My baby's two.

Landmark moment. We have a two-year old in the house without having another newborn to boot. I'll try to deemphasize the fact that we will, in fact, have a newborn in less than two months...

Rachel turned two on Monday! Aside from the fact that she wakes up before 6:30 every day, she is a complete doll and we love having her as a part of our family. We celebrated with a Dora the Explorer Cake and ice cream with a few families who have boys born around the same time as Rachel. I think she enjoyed the company, and the presents.

A few cute things about Rachel at age two. She still says, "Hold you me!" She's speaking in semi-complete sentences, though they're usually something like, "Anna bonk my head." or "Lily hurt me." Poor abused child. She loves to jump from relatively high surfaces and yell, "Watch me, Mommy!" She insists on buckling her own seatbelt (something we only recently convinced her older sister to do), putting her own shoes and pants on, and taking her dishes over after meals. Yikes. Rachel is affectionate and brutal at the same time - she is quick to say she's sorry when she hurts someone but also doesn't seem to mind doing the hurting in the first place. She sings in tune and can even handle a key change without flinching. You should hear her rendition of "I am a Child of God." I love you Rachel. Happy Birthday!

XOXOXO.

Dinnertime is increasingly stressful for me. My conscience dictates that I serve something not only appetizing but healthy at some level, which basically means there should be a fruit, a vegetable, and whole grains somewhere on the table. Our dinners never lack variety. Tim has even mentioned that he wouldn't mind if I cooked certain favorite dishes more than, say, once every three months...
My attempts to help my 3-year-old try new things are failing miserably. Her will is too strong to break and honestly, I'm not a big fan of turning food into a control issue. But recently, she has stopped eating fruits and vegetables altogether. I'm at my wits end. The other night, my other two daughters (who eat only marginally better) turned up their noses at what I had cooked for dinner. There was plenty to choose from, the main dish was a child's favorite (pizza!), and they still didn't bother to touch their food. Even when I threatened that they would not get so much as a morsel of Rachel's birthday cake, they claimed they were full after a measly 4 grapes and a slice of apple apiece. Tim wasn't around to calm my escalating mood. Out flowed a stream of negativity for the next half hour until the kids had satisfied my requirements.
Sadly, the damage had been done. Still stuck in a rut of moodiness, I sat down on the couch in exasperation while Anna visibly sulked in the corner. She quietly remarked, "Mom, I haven't gotten any hugs or kisses today." She was wrong. But her comment was a pretty good indication that my criticism had not been balanced out by enough affection earlier in the day. I apologized, welcomed her onto my shrinking lap and hugged the guts out of her, stroking her hair and showering her with kisses.
So, I'm a bad mommy. And a good mommy. At least she could muster the courage to ask me for the affection she needed and know that it would be greeted with only the best of reactions. For that, I'm glad. But I'll do better next time.

Pure religion.

