"Never, Ever, Ever, Ever, Ever, Ever, Ever, Give Up. Never Give Up. Never Give Up. Never Give Up."

Maybe you have asked yourself whatever happened to that Amelia girl.  Probably not, but that's okay.  Life these days has had a way of ripping all of my plans out of my hands and stomping them into the mud after shredding them into little tiny bits.

BUT I REFUSE TO GIVE UP.

Like, remember how I tried to paint the boys' room?  It was so close once.  My best friend forever came and helped me paint it and it was beautiful for one day.  Then my two-year-old (who is now three) discovered something that shocked and horrified and confused me all at once.

So we've been peeling and sanding and picking for months now and I fear it will never be ready to be repainted.

BUT I REFUSE TO GIVE UP.

And I finally did try the couch to 5K thing.  On the first day of training I was only five feet from the end of my sprint when I landed on a rock the size of my baby's fist and almost fell down.  That evening I was sure my left foot was broken because I couldn't walk on it.  I spent the next morning crutching around the hospital, but it all turned out because it's not broken.  I get to wear this for another day or so and I won't be running for awhile.

BUT I REFUSE TO GIVE UP.  I'll start over with day one as soon as my foot has healed.  And next time I will run when it is light outside.  What was I thinking?  There are murderers and rapists and ROCKS out there.  Running alone in the dark is just not a good idea.

We got a tree the day after Thanksgiving and the day after that it was set up in the front room. I planned for us to have it all decorated the day after that, but after two weeks, it still looks like this:

BUT I REFUSE TO GIVE UP.

This tree is getting decorated today if I have to do it myself.

Quoting the Cute: Page Sixteen

"Ew!" (what my seven-year-old says when she sees her parents kissing).

I asked my four-year-old if she knew how to eat a cherry and she said, "Yup, you just pull out the pin and spit out the beads!"

My two-year-old loves to point to his baby brother and tell people who he is:  "Mine brudder!"  (No, we don't speak German at home.  Just English and Finnish.)

Seven-year-old:  "Today is the worst day of my life."  I have heard this more than once.

Four-year-old:  "Can I have gum?"  It seems like she asks this all the time!

Two-year-old:  He pronounces "cookie" like "hooky" and when he sings the Cookie Monster song, I laugh every time, especially at the last part...or when he says, "Hooky Monster likes hookies."

My friend gave my seven-year-old a cute a-line haircut and styled it for her (it had a nice round shape to it).  Instead of saying thank you when she saw it in the mirror, she said, "I look like an extra-terrestrial."

My four-year-old always says, "axe" instead of "ask."  I'm not ready to correct her mispronunciations because I'm not ready for her to grow up!

Two-year-old:  Every morning he says "Go-morninga, Mom."  During the day it's, "You funny, Mom," and at night it's always, "Go-nighta, Mom."

Nine-month-old:  This kid loves to sit and babble to himself.  He must have interesting stuff to say because he can entertain himself for hours!

When We're Helping We're Happy

My Relief Society made jars full of service ideas and gave them to the women in our ward.  I haven't used it yet, but if I have a hard time thinking of a special service to do on Wednesdays, I plan to draw a paper from the jar and do it if I can!

So here they are.  The idea is to randomly choose one "service mission" for each week:

• Visit the elderly.
• Help a friend with housework.
• Smile at everyone you see this week.
• With your family or friends visit a nursing home.
• Do a secret act of service for every member of your family.
• Take cookies to a neighbor or a friend this week.
• Help an elderly widow with her shopping.
• Send a letter to a missionary.
• Show more patience with others this week.
• Mail an "I'm thinking of you" card to someone.
• Do something for your community this week.
• Bake something for someone.
• Secretly help someone with money or food.
• Only say nice things about others this week.
• Do something for a single parent in your neighborhood.
• Invite someone to your home for dinner.
• Invite a friend or neighbor to church.
• Take a rose to a woman who is struggling.
• Help tidy the chapel as you leave this week.
• Have a more positive attitude this week.
• Take a neighbor's can to the street on garbage day.
• Make dinner for a family in need.
• Volunteer at a local school this week.
• Read to a child.
• Get to know someone new in the neighborhood.
• Pray for someone.
• Show more love and compassion this week.
• Collect items for humanitarian aid.
• This week listen more and talk less.
• Give a mom (or a dad!) a break and babysit free of charge.
• Help a neighbor with yard work.
• Show more gratitude to others this week.
• Donate to your local library.
• Send a thank you card to someone.

There were some things in the jar that I didn't keep because they are things I feel I should already be doing everyday, things like opening doors for people, saying hello, and not gossiping.  However I am going to write this one for the world to put in their jar:  PUT YOUR SHOPPING CART AWAY.

There were also a few I left out because I do them when I can, like walking instead of driving places and donating to charities.  Also there are some in my jar that are specific to my church that I am trying to do (visiting teaching, sharing the Gospel, things like that).

There are 34 things on the list above.  I think it would be fun to think of 18 more and get it up to 52 for a year's worth.  Any ideas?

