I'm invincible!

Once upon a time she was my baby girl. One might have called her timid. Her fear of new experiences was palpable and, at times, frustrating for her more adventurous mother. Now she's a "big girl" going to kindergarten and the girl is literally on top of the world. Only a few months ago she decided that reading was rather fun. She's now a pro. About the same time she conquered her fear of the monkey bars and now scales them with ease. A couple of months later her swimming lessons paid off and she begged me to take her to the pool everyday to practice. Her new love is riding her bike, which she figured out two weeks ago, technically, but we're still tweaking the safety skills. You know, little things like stopping, riding on the right side of the road, checking for cars before crossing busy streets...
As if that wasn't enough, last week I sat her down for her first piano lesson. Though she was a bit disappointed that I was her teacher, I must not have been that bad because she spent the next hour plucking out the first three songs in the manual. She's practiced every day since.
My feelings are mixed concerning her newfound burst of confidence. It seems, at times, like some twisted form of early adolescent recklessness. Don't get me wrong, I'm more than happy to encourage her as she dives into new activities. It means she's self-assured, right? But when I'm greeted with statements like "Mom, I swim so good I don't even need lessons anymore!" or "Mom, why'd you pick me up from school again! I wanted to ride my bike home!", or "I don't like using my fourth and fifth fingers (to play the piano), Mom", I'm left to wonder if, in fact, these recent developments are more an expression of rebellion. You know, a way of saying, "I don't really need you anymore, mom."
It hurts a little. And scares me a lot. Because I can't ensure her survival anymore. I know, it sounds dramatic. Probably just a mother's reaction to sending her oldest off to be schooled by complete strangers in a classroom of 23 unfamiliar kids. I guess I'll just let her have her moment of glory and hope for the day that she comes back to earth and figures out that mom actually knows what she's talking about. At least some of the time. Until then, I'll cross my fingers that she doesn't kill herself.

The results are in.

Actually, that's not entirely accurate. We had our 20-week ultrasound today and, sure enough, baby is adorable, in a skeletal, alien sort of way. For now, it is still an "it" and will remain so until his/her birth in another 4 1/2 months. I'm hoping that keeping it a secret will motivate me sufficiently to persist through another unmedicated labor. On second thought, maybe I should sign up for that hypno-birthing class I've seen advertised...

General alarm.

Last night I was looking forward to an early evening date with my pillow. Instead I got a call from my neighbor that prompted me to turn on the news immediately. Here's the story. Tim and I threw our 72-hour kits into the car, just in case, said a prayer, and hunkered down for a couple of hours in front of the TV set to watch the live coverage of events occuring less than a mile (as the crow flies) away from our home.
It's difficult to blog about serious events that affect other families so deeply because I feel as though anything I write will surely minimize their loss. However, in my efforts to keep a journal and record events as they affect our family, I feel obligated to express just one thought in particular. This morning as Lily blessed our breakfast, she thanked Heavenly Father for "letting us keep our house for a long time." I hadn't realized that she was capable of processing (at any level) the devastation that others in our neighborhood had suffered in last night's fire. Especially to the point that she would think to express her gratitude to the Lord without any reminders from her parents. I was dismayed at her tender thoughtfulness. It increased my own gratitude for the multitude of blessings life has afforded me. I can't imagine losing all of my earthly possessions in a fire. I can imagine holding my family close, basking in the joy of them, my eternal possessions.

It takes two.

Monday was our 7th wedding anniversary. Rather than skip Family Home Evening for a date (for shame!), we used the kids free coupons from the library summer reading program and ate dinner at Sizzler. Oh so romantic. On the other hand, Tim bought me these.

And we celebrated a week early by going to the Idaho Shakespeare Festival's production of Into the Woods. I love this musical. And I know every word to every song. I'm so glad that I convinced Tim early on in our courtship that musicals are pretty darn awesome. He's indulged me in dozens since.

