Berries.

I love it when the neighbors go out of town during raspberry season. Sure, we miss you guys (especially since we set up the pool yesterday in the hopes of inviting you over for some afternoon fun). But I can't complain too much when we get to go over and pick the deliciousness there is to be found in your raspberry bushes. I brought a pint-sized container, thinking it would be ample for the harvest. I was wrong. I swear, the sun-loving berries were ripening before our very eyes in the 90 degree heat. We'd comb each row thoroughly, then go back over each one again to discover at least another handful until we had filled my container and Anna's for a grand total of about a quart of raspberries (street value: $10, easily).
The girls snarfed down a cup and would have delighted in more, had I not warned them of the diarrhea that would await them if they did. Two more cups sit in the fridge for tonight, and tomorrow, though I don't know that they will last that long. A final cup was frozen so that we can prolong the enjoyment.
All I have to say is: thanks neighbors! And I will work feverishly to finish the raised garden bed I've designated for your extra bushes. Yum.

Inside out.

They were my husband's children today. True to Egbert form, they sat through an entire movie without blinking. I sat too, though my mind wandered through my mounting to-do list and my hands stroked the soft baldness of my sleeping baby's head.

On the car ride home, I checked in with my husband, who asked me how the movie was. "Oh, fine," I replied, wishing, for once, that he could be a stay-at-home dad one morning a week to take the kids to the free Family Film I had just endured. Because I couldn't care less how the movie was. A movie is something you plug your kids into when you're desperate to get something done at home.

He asked which one we saw. "Space Chimps", I said. He responded, "Oh, I heard that one was pretty good, did the kids like it?" "I dunno. Anna? Lily? Rachel? Did you guys like the movie?", I called back. A chorus of yeses. Hm. I hadn't thought to ask before. After all, a movie's a movie. Me? I'd rather be in the sun somewhere, maybe sitting on a boat, or hiking a mountain, or relaxing while my kids play at the park. Something outside. Something active would be nice, but not required. That's just me, though.

So this week when Tim wants to watch the episodes of Wipeout he's taped the last few weeks, he will have a captive audience. My kids will laugh hysterically. So will their father. And I'll be the one sitting off to the side, folding laundry, my thoughts elsewhere.

Who's your daddy?

As I read others' posts about their husbands I sometimes wonder, "Are they really all that?" I mean, is it possible? Because as much as I adore my husband, I am not a gusher. Don't get me wrong, I mean, I'm sure your husband's are all that and a piece of pie, but, well, mine isn't. I'm too much of a realist to say he is with a straight face.
Except right now. Brace yourselves, folks, because you're about to get a dose of the "too good to be true".
I married an exceptional man. I remember coming home from work when we were first married to find him playing a computer game. Every day. For the first year. And I said to him, "You tricked me!" I had no idea he was such a gamer. Courting time was over, I guess.
I know that many days since then he has wished he could sit down at the computer to unwind. But he hasn't. His time for diversion has dwindled as our family has grown, and I've watched him mature such that he doesn't even seem to mind. We are his priority, and he finds immense joy in providing for us, caring for us, wiping our tears, and tolerating our drama. He is, after all, insanely outnumbered.
I mention his dedication largely because I know it does not come naturally to him to put aside his leisure, his miserly ways, and his sleep to meet the demands of five girls (including me). Which is what makes it so admirable. Raising a family has come at a great cost, and though he jokes about living for the day when we can finally "kick" them out of the house and have it all to ourselves, don't be fooled. These girls have won his heart. And he's won theirs. Thanks to the father of my children. You are amazing.

Potty talk.

The oldest forgets to flush. The second needs work on wiping. The third doesn't even make it into the toilet half the time. The fourth? Let's not even go there.

Have miracles ceased?

We took a trip to the mall today (it's "M" day and I used it as an excuse to go shopping for Father's day). Perhaps it's my self-consciousness, but I'm painfully aware of every look and comment directed at my little family when we venture out. They run the gamut. The usual? "You've got your hands full." Even more often? "Is the baby a girl, too?" The occasional? You need to call SuperNanny. (Okay, that's only happened once, last week, in fact, but I'm surprised I haven't heard it more often.) Mix those in with a bunch of nostalgic smiles from a few old people, impatience from the rest of the old people, and some shaking heads from parents of only a few, who wonder what would have possessed someone to have so many, so close. It's fun.

But that's not what I wanted to blog about.

We traveled home in a heavy drizzle and happened upon a car accident. I couldn't help but think of how lucky I was to avoid this particular accident, along with all the other even more close calls I've experienced over the years. Had I left a few minutes earlier, or not stopped to get a bag of Mrs. Field's cookies (another "m" word) for my young ones. You know, that sort of thing.