Here's what I've got:

• Give as many compliments as you can this week.
• Forgive someone or ask forgiveness of someone.
• Donate to a food bank.

I'll bet you have fifteen more in your little pinky, Cindy!  If so, please share.

Now I'm off to make lemon cakes because what could be nicer than that?

Quoting the Cute: Page Fifteen

Seven-year-old:  "Dad's never going to pay me for picking dandelions because you keep taking all of his money!"

One day my four-year-old told me she wanted snowflakes for breakfast.  It took me a moment to figure out that frosted flakes was what she wanted.

And my two-year-old son calls Rice Krispies "hippies."

My seven-year-old loves to tell jokes.  The part that always makes me laugh though is when she asks if we get it and we always say yes but then she explains the punchline anyway.

Four-year-old:  "I amn't!"  (Her big sister used to say this too when she was four!)

My kids (except the baby) went to stay with our friends overnight and for a day while we took a day trip for a job interview.  When we picked them up, my two-year-old was suddenly speaking in sentences.  I asked my friend if they gave him speech therapy while we were gone.

Sometimes it sounds like my seven-month-old baby is saying "Mama" and when he does I can't keep from kissing his soft little face.

Need Dirt for a Grave?

Have you ever read signs on the side of the road out of the corner of your eye without realizing it?  And sometimes they don't really say what you thought they did but they catch your attention with their absurdity?  Recently I thought a sign said "Need Dirt for a Grave?" but it really said:

Need Dirt

or

Gravel?

This was so funny to me it made my entire day.

For the last week I have felt like I do need some of that dirt because I have been very ill with some kind of stomach bug.  My four-year-old daughter had it too so we got to be miserable together.  Trying to take care of her, myself, a two-year-old, and a baby who just learned to crawl has really helped me to appreciate healthy days.

Oh, and by the way, in this case misery does not love company.

I have been flat in bed or on the couch (as much as possible) while the battle between good and evil has raged inside my body.  There were moments I feared all was lost, but good won again and we are finally upright. 

No dirt needed, thank goodness!

Quoting the Cute: Page Fourteen

My seven-year-old likes to write her own little songs and poems and for her sister's fourth birthday, she wrote this:

Me and you together make me feel better
Me and you helps me when I'm blue
And your smile too!
In my hart you will always be with me
It's like the world is a hart wher I love you.
Happy Birthday.

Four-year-old:  "Silly old me!"

Two-year-old:  "Wut up, doc?"  He's been watching old Looney Tunes on VHS.  He also tries to do the "get ready to take-off" thing.  Do you know the one I mean?  If you don't, you can see one here:  Wile E. Coyote does it just after the opening credits (0:43).

Seven-year-old:  "Please may you pass me the salt/water/ketchup/whatever?"

Four-year-old:  "I don't want to go outside because there are too many bugs out there!  I want to wait for [Big Sister] so she can squish them for me."

Two-year-old:  "Taaaa!"  (Which is his own version of "ta-da!")

The six-month-old baby is already almost as loud as his daddy.  Usually he's loud when he's mad, but sometimes it's just when he wants to be heard (which applies to both Baby and Dad, actually).

An Attempt to be Deep (Like the Ocean)

It occurred to me today how life in this desert house could actually be compared to living on the shore of the sea.

In my imagination I look out my window and the view of the ocean looks calm and peaceful today.  But some days I look at the world and from where I stand the water looks angry and frightening.  On those days I want to keep my family inside and protect them from the cold harsh realities that I can see rising too close to us.

Time flows like that imaginary river outside, the one that runs to the sea.  Sometimes higher up the river may freeze completely, but then it will thaw and flow again.  Even frozen moments in time cannot stop time from moving on.

I've never been sailing, so I wonder if sailing out to sea with my family would be anything like the trips we have taken away from home in the past.  Most of our travels have been short excursions to see family.  We always return home with replenished joy.  But I can't forget the journeys that took us so far from home we could no longer see the "shoreline," which I think of as a finish line we cross when we pass the sign that says "Welcome to _______" (the place I call home).  I think of how out there on the water, with no familiar landmarks (without landmarks at all), it could be so easy to become lost.  The worst thing that could happen would be to never find our way back home.  Luckily that never was a worry on our trips, for we were never without people to tell us where we were or where to go, but it is good to remember how lost we would be if we could not go home again.  Once or twice our journeys were too long and if no one had been watching, I would have kissed the dirt when I finally returned with sea legs to stand on my own ground again.  Not that I know what it is like to have sea legs, but I have known what it is like to rollerskate for so long that walking afterward felt heavy instead of flowing.  Is that what sea legs feels like?