Tim and I joke that both of us did plenty of "deceiving" during the year that we dated. I had no clue when we got married that Tim even owned a single computer/video game, let alone played them! Of course, the fact that he was studying electrical engineering should have clued me into the possibility. Regardless, what I really didn't know then was the depth of his testimony and commitment to what is right. He astounds me. Tim is much more than that, but this year, I am truly grateful to have made covenants with someone who honors them and loves me to the fullest. Happy Anniversary Tim!

Fat or pregnant?

I have a fairly long torso. Generally, what this means is that by the end of my pregnancies, I don't have that so-big-I-look-like-I-could-pop appearance. In fact, during my second pregnancy, a lady at church came up to me when I was 7 1/2 months along and asked me if I was pregnant. Nope, just up 20+ pounds, thanks for asking. Which leads me to the downside of having a long torso. The transitional period that every woman experiences to some extent where one's options for clothing are significantly reduced by her expanding waistline but not enough that she would look anything less than silly sporting maternity clothes. Anyone who's been pregnant well knows what I'm referring to. Well, this stage drags into months for me. I'm 19 weeks along and currently fit into exactly 3 pairs of my "fat" shorts. As for tops, pretty much the same story. My daily regimen now includes about 20 minutes of trying on various combinations of pre-pregnancy and maternity clothes before deciding that I'd still rather look fat than pregnant.
Here's why. I have three kids age 5 and under. It is not uncommon for us to get peculiar looks or comments of the "you've got your hands full" variety. When my kids are behaving, I accept such reactions with some degree of pride, as if it were a mark of my capability as a mother. But my kids' behavior is sometimes nothing short of unseemly. So, in my rush to wear something remotely comfortable, I hesitate, knowing that one look at my pregnant belly and my 3 kids pulling each other's hair and screaming while sitting in a Costco shopping cart will elicit any number of responses from the general public, most of them of a judgmental nature. And I'm simply not prepared for that. Not yet. Maybe tomorrow. Today, I'll just let people think I could really use a gym pass.

My very own little blondie.

Growing up as a brunette, I always tolerated blonde jokes with a slight degree of satisfaction. Though my friends with golden locks defied the stereotypes associated with their hair color, perhaps I still envied the attention they seemed to attract, particularly from the opposite sex. So with each blonde joke, I silently consoled myself with the idea that if my hair couldn't earn me any points, at least my intellect could. (Though most of the time that was actually a turn-off, too).

Anyway, I'm here to declare (at the risk of offending a few of my friends) that such stereotypes have been fulfilled within my very own gene pool. Lily, the blondest of my children is, indeed, an airhead in its truest sense. She is rather bright (which, you may find is quite common among blondes) but sensibility is simply not her strong point.

For example. Yesterday, she and Anna are out on the swings when Anna performs her latest trick of jumping off while still swinging. Then she runs off to play somewhere else. Lily, incapable of performing the same stunt but wanting to be with her older sister, racks her brain to discover the quickest way to dismount and join Anna. She fails miserably and, in her frustration, screams for me to come remove her from the swing. I notice that, amid her wailing "I can't get off!", she is still pumping her legs. I tell her to relax her legs and stop pumping. She refrains for all of two seconds before passing it off as a dumb idea and starts pumping (and screaming for help) again.

So there you have it. For all their redeeming traits, blondes are, in fact, a little on the slow side when compared with their brunette counterparts. At least in this family.

Practice makes perfect.

We started practicing our walk to school a couple of weeks ago. It only took one agonizing half-hour of pushing the jogging stroller alongside Anna and her scooter before realizing that perhaps biking to school would be a better option. Problem: Anna still hasn't mastered the bike. A week later, this is what I'm towing behind me on the mile-long ride to elementary school(complete with kids, of course):


We cut our travel time to 11 minutes, each-way. I'm pleased. Especially since I'm out of shape, and I'm 18 weeks pregnant, and I'm towing 3 kids behind me... The next 2 1/2 months before cold weather hits should be fun. Or madness. Complete madness.

I don't like you.

