Just when I thought it was safe to go out...

I love spring. It brings promises of a yard dancing with color, days filled with endless outdoor play, and sun - that glorious ball of fire that warms not just the skin but the soul. Spring is coming particularly slow this year. And that might not be a bad thing. I looked in the mirror this morning and discovered that the shorts that have been begging for my attention all winter will only reveal what I have been reluctant to admit. I'm fat. I'm not saying this to be self-deprecating - I made it through junior high, high school, and college as the not-quite-overweight but-definitely-fatter-than-all-of-my-friends one and didn't suffer any lasting damage. I haven't known skinny since before puberty - and that's all right with me. Mostly.
The last six years of pregnancy and nursing have taken their toll on me. Now I'm left without excuses and yet the weight is clinging to my hips like I'm over 30 or something. Oh wait...
I have no sense of appropriate portion size. I can't remember what it was like to not eat everything in sight on the spot. Self-control is a distant memory. I need a game plan. Anyone have a triple jogging stroller? Or any idea how to tow an infant, a toddler and a preschooler behind my bike? Don't tell me I need to get up before 6 or I'll scream.
In the meantime, I'll just watch the rain and curse the day I ever sang, "Rain, rain go away." Don't come back another day. Just stick around for a little while... please?

ABC Days.

I've had this marvelous idea churning in my head for over a year now and sadly, nothing really materialized until recently. In fact, my noggin' is simply full of grandiose ideas for which time is a major obstacle. It all started when we were enduring phase two of Lily's potty training. In case you hadn't heard, she's a difficult personality and doesn't respond well under pressure so I wanted to make the whole experience fun for her. So we planned a potty party where everything from the activities to the food we ate started with the letter P. It was a big extravaganza, replete with popcorn, pink lemonade (lots of it - we were working on #1 here), a picnic -in our family room, of course, proximity (ooh, another P-word!) being a very important concern. All three of the kids seriously got into it so that got the wheels turning.
I figured that if alliteration could get Lily to pee, then it just might get my kids to do chores without complaint. Just maybe. That's when ABC days was born. You see, during the summer, I want to have a couple of days a week where we concentrate on one letter of the alphabet. That way I can kill not just two but many birds with one stone. I can get Lily to practice writing her letters, help my two younger kids practice the sounds each letter makes, complete tasks that might otherwise be undesirable and have plenty of fun while at it.
Last week was spring break so we decided to give it a go. Monday was B-day. We ate breakfast, stripped the beds, washed the blankets, rode bikes, colored butterfly pictures... you get the picture. By the time Friday rolled around we had planted carrots, cleaned the bathroom, gone to Costco, done the dishes, folded clothes and fertilized the flowers all under the guise of ABC days. My kids were none the wiser. Oh, and we had lots of fun, too, rest assured. I think the plan is a go. Now here's the only picture I managed to snag the entire week - the donuts we made on D-day.

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Birthdays and other milestones.

For starters, Lily ate a mango yesterday. Oh, and Eve rolled from tummy to back.
Anna turned six last Monday. She had a great party with a few friends last Saturday - we took them all ice-skating at the local rink and although some kids were more thrilled than others, I think the birthday girl was pretty satisfied. That's what I was shooting for. I seem to sit on pins and needles just waiting for Anna to tell me that things didn't turn out the way she had planned. Last year, I think her exact words were, "Mom, this was the party that you wanted, not the one I wanted." In response, I decided two things: 1. To give her exactly what she wants for her birthday party (within reason). 2. To give her no party the following year. That way we can suppress the "Me, me, ME! urge" that is so obviously associated with birthdays and fit the festivities into a reasonable budget.
Monday was a pretty normal day but we celebrated with just our family by allowing her to select our dinner menu (grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup), eat leftover cake and ice cream, and open presents. Personally, I think she's starting to "get" the fact that presents are always a let down. Even if you get exactly what you want, the high wears off quickly because it's just stuff. So we focused on the experience, played a game as a family and let the girls have their first sleepover downstairs in the family room, complete with sleeping bags, hair styling, and a movie to boot.

The cost of health.

