Mind over matter.

Dinner tonight was Ahi Tuna. While reading the menu, I managed to skim over the fact that it was cooked to medium rare. You'd think living in Asia for over 13 years would have endeared me to raw fish. Nope. Give me California rolls anyday over sushi.

But I had paid for it... and I was hungry... and it was expensive. So I bit the bullet and ate it. And only then did I begin to understand how Lily feels practically every time she sits down to a meal. I used to think she was just playing me until I acquiesced to her demands for a different dinner. Okay, most of the time, she probably is trying to play me. But occasionally, she probably wants to yack. Just as I wanted to as I stomached the raw fish that had found its way onto my dinner plate the other night.

On another note, Avatar in 3D was pretty cool.

Thanks for a hot date, honey.

Second Christmas.

It's becoming somewhat of a tradition. Each year Tim's parents (and grandparents) shower our kids with insane amounts of presents that spoil them absolutely rotten. Problem is, they live in Southern California. And inevitably some (or all, in this year's case) of the present arrive after Christmas. We even enjoyed one year where we got a steady stream of packages for an entire week after the big holiday. It was like Christmas all over again. And again. And again.
So this year, when the big package arrived 4 days late, I dubbed it "Second Christmas". You know, like a hobbit's second breakfast. Tee hee.
Thanks Grandma and Grandpa E. for spoiling our kids so that we don't have to.

Merry Christmas.

Ah, it was a delightful day. And, in case I've failed to mention it in the past, I have the cutest kids in the whole wide world.

Joy to the world.

It's Christmas Eve and I wrapped all the presents early this year so I've a few minutes to blog. Why not document a few highlights of the season?

1. Decorating Christmas ornaments.
2. Trimming the tree. We put the kids to work assembling our Target clearance scotch pine and I am the official light putter-upper.



3. Watching Mr. Krueger's Christmas. Don't mind the barf bowl.


4. Joy School Christmas party complete with nativity program.
Rachel as the star of Bethlehem.

And Lily as the angel.



5. Making and delivering treats. I used a different tactic this year and, instead of meticulously counting out how many plates I wanted to deliver and baking cookies accordingly, I just baked and assembled what was available. Which resulted in... a lot fewer plates. So, if you didn't make the cut this year - I'm sorry. Better luck next year!

6. Sending out Christmas cards. Many thanks to my own personal sweatshop.



7. Anna using some old scraps of fabric to design a baby quilt.


8. Eve learning to stand. The flushing of toilets and closing of bathroom doors is now strictly enforced.


9. Riding in a four-wheeler drawn sleigh.


10. Reading the Christmas story from Luke on Christmas Eve with nary an interruption.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!

Dear Santa.

It's time for a change.

I've been wearing the same pair of black shoes to church for the past 6 years. They're not even cute. They're open-toed and yes, I wear them in the winter. But they work. I'm a practical kind of girl, you see. And I happen to have no fashion sense, on top of that. So I wear shoes that I should be embarressed about, while "black dress shoes" rests a few notches down from the top on my wish list waiting for the fateful day when my shoes actually fall apart and I'm forced into upgrading.

I do have a backup pair, for snowy days, shoes with which I can actually sport a pair of nylons. But they are even older and uglier than the ones I wear regularly, so they remain at the back of my closet, destined to end up in the donation pile someday. I've considered consulting someone with a sense of style to assist me in shopping for a new pair. But then, that someone would probably suggest something outlandish like buying several pairs to dress up a variety of outfits and I'd be forced to break the bank. Unacceptable.

Please help. I've been nice instead of naughty this year. But you already know that.

A gift.

I've been in a bit of a "Scroogy" mood lately. Deprivation remains hidden in our part of the country/world so, though I realize people are suffering somewhere, somehow, it's hard to see past the materialism that dominates our culture. For instance I taught Joy School a few weeks ago and we did a sub-for-santa activity where each child brought a toy from home (gently used) or bought a toy with his own money to give to "needy" children. I was not looking forward to it, largely because I personally don't think that kids (or anyone, for that matter) "need" toys. I even cringe at the idea of buying my own kids toys for Christmas. Plus, if a family's really destitute, wouldn't a 25 pound bag of wheat fit the bill? That was my bah-humbug.