On Friday nights, before retiring to bed, Tim and I plan out our Saturday. Over a week ago, Tim decided that he would spend his Saturday helping out a less-active elderly lady in our ward chop wood for the winter. (She lives on the outskirts of our ward boundaries, in what might be considered a mountain cabin.) Though his service would probably take most of the day, Tim, in usual fashion, did not think twice about pitching in. The next morning, I was reluctant. No, frantic, might be a better descriptor.
I was having second thoughts about the wisdom of having him spend what he estimated would be the entire day away from our family, given the number of uncompleted projects we still had, the limited amount of time in which to finish them and the remaining exhaustion I felt from a strenuous week (you might remember, I blogged about it). As Tim was putting on his shoes to leave, I reluctantly posed the question, "Are you sure this is the best use of your time this weekend?" I then pointed out our situation, hoping that he would see that perhaps the load might better be carried by other men in our ward.
He disagreed. I couldn't argue, knowing that it was unfair to assume that others would pick up the slack, and selfish to allow their burden to be heavier because he opted out. I told him to go. After he left, I stood, crying in the kitchen for a few minutes, indulging myself in a moment of self-pity. I even compared myself to one of the wives of John Taylor or Heber C. Kimball or Brigham Young when they left on a mission to England. They all were suffering from the ague, a miserable disease, and some of them had little sustenance on which to survive during the time their husbands were gone. How immature of me. Nevertheless, my week had rendered me emotional and vulnerable to such selfish imaginations.
I cried for 5 minutes. Then I got the kids dressed, did our Saturday morning chores, and invited Anna outside to tackle the pile of bark we had had delivered earlier that week. Fortunately, bark is much lighter than rocks. We dug in and made progress much faster than a five-year old and seven-month pregnant woman should, distributing the bark via wheelbarrow to our garden beds. The other two kids played happily in our quiet cul-de-sac.
Within half an hour, one of our neighbors, with whom I've spoken on less than a handful of occasions, made his way down to our house and offered to help. I almost started crying again, avoided turning him down, and let him shovel enough loads to finish the beds in the front yard. He complained that it had been too easy, that he could help out some more. I rejoiced in the lesson I had learned, and the sweetness of his gesture.
I had once again been taught that sacrifice is never really a sacrifice. It is an opportunity for us to show our faith - then the Lord blesses us far beyond the level of our sacrifice. I feel silly suggesting that supporting my husband in his absence on a single Saturday was even a sacrifice, knowing how many don't have husbands, or have spouses that work insane hours. Regardless, it was for me at the time, and it became a lesson that service is always rewarded, either directly or indirectly, by a loving Father in Heaven.

Neverending story.

I can pat myself on the back today. I set a goal to wash, fold, and put away all five loads of laundry yesterday and guess what? I did it! A modern-day miracle.
Maybe you are more competent than I am in the laundry department. Maybe you have set days on which you do laundry and nothing interferes with it. Maybe you don't find yourself fumbling through the dryer for a pair of pants that you haven't worn since last week. Maybe your five-year-old doesn't complain that she can't find a shirt to match her gray corduroys (the only clean pants in her drawer). Maybe, just maybe your husband doesn't have to run downstairs in a towel when he discovers that every last pair of underwear is still sitting (albeit, folded) on the bar in the kitchen.
Maybe, you could send some advice my way...

The birds and the bees.

My oldest daughter has always been curious. In her earliest days that simply translated into figuring out what kind of response she could get from various types of screams. Then she unlocked the key to cosmetics and household products, smearing them across any surface she could find. She later graduated to discovering what would happen if she stuffed items of irregular sizes down the toilet. Fortunately, she challenges her mind now by reading constantly, exploring more constructive activities, and asking lots of questions. Lots of them.

We've already engaged in several conversations about where babies come from. This is a topic I had hoped to save until she was eight years old, a time when dad and I could corral her, take her on a date, and explain it in a way that was well-scripted and designed to help her see how wonderful the whole process is within the right context.

I should have known my Anna would not wait for such a day. Yesterday, she asked me how some people who aren't married can have children. She wanted to know how the egg got fertilized if the man and woman weren't married. I tried to skirt the issue, explaining vaguely that they made some unwise choices that had brought a baby into the world. She was unrelenting, wanting to know the nitty-gritty. I paused after each question, not knowing how to answer honestly without blowing her mind and finally just gave into her curiosity and bore the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I should have been more prepared, but I must have handled it well because she finally seemed satisfied and gave me a big hug and a smile when I remarked that dad and I are so happy to have shared such a loving experience that blessed us with three (almost four) wonderful children.

My favorite part, though: when I told her that sperm is contained in a fluid, she asked me, "Does the fluid fly to fertilize the egg?"

You need to take better care of your kids.