Even the inside of my home reminds me of the sea.  Sometimes while my family sleeps I hear the sounds as they breath in and out, a pattern like the sound of waves pushing forward and pulling back on the shoreline.  Just as the tides rise and fall again, so many things follow the ebb and flow pattern day after day after day.  Children, clothes, and dishes are dirty, then clean, dirty, then clean.  My husband's shirts are ironed, then wrinkled.  The lawn is mowed, then tall, watered, then thirsty.  Sometimes we are shouting and sometimes we are kissing.  Sometimes our own spring tide rises so high we have to stay on high ground to avoid being engulfed.  Sometime hurricanes of heartache blow in floods and break the windows with their power.  And there have been sunsets so bright and beautiful they have changed the colors inside, but never for very long.

Home is the best place.  It is calming to know that all things follow a pattern and I find inexplicable joy when in it instead of the mundane I see the beauty.

Quoting the Cute: Game Page

Today I have a game for you.  If you can correctly translate the following words or phrases used by my young talkers (ages two and four), you can earn up to 1000 points!  What happens if you win 1000 points you ask?  Well, I don't know for sure, but you will have bragging rights which might make you feel happy inside for a minute.

• 10 points:  "bastick" (rhymes with plastic)
• 20 points:  "pawmus dam-uhs"
• 10 points:  "grand crappers"
• 60 points:  "e-buys"
• 400 points:  "dickwick" (you'll never get this one)
• 500 points:  "waaaah! he awna (sniffle) waaaaah abba gaw no no waaaah I uh gogimmeeeeeeeeeeee (breath hold) no no waaah I now ah uh now (wheeze) on he waaaah!"  

 Actually, I can't give you that last one because I can't understand any of it myself. Good luck!

Post Edit
Cindy is the winner!  And now for the answers:  bastick=basket, pawmus dam-uhs=Thomas (pa)jamas, grand crappers=graham crackers, e-buys=needs batteries, dickwick=bouquet, and I can't ever understand cry talk, can you?

Judge Not (Part Two)

(continued from here)

Example 2:  My girls never wore a diaper bigger than size four.  Often during those years while shopping for diapers and seeing the size sixes I'd think to myself how big that was and how anyone who had a child that size still in diapers needed to stop being lazy and get the kid potty trained.

Fast forward to the arrival of my first boy, born at nine pounds and three ounces, who was wearing size six diapers long before he turned two.  And now he has a baby brother who was ten pounds four ounces at birth and at five months was wearing nine to twelve month sizes.

I actually think size sixes are getting too small for my two-year-old, but I don't see any sizes bigger than that at the store.  I'm wondering if I might have to put my boys in Depends before we're through with all of this!  Whenever I ponder the diaper dilemma I wonder if this is our fate because I once had those thoughts about other people having kids in size six.  Maybe God is trying to teach me a lesson?

Example 3:  Before I had kids, I always said I wasn't going to allow my kids (if I ever had any) to eat in the car.  The other day my daughter had an accident in her seat.  First I removed the seat from the car to reveal numerous crumbs that had gathered underneath it over the months since I last vacuumed out the car.  Then I took the cover off the seat to wash it and found in the caves and crevices of the plastic shell: half-eaten mini peanut butter cups, a petrified curly fry, little chunks of dried bread, and sticky stuff that was unrecognizable.  I winced a little, remembering my sparkly life plan and how off course I am from where I had imagined.

Example 4:  I think I actually gave housekeeping tips to a young mother when I was fourteen.  She must have though to herself, "Who does this girl think she is?"  (As it turns out, not who I had thought at all!)  And to bring it all full circle, I recently have sought the advice of that same young mother (whose children are now grown), hoping I could find out how to get on top of my mess because I'm so tired of being ON TOP of my mess...or lost in it.

Obviously, I would not change the first two examples.  I love my big boy just the way he is and I am realistic enough to know that sometimes eating in the car has to happen unless we want the children to starve or the parents to go over the edge because of all the whining.  (I have learned that if a child's mouth is eating, it whines less.)

The last example (of keeping the house clean) I would change if I could.  Every day I work on that one.  But the judging part I regret every time.  Jesus loves me and knew I would not be happy if I judge others.  That's why He warned me not to do it.

This month I listened to a talk by President Dieter F. Uchtdorf titled "The Merciful Obtain Mercy."  The entire talk is worth reading over and over, but this was my favorite part:

This topic of judging others could actually be taught in a two-word sermon. When it comes to hating, gossiping, ignoring, ridiculing, holding grudges, or wanting to cause harm, please apply the following:

Stop it!

It’s that simple. We simply have to stop judging others and replace judgmental thoughts and feelings with a heart full of love for God and His children. God is our Father. We are His children. We are all brothers and sisters. I don’t know exactly how to articulate this point of not judging others with sufficient eloquence, passion, and persuasion to make it stick. I can quote scripture, I can try to expound doctrine, and I will even quote a bumper sticker I recently saw. It was attached to the back of a car whose driver appeared to be a little rough around the edges, but the words on the sticker taught an insightful lesson. It read, “Don’t judge me because I sin differently than you.”

 Amen and amen.

I hope when I stand before my Maker to be judged I will be found merciful because I already know I'm going to need so much of that mercy...

A whole heaping load of it.