We have this children's book entitled Lilly's Purple Plastic Purse about a little mouse who absolutely LOVES her schoolteacher, Mr. Slinger. One day, Mr. Slinger has to disclipine Lilly for misbehavior in class and she does not respond kindly. She draws a pretty nasty picture of him and leaves it at school so he can see just how livid she is about being punished. But, at the end of the day, he says kindly to her that today was a little rough but tomorrow would be better. She feels pretty stupid, wishing she could take it all back.

The other day Rachel put a spoonful of yogurt into Anna's full glass of milk at breakfast. Anna was repulsed. She immediately requested a "clean" glass of milk at which point I informed her that the size of Rachel's spoonful was so minute in comparison to the amount of milk that she wouldn't even notice it. She refused to even taste it and instead threw it into the sink, asking again for a clean glass of milk. I told her it was a waste and that I wouldn't indulge her in that luxury when she wouldn't even try the original milk.

She seemed annoyed, but I didn't realize the magnitude of her upset until yesterday, when I discovered a drawing that had a picture of Anna telling me "I don't like you." I asked her to tell me about it. She grabbed it away, with no intention of telling me. I prodded again. She related, barely whispering, "Remember the other day when you wouldn't pour me another glass of milk? Well, I drew this then." I chuckled. She chuckled back. I said, "It's probably not a good idea to draw mean pictures of people that you'll probably regret. Don't you feel kind of silly now that I found it?" "Yeah," she agreed. We laughed again.

I haven't even gotten to the best part. I noticed that the grown-up in the picture (me) had a stick figure drawn onto her large belly and two big circles in the chest area. The little girl (Anna) had two small dots in her chest area. I asked Anna why she had drawn boobs on me. She replied, "Because you have them." I reasoned, "Well, I have arms, too, and you didn't bother drawing those." Again, we laughed together.

Splurges.

I consider myself a pretty practical person. I'd like to think that even if I had unlimited funds, I will still exercise a bit of self-control and keep to a reasonable budget. Still, there are a few small ways in which convenience rules over frugality for me. Here are a few:

1. Car washes. Since having kids, I don't think I've ever washed our car by hand. The inside? Sure, I'll give that a good wipe-down but I'm all for power vacuuming and a power wash. Someday I'll give into the urge to make the car wash a family event. Just not today.

2. Grocery shopping. I'm afraid I haven't given into the WinCo mania that most of my peers are converted to. Even though they clearly have the best prices, I'd rather shop the sales at Albertson's and Fred Meyer than drive 20 minutes for $3.99/5 dozen eggs. It's a bit embarrassing, but I've kept to my budget for 5 years, so sue me.

3. Pampered Chef. I simply can't go to a show and not buy anything! Pretty sure I have a $3 avocado peeler that I bought 4 years ago that has only been used twice.

Okay, I can't really think of any more. I'm pretty much a cheapskate through and through. I'll have to post about ways in which I save money that are pretty much unthinkable for average folks. It'll be much richer in content.

Keeping my cool.

I've come a long way as a mother. But there are still those days when, even though I've kept my cool through it all, I feel like I should be earning a higher return for my efforts. Like today, for instance. I'll spare you the details, but let's just say that if today's events keep up for another few days (or maybe even just one!), I will be putting Lily up for adoption. Any takers?

Summer days at home.

Anna's had a fever and sore throat for the past few days so we've been taking it easy at home. Lest she think that being sick means she can watch movies all day, we've been shaking it up with a few other activities: board games, reading, cooking, and crafts. Here's some pictures of our outdoor painting experience the other day:

Pet peeves.

