Raising Redheads

besides Dad

2012-01-23T13:14:00.001-07:00

I've been in the trenches. The trenches of sick kids. Luckily, it has been the wheezing, coughing, misery of RSV, rather than vomit. THANK YOU. Usually, RSV at this age isn't a big deal, but since Donovan has had a history with wheezing and asthma-ish symptoms (not "officially" asthmatic because he didn't have 5 episodes in a year or whatever the benchmark is), it was definitely more serious. So, sporting a 103 fever and a tightening chest, he was happy to go to the doctor. An hour later we had a negative flu test, a 92% oxygen reading, an RSV diagnosis, and prescriptions for Albuterol and Prednisone and Omnicef. Because, by the way, he had an ear infection. Donovan hasn't been sick for 3 years. Like his personality in every other area in life, when he does something, he does it BIG.

The good news is that, five days later, he's doing much better. Last night, as I lay next to him on the couch, holding the nebulizer mask close to his face and resting my head on his shoulder, I enjoyed his drowsy conversation.

Donovan: Good thing my shoulders are so big for you to lay on.
Me: Uh...sure.
Donovan: My shoulders are REALLY big, aren't they?
Me: Well...I don't know. I mean, you're 6. So. You're still kind of small.
Donovan: I'm getting bigger muscles, though.
Me: You sure are. Especially because we make you do push-ups for calling your sisters names.
Donovan: Mom? Have you ever seen a man with big muscles. Like, HUGE muscles. But in real life, not just on tv or pictures or something?
(before I had a chance to respond, he cut in:) I mean, BESIDES Dad.

The "obviously" or "duh" hung in the air over that last line. I chuckled softly and loved that kid so much in that moment. Then I said yes I had seen men with big muscles besides Dad. But that I was sure his dad would appreciate knowing his son a) thought he had huge muscles, and b) didn't think there were many other muscled men out there.

So there you go, babe. Keep up the good work.

Our very own Ollivander

2012-01-18T16:33:00.000-07:00

How embarrassing that we're looking at nearly 4 weeks post-Christmas and nary a mention about some of our treasures. I can only blame it on the ever-increasing list of "things to do" where items such as, "figure out why new computer isn't staying connected to the internet and why old financial data isn't transferring over." This particular problem was frustrating not only because I wanted to love this new computer, but the whole internet/network connection problem and the fear that we may have lost 12 years of financial data (especially as we're looking at the beginning of tax season - ACK!) was sickening. I don't even know how long I spent researching online (it would have been a lot less, probably, if my connection hadn't kept dying on me) problems with the new Lion OS. Long, boring, distressing story short: I had to update my router firmware. Turns out, it had never been done, and even though it was less than a year old, the version it came with was a 3-something, and they were currently operating on an 11-something. And now my computer works like a dream and I'm pretty sure that, while sitting at my 27" screen, I could run the world. That's also on my to-do list, but farther down than, say, talking about WANDS.

Back in October, when my mom came to visit and ~~help~~ made the kids' Hogwarts robes, she had mentioned that my Uncle Terry had made wands for all of his grandsons, (I'm sure he would have made them for his granddaughters, if he had any) and wondered if he could be commissioned to do some for my kids. Oh, and was I interested? Um...YEAH?! There was a slight question mark because I felt like it was a trick question - who WOULDN'T want wands for their kids?

Then came the questions: Do you want them plain, or with embellishments? (obvious answer) What kind of embellishments did we want? Uh...what's available? And could we wait until Christmas since they would take a little bit and that way he and Aunt Mary Kaye could experiment with a few details? OF COURSE.

Fast forward to Christmas and I was pretty excited to have the kids unwrap the presents. Plus, my mom informed me that they had made an extra for ~~Joel and~~ me ~~to share~~. I'll probably carry it around in my purse and pull it out and mutter incoherently when I want to freak people out.

I shall call him Magnus.

It's no secret I like to brag about my family members. I've gone on and on about how my parents are better than yours; I've mentioned how my siblings are delightfully awesome; I've even talked about the merits of an Aunt (Nancy, but other aunts, too); this blog is devoted to how totally rad my kids are (most of the time). I realize, however, that I have been remiss in declaring Uncle greatness. Uncle Terry has raised the bar as far as Uncles go (with the help, obviously, of his super stylish wife). I love that we not only have wicked cool wands, but that they came from the crafting of a family member.

I was literally speechless at the gorgeousness (for a few seconds - that's like an eternity for me).

So thank you, Uncle Terry. Thank you, Aunt Mary Kaye. And thank you, Moomsie, for knowing who in our expansive family has talents. I kind of want to put the wands in glass cases for display. But then we'd miss out on things such as Gemma pulling her wand out of her made-by-Grandma velvet pouch and holding it aloft while running and yelling, "Win-gah-dum Lev-ee-OHHHHHHH-sah!"

Gemma loves how her wand has a gem at the end that has, "all duh colors inside!"

I had a 13 year old marvel at the craftsmanship and declare, "He could totally make these for a LIVING!" Heh. Uncle Terry is actually a retired dentist. But, yes, I suppose if that whole retirement thing doesn't work out, he could easily set up his own Etsy shop.

If that scrolling vine doesn't make you want to apply to Hogwarts, I don't know what will.

The thing about shepherd's pie

2012-01-08T16:40:00.003-07:00

There are very few foods I don't like. Some, obviously, I like more than others. But there are very few that make me groan. It's no secret that I don't care for clam chowder. Now, it's true that a couple years ago at my sometimes-annual soup night, someone disregarded my plea of "NO CLAM CHOWDER" and brought some anyway, and since I had vowed to try all 16 soups, I scooped up a spoonful of the stuff, and I actually didn't die. In fact, it was quite good. Not good enough that I'll make it for myself, I don't think, but definitely good enough that if I'm ever in a place where she has brought it, I would probably eat it.

Also, sushi. This is something that totally vexes Joel, who loves it. I don't know if it's a texture thing, or an immature hang-up or what. What I do know is that much in the same way the taste of truffles from Thornton's in London (Viennese, please) are wasted on Joel, so too is sushi wasted on me. When I see how much it costs, and try to balance that with the (little) pleasure I get in eating it, I just can't see the point. Give me a California roll. Give me a plate of beef and broccoli. Give me a bowl of Heidi's clam chowder for crying out loud.

There is one meal that I haven't talked a lot about over the years because I have chosen to erase it from my memory. Sure, I've seen it listed in cookbooks or on the occasional menu. I've done a small inner-throat dry heave and moved on. It is, none other than, Shepherd's Pie. *dry heave* *eye roll* *shake fist at universe*

I worry that my mom will think I'm being disrespectful, so I should point out that my mom is a great cook. Growing up, we almost never ate out. She made everything and it was usually delicious. Sure, we had the occasional bag of frozen mixed vegetables with lima beans (which she hotly denies today, but whatever) and I would line up my lima beans under the rim of my plate, only to forget they were there and when I cleared my plate, be left with a giant lima-bean smile on my placemat. But I credit my confidence in cooking/baking and love of food to my mother. Thanks, Mom!

While a lot of her food was good, there are several meals of hers that are excellent - her easy Lasagna recipe always receives rave reviews; she has a minestrone soup recipe that I love; her teriyaki plum-glaze chicken is so delicious, the only reason you restrain yourself from shoving the whole thing in your mouth is fear of the sticky coating smearing your face as a testament to your lack of self control (and choking on bones); her beef stew is the coziest, happiest place on earth and Joel would eat it for the rest of his life if I made it that much. And, I would be remiss if I didn't point out that her chocolate chip cookies have won me more friends than I care to tally. You might be tempted to point out that cookies are not a meal, but to you I apologize, for clearly you have never had any. I'll get right on that.

So, back to my mom's food. One thing I absolutely did not like, besides clam chowder (which my dad loved and that's why she made it, so hooray for love. bleh.), was Shepherd's Pie. I'm sorry, Mom. It was awful. At least, it was from what I can recall from being a 7 year old. I think by the time I was 9 we begged her to stop making it and I don't think she was that thrilled with it anyway, because it never resurfaced. Something about the meat and the tomato sauce and the green beans - THE GREEN BEANS - which on their own I like, but in this instance became my mortal enemy, topped with too-dry mashed potatoes just sat like a dead weight on my plate. And in my mouth. And in my stomach.

I was a good sport when someone brought it after Ainsleigh was born, and thought I should just grow up. I had about three spoonfuls and then told Joel he would have to eat the rest because I was having ice cream for dinner.

Early on, I saw my mom working in the kitchen, so it wasn't a foreign concept to me. Also early on, when we'd go clothes shopping, EVERYTHING I expressed an interest in would be met with a, "I could make that," response. And she not only could, but often did. While that attitude hasn't translated to me in the fashion department (plus, the price of fabric hardly makes it worthwhile, right?!), it absolutely has in the food department. I no longer order Pad Thai, Red Curry, Calzone, or Feijoada in restaurants because why waste money on a sub-par experience (economics, AGAIN). So let's cheer again for a mom who gifted me a can-do attitude, because clearly the "If you don't have something nice to say, don't say anything at all" mantra didn't sink in.

I've learned a few things, growing up. One is that mashed potatoes are one of the greatest foods on the planet. But they have to be REAL mashed potatoes. If you're buying potatoes in a box, they aren't real potatoes. Right after we moved into this house 5 years ago, I bought a box of potato flakes for a soup recipe that called for them as a thickener. It still sits in my pantry, full minus the 1/2 C flakes I used for that soup recipe. I should probably just toss it, right? Anyway, REAL POTATOES. The other thing I've learned (it's a subset of the potato thing), is that mashed potatoes can be delicious leftovers as long as you've added enough liquid when you're mashing them. I like mine on the wetter side - not so they're running on your plate (eew), but so that they can be eaten without gravy. But then add gravy. I have found great pleasure in eating one or two-day old mashed potatoes and gravy. It's delicious.

Ugh, I'm getting off topic. The point is: Shepherd's Pie. *grimace* *growl* Now that you know my feelings on the subject, you might understand my resentment when Joel casually informed me that we, going to the home of some college friends for dinner, didn't need to bring anything because of a child's gluten intolerance and, "She's making Shepherd's Pie."

ARE YOU KIDDING ME? I made a face and Joel, in all his sheepishness, shrugged. I felt like I was 6 again, thinking, "I don't wanna!"

But I'm an adult now. I can eat foods I don't love. And survive. And smile and be gracious. These are the things I told myself as we drove.

Let me just cut to the conclusion: I not only ate it, but I LIKED IT. I not only liked it, but I HAD SECONDS. I not only had seconds, I MADE IT MYSELF YESTERDAY.

And I can't wait to have leftovers for dinner tonight. The meat had a delicious gravy with some peas and carrots (NO LIMA BEANS)(NO GREEN BEANS) and the mashed potatoes were moist and had cheddar cheese in them. It was outstanding. I am a convert.

What's happening to me??!!

I'm telling you - 2012 is a new year. I'm a new person. I'm going to start trying all sorts of stuff I thought I didn't like.

But not sushi.

Dear Joel,

2011-12-31T10:40:00.002-07:00

Dear Joel,

With each letter to the children, I found myself wanting to say, "You're the best thing that ever happened to me." And, quite honestly, each one WAS, because they were possible only because of the preceding events/people in my life. So Ainsleigh was the best thing because she made me a mom and gave me a new dimension to love you. And Donovan was the best thing because he was a sibling for Ainsleigh and just so totally different from her. And Gemma was the best thing because she made our family complete. But at the heart of it all is You. You, actually, are the best thing that ever happened to me.

You are an amazing dad. A couple days ago we all went skiing. It was a crazy day. It takes an hour and a half to get to the resort, it was busy and windy, and the kids are a lot of work to suit up, to get them to haul their skis, etc. And you've been doing this for a couple years now without me (partly because Gemma has been too young, partly because I've been a wimp). I found myself often thinking, "He does this WITH THE KIDS because he wants to." There are a lot of dads who would ditch their families or not even bother with it because it's too much work. Not you. You have organized a ski bag and instructed the kids on what they're supposed to do. You enjoy boarding, but it's important to you to involve the children. Last year you went up nearly every Saturday with the kids, and were rewarded with children who know how to ski down green and blue runs. This year, you've committed to the next two and a half months of ski school, which means you'll be back up the mountain every Saturday (though the bonus is that someone else will do the instructing and you can actually do a significant amount of boarding). The other difference this year is that I will be up there with you. This last time we went, you spent the whole time on the bunny hill with Gemma, taking her up the magic carpet, helping her ski down. You were so engrossed in the whole event that you even forgot to take pictures. YOU! Forgot pictures! Gasp!

But that's what you do - you totally engage in what you're doing. Sometimes this can be frustrating for me because you tend to use more time doing something than you originally intended. And when you say, "I'll be there in 10 minutes," it often turns into 30-45. But this is probably also the reason your clients like you. And this is definitely the reason why this year has been your most successful year. This year has been amazing. I know of no other way to describe it. You've done really great work and we've been able to reap the rewards (see: ski school). I really loved that you wanted me to go to that awards dinner a couple months back. I enjoyed going and being with you, but I enjoyed that you wanted me there. For all of that, I thank you. We have a really comfortable life, and that's because you totally engage in what you're doing.

I loved knowing that you and the kids were at the finish line of my first half marathon. I loved having you by my side for a couple other events we did. When you have said, in moments just by ourselves, "I'm really proud of you," it's almost ridiculous how good it makes me feel. Sometimes I feel like I don't have a lot of recognizable accomplishments, so your support is everything to me. They've said to envision your "happy place" when you're stressed out or scared or unhappy. Will it sound terribly mushy to say my happy place has always been your hug? It is. I love those long, strong arms of yours.

This year you had to say goodbye to Melissa. She was the leader of the children. She was a giant in spirituality, if not stature. You were able to spend several weekends with her as her health declined and we realized she was not going to recover. You were there with her when she passed away, and I think that was a good thing. Being at home with the kids was hard because not only did I have to tell the kids, but I couldn't hug you. You got to be with your family, though, so that was good. When you got home, you said, almost defiantly, "I did cry. Right after she died." She was your sister. She was the one who taught you how to read and cheered for you in everything you did. She deserves tears. You gave a beautiful eulogy at her funeral. The children sang. It was a tough day, but it was good to be with family.

This year has been full of extreme emotions. But I am grateful every single day that the laughter, the tears, the frustration, and the joy are things I share with you. You make the funny stuff funnier. You give me a safe place to shed tears and express frustration. You've given me a life that defines joy. As I look at pictures of myself, I get a little discouraged at the lines and signs of aging. But when I step back and see that I'm aging with you, I don't care so much. And that's partly because you make me feel beautiful every day. You are the best thing that's ever happened to me.

Love,

Sarah

Dear Gemma,

2011-12-28T21:26:00.000-07:00

Dear Gemma,

When you were a tiny baby, Daddy and I wondered how we got so lucky to have you. As the years have passed, I've wondered when our luck would run out. Another year has passed, and I'm still wondering. Your soft cheeks, long hair, big eyes and continuing attachment to Ducky are proving a major disruption to my productivity as I stop to hug you or stroke your face or smell your hair. I've got the rest of my life to be productive, though, so I'll worry about that later.

This year you turned three and your vocabulary exploded. I love the stories you tell and listening to you play with your dolls. You have been as enthralled by the Harry Potter books as Ainsleigh and Donovan. The first time we watched "The Sorcerer's Stone" and Hagrid appeared, you clapped and squealed, "Dare's HagRID!" really pronouncing the R. You love the "Fancy Nancy" books, and we have read them countless times. The other books you love are David Shannon's "David" books. We've read them so much that you actually do the reading now. I've tried hiding the books, but you always seem to find them.

The one story that is your absolute favorite is "Duh Pale Green Pants" story, more formally (and accurately) titled, "What Was I Scared Of?" It's the last story in Dr. Seuss' "Sneetches" book. It's actually a story that kind of creeps me out. I mean, a pair of pants? Running around? Why WOULDN'T you be scared of them? And then they CRY?! You love to alternate saying lines with me and I have to withhold a shudder when you say (in its entirety):

I put my arm around their waist
And sat right down beside them.
I calmed them down.
Poor empty pants
With nobody inside them.

IT'S SO WEIRD. But you love it. And I love that you love it, even if I don't love it.