Quoting the Cute: Page Thirteen

Seven-year-old:  "Sometimes I just want to run away and never come back!"  Is this something all children feel, or is it an oldest child thing (I remember feeling the same way), or am I really just a BAD MOTHER?

Three-year-old:  "Can I swipe the floor?"

Two-year-old:  For the first few days after he became a brother, he regarded the baby with complete indifference.  He pretended like there was no baby.  If he crawled onto my lap while I was holding the baby, he wouldn't touch him or even look at him.  Then one morning I was sitting on the floor trying to burp the baby.  Quickly and softly my son patted the baby twice and ran off.  A few days after that he said to me out of nowhere, "I wan hold it," pointing at the baby.  I put the baby on his lap and he gently cupped his hand on the baby's head.  It wasn't long before he was kissing the baby's head instead.  For five months now, every day he asks again to hold "it," and I have watched that baby double in size on his little lap.

Seven-year-old:  "Waaaa."  You might be able to imagine how this pretend cry makes us cringe.

Three-year-old:  "Why did you trade your hair?"  (She meant "braid.")

Two-year-old:  "He toot."  He says this several times a day about his baby brother.  It doesn't mean what you might think.

 Baby Brother:  HAPPY SQUEAL!

I Am a Soul Who Has a Body

I recently read a thoughtful article titled Body Talk (written by C. Jane Kendrick).  Each day since, I've spent a significant amount of time thinking deeply of my body and soul.  I have been analyzing my feelings and how they affect the way I eat.  I've been thinking of the things my body says to me and how I'd like to answer.

I eat when I'm hungry, but I also eat when I'm lonely.  Sometimes I eat to celebrate things that make me happy and sometimes I eat because I am depressed.  I eat when I'm overwhelmed, frustrated, stressed, disappointed, bored, tired, and often when I'm really just thirsty.

I eat because food tastes good to me, even though I know health would taste even better.

I have five senses and only one of them is taste.  I know that healthy living would enhance all of my senses, and all of my best emotions.

I'm ready for a change.

I've been asking myself what I could do to feed my body (including the part that is made up of soul) more appropriately.

I have learned from experience that my mortal machine will run better if I take preventative measures.  I feel better if I eat before I am hungry, drink before I am thirsty, and sleep before I get tired.  And I have learned that a walk every morning is my vaccine against depression.

Then, when I am lonely I could call a friend or write a letter or blog or hug my husband or play with my children or work on my family history.  I could do something nice for someone.  Eating will not help but these things will.

When I want to celebrate, I could let time with the ones I love be the reward (not the food we eat together) or play a game or scrapbook.  I could find a reason to just laugh. 

When I am sad, I could go for a walk or read scripture or write in a journal or take a nap or cry.  I could do something nice for someone else who is depressed.

When I'm overwhelmed, I could sit and listen to a favorite song with my eyes closed and breathe slowly, deeply.  This could give me strength to face my work with energy instead of fear.  Music could help me in my work as well.  Music is food for my soul.

When I'm frustrated, I could scream at the sky or punch a pillow.  I have never done either, but I think they could do good for me.

When I'm disappointed, I could look for the silver lining and move on with new dreams.  I could work on a procrastinated project from my hobbies of crochet, calligraphy, sewing, or cross stitch.  I could do something to improve my home.

When I am stressed, I could take a bath or get a massage from my husband or convince one of the kids to tickle my feet.  I could look at my list and only worry about what is eternal.  I could pray to my Loving Father who watches over me every day, every moment.

When I'm bored I could do any of the things listed above and drown boredom in goodness.

If I were a lazy parent, I'd just give my kids toys or candy to solve every problem or face every emotion.  But I wouldn't do that because I know that in the long run, my children don't need toys or candy.  They need to be loved and cared for.

And that's what I need too.





What does your body say to you and how do you answer?

 "You don't have a soul.  You are a soul.  You have a body." ~C.S. Lewis.

Some Things Never Change

I recently read my school journal from the third grade.  Some of it made me smile and some of it made me teary.  It was remarkable the amount of truths there were about me, even all the way from 1986:

"I like it when it's cold...I like to wash my hands when I get in.  It feels good."
"I like to play all the time."
"I love you, Journal."

This was supposed to be a thanksgiving turkey on a table.  Fact (still true today):  I cannot draw.

This sentence was my favorite:  "I do talk a lot.  I should learn to keep my FAT MOUTH SHUT."

And that seems like a good place to stop.



 P.S.  I love you, Blog!

Association

At Christmas time this last year, I ran in to my high school creative writing teacher at the grocery store in my home town.  She looked exactly the same as she did when I was in her class, which is hard to believe was about sixteen years ago.  I must have looked different to her with an extra fifty pounds on my body and a couple of young wrinkles.  With our carts parked across the aisle from each other, we had a nice chat.  I told her about my four children and she told be about hers.  It was good to see her again.

Then yesterday when I was supposed to be getting started on my taxes, I began reading some old school journals from the filing cabinet instead.  The first one was from third grade and the last one was from her class, my senior year of high school.