Some people assume that pet peeves are irrational, that they border on obsessive. I tend to agree. People's pet peeves are usually minor complaints that grate on them, and them only in a way that gets them highly emotional. It's silly, really.
That being said, I have a pet peeve of my own. I despise when people don't return their shopping carts to the proper location. Especially, especially when the cart return area is only a few parking spots over. Here's why. Basically, when one doesn't return his cart, he is essentially saying that his convenience supercedes that of the person whose car will not fit into the space because of the ill-placed cart, or the person who ultimately returns the cart. Also that the rules apply to pregnant moms with millions of groceries to load and three kids to buckle into their seats but not to them.
Heck, maybe you are a pregnant mom with millions of groceries and three kids. I am. And I still return my cart. Every time. Because I try to assume that there is someone else out there who has it tougher than I. And he doesn't need my cart blocking his parking spot.
Perhaps you can note the elevated temper in my writing. See what I mean? Completely irrational. Pet peeves are lame.
But if that gets my blood boiling it does not hold a candle to semi-trucks passing other semis on a two-lane highway. Talk about get-in-your-face annoying.

Out in the boonies.

My sister-in-law's family owns a ranch in eastern Idaho and they are generous enough to invite our family to spend a few days up there each year. Regrettably, our memories of our vacations to "the ranch" are not always fond, largely because Tim and I are both stupid enough to think that we can sacrifice sleep and still get along. Game plan for this year: go to bed on time. It worked! We relaxed on the patio and took in stunning panoramic views, played games with my siblings, let the kids run free (at least more than suburban life allows), and did a bit of four-wheeling, too.

It was a nice end to our streak of July weekend trips.

One question, though. Why is it that anytime you get a group of kids together, someone always, always gets sick? And the rest of us bring it home with us?

Every cloud has a silver lining.

Advantages to not cooking dinner:

1. Your kids are less likely to turn up their noses at a Happy Meal than lasagna.
2. Fewer dishes.
3. Plenty of space in the fridge.
4. A kitchen with minimal use needs minimal cleaning.

Not that I think such advantages outweigh the host of benefits that preparing home-cooked meals delivers, but I'm just saying...

Out of the woods?

Last night we grilled pizza for dinner. Tim kept asking if I had done something different, altered the sauce somehow, rolled the dough out thinner, cooked it a different length of time... to which I finally responded, "No, it's just that I haven't cooked for you in the last two months so your taste buds are ultra appreciative." I have, in fact, made dinner every night this week. Yea! We just might be out of the woods here.

Which reminds me, while visiting my grandma in San Diego last year, the conversation drifted to pregnancy and she mentioned that she had never experienced any sort of pregnancy-induced nausea. In fact, she thinks that "morning sickness" is pretty much psychosomatic, a condition induced primarily by one's knowledge of her pregnancy instead of actual hormonal changes. I had to laugh. If you know my grandma, such a statement is neither surprising nor offensive. It's just grandma.

Now that my experience is very recent, and the difference between last week and this so stark, her opinion seems all the more humorous. Psychosomatic...

Something's gotta give..

I read the greatest article this past week about a young mother who had 4 kids under the age of six and the natural chaos that inevitably filled their household. It made me laugh. It made me scared, too. I also remember talking to a neighbor, who said that she had to give up her clean house as soon as her fourth child was born. At the time, I only had two and I thought to myself, "Nah. You've just gotta be supermom. Sacrifice a little sleep! Train the kids to do it! How hard can it really be?" I now realize my naivete and anticipate making some significant sacrifices as soon as this fourth child arrives.

It's just a given that having kids is a sacrifice, but I always planned that there were several things that I would never let go. My tidy house, for instance. An ordered, structured environment and lifestyle. Daily personal scripture study. My resolve to discipline my kids with consistency. The energy to run my kids ragged with fun and still get dinner on the table (and a few chores done in between).

I've done all right. But if I can keep it together most the time, is it truly a sacrifice? Have I really consecrated myself if I still feel relative control over my life?

I don't have an answer. I do think that stretching ourselves is what enables us to develop the Christlike attributes that will ultimately exalt us. I also believe that (being the first commandment God gave) bearing children is the primary way that we can accomplish this. But maybe the fact that I still feel some level of control over my life is due to having grown accustomed to the chaos and not because I haven't sufficiently sacrificed. I just might be getting better at this. Admittedly, though, I'm pretty sure that my house will, indeed, go to pot after this next baby is born.