Poop on the floor and life turning out to be as busy as it ever was.

September has turned out to be a bit less than the monstrous to-do check-off extravaganza I had hoped it would be. I owe it all to the following two (big, bad) words: Art Collaboration. I made the mistake of volunteering to be the Art parent in Anna's class. I figured, hey, I'm not pregnant, I'm not nursing, I no longer have a 15 hour plus per week church calling, I have no plans in the near future to get pregnant... this is the year to try out the art mom thing.

Wrong. Well, not exactly. I mean, all the above things are true. And, after spending the entire morning teaching art in Anna's class I realize it was a great choice and that I'm going to love it. However, I've also realized something about myself. When time magically frees itself up in my schedule, I find multiple wholesome pursuits with which to fill it right back up. So much for getting anything done.

As if that weren't enough, Eve picked this week to toy around with the idea of skipping naps. We're on day two. Day one she used her time oh, so wisely by removing all her clothing and pooping on her floor. Like a bloody dog. Did I just use the word bloody? I think I did.

In the past, when children have excreted in inappropriate places, I've attempted to teach natural consequences by enlisting their help in the clean-up process. They usually are disgusted by the adventure and fail to repeat the offense. We'll have to see about Eve - she loved cleaning up! Next week: potty-training 101.

No pictures this time. You can thank me later.

Grateful.

I've read four parenting books in the last two weeks. I make it a point to get advice from other, more experienced parents because, heaven knows, it (parenting) is not an exact science and we all need a little tweaking now and then.

Today I hosted our monthly (loosely defined, in our case) book club, in which we discussed another, entirely different book (one I neglected for a while so that I could read said parenting books). In addition to our typically brief discussion of whatever piece of literature we chose for the month, we inevitably dove into the more lively topic of motherhood. Two of us indicated that our personalities gravitated to what we falsely perceived as "loftier" goals - climbing the corporate ladder and racking up college degrees. Having grown up in a large family, I loved the sense of "family" and knew that I wanted one, but until I was halfway through college, I wasn't sure how to reconcile that with what I now know to be my vain ambitions. Besides, being a Latter-day Saint, marriage and children are central to everything we believe - I could never pass up the opportunity to achieve life's most fundamental, rewarding experience.

Now that I'm a mother, I realize how much of life had prepared me for this calling. I've always been a Jack of all trades. I had a hard time settling on a major - my interests were varied and my talents unrefined but many. It was always unsettling for me to try to decide what to do with the rest of my life because I wanted it all. And now I see that I am doing it. Right now.

Yes, motherhood can be extremely demoralizing. I have lists of things I hope to teach my children, many of which appear to be falling on deaf ears. I was sent little spirits that prefer to march to the beat of their own drummer rather than listen to my sage advice. Some days I have to brace myself for those hours between 3 and 6 o-clock and pray for the fortitude to avoid "losing it" when every last child demands my attention. At the exact same time.

But every once in a while I get a little gift from heaven. The preschoolers graciously take their naps, thus putting them in a better mood for when their older sisters come home from school. At which point, the schoolchildren hang up their backpacks, put their shoes away, empty their lunchboxes and stow them properly, get out their homework and do it seamlessly (and remember to bring me their planners for my signature), and then scurry outside to enjoy the beauty of a September afternoon. Thus, leaving me the joy of peering outside occasionally while preparing dinner to see them playing contentedly with one another, learning, creating, enjoying nature (okay maybe they were weeds, but you get the picture). For two hours straight. Pure joy.

But I can appreciate today because last week I had several days in which it took me 2 hours to prepare a 20-minute meal thanks to the four of them demanding constant intervention.

I can't say that I've come to conclusions about parenting that are tried and true. My oldest is only eight, for heaven's sake. However, I am infinitely grateful that I get to use my talents within the walls of my home. I get to manage, cook, clean, teach preschool, read, organize, make lists, tell stories, teach piano, sing, plan, study the scriptures, pray, ride bikes, and so on, and so on. I get to do it all. And I get to share it with these precious little people. Who aren't going to be little forever. What an amazing blessing.

Guess who's a little older?

As of Friday, Tim can no longer claim that I am two years older than he. His mother gave me an awesome dessert cookbook the Christmas after we were married. It's chock full of delectable alternatives to traditional cake. This year, I opted for the dark chocolate tort with raspberry sauce and whipped cream. Delish. Happy Birthday my dear!

