Page Six

Six-year-old: "Why do I have to do all the work?" (I know from experience that it's hard to be the oldest, but I don't have her do nearly as much work as I probably should!)

Two-year-old: "I swallowed my pooptaste." (translation: toothpaste)

One-year-old: "No, no, no, no," said while shaking his head. These were his first words. He also attempts to say, "Don't touch," "yuck," and "kitty," but he can't quite say them yet. I can just tell that he's trying to!

Six-year-old: It's actually been a year ago that she used to say this, but I wanted to bring it up because it was so funny. When she would say the phrase "diaper rash cream," she'd use an "s" sound in the place of "sh." It always made me smile. If you don't know why, say it fast three times.

Two-year-old: I love it when she says any word with the letter "l" in it. She pronounces them perfectly, but with an emphasis that is so adorable, it gets me every time. Add the batting of her eyelashes, and she's got me wrapped around her finger.

One-year-old: "Wow!" (I wish you could see how cute his lips look with each "w.")

Practicing Joy

He was playing, so I thought I'd practice my piano accompaniment for the Thanksgiving family talent show. I should have realized that once the first note was played, he would scramble onto my lap. For a millisecond, I wanted to shoo him away so I could focus on my much-needed practice. But this kid has always been on the run, even before he could run, and consequently, has never spent enough time on my lap. So instead of shooing, I savored.

I smiled as I looked at his pudgy hands with endearing indentations where knobby knuckles will one day be. When I kissed the top of his head, I could smell his soft hair.

After each phrase he played, he leaned his head back and to the side to make eye contact with me, his smile and eyes seeming to ask, "Was that pretty, Mommy?"

I smiled and said yes. "So pretty." As this ritual continued, we began to giggle.

I thought about how one day he'll be too big to sit on my lap.

And before long, we were both laughing with the music.

Love Without End

When I was about eleven, I started going to church with my neighbors. They had a boy my age. One Sunday morning, I arrived early. The family was gathered in the front room, just getting ready to pray together before leaving. They invited me to join them. I have never forgotten the warmth I felt as I listened to the words spoken to God, as loved ones bowed their heads together in reverent humility. After that, I tried to arrive early whenever I could, just so I could be there for those family prayers.

The hymns became very influential in my life. I taught myself to read music by practicing the notes from a borrowed hymnbook. Each Sunday, after sitting on a bench with the congregation, the first thing I always did was look up the hymns for that meeting. Every day after school, I would spend sometimes an hour or more at the piano, playing and singing the words to those sacred songs.

"I Need Thee Every Hour," "Sweet Hour of Prayer," "How Great Thou Art," "Master, the Tempest is Raging,"and "Where Can I Turn for Peace?" were among my first favorites.

It is hard to believe that so many years have passed since I decided to be a church-goer. As I sing each week, surrounded by the family I helped create, I find I am always touched by a phrase or a sentence from one of the hymns. I try to carry that message with me into the week.

They are like messages from God just to me.

And like an answer to a prayer, yesterday, these were the words that stood out to me: "Forgive, that God may us forgive, that love may still increase."

And so I will try, because I know God knows what is best for me.

Good Things Come to Those Who Wait

Not long ago, I gave up my search for affordable plant stands and improvised instead. I found it strange that in almost no time, this plant stand practically fell into my lap, and for only twelve dollars!

So before I put Jack O. Lantern away until next October, I thought I'd share a picture.

Happy November!

Quoting the Cute: Page Five

5-year-old: "Maybe I want to be a rock star when I grow up. Rock star mom!"

2-year-old: "You kidding me!"

5-year-old: "It's not fair." ( I hear this one a lot. Welcome to life, little one!)

2-year-old: We were on a walk when we saw a gigantic hole. My daughter pointed and said, "Look, Mommy! Look at the big fall-down." I love it when kids improvise when they don't know the right word.

5-year-old: "Do you like the song I played on my Hanukkah?" (She learned about Hanukkah on Blue's Clues, so I'm guessing that's where she got the word.)

11-month-old: I keep wondering if he is really talking or if it is only my imagination. The first words my oldest said were, "all done" and my second said, "kakka" first, which means "poop" in Finnish (her sister taught her to say that word, not me). I think my son is talking, but there isn't any word he says more than once or twice at this point.

I told my oldest daughter to do something (I don't remember what) and she replied, "Is that a direct order?" (We watch a lot of Star Trek at our house.)

Conversations with the two-year-old:

2: "I wan drinka water!"
Her dad: "You want a drink of water?"
2: "Actually, milk."

Her mom: "I love you."
2: "Too-oo!"

A Snippet

I do not have a mop. It feels good to say this because although I have always washed my floors with a rag and bucket, I still had this:

But my lil' sister, gorgeous and talented, gave me a haircut at the end of a fun, enjoyable visit at my house.

Thirteen inches have been mailed to Locks of Love, and I have to say that their gain is also mine because now there is a lot less hair pulling happening in my life.


(I realize the after picture is blurry, but it was the best one out of the ten I had my Kindergarten daughter take for me.)

Address?

My daughter brought home a paper from kindergarten that encouraged me to help my child learn her name, phone number and address. As I read it, my mind jumped back to junior high and that day that something bad happened to me because I didn't know my address.

I like to keep my most embarrassing moments to myself because I really hope that if I pretend they didn't happen I will be able to forget that they did. However, this thing happened in junior high and I haven't forgotten yet, so I might as well share it. Just for laughs.

It was midterm. My first class was gym. We sat in rows on the gym floor, two big gym classes sharing the same gym at the same period. We were instructed to fill out the top of the grade sheet. Name. Address. Phone number. Now, let me just tell you that I was never good with addresses. That being said, I still can't believe that by seventh or eighth grade I didn't know what my address was. It wasn't like I had just moved or anything: I'd lived on the same land since I was two years old!

The gym teacher agreed to let me look up my address in the phone book by the office. As I reentered the gym, I slipped in something right inside the door. I was stunned. I had fallen so quickly. Confused, I looked at the slimy liquid dripping from my hands.

It was puke.

I don't really remember what happened after that except that my friend who had let me borrow her gym socks yelled at me in the locker room. I can't remember, but I even think she cried (she cried about a lot of things). I kind of wanted to cry myself. I had just slipped and fallen in someone's vomit in front of more than a hundred kids.

Anyway, after remembering that event in my past, with new motivation I set a goal to teach my five-year-old her address. I know it probably won't shield her from embarrassing moments of her own, but you never know.

Phone

"Hello?

How are you?

Did you have a good weekend?

We're good. It's getting--Don't stand on that!

Sorry. It's getting cold. How is work?

That's good. Oh, Buddy. You stink. Let's go change you.

So anyway, what's new with--No, no, no, no, no.

Sorry. What's new with you?

Wow, you must be--DON'T TOUCH.