On your birthday, we said goodbye to sippy cups, moved you to a "big girl bed" and took down your crib. It was the easiest transition ever as you embraced getting older. And I just embraced you. As the kids would arrive home from school, you'd run to the front door and yell, "Welcome home, kids! How was your day?" You're like a mini-mom, and, thankfully, Ainsleigh and Donovan love to humor you in this. You quiz them about their day ("Who did you sit with at lunch?" "Tell me something funny that happened." "Did you play with someone new?") and sit at the table while they do their homework, offering advice and encouragement.

I love that you look up to them. I love that they love to include you. I worry that we've spoiled you a little too much, but not enough to change a whole lot. When you started preschool this year, we had a little bit of a problem with appropriate reactions in situations. I made up "Gemma's Happy Chart" complete with happy face stickers that you took to/from school. When you could go the whole day without screaming, you earned a sticker. Ainsleigh and Donovan were so good to coach you before they left for school, "Do we scream?" "Are you going to be a good friend today?" They want you to succeed as much as I do. And when you do succeed, we all celebrate with you.

You are my constant companion in the kitchen. You will come sprinting into the room if I'm even just unloading the dishwasher and ask, "What are we making?" As I move from counter to counter to stove to counter, you're pushing a chair, climbing up, climbing down, pushing a chair, etc. You're helping measure and offering to stir and asking to taste. Even tonight, when I was making Thai Chicken Curry and knew it was a bit spicier than the other kids like, you were right there, tasting and asking for more. You love spicy foods. Even when your eyes are watering and your nose is pink, you're nodding and holding a thumbs up. Last year, at Grandma and Grandpa Ostler's house, when Aunt Jess's mom made a spicy authentic Thai dipping sauce, you were downing it faster than the adults. I think you won the in-laws over with that. Good job, Baby. The only thing that makes you turn and run is when I pull out an onion to dice. You are so sensitive that you have to leave the room.

And still, Ducky is always in the picture. And, more specifically Ducky's foot that you'll rub against your lips or nose when you're watching a movie or reading a book or falling asleep. I don't know how much longer Ducky will be so present in your life. You don't take Ducky to school, and usually not to church or to run errands. But we all know that Ducky is a cure-all. Ducky's baths have to be carefully scheduled while you're at school or after you fall asleep at night because otherwise it results in you staring at the washing machine door, watching the suds swirl around. You've been known to drag in one of your doll chairs and wait there for the glorious reunion when a cleaner, fresher Ducky emerges.

One of the things Daddy has been doing with you at night is laying down with you and playing a song for you on his phone. This was highlighted in our Retrospective with what you call "The Funny Ear Song," but which is actually Ellie Goulding's cover of "Your Song." We're not sure why you call it that, except that the album art has her throwing her head back and I guess her ear looks funny to you. You sing along with the entire song, and it makes my heart practically explode with love for you and Daddy. Sometimes I curl up with you both and think, "This is the best place in the whole world." And when I start to sit up to climb off the bed and you jump up and throw your arms around my neck to whisper in my ear, "I love you. I love you. I love you," I think, "I AM SO LUCKY!" I've won the lottery with you.

I love you so much. So very impossibly exponentially much. You probably won't understand until you have a baby of your own, but by then I'll love you a bajillion times more, so just know that no matter how much you think I love you, it's way way way more.

Love,
Mom

Dear Donovan,

2011-12-27T18:15:00.000-07:00

Dear Donovan,

Holy cow you are big. Big noises, big messes, big smells, big advances, big heart. I love that you are totally opposite from Ainsleigh because it gives me an entirely different perspective. (This is also something I don't always love, but it keeps me on my toes.)

This year you graduated from kindergarten and moved into full-time first grade. The first couple weeks were a hard transition for you. After the first couple days, you asked if you could come home at lunch. And stay. On Tuesdays I volunteer in your classroom and I finally had to tell you I wasn't going to come any more if you kept hugging me as I left and whispering, "Can you take me home with you?" Want to know a secret? I was acting annoyed with your request so I wouldn't cry. If taking you home and making you macaroni and cheese and setting up a Marble Run with you would guarantee your cheeks would stay soft and spongy and you'd always want me to tuck you in at night and beg me for ONE MORE HUG AND A KISS, then I would have whisked you out in a second. But here's the truth: you have to grow up. Well, the truth is you get older, and it's my job to make sure you grow up. Sometimes it's the worst job in the world (reference: previous sentence). But most of the time it is the best.

It's the best job because you are the best boy. I can say that effortlessly the way I can tell Daddy he's my favorite husband ever. But still, you have an uncanny ability to make me grimace AND giggle in the same breath. Your generosity often stops me in my tracks, as sharing with your sisters or parents come effortlessly. When something great happens, you immediately want to tell Ainsleigh. You include Gemma in your knights/legos/Harry Potter playing, but do so by showing Gemma how she can adapt her princesses or Ducky. She thinks you are the greatest thing ever, and I might have to agree with that. I love that you love your sisters. You know your sisters so well, you know exactly what to do to make them scream/whine/cry. And let's be honest: you do a fair share of that. I hope you will always have such close relationships with your sisters.

You are in a combination first/second grade class and Miss Wheeler is one of the best things to ever happen to us. With her, you have improved your reading and expanded your math so that you are in advanced groups and working above grade level. I love listening to you read. You sound words out in your head so there's a slight pause at a word you don't know, and you are beginning to read with feeling. You keep trying to read books that are way above your level, but that's fun for me to see, too. Math is something that comes naturally to you and that is something I can totally relate to. Math just makes sense to you. It's like I can see the patterns and concepts settling into your brain, like you're cracking a code.

This year you played more soccer, and I loved refereeing your games. You also tried flag football for the first time. This was a little harder since it involves actual plays and listening skills (something we're still working on at home). But despite making some big errors, you loved it. You have a pretty good arm, too. Playing soccer and football was a bit difficult on the family schedule, so when you asked if you could play lacrosse, too, it was easy to say no. But hardly a day has passed that you haven't mentioned it. Santa brought you a couple lacrosse sticks this year, though, so I guess we'll have to sign you up for the spring. Ski school starts next weekend and you are excited to tear it up on the slopes.

I love that you always have time for a hug. I wonder how much longer you'll hug me at school and let me bury a kiss in those soft cheeks of yours. I'll take it while I can get it. I also cherish the moments you approach me with a long, mournful face and tell me about something that has been troubling you. When I see that confidence slipping on your face, I wrap you in a tight hug and whisper that you are my boy and I love you more than you will ever know. We've talked about how to ask a teacher to not call you by a nickname you don't like, or what kind of qualities make a true friend, or why you didn't have good behavior in art that one time. You have been sad in those moments and I am so glad you came and talked to me about them. Every one of those talks have ended with you hugging me back and then being incredibly affectionate in word and deed for the rest of the day. Please always come and tell me when something is bothering you. I promise I will always have time for my boy.

This has been the year of bookmaking for you. I wonder if it is due, in part, to your imagination being captured by Harry Potter. Together we have walked the halls of Hogwarts and battled He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. On your own time, you have gone through more paper and staples than I would have imagined as you have constructed books such as "The Pumkin Brothers," and "The Turky Brothers." But it all started with "The Ghosts," which turned into a series ("The Ghosts Halloween," "The Ghosts Thanksgiving," "The Ghosts Christmas," - I wonder if there will be "The Ghosts Valentine's Day"?). They say a good writer writes what they know, and the genesis of this authoring craze was borne from you falling out of bed one night (when your bed was lofted) and thinking it must have been ghosts that pushed you out. That first book talks about how the parents didn't believe the kids who said there were ghosts until the ghosts began to haunt the parents (something you must have wished). I was amused to see that the mom in the story was scared to death. Literally. I loved that an entire chapter (a page) was devoted to this sad event: "The kids were so so so sad. So was Dad." Watch out, Newbery Medal - he's gunning for you! My favorite part is when you include on the back, "About the Othr," and a delightful, if exaggerated, bio. You have tried to give some of your earliest works away, but I've kept them because they are priceless.

Despite your infectious grin and devious eyes, you're not all jokes and silly times. A couple weeks ago you asked me if we could give our next door neighbors scriptures for Christmas. This kind of took me off guard. I'm not accustomed to handing out scriptures to people. I asked what prompted the request and you said you had been playing with the (9 year old) neighbor boy and you said you had read about Jesus in the scriptures. When he said he'd like to read about Jesus, you asked if he would like some scriptures. He said that yes, he would, and you replied that you'd ask your mom. I talked to the mom to make sure it would be ok and she asked if we could mark the passages of Christ's birth. I am grateful for a 6 year old who has a budding testimony of the scriptures.

Years from now, you'll read these letters and I want you to remember that your mom used to chase you around and sit on you when you weren't doing what you were supposed to. And sometimes, just SOMETIMES, if you were being a turd to your sisters, she might tackle you and...let's say toot (to keep this classy) on your back. I might run a tight ship, but I look for opportunities to surprise you, hoping for that explosive laughter that instantly brightens my mood.

I love how big you are. I love watching you change into a little man. I love that you love me. Someday, you may lose those squishy cheeks (that would probably be ideal, eventually), but I will always have a kiss for them. Above all else, I want you to know that I will always always always love you. That's a part of this job I take very seriously.

Love,
Mom

Dear Ainsleigh,

2011-12-26T18:57:00.000-07:00

Dear Ainsleigh,

A few nights ago, Daddy and I looked through some of our past year's retrospective videos. We were watching 2007 and I felt this rush of emotion. Daddy said it perfectly when, about halfway through the video, he quietly muttered, "Watching this is making me kind of sad." It wasn't that long ago you were so small. I wondered if, in another couple years, I would look back at 2011 and want to tell myself to hug you more, appreciate you more, tell you I love you more. Because despite my very best efforts to keep you young and innocent, you are getting older, and I'm fighting a serious love/hate battle with that.

The problem with writing down how great you are is that it makes me cry. I've been sitting here trying to think why, because it isn't just overwhelming pride or happiness (which also have a tendency to make me cry -- something you are already far too familiar with). I think it's a mixture of a heaping dose love and a small, but powerful, dose of...what is the word I'm looking for...a small dose of I-don't-deserve-someone-as-wonderful-as-you.

We have had our ups and downs with trying to figure out how to help you with school. As of this letter, we still haven't told you that you were diagnosed with ADHD, but you know what - it doesn't matter. You've made remarkable strides and come up to grade level in reading. You're comfortable with where you are in your math group. You've done amazing work with your history and social studies. But you know what the best thing is? I get parents and teachers who, when they find out who my kid is (which, let's face it, is pretty easy to determine), say, "Oh she is just the sweetest! I love that Ainsleigh." And you know what - I would much prefer you to be cheerful and polite and the kid who all the parents want their kids to play with, than someone who can finish their algebra in 15 minutes.

You've gone from grimacing at the idea of going skiing to being the one to ask, "Can we go skiing yet?" and then giggling with anticipation in bed the night before. Daddy says you're now going as fast as Donovan (and since he loves to just bomb a hill, that's saying something). We let you use poles this year, and your turning has improved a lot. Now I'm nervous that I'll be the one whining on the hill while you fly down ahead of me.

You've been playing the piano, and I have learned that I cannot help you practice. It only took a few times with me hovering and correcting for you to end up in your room and me to remember how much I detested my Grandma constantly telling me to hold my hands better (which I have silently apologized for a billion times by now). A couple weeks after our last blow-up, I heard you stop your practicing and turn on the metronome before resuming practice. My heart sang. In the months since then, you have turned notes into songs -- songs that are recognizable! A couple weeks ago you told me you were playing "Silent Night" for your primary (church) class party. I casually asked if you had the music for it. "No, but I'm going to get it." Since this party was 4 days away, I got on the phone with your piano teacher and she confirmed that she had music for you. And oh how you practiced! Sitting next to you and playing the duet part while you played an octave higher was a huge moment for me. I think I was more nervous than you were, as evidenced by the fact that you played your part perfectly and I missed a note toward the end. I have learned that one of the best things about being a parent is watching you accomplish great things.

Speaking of new things - this year you've started Seahawks Training Camp (for swimming). This is a 3-day/week program where you swim for an hour. Soccer and dance have been things you've lost interest in and, let's face it, you haven't been particularly talented there. But swimming - you have a good amount of endurance! I don't know why I'm surprised. Judging by the length of time you'll spend sitting on your bed, scowling at the door, rather than cleaning your room, I should have guessed you'd have stamina in other things, too. At the end of a session, they do "time trials," something you've been excited for. For the first and second sessions you didn't dive from the blocks (partly because you were afraid). You logged some improvement on your times, moving up levels. But this third session - WOW. Once again, my heart was beating out of my chest as I timed you on my phone (though you bring me the "official" numbers). You dove from the blocks, did a flip-turn at the end, and raced back down the lane to log a new personal record 13 seconds faster than last time. When it came time for backstroke, you shaved a whopping 27 seconds off your previous time. And for breaststroke (which was only one length), you improved 8 seconds. I couldn't contain my grin and when I told you how dang proud of you I was, you threw yourself into my arms and soaked me. And I loved it.

You are such a good big sister. You are a great friend to your brother and sister. You will often put aside what you enjoy doing to join them in what they want. Sometimes Gemma comes downstairs with elaborate hairstyles (ones that I kind of envy), and I know you've been at work. The howls of laughter and extreme giggling that waft upstairs from the basement reassure me that you and your brother have a phenomenal friendship. You love to take care of Gemma while Dad is working in his office and I run to the store. Your face lights up when I ask you to help me make dinner or teach you how to do something new. You are a sponge and I am trying my best to make sure you soak up the best things. I love spending time with you. Your grin is contagious.

There are little things every day that make me both roll my eyes and giggle at you. Like when you casually walk downstairs with an obviously, ahem, enhanced bosom and then act like, "What, this? Oh, I didn't even notice..." Or how I have to admire your creative fashion choices, but also sugest a few tweaks to make them socially acceptable. I love how you are intrigued by, as you call it, "the Girl Body Book" (thank you, American Girl) and have taken an interest in personal hygiene but not in how babies happen. I am especially grateful for that last part. I love that we have an agreement that you will brush my hair for as long as I will read to you. When I write a parenting book, I'm going to have an entire chapter on contracts, and brushing/styling hair is going to be first. Or maybe I'm just lucky to have a girl who is both willing and happy to humor me.

I love that we have actual interesting conversations. I love that you're rising to roles of responsibility. Even though I get frustrated with some of the things you can be stubborn about, I find myself reassured that that determination will serve you well. As I watch you get older (since bigger isn't really applicable, though you have grown an inch and a half in the last year!), I do get sentimental for the smaller See-see of yesterday. But as you're becoming more of a person, I'm right there loving who you are. Being your mom is a gift, and one I try hard to deserve. I look forward to what 2012 will bring.

Love,
Mom

We finished it.

2011-12-23T11:17:00.001-07:00

I like to think that people will actually watch our video. I think we have some good pictures. We have some fun video. And some outstanding songs that have kind of become our 2011 anthems. Mostly, though, it's satisfying to see it all compiled and tell myself, "You're doing better than you think." There are a lot of moments of frustration and tears and saying, "I've told you a MILLION TIMES," and wondering if my children will only remember the constant plea to HURRY UP. But then we have some physical evidence that we had a lot of laughs and giggles and joy. Looking at these pictures makes me a little sad that the year is nearly over. But it also makes me extremely grateful for the husband, children, family and friends I have been blessed with. If you're reading this, you're counted in that group.

So take a look - there's a button at the top of the blog now saying 2011 Retrospective (there, I hyperlinked it. It's "hidden" on YouTube, so you can only get the link here - sneaky!).

Christmas cards were dumped at the post office early this morning. If you don't get it by Saturday, please know we wish you a very Merry Christmas and an abundantly happy new year.

My name is Sarah and I'm a tree nerd.

2011-12-15T12:46:00.000-07:00

The Monday after Thanksgiving, we went to get our Christmas tree. This little treasure hunt is something I always look forward to. I remember as a child, running around tree lots as my parents went from tree to tree. I loved the smell of pine that promised a month of excitement and anticipation, culminating in the best Christmas ever. I didn't even know fake trees existed until I was well into my teens. And I pegged them for lazy people or people who couldn't pick out a good-looking REAL tree. We always had to be a Noble. None of this Douglas stuff. This doctrine was ingrained from the time I was little, thanks to my dad and my grandma.