Weeds are our friends.

I couldn't be happier that we have a hundred year flood plain behind our property. We get views of the foothills, we've planted five fruit trees there that didn't fit inside the property lines, and our kids get open territory in which to explore "nature" while still in close proximity to our home. Here they are building a squirrel city yesterday.



Great brain food, if you ask me.

I am not a pianist.

The same Sunday I was asked to serve as the Primary pianist, a friend of mine was called to be the new Ward Choir Director. She also happens to be the most accomplished pianist in the ward, thus leaving her usual post at the piano unfilled. At one point, there were oodles of pianists in our ward from which to choose. No more. There's only one other person who can sightread at will, but she is not available to help out, unfortunately. Which means... guess who is the current ward choir accompanist?

For the record, I took two or three(at best) years of formal piano lessons. I think I had my last lesson at the age of about 9. Our family had a good laugh at the dinner table over the fact that Tim and I both have had the same amount of piano training. Um, Tim can't play a note.

The only, I repeat, only reason I can play anything on the piano is because I am a singer. And, if one likes to sing and has no one to accompany her, she sits herself down at the piano to pluck out the tune, feebly.

Choir practice is painful for me now. And everyone else. I feel like I'm reading a foreign language in which I'm far less than fluent every time I sit down to play. The time it takes for my fingers to play what my head is working feverishly to translate typically means that certain notes come out awkwardly wrong. Key changes are particularly agonizing, because it takes a few measures for my brain to truly click. I came home from choir practice today with a nasty headache, if that tells you anything.

So why the lament? After all, I volunteered to do this - knowing full well that there was almost NO ONE else to do it so I offered myself up as a sacrifice. Headaches aside, I really enjoy it. Here's why:

1. I have a reason to practice piano on a regular basis.
2. I get do to something that stretches me. Yes, it's embarrassing to be so unbelieveably lacking, but it's good for me. At least that's what I keep telling myself.
3. I'm serving. There are blessings that come through service. And it's good for all the choir members who have to shake their heads every time I botch things up to see that one does not have to be perfect in order to serve.
4. I get to set an example for my children of consistent piano practice. On top of that, wholesome music fills the home more often now.

So, for those of you who've known me for some time and are laughing at the predicament in which I've found myself, laugh away. I may be a singer, but by golly I will be a pianist, too. Of sorts.

Lessons to and from school.

I have a child, let's call her Phoebe, who does not like to exert herself. Sure, there are a few exceptions to her aversion, and I can sometimes convince her to do something physically uncomfortable if it is somehow fun or if I make it seem like it was her idea. Not an easy task.

She rides her bike to school every day. Mornings aren't too difficult - it's downhill much of the way, the weather is cool, and she has an entire day of school (her favorite!) to look forward to. Afternoons - a completely different story. She often arrives at our meeting place in a huff and a puff over the fact that the world is out to get her. Or something. And so it goes, all the way home. So and so cut her off. She has too many itches beneath her helmet. This hill is too hard. It's too hot. This evil bike always falls over. I've learned to arm myself with cookies and ice-cold water for the trek home because, hey who wouldn't want a cookie? Food always seems to smooth things over, dudn't it?

Anyway, since I've been making this trek almost twice daily for the past three and a half weeks, I've noticed something. While riding to school with the kids, there is always either no breeze or a tail wind, hurrying us along. When I ride back home sans school kids, that makes for a head wind. Poor me.

When I go to pick them up in the afternoon, there is either no breeze or a head wind. Too bad, so sad. Which makes for a tail wind on the way back, urging on the little ones. So here's my point. What "Phoebe" thinks is the earth crashing down on her (the ride to and from school) is actually a cake walk (in comparison). The tail wind that often ushers her home lightens her load, but it goes unacknowledged (except to me, who has to brave the head wind going the other direction...and the tag-along... and the parachute).

It reminds me of the part in the Book of Mormon where the people of Limhi are in bondage to the Lamanites and, when they pray for God's help in easing their burden, that is exactly what He does. He does not free them from bondage; but he does lighten their load so that they don't feel it upon their backs. Oh, how I wish "Phoebe" would recognize the little gift from heaven that she receives on a daily basis instead of lamenting the burden she bears by having to ride bikes instead of sit comfortably in the car.