Okay, when? I can't wait to see--Hey, where are your clothes?

Yeah, I look--Just a minute, I'm on the phone.

I look forward to it!

No, you can't talk to her, she has to get back to work.

Well, I love ya (as two children cry and one child whines in the background).

You too. Bye!"

Roadkill Review

We almost hit an elk on our wedding night. I screamed and wide-eyed, I asked my husband "What is that?" I knew it wasn't a deer: the thing was MASSIVE. I spent the next two years paralyzed with fear every time we drove anywhere on our deer-infested highways. I just knew that if the icy roads didn't kill us, one of those road signs/elk/mail boxes/deer/tumbleweeds/antelope would get us for sure. I cried "Deer!" too many deerless times and after awhile, my husband quit braking to my warnings.

We have been surrounded by roads with deer warning signs our whole married life, but we have never hit a deer. Well, except that time we were on a tour bus that hit a deer, but that is kind of like a minivan hitting a jackrabbit, so it is probably not worth mentioning. Twice we saw other people hit deer on the road. Once after a visit to our house, three relatives in a pick-up truck hit a deer. The truck was knocked backwards down a steep hill, but thankfully our relatives were not harmed.

We have driven through herds of elk or deer (often on icy roads). There were a few times I thought a collision with one or more of them was eminent, but my dependable driver always got us through safely. I began to relax. I gained the ability to wait until I was sure I was seeing an animal before I called out a warning to my husband.

I just have to insert here a sentence about my sister. She was driving down a country road one night when several rabbits, later referred to as the suicide bunnies, jumped in front of her car, one right after the other.

One black midsummer night, we drove down an unfamiliar road, with our first baby and two cousins in the back seat. My husband slowed to watch out for deer. Almost as if it had been beamed there in an instant, the biggest, blackest cow I have ever seen stood in the middle of our lane. With the help of his lightening-speed reflexes, my husband hit the brakes, but it was obvious that we would not be able to stop in time. Naturally, I screamed with the teenage girls, although I still don't remember hearing the screams. I also put my hands up in a feeble attempt to block myself from the elephant-sized cow in our path.

It happened so fast. (Isn't that what they always say?) The next thing I knew, all I could see was white.

"Am I dead?" I asked myself silently. "What do I do now?"

Then I realized there was an air bag in my face. I moved it away and asked my husband if he was okay but he didn't answer me. It was so dark. I called his name in a panic. Then he said with an urgency I don't think I have heard since, "GET OUT OF THE CAR!" We could smell smoke. I clawed myself out of the passenger side of the car so I could get my baby out of the seat right behind me.

By the time I was out of my door, my husband was already pulling my daughter's carseat out of the back. He had opened his door, climbed out, sprinted around the back of the car, opened my daughter's door, and pulled her carseat out with the speed of Superman, I do not exaggerate.

My husband's parents came upon our stopped car. My father-in-law said he saw us bailing out of the car and wondered if we were all sick, which makes me laugh now when I think about it.

We took inventory of ourselves: my husband's arm was scratched from the windshield glass, I had a bloody nose (I later realized that when I put my hand up, the air bag caused me to punch myself in the nose) and a bruised arm, but other than that we were all just a little shaken up. And the cow...I can still remember exactly how it sounded bellowing somewhere in the dark...

Someone came by who knew the owners of the cows, so we called to tell them what had happened. We hoped they would come and tend to the most likely dying cow. The five of us rode home with family, friends, and strangers. The man who returned me to my in-laws' house accidentally locked himself out of his truck and had to wait an hour for his sister to bring him another set of keys. Then he still had another hour drive to get home. My husband waited at the ER until two in the morning, only to be told that if there was glass in his arm, it would work its way out on its own. That information cost $250. The car, which we loved so much it was like a pet to us, was completely totaled and we only carried liability insurance on it.

Midsummer night seemed unlucky that year, if you are one to look on the dark side. (Don't do it...don't go to the dark side!) But since I am not, let me tell you I believe we were watched over and protected. We were already slowing down when we saw the cow. Those girls in our backseat did not have seat belts on (if I had known, I would have told them to buckle up!), but they were not harmed at all. The car was not on fire, we were only smelling the air bag propellant. It turned out that a family member was able to fix the car eventually and use it for his family, and we were able to get the same kind of car for us.

I know that night was unlucky for the cow, though. Rest in peace, Holy Cow. So sorry!

My Second Job

After a few years of scrubbing toilets on the weekends, I decided I needed a job where I could get some more hours. Fast food seemed to be the most popular choice among my peers, but I had heard horror stories about greasy burger joints and pizza shops. There was a Blimpie sandwich shop on the outside edge of my neighbor city (there weren't any fast food places in my hometown), so I decided to apply there.

I enjoyed this job because it gave me a chance to serve people face to face (unlike my maid [I mean "room attendant"] job where I was only cleaning up after people after they had checked out or gone out). And I got to wear a red shirt and visor! Looking back though, I think my favorite thing about that job was my employee discount because MY OH MY I am still in love with the grilled chicken sandwich with honey mustard and the BLT with lots of mayonnaise (sadly, it is a long lost love, because I don't live anywhere near a Blimpie now [which is probably for the best because I have since realized how many calories and fat grams live in just one tablespoon of mayo]).

My foster grandparents used to come in often. It still makes me feel so loved because they drove past a Blimpie to eat at my Blimpie (or maybe it was just a Subway...or a Subway and Blimpie...either way, they drove a long way to eat there, something they hadn't done before I worked there, and something they didn't do anymore when I stopped working there). Grandpa would usher his cheerful but senile wife (Alzheimer's) to a table, and I would serve them waitress style. They are both gone now. Thinking of this time in my life makes me miss them.

I'll never forget the day my oldest friend came in... (That isn't really the right word...longest friend? No. He's actually kind of short. The only person on this planet who has been my friend since Kindergarten? Yes. Him.) Anyway, my long-time friend and my...what would I call him? My childhood sweetheart? Okay, so TWO GOOD FRIENDS (this story keeps getting snagged!) came in to ask me what I thought of a guy I had just gone out with for the first time. My long-time friend told me this guy liked me but didn't think I liked him back, so he was unsure if he was going to ask me out again (my friend knew this because they were coworkers). This is all starting to sound a little too middle school, and since I had just graduated from high school I'm going to end this paragraph.

It turned out that my long-time friend convinced my now-husband that he should ask me out again. The morning he came in to Blimpie to see me, the first time after our first date, I almost dropped a whole tray of bread loaves on the floor. The morning light streamed in through the large glass windows and he stood there looking handsome in a black cowboy hat. And the fact that he stood there at my counter was proof that he liked me which caused my heart to leap! Oh Sappy Young Love, I kind of miss you.