If there were a "World's Pickiest Eater Contest" I'm positive my 4-year-old would win. You think you've got one that can beat her? Just try me. I can count on one hand that foods that she will eat on a consistent basis. One hand! Oh, and I'm excluding candy, ice cream and brownies. Graham crackers, cheese (but only certain varieties, mind you), carrots (but only 2 or 3 in one sitting), strawberries (sprinkled with sugar of course!) and cold cereal (preferably the sugariest, most unhealthy of the bunch).
I've had many friends recommend books to help with my dilemma, including The Sneaky Chef. That's the one where you mask certain foods that kids are most likely to reject by pureeing them and mixing them up in dishes that kids typically love. Except that mine doesn't. Love them, that is. Spaghetti for dinner - won't touch it. Macaroni and cheese - not a chance. Hot dogs - no way. Pizza - only if it's without sauce and toppings. Jello - forget about it. I once slaved over homemade whole-wheat tortillas so that I could make our quesadillas (one dish I can somewhat count on her eating) a bit healthier. She nibbled a bit off the edge before turning up her nose. Next time I was smarter - I used half wheat and half white flour. Even that was too renegade for her tiny taste buds.
I've read a lot on the subject, and recently read an article I found interesting, which places the blame mostly on genetics and confirmed to me that she fits into a small percentage of children who reject food based on appearance alone. I'm at my wit's end. We spent a few months letting her spread a bit of butter on a slice of bread if she didn't like anything at the table before realizing that she would never try anything if she knew that she had a fallback plan. So now she starves every night. And she's okay with that. To me, food should not be a battleground issue, so I'm just laying low until she decides to try out the delectable dishes I serve up every night (ha!).
You see, Lily doesn't even like the words "lunch" or "dinner" because they inevitably signify foods that she will have nothing to do with. But when I mention having a snack, she'll come running to the table with glee.
Now that I've given the background (perhaps way too much), let me announce that I've found the most wonderful snacks at Costco. Freeze-dried fruit. They come in a box with 24 individual packages of pears, apples, bananas and strawberries. Lily eats them like candy. Only one drawback: they break the bank. Tim examined my Costco receipt the other day and discovered how much I've been spending on this particular luxury since, oh, last October and was shocked. I argued, "It's pretty much the only fruit I can get her to eat! And there's no added sugar!" He retorted, "I think my parents sacrificed our health for their budget and we can do the same." This is where being the one who buys the groceries comes in real handy. The freeze-dried fruit is here to stay.

So serious.

Hopefully my last post wasn't too much of a downer. It wasn't meant to be. There have been lots of fun things happening in our household, too. Really. I'll be sure to post them and accompanying pictures when I get a minute.

Just grateful.

I never thought I'd have to make a choice between using the bathroom or calming a screaming child. Between feeding my baby or holding my toddler (or preschooler, or kindergartener). Between emptying the dishwasher to accomodate a full sink of dirty dishes or preparing lunch for myself. There's simply not enough time in the day. I haven't blogged in over a week and a half. Blogging is basically the only thing I do for myself nowadays. And even as I type, I'm procrastinating planning an activity for Activity Days. It's tomorrow. Tim got home at 7 tonight, scarfed down dinner, dropped in on our rental house to fix a dishwasher, made a 15 minute appearance at home to read a bedtime story to the girls before rushing off to his Wednesday game night with the guys. I can't be upset with him, after all, it's pretty much his only diversion. Where's mine?
It's times like these that I am forced to remember that no matter how hard it gets, someone always, always has a tougher situation than I do. Tim seems to be working later and later as the weeks roll by, just trying to avoid giving any reason for his struggling company to let him go. At least he has a job. And I have friends who don't see their spouses except on Sundays, or whose husband's deployment results in an absence too long and painful for me to even fathom.
Some days two arms seem insufficient to carry out the duties that are required of me. Often the infant in one arm necessitates that I accomplish something with only one hand - buckling a car seat, fixing dinner, zipping up a jacket. It's then that I think of a friend for whom life with only one arm has been a reality for years. And yet she still manages a household with three young boys and a very busy husband.
I'm reminded of Joseph B. Wirthlin's talk in the most recent General Conference and I quote his words:
Whenever my steps led through seasons of sadness and sorrow, my mother’s words often came back to me: “Come what may, and love it.”
How can we love days that are filled with sorrow? We can’t—at least not in the moment. I don’t think my mother was suggesting that we suppress discouragement or deny the reality of pain. I don’t think she was suggesting that we smother unpleasant truths beneath a cloak of pretended happiness. But I do believe that the way we react to adversity can be a major factor in how happy and successful we can be in life.
If we approach adversities wisely, our hardest times can be times of greatest growth, which in turn can lead toward times of greatest happiness.