So when Joel and I were to celebrate our first Christmas and I said, "Let's go look at trees!" Joel kind of furrowed his brow and asked, "A real one? Why wouldn't we just buy a fake one?" I staggered backward, clutching my heart. We had discussed all topics before getting married: children; discipline; cuisine preferences; goals; etc. But it hadn't even occurred to me to discuss CHRISTMAS TREES. The horror.

Joel almost had a coronary when he saw how expensive a tree was at a tree lot. Luckily, Home Depot carries a ton of trees for the more budget-conscious. Happily, we headed back to our apartment and set it up. Since then, Joel has been a believer, scoffing at the idea of a fake tree.

Last year, in a rare departure, we went with a Fraser fir. The look very similar to Nobles, with even shorter needles but seemingly sturdier branches. It was a bit darker green, as well. It was a beautiful tree, but the day after we got it home, we discovered its biggest downfall: it didn't smell. This is a dealbreaker, in my mind. Oh yes, we still enjoyed how aesthetically pleasing it was, but we both nodded in agreement that we preferred the old reliable Noble.

So THIS year, we headed out to our trusty Home Depot, equipped with shears (to cut away any netting), gloves, and a can-do attitude. I had called ahead to see when their shipment had come in, gave them 12 hours to get the trees out, and patted myself on the back. Once there, we waded past the Douglas and Fraser trees and began to survey the Nobles. Usually, we go for a 6-7' tree. Joel kept looking wistfully at the 8-9' tree section until I asked, "You want a bigger tree?" He shrugged, "Well. We have a 2-story living room. It can certainly handle it." Ok then.

It didn't take us long to find a huge, wonderful, fabulous-smelling tree (not like the 2 or 3-night ordeal/celebration it sometimes can be). We dragged it over to get its clean cut and I told the guy we were going to go inside to get some lights and we'd be right back. He shrugged, because he couldn't care less. We walked away, in search of LED lights.

Ten minutes later, we return to see a tree cut and bagged, waiting to be paid for. I look at it, and think, "Huh, that looks a little smaller than I remembered." The checker points to it and says, "Here's your tree."

Confused, I look over at the guy doing clean-cuts and see there's a tree back by him that looks like ours. Then I look back at the bagged tree. "This is ours?" I ask. "Because it looks a little...smaller."

There's a couple standing nearby, looking like they wish they were anywhere else. I ask them if they were waiting for a tree. Yes, they were.

Me: Is this one your tree?

Them (looking from the bagged tree to the tree by clean-cut dude and shrug): We dunno.

Me: Huh. Well...how big was your tree?

Them (another shrug): We don't know. We...just picked one.

Me: Hmm. Ok, so I don't mean to be all crazy, but I'm kind of specific about a tree. So...do you think you got an 8-footer?

Them (familiar shrug): We don't know. We just picked a tree. We don't really care.

Me: Ack. Ok, so...let's look at the tag on the tree, because maybe that will have the height.

(I try to roll the tree over to check the underside and the tree no longer had a tag on it. I keep looking from the bagged tree to the other tree, wondering how uptight I appear, and wondering if I really care. Then I notice the bagged tree has long-ish needles.)

Me: Oh! Did you get a Douglas? Because I think this is a Douglas. And we got a Noble. Totally different.

Them (blank looks on their faces): We don't know. We just picked.a.tree.

(I'm thinking, "Who ARE you people? How can you not care? Do you hate Christmas?!?!" I'm also remembering the Christmas my Grandma, aka Lady Christmas, was recovering from a stroke and how my Grandpa, in an effort to make a nice surprise, went out and bought a tree *cue ominous music* ON HIS OWN. Every time my Grandma walked past the living room and saw it there - and it was pretty wretched - she would just grimace and shake her head, at a loss for words - both literally and figuratively. I am not even exaggerating when I say that thing was sitting on the side of the road for garbage pick-up Christmas afternoon. She couldn't get that tree out of the house fast enough. This memory has me dreading the unknown bagged tree. Using all the mystery-solving skills I've amassed over years of watching "Murder, She Wrote," "CSI" and "House," I try one final last-ditch effort.)

Me: Ok...so, do you know WHERE you got your tree? Because that would tell me what kind of tree you got.

Them (shrugging and pointing to the DOUGLAS FIRS): Over there somewhere.

Me (triumphant): Oh PHEW! Ok, so you got a Douglas. And this is your tree. Mystery solved! Oh thank goodness. Sorry about that...I'm pretty particular about my trees. I'm...

Apathetic man: a tree nerd?

Me: Uh...yeah.

I can only imagine how they talked later about the crazy person at Home Depot and how sorry they were for her husband to be married to someone like that. But you know what, the joke's on them because a) Joel is also very particular about trees, though he lacks my crime-solving expertise, and b) I don't care. Obviously you can't trust tree idiots.

Can you imagine what I would have done if we had gotten it home to discover its inferiority? Ugh. Tragedy averted! It's kind of a Christmas miracle.

Dreamer v. Realist

2011-12-13T12:50:00.000-07:00

If you're a fan of "Modern Family," you recently saw an episode where the family was divided in half: dreamers vs. realists. This episode hit a bit close to home. Joel is our dreamer. He has wonderful, fantastic ideas that sometimes lead to really great things, but more often than not end with me saying, "That's impossible," or "I don't think Tahiti is a viable relocation option," or, "But have you thought about the execution of this idea?"

Poor Joel. I like to think that I'm not so much as crushing his dreams, as helping him to really plan. And, actually, I've gotten a lot better. Early in our marriage, I would hyperventilate at the idea that he was going to quit his job and take up some obscure hobby, or move us to Hawaii when I wasn't looking, or build a giant henhouse in the backyard. Now, however, when he gets that faraway look in his eyes and starts to unload his newest idea, I just listen and nod and say, "That's a great idea. Go for it." Because I learned long ago that 99% of his ideas are just that: ideas. Also, I think he has learned to not share as many (maybe because some of them just AREN'T REALISTIC, dear).

But I digress. My point is, a couple weeks ago he came to me with an idea for a family photo. He wanted to do the anti-"candid" family shot of people that is so popular right now like an urban/junkyard funky setting or outdoors or whatever. He wanted to do a completely stylized/posed/manufactured shot. He told me his idea and I asked about his timeline (2 hours) and when I realized it wasn't going to work, I nodded and said, "Cool. Let me know when you're ready for me."

A week later, he was ready. Doh. I mean, GREAT! We aren't sending out our cards until we've finished our 2011 Retrospective video (I think we're...close? Maybe 2 hours away...) so for now, enjoy a little sneak peak at what will NOT be on our card. And, if you have moved or would like a piece of mail, send me a note and I'll be happy to add you to our mail list. I even hand-address my cards. I'm old-school awesome that way.

Photoshoots like these (the first one of me kind of encapsulates my general feeling toward having my picture taken) make me think that maybe photoless cards should make a comeback.

I never thought I'd...

2011-12-07T13:18:00.001-07:00

A) Find it. B) Buy it. How could I think it didn't exist? Why would I not have thought Amazon carried it? Lo and behold, I just placed an order and, arriving sometime before December 17 will be:

That's right - it's a (stuffed) flying squirrel.

That's what Donovan asked for, for Christmas. Well, that was only after he asked for a REAL flying squirrel and was shot down. Even when he asked for a stuffed one, I thought, "That's dumb. We have too many stuffed animals." And we do. But I checked, on a whim, and there it was. So I had to buy it, actually. In the meantime, I will continue to act skeptical and disgusted at his #1 pick. It will make him feel all the more triumphant when he comes down Christmas morning and sees it there, waiting for him. And I will chuckle and roll my eyes and say, "Oh Santa."

Anyone have any weird gifts they're getting their children for Christmas? Or Hannukah? Or...anything?

Also, I have a party to go to this Saturday where I'm supposed to bring a white elephant gift. I don't HAVE any white elephant-ish items. Any suggestions? PLEASE.

grumpy to garland to glad

2011-12-03T22:08:00.001-07:00

A couple weeks ago I realized Thanksgiving was a lot closer than I thought, and with its impending arrival, so would quickly follow Christmas. You'd think I would have been clued in by the store decorations and such, but since most of them began pulling out the red and green in July, you can understand how I might have lost track of time. And for the first time in my life, I became irritated at the thought of Christmas.

I was irritated that just as I was beginning to feel organized and clean, I was going to have to haul out a ton of decorations and turn my house upside down decking the halls. I was irritated that I needed to buy gifts for ungrateful children. But mostly, I was irritated that it felt like we had just barely had Christmas so the past year has seemed to vanish as if it was just a daydream. And then I got depressed because I can't possibly live my life like this - from Christmas to Christmas, decorating and putting things away, wondering where the time went.

So I took a deep breath and told myself I'd handle it after Thanksgiving and it would be great, but in the meantime I should make sure to pay attention to the events around the big day of gratitude so I wouldn't wonder what happened to it.

Something about eating 7 (kinds of) pies helps balance my chi. Our Thanksgiving company was barely out of sight when I tackled beds and sheets and began ordering children around with the promise that a clean house would get Christmas decorations. I figured out how to access Pandora on our Blu-ray player and pulled out some hot chocolate. I was going to make merry, dang it!

I spent a lot of time fluffing garland and wreaths. As I pulled and arranged and frowned and rearranged, I thought of my Grandma whose love of all things Christmas was (probably still is) unsurpassed. I looked at the mantle over our fireplace that holds a small collection of Santas that were part of a much bigger collection when she was alive. Grandma made Christmas. You couldn't help but get caught up in her excitement and enthusiasm. Cleoma did Christmas with pizazz.

Camera photo of 4 of my Santas.
The one on the right was her very first Santa.
It was $2 and she couldn't afford the matching Mrs. Claus.

As I thought of her, I thought of how she'd probably wrinkle her nose say, "Now Sarah," and then point her right index finger at me - the one that was a little fatter at the tip with a weirdly smaller fingernail because as a girl she stuck it in a washing basin tub that was spinning and her fingertip got sliced off (sorry for that sidetrack - but that finger was mesmerizing) - and say, "You need to have fun. Find the fun, and give your kids a Christmas to make me proud." (there might have been a well-placed "dammit" in there)

That finger had a way of making you do stuff. Usually it was just washing your hands for the umpteenth time or promising you wouldn't have sex before you got married. But never doubt the power of a pointing Grandma.

I've managed to get my shopping spreadsheet in order (it's a science, people. anyone who DOESN'T do a huge matrix for who is giving what to whom and who is getting what so the gifts are even and there aren't doubles and you know what is in the stocking and what is on display and what is wrapped is a Christmas amateur. and I have a legacy to uphold here.) and put up all of the decorations except the tree. After seeing that it was going to snow last week, we bought our 8 foot Noble tree the day before the storm hit to save us from hauling a wet/frozen tree home. Joel got the lights on the house and I put the lights in the bushes. I have Christmas music playing for most of the day and I'm trying my best to keep the house filled with the scent of baking (even when I'm not baking, thank you Scentsy).

Last night, as the kids were downstairs not cleaning up the family room, I went upstairs with a few strings of lights and strung them across dressers and around headboards and over pictures. Then I folded laundry as I waited for them to come back upstairs. I knew Ainsleigh had reached her room because I heard a little gasp and a quiet, "Oh...my...word!" (I have the ears of a bat, you know)(and she has the exclamations of an 80-year-old) and then she was racing into my room and throwing her arms around my waist and squealing, "Oh THANK YOU MOMMY! I LOVE it!" I made her promise not to tell Donovan so he would discover his room on his own, and a few minutes later he came up. "WHAT THE...? MOM?" and then, as if he had known what Ainsleigh had done, he was running into my room and throwing his arms around me and saying, "I've always wanted lights in my room! Thank you so much!" Later, when Gemma walked into her room, dimly lit from a strand of old Christmas lights so it took on a pinkish tint, her eyes were big and she began tiptoeing (so as not to wake them? I don't know) to the center. She slowly turned around to survey the whole room and then whispered (I was standing in the doorway this time), "My room is boo-tiful! Thank you for making my room boo-tiful, Mommy!" I was hoping they would like it. But I didn't anticipate just how MUCH they would love it. And that's how my heart grew three times...

As a parent, you often do stuff you don't want to or don't enjoy. But you do it because you're the parent. Christmas shouldn't be like that. Christmas should be about creating an environment of memories that will one day snap your own kids out of a bad mood so they can give their kids a magical Christmas. Because that's what kids deserve. That's what Cleoma would want. And anyone who knew Cleoma (and that freaky awesome finger) knows Cleoma got what she wanted (I may have inherited a wee bit there).

Keys to a successful Thanksgiving

2011-11-29T15:54:00.001-07:00

1. Brine your turkey. Then, as it's resting and you've separated the drippings from the fat to flavor the gravy you made the night before, pour the remaining fat over the bird.

2. Operate on a pie-to-person ration of about 7:12. No pictures, due to mass consumption.

3. Sprinkle in some family activities.

4. Accept your brother-in-law's offer to make ebelskivers (spelling so very incorrect but I don't care).

5. Make friend's suggested accompanying syrup of 1 cup butter, 1 cup sugar, 1 cup cream; then email said friend with: I HAVE DIED AND GONE TO HEAVEN.

Also helpful: have a mother/sister-in-law team in place to wash all the dishes you dirty, make the food you don't want to (or can't), and have general good conversation with.

We had a houseful of people and I'm only now starting to feel like we're operating on standard time. It doesn't help that only now, for the first time in 2 weeks, I can get through the day without medicating with advil due to a less-than-perfect dental experience. Stories to come.

In the meantime, I hope you had a lovely Thanksgiving. Today while I volunteered at the school, I asked every kid what was the best thing they ate for Thanksgiving. One kid shrugged and said, "The turkey, I guess," another said, "Ham," and one said, "The pie. My mom let me eat as much as I wanted." (oh wait - that was my kid who said that...) I'm considering doing another turkey dinner with a hen this time, instead of a tom. I hear they're more tender and have more breast meet (though since they're smaller, I had to go with the tom for the big day - 23 pounds, baby!). I mean, OBVIOUSLY both of those things would apply to the ladybirds, right?

So, if you're still reading, what was the best thing you ate for Thanksgiving? Feel free to attach recipes, if applicable.

Greatest. Person. Ever.

2011-11-17T18:22:00.001-07:00

On our way to the pool tonight, I stopped at the mailbox. A big box awaited me and I glanced at the sender. I was delighted to see it was from my friend Alice who had requested my address, saying, "I have something fun to send you."

Exhibiting total lack of self-restraint, I tore into the box while sitting in my car and immediately squealed. The kids thought there was a mouse inside. Oh no, children.

Inside were Trader Joe's Dark Chocolate Covered Peppermint Joe Joes. FOUR BOXES. I nearly wept for joy. Those of us living outside the TJ's boundaries miss out on a lot of delicacies. This is one.

On a regular day, these would be considered prized possessions. On a day where my face is only now recovering feeling after extensive dental work, these are extraordinary treasures bestowed from an angel.

Thank you doesn't begin to cut it. A few years ago, my friend Rachel S. earned person-of-the-year status* for mailing me bacon. Last year, as she reminded me, Laura sent me a cheesecake. Obviously she won for 2010. This year, Alice J wins, hands down. I can only imagine the great ideas she comes up with since with two adorable babies she certainly doesn't get much (any?) sleep.

I fully intend to eat an entire box tonight. (sending me back to the dentist? Perhaps)

(this post was so important, I downloaded the blogger app just for this. I should probably make sure my kids aren't drowning now...)

*person-of-the-year status awarded for mailing me delicious food. Obviously.

The Final Countdown

2011-11-14T15:50:00.001-07:00

It started with a half-hearted whine on Donovan's part, "I don't want to go to school." It had already been an irritating morning since I totally spaced Ainsleigh's choir practice and realized at 8:05 she was supposed to be there, but hadn't even eaten breakfast yet. Ugh.

My beloved had already volunteered to walk them to school, so I went upstairs to leave him to deal with Donovan's mood and the inevitable chaos that ensues when I usually try to get them out the door. As I folded laundry in my bedroom, I heard the delightful opening strains of "The Final Countdown" waft up from our living room. I heard Joel, over the pumping synthesizer, enthusiastically say, "Shoes on! Let's do this! It's the final countdown!"

Gemma and I emerged onto the upstairs landing to see the kids kind of laughing and shaking their heads at their father. I began a slow clap and then joined him in shouts of encouragement, "You can do this! Rock this day OUT!"

And suddenly, the irritation from before melted away. That song has a way of doing that to me. And, what better way to start my day than loud music, cheering for your kids, and making them run through a tunnel on their way out the door.