Those are my favorite Blimpie memories. My least favorite memory involves an unfortunate run-in my finger had with the gargantuan meat slicer...CRINGE...I've said too much. But since I've already said too much, I just have to say that was the freshest meat ever! Ugh. I'm still trying to forget about that, so I might delete this paragraph later.

This post did not end up being what I had planned.

A Few Questions

1. Why is it called the living room when it is the room we live in the least? My husband explained it once to me: something about a parlor and dead people, but I still don't get it.

2. There are so many abbreviations that don't make sense to me. Where is the logic in: Pounds = lbs. ? And Number is No.? Ounces = oz.?

3. Am I the only one who is disturbed by the names of the flavors of Ramen noodles? When you look at them, they appear to be flavors of different kinds of meat: chicken, beef, pork, shrimp...but then there's ORIENTAL!?!

So, as I always do, I turned to Google and wikipedia for answers.

(No. 1) First of all, I have to say that I do not call the FRONT room a living room. My husband does, though. So my children hear, "Don't play in the front room!" from me and "Don't play in the living room!" from him. Anyway, wikipedia told me that architects were trying to get rid of the gloomy funeral feeling of the parlor, so they renamed it "the living room." My husband is always right.

(No. 2) Well, wikipedia told me that lb. is the abbreviation for libra (an old Roman measurement), but why we use the abbreviation of libra for the word "pound" I still don't know (unless it is because the abbreviation pd. is already taken). My study of this question also led to the controversy about lb. vs. lbs. which I will not even get into! And I am left with no desire to search for the reasons for "No. & oz," but feel free to tell me if you know.

(No. 3) I looked at the Top Ramen website and was relieved to see they now have chili flavor, so I feel a little better about the whole thing. I haven't bought Ramen noodles in years...

On Becoming a Sister

I was a three-year-old only child when I went to sleep that pre-autumn night. In the early morning, I woke up to the sound of a newborn baby crying. All of a sudden, I was a big sister. Walking into the bedroom at the end of the single-wide trailer and seeing my mom and dad with a tiny new person is my earliest memory. I have pictures of me holding her when she was a baby, and she looked like a little porcelain doll.

When I was five, I remember my dad calling me from the hospital (we were staying with my mom's oldest sister) to tell me I had another sister. He said she looked like a little Indian. I remember more about her babyhood because I was a little older. She was snuggly. She still is.

The three of us had all kinds of childhood fun. My favorite memories are of the forts we made, some out of paths laid into tall weeds, some under the shade of the tamarisk (we called them tamarack) trees, and I remember one that we dug into the ground that had a swimming pool for a roof (or something--I can't really remember what the roof was made of). We carved steps into the hard-packed red dirt that led down into it.

When I was thirteen, we were blessed with another sister. The three of us stood in the doorway of the delivery room when she arrived. I loved her with my whole heart from the moment I first saw her. Tears rolled down my masked face as I listened to her very first cries. After that, we spent a lot of time together. I played a little mommy and she played the cute baby (and she was really good at it!).

It breaks my heart when I think of my youngest sister and how one by one, we all left her behind. I don't know if that is where her amazing independence grows from, but I wish I could have savored her childhood a few years more. I still think of her as my baby sister, even though she is now an adult teenager.

When my mom was almost twenty, she had me. When I was almost twenty, she had my brother. I got married and moved away just after he turned one, so I missed out on most of his life. When I was in elementary school, I remember being fascinated with my friends who had older siblings that they didn't know very well. My sisters and I spent so much time together, I couldn't imagine not knowing a sibling. I later learned what it felt like to be that older sibling: I hope my brother knows I love him even though we didn't ever get to spend much time together.

Being a sister has been one of my favorite roles in life. I know there have been many times I was not what I should have been for each of them, but I always loved them.

And I always will.

Improvising Improvements

There is a room in my house that the plants and I like to pretend is a sunroom. For awhile, I've been looking around for some plant stands, but everything is either too busy or too expensive. Yesterday, I took matters into my own hands after window shopping online for more than an hour.

I dream of this room becoming a game room/study/library, hence the game theme in the arrangement. Both the trunk boxes come from my childhood: the puppy box was a place to keep my treasures when I was little, and I used the green trunk when I lived with my second family. The puppy box is topped with my husband's childhood checker board. I thought of covering the sides of it too, but I just couldn't do it!

The hat box used to look like this:

It was pretty, but it never really fit anywhere in my house, so I covered it with some of my husband's old playing cards, and put the Chinese Checkers game on top. I'll keep my eyes open for something a little taller to replace the polka dotted tin, but for now, I'm happy with it and I think the plants are too.

The Party's Over

There are reverberations all around: a dozen plastic cups with the names of people I love written on them, two fortune cookies that remind me of my amusement that we celebrated something very American by going out for Chinese, pillows and blankets stacked here and there, waiting to be hugged again next time. We all waved goodbye, even the baby, until we could no longer see the shrinking cars in the distance. All of these things make me feel like it's the end of the best ride in an amusement park at closing time, but I smile because I had such a good time!



P.S. Someone who has talent I do not made that cake, just F.Y.I.

Reusable Recipes: Salad Edition

I hesitate to share this first recipe because it seems to be well known. I've seen it at potlucks (which doesn't surprise me because it is so delicious) but just because my corner of the world knows it, doesn't mean the rest of the world does!

Chicken Cabbage Salad

1/2 head cabbage, cut up
2 oz. chopped or slivered almonds
1 pkg. chicken ramen, noodles only--uncooked and broken into bits
3 green onions, cut up
2 chicken breasts, cooked & cut up (seasoned grilled chicken makes it even better)

Mix. In separate bowl combine:

Spice packet from the ramen noodles
2 Tbsp. vinegar
1 tsp. salt
1/2 cup salad oil (I don't really know what salad oil is:
I always use 1/4 cup each of olive and vegetable oil)
1 Tbsp. sugar
1/2 tsp. pepper

Mix and pour over salad. Toss, chill, and enjoy.

I discovered the following recipe in a Taste Of Home magazine (except I added the sunflower seeds) and it has blessed my life ever since.

Crab and Pea Salad

2 pkg. (10 oz.) frozen peas
1 pkg. (16 oz.) imitation crab meat, flaked
12-16 bacon strips, cooked & crumbled
1 cup mayonnaise
1/2 tsp. onion powder
1/8 cup sunflower seeds

CHAOS: x 3

First of all, I wish to thank each visitor. Motivation is powerful fuel.

I had hoped to have the wallpaper down from the nursery by Monday (the Monday that happened three days ago). I can already tell that when we get to the next Monday in four days, it still won't be done--but I am making progress.

First, I climbed Stuff Mountain. Realizing it was mostly made of unfinished projects and hand-me-down clothes for my children, I tried to think of another place for the unfinished projects to live and came up with this:

Genius!

