Nothin' like an ER visit to cap off the week.

Last Friday, Eve and Rachel were playing with a couple of ride-on cars in the driveway while I unloaded groceries. Within minutes I heard piercing screams (not unusual) and then saw Eve and Rachel run into the kitchen. Blood was everywhere (more unusual). Eve's fingertip was hanging by a thread (very unusual). And then it was off to the ER. Rachel was a little champ, comforting her little sister in the back seat with the cookies I'd managed to snag on the way out. So was Eve. Particularly when the doctor shot her a hundred thousand times(give or take) with a local anesthetic to numb up the finger he was preparing to stitch up. No kid who's barely three should have to go through that. She was amazing. Me? I had to fight back the tears.
I'm not sure how I've lucked out thus far in my almost nine years of parenting. This was my first time (out of five trips to the ER) going solo. Needless to say, I'd rather have had Tim there. Would it be wishful thinking to never have to go again? With my girls, I think so.

Lest one thinks I've been sitting around on my thumb.

In order to make myself believe I actually have a handle on this parenting thing, I need to document my few successes.

I made goal books for the girls this year, a project long in the making. I have a chart for each year of the kids lives entitled "When I am (insert age), I will learn to..." and then it lists ten or so practical skills such as changing a toilet paper roll, scrambling eggs, sewing on a button, making a budget, etc. One page for each year from age 5 to 17. It's not meant to be an all-inclusive list, simply an effort to teach my kids some level of self-sufficiency. They will have opportunities to learn and pass off skills during the summer and on Saturdays throughout the year.

They also get a page for every year where they get to set personal goals. And, so that the goals don't just idle their time away in the pretty little binder they call home, I made these little bulletin boards for each of the girls where they can post index cards listing said goals. I simply bought a four pack of cork board, attached cardboard to the back and wrapped the whole deal in fabric. Ta-da! Here's Lily's:



Surprise, surprise. Her goals all center around her health and inclination to avoid chores. At least she's honest with herself.

Why didn't I think of that?

I may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I'm certainly not the dullest. You might think I was based on my problem-solving skills to date. For some reason, I'm definitely not inclined to hunt for shortcuts - I'm the grin and bear it type, I suppose.

My kids wear countless holes in their jeans. Thought this was exclusive to active boys? Think again. I've added two pairs of jeans to the mending pile in the last week alone. Years ago, I would have replaced the jeans. Now that I own (and can actually operate at a minimal level) a sewing machine, I would rather repair broken goods. Problem is, sewing patches on jeans for 5-8 year olds requires either undoing leg seams in order to use the machine, or just sewing them by hand. Which is what I've been doing. The latter, that is. Any guesses as to how long it takes to sew on one patch by hand? Two hours. I've taken to spending each and every family movie night stitching away and I still can't make a dent in the mending pile.

Up to now, I've repaired 8 pairs of jeans (requiring a total of 12 patches) this way. Yep, do the math. That's 24 hours. The other night, while Tim and I were thoroughly engaged in watching a movie (well, at least he was), he remarked to me, "There must be an easier way". And I thought to myself, "Really? Because I had just resigned myself to a lifetime of repairing torn jeans." And then the light bulb went on. Why not use the machine to sew a cute decorative patch onto the ugly denim iron-on ones you can buy at the store? Then iron it on the pants and voila!

I had four patches ready this afternoon. Guess how long it took me to get them on the holey jeans. 20 minutes. Sure, they don't have the lovely whipstiches(or blood, sweat and tears) that the hand-sewn ones boasted. But I can reclaim hours and hours of my future. And try not to lament the 24 hours I have lost.

Nah. I didn't have anything to do yesterday anyway.

Huge winter snowstorm and there goes my morning. Between shoveling, getting the kids in and out of snow gear, and towing them around in a sled, we were out there for 3 hours! I got enough fresh air for the entire month of January (not to mention exercise, but let's just pretend that I actually do that regularly).

Here's what it looked like circa 10 a.m. yesterday.





Now it's a big soupy mess. Fun while it lasted.

Three. Cute as can be.

Eve celebrated a birthday last Friday. She had requested a rainbow cake several weeks earlier(it's kind of been a theme among my girls for the past three years or so - so unoriginal) . Then a week before I suggested the possibility of a Thomas cake to satisfy her current obsession with the tank engine. Eve wanted to have her cake and eat it too (pun intended) and said, "I want a rainbow Thomas cake!" Make a layered cake with rainbow colored frosting, slap Thomas on top and you've got it. As a side note, when making a cake with more layers than usual, opt out of buttercream frosting. I made whipped cream frosting and it made for a delightful cake/frosting ratio and flavor.

Eve was pleased as punch with every single present. Considering that we are still on the heels of Christmas, I'd say that's quite an accomplishment. But, it wouldn't be a celebration without a pre-Birthday song meltdown.



Toddlers, they recover fast.


Three things that I want to remember about Eve at this age.
1. She has a pronounced lisp. It won't be so cute if she holds on to it for a few years, but, as my only child who has had one, and as the baby of the family, I kind of like it.
2. She is very sensitive to being scolded. She has a hard time when she feels she's displeased someone. She screws her face up really tight, kind of crosses her eyes and tries not to cry when she's been reprimanded. It's cute, in a pathetic sort of way.
3. She is the apple of everyone's eye. The older girls argue over who gets to play with Eve and Tim and I find ourselves ushering her into our bed when she's snuck out of her room after hours. She is just too irresistible.