Plus, it was also the final countdown to 7 hours without Donovan's requests for candy. Win-WIN.

Clouds of heaven

2011-11-11T11:09:00.001-07:00

Before I left New York, Laura and I stopped in at Levain Bakery. Obviously I like to support this kind of business. Laura had me at "cookie" but then she went on to say, "They weigh the dough before they bake them and each cookie is a third of a pound." STOP EVERYTHING. This is a kind of business I absolutely need to be supporting. So there we were, buying cookies the size of baseballs. Can I share a little secret? I bought 3, thinking I'd bring Joel one, eat one myself, and bring the third for a friend here in Colorado. Super nice, right? WRONG. Because after a near catastrophe at airport security, I fought back tears (at the thought of having to leave my Spekuloos behind - seriously, this stuff is life-changing/enhancing) with the (internal - I'm guilty of often audibly talking to myself, but not this time) declaration that was going to eat ALL THE COOKIES myself. SO THERE.

I shared some with Joel. But even he couldn't eat an entire cookie in one sitting. I ate nearly 2/3 of a cookie before I broke out in a little sweat and realized it was quite likely I was slipping into a cookie-induced coma. I wondered what the medical chart might read, in such an instance. And what the remedy would be.

As if I'd even want one.

In short, if you're in NYC, stop in and buy a cookie. Or three. And if you're not in NYC, then plan a trip and stop at the bakery. And then the Waffle Truck. And then the Shake Shack.

And maybe Ellis Island or something.

I can make it ANYWHERE

2011-11-09T18:01:00.000-07:00

I went to New York City for the weekend. I heard they were having a marathon and I thought it sounded worth watching. You know, because that's the way I am.

One of the many posters in the Subway stations. Laura looks super pumped to die.

What began back in February as a tentative gchat question to Laura of, "Um...if one were to come watch you run the marathon, where might one stay?" turned into a most memorable and glorious weekend of food, fun, and sisterly bonding. Laura was running her first marathon and, dang it, that's a freaky huge accomplishment. Someone should BE THERE. I nominated myself to be that someone.

As luck would have it, I have a wonderfully supportive and loving (and capable!) husband who was happy to let me go. It also helps that he thinks Laura is one of the coolest people on the planet. It also helps that I wrote a numbered list of the important events he needed to make sure the kids attended (i.e. school, meals, etc.) and left meals in the refrigerator for him to reheat (whether or not he chose to actually do that was on him).

So Friday morning I drove to the airport and sat on an airplane in peace and quiet, sipping a soda and knitting while listening to a book on my ipod. It was the best plane ride I've had in a very long time. All too soon we were flying in low over NYC, completing a hairpin turn resulting in some unpleasant G-forces, and landing. Ahhh, the city.

We feasted on New York pizza that night and I was delighted with how lovely and polite everyone was. Where is the NYC attitude? Where is the rudeness?? Oh well, I was living it up. Laura lives a few blocks north of Central Park in Harlem and riding the subway was a real treat. The last time I was in NYC it was for work and they paid for cabs. This time I was going local.

Laura, looking totally bangin at the finish line.

Saturday morning we met up with one of Laura's friends who was graciously holding a place in line for rush tickets to see "How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying" starring Daniel Radcliffe (and John Larroquette). Daniel was, in a word, charming. He danced his little bouncy heart out. He's actually a delightful singer! I just kept thinking, "Your mother must be so PROUD!" It was a great performance, and I highly recommend it. I later told the kids I had seen Harry Potter on stage, but being someone else. They were super jealous.

Outside the Harry Potter Theater (I think that's the name of it...)

Between getting the tickets and watching the show, we paid a visit to the Waffle Truck. I don't know if that's the official name, but it's official adjective is DELICIOUS. The portions aren't large, but holy cow those waffles must be secretly deep fried or coated in magic or something. I have never tasted such a delicious waffle. And the girl cooking them up was very good to try to act the part of hostile New Yorker. I also managed to stock up on 4 more jars of Spekuloos (think of nutella, but instead of chocolate and hazelnuts, think ground up gingerbread cookies in a spreadable form)(sidenote: you may not take spekuloos in your carry-on. I suspect this is because the authorities knew how exquisite it is and wanted it for themselves. Tragedy narrowly averted as I had to check my bag and almost miss my flight. It was worth it, though).

Waffle Truck!

Marathon Day has been summarized by my warrior sister. What can I say - she's an animal. A couple days before the race I asked on a runner's forum if being a support runner was illegal. Holy bananas, people had opinions. Even despite me prefacing it by saying I had no intention of running in Central Park (let alone getting near the finish line), people kept saying I had no business crossing the finish line. Um, I KNOW. I would feel like an idiot, even if they didn't have bandit catchers there. Someone told me I would be "taking the glory away" from my sister, or ruining it for her. Um...the whole point would be to SUPPORT her. So Laura and I had a good laugh about how I could ruin it for her. Maybe heckle her? Kick her? Run ahead, yelling, "I'm running faster than you!"?

Laura's race essentials

Cheering at a marathon is way more fun than you think. It's just so fun to yell at people, especially those with their names on their shirts, things like, "You've got this, Brad!" and "You're looking so hot, Natalie!" and "You're an animal, Bob! Keep it up!" I recommend this activity to everyone. I loved the guy who stood there with a giant bowl of what I can only imagine was his children's Halloween candy for runners-by.

I also had the extreme pleasure of finally meeting a dear friend. I've known her for 9 years, from an online mothers' support group, but never had the opportunity to meet her. She lives in New Jersey and happily volunteered to meet me in the city. It was so great to finally give her a hug! We've emailed and talked on the phone, but it was so lovely to just be with her. And she was great to cheer at the marathon with me. Thank you, Shira!!

Shira! (excuse the crappy quality thanks to glamorous subway lighting)

I joined up with Laura just before mile 19 and, instead of punching her in the face, brought along an assortment of things either shoved in my compression socks or clutched in my hands: vaseline, bandaids, sport beans, chapstick, cameraphone, etc.

Looking excited for mile 19. Do you know how hard it is to take a picture
and upload it to Facebook while running? VERY.

We ran and chatted (ok, so mostly me chatting) and I was a little sad to leave her at mile 23, but I promised I wouldn't go farther so off I went. There was Shira to ride the subway with me to the end of the marathon and keep me company while we made our way through the masses to find Laura.

GLORY!

It was so great to finally see Laura and her salt-encrusted face, give her heat-sheet covered body a big hug, and admire her medal. I was so dang proud of her, and so dang excited to be there. That night we celebrated by eating the best cheeseburgers, cheese fries and milkshakes at the Shake Shack. I rashly told Laura that the next time she ran a marathon, I would join her (by cheering and running 4 miles with her and then eating a ton afterward). What can I say, I'm a devoted sister.

Cameraphone picture of cheeseburger and Marathon Medal

New York City is a great place to be, but it was also super fun to just be a person there. No really touristy stuff, just walking around, riding the subway, doing what the people do. (how condescending does THAT sound?!) And, on my last day, as we exited a subway stop, one woman yelled at another woman, who yelled back, and a little spat ensued where each one claimed to be important and in a hurry so they should stop pushing...I grinned widely and Laura and mouthed, "It's HAPPENING!" I had finally found some grumpy New Yorkers. I could depart in peace.

I loved being there. I loved being a part of it. It all. New York. And I don't say it nearly enough, but I love Laura. I look forward to future shenanigans. And hopefully they will include milkshakes.

Cheering on from the stands (well, a day early, but still)

Mischief Managed

2011-10-31T17:08:00.000-06:00

I found this note on my nightstand Saturday night after our church Halloween party where the kids scored their first haul of candy. He is learning the fine art of tempering a proposition with flattery. I appreciate that. I'll probably say yes.

Be in known: He is NOT Harry Potter!

And she is NOT Hermione Granger! (you can't see her holding a book that clearly reads: Tom Riddle's Diary)

THEY are Ginny and Ron Weasley. See the stuffed rat? See the absence of black hair, a scar, glasses, bushy brown hair, and a copy of "A History of Hogwarts"? SEE THE RED HAIR?!

Those who are in the know quickly understood what we were going for. I, for one, am very pleased with how the costumes turned out (thank you, Moom, for handling the robe situation so well)(note to self: deciding 10 days before Halloween that "I could probably just make the scarves" even though I don't even know how to knit, is not the wisest strategy)(*pats self on back*).

Happy Halloween, people. Gemma in her choice of princess dress-ups to follow.

The boy who can't slow down.

2011-10-28T15:59:00.000-06:00

Oh Donovan.

A couple evenings ago, Donovan flew into the house, a flurry of speed, and bolted toward the bathroom. A few seconds later, I heard him mournfully calling to Joel. Now, Donovan is not so old that I can't help him in times of need, but he is definitely approaching the age where bathroom-related crises are delegated to his father. Still, as I overheard some whiny gibberish, I decided to investigate.

I stood, framed by the doorway, in the space a normal didn't-leave-it-to-the-last-possible-nanosecond person would have filled with a closed door, and asked, "What's going on?"

Anguish dripped from his voice has he uttered, "I was going too fast...and I had to go so bad...and I pulled down my pants...but I forgot...and now my underwear..." and he nodded downward, unable to actually apply words to what had occurred.

I looked down and beheld my son, sitting on the toilet, jeans around his ankles, sweatshirt hiked up under his elbows, tighty-whities clearly stretched mid-thigh. Not high enough to be in its at-home location. Nowhere near low enough to avoid being soiled.

I half-frowned, half-squinted and shrugged, "Well that's embarrassing for you. Don't do that again." And I returned to the kitchen. WHERE I BELONG.

This moment in parenting is brought to you by Donovan, and his inability to take bathroom breaks.

My mom can run farther than your mom

2011-10-26T17:37:00.001-06:00

Look how cute my moom is:

Here she is modeling the racing tank I had made for her first half marathon. You know, because she's such a rock star. (If you're interested, I had this and my dad's shirt printed at myraceragz.com - they were a pleasure to work with and the quality is exceptional. I was so impressed, I used them again when I made a shirt for my sister Laura since she's running the NY MARATHON in a couple weeks. nobigdeal) I had each of my siblings write something encouraging on a piece of white paper with a black sharpie, then photograph it and email it to me. I worked a little magic in photoshop and voila, here is the back:

Have you ever seen such a glorious ponytail? You might understand why, after seeing my mom,
I don't think my hair is that thick. It's all perspective.

Anyway, today is her BIRTHDAY. When she was here visiting, we went to the gym. She's such an animal, and I couldn't have been prouder. I totally wanted to keep pointing at her and announcing, "Check out the hard body over there. That's my mom!" As if that somehow ups my cred.

The determination she brings to the gym (or training for a half marathon or century bike ride) is the same that she brings to most projects, be they quilting, throwing a dinner party or raising six children. She's not out to be #1 in the world, but she's out to do the best dang job she can. And for those of us who are the recipients (or spectators), she's #1 in our world. She's not your average Grandma, but with a name like Wanda, what were you expecting?

Happy birthday, Mom. Come back soon. I promise I won't make you work the whole time. (But I'll totally haul you to the gym so I can walk around pointing at you and declaring, "That's my mom!")

Starfish on the glass

2011-10-26T12:59:00.003-06:00

Have you ever watched a starfish move? Last week, my mom was in town and we went to the Butterfly Pavilion and saw these starfish (because butterflies=starfish, obviously) that were walking across the glass. The underside is comprised of hundreds of tiny...I don't know what, but they look like tiny, short spaghetti. They move furiously and the starfish seems to glide over the glass ever so slowly. In fact, you might almost believe they aren't moving at all, except then you walk over to pet the horseshoe crab and when you come back, the starfish is gone.

I've been thinking about these starfish a lot lately, and how I kind of feel like one. Between getting kids to school and volunteering and trying to make quality time for kids and planning meals and keeping house and focusing on my obligations at church, I feel like parts of me are moving like crazy, while it feels like I'm not actually going anywhere very quickly.

My mom was in town for 6 days and it felt like 2. Before she arrived, I texted her:

You should also plan to help make Hogwarts robes while you're here.
Now delete "help" from the previous sentence.

And she came through with flying colors. The kids could not be happier with their robes and I could not be happier that Halloween is almost here so we can finally cut Donovan's blasted hair. I know he wanted to grow it out so he could be a proper Ron, but it's driving me CRAZY.

Everyone should have a mom who you wish was around a lot more. I tried to woo her into staying by taking her to The White Chocolate Grill and to the Brown Palace for tea. The kids loved having her read "The Adventures of Treehorn" and other fine fiction. Donovan cried openly when she left.

We've had soccer and football and swimming and choir and now October is almost over. I'm like the starfish that isn't really moving that quickly, but when you look back after a few minutes, realize it has actually covered quite a lot of distance.

I haven't been very good about posting, and maybe it's because I feel like there's a lot of movement, but not a lot of progress. But now I look back and the kids' sports are coming to a close and Gemma is saying some outrageous things and Joel wrapped up his humongous amazing fantastic project and is sleeping again. Oh, and we bought a new car. I didn't mention that before, did I? It was a couple months ago. A Subaru Outback, to be exact. With it and our season passes to Winter Park for skiing (or snowboarding), we're one step away from being official Coloradoans. Now all we need is a dog.

Did I mention we're looking at getting a dog? I have my favorites, but if you have any suggestions for a low(no?)-shedding, agreeable family dog, I'm all ears. I'd like it under 30 pounds. We already have names picked out.

In the meantime, I'm going to try to enjoy my starfish pace. I just hope I don't fall off the glass.

A question for the ages

2011-10-14T21:29:00.001-06:00

Does the the message itself ease the horror when the media used are a sharpie and your hardwood floor?

Pros:
His penmanship is improving.
Of all the messages he could have placed in our entryway, this was what he chose.
It happened on Joel's watch.

Cons:
HARD.WOOD.FLOORS.

For sale:
6 year old boy. Comes with sharpies.

PSA: Locker Room Etiquette

2011-10-06T13:02:00.003-06:00

I understand that locker rooms offer a wide visual education on the human body. I also understand that just because I am not comfortable stripping down in front of strangers doesn't mean everyone else has the same, ahem, attention to modesty. I also understand that showers in a locker room naturally equate to nudity and there's a good chance drawing that shower curtain will just be TOO MUCH TROUBLE for some people. So I did not faint from shock as I steered my two young daughters toward the toilets and beheld a woman in all her glory lathering up. I even tried to squint my eyes a little to keep my eyeballs from falling out. Because rather than just showering like a normal person, she seemed to be standing half out of the stall, as if begging to be noticed. But here's where the PSA comes in:

If you love to shower in public-ish areas and are totally comfortable displaying yourself, at least have the common decency to BRING YOUR TOWEL. Because reason dictates I can avoid you if I'm not IN the shower area (again, if you don't dance in and out of the stall), but if you neglect to bring your towel and, instead, mosey on over to the sinks in which I'm trying to wash my hands and begin dispensing copious amounts of paper towels and vigorously rubbing yourself dry...well that's where I draw the line.

I hope you're writing this down.

Round 2 at the Denver Skirtchaser

2011-10-05T16:00:00.001-06:00

Joel has been working like a madman, finishing up a giant project. As such, he rarely has time away from the computer for things like exercising, eating, or sleeping. (I have tried to be extra supportive of him by compensating for his lack in those three areas. I'm a giver.) So last Tuesday I gently reminded him, "So...we have that race on Saturday." "Yep," he nodded, "I'll probably try to go for a run today for a few minutes."

Honestly, I'm glad he hasn't had time to train. This would be Sylvia's and my second time running the Skirtchaser, but it would be the men's first. The idea is that it's a 5k where the women get a 3-minute head start. I knew that Sylvia's husband had been running a bunch, and he's a competitor, but Sylvia confided in me that she really hoped he wouldn't catch her. I figured I was probably home free, unless I passed out at mile 1.

I had no idea that would actually be a very real possibility. (Spoiler alert: I finished and beat the men.) Reality check: starting a race at 3 in the afternoon, on pavement with no shade, under a cloudless sky, in temperatures around 86 degrees is not something I would recommend. I was sweating and uncomfortable before we started. The adrenaline and energy of the race make it nearly impossible to keep your legs at an easy pace. So right around the 1 mile mark, I began to feel light-headed.