Actually, this bathroom is broken so we haven't used this shower since we moved in. Stuff has been stashed there before, but now it is the designated place for all my procrastinated projects that I am going to finish tomorrow. My house lacks when it comes to storage areas...to state the obvious.

With that out of the way, we were ready to remove wallpaper. I hired some help:

(I see now how much better this picture would have been if I had thought to put my oldest in stripes as well!) We also removed the upside-down chair rail that was pretending to be baseboards. When the three of us finished peeling, pulling, and prying, I paid my girls by telling them they could color on the walls.

(Love those lashes!)




























Let me share what I learned: If you are going to be replacing carpet with vinyl, remove the baseboards before the installers come. You are going to have to move them anyway because they'll sit too high off the floor, so you might as well take them off so the vinyl will be installed all the way to the wall, with a straight edge. I wish the carpet/vinyl store had told me!

My new goal is to have the wallpaper removed and the walls primed by Wednesday. We could call it Washed Wallpaperless White Walls Wednesday." See you then!

Hats All Folks!

I don't have anything to report on the nursery because I have been finishing these:

The first one was supposed to be for my friend who is enduring chemo, but it turned out to be nothing like the pattern picture so then I made the next one. I hope it fits.

Dear reader, will you take off your hat and say a prayer for my friend, Brenda, please?

CHAOS To the Power of Two

Being the type that wants to have everything planned out (oh, the disappointments!), I took my nursery design questions to Facebook. I asked every question on my mind, from frame colors to accessory placement. I invited all of my friends to vote. It was FUN. Free personalized ideas came to me in comment boxes. I can't wait to use them!

But first, there's that wallpaper (my cousin made me smile when she referred to it as jailhouse stripes):

I'm still working on removing it. Look at the interesting purple and green I found underneath. Combined with the black, we've got some nice bruise colors going on.


Now, this is where the true chaos comes in. This room has been the catch-all since we moved in two years ago. For the past several months, I couldn't even get in this room to use the changing table or rocker.

And remember what CHAOS stands for? Well, when my close friend said she was coming for a visit from Colorado, I was delighted. I thought I'd just shut the door on this room and no one would know the disaster that lived in there.

I couldn't hide it, though. I couldn't even get the door shut! She must have felt sorry for me because while I fed lunch to my kids, she dug out half the room and stacked it on the other side. I was embarrassed, but more shocked than anything. Talk about super powers.

So, I've removed half the wallpaper and hope to get the rest off by Monday. It is fairly easy to do. I tear off the outer layer and then use the handy wallpaper scorer another handy friend gave me. I spray the whole area with a solution of one part fabric softener and four parts water and let it sit for awhile. Before it starts to dry, I scrape it off. Then I wash the wall with warm water while it is still damp.

You might be wondering where I'm going to put all that stuff so I can get this done? The truth? I have no idea!

I'll keep you posted.

Often Things Are Not What They Seem

I pushed the double stroller down the sidewalk. The babies looked sweet in their blanket sleepers, taking in the sights, each leaning a different way.

"Bus!" said my two-year-old. A minute later: "Nother bus!" (While her baby brother inspected the weeds on the other side of the sidewalk.)

I saw a man ahead with a black dog. He cheerfully patted the dog's head when it jumped up on him. Then the dog bounded toward us and began licking the faces of my children. Horrified, and thankful the dog wasn't a biter (I was recently bitten by a neighbor's dog), I thought to myself that this man was very rude to let his dog clobber my children. I tried to push the dog away, but this was a persistently friendly dog.

As I walked away, the dog followed us. The man didn't say a word. Then I realized this was not his dog. Then I realized he probably thought this was my dog and may have even thought to himself, "How impolite of this woman to let her dog jump on me and not even apologize. And where is the leash?"

I was glad when the dog gave up trying to tongue assault my babies, but it still wanted to follow us. I tried everything I could think of (without being cruel) to get the dog to leave us alone. If I stopped and gave the dog my best "Scram!" stare, the dog would sit. I did a lot of pointing and yelling and pretend or soft kicking. I tried throwing rocks (I mostly missed). No effect. If I ignored the dog and walked on, the dog walked along side me like I had taught it to heel. (We had a dog once [that's a whole other story] and it was like a battle trying to get her to heel on a walk.)

So I just walked. What choice did I have?

People driving past us may have thought to themselves that I was a good master as they saw the dog keep perfect pace with me.

When the dog decided to dart into the street, the slowed drivers might have been thinking I was a negligent owner, to let my unleashed dog run wherever it wanted.

Funny thing is, they would have all been wrong!

CHAOS

If you are a Fly Lady, you know what CHAOS stands for: Can't Have Anyone Over Syndrome. And I've got it bad. I've seen blogs where people post their projects and remodels and I love to see how much they accomplish as much as I hate to see how much they accomplish (because it makes me feel like a loser).

So, I thought I'd give it a try. If I believe even one person might be "coming over," maybe it will motivate me to get off my duff and get some things done around here!

Below you will see the before picture of my baby boy's room that he still doesn't get to live in.


This is the way we found the room when we moved into the house. See that carpet? I'm pretty sure it would have turned thirty this year with the house if we had not murdered it last year and dropped it in a dumpster. Hey, we had motive! Imagine digging around in a well-used litterbox with your nose; that's what it smelled like. Even after several scented candlelight vigils, it smelled no better. I told my husband we needed to clean it and he said we might as well rip it out and start over. So we went to the local carpet stores and began to premeditate its removal. It was a double homicide too. The mauve carpet in the girls' room was just as nasty (only it smelled like an old nursing home instead), so it had to go as well.

I don't really gross out easily, but when I saw the bottom side of those carpets on installation day I was GROSSED OUT. The only way I can think to describe how it looked is hundreds of overlapping Venn diagram pee spots. I'm sure they weren't all pee spots, but they all looked the same to me.

This leads me to share my joy in choosing vinyl. Because even though I don't have indoor pets and my children don't pee on the floor very often, if they did, no one thirty years from now would ever know about it by looking at the bottom of the vinyl!

And now, for that wallpaper...

All of Our Ducks in a Row

Okay, well, not ALL of them. But we did catch the bus today, and yesterday I conquered the dishes and the dining room floor.

This morning I walked into my daughters' room to see this:My two-year-old is at the stage where she gathers like toys together and puts them in a line. These groupings always amuse me, can you see why?

Needless to say, I saw this "row" as a good omen for today. So far, so good!

Tomorrow, the Other Side of the Street

We missed the bus again today. More truthfully, I missed the bus again. As I ran up the sidewalk with my three children (two of them in a stroller), only to see the bus pass by at the end of the street, my brain couldn't avoid a flashback to childhood.