Labor day.

It was all too tempting to use our Labor Day for just that, labor. Instead, we took a five-hour drive (turned into 6 1/2 hours, with traffic) to the grandparents. Traffic aside, it was well worth it.

Unfinished business.

I am committing the month of September to completing tasks that were begun weeks, perhaps months ago and are sitting on some dresser or counter somewhere, begging to be finished. Does anyone else out there have dreams of having all ones ducks in a row? I do. Literally. One recurring dream I have is of trying to get somewhere but only being able to walk as if treading through mountains of jello. Or spending hours in the airport trying to find the proper gate. Or... preparing to take a final exam for a class which I somehow forgot was on my class schedule and hadn't attended all semester. Standard dream interpretation suggests that I have the overwhelming feeling of not being able to get ahead.

So, September, may your days be filled with checking items off the to-do list. May the children be strictly obedient, complete all their assigned chores on time, and refrain from fighting. Oh, and not get sick.

Would the magical laundry fairy visit my house twice a week, and could meals please deliver themselves to my table nightly? And while I'm wishing, would someone puh-lease invent a shower/towel-drying/lotion-applying/hair-styling combo machine so that I could cut my getting ready time down from 30 minutes to about five? Thanks a bunch.

First day.

The big girls started over two weeks ago. We're still employing the use of the monstrocity of a bike trailer that has become our "normal" mode of to/from school transportation. Lily (born with a less-than-healthy aversion to exerting herself) still rides home in tears, wailing that "This is too hard! Why do we have to ride bikes home from school?!" I should let her trade bikes with me.

It was Rachel's turn to start this week. Our family is in it's sixth year of Joy School. And still counting. We love it.



I have a love/hate relationship with school. I could dedicate an entire blog post to it when I find the time. For now, I will list the most prominent love (and hate) here:

Love, love, love the fact that I get more one-on-one time with my little ones, who pretty much get swept under the rug during the summer. Here's what we did after the big girls took off for the day:



Hate, hate, hate those after school hours when the school kids dump all the stresses of the day at my feet and expect me to smile and take it gracefully (which I do, most of the time, but a girl can only take so much). In the meantime, the younger kids, with whom I've typically had a delightful day, decide that perhaps they should have taken that afternoon nap and turn into mean little witches themselves. We'll find our groove, but we're not there yet.

Dinner and a movie.

Several weeks ago, Tim and I celebrated our tenth anniversary. 10 years, can you believe it? After botched plans for an overnight getaway, we decided to use a P.F. Chang's gift card that's been sitting in our coupon folder for close to five years now and then walked across the street to catch the last Harry Potter film. We had just barely watched the first part of book seven at home so it was fun to see them back-to-back. Pretty simple celebration.

For some reason, this anniversary really gave me pause. Not sure if I can put into words how truly grateful I am that I married this man. How baffled I am that I had the wisdom (or dumb luck) at such a young age to have chosen him for eternity. I know it's cliche, but we are SO different. Ask anyone. I remember thinking at the time that this guy was nothing like all the other guys I'd dated (and now, I realize that should have been a huge selling point). So, as a tribute to my guy on our tenth (or rather, about 3 weeks after the fact), I'd like to make a list of ten things I love about Tim. In no particular order:

1. We can talk for hours.
2. He's smart. Nevermind that the end result of us procreating is a whole brood of precocious (aka:exhausting) girls, I'll still take smart.
3. Tim's good to the core. He honors his covenants and strives to do what's right.
4. He is demonstrative and affectionate - one area in which I am particularly lacking.
5. He has a willing heart. I think some of my so-called goals for our family drive him up the wall with their loftiness, but he never puts them down and supports me in my insane quest for parental perfection.
6. He's cheap. Arguments over money? Virtually non-existent at our house. What an incredible blessing.
7. Not a day goes by where he fails to remind me how beautiful I am.
8. He's precise. When it comes to cleaning bathrooms - a superfluous trait, but let's just say I'm glad he's the one building the shelves in our garage.
9. He can hold his tongue. When I'm PMS-ing.
10. He loves musicals. But shh...don't tell anyone.

Happy Anniversary Tim. May the next ten bring us far fewer children but just as much joy.

P.S. I'm glad that after ten years, you figured out that you can never go wrong with red roses. I loved them.