I wish I could remember if I thanked her when I saw her at the store.  Did I thank her for all she taught me about writing?  Did I thank her for helping me to find ways to write about my troubles (something that was good therapy for me)?  Did I thank her for providing assignments that fed my creativity?  What about the many hours she must have spent reading my journals and stories before she wrote her own supportive comments?

I can only imagine the boys and girls she has been able to help over the years.  Perhaps because I could never thank her enough I did not thank her at all?

I'm not sure what I said.  I hope I said thank you.

And I hope I told her how beautiful she is.

Judge Not (Part One)

I was born of a woman who is good at not judging people.  I can not think of a time when I heard her say something unkind about someone else.  I, on the other hand, have heard the bible verse that says "judge not that ye be not judged" echo in my mind many times over the years when I have let my pride talk out loud in my head.

Lately I have come to realize that the words of that scripture may have a double meaning I didn't think of before.  I always understood it to mean that if I judge others (righteous judgement excluded), I will be in the wrong and will have to stand before God with the fault of judging others on my head.

I still believe this to be true.

However, I am also starting to wonder if sometimes I am plagued with the very thing I once looked down on someone about...just so I could learn a lesson by being guilty of the same mistake...and then be judged of others in the same way I had once judged.

Here is just one example:

As a young infertile wife who longed for motherhood intensely, I often looked at mothers and saw crimes I was sure I would never commit if I only had the opportunity to be a mom myself.  I remember questioning a group of mothers in an internet chat room about soggy diapers on babies.  I had it in my mind that disposable diapers should always be changed immediately, even if they were just a little wet.

Skip forward twelve years.

Picture a Christmas tree and a stuffed ride-able reindeer in the front room.  Hear Big Sister say excitedly, "Mom, MOM!  There is snow in the house!"

I walked in to see glistening white fluff all over the floor under the reindeer and a confused husband poking it...looking like he was wondering why it was wet but not cold and WHERE ON EARTH IT CAME FROM since the ceiling was intact (it turned out that he actually thought it was stuffing from the reindeer and he was just confused about it being wet).  As soon as I saw it, I knew what it was.  In my concentration on the Christmas baking I had forgotten to change my reindeer-riding son's wet diaper, so it had broken open and emptied EVERYWHERE.

We all had a good laugh.  I shook my head and smiled...hoping the mothers in that chat room had forgiven my greater-than-thou voice all of those years ago.

And I also find it ironic that the "snow" wasn't yellow...

I just now became overwhelmed thinking of all the other examples I could give on this subject.  I will have to share them another day because I need to go clean ink from my walls and piano keys...something I was so sure I would be able to prevent when I was a mother.

You can go ahead and judge me now.  I deserve it!

You Might Be Living on a Teacher's Salary If:

1.  Mom would rather go to a yard sale than the mall.

2.  Dad brings home his paper sack from his lunch so it can be used again.

3.  Mom and Dad only go on a date once or twice a year because paying a babysitter to watch four kids costs more than a meal out.

4.  Almost all of the children's clothing are hand-me-downs (Mom loves hand-me-downs, by the way).

5.   Half of Mom's shirts are more than fifteen years old.

6.  Mom decorates all of the children's birthday cakes herself, even though they sometimes turn out like this:

7.  After the birthday child blows out the candles, removes them and licks off the frosting, Mom washes them off and saves them to be used again.

The Baby Hungry Years

Years ago, a sweet little white-haired woman was admiring my baby in the hallway at church.  She said, "Oh, I've never gotten over having to stop having babies.  I loved that time."

Her words have haunted me.  She must have been almost eighty.  Forty years is a long time to be baby hungry.

Let me just interrupt myself here to say I wish there was a better term: I do think babies are delicious, but I would never actually eat one.

Anyway, I have already lived seven years of my life STARVING for a baby.  Those times were hard.  And though I think those years turned out to be good for me, I don't necessarily want to live them over again.

Because I lack the ability to see the future, I can't say for certain if this is our last baby, but I'm pretty sure he is.  I have treasured each of my children, but knowing this baby may be my last, I try to pause as often as I can to hold on to these little baby moments that go by so quickly.

These paused moments are like photographs in my heart and I love them.

I know an empty-nester who doesn't even enjoy looking at pictures or old movies of her children when they were little because it makes her sad.  It makes her long for those times again.

That haunts me too.

Everyday, there is a lecture going on in my head.  It sounds something like this:  "Love the phase you're in.  Enjoy this time so you don't regret wasting it.  And when this time is over, it will be okay because then you won't have to endure _________ anymore."  (Insert whatever is hard about the current phase.)

Tell me if you know, is it possible to talk myself out of being sad when this time is over?

To-Do List

Yesterday I made myself a to-do list hoping it would motivate me to get some things done in this disaster zone.