It must have happened at least a hundred times: me running up the dirt road only to see the bus pass by at the end of the street. The morning air was only slightly cooled and sat still as I hurried. Luckily, the bus had to come back that way, so if I crossed the street, I could be picked up on the other side. The streak of yellow at the finish line might as well have carried the banner, "You lose again."

And that was how I felt today, only worse. My daughter has never ridden the bus to school. She wants to, but her mother can't get her to the bus stop in time. Yesterday, on her second day of Kindergarten, I promised her that we would catch the bus "tomorrow." I should have known (from experience) it was a promise I am incapable of keeping.

As I drove her to school, a knot in my stomach, I told her I was sorry for breaking my promise. When I asked her how I could make it up to her, she said that she just wanted us to try again tomorrow. Her forgiveness only made me feel worse. I watched her as she ran to the playground, the knot tightening as I worried about her drowning in the sea of children. When I could no longer see her, I drove home.

On the way, I thought of the many ways I have neglected my duties as wife and mother. I hate to admit it, but I have discovered that it is easier to neglect a child (and a husband) than I once believed. I do not think my goals are lofty because I have seen many women who gush of the life I am striving for (my husband's mother is the best among them). So I know it can be done.

I am usually one to look on the positive side of things, but today the only thing I feel I am successful at is failure.

It isn't just about the lost race to the bus stop. I wish it was. It is about a cluttered home, dozens of unfinished projects, late appointments, procrastinated intentions, and unmet promises. It is about a pile of unfolded laundry, a sink and counter full of dishes, a sticky dining room floor, weeds growing in the yard and mold growing in the toilet, to name only a few.

I looked in the rear view mirror at my babies, one of each kind, and wondered if they would get a better mom than their big sister. As I parked in front of our home, I could hear my daughter's words echoing in my head.

I hope God doesn't mind that I pray daily for super powers because I think that's what it's going to take to pull this thing off.

Bedtime Snuggling, Down to a Science

Baby No. 1, Rule No. 1: Baby must be sung to and rocked by Daddy. If he is unavailable, Mommy will suffice, but only if the baby is very tired. Rule No. 2: To help baby fall asleep, caress her arms and legs with fingertips. Baby will hold arm or leg out for maximum reachability.

Baby No. 2, Rule No. 1: Baby must be sung to and rocked by Daddy. If he is unavailable, Mommy will suffice, but she must allow baby to crawl onto her chest and shoulder and snuggle into the neck. Rule No. 2: DO NOT caress her arms and legs with fingertips. This will upset her.

Baby No. 3, Rule No. 1: Baby must be wrapped in a blanket, then sung to and rocked by Daddy. If Daddy is unavailable, Mommy will suffice, but DO NOT try to snuggle baby on the shoulder unless he is facing out. Otherwise he will squirm and fight until he is put down so he can crawl away.

Toddler No. 1, Rule No. 1: Every night she will request to, "Yay on Mommy." Mommy must lay flat on back with toddler on her chest and abdomen until snoozing has commenced. Then she may carefully roll toddler onto her bed and tiptoe out of the room.

Toddler No. 2, Rule No. 1: Every night she will command, "Way buh-bus." The translation for this is "Lay by us." With Child No. 1 tucked into her bed on the top bunk, Mommy or Daddy must lay by Child No. 2 on bottom twin bed. One hand must rest on her chest if she is laying on her back or on her back if she is laying on her front. DO NOT move hand away, not even to quickly scratch an itch, or toddler will grab the hand by the wrist and put it back where it belongs.

When it is finally bedtime for Mommy and Daddy, Daddy must remember to kiss Mommy before he puts on his mask and turns on his VPAP machine. If he forgets, Mommy will give him his good-night kiss on the arm. Then Mommy must position herself below the flow of cold air pouring from the mask.



ZZZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz................(for awhile anyway).

Reusable Recipes: Meat Edition

When I got married, my paternal grandmother gave me an empty cookbook. It has become the special cookbook, because only tried-and-loved recipes get recorded on its pages; recipes for special occasions, and recipes that get used over and over again.

I learned my three favorite meat recipes from my foster mother, who is now a vegetarian. All I have to say about that is I am glad I lived with her while these meals were still on the menu, because they are YUMMY!

And here they are:

Pulled Pork (We always called it shredded pork when I lived with them, but I have decided this name is more fitting [plus, I love alliteration!])

Cook a picnic pork shoulder, fat side up, covered, in a 300 degree oven overnight or 6-8 hours. Make sauce while it cools (or whenever you want). Separate meat from bones and fat. Pull meat into small strands; place in 9 x 13 pan. Cover with sauce. Heat in oven, stirring a few times and then broil if desired.

Sauce: Warm in pan: 1/2 cup melted butter or margarine, 1 cup brown sugar, 1 1/3 cup ketchup/catsup, 1 Tablespoon prepared mustard, 1/2 cup vinegar, 2/3 cup water, 1/4 cup soy sauce, 1/4 cup Worcestershire sauce, 1/4 teaspoon pepper,
2 teaspoons salt. Stir well, until everything is dissolved together.

This dish makes a delicious leftover too!

Sweet Taco Meat (This may sound strange to you, but it is better than you can imagine. Serve on soft tortillas with your choice of taco toppings and ranch dressing or sour cream.)

Brown 2 pounds ground beef. Drain. Add in pan: 1 envelope dry onion soup mix, 1 cup ketchup/catsup/tomato sauce, 1/3 cup brown sugar, 2 Tablespoons Worcestershire sauce. Simmer and stir until sugar is dissolved. Simmer for a half an hour, stirring occasionally.

I realize that most of the ingredients in this recipe are the same as the pulled pork, which explains why I love it so much!

Oven-Fried Chicken

Crush 2 cups of cornflakes and stir in 1/4 teaspoon of garlic salt and a few dashes of pepper. Dip chicken pieces (about 2 and a half to 3 pounds) in 1/2 cup melted butter or margarine. Roll in bread mixture (No, not you. The chicken!) and place in a greased 9 x 13. Sprinkle with remaining crumbs and butter. Bake at 375 degrees Fahrenheit for 1 hr. Don't turn (No, not you. The chicken!)

I often think of Amelia Bedelia (my namesake) when I read or write recipes, can you tell?

I Love You, Two!

Dear Two,

I have heard you are terrible, but I love you. I have watched two daughters grow through your year. I cherished that phase both times. Sometimes I would look at my girl and think, "Oh, good. She is still a baby." Other times I would exclaim proudly after a new accomplishment, "Good, girl! You are so big!"

I guess what I mean to say is that I am thankful that I had a year to say goodbye to the baby who needed me so much. I had time to say goodbye to things like putting on her shoes and changing her diapers.

I also had a year to celebrate new conversations and welcome her ability to use words to tell me of her wants and needs. And even though she was big enough to walk and run, she was still small enough to want to be carried and rocked sometimes.

So thank you, Two! I think you are lovely.