So true. So while the burdens seem heavy at times, I can't help but be grateful for the opportunity to grow - to become a bit more Christlike in this journey, yes, even to find the humor in it all. On the one hand I daily endure piercing cries from little girls, their needs unmet by an already occupied mother. On the other hand I enjoy peals of laughter, giggling as they take turns flying an airplane, suspended in the air by my feet then tumbling to the floor with tickles. They won't be little forever. Thank heaven. And yet, they won't be little forever. Time to drink in the moment.

Make believe.

There's one benefit to formula-feeding that I have yet to take advantage of. Passing off nighttime feedings to Daddy. The other night I was suffering from a rather bad cough and downed a tablespoonful of a medicine of the knock-you-out-till-morning variety. Tim volunteered to wake up with baby, recognizing my need for sleep and perhaps an inability to wake up. Eve was kind that night, not stirring until almost 6 a.m. but when she finally started crying for food, it was, that's right, ME, who awoke to satisfy her needs. Twenty minutes later, Tim stirred and asked me if he could take over. I responded, "You're about 20 minutes too late." (without the slightest hint of resentment in my tone, of course!)
I took the same medication the following night, fully expecting the same experience but surprisingly found my husband had beaten me to the punch. He fed her, and while he did, I tossed and turned, wishing that it was me. Sure, I like my sleep as much as the next person, and I enjoy the freedom of knowing that someone else is capable of feeding my child when necessary. But sometimes I still like to "pretend" I'm nursing. I need the excuse to hold my baby and say no to everything else for those 20 minutes. You need a lap to sit on? Too bad, I'm feeding the baby. Spilled milk? Clean it up yourself, baby needs to eat. You catch my drift...
Not to mention - she's just so edible - why would I want to get something done when I can cuddle with her to my heart's content? So as much as I don't miss the inconvenience of having someone attached to me for an entire year, I... miss the inconvenience of having someone attached to me for an entire year. So sleep away, Tim, and I'll keep pretending.

Like clockwork.

It's about ten minutes past lunchtime. The three of us are well into playing a game when Rachel pops up and declares that she's going to the playroom. Lily and I don't mind, because, after all, she doesn't exactly play by the rules of "Go Fish", making it rather obnoxious to try and get a match. She thinks she's hiding something from us, but the predictability of this routine has become so, well, predictable, that I've figured her out. Still, I let her do her thing, allowing her to believe that she's maintaining some level of privacy for her bowel movement. I don't know exactly what happens between her ascent up the stairs and my discovery of a very stinky playroom 15 minutes later that makes her so embarrassed to do it in our presence. But not only does she hide from me, she lies about it when I approach the subject, as if the fumes hadn't already given her secret away.
It's the same every day. If Rachel poops any time other than the post-lunch hour, it's probably because I fed her too many strawberries. There's something about that playroom, though, because every time I babysit someone else's un-pottytrained child, he/she will inevitably do his/her business in the privacy of our toy-filled room. Which also leads me to wonder - do my friends send their children over at a particular time of day, knowing that I will have to wipe their bums, or do their kids just poop at less predictable times than my two-year-old? Cause seriously, it happens every. single. time.

Will you still love me?

Mom, will you still love me if I call you "dummyhead" all the way home from swimming lessons? How about if I draw in crayon all over the piano bench? What if I decide that at the age of two I'm too old to take naps? Will you still love me if it takes not once, not twice, not even three but four times of you politely requesting that I clean up my mess before I even acknowledge you, let alone begin to clean it up? Then, if I kick you while you're trying to change my diaper, will you still love me then? Suppose I clock my little sister on the head and then lie about it? What if I say "I'm hungry" and expect you to magically appear with something for me to eat and then pretend I don't know what you're talking about when you say "Oh, I'm sorry, what would you like to do about it"? Even if I steal fruit snacks from the storage room? To top it off, what if I wake up in the middle of the night screaming in terror, disrupting what was already a tumultuous night for you? Will you still love me?

One month's worth.