I was about a minute slower than last year, clocking in around 28:11, but that's with about a minute or so of walking when I realized my heart was about to flatline. No seriously. Can we talk about heartrates for a second? The old equation I was taught was that you subtract your age from 220, then try to keep your heartrate between 60-80% of that number for optimal cardio, right? Well let's just throw that equation out the window because I seem to have acquired traits from both my parents for some weird hybrid heart. I have the slow at-rest heartrate of my mother (around 50), but I have inherited my dad's hamster-esque heartrate when I'm active. So on a run, depending on what I've eaten or how I'm feeling, my average heartrate is usually somewhere between 160-170 (the longer the run, the higher the number). Once my heartrate hits around 180 and up, I start to not feel so well. I can tell when I've hit 182 because I feel like I might throw up.

Now that you have that background, you might understand why I felt so awful when my AVERAGE heartrate turned out to be 182. Now some of that is decidedly adrenaline. But even for my half-marathon, when my insides felt like they were trying to crawl outside, my average heartrate was 173. So when I looked down at my Garmin and saw 189, I thought, "Whoa, sister. Beating Joel isn't worth it!" I think the heat was affecting everyone (except the winner, though, at like 16 minutes or something), because I still managed to finish a few minutes before the boys.

I was neither sunburned nor inebriated, so I don't know why I look like Rudolph's sister.

It was fun, despite the heat. And about half an hour after we crossed the finish line, the clouds rolled in. Then I came home and ate a pizza. And ice cream with fudge sauce.

And now I'm eyeing the 2012 calendar and marking events. It's going to be the year of NEW things.
But always with the pizza.

pigtails, socks, a gala, and a slump

2011-09-28T12:38:00.000-06:00

I'm in a slump. Every time I think, "I haven't written anything for a while," I kind of shrug and think, "What's to write?"

I could complain about the sock situation in our house. It is OUT OF CONTROL. I swear no two socks of Donovan's are actually matched. And I never knew we had so many KINDS of socks (though I suspect some are socks of friends who have been left here). As I type, there are 6 socks on the stairs waiting for Donovan to take them up. Six DIFFERENT socks. Where are their mates? Why is it so hard to put socks in the laundry? I'm instating a new rule: for every sock I pick up, Donovan has to give me a quarter. I'm going to strike it rich, I tell you.

And how much is there to really say about Gemma's pigtails? And yet, I spent a good part of the day thinking about how they could probably cure cancer or create world peace. They are so fantastic and LONG. It's like her hair is taking steroids or something. And she loves having her hair in pigtails or braids. My favorite part of the day is when she gets up from her nap and her pigtails are kind of smashed against her head in a kind of bedhead style only a 3 year old can get away with.

Or I could talk about how one of my favorite parts of the day is when I read to the kids, not because they love Harry Potter so much, but because Ainsleigh spends the time playing with my hair. Words cannot accurately express just how much I love this. She brushes and braids and styles and starts all over again. Wisely, she has learned that I will read for as long as she does this. Lucky for me, she will do this for up to an hour, if I let her. The end result is that she is actually becoming quite good and her french braid actually looks like a french braid. A couple mornings ago, as I dropped her off at school early for choir rehearsal, I did a double-take as I realized she had done her own hair. That shouldn't seem that monumental since she has been doing that for a while, but it was the STYLE that gave me pause - she had braided the sides back into what she called, "a braid crown. With flowers." Yep - that's exactly what it was. And I love that Ainsleigh has taught Gemma how to deal with tangles - she has Gemma hold her breath while she brushes her hair. Brilliant. Gemma rarely cries now. I thought I'd be sad not to have small babies/kids any more, but it turns out the older kids are pretty fantastic, too.

Then there's the gala we went to last week. And by "we" I mean just Joel and me. We got a babysitter and went into Denver. On a school night! We weren't sure what to expect, but I can tell you right now I wasn't expecting to be one of 600 people there. Or that we'd sit at a table right at the front. Or that I'd be the only woman at the table to eat her entire filet (actually, I could have guessed that). Or that Joel would be recognized or praised by so many people. I realized it was the first time I had been to an event with him where he was surrounded by peers (outside of co-workers). And I've always thought he was pretty fantastic (duh), but it was refreshing and delightful to hear people I didn't know cite examples of his work that they were impressed with. And I was proud. Proud to be introduced by him as "my wife." The food was good, the people were nice, and my husband is kind of a rock star.

If only he'd put his socks away.

Eclair Cake, Amen.

2011-09-16T13:18:00.000-06:00

I never came back to the Eclair Cake I teased! (and I'll use any excuse to link back to that photo, thankyouverymuch) Probably because I've been too busy making and eating it. But I am NOT kidding around - you need to make this. It is surprisingly easy but looks gorgeous and tastes incredible. But then, I'm a sucker for a cream puff or eclair or anything custardy, really.

This recipe comes from my great friend Angie who has yet to make something I didn't want the recipe for. Actually, scratch that - I don't want the elk recipe, but that's mainly because I don't want to go hunting. Literally. I don't want to shoot an elk. But I could make it with beef and be just as happy.

Did you know that cream puffs are crazy easy to make? They are. You might not want to know that. I certainly wish I didn't. You can whip those things up in under 45 minutes. This cake takes a smidge longer because it should chill, but you expend about 10 minutes of effort. The Return On Effort is majorly in your favor.

And the filling is just a combo of pudding mixes, milk and cream cheese. Who doesn't love cream cheese? Oh, I know: Kari's Mom. Kari told me this like 8 years ago and it has stuck with me ever since. Obviously it made a huge, tragic, impression on me. But anyway, I bet even Kari's mom would like this recipe - I almost gave someone the recipe without the cream cheese ingredient because I had forgotten it was even in there.

ECLAIR CAKE

Crust:

In a large pot, bring the following to a boil:

1 c. water

1/2 c. butter

1/4 tsp salt

After boiling, remove from heat, add 1 cup flour and beat until soft ball forms...let cool 5 minutes. Beat in 4 eggs one at a time. Spread in cookie sheet. Bake @ 400 for 30 mins. It will be mountainous, I flatten it when it's hot. You will cut it in half and layer it in a 9X13 with the pudding.

Filling:

1 small pkg white chocolate instant pudding

1 small pkg vanilla instant pudding

3 cups milk

Mix pudding then add 8oz cream cheese softened and beaten (if you mix it first it mixes into the pudding smoother)

Spread the pudding on the crust (top with other half of crust) and refrigerate for 2 hours and then top with Cool Whip then chocolate syrup. Be careful with the chocolate syrup. This is the one time that too much takes over the dessert.

MY NOTES: I misread this the first time and layered the crust, half the pudding, the crust, then the other half of the pudding (I've now added the parenthetical above - I think my friend hadn't been so specific because I had already seen/eaten it). Only now do I see that maybe it should have been all in the middle? Whoops. And I might not have chilled it for a full 2 hours before I topped it. But I didn't have Cool Whip on hand, so I use what I ALWAYS have on hand: heavy whipping cream. OF COURSE. I recommend you permanently replace any call for cool whip with whip cream. Duh.

The first time, I did a light Hershey's Syrup drizzle. It was good, but it has a distinct flavor. The second time, I got out some Hershey's Hot Fudge sauce, warmed that up, and drizzled that on top (ok, so I spooned a little into a sandwich ziplock back and then cut off a corner and drizzled it that way) and it was Uh-MAY-sing!!

Despite what you may think, this is actually a pretty light dessert, and not too sweet.

And it makes a delicious breakfast.

Soccer Mom

2011-09-15T15:57:00.003-06:00

As I stood in the checkout line with Gemma at Target, I could hear a child wailing/whining several aisles away, "Mommy! Mommy! Moooooooooooommmmm?" I could tell from his voice that he wasn't lost, maybe just perplexed that his mother was ignoring him. Gemma, upon hearing this, looked at me and blinked. Then she stuck her thumb over her shoulder and said in a very bored voice, "Mom. That kid is calling you."

You DO know my name isn't Mom, right?

The smell of freshly mowed grass always awakens my soul and gets my blood pumping. It's the promise of morning exhilaration and afternoon exhaustion. It's the smell of a sweet, satisfying cross, dropped perfectly in front of a goal for a header, as well as the frustration of a hard-fought battle ending in loss. It's satisfaction in knowing you played a better, cleaner game than the opponent, and the guilt when you know that yellow (and maybe red...who knows) card is deserved. It's soccer season, and I love every single second of it.

This year, Donovan's soccer team gets to play on a little bit bigger field, with an actual goal (with posts, as opposed to the PVC pipe contraption), more boys, and a goalie. Also, a referee, which I shall address in a moment.

This is a picture from last year, but I love how you can see the muscles in his right leg.

It always amuses me how PHYSICAL boys play, compared to girls. I mean, it's just so dang fast and aggressive, even in mini-form, that I find myself giggling (when I'm not yelling my head off, of course). Now they get to run MORE and they're actually passing and sticking with positions. Donovan's coach has him pegged as a good sweeper. He's quick and aggressive, but he's also watchful and will drop back to defend his goal. It's kind of awesome to see his instinct take over and, with increasing frequency, be right.

This year, they need actual referees. Well, not so much "actual" as "other than the coaches." They call them "facilitators." I thought, "I could probably do it, I guess, if I have to, if nobody else will." Turns out, nobody else would. And there was a test. Which I totally NAILED, so I trotted down to the soccer office to see how I did. And, actually, there were a couple questions I wasn't sure about (having to do with who was in charge of clearing the field in the event of lightning, and so forth). My outstretched arm with test in hand was met with a, "What size shirt do you want?" Um...aren't you going to, you know, grade it?

The lady sort of shook her head, wrinkled her nose and half whispered, "That's really more of a formality." Um, ok. But actually I have a question about one of them? She looked a little annoyed and could not have sounded more bored when she said she'd try to find a coach. She came back with no coach, and the most beautiful highlighter-yellow t-shirt I've ever seen. Perfect. Just my color! She did know the answer to lightning-related questions, though, so I was set. As I left, she cautioned, "Don't let the parents give you crap!" I turned to her and said, complete with my attitude finger waving, "Oh I will NOT stand for it! I intend to bring my own red and yellow cards," and then added, because of the look on her face, "I'm KIDDING."

I even bought myself a whistle. My professionalism astounds me.

It was a lot of fun. Oh who am I to make an understatement - it was FANTASTIC! Since this is the first year the boys are doing throw-ins, and having a goalie who can do drop-kicks, I got the opportunity to give them second chances, as necessary, to try again (this is recommended by the office, btw). Afterward, parents from the other team expressed gratitude that I reminded them, by showing, full over-the-head throws. I'd like to think I would have done it anyway, but it's easy to be generous when your team is winning.

One grandpa, after chatting me up after the game, said, "So do you have the next game?" Oh no, I'm that kid's mom. We're going home! Were you fooled by my oh so official shirt? Turns out, he was. And he's my new favorite person.

Also fooled? One of my best friends. Who came out of (figurative) left field and said, "Wait...you played soccer before?!" Um...yeah. And I have red hair, if you didn't know. That completely blew her away. I suppose, like Gemma, she thinks of me as just a mom.

But this is a mom with an aggressive history, and an official referee's shirt, so WATCH OUT.

What not to read

2011-09-07T11:58:00.000-06:00

I have a general rule that I do not read books that are sad. NO CRYING BOOKS! I don't mind if I'm reading a sweeping saga and there is a bit of emotion at some point. But I never set out to read a book I know will be sad.

Case in point: I do not read Nicholas Sparks.

Exception: The Book Thief. Now, it wasn't really SAD, so much as it revolved around World War II and a Jew and...well you know how that's gonna end. But still, the subject matter seemed to fade behind the unique and startling writing style, allowing the characters and storyline to really stand out.

I broke my rule, though.

I'm in a book club and this month's book was "Still Alice" by Lisa Genova. And I knew that it was about a woman who is diagnosed with Alzheimer's.

Sigh.

I was told it was "really good" and a "quick read" and while I have to agree, I take issue that nobody also said, "extreme tearjerker" (though maybe that should have been obvious).

Honestly, it was really good. REALLY. GOOD. Reading it was effortless and interesting and before I knew it an hour had passed. Or two. I didn't know much about the disease, or really thought much about people as they slip into dementia, but I felt an attachment to the characters almost immediately. I was surprised to read how aware patients are as the disease takes more and more of their memories.

And it was heartbreaking, as the main character is aware of losing memories of her children and husband. It's not all sad, but the entire subject matter has given me a lot to think about over the past couple days (I was done in about 4 days, but if you had a steady stream of tissues and a hydration pack, you could probably do it in 2).

Reading something well written is like eating a wonderful meal. Every word is delicious and you look forward to what is next, while appreciating what you've already had. I felt that way about this book. Except that at the end, I feel drained (in a good way?), whereas a meal leaves me full (not always in a good way). I definitely recommend reading this book, but I've given you fair warning.

Today I am grateful that I am untouched by degenerative diseases. My heart aches for those who are.

I broke my rule. And it's going to be a long time before I do that again.

bringing her up right

2011-09-06T15:54:00.000-06:00

"You're so BIG," I whined, as I buckled Gemma into her carseat after her first day of preschool.
"I AM big," she nodded in agreement.
"What happened to my small Gemma?"
"I'm right here," she responded, sounding a little perplexed.
"No, I mean my tiny Gemma that I used to rock back and forth and just cuddle!" I moaned.
Jamming her thumb into her chest as if to punctuate each word, she impatiently replied, "I'M.RIGHT.HERE."

Touche. I suppose I do still rock and cuddle her. But she's like a big stinkin' kid (emphasis on the stinkin, depending on the day's activities) who whispers, "I'm nervous," while I brush her hair before her big day and then later declares, while walking out to the car and extending a hitchhiker's thumb over her shoulder, "THAT was a great day."

I've discussed before my love and hate for particular words (by the way, if you're tempted to use a word in which you may not be entirely confident in the definition, read, or re-read, that entry. you're welcome). This is not something I've actually shared with my children, so imagine my joy a week ago when I was trying to hurry Gemma through getting dressed for the day:

While walking from her bedroom to mine, I quickly said over my shoulder, "Don't forget to change your panties." She trotted down the hall after me and said, "Uh...Mom?" I turned toward her, to see a funny look upon her face. "Did you say pannies? They're not pannies. They're called PAN-TEEZ."

I NEVER EVEN TOLD HER!!! Needless to say, I quickly apologized for the misunderstanding and tried to explain I would NEVER drop the T-sound. But in the back of my head, a choir of angels sang and tears were held back. I'm so proud. Since then, I've actually, WILLINGLY, dropped the T every now and then to see if she'd notice. She does. EVERY.TIME. She'll laugh and shake her head and say, "Not pannies, Mom. PAN-TEEZ." And I'll laugh and say I was testing her hearing and as I type this, I realize this is a very odd hearing test but I don't care because she's my kid and one of the best things about parenting is doing weird things to your kids. HEE!

So, I guess I'm ok with her getting big, because obviously I'm bringing her up RIGHT.

Jalapenos, counting, and Gemma (or something)

2011-08-31T10:32:00.000-06:00

I reserve the right to use this picture for all things Gemma-related until I die.

Our back deck can get freaky hot in the summer. If I try to go out there barefoot to water a plant or check on our grapes, I don't last more than a few seconds before I'm hopping from foot to foot before sprinting back for the door and wondering if I have actually sustained significant burns. Most of the time I do the wise thing and wear shoes, unless I spot a patch of shadow that I can stick my feet while I do my work. Gemma's feet, however, are much more sensitive, so I always tell her to wear shoes.

She doesn't always listen, however.

The first time she did it, she began to cry while running back to the house and wailing, "It's too spicy out here!" Spicy? Yes. That has now become her word. Put her in a bath that might be a bit warmer than she had hoped for: It's a spicy bath. Getting into the car after it has been parked in the sun: It's a spicy carseat. Go outside under our intense sun and in 90+ weather: It's a little spicy out there!

Not spicy: stuffed hap-uh-tayn-yos. Or, in English: stuffed jalapenos. She loves those. It helps that they're wrapped in bacon, of course. But she'll eat the whole thing and ask for 5 more. And if you ask her if they're spicy, she'll say, "Kiiiiiiiiind of." Meanwhile, grown men are weeping.

Watching her hand gestures and hearing her word choices is like seeing myself through a tiny lens. I see what mannerisms and vocabulary of my own (or the others) she is picking up on. Yesterday I mentioned she'd need to take a shower that night. She slowly nodded, then pursed her lips and shifted them off to the side, and squinted her eyes. Then relaxing those muscles, she raised her eyebrows and threw out her right hand as if physically offering me her idea, "Ack-shwee, Mom, I fink I want to take a baff." Ok then. There's a reaction I can work with. Throw yourself on the floor and scream or whine about it, and I have no patience. Show thought and a reasonable alternative, and soon I'll be coming to you for advice, says I.