When I lived in Taiwan, I used to say that every day was a miracle. I rode a bike in all sorts of atrocious weather in all sorts of mangled traffic and emerged pretty much scot-free. While riding on the far right hand side of the street (which the bikes and mopeds often did), someone opened the driver's side door of a parked car without warning and my companion ran smack dab into it. Within seconds and over a dozen screeching tires later, she was beneath another car, the front tire an inch away from her helmet. Miracle.

Yesterday our family scoured family videos, laughing at old memories. After the kids went to bed, Tim and I watched a few more, particularly those taken when Eve was born. Her tiny purple body, inside of me just seconds before, then thrust upon my chest and cradled with the utmost care and love. It was amazing. Miraculous, even.

I was reading in Moroni 7 over a week ago. It reads:
27 Wherefore, my beloved brethren, have miracles ceased because Christ hath ascended into heaven, and hath sat down on the right hand of God, to claim of the Father his rights of mercy which he hath upon the children of men?

37 Behold I say unto you, Nay; for it is by faith that miracles are wrought; and it is by faith that angels appear and minister unto men; wherefore, if these things have ceased wo be unto the children of men, for it is because of unbelief, and all is vain.

I have seen miracles. And I have failed to see them, when I might otherwise have. Hopefully my faith will prove sufficient to recognize them again, and again, and again.

Joy.

We almost named her Joy. I thought Eve had a much better ring to it. It stuck. Nevertheless, "joy" is what she brings us.


Look ma! My booger matches my shirt!

For mom and dad.

Ah, the lazy days of summer.

Mish mash.

We experienced our first 911 call last week. Luckily I was in the room to question the culprit myself after hearing several unauthorized beeps from the phone.

I painted the girls' toenails and trimmed their hair as our initial celebration of summer. Then Lily prolonged the "celebration" by chopping Rachel's hair a bit more.

I ran off to the temple on Tuesday night, still wearing my flip flops. That's right. I indulged in a grand slam breakfast at Denny's afterward, blowing my goal to avoid eating after 8 pm in the most deplorable of ways. It was 11 o' clock.

My kids watched The Wizard of Oz 3 times in a 24 hour period last week. My sincerest apologies to the bad parenting police.

I made an incredible chocolate cheesecake that I was supposed to freeze and save for Father's Day. Instead we divided it up for Family Home Evening that night and picked at it for the rest of the week. One guess as to who ate the most?

Inspiration or coincidence?

As a way of learning hymns so that my kids don't feel left out during sacrament meeting, we began singing them before family prayer each night. We sing the same song for one or two weeks until it's memorized and then move onto another. Anna has her own little ritual of looking up the scheduled hymns at the beginning of the meeting. Today she was delighted to find that the hymn we'd been practicing, I Know that My Redeemer Lives was the closing song. This has happened not once, not twice, but over a handful of times since we began the tradition over a year ago. Are Tim and I inspired? I think so.

A stolen bicycle and lilies for sale.

What do these two have in common? I'll tell you. Last fall Anna helped me plant over a hundred lily bulbs in our backyard. I contemplated helping her sell bouquets as a way to earn extra cash this summer because, truth be told, I don't do lemonade stands. The idea never caught on fully until she discovered her bike was stolen a week ago from the elementary school bike rack. A few days later, we put a flyer together, I emailed a few local friends, and we found ourselves frantically counting all the lilies that are budding, afraid that we might have overextended ourselves. I guess we should have charged more than $2 per dozen blooms? The good news is, she will have a bike in hand before summer is over. (In fact, I found one at a yard sale yesterday and am storing it in my neighbor's garage - hope she likes it. Who cannot love a $20 bike?)
The bad news: my countertops will miss the lilies that have befriended them for the past two years. Sigh. There's always next year.

A dirge.

Dear Roly (for that is what my children named you),
I'd like to thank you from the bottom of my heart. You see, my girls had been fighting all morning. The weeds were calling to me. Within a minute of venturing outside, you placed yourself in the exactly the right spot at exactly the right time. The girls were entranced.
I'm sure you enjoyed their company for a moment. At least before the poking and prodding began. Then followed the attempt to feed you grass and water and a quick transfer to the sandbox. They had only the best of intentions, they truly thought it to be a suitable habitat for one such as you. And when they dug you a pit and flooded it with water, they only hoped that you would drink to your heart's content. Instead, you met an untimely end.
Thank you for putting up with my children. They had so much fun taking care of you in that final hour of your life. You gave me just enough time to weed and fertilize my entire backyard. I hope you can find joy in knowing that you were the highlight of my kids' day - that you provided a brief respite from the name-calling and hair-pulling that had occupied the rest of the morning. I'm just sorry it had to end this way.

Your humble and grateful servant,
Susie