Hey Mom, were you going to change my diaper before or after it hits the floor?

Valentine's Day - it wasn't much, but what kid is going to complain about grilled cheese sandwiches for dinner?

Is spring here yet? We're tired of cleaning up the playroom.

Eve's blessing day. We had tons of family who came for the occasion. Regrettably, I was too busy to take any pictures. We ate, talked, ate some more, ignored the kids so we could talk some more, played a few games and cried when they all went home. Luckily Tim's parents lingered a bit longer and we enjoyed their company for a few more days.

Flying kites in the park with Grandma and Grandpa.

Anna can't be bothered to wear a coat anymore, so I've quit reminding her.

Walking the Oregon Trail, just minutes from our house.

After only a few hours of reservation, Rachel attached herself to Grandpa for the duration of his visit and cried when we dropped them off at the airport.

Sleepy smiles...

Eve's biggest fan and boldest protector.

After two months of a snow famine, the kids can actually get excited about it again. They didn't even make it out of their pajamas before donning the boots and hats to play in the white stuff.

Savoring the moment.

She lies beside me, slumbering peacefully in her co-sleeper, less than two feet away, but not close enough for me. Her lips turn into a little smile, her eyes flicker open - is she awake? Nope, just dreaming. I pick her up, not wanting to wake her, but unable to resist giving her one last goodnight kiss. I nuzzle my face into her neck, drinking in the fresh smell of a baby, this baby, my baby. Oh boy, this one is going to be so spoiled. I just can't help myself.

No pain, no gain.

Time is short, and frankly, using the bathroom comes before blogging. Sleep is in short supply, so inspiration goes as soon as it comes. But, in an effort to record what's been on my mind, let me be brief in listing a few things I've been learning lately.
1. I cannot control everything. Well, duh. I guess that's just one of those things I learn again and again. And again.
2. Service is not just a way of meeting another's needs. It is a manifestation of the love of our Heavenly Father. We are truly His hands. I've felt that love abundantly in recent weeks as I've been the recipient of such service. To those of you who've served me - from the smallest words of comfort to bringing me meals, to inviting all of my kids over to play, thank you. You were the means by which I was reminded how much the Lord loves me, even in the midst of my suffering.
3. The Savior's Atonement is real, and it's personal. In spite of the sweet sympathy rendered to me by those who had gone through similar experiences, I knew that no one could truly relate to mine. Their compassion helped, but I still felt completely alone. Only when we feel forsaken can we catch a glimpse of what the Savior endured. And only then do we realize that He understands as no one else can.
4. It's not a matter of if but when. Bad things will happen to good people. I've spent much of my life fearing certain trials, crossing my fingers that I can skate through life without too much hardship, hoping that my testimony need not be strengthened by such challenges. Reading an article about Joseph Smith's experience in Liberty Jail reminded me that it is a requirement of the faithful to be tested. After all, that's why we're here. What will be asked of us is completely unique to our individual situations, and will mold us in a way that's tailor-made and meaningful to no one but us.
5. Eternal perspective makes all the difference. I spent a few weeks wallowing in self-pity, wondering why I had to endure something that, though trivial to some, was extremely emotional for me. As I passed the temple the other day, I thought to myself, in 20 plus years, when I'm attending Eve's sealing, it's not going to matter what I fed her for her first year. Heck, it doesn't really matter now. Knowing what's truly important and lasting can lend perspective when we're making mountains out of molehills.

Eve-uh.

Why is it that I always think I'm being original in naming my children, only to find out that I copied one of the main characters in the latest Pixar film? Ugh. I suppose that's one of the disadvantages of waiting to see Wall-E until the Bookmobile's copy of it became available.

Three's company.

I can remember on more than one occasion hearing parents describe the addition of a third member to their family as being the transition that "broke" them. They related, "Once you have your third child, you're already outnumbered. You might as well have a dozen kids at that point. It can't get much harder."
Those people still had three kids at the time. Oh, and they were wrong. Sure, three kids is most definitely harder than two. But it was manageable. As the mother of four children, I can officially testify that four kids is infinitely harder than three. We've lost all control around here, as evidenced by several pictures I've managed to snap in between pulling out my hair and barking orders at my kids. I'll post them someday. But since grabbing a minute to myself is a commodity in short supply, I can't say when.