Love,
Me

Peanut Butter and Honey Sandwiches

If I made a bar chart that showed how many times I've eaten each different food item in my lifetime, peanut butter and honey sandwiches would tower over all the others. Most of them were consumed in my childhood, on days when my mom didn't feel like cooking. I find it strange that I never got tired of them. Even now, they are my ultimate comfort food.

Then there are the other foods. Don't mind me as I reminisce.

My mom makes the best potato salad. I have tried many times to recreate it, without success. It always had the perfect amount of olives, eggs, and dill pickles. She also made goulash, but don't ask me what that is because I'm not really sure. For us it was any meal in which pasta, tomato sauce, and hamburger were the main ingredients, but I don't think that's what goulash really is. It seemed like most meals that were made of those three ingredients ended up on the floor, but that's another story.

Whenever my mom needed to take a potluck dessert somewhere, she usually made a pumpkin roll. I have never made one because it looks so complicated. I'm impressed by my mom's ability to make this wonderful dessert because she didn't bake very often. I like to bake, but I usually stay with simple things like cakes, cookies, and muffins. I'm pretty good at making rice crispy treats, but I don't think that counts as baking.

Two or three times a year, we would have a big "Thanksgiving" dinner. My dad often took pictures of the formally set dinner table at these non-occasions, complete with three proper daughters with napkins on their laps. Dad always included a table manners lesson during these dinners. My little sisters especially loved when he would "accidentally" make mistakes (like flinging food from his plate with his fork). His lessons were informative as well as entertaining. Dad took a lot of pride in teaching us.

Sometimes my dad made steak or fish or shrimp or shish-kabobs. I shared my dad's love for crab salad from the deli, and I still remember the first time I tried some of his canned smoked oysters. I should have been grossed out, but I loved them. I still do. In fact, every year, Santa puts a can of smoked oysters in the bottom of my stocking because he loves me and knows I'm a good girl.

We ate tostadas regularly. I don't know how other people prepare tostadas, but my family ate them just like tacos, but with a tostada shell. Our toppings were: refried beans, hamburger, avocado (sometimes), diced tomatoes, sliced black olives, and sour cream. Sometimes our dinner was seven layer dip (made from the same ingredients) with tortilla chips. We used a small rectangular coffee table in the front room for this meal. Mom and Dad sat on the couch, and my two sisters and I would kneel at each of the other three sides of the table. It was always a race to see who could scoop away the largest section of the big circle serving platter, even though we knew none of us could ever beat Dad. We liked this meal, and in our childish enthusiasm would declare, "Dip for dinner!"

When we had tostadas or dip, I got to cut up the tomatoes or olives. I diced the tomatoes into very small bits because I didn't like them, so the smaller the pieces, the better. My whole family would be waiting for me to get those tomatoes cut up so we could eat!

But back to the peanut butter and honey sandwiches.

My kids love them too. I think it is ironic that my daughters think I am neglecting them by only allowing them to have peanut butter and honey sandwiches once a day when for a long time, I thought I was neglected because some days that was all there was to eat.

In the Bible, it says that John the Baptist lived for a time on locusts and honey. It must work: although I would rather get my protein from peanut butter than from locusts, no doubt!

The Question

I am a little slow. It always takes me a long time to finish any given project, and sometimes I do not get jokes until the next day. This story will probably demonstrate.

I was on a date with my long-distance boyfriend on a Sunday night and things were awkward all evening. I was grumpy. He was acting strangely. We planned to spend some time on our favorite bench at the temple grounds before we went to a fireside* together, but there were a lot of people there, so we decided to go after the fireside. Which reminds me of the time we accidentally got locked into the temple grounds:

We enjoyed a long conversation as the beautiful white building towered above us, glowing white against the night sky. We strolled to our car, but realized the tall gate was closed. Quickly, we walked to another exit--but it was also locked. My boyfriend panicked. I laughed (so typical of both of us). He began to plot our escape: something involving him hoisting me over the 8-10 foot iron fence. I was wearing a dress and heels, but even if I had been in a leotard, I would not have dared! We rang the doorbell by the baptistry in hopes there would be someone in the building who could let us out. I was thinking about what would happen if we didn't make it home by curfew (midnight). How would it look to our parents if we did not come home until morning? Then I thought of how my parents would worry. It seemed like we paced for hours, but it couldn't have been hours because a security guard let us out, and I was returned home before midnight.

Anyway, back to my story. So we made our way to "our" bench after the fireside, but someone else was using it. So we found another and sat down to talk and read something together, something personal and spiritual in nature. We had read them together before. I felt close to him as he read to me a prayer for his future: a future with a wife and a family. I leaned my head against his chest as he finished reading. He then said quietly in my ear, "I want you to be the woman my blessing speaks of. Will you marry me?"

I was stunned. I remember asking myself, "Did he just propose to me?" We had talked about marriage many times (this is kind of an understatement), but he had never actually asked me to marry him. "Was this it? He wasn't on his knee, I didn't see a ring...but those aren't requirements, are they?"

There was a long moment of silence.

I was startled out of the dialogue going on in my head when in a worried voice he said my name (with a question mark). I decided I should answer him, so I said, "I will."

Then he stood up and I turned to see he was trying to dig something out of his pocket. He was having a hard time with it, and when he succeeded, all of his pocket change clanged onto the sidewalk. He mumbled as he picked up the coins. I stared, thinking to myself that the pennies were relatively insignificant at this moment, but I was also amused by what was happening. He tried to pick the dark pocket lint off the fuzzy pink ring box before he handed it to me. When it was in my hands, I didn't know what to do. I did not want my reaction to it to be calculated, and opening the box myself made it feel like it would be. I said I didn't want to open it. Not understanding, he started to worry about me not liking the ring (even though I hadn't seen it yet). Finally, I forced myself to open the box. It was lovely. It was more than I had expected.

Realizing that this was the moment that would always be the story of the start of our engagement, I started to cry as I told him how sorry I was that I had been in a bad mood all evening. If I had known, I would have been angelic!

But then again, I guess it was good for him to know what he was in for.

*A fireside is a religious devotional,
usually held in the evenings.

The Over-On-the-Shoulder Boulder Story

Because this particular story has a moral to it, it is worth telling even though it leaves me looking a little...inept.

The year was 2000-ish. We had a big maroon car-boat that was constantly giving us trouble (the worst of its faults was when it would turn its own lights off as we were driving down the highway at night).

I was driving the car-boat to a reservoir to meet up with my husband and my friend's husband who were fishing. As I drove along, I saw a rock in the middle of my lane. It looked small enough to straddle, so I headed straight for it. However, the closer I got to it, I realized it was bigger than I first thought. A little too late, I decided to dodge it. In my near-success, I hit the rock with the right front tire, which pummeled the rock into the side of the car and knocked the strip of paneling off (it was one of those skinny plastic strips, not the wide piece of pretend wood paneling you may be picturing).