Gemma loves listening to music in the car and as soon as her buckle clicks together, she's asking, "Can we wissen to music? The new stuff." I almost always say yes, and "the new stuff" refers to a CD I burned of songs that are (relatively) appropriate to listen to with children in the car (note: Britney Spears' "3" did not make the playlist). The last 5 songs of the 20-song cd are Adele songs. When they come on, Gemma will say, "Diss waydee has good songs, but dare stuck in my head or some-fin." She adds "or some-fin" to the end of a lot of things:

Can I have a snack or some-fin?
Can we read a book or some-fin?
Are we going to duh park or some-fin?

The other thing we just discovered about Gemma is that she knows her numbers. I mean, she can count, yes, but she recognizes written numbers. At first we thought she was just making some lucky guesses, but after shuffling and mixing it up, we discovered she did, in fact, know them. The kid doesn't recognize many letters outside of G, E, M and A (and if she sees a G, she'll say, "That's for G-E-M-M-A!"), but she knows her numbers. Joel tried to praise my efforts as a mother, but I knew the truth. I held up my hand while closing my eyes and pursing my lips, gently shaking my head back and forth. Then I turned to Gemma and said, "Now let's do it in Spanish." And she did. I wish I could take credit for teaching my daughter bilingual math skills, but the hero is clear: Dora. I'll take credit for being the awesome mom who lets Gemma WATCH her favorite show. Doh.

Hey Gemma, wanna eat jalapenos while we watch Dora or some-fin? Yes. Yes she does.

How Ainsleigh has exceeded my expectations, in three parts.

2011-08-30T16:07:00.000-06:00

The last three weeks have been a little intense as I've graduated from stay-at-home-mom to mom-behind-the-steering-wheel. Our Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays have consisted of me picking the kids up from school at 4:10ish (when they get to the car) and driving immediately to one of our rec centers so Ainsleigh can change into her swimsuit, snap on a cap and her goggles, and make sure she's in the pool by 4:30, swimming laps for the next hour.

I wasn't sure how it would go, and was surprised when we not only made it in time, but actually had fun doing it! There were a few days when I had about 47 other things to do when she would say, "You can just drop me off and I can do it myself." What? Open the door? Show your card? Walk to the locker room? CHANGE? Get yourself into the pool?!?! Turns out, she's more capable than I've known. This is both exciting and unsettling.

The Drill Academy is designed to train kids for swim team or keep them in shape in the off-season. Ainsleigh was a little nervous at first because she heard there was a "swim test." But after the two kids ahead of her didn't make it, she bravely blazed up and down the lane like a champ. A mom next to me said, "She has a beautiful stroke," as Ainsleigh swam the freestyle portion of her test. I have to agree.

I know it wasn't easy (hello - swimming laps for an hour!), but I can already see so much improvement in her form. She would emerge from the pool exhausted, but with just enough energy to come home, shower, do homework, eat dinner and go to bed. She was tired, but she was also loving it.

Last week, on the final Friday of the session, they had "time trials." They would pick four kids at a time from the same level, and have them race. Ainsleigh hasn't braved the blocks yet (and it's actually pretty amusing to watch the number of kids who belly-flop off those things), but she stood on the side and when a coach blew the whistle, in she...fell?...along with the two boys who were at least a head taller than her, and a girl who was also taller than her. But there was my girl, arms and legs powering down the lane and by the time she finished, she was half a body length ahead of the other girl and more than a body length ahead of the boys. As she got out of the pool, she turned her beaming face toward me and motioned me over (parents have to watch from a designated area far from the swimmers/coaches - ha) where she bounced up and down and giddily squealed her time.

And they gave her a medal! It has been a long time since she was involved with something that gave her a physical representation of an accomplishment. On to the next level, then! We'll alternate sessions, to avoid burnout, but I'm excited for her to have something that is all hers.

The other thing that had me laughing behind my hand was when Ainsleigh came home from school and declared, "My Colorado history test is this week, so I need to study!" Say what? Study? I was further baffled when she sat down and began cutting up a piece of paper, "I have to make flashcards." WHAT? I told her my dad would be so proud. The funny thing was that she made all the flashcards, but clearly knew all the answers already. But I have to applaud the teacher who really drilled into them effective study techniques.

And lastly, this girl is actually reading on her own. Some people may say, "Well duh, she's 9." But they have obviously never dealt with someone with ADHD, so I ignore them. Over the summer we picked out a bunch of books to try to figure out what she might be interested in. We set a goal that she would read 3 books, but checked out 6. And that amazing Ainsleigh read all 6. And then asked for more. We still have homework and I read aloud to them, but she relishes the 20-30 minutes I let her keep her light (when the other kids are in bed) and read on her own.

Dang, I really like this girl.

LIKE A BOSS

2011-08-27T14:39:00.000-06:00

Let's review how I started Warrior Dash 2011:

Whee! I'm running in make-up and a tutu!

I knew they had photographers along the course, but last year I couldn't find many photos of myself since the mud does a terrific job of covering your bib and there are approximately a billion "lost and found" photos. But wait, what was this? There was a photo associated with my name. So let's take a look at how I ended the race:

Hurdling fire with pizazz

And that, my friends, is HOW IT'S DONE.

Warrior Dash 2011

2011-08-24T10:55:00.001-06:00

Our friend Will, who took on the mud pit and came out a victor. Minus a wedding band.

Things you should know about Warrior Dash:

1. There's no such thing as too much glitter.
2. Every obstacle falls somewhere on the hilarious----terrifying scale.
3. Compression clothing is essential to protect bits worth protecting.
4. Do NOT wear your wedding ring or expensive sunglasses.
5. Someone yelling the speech from Braveheart right before the starting flamethrowers is ALWAYS funny.

"THEY CAN TAKE OUR LIVES! BUT THEY CAN NEVER TAKE...OUR FREEDOM!!!!

{cue flame throwers and opening bullhorn}

And the stampede begins. Somehow, I don't think Mel Gibson had a purple tutu in mind.

This year was more fun, I thought, since I didn't also have the anxiety of the unknown (and, after LAST WEEK, I've slept like an old lady). I knew what to expect: A party. My friend Gina was a bit of a stress case the night before since this would be her first race ever and she doesn't run. Don't worry. We're going to ROCK THIS, I told her.

When she arrived with Jenni, decked out in tutus and the matching tank tops we had painstakingly decorated with our team name "Just Desserts" (knowing FULL WELL that the term is "just deserts" all you grammar psychos)(psst - I'm a grammar psycho. But I'm also a pun fanatic.) on the back and our code names on the front, Gina somehow didn't see anyone else in costume and began to silently curse my name, thinking I had played them for fools. Thankfully, it doesn't take long to spot the freaks. And by freaks, I mean participants.

We met up to get our bibs, spray ourselves with body glitter and took a couple pre-race photos. I must preface all of these pictures with a big apology. It appears my face fell victim to the old threat, "If you do that long enough, you'll stay that way." Sigh.

Cinnabun, Mud Pie, and Red Velvet. Who wants some?

Props to Gina for doing Jenni's hair in a bunch of buns to match her name. Oh look, I have a regular face:

I like Joel's tech shirt + gladiator skirt. Good look, especially with the black sneakers.

The first obstacle was "Rubber Ricochet" which comprised of a ton of tires hanging from above so that as you push through them, they swing back and nail the people in back of you. And, from the people in front of you: YOU. This was definitely the obstacle to the very left of the hilarious-----terrifying scale. It was a good way to start it off.

Wheee! I'm like a ballerina! And Joel learned last year that the less you wear, the better.

I hardly count the next one as an obstacle. It was some sort of wall at an angle with ropes to help you pull yourself up, but everyone was just running up it, so I followed suit. Then over and under some walls where my hurdling skills kicked in after the 4th one and carried me through the next 8. Then...the mud.

Hey dying army lady - beep beep - princess coming through!!

Here I thought I would benefit from last year and remember how Sylvia had hung to the left where it was a bit shallower and not get so muddy. I hung to the left. I stepped in. And immediately my legs up to my knees were swallowed up in the thick goopy mud our Colorado clay creates when mixed with water. Ah frick. I tried to move forward without getting too messy, but the mood of the crowd can be likened to the spectators at the Coliseum of old: the wanted blood. Well, mud. Anyone who tried to pansy through it got booed. Anyone who flipped, dove, or belly-flopped got thundering cheers/applause. I opted for somewhere in the middle. As I emerged from the pit, however, I realized my tutu now weighed about 30 pounds. No thank you. Rather than try to work with it, I just dumped it and took off.

The next obstacles were fun: a bungee maze/web; a long blackout tent; 12-foot cargo nets you had to climb up and over; a long horizontal cargo net you had to climb across. As I started that one, I saw someone ahead of me go feet first, so I decided to mimic. I guess that person figured out pretty quickly that it was a STUPID way to go, so they switched. I was having issues, and felt it only fair to warn others, "Hey everyone! See what I'm doing? DON'T DO IT THIS WAY!"

Do we intimidate you with our ferocity?

All along, we were running a series of hills at a higher altitude than even I am used to, so everyone was pretty winded. Winded, but happy. The next few obstacles got a little trickier. There was one climb up over a 20-foot wall. OVER CONCRETE. Yeah, the top there was a little tricky and I had the distinct thought, "My kids are never doing this." Holy crud, if my foot slipped more than it did, I could easily not be sitting here typing right now.

One wall was another 20 feet or so, but at an angle with only a rope to pull yourself up with. I don't usually have much faith in my upper body, but lo and behold I scampered up that think like I couldn't believe. I shudder to think what a mud-laden tutu would have done to me.

Friendly! Me, Joel, Eric, Shawn and Natalie, looking mighty fine after the race. Shawn later broke his medal from kissing it so much.

There were a couple more vertical challenges - much more than last year - and I have to say that while they definitely hung on the terrifying side of the scale, they were my favorites. Then a slight downhill run, jumping over the requisite walls of fire, and the finish line.

Our kids are so proud.

We look forward to doing it again next year. Copper Mountain is a beautiful place. We went with wonderful friends. And Joel and I got a weird/fun date out of the afternoon (props to the fabulous babysitter we had stay with the kids and do all manner of awesome with them - they had a great time, and so did we!). If you're in the neighborhood, you should totally do it with us. I'll bring the glitter.

I don't want to talk about where those mud clods came from.
Just consider that they had showers at the venue, and I had already rinsed off for quite some time.

We did another Warrior Dash. Who cares.

2011-08-22T15:28:00.000-06:00

At least, that's what I'm trying to project here:

Actually, I care a lot. But I'm waiting to get the pictures from the people that took the pictures. And I need to go make a Chocolate Eclair cake. NEED. But I shall return with details (on both the race AND the cake).

Why yes I DID run my first half marathon this weekend.

2011-08-15T12:21:00.000-06:00

As I said goodbye to my kids Friday evening, I got choked up. Ainsleigh, walking down the stairs toward me, asked, "Oh Mom, what's wrong?" I tried to swallow the lump in my throat and blink back the tears as I shrugged and whispered, "I'm just...nervous."

Nervous was a big word in our house this past week. Donovan was nervous starting first grade. Ainsleigh was nervous starting the swim academy. With both of them, I talked them through it, pointed out their strengths, talked about how prepared they were, and reassured them I would be there at the end.

I was leaving to spend the night up in the mountains so I could run my first half marathon the next morning. And I was nervous. Anxious nervous. Scared nervous. I had been sick a couple weeks ago, and still felt like I was settling back into health. The longest distance I had yet run was 10 miles (and I get annoyed when people throw around numbers so cavalierly, like, "Well if you can run 10, you can do 13." No - don't belittle those next 3 miles please). And we would be dealing with a higher altitude and a temp increase of 30 degrees along the way.

As Ainsleigh heard the word "nervous," her face softened and she cocked her head to the side. "Oh," she nodded, "I understand. But you are going to do great." Donovan joined her, "Mom, you're ready for this. We'll be there at the end."

When did my kids become so great? Joel hugged me and tried to reassure me as I left. I was at the point where I just wanted to get it over with. The waiting and anticipating was wearing away at my soul. My bowels, at least, couldn't take any more (only people who have been in races will understand that one. all others should just remain in innocent ignorance).

When we got to Idaho Springs, we drove part of the course and I began to feel much better. This was doable. I could do this. I WOULD do this. I'd have to - they dump you at one end and you run to the other. And I would be in the company of some phenomenal women.

Olivia, Jessica, Me, Danelle, Sylvia, Tanya and Lisa trying to stay warm
As we met up in the cold morning air the next morning, the anxious had turn to excitement. I was going to do this and I would eat STEAK afterward. As the start time approached, we began peeling off layers of clothes. In a reckless last move, I removed my long-sleeved shirt, leaving me in just my tank, running skirt, and compression socks. Tanya and I began to ~~dance~~ shake almost uncontrollably, working out the jitters and in the heat.

When the gun went off, I was ready. For the first 6 miles or so, I chatted with Olivia, a friend I haven't seen in a while. Lisa, her mom, has been a steady training partner of mine. I took it easy and drank at each of the aid stations. Around mile 6, though, I encouraged Olivia to take off. She has youth on her side. And 5-foot legs. For the next couple miles I ran by myself, considering the parallels between running and parenting. Right about mile 8 was when Lisa caught up. I refer to her as a training partner, but it goes beyond the physical.

Before we left, I calculated that Sylvia and I have run about 400 miles together in the last year. Spread out over 52 weeks, it's not a terribly high number. But it is a lot of time spent talking and sharing. Lisa has been there for a lot of it.

I know she would argue with me, but the best word I can think of to describe Lisa right now is polished. She has been a mentor and friend through times when I would have otherwise fallen. And how can you not love someone who appreciates fine food? She has a skill for decorating that would make Restoration Hardware and Pottery Barn ask to take lessons. I love these kinds of women. In California, it was Christine. In Colorado, it is Lisa.

Together, Lisa and I battled through the rest of the course, passing our fallen comrades who were receiving medical attention, trying to find patches of shade along the way. That was the hardest part, for me. The direct sun was brutal. I've never felt so hot before. And my heartrate was reaching alarming levels. Lisa, for her part, was struggling with a strained toe, that might also be a stress fracture. Every now and then she would say, "You can go ahead. I don't want to hold you back." Could I have gone faster? Maybe. Did I want to? Not really. More to the point, it was a honor to stay with her. Here was a woman who had strengthened me mentally, spiritually, and physically. And here we were, doing something neither one of us had done before. We were going to finish this together.

As we hit the home stretch, I couldn't help but grin. I felt completely wasted, but I was doing this. I passed a couple people who were literally staggering, but I felt joy. With a few yards to go, Donovan jumped in with me and held my hand as we crossed the finish line together. And then all I could think about was water. According to my Garmin, I did the race in 2:22. Not super impressive, but hey, it's a PR. The 79 year old lady who finished 10 minutes ahead of me is impressive.

Jessica, Sylvia, Me, Lisa, Tanya and Danelle in a lot less clothing at the end
It's funny how your brain doesn't really function when your body is tired. I had water at each of the 6 water stations, but my hands were swollen with dehydration (my wedding ring felt like it was suffocating my finger). I wasn't thinking clearly, or I would have taken a moment to apply the sunscreen I had passed up at the beginning of the race. I didn't want that stuff dripping into my eyes/mouth as I sweated. The finish line would have been a good place to do that to avoid the lobster burn I'm now sporting. I'm either not that sore elsewhere, or the burn is overshadowing it.

A couple things I thought were funny: the number of people who would suddenly sit down and pull off pants and toss them into the bushes; the people who would either suddenly come bounding back onto the course, or suddenly run off to the side - what are you DOING over there?! I wanted to shout; the kid who, rather perplexed, asked me at the 12-mile marker, "Does that mean the beginning of mile 12, or the end?" and the relief on his face when I told him we only had one mile to go; the 79 year old lady who finished minutes ahead of me; the participant whose shirt read: RUNNING SUCKS.

One thing is for sure: I would totally do this again. As we laid on the field, eating watermelon and enjoying NOT running, Lisa chirped, "Ok ladies, what's next?!" For me, it was fish tacos, a shower, and then a steak. For Tanya, it was a nap and then a full night shift at the hospital. For all of us, it's more miles of talking, sharing, laughing, crying and, of course, sweating.