This is the list:

• Water plants
• Do dishes
• Vacuum
• Finish thank-you notes
• Make Chinese

This is what I actually did:

• Watched an episode of "America's Funniest Home Videos" with my three little kids
• Watched another episode just so I could listen to my two-year-old laugh some more
• Sewed an ear on a bunny rabbit
• Sewed a tail on a kitty cat
• Watered the plants
• Did half the dishes
• Vacuumed half the house
• Let my husband make hot dogs while I fed the baby

 So as a grade, did I earn about a 75%?

I'm okay with that.


Post-edit:  I realized later today that I killed the math in this post!  I only did half the dishes & vacuuming, & I didn't make Chinese, so I should only get a score of 40%...which explains why I was so content with the 75.  Can I get extra credit for doing laundry?

If Only There Was a Delete Button for My Mouth

I have always wished to be more prudent with my words, mostly because I am not very smart and often what I say completely gives that away.

Once in awhile, I wish I had kept my mouth shut because I realize my words were hurtful to someone.  I regret those times most of all.

I like to think that I am a thoughtful and caring person, but if I was, why would I say this to my grandfather with terminal cancer:  "Wow, it's so hot in here.  Aren't you dying?"  He just looked at me.  Then, not knowing what I could say to fix my mistake, I chuckled nervously and left the room.

Can you believe that?  I chuckled.  Why do I do that?  I called Dr. Laura once and she didn't even want to listen to me because my nervous laugh kept punctuating my words.  I must have sounded so stupid on the radio!

Oh well.  At least I wasn't on TV.

One time I talked to a neighbor on the phone.  This is how the conversation went:

Me:  "Hello.  I'm sorry I didn't come visiting teaching last month.  I stopped by with some cookies but you weren't home so I put them in your garage.  If you didn't find them, they must be stale by now so you'll have to give them to your dogs."

Her:  "We don't have any dogs."

Me:  "You don't?"  (Thinking to myself, "I was sure they had dogs...")

Her:  "Actually, we ate them."

Me:  "You ate your DOGS?!?!!

There was a moment of silence while it came to me: she meant they ate the cookies, not the dogs.  Then I started to laugh uncontrollably while she sat quietly on the other end.  She didn't find it funny at all.

Just this weekend as we finished our meal at a restaurant with some visiting family the waitress started talking to me.  I assumed she was going to ask me if the meal ticket was together or separate, so I answered her before I realized what she actually did ask.  So this was how it sounded:

Waitress:  "I need the ages of your children for the check."

Me:  "You'll have to ask him about that (indicating my husband)."

You know, because I'm the kind of mom who has no idea how old her children are.

My baby is good at putting his foot in his mouth too, but it's so much cuter when he does it.

My Comfort Blanket

I don't know if quillows were a big thing everywhere or just in my home town, but my foster mom made one for me back when I lived there (what seems like a million years ago).  Although it is now faded and worn (often how I feel--not that I feel old yet, but just that I sometimes miss the vibrancy and energy I had when I was a teenager), I use it every night when we couch-potato (I'll bet you didn't know that could be a verb) because it is the only blanket that keeps my feet warm.  In my opinion, every blanket should have a pocket for your feet.

Also, every night I sleep on a special pillow my mom gave me for my birthday.  I was with her when she bought it, but she still took it home and wrapped it in pretty paper before she gave it to me, which I thought was a little silly but still very sweet.  I love the pillow.  It feels like a hug.

I love how she accepted me as her own even though I was ungrateful and angry so much of the time.  I love the way she has patiently waited as I repeatedly put time with her on the back burner while I spend time with my own family members.  Even though I wish she wouldn't fret, I think it is nice that she still frets over me.

And I love that even though she is hundreds of miles away and it has been more than a dozen years since I left her nest, I still feel like she tucks me in and hugs me every night before I go to sleep.

Improving Home: The Girls' Room, Final Before and After

I forgot to show you one of my favorite things in the girls' room.  My seven-year-old daughter's best friend gave this to her for her birthday last year:

If you don't know what it is, it's a picture of a temple, where we as Latter-Day Saints aspire to be married.
 

And this is another piece of artwork that my daughter finger-painted in kindergarten.  I think the art teacher at my daughter's school is amazing.




If you've been around this blog long enough to see the "before" picture, you'll know that it was posted a very long time ago.  Here it is one last time:

Before

After

And now I say GOOD NIGHT to the girls' room!

Glow-in-the-dark stars

Improving Home: The Girls' Room, Corner Four

I thought this day would never come.

The girls' room is crossed off my list so I can begin the boys' room. Would you like to see what we put on the walls?

The cross-stitch was done by little young me when I was ten or eleven. I nailed it up there with straight pins. My seven-year-old daughter painted the rainbow (but I think she was six when she did it) with a little artistic advice from my sister and me. Originally I was going to paint a rainbow, but I have very little talent for painting. It was my best friend's idea to have my daughter do it.

Best. Idea. Ever.

I can't remember if I told you the story about finding flower posters that match the wallpaper trim on AllPosters.com. Oh yes...I did. Here. Anyway, the frame on the left carries a few more of the flowers painted by Anthony Morrow. The butterfly on the right was painted by my oldest daughter when she was in kindergarten.