Anyway, I pulled over, retrieved my piece of whatever-you-call-it (tossing it into the trunk that was big enough to haul eight bodies at once), and resumed my trek to the fishing spot. My friend, who witnessed all of this from the passenger seat, found the whole thing to be hilarious.

When I bashfully went to confess to my husband, I began, "Um. There was this rock in the road and..."

Without a pause he answered, "I know the rock you are talking about."

As it turns out, as he approached the same rock earlier that day (when he tells this story, he calls it a boulder, but I assure you, it was NOT a boulder...just a big rock), his friend said, "Should we stop and move it?"

His answer was, "Anybody dumb enough to hit it deserves to."

Maybe I could stop there and let you decide upon your own moral, because I'm having a hard time picking one:

"Always be a pioneer because the one who comes along behind you might be your other half."

Or "Keep the pathway clear because the dummy who follows might be the woman who uses your checkbook."

Or I could quote the Bible and say, "Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these..., ye have done it unto me." Except I would replace "me" with "yourself."

Or something completely different like: "Objects in the road are bigger than they appear."

We could take votes.

Because of this experience, when I see a rock in the road, I pull over and move it.

I think the moral to this story is really the golden rule, don't you?

Quoting the Cute: Page Four

Five-year-old: I can't remember exactly how, but she asked me something about taking care of my "young." I think she got it from watching kids' animal shows on the internet.

Two-year-old: "Aw, C'mon!" (She got this from her big sister and it's so funny.)

Five-year-old: Today our neighbor said he thought she was a monkey in the tree & she reminded him matter-of-factly, "Yes, but monkeys don't wear shoes."

Two-year-old: "I wan play play-doughs!"

Eight-month-old son: "Da da da!"

My First Job

When I was twelve, I started a Saturday/summer job at a motel. I'm guessing most motels don't hire so young, but my aunt was the head housekeeper and she vouched for me. My cousin/friend worked there too (we called ourselves "cuz buds"--doesn't that sound so twelve and thirteen?). Most days, my cousin and I got to team clean. It was always a hundred times more fun than cleaning alone. We could work the day away with giggles and races to see who could make a bed faster (she could). And hairy bathtubs and skid marks didn't seem so bad when I had someone to laugh about it with.

Each room had a hanging rack on the wall by the vanity. I usually hit my head on it when I cleaned the vanity. You'd think I would have learned, but I worked at that same motel for eight years, and I never really did. My cousin laughed every time. You might also think after all those years, it wouldn't have been so funny, but it always was to her.

My aunt was a blast. She has this laugh that makes you want to laugh. I miss those days with them. I rarely see them or talk to them now, so those days are nostalgic to me.

Cleaning the same fifty rooms (but it was like cleaning the same one room because they were practically identical) over and over for years on end was good preparation for the life I live now. I gained useful skills like how to spread a sheet on a bed in just the right spot without having to walk around the bed to smooth or straighten, or how to scrub a bathroom from top to bottom in seven minutes flat. And even though hairy bathtubs and skid marks are pretty gross, so are poopy diapers and puke in the carpet.

But most of all, I got used to the idea that most days have pretty much the same routine. After awhile, things will change a little (like new bedspreads or a new baby), but the to do list doesn't change a whole lot from day to day. It might be fun to compare routines from different life phases.

This is the one I'm in now:

Wake up. Feed kids. Change two diapers. Dress kids. Feed me (at computer). Exercise (70% of days). Put baby down for nap. Shower. Dress me. Clean. Feed kids. Change diapers. Dishes. Feed me. Laundry. Snack. Clean. Change diapers. Make dinner. Eat dinner. Dishes. Change diapers. Brush teeth. Jammies. Stories. Kids in bed. Movies with husband. Pray. Me in bed.

I've been working on inserting "Pray" and "Make bed" between "Wake up" and "Feed kids," and "Make kids laugh" (more points if I can do it without tickling) between "Dress me" and "Feed kids." Once I've accomplished that, I'd like to squeeze in: Finish unfinished projects. Work on family history/genealogy. Scrapbook. Crochet. Mend. Clean more. Read. Bake. Paint. Build shelves. Learn Finnish.

And a bunch of other things I've forgotten about (like the hanging rack by the vanity).

Birth Stories: Forward

After years of infertility, I joined an online support group. I was looking for encouragement, but I found more than that: I found friendship. For a few years now, I have built relationships with twelve online friends. From my computer, I have witnessed joyful events and tragedy in their lives. I could write pages about each friend, but to briefly tell you about each one:

1. She suffered miscarriage after miscarriage and is now patiently waiting (already months longer than originally planned) for her son who will come to her family through adoption from Korea.

2. She lost her miracle baby, and then found out she had one chance to conceive through IVF before she would need a hysterectomy to rid herself of cancer. The IVF was unsuccessful. Now she and her husband are saving money to pay for adoption.

3. After enduring eight years of infertility, then a miscarriage, then another two years of infertility (all while she ran a daycare in her home), she now has a sweet little girl of her own to take care of.

4. She was blessed like me and has two young children, eighteen months apart.

5. I could hardly believe my eyes when after she was told by doctors that she would never be able to conceive, she DID ANYWAY.

6. A mother of an adopted daughter was elated to be expecting a baby, but lost her at fifteen weeks. She has since adopted a son, but she still grieves.

7. At age forty, she experienced a miscarriage and several failed reproductive procedures, but she carries on, hoping she can turn her only child into a brother.

8. Her first child, Kierstyn, died after only two weeks of life. My friend now has two sons, but she still struggles as she faces a world that not only does not have her daughter in it, but also lacks support for her to keep Kierstyn's memory alive.

9. She has lived nine years of infertility with miscarriages during the first half and no pregnancies during the last half.

10. I cried when one friend faced the birth of her twin boys at twenty-two weeks and rejoiced when she later gave birth again to twin boys that made it.

11. After 3.5 long years, she finally became pregnant. She miscarried within the week.

12. She has been waiting for a baby for nine years. I cheered her on as she successfully met her goal of losing 130 pounds.

All of these women stood by me even after I changed from an infertile woman to a mother of three small children.

I have noticed (with an ache in my heart during the years I was longing for children), that when mothers get together for a long conversation, the talk always leads to childbirth. I have heard some amazing stories. But, because I have felt the pain of longing for children, and I have friends who still do, it only feels right to acknowledge them before I share the stories of the birth of my children.

I love my children with all of me. I cherished carrying them, but I want to say wholeheartedly, carrying them was NOTHING compared to having them in my arms. It was like a means to an end--the reason why I loved my pregnancies was because they were going to bring to me A CHILD. Those nine months are almost insignificant when it comes to the years I have spent and will spend caring for them and loving them. If I had adopted my children, I would tell the story of how they came to our family just as passionately.