Apparently, the lesson was for me. Some kids give gifts begrudgingly. That day, they lit up at the prospect of bringing Christmas to someone else. They couldn't fathom the idea that someone their age would not be getting toys for Christmas this year. They each went home, motivated to give the best that they could. One boy told his mom he wanted to give his very favorite toy to the children. And he did. Without hesitation. My own daughter picked out a toy from our treasure chest of toys that we buy on clearance for birthday parties, selected what she felt to be the ultimate prize and pulled out hard-earned money from her piggy bank to pay for it. Without complaint. Other moms have since mentioned what a positive experience it has been for their child (and by extension, for their family) by participating in this activity.

Perhaps children don't really "need" toys. But our children needed to give them. And I needed the reminder that truly, it is better to give than to receive.

Obedience: The first law of heaven.

It started out as a routine grocery store trip. Which is, even on the best of days, never routine. They received the usual reminder of what behavior is expected of them in public - no screaming, running away from mom, picking and eating boogers - you know, everything they do at home with reckless abandon. And then we were off.

The little ones were excited to help me pick out produce - so excited that they began to fight over who would do what. So excited that Lily planted herself smack dab in front of a stack of oranges while we meandered through the rest of the produce section. So excited that she then yelled across the store "Mom, can I get this bag of oranges?" and somehow failed to notice how many times I shook my head and ushered her closer to the rest of the clan.

She must have repeated herself five or six times, the volume increasing with each request. I walked closer, warned her that if she did not quiet down and join us, she would not be able to pick out anything. She started wailing. I couldn't seem to figure out the connection between her response and what I thought to be a pretty reasonable warning. I upped the ante.

"Lily, quiet down or you will have to sit in the cart for the rest of our trip." More wailing. I was losing my temper.

"Lily, I would be happy to talk to you when you stop screaming. If you don't, though, we are leaving the store. No picking out oranges, no cookie(gotta love Albertson's freebies), no play time when you get home. You will go straight to your room."

I guess she thought that was a pretty good exchange for unleashing her worst behavior. I plopped her in the grocery cart, took the two items we had managed to pick out in the minute since we had entered the store, and rushed to the checkout. It was so bad, the man in front of us in line told her to shut her mouth. Not that it was his place to say it, but seriously, my kid can raise hell when she puts her mind to it.

You wouldn't believe how well my other three children behaved while all this went down - it was as if they were trying to compensate for the disaster that was Lily that particular morning. We made it home, stuck her in her room and found her asleep within 20 minutes.

The silver lining? I got a $9 off your next shopping trip coupon for spending less than $5. I went without the kids, of course.

Adoption.

I'm a pretty opinionated person. As a teenager I felt it my obligation to tell everyone exactly what they were doing wrong. And why. Oh yeah, my tongue could spar with the best of them. No one could possibly win an argument with me. (At least that was my perception - now I'm guessing I probably looked pretty stupid half the time).

Then I grew up a bit. Oh, I still have opinions. Only now they're backed by research and shaped by experience. And I manage to keep my mouth shut most of the time, just for good measure.

The other day, though, I got into a discussion about adoption - not usually a terribly controversial topic, I suppose. But this particular day, my mood was especially tart, my inhibitions, well, nonexistent, actually. I boldly remarked that people who get pregnant out of wedlock and keep their babies are selfish. Strong word, I know. Especially since keeping the baby is actually honorable when not supported by the father and, in consideration of other alternatives that are readily available to people who find themselves pregnant under less-than-desirable circumstances.

Anyway, I suppose I could offer some explanation as to why I made such an argument But I won't. I will suggest that adoption is a remarkable process - a miracle, of sorts, to see a child paired up with a two-parent family who so desperately wants to bring children into their home. I realize that it is a deeply personal decision and will refrain from making offensive assertions about those who choose otherwise. However, I am inspired by those who place their children in loving homes in the hopes of securing a better future for their son or daughter. How painful it would be. Which is what makes it all the more selfless, as I see it.

Jekyl and Hyde.

I have a laundry load dedicated solely to pinks at my house. Sometimes two loads, depending on how many blankets Rachel decided to pee on during previous nights. Pulling out a pink lint tray is pretty darn cute. But the reality of pink rears its ugly head at our house right around the age of three.

If there were a boarding school for three-year-old girls I'd say, "Sign me up, baby." At least that way, I could guarantee that she would survive to see her fourth birthday. I've got one word to describe the age of three at our house: Regression. I get to kiss every positive personality trait I thought my child possessed out the window for at least a year thereafter. At least. In their place I experience a whole lot of screaming, whining, impulsiveness, defiance, and disobedience. Take Rachel, for instance. She's got a killer personality. Had a killer personality. Now there are so many layers of "the threes" that I don't really like her. Can I say that? I love her dearly. But I don't like her so much right now.