Happy Birthday Eve!

Swan Falls.

The first Sunday of the month we repeated our newly-established tradition of a Sunday drive (underlying reason: to scout out free campsites for Tim's new calling as scoutmaster). January's trip was to Swan Falls. On the banks of the Snake River, it wasn't incredibly picturesque, but the boulders made for some great climbing. Perfect for 12-13 year old boys. And 5-8 year old girls, incidentally.

Those Christmas shipping boxes sure are coming in handy.

Problem: Kids leave their stuff all over the place. I like my home tidy. Yet, I am not inclined to pick up after them just because it drives me crazy to have their stuff lying around. My job is to teach them. I used to just ask them to put their stuff away. Some kids do it the first time. Some do not. Nagging is no fun. Neither are backpacks, boots, jackets, and toys all over the floor.

Solution: I ask a child once to pick up a specified item. If she does not do so within a minute (give or take), it ends up in a box labeled ever-so-lovingly with her name. She cannot do anything fun until her box is emptied of its contents and stowed in its proper place.

Though the progress is not yet measurable, I'm confident that this method will at least expose them to the sheer amount of stuff they think belongs all over the floor. Raising awareness, that's what I'm doing.

Mondays.

This past Monday was particularly challenging for some reason. Now that it's Thursday, the exact cause escapes me... but I'm sure it was a doozy. Somewhere along the lines of no one taking a nap, kids battling it out all day long, children ignoring the chore chart (and me) entirely. Actually, that sounds a bit like every day, come to think of it.

Anyway, Tim came home from work and I was a notch above frazzled instead of the lovely, attentive, super-pleased-to-be-a-homemaker wife that I usually am. And, as it turns out, instead of stepping in and rescuing the kids from their mother, he jumped right on in and joined the festivities. Frustration was oozing out of the walls, I tell you.

We went to bed that night and I, somewhat recovered from the day (the kids were sound asleep, of course), remarked that I would rather he not be quite so understanding when I have reached my limits with the kids. Heck, someone needs to think they're adorable. And then I remembered all the times I've blown up at him for making me look like chopped liver when he comes home and plays with the girls while I stew over the distresses of the day. Poor husbands, they can't win.

So then, today one of my friends told me that on Tuesday she had stepped on and killed the family kitten with her eight children as witnesses. Eh, maybe my Monday wasn't so traumatic.

Hair

My dad once asked me why my kids always had such tangly masses at the backs of their heads as toddlers. The answer was, and still is: I don't know. I simply don't know.

Self-mastery.

I find the most entertainment (while reading blog books from previous years) from my kids' antics - they just never quit! But, as the kids get older and significantly less cute, the antics have evolved somewhat. They're not quite so funny anymore - in fact, they might even qualify as depressing. I probably interpret every last weakness my children exhibit as foreshadowing of weightier matters to come and sometimes it's downright scary.

Yesterday, being the first Fast Sunday of the new year (and the first since we switched our Sunday meeting schedule to the 11 a.m. to 2 p.m. time slot), my oldest opted to skip lunch (we encourage kids who've been baptized in our family to begin fasting for one meal once a month), all with the idea that she'd be able to stuff herself silly after church. Sorry, honey. Since when does skipping food and water for 6 hours constitute a fast? Tim reminded her that she should wait until we serve dinner if she wants to fulfill her commitment to fast for one meal. She gobbled up a peanut butter sandwich.

I sat down with her later for a mother-daughter discussion. Well, actually, it was more of a lecture. But there were pictures! I outlined two choices: fasting and eating. Then we wrote down the consequences (positive and negative) for both. She was quick to point out that fasting means you have to survive an empty stomach. Woe is her.

Anyway, I don't know about her, but I sure came out of the whole thing recommitted to fasting! Fasting has always been a sore spot for me. I can remember bailing out early all the time. Self-control was kind of lost on me for a while, I guess. In recent years, now that pregnancy and nursing no longer inhibit me from fasting on a regular basis, I've come to appreciate the blessings that come from doing so.

Sure, there are health benefits, there's appreciation for regular meals, there's the development of compassion for those less fortunate, there are spiritual blessings like faith, answers to prayer, increased wisdom. I could go on and on.

Honestly, though, the benefit for which I'm most grateful is the opportunity to become a master of myself and my appetites. It used to be so agonizing to endure 24 hours without food or drink. This past Sunday, I baked and frosted Eve's birthday cake, made breakfast and lunch for the kids, and cooked dinner without even licking a finger. It was a cinch. And it was only easy because I've developed self-control over the years. It's empowering, really. It gives me strength to overcome other areas of weakness in my life and to put spiritual matters before temporal ones. I can clearly see how fasting has trained me in the ways of delayed gratification and to "seek first the kingdom of God and all things shall be added" unto me.

Okay, now I'm getting downright philosophical. I'm sad that it took me thirty plus years to appreciate the beauty of fasting. I hope that my eight-year-old gets it earlier than I. One can always hope.