I love birth stories and I love adoption stories.

Here are a couple of adoption stories I enjoyed reading:

This one and this one...

And this one made me cry (happy tears).

Birth Stories: First Child

I could hardly keep the good news to myself: I was expecting our first baby after more than five years of trying. We savored our secret for about a month so we could tell our family members face-to-face when we visited.

I had planned to wait until twelve weeks to tell our friends and neighbors about the change that would come to our family. Then I caught a cold that would not go away. After three awful weeks, I went to the clinic to see if there was anything that could be done. When I told the Physician's Assistant I was pregnant, he kind of shrugged his shoulders, as if to suggest that colds that will not go away are just part of the facts of pregnancy life.

One of my good friends is the wife of that Physician's Assistant. At community choir practice, she asked what I had found out at the clinic. After I told her they said there was nothing they could do for me, she "hmphed" sympathetically.

The next morning I got a call from her husband. He said, "I am so sorry. I think I did a bad thing!" Surprised, I asked him what he meant. He said, "I think I let the cat out of the bag!" Then he explained how after early-morning family scripture study he went back to bed to catch a few more z's before getting ready for work. He had been almost asleep when his wife had indignantly asked him why he couldn't help me get better. He told her, "I can't help her...she's pre...I mean she's sick. She's really really sick!" He told me he tried to cover it up, but he wasn't sure if he had been successful or not. I laughed and told him not to worry. The rest of the day, every time I thought about it, I couldn't hold back a smile.

I decided it was time. It was a few weeks sooner than I had planned to announce it (I was looking forward to telling my friends on April Fools Day to see if they would believe me or not), but I was ready. I called my close friend and asked her if I could stop by later. Then I went for my weekday morning walk with two other friends, one of them the wife of the PA. As it turns out, my husband and I are not good at lying. I don't remember the particulars, but the other friend who walked with us had been perplexed by contradicting information she had received from my husband and I (all I remember is that it had something to do with going to the doctor in the city--an hour away). It was relieving and exciting to tell them how our dreams were finally coming true.

My midwife recommended a couple of cold medications that were safe to use during pregnancy. I tried one and it made me upchuck. A few days later I tried the other kind and I was puking again. I called my midwife and she told me not to take any more medication. I just have to say here that I HATE to throw up. I LOATHE it more than anything I can think of. Even though I had queasy, nauseating sometimes all-day morning sickness, the fact that I only ever puked three times in my life while pregnant (all three during my first pregnancy), is something for which I will be forever grateful. And thankfully, the cold did go away after that.

I read every pregnancy book I had from cover to cover. I was constantly reading online about pregnancy. I wanted to soak in any and all information about it. So when the nausea went away precisely the day after I made it to the twelve-week mark, I thought, "Wow, the books were right on!"

I experienced heartburn for the first time in my life when I was six months pregnant. I ate dinner, and then went outside to pull weeds in the flower bed. BAD IDEA...but a learning experience. Heartburn became my companion after that, but I found that fruity Tums were a better friend.

My sister came to stay with me when the baby's due date arrived. A week later, there was still no baby and apologetically, she left to return to work. I was still pregnant when I went to church the day of my sixth anniversary, nine days after the due date. I would be exaggerating if I said that everyone asked me why I was there, still pregnant, but it seemed like I could read that question on each face even if it wasn't asked. That was the first day I could say that I was truly miserable. My body ached everywhere. I was tired because I had felt contractions the night before and had stayed up late to time them. After so long, I had come to the point where I almost believed I would always be pregnant.

That night, I made peace with eternal pregnancy (even though I was scheduled to be induced at the hospital at 6:00 the next morning) and climbed into bed. Before I could fall asleep, I felt my first contraction. It was midnight. Even though my contractions were coming only semi-regularly, I became nervous because we lived almost an hour from the hospital. I woke my husband at 2:00 am and said we should go. I had called the hospital and they said it was fine for us to show up a couple of hours early, just in case. I had contractions up until the time they put me on the monitor (about 4:00). Then they stopped. Lesson learned: I should have slept!

I made slow progress all day long. I tried to rest, but it was hard with all of the excitement (and pitocin) running through my veins. My husband was good company and had me laughing a little too hard. The contractions were becoming more painful, so I rocked in the rocking chair. After awhile, that didn't help anymore, so I tried walking. That only made me feel worse. When my midwife asked if I'd like a bath, it sounded like just what I needed.

I was on my second bath of the day (after being only five centimeters dilated for hours) when I called to my husband (who was reading a book in the hospital room) to help me get out. He came into the bathroom and in a panicked cry I begged him not to make me go through the birth without pain medication (even though I had made him promise to help me do it without the aid of drugs). I told him that I would never make it. I had so long to go and I was afraid I would never make it to transition, let alone through it.

Soon after, my midwife (who had been assisting another of her patients, who was having an emergency cesarean section of twins) returned to check on me. She coaxed me to the hospital bed. I was pleading for drugs. When she encouraged me with the words, "You can do this, you are at a ten! You made it through transition all by yourself. I am going to break your water and then you can start pushing," I cried with relief. My husband denies it, but I remember vividly that he cried too. He told me shortly after the birth that he felt sorry that he had left me to go through it alone. This moment was tender to me. I hadn't needed him until I called to him, and when I did, he was right there, but knowing that he wished he could somehow help me was a reminder of how much he loved me.

If I had known how long I was going to have to push, I would not have felt the relief I did. After twenty-two hours of labor, an hour and fifteen minutes of pushing, and so many "I can't do its" they couldn't be counted, I became discouraged and disoriented. I kept asking the midwife how many more pushes. I was so tired and in so much pain, that I forgot why I was even pushing. So when the baby was finally born, I looked at the little bundle of tiny pink body parts and said, with awe in my voice, "It's a baby." My husband still makes fun of me for that. "What did you think it was going to be?"

At first, the midwife forgot to tell us what kind of baby it was, but we discovered soon enough that a sweet little GIRL, seven pounds, nine ounces, had finally made us parents. After she was born, I encouraged her to eat, but she just wanted to sleep. My husband went home to prepare for his substitute at work the next day, so I put her in her bassinet and closed my eyes. I couldn't sleep because my body had obviously released a huge dose of mommy endorphins, but it felt good to soak in the peace of my room: my labor music playing, the lights turned low, and my whole life's desire sleeping soundly close by. When she was three hours old, I opened my eyes to look at her and she was staring at me with her tiny dark eyes open wide. I will never forget that moment. I said, "Hello, Baby," and gently picked her up and held her close to me. This experience was so FULL, I could never put it into words. It was a speck in time that overflowed with love, bliss, contentment, joy, gratitude, purity, glory, awe, and beauty--

and so much more.