She sits on Eve's back when she crawls. She refuses to wear socks. Or a coat (we've been floating in the single digits for about a week now). If someone even looks at a toy that she has played with in the last 24 hours, she'll scream at them bloody murder until it's tucked safely in her arms. Her favorite phrase right now? "You're the meanest sister in the whole wide world!"

Oh, I love her. But I hate three.

My Antonia

In the way of book reviews, I rather enjoyed My Antonia, by Willa Cather. The imagery was stunning - I've always seen Nebraska as the state one must endure while driving I-80 to Chicago. But to those who settled it, I'm sure beauty must have peeked through the harshness that was winter in those parts.

Notwithstanding how I enjoyed this particular tale, its characters and the various themes that forced reflection, I was completely turned off by the foreword. I made the mistake of reading it before beginning the novel - which didn't necessarily taint my experience, but left a bad taste in my mouth in and of itself.
Basically, three-quarters of the thing was about Willa Cather's sexual orientation. Whether or not there is evidence to support the idea that she was a lesbian, I don't see why that has to be the primary factor that influenced her writing. It really bothers me that sexual orientation has become such a defining characteristic for everyone these days. It is one of many traits that shape a person, not the be all and end all.

I could go on and on. The foreword was a temporary setback. But once I got past it, I loved the book. It made me grateful for the comforts of life I enjoy - the fact that when I travel to visit someone, I arrive after only a few hours of travel in the luxury of a plane or car, with a warm bed waiting for me, a fridge full of food. Having to hunt or search for food and build my own shelter after months of travel in the bitter cold is an experience I'm glad I don't have to endure. It's remarkable isn't it? How we take things for granted? I think it's possible to be happy under any circumstances; but it's determine by the level of gratitude one can attain.

The book also gave me a glmpse of true Christian service - of helping others even when the receiver is undeserving or ungrateful, of biting one's tongue when he feels his temper rising, of turning the other cheek. Too often I forget the role mercy plays and favor justice.

I suppose I'm rambling. All in all, I would recommend My Antonia, otherwise I would not be blogging about it. Just don't bother with the foreword.

Thanksgiving.

Thanks for a great time, family. We ate, played Ticket to Ride, ate some more, played Ticket to Ride again, and again. We visited, ate even more (noticing a pattern here?), decorated graham cracker houses, took the kids to Jump On It, watched a nail-biter BYU game, and went home a few pounds heavier. Well, at least Tim did. I lost a pound. Ha!

Hangover.

I woke up this morning and took a look at my house. Really took a look at it. It was showing the signs of days, no, weeks of neglect. I shrugged my shoulders, rolled up my sleeves and got to work. Not much later, I realized that my kids, too, were showing signs of neglect. And their needs were ever so much more pressing. So we sat down and played a game together. But only after I convinced them to clean the playroom, of course.

Last night marked my major debut as the counselor in the Relief Society presidency over weekday meetings. We staged a musical accompanied by dinner. It was awesome - a spiritual experience, indeed. Still, I'm glad it's over. My children and my house will thank me. But only after I host book club tomorrow and teach Joy School next week. (And host a Joy School Christmas party, and send out Christmas cards, and make plates of cookies for neighbors, and, and, and, you know how it goes.)
Truly, though, I love the Christmas season. And somewhere in the middle of the mayhem, we get to reflect on what a marvelous gift the Savior is to us. I feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude for my life and the role that He plays in it.

Steppin' it up.

This week I finished this reversible apron:


And the view from the back:



Let's see it on a model.



And another, just for kicks.



I set a goal to complete at least one sewing project in 2009. This makes number three. Nevermind how painfully embarassing the quality is, I did it! Sure pays to set your sights low. I think I'll try it again next year.

Terrible threes.

Three is not a good age at our house. I have a theory about why that is, but I'll save it for another post. Regardless, Rachel turned three last week! She wet her pants about three times that day in celebration of the fact.

Rachel is bright, affectionate, independent, confident, compassionate, and beautiful. Pictures don't do her justice at all. She's got edible fair skin and the most unique eyes (in shape, not so much color). I love to stare and stare at her. At least until she yells at me to go do something else.

Her most unique feature is her desire to learn new skills. She loves to sit down with me and Lily to read, even though the pace at which Lily does so is painfully laborious. It's as if she's trying to glean a few skills herself. She helps around the house with laundry, tidying, cooking and was (by far) my earliest car seat buckler/door opener and closer. This desire to learn (and be independent) has eased the transition from 3 to 4 kids as I don't have to do everything for everyone. Just Eve (and Lily... who is a completely different character).