Earlier this week I had a couple of extra children over and, soon after they were dropped off, I noticed that the phone was not on its cradle. I asked around to see if anyone could point me in the right direction. One of the neighbor kids indicated that it was on the stairs. Lily had gotten a hold of it and had, of course, dialed some random combination of numbers that had resulted in a connection. Not realizing that there was still someone on the line, I hung it up, after noticing that it had been off the hook for over four minutes. Shortly thereafter, the phone rang. I let the answering machine pick it up since I was trying to get 5 kids involved in something more constructive than begging me to let them watch a movie. When I finally got a minute, I checked my answering machine to find a message saying something to the effect of, "One of your children just called me. I could hear everything that was going on. I was hoping for an apology because I couldn't use my phone the entire time. You really should keep a better eye on your kids." She left no number, and we have no caller ID, for which I was glad because then I didn't have to feel guilty about not wasting my time and my breath apologizing for a situation that really was laughable.
First of all, when I receive phone calls where there is something unintelligible going on in the background I give it about 5 seconds max before hanging up. And do you know what happens? It's truly miraculous. I can use my phone again!
Second, listening to 4 minutes of someone else's life is way too much for me. I can barely stand reality TV, why would I hang on the line while some anonymous mother shuffles around five kids under 5?
And third, is it really irresponsible to have lost track of a phone receiver for 4 minutes under any circumstances, let alone the ones I had just found myself in?
At first I was perturbed. Then I thought it was pretty darn funny. Finally, I decided that I could turn it into a learning experience and remember to refrain from judging other people based on a limited window into their lives. On top of that, I still find it entertaining.

I.Am.So.Tired.

My toddler wakes up in the middle of the night. Pretty much every night. I can't get back to sleep for an average of 1 1/2 hours every time. Then she wakes up somewhere between 5 and 6:30 every morning (usually not long after I've finally fallen into a slumber again). I taught Joy School on Tuesday and Wednesday. I also took care of 18 kids this week (but not all at the same time) on 6 separate occasions for a grand total of 12 hours. Typically, hosting other people's children is not a "break" for me, where the kids play happily while I get chores done, though I've had an occasional playdate where that has been the case. Most of the time, my kids and I plan specific activities to keep everyone engaged, happy, and out of trouble. I simply feel better about myself when I play with the kids at least part of the time. That's just me.
I think I hit my breaking point today. I held it together right up until the last child was picked up and even pressed on through swimming lessons and dinner this evening before I broke down and put Lily to bed an hour early without a bath because she was dragging her feet (which she does, by the way, all the time). Then I cried and whined to Tim about how rotten all the kids in the world are, how tired I am of bending over to pick up toys or clean spilled milk, how tiresome it is comfort a child with hurt feelings (when I'm the one who needs comforting, too). Poor Tim. Poor me. I guess I have my limits. And I probably shouldn't be so willing to test them when I'm 7 months pregnant.
I knew this week was going to be a doozy before I hit the ground running on Monday. But I was optimistic about the outcome - because much of the time kids can actually be quite fun. They can also be emotional, messy, defiant, aggressive, and demanding. I saw both sides this week. Next time I'll try to plan a little better.
Oh, and if your kids spent any time at my house this week and they're scarred by the experience, I'm sorry. I promise I didn't yell or spank any of them. But I was no Mary Poppins either.

We did it!

Some of you may remember the monstrocity that we had planned to ride to school daily this year. It consisted of my bike pulling a tag-a-long bike, pulling a two-seat trailer. I found it to be an embarrassing necessity for a mom with three children who could not (at the time) ride bikes without training wheels. Fortunately, my labor of love lasted only one week as Anna conquered two wheels shortly after school started. Hooray!
Still, riding 40 minutes total each day to and from school while pregnant and pulling two kids in a trailer was no small task. But, I reasoned that I was getting adequate exercise, saving gas, and hopefully teaching my children the value of staying active. My goal: just make it to November. Of course it got tougher as my belly got larger and the weather got colder (though not much, thankfully!). But I'm happy to say we did it!
I wish I could report that my weight gain has been influenced by daily exercise. But I can't. I didn't work out a day during my pregnancies with Anna or Rachel and the difference has been pretty much negligible. Alas. However, I kept at the treadmill until I was 7 1/2 months pregnant with Lily and her delivery was my easiest and best by far. That's what the research shows. So, if I can't be skinny, at least I can pop this baby out like I was born to give birth. Pretty please?
I've still got a little over two months to go. Any suggestions for a cold-weather workout?