But I might still get a little nervous.

Just Gemma

2011-08-10T15:27:00.000-06:00

I had been trying to keep up with a little math/reading stuff over the summer so my kids wouldn't be complete potatoes once they went back to school. I've also been trying different things with Gemma (she can sometimes spell her name!), like teach her our last name. "I'm just Gemma," she'll say. I say, "Gemma Yvette." No, just Gemma. I'll try pointing out that we each have the same last name. Nah, she's "Just Gemma." I suppose she is.

Sunday night, after days of saying he wished it was Sunday night so he could go to school the next day, Donovan confessed to being a little scared. I asked him what he was scared of. He didn't know. I asked him if he was afraid he wouldn't have friends. No. Are you afraid it will be hard work? No. Are you afraid you won't know what to do? No. This is when my brain said, "Good job, Sarah. Way to give him ideas of what to be afraid of..." But my lips kissed him goodnight and said, "Then I think you're just nervous excited to get there." In the morning, he came galloping out of his room crowing, "I'm not scared! Just excited!"

It's hard NOT to have that kind of energy with the teacher he has this year (and will have next year, as well, since he is in a first/second grade combo class). She has sent several emails over summer break, and encouraged the kids to write back. When we met her at a park a couple weeks ago, she screamed, "Donovan! I've been so excited to MEET YOU!" And gave him a huge hug. Truth be told, I kind of wanted a hug.

I got one.

So when we showed up on Monday morning, she squealed again and said, "There you are! I've been waiting for you! Could you sleep last night? I COULDN'T!" (When she squealed, Joel practically jumped - it WAS rather loud. I just grinned, nodded, and mouthed, "She's ALWAYS like this. Awesome.") We put away his supplies and got to see who would be at his table (yay for neighbors who are practically like sisters!). He's lucky to have a big sister who is wonderfully encouraging and positive.

Then we moved on to Ainsleigh's classroom. We really lucked out with teachers this year. After Ainsleigh finished kindergarten, her (FANTASTIC) teacher moved to fourth grade. We always thought, "Wouldn't that be fun to be in her class again?!" But fourth grade seemed SO FAR away.

Fourth grade started Monday, and Ainsleigh was ecstatic to see she had her kindergarten teacher again. Not only that, but two of her best friends are ALSO in her class. I have to say, as I watched her navigate her classroom and reconnect with friends, it hit me, "This kid knows what she's doing." And she doesn't look like a baby any more.

Both kids had an exceptional day and couldn't wait to return the next. But before that could happen, Joel and I took the kids out to a celebratory dinner at a hibachi restaurant. The kids had never been there before, and I hoped they would be entertained by the table cooking. They LOVED it. When the chef(?) started flipping broccoli into everyone's mouths (and missing, for the most part, though I will point out that *I* was the only one to catch it on the first try), Gemma practically exploded in giggles. Anyway, the kids were thoroughly impressed and Donovan proclaimed it the greatest restaurant ever as I hoped/knew he would.

On the way home from school Monday morning, as our house came into view, it was like it all hit Gemma and she stopped. Kind of perplexed, she turned her hands up and incredulously asked, "It's just me?!" Well, I tried to pacify her, and me. And Daddy (even if he is working deliriously insane hours at the moment). Gemma kind of hunched her shoulders and stalked home, bewildered. I suppose I am a poor substitute for the boy who has run her life for the past three years. But now it gives me a chance to read to her and paint her nails in peace and, most of all, allows her to have elaborate make-believe scenarios with all of the little people and playmobil figures. She was scrambling around the swingset this morning, belting the Indiana Jones theme song and "rescuing" her doll while I tended the garden.

I miss those kids while they're at school. But it's good to have a little "just Gemma."

(three days until I finish my first half marathon or die trying. not that anyone's counting...)

The Pappiest of Birthdays

2011-08-05T14:17:00.000-06:00

A few years ago, I started calling my dad Pappy. Not all the time. Just in that, "Give me a hug. And a backrub," way that daughters can. It's such a dumb word. And so backward sounding and ignorant (my dad's mom's favorite word - hello Grandma!). It's like the bald Stooge being named Curly.

But today is his birthday and is he relaxing and growing old quietly? Nope. He's up in Tahoe with my Mom (Moom, when we want a hug), relaxing after an "easy" morning ride where their average speed is far above my max. Tomorrow they head out for a ~~torturous~~ ~~grueling~~ ~~insane~~ adventurous ride where they will pedal like demons.

In a month, he and my mom are running their first half marathons. That is the main reason I'm running my first next Saturday (8 days, but who's counting). Even over a decade after I flew the coop, my Dad continues to inspire and push me without trying to. He sets goals and then crushes them. His shadow is a very intimidating and wonderful place to be.

My favorite emails are the ones between my dad, mom and sisters regarding our training progress. Always encouraging each other, moments of pride, advice and suggestions aplenty. I can't really describe why they are so fantastic. They just are. Few things give me as much joy as hearing that my dad is tearing it up on the pavement; or that he has added some new songs to his playlist - ones *I* like to listen to, and let's remember I have the taste of an adolescent; or that he is investing in some new running clothes; or pretty much anything my dad has to say.

The reason is simple: I love my dad.

That seems pretty trite. A lot of people love their dads. And a lot of people love MY dad. I guess I just recognize that I love my dad, and my DAD - Mark - is my dad. I win twice. But really it feels like a million times over.

So I wish him the happiest pappiest birthday as he makes getting older look pretty dang fantastic. He recognizes and appreciates the finer things in life, and has fine-tuned himself for optimum success.

And he also likes the Three Stooges. A Renaissance man is what we have here.

There is nothing like a game...

2011-08-01T13:46:00.001-06:00

Nothing in the world.
There is nothing you can name
That is ANYTHING like a game!
(and don't try to convince me the lyrics are anything other than those)(name that musical)

Many moons ago, I was having a great day and posted about how I was kind of rocking this whole mothering thing. This is significant for two reasons: 1) It is a rare occurrence for the day to end and me to be satisfied with how it went, and 2) I mentioned the game Zingo!

The second part is what I'm going to address today because let me tell you WHAT HAPPENED NEXT:
Someone from ThinkFun (the makers of Zingo!) emailed me. I've had Zappos and...I can't remember who else...comment before after I've posted something and I'm both a bit flattered and a little spooked. But this was a legitimate person who struck up a conversation.

Fast forward to THIS moon and we are the featured family on ThinkFun's Parents page. And their blog. On top of that, they sent us some of their new games to play, requesting that we just review them on Amazon. FREE GAMES. And they are thinking (duh, it's in the name) games. I'm so totally in.

So, before I trot over to Amazon to post my (first ever) product reviews, I thought I'd just give you a little heads up. These are the games we got:

Math Dice: This can have a myriad of uses. It comes with a playing "board" (piece of fabric), but for our family we've been using it on a flash-math basis. The idea is that you roll the white dice and then toss the other die. Using the colored die, you have to either do subtraction or addition to equal the number on the white dice. With Ainsleigh and trying to work on her multiplication, we're more likely to have her give us products (if the white dice is a 7 and she has rolled a 2, 3, 4, 7, 11, she has to tell us 14, 21, 28, 49 and 77). With Donovan, it has been fun to see how his mind works. He'll figure out that 6+3+1=10, and then I'll ask if he can do it in fewer die and he'll immediately pull out the 4. It's something I'll pull out while they're eating breakfast and throw a few rounds before they're off for the day and I foresee it being a nice jumpstart to their school day. Also, it's a quiet game Donovan plays during church as long as we're on padded pews (shhh!).

Snack Attack!: This is a fun, fast-paced game that Gemma loves, even though they suggest 4 as the starting age. I didn't realize we needed to tell Gemma not to EAT the snack discs (sigh), but luckily only one fell victim. I suppose the chicken leg just looked too delicious. We do need to help Gemma since you not only take the discs that match up with your mat, but you then have to flip them over (revealing a new snack to match). Saying, "Flip!" throughout the game helps remind everyone of this. But we're getting better and the kids love to take turns twirling the handle around.

Bug Trails: The packaging likens this to dominoes, but since I've never actually played dominoes (I wasn't born in the 40s!), I'll take their word for it. What I do know is that you have a bunch of bugs and then you add on to the previous bug. How many new bugs you have to draw depends on how many joints (hands/feet) you connect. The more you connect, the fewer you have to take (even getting to discard one if you connect so many). You win when you have no more bugs. The kids took to this game far faster than I thought they would. Gemma was an observer but Donovan once again proved to have a pretty keen vision of how he needed to play his bugs to exhaust his pile. I think Ainsleigh ended up winning our first game, though, and Joel and I didn't have to help either kid. I love games that the kids can win without us letting them.

Tilt: Donovan was most excited to try this game, for the simple reason that it said, "Ages 8 and up." He was DETERMINED to play it. I was a little unsure of its appeal, seeing that it said it was for 1 player. First, let me say that while it says 1 player, the kids take turns, passing it back and forth. It comes with a stack of cards that illustrate how to set the game up, increasing in difficulty. You have to get the green discs in the middle hole without dropping the blue ones in. Also, you have to slide the pieces all the way to one side until they don't move any more, eliminating the option to work it in carefully (also eliminating the need for acute eye-hand coordination). Second, I'll admit right away that I just flipped over the top card and read the answer (a nice bonus to avoid complaints that "It's impossible!"). That was really all the instructions I needed. The kids enjoy trying it out, but I've got to say this is MY favorite game. I've always loved puzzles and tetris and logic, so this really appeals to me. It's a quiet game, and one that sets up and puts away easily. I recommend it especially for while you're on hold.

Overall, I love that each of the games (except Snack Attack) comes with its own little cinch-sack, so you get rid of the box it comes in. Joel would prefer that the packaging you dispose of be recyclable. Those plastic coated boxes aren't always accepted, and for those of us who recycle more than we actually throw away, it's always nice to use that option. Other than that, I don't have any complaints. I love that each of these games is different and makes us think (there's that word again) in different ways. I love how portable they are and how easy they are to clean up. Mostly, I love that they are games the kids ask to play, rather than the computer or the Wii.

And now if you'll excuse me, I have more levels of Tilt to pass off...

No more baby

2011-07-30T19:31:00.000-06:00

I turned around and discovered that my baby is a kid. There she is asking me how things are going or helping unload the dishwasher (sort of) or folding laundry (not really) or helping me make dinner (yes, actually). I look at her and am both startled to see her doing non-baby/toddler things and reassured to think, "There you are, you person. I know you!"

It's interesting to see how her personality is the same as it has always been, just more. I guess that's what getting older means. It's just funny to see how some things don't change. She's incredibly stubborn, this one. But she's also a cuddler - often I'll be pushing the shopping cart through Target or Costco and she'll reach out and say, "Mommy, I want a hug." It's a little difficult to push a cart while you're embracing someone in the seat. But it's possible. And I recommend it.

The best part is seeing how her personality meshes with the other kids. She has Ainsleigh's quiet concentration and Donovan's excitement over the smallest things. All three have vivid imaginations and, thanks to Dora, some of Gemma's role playing happens in Spanish. Together, they have some amazing adventures that only they understand. And the cackling, no matter at how stupid a thing, brings me joy like no other.

I like seeing the person she is. Her older siblings are so good to her. Ainsleigh spends a lot of time playing with her and Donovan is always the first to giggle and say, "Gemma is so adorable." It's no wonder that Gemma will observe Ainsleigh or Donovan drawing or writing and utter over and over, "Dat is so good. You are so good at dat. Good job!" No lack of confidence here.

Whether she's following me around while I'm doing yardwork and spontaneously begins singing a Justin Bieber song, or shuddering on the toilet and saying, "Whoa...dat was some crazy poop dare," or how she has totally taken over her fashion selections (dresses, only. the twirlier the better. anything less is a tragedy of epic proportions. EPIC.), or how she will call out, "Turn duh music wowder, pweez!" as we're driving around town, she makes each day new and fun and exciting.

I'm kind of the luckiest mom in the world.

You're welcome

2011-07-22T13:37:00.000-06:00

The weekend is upon us and Joel is away visiting his brother, so naturally we are going to subsist solely on guacamole and ice cream. Not together, mind you. But here's the thing - I found the greatest guacamole recipe of all time. A couple weeks ago I was snooping around on some gluten-free blogs in anticipation of feeding friends. The wife has had to eliminate gluten due to her nursing baby's allergies. There are worse fates, I suppose, though I cannot imagine having to say goodbye to wonderful delicious bread.

Anyway, one blog had a recipe for guacamole. I'm not sure that my previous attempts have had gluten, but I was intrigued by the idea of using chopped tomatillos. So I tried it. I may or may not have resorted to eating it with a spoon. Sweet fancy Moses, it is DIVINE. Chop everything (except the avocados - those I do a little bigger. they break down, but I like a little chunkiness to my guac) super fine and get yourself some fabulous chips. Serve your kids ice cream for dinner and they won't be so concerned with eating your dip. Also, if you press plastic wrap to the top, then it's still a beautiful bright green the next day. Yay! Oh, and I halved the recipe and it was plenty for 4 adults and 3 (eating) children, and enough for me to have a little the next day.

Try it. YOU'RE WELCOME.

Want to try my favorite chicken marinade? Ok, but promise you'll either grill the chicken or broil it. That is key. Also, the longer you marinate it, the better.
3 T soy sauce
1 T honey
1 T oil
1 T lime juice
1 tsp garlic, chopped
4 chicken breasts
Did you notice I've used marinade and marinate? That's no typo, people. The T is for the verb, the D is for the noun. There's your grammar lesson for the day. YOU'RE WELCOME.

Homemade ice cream is probably the most delicious treat you can give yourself this summer. I've tried a lot of recipes, but if you want something easy and reliable, you gotta go with the masters: Ben & Jerry. My sister got their cookbook long ago when she was acquiring kitchen appliances before graduating high school (she's got priorities, people. Her husband was no dummy - he knew he'd be taken care of. Also, she's nice.). It remains the highlight of my summer:
2 large eggs
3/4 C sugar
2 C heavy whipping cream (you could go lighter, but why?)
1 C milk
2 tsp vanilla
Whisk eggs 1-2 minutes. Whisk in sugar a little at a time. Whisk in cream, milk and vanilla. Makes 1 quart. Freeze according to the directions on your freezer. (if you have a Cuisinart, turn it on and pour in the liquid. for best results, chill liquid for an hour or two before putting in the freezer) YOU'RE WELCOME.

And then if homemade ice cream just isn't quite enough (or you have store-bought ice cream that needs fancying up, make THIS:
Chocolate Fudge Sauce
1 C whipping cream
8 oz semisweet chocolate, chopped (I even use semisweet choc chips - gasp!)
4 T butter
1/4 C firmly packed brown sugar
2 T light corn syrup
In a small saucepan, heat cream over medium heat. Stir in everything else. Whisk until smooth. Cool slightly before serving.

My aunt served that years ago over Haagen-Dazs ice cream and I promptly demanded the recipe. It is hard in the fridge, people. And as your drizzle/pour it over your ice cream, it firms up just a touch so you kind of have to chew it. It is outstanding. YOU'RE WELCOME.

Proud parent moment of the day: Upon exiting the car at the grocery store (to load up on things to make guacamole and ice cream for the weekend, naturally), the smell of the nearby BBQ place assaulted (in a good way) our olfactory nerves and Donovan wistfully said, "I wish we could have bacon for lunch." Knowing that I had just purchased the package of pre-cooked bacon from Costco (after Ainsleigh begged me to - it was all her fault! But come one, what kids beg their parents for bacon? All kids? Maybe.), I shrugged and said, "Um, ok." WHAT?! Their faces broke out into grins, even when I told them they'd have to eat a sandwich first (Ainsleigh: Can I have leftover beef stroganoff instead? Me: Sure, grandpa.) Gemma was so pleased, she even told the checker, "We're having BACONNNNN for lunch!" Ok, that was a little embarrassing. Why, though? Because the girl smiled and said, "Can I come?" So here's my advice: eat something out of the ordinary this weekend. Who am I to judge if you want to eat the fudge sauce straight? It's happened. Then tell me what you're eating. Because hearing about food is almost as delightful to me as consuming it. Chances are good I'll be eating guacamole while reading email.

YOU'RE WELCOME.