On odd years, we opt out of a traditional birthday party with friends and let the birthday kid choose a family activity. She decided on the zoo. Brrrr. We had a great time ducking into the warmth of indoor exhibits at every opportunity. It's not often that our whole family gets to go to the zoo together (usually just mom and the girls) so it was particularly fun.

Rachel, you are adorable. Happy third birthday!

Dinner duty.

My kids love to bake goodies. Help me with dinner? Not so much. Obviously, the spoils aren't quite so tasty when they don't contain butter and sugar. So a few weeks ago we established dinner duty at our house. Anna's got Monday, Lily on Tuesday, and Rachel helps on Wednesday. The other two get to set the table on the days they don't cook. Oh, I love it. Especially when Lily points out over and over how she's not going to touch what we're fixing.

Oh, and for the token blog post picture(s), I've included a few of how the kids used their time while mom and dad were holed up in our room coughing and feeling rather feverish.


Bubble baths in the sink.


And lollipops by the half dozen. Oh yeah.

No greater call.

I began my college career as an education major. I fought my way into the Intro. to Education course at Boston University and thought I had found my calling in life. A year and a half later, I found myself in Provo, Utah fighting BYU to accept me at all. I'd lost my scholarship, and could no longer afford the BU pricetag. Oops.

By the time BYU took me, I had spent a year and a half in Taiwan, decided I was still smart, and opted for a Political Science/American Studies major. Just for fun. I thought maybe I'd be in school for a while and I might as well study something enjoyable the first time around. Then I could get down to business with a law degree or something.

Law degree never materialized. I got married right around graduation, and set to work putting my husband through school. We got pregnant - due right around his graduation. And the rest is history. No regrets either.

Except that I should have stuck with teaching. I've spent all 8 1/2 years of my marriage teaching in some form - teaching nursery, Young Women, nursery again, Primary, and now Relief Society. I got ambitious and decided that I wanted to teach my kids' preschool and have for the past 4 years. I have a dream (that's still on the backburner) of homeschooling.

Tuesday I volunteered in Anna's first-grade class. I spent most of my time out in the hall with a few, shall we say, "smart in non-academic ways" children. We worked on simple addition. They struggled. I backed up. We worked on counting by twos. I got creative, employing different strategies to assist them. They still struggled, but it was fun to see a bit of progress.

Then I came back into the classroom and assisted the kids who were completing so-called "challenge packets". Anna was doing double digit addition. It was taking her a while, so I knelt down next to her desk and taught her how to "carry the one". Three equations later and she was a pro.

Teaching is fun. I suppose I take it for granted that my kids are just plain smart. They get it from their dad, naturally. I don't have to get fancy with acrobatics or anything to get them to grasp a new concept. I need to be more grateful for that. And overlook the fact that their brains also facilitate the fact that they enjoy doing exactly the opposite of what I've asked. Two sides to every coin, I suppose.

Yes, I can actually be fun sometimes.

I often feel as though I'm raining on my kids' parade. It's just that everything they want to do involves a huge mess, so I spend my days cleaning up after them (or forcing them to clean up their own messes, which, let's face it, takes 10 times as long) so it's difficult to generate any sort of desire to do anything they deem fun. I've already given up my clean house to the raising of four girls, but can I be blamed for wanting even the slightest sense of order around here?
A couple of weeks ago, I decided I wanted to throw not one, but two Halloween parties - one for the younger ones in the morning while Anna was at school, and another in the afternoon for Anna and her friends. For a non-Halloween lover, this was big.





We dressed up, played games, decorated cookies, ate them, and overall had a fabulous time. And then, while cleaning up, a bird ran into our back window and died. Here is its friend mourning the loss. Talk about raining on a parade.

Breaking a horse.

And now, the latest reason for implementing the use of a chart in our little household. A hint: it has something to do with food (and not eating it...ever...unless there's sugar in it... lots of it).

Yes, we're trying something new. Again. As Halloween approached, I dreaded the persistent requests for candy at all hours of the day. In the past I've succumbed to every request (as long as there was a please somewhere in the middle of it all) because I figured, hey, it's their candy. They worked for it (while I enjoyed the comfort of my warm home while sitting on my rear end, I might add). And eventually, it went away. But not before Lily had driven me absolutely batty as she fasted through every meal, knowing that there was candy lurking around every snack time.