My daughter would not let me get rid of the huge kitty poster, so I cut them out individually to make a collage above her bed, which I like much better.

Okay, now for what we put on the beds:

I'm sorry, but this is my favorite stuffed animal/bug. I don't know which makes me happier, his face or all those feet!

These bears look like a big sister and a little sister who love each other, don't they?









I bought two black travel pillows like this at a yard sale for a buck a piece.

Then I took the leftover material from the dress I stole the valance bow from and hand-sewed it onto the front of one.

For the other one, I sewed on a couple of old iron-on flowers I've had in my craft box for ten years and some rick-rack I've had for almost as long.




I have never claimed to be good with a camera.

And lastly, the under-the-bed part was bothering me because it looked like this:

So I did this:

I know it's wrinkled, but it still looks better than the pajama crates (that's what we call them). Hemming all of those strips of material (left over from the bed skirt material I used to make the valance) and then tacking them to the bottom of the bed was a lot more work than you might think, but I'm glad I did it.

And I'm glad it's done.



The tally? I don't remember the exact prices of everything, but I'll give you close estimates:

The blanket and stuffed animals were gifts.
$10 art posters
$2 for 2 foam poster boards from Dollar Tree (just so you know, this curled when we painted it)
$4 paints
$200 bunk beds
$100 mattress (the other one is the mattress my husband slept on when he was a kid!)
$1 frame from a yard sale (spray-painted black)
$2 travel pillows
$36 for two bedspreads on clearance at K-mart
$1 yellow afghan from D.I. (second-hand store)
$40 for ten plastic crates from Family Dollar
$500 to replace the stinky carpet with vinyl...but now I can't remember if that was for both rooms or just one. I'll get back to you.

Add that to the $187 from the rest of the room and you get $1,083. I don't think I added the cost of paint anywhere, so I'll say the room cost about eleven hundred dollars. I'm looking forward to seeing if I can spend much less in the boys' room!

Quoting the Cute: Page Twelve

My seven-year-old came sobbing to me after visiting with the neighbor kids outside. "Those boys called my cats FAT!" Trying to keep my face serious, I said, "They did?" And with a wail she answered, "Yes, and it hurt my feelings! I care about my cats!" She cried for fifteen minutes on my lap while I silently laughed into my shoulder.

Our baby boy has two baby girl cousins that are only a few weeks younger than him. Grandmother is losing her memory a little, so she asked my three-year-old to tell her which baby was which (they were lined up in carseats in her front room). My three-year-old pointed to her baby brother in the middle and said, "Well, that one's mine," and then shrugging with both arms out to indicate the babies on each side of him, "and then there's these."

My two-year-old son must like the letter G: For example, "Go gelcome" is "You're welcome," "guwink" is "drink," and "goggy" is "doggy."

Seven-year-old: "[My friend] said I shouldn't use my middle finger." Mom: "Yes, that's kind of like saying a bad word." Seven-year-old: "Why do we even have a middle finger if we're not supposed to use it?!"

Three-year-old: "Now look whatchyou done!"

Two-year-old: "Passurd." This means "password," which means he wants me to unlock the computer. He just started learning how to use the mouse & it makes me dizzy when I watch.

The baby has been laughing since last month. It's contagious.

Birth Stories: Fourth Child

I usually think of these women before I share any of my birth stories.

As the due date approached, my husband begged me to consider induction on the Friday after the due date. He was hoping to not have to miss work unexpectedly. Reluctantly, I agreed. My doctor said it was a good idea because my last baby was so big (nine pounds, three ounces).

It was weird knowing my baby would be here by a certain date. I had never had that nicety in planning before. My sister came to stay for a week and I loved knowing that this time around (unlike the first time around), she would still be here when the baby came. Having my sister with us was a blessing for so many reasons, but one thing that stands out is that I didn't have to take my three children anywhere. They could wait for the baby in the comfort of their own home.

I saw the doctor the Monday before the due date. No change (no surprise). We reaffirmed my Friday induction appointment. I strongly hoped I'd go into labor naturally before then. But Friday came without a single contraction until the oxytocin was flowing. I was scared to tears at check in because I worried I might not be able to cope as I had with my natural births.

The doctor had high hopes that I would have the baby by the afternoon. Afternoon came and I was still progressing very slowly, even though the oxytocin was being given at its full strength. A few hours later, when I began to transition, I was overcome with pain during each contraction. I kept asking to be checked, only to find out that I was still only at an eight. In my mind, eight was so far from being there, especially since I had been eight centimeters dilated when I checked in to the hospital with my second child, and then she had still taken more than three hours after that to come.

The doctor predicted I'd make it through transition in a half an hour, so I survived the pain somehow for that long and asked to be checked again. No change (this time I was surprised...and very, very discouraged). This is the point where I gave up on doing this thing without pain meds. The baby's heart rate dropped every time I got into my most comforting positions. Pushing with the contractions also helps me with the pain, but the doctor said I needed to wait to push. I felt like there was nothing I could do--like I was going to lose my mind. After begging my husband to be okay with the epidural (he was silent because he wanted me to choose for myself), I decided I definitely wanted it RIGHT THEN more than anything I had ever wanted in my whole entire life.

I asked the doctor how long it would take, and I didn't want the answer to be measured in minutes, but in contractions. He said three. I said to get the anesthesiologist. I cried and moaned through the next three contractions and when the anesthesiologist had still not arrived I ordered my husband to go and find him. When the doctor came in shortly after, I chastised him, "You said three contractions. WHERE IS HE?"

Uncomfortably, the doctor muttered that he thought he would have been there by now, and said he'd go see where he was. When we talked about it later, my husband and I both agreed that he probably just went out into the hallway to appease me!

Five contractions had passed by the time the anesthesiologist arrived (I found out later that he was already on his way home from work). He quickly asked me some questions, which I answered until the next contraction came. Then I started screaming and my husband had to take over. He was answering questions in fast motion and signing papers while I lost it in the background. When we were almost ready for the big needle, the doctor asked if he could check me one more time. I agreed.

Then he told me I could push. Stunned, I did. Then came the pep talk. He told me if I could give him some really good pushes, I could have the baby very soon and the contractions would stop. I wanted the contractions to stop more than anything and doing it NOW sounded perfect to me. I agreed and everyone in the room prepared for the birth.

Except the anesthesiologist. I'm not sure when he left, but I still feel so embarrassed about making him run to my rescue only to witness me making a fool of myself before he could finally go home to his family. I'll bet it happens to him a lot though.

So, after some not so good pushes, the doctor informed me I was in the "I-don't-want-to-give-birth" position and helped to reposition me. After six or seven pushes, the baby was finally born and I was crying because it still hurt so much and my husband was crying because he was happy and the baby was crying because he was a baby.

He. Another son to perfectly complete our family. I wanted to look at him, but I still had my eyes closed tight from all of the pain. Before long, the sweet boy was in my arms and I was telling him over and over and over how sorry I was. I felt bad that I had wanted to give up. How could I think of giving up when he was getting ready to come to me, my perfect baby son?

Everyone was anxious to see what he weighed because he appeared to be a big baby. The doctor later came into our hospital room to inform us by saying, "Drumroll...TEN POUNDS, FOUR OUNCES."

"Wow," was all I could say.

We called our daughter first to tell her it was a boy and that he was big. She sounded happy (she had always said she wanted it to be another boy). When my husband called his family members to tell them we had the baby and announce if it was a boy or girl, he started each call with, "TEN POUNDS FOUR OUNCES." At that point, the person on the other end of the phone was pretty sure it was a boy.

After awhile, my husband went home to spend some time with the children before bedtime and my sister came to sit with me until she was so tired she could hardly keep her eyes open. She left the next day and I missed her so much after that.

The next day my children came to the hospital to meet their brother. My oldest daughter said when she saw him, "I thought you said he was big." I smiled and agreed that while he was considered a big baby, he was still pretty small when it comes to people.

A few days after the baby was born I looked into his eyes and thought how anything seems possible now, even world peace. Early postpartum always makes me feel that way.

There are no words to capture the gratitude I feel for this baby. From the very beginning, I felt like having him was too good to be true--more than I deserved--so I worried I would lose him. I can't believe how things have turned out for our family. All of those years I spent longing for children and now our table is surrounded by them.

I feel like I know what it means for my cup to run over.





If you like birth stories:
Birth Stories: First Child
Birth Stories: Second Child
Birth Stories: Third Child

Smooth Sale-ing

My scrambled-egg morning brain didn't even know what day it was.

Expecting my fourth (and probably last) baby, I was searching Craigslist for deals on baby items that I didn't have because they had either been worn out by my first three kidlets or had never made it into our household. I had a list. After about an hour of looking for an affordable baby swing, the kind that also swings in the direction of a cradle, I gave up on ever finding one at a price that I was willing to pay (which was $20).

And then I realized that it was FRIDAY.

Friday in the summertime means YARD SALES!!!

In my excitement, I showered myself and dressed my children and got us all strapped in the car in record time. (If only I could be that motivated on Sunday mornings--then we'd be to church ten minutes early like my husband wishes we would be...instead of parading in thirty seconds before the meeting starts.)

The very first yard sale I went to had my baby swing. I couldn't believe it. I had little hope, but in just seconds I was asking her what she was asking. When she said $20, I pounced on it. Maybe some would have offered something less, after all the sale was just getting started. But not me.

I don't dicker.

I found almost everything on my list that weekend. It was like magic. I had been thinking of asking all of my friends to help me find used items instead of having a baby shower. It seemed wasteful to buy new items when they were only going to get used by one baby. I was going to make a game out of it. But the universe came through for me, which turned out to be much less awkward.

The paradox in all of this is that I wish I had had these things for all of my babies--but it was after taking care of three babies that I learned just what things I would like to have!