Back to a few weeks ago. We were eating some sort of soup for dinner. Can't remember what kind, though I'm sure it was delicious, as everything I make most certainly is. (Maybe if I keep telling everyone that, they'll eventually believe it. Even Lily) She wouldn't touch it. I told her that she only had to try everything on her plate before leaving the table. She gagged a bit at the thought, then dug in her heels for a long night. I upped the ante, saying that she needed to eat one bite of everything on her plate before 7:45 or she would have to eat it all. I even set the timer. She complained. And complained. And then she complained a bit more. I played the trump card: "Lily, if you do not at least try everything, you will not enjoy a single bite of your Halloween candy."

Soon after, I warned her that she only had 1 minute left. She lifted a spoon, gagging some more, and started in on her mere spoonful of soup. Through her gags and cries, she missed the mark, finishing only after the timer marked her destiny as the trick-or-treater whose spoils would wait in the cupboard above the fridge until she can learn to try foods that are not accompanied by sugar.

I believe in repentance. She came home from trick-or-treating, her face bearing the stains of one sneaking candy the entire way, and I politely requested that she hand over her bag. She knew I was serious. I told her that she could earn her candy back by learning to eat, no just try healthy food (heck, I'm not sure if I believe in something that miraculous).

We made a chart. We call it Lily's Healthy Eating Chart. It includes the following daily tasks:
1. I, Lily, will eat at least one fruit or vegetable at every single meal.
2. I, Lily, will try everything on my plate for dinner.
Completion of these tasks for the month of November earns back her candy on December 1st.

Am I asking too much? Does it really matter that she doesn't eat anything good for her? Ever? It does to me, because my otherwise sweet, loving child is a basket case after inhaling candy at the expense of a satisfying dinner. I waffle between two philosophies - don't make food a control issue and, on the other side, candy is given only after healthier food is ingested.

I was destined to have picky children. I come from a long line of sugar-lovers. And Tim was notably the pickiest of his lot. I never dreamed just how picky a child the two of us could create when paired together. If Lily had been formed in a petri dish, I doubt that we could have created a genetic combination more finicky than the Lord saw fit to bestow upon us through dumb luck. Now, if only I had gotten all the good parenting genes from my side...

Back to life.

It might have been swine flu. I've never had any flu (besides the barfy kind that lasts only 24 hours, that is), so I wouldn't really know. All I know is, after almost a week of basically neglecting everything that makes me happy (ie: to-do lists and doing fun things with my kids), I'm ready for life to begin again. So here's to five days of playing Scramble on Tim's iPod, allowing the kids to run my household with their candy-stealing, TV-inhaling, mess-making ways, and long naps. Lots and lots of naps. It's been real. But not real fun.

Surprise!

Call me boring, but I'm not much for spontaneity. It's in my blood, I suppose. I like plans. I like knowing what's going on days (weeks!) in advance so that I can prepare.

On the other hand, sometimes a last minute visit from family can be refreshing. We get the joy of company without feeling the obligation to scrub the house from top to bottom (your sheets were clean, though, I promise!), make an elaborate menu, or fill our days with endless activity. With the pressure off, I think it turned out pretty well.

Completely unrelated.

"Mom, you take care of everyone and Dad is just a big kid." - Lily

Every once in a while I have the urge to waste some time (can you believe it?). I hadn't checked out this baby in forever. Mormon satire at its best. I canned working on my Relief Society lesson for a half hour to enjoy it. Talk about inspiration.

Peanut butter really does get gum out of hair.

My 9-month old won't hold a bottle.

If you've been reading my blog for some time, you may recall that the early weeks after my fourth daughter was born were trying, at best. Not being able to nurse her was upsetting to me on a number of different levels, but one of the main reasons was that I felt guilty for not being capable of providing for her what my three other daughters had enjoyed: a full year of breastfeeding. As a parent, I try hard to make things as fair as possible, and it made me sad that, from the get-go, Eve was starting out on unequal footing with her three older sisters.

Anyway, I decided that, even though breastfeeding was not going to work for us, I would try to mimic the experience as best I could. I was the one who woke up in the middle of the night to feed her. Until she was about 6 months old, I fed her 95% of the time. And I never, ever propped her up with a bottle (okay, maybe once, but I was desperate). I even tried to bring her places when I didn't absolutely have to, because, had she been nursing, I would have had to. I just felt like, if she couldn't nurse, at least she could enjoy some of the benefits of it (mommy bonding, that is).

So here we are, at 9 months of age, and my baby has no desire to hold her own bottle! She's capable, I think, though I wouldn't know because she's never really tried. So I'm not forcing the issue. If she wants to be held, I'm perfectly willing. Until she's a year old, and then we're pulling the plug, just like we did with the other three.