Devastating

2011-07-21T11:57:00.000-06:00

I have terrible news. I can't believe this has happened. I'm confused and sad and embarrassed. This morning, upon close inspection while drying my hair, I discovered that the second toe on my right foot is now about two millimeters longer than my big toe. Woe.

This is the WORST thing that has ever happened to me.

What is the WORST thing that has happened to you this week? Humor would go a long way to console me at this time.

Witches and Way-dees

2011-07-19T15:29:00.000-06:00

I'm standing in line at Sunflower Market with Gemma in the shopping cart. We're making small talk, as one does with someone small. She looks over my shoulder and I can see her eyes focus on whoever is standing in back of me. I can also tell by her eyes that the person has either waved or smiled. I'm about to look back and do the friendly acknowledgment nod/smile/salute when Gemma breaks into a grin and squeals, "Dare's a WITCH right dare!"

Yeeh.

I turn, as if in slow motion, asking myself how I can best cover this up. What else could it possibly sound like? Could we just laugh it off?

As the person came into view, I had my friendly/apologetic smile ready and was suddenly relieved to see that she was standing farther back than I feared. Also, she seemed to be incredibly old. Also, she seemed to be foreign. At least I hope so. Because when she grinned back at me, I took in her deeply lined face, her hunched back, and her mouth that seemed to house about 72 of the most crooked teeth I've ever seen, and after nodding and smiling I turned back to Gemma and said, with face frozen and voice low, "Yes, Gemma. But witches don't like to be called out. Let's just say lady and she won't try to eat you."

Gemma nodded solemnly. I didn't think much of it until, a couple weeks later, we were in line at Target. A similar scenario played out but immediately following her, "There's a WITCH!" she clasped her wee hands to her mouth, eyes wide. She slowly lowered her hands and said very loudly and very clearly, "I mean dat's just a way-dee. NOT a witch. A WAAAAAY-DEEEEEE!!!!!"

I don't know which was worse. Actually, yes I do: the second one. Because a) that lady was close and definitely knew what Gemma was saying, and b) she did not actually look like a witch.

I've got to teach this girl some manners.

Epic Fail

2011-07-18T12:21:00.000-06:00

"What does epic mean?" Donovan asked the other day. He had been over at a friend's house and this friend was showing him some YouTube videos (cringe) of wipeouts on bikes (or something). He was told this was called "epic fail." Since then, if he would drop food on himself or mess something up, he'd say, "Fail!" Clearly he knew what "fail" meant, but epic...that eluded him. So he asked Joel what it meant and Joel, after thinking a moment, said, "It something that's even bigger than you could have imagined. It's really...big." So now Donovan looks for moments around the house/day that he could consider to be epic fails.

On Saturday, after I returned from an early, easy 4-mile walk with friends (since I had run 10 miles the day before - applaud me), Joel was loading bikes into the minivan because Ainsleigh and Donovan (but instigated by Ainsleigh) wanted to bike, rather than go for a hike. Did I want to come with them? I mentally weighed my exhaustion from the day before plus the morning walk against my feelings of obligation to spend active family time with my kids. So I shrugged and said sure. Also, no biggie, leave the bike trailer attached. I didn't recall it being that hard to pull.

We got to the trail and unloaded. As I began to pedal, two things crossed my mind: a) last time Gemma weighed less, and b) last time my legs didn't feel like jelly to begin with. Off to a good start!

Recently, I raised Ainsleigh's bike seat because it appeared as though her knees were punching her chin as she pedaled. I tried to explain how she would have a lot more power with a higher seat. In theory, she agreed. In practice...oy.

Now that the seat was higher, she couldn't be sitting AND have both feet flat on the ground. This upset her. I tried to show her how Joel and I don't have both feet on the ground. I demonstrated how you push down on a pedal and that lifts you up.

What ensued was a cycle of her screaming and crying and throwing her bike down, then agreeing to try it, then not following directions, then labeling that little shuffle forward as "I FELL OFF MY BIKE," then screaming and crying and throwing her bike down again.

I haven't seen that kind freakout/meltdown/lunacy for several years now. I thought we had outgrown it. Turns out, it was just being bottled up. I heard everything that day, from, "EVERYONE WANTS ME TO DO EVERYTHING AND I CAN'T!" to "EVERYONE HATES ME!" to "EVERYONE THINKS I'M THE WORST AT EVERYTHING!"

I have to admit that for the first 20 minutes or so, I was actually enjoying myself. Not enjoying her frustration, but enjoying that I stood there calm and collected, addressing each of the above concerns with a voice as loving as hers was deranged.
"No, we don't want you to do everything. When have I ever wanted you to play football or lacrosse?" (those were the two specific things she named - odd)

Me: Everybody hates you? I don't hate you.
A: WELL NOT YOU OR DADDY OR MY FAMILY. BUT EVERYONE ELSE!
Me: Your friends don't hate you. Your teacher doesn't help you.
A: WELL EVERYONE ELSE!
Me: Who is that?
A: WELL...WELL I DON'T KNOW BUT I CAN'T DO ANYTHING!
This exchange was particularly logical given that she had just ridden a mile and had to stop when the trail crosses a road.

I would greet the other cyclists/runners/walkers and think, "You're so glad you're not me." The only time I raised my voice was when she threw her bike to the other side of the trail, in front of oncoming cyclists/runners. THEN, I firmly told her she could yell and scream at me all she wants, but she may not, under ANY circumstances, endanger other people.

It was ugly. She wasn't even TRYING. She had a brief moment of panic at the pool a week ago when I was trying to teach her flip-turns and she was convinced she couldn't do it. I was showing her how to do an underwater somersault, but she was sure she was the worst at it (see a trend?). Once she actually did one (with assistance), she realized it wasn't the death-defying act she had envisioned. Since then, she has actually ASKED to go to the pool to practice them. But there on her bike on the trail, she wasn't even trying.

I began using the time consequence I've been using with Donovan, but instead of decreasing her bedtime, I began adding minutes to her reading time. She would scream and cry and I would say, "Settle down and just try it, or that's an extra 15 minutes of reading." After another 5 minutes, I'd repeat myself.

Long story, not very much shorter, by the time she actually rode her bike more than 5 yards, she had racked up 2 hours and 45 minutes of reading and lost her American Girl doll for a week (this came after she threw her bike toward more people), and I was fighting back tears of utter frustration.

EPIC FAIL.

But we rode another five miles, because we came for a bike ride. A bike ride that was HER IDEA. By the time Saturday afternoon hit, my legs felt like they were going to explode (note to self: look into really attractive compression socks for running), and my head wasn't too far behind.

What's with my kids - I post about being frustrated with one kid and the other completely obliterates any previous complaint I had by unleashing demonic tantrums?

There's a relatively happy ending, though. This morning, Ainsleigh was frustrated that EVERY friend we called to come over and play wasn't available. Meanwhile, Donovan and Gemma each had a friend over. Ainsleigh mournfully asked what she could do. Looking at my own to-do list, I threw out the idea of helping me clean the house and that I would tick off days of Charlotte's (the AG doll) sentence. I was surprised to hear her enthusiastically agree. Donovan loves to help me clean; Ainsleigh...not so much. But she diligently vacuumed all the bedrooms and the hall and cleaned both the kids' bathroom and my bathroom. And after she folds a giant basket of laundry, she will have done enough to get Charlotte back.

And I, in the meantime, can record how, in our family, we have learned and applied the term EPIC FAIL.

Donovan vs. me (spoiler: I think I'm losing)

2011-07-13T10:38:00.000-06:00

In all the excitement of leaving for California the day after school let out, I completely neglected to document Donovan's advancement from kindergarten to first grade. I suppose it isn't really that big of an accomplishment (come ON) so much as a milestone. And right now, I really need to find a reason to celebrate this kid.

Or else I might kill him.

NOT REALLY. But maybe a little. *enormous exhale*

The summer between kindergarten and first grade for Ainsleigh was tough, but I had also just given birth to Gemma, so my memories can't be entirely reliable. I wasn't sure, at the time, if it was a product of just getting older, or having a new baby, or what. This time around, though, there's no baby or hormonal mother to blame.

He's just driving me crazy.

What positive spin can I put on this? Let's see...I applaud his expanding vocabulary. I admire his ability to hatch ideas and lead others. I love that he has a vivid imagination. I am impressed that he understands the concept of bargaining.

That's what a delusional mother would say. I'll say: He's talking back on a scale that makes me reel. He second guesses me and does things I've specifically asked him not to do. His room is a constant disaster, and that spreads to the family room and out into the back yard. I cannot count how many articles of clothing I've plucked off the back lawn in the morning after being soaked overnight by the sprinklers (are my children running around naked, or did they start off the day overdressed?!). And finally, he tries to bargain EVERYTHING.

Recently, my method of discipline has been to start decreasing his bedtime. If he's acting up, I'll say, "Strike one." If he gets three strikes, his bedtime goes from 8 to 7:45. Three more strikes, and it's 7:30. This has only happened a couple times, and it's pretty much the worst thing that can ever happen to him, especially since most of the time that 8 o'clock bedtime usually stretches to 8:30. So it's like he's in his bed an hour earlier. Sunday was particularly horrific. He got down to 7:15. At 6:50 I offered to play games with him, but at 7:15 I said it was time for him to go to his room. He didn't have to be in BED, per se, I just wanted him out of my area. I was worn out (maybe partly because the day before I had run 9 miles and then mowed the lawns and done yardwork, etc.). But this was still not ok with him. He launched into his, "But WHY?!?!" And I try to calmly prompt him to remember. Because he knows perfectly well WHY he's in there.

After a while, I finally gave up and said, "Look, Donovan. Some parents spank when their kids do something wrong. I don't know what to do that would be effective for you, but I don't want to spank. So I'm left with taking away things you like. Maybe the next time you get a warning you'll remember how awful you feel right now and that will help you make better choices."

He paused, mid-sob, cocked his head to one side and hiccuped while replying, "C-c-can you spank and then I can go to bed at 8?"

It's kind of funny, in retrospect, but at the time I just hung my head and cried. "No, dear. I can't, and you can't." I was done.

Monday was better. We've re-instated the chore chart that evaluates his attitude. If he can get 20 days of smiles (no change in bedtime), then I will read the 4th Harry Potter book.

I suppose this is all part of growing up. And that's what this kid did this last year. He's learning to read and write, and he is wonderfully obedient and prompt and responsive in class. He had a phenomenal teacher - just thinking of her makes me tear up.

For a birthday party at the end of the school year, he made this card. He had minimal help (I think I helped him spell "great" at the end) - I suggested he just write "Happy Birthday, from Donovan" but that wasn't acceptable in his book. I like how he started with giant headline-letters, then went to neat printing:

This summer is quickly flying by. School starts in three and a half weeks. WEEKS. Like the half marathon I'm training for (like how I need to mention that?), each week I have to push a little harder, a little farther. I might have moments of exhaustion and pain and nausea and doubt, but I'm getting stronger and better. I'm talking about training AND mothering. An earlier bedtime for me, as well, would probably help.

When Donovan stood up at the graduation ceremony to say his part, "Z is for first grade ZEST; we're ready, have no FEAR!" I realized the part that I feared wasn't the first grade, it was the zest, and all that comes with it.

That's how I put a positive spin on the summer so far. Donovan has been full of zest. Mercy.

Wedding Day, part II

2011-07-06T11:04:00.003-06:00

Why is this taking me so long to get to?! Ok, let's get right to it. THE WEDDING.

I will admit to being just a touch concerned that my children would...well...here's a better way to say it: Hope for the best, expect the worst. Especially since it was an evening wedding, with dinner not starting until 7 (8, Colorado time), I worried that everyone else would leave the wedding grateful that they weren't my kids' parents. Plus, my three kids and my sister Allison's two kids were THE ONLY CHILDREN. So they had to represent. I had cautiously warned my brother that we might not stay for dancing (starting at 8), depending on the mood.

I'm just going to say it right now: I was crazy proud of how my kids did.

As the wedding party made its way down the aisle, I thought, "Well here we go. This will be fun!" Since we were at the front, I couldn't see my kids coming down the aisle at first. A soft murmur of giggles and sighs came trickling down so I thought, "Oh good. Hopefully they're being cute." I couldn't quite see Gemma - just the top of her head. And it was...bobbing? Up, then down. Up, then down. What was she doing?! Please don't be picking up ants. PLEASE.

Then she came into view and there she was, in all her Gemma-ness, clutching her little bouquet to her chest, taking one step, then raising the other leg in back of her in a lovely arabesque. Then taking a step, then raising the other leg. Her face was very still, very serious. On the last step, she leaned way forward to get maximum leg extension to the rear. Then she stopped for just a moment before throwing both hands up overhead and giving us a lovely pirouette before sashaying off to the side. Ok, that was pretty freaking awesome. Good job, ladybug.

As Jess began her walk down the aisle on the arm of her father, I nudged Joel and nodded toward Jeff. "Get THAT picture," I whispered. He just looked so dang happy and peaceful. It's a good face.

A little while later and the ceremony was complete. There was a lovely cocktail hour before we headed inside for an incredibly delicious dinner. I told my kids they could drink as much soda as they wanted (wheeeeee!) and Donovan felt super tough telling the bartender, "A Roy Rogers please. I'll be back." I finally cut him off after his fifth one, I think. Gemma and Ainsleigh had several Shirley Temples.

They wedding cake was lovely and my mom had made the groom's cake as Jeff requested: Funfetti with funfetti frosting. Wouldn't you know it - that was the cake everyone wanted. A pretty cake is a very nice decoration, but when it comes to deliciousness, funfetti is where it's at.

And then the dancing started. So far, so good. The DJ was fantastic and my kids were itching to get out there, so away we went. At one point, we're dancing and I look to my left where I can see a circle has formed around someone dancing. I move over to see what's going on, and what should my eyes behold: Donovan. Breakdancing. BREAKDANCING. My sister laughed and said, "I didn't know he could do that!" Perplexed, I replied, "Um, yeah. *I* didn't know he could do that."

This was a little later. Red face = working hard.

We danced for two hours. The only indication I had that Gemma might be getting tired was when I looked over at one point and she was laying, face down, on the dancefloor. She didn't respond to anyone, just had her eyes closed. Thirty seconds later she popped back up and resumed vibrating and swaying. When the bridesmaids came over and asked Donovan if he wanted to dance with them, he kind of looked at me quickly with a cautiously excited face. "Do you WANT to dance with them?" I asked, smiling and nodding. He enthusiastically nodded his head and took off. I think he danced with every woman out there.

Annabelle and Gemma, tearing it up toddler-style.

When it came time for Jess to toss the bouquet, Ainsleigh said, "They said all the single women? So I'm going to try." Good move. She did not, however, catch the flowers despite a genuine effort. My sister Becca DID catch it, though. I don't know how long we have to perfect our moves for the next dance party, but we'll get on it, stat.

Jeff and Jess left in a beautiful car and that was the end of the night. As soon as we got the kids into the car, Gemma passed out. I don't think she even woke up when we changed her into her pjs. The other kids were exhausted. It was a big day. They performed exceptionally. I joked that they really needed to come out of their shells a little more, but that was a cover for some serious pride.

It was a good party. It was a good day (begun with my little bro's farewell talk). Man, I love my family. ALL of them.

Wedding Day, part I

2011-06-27T16:10:00.001-06:00

I can always tell when Joel is reading my blog because from wherever he is sitting, he'll shout something. This was the case on Sunday when I'm in the kitchen getting dinner ready and I hear him yell, "We DO have pictures from the rehearsal," punctuated by a heavy sigh at the end. I was momentarily perplexed, seeing as how I hadn't said anything in quite a while and was currently distracted with measuring spices to simmer with my quinoa. But then I realized what he was talking about and bypassed pointing out that he was behind in his reading since I had posted that a couple days before, and moved onto a, "Well...I couldn't find them. I don't think they were very good, anyway." Which of course he took as a grave affront. So I found one and looksy there - everyone looks odd:

Ainsleigh and Emaline look vaguely interested in what they're supposed to be doing. Gemma is examining the ground in search of insects to pick up (and inadvertently squish). Donovan looks like he is contemplating using the pillow for nefarious purposes. The wedding planner is napping. Jess's dad looks like he's all, "Oh boy. My little girl is getting married and THIS is the best we could do." (in all seriousness - he is a very nice, lovely man) And then Jess, looking all hot in a dress I covet, is thinking, "We don't have to have tiny attendants..."

So there you go. A picture from the rehearsal.

On to...WEDDING DAY! First, it's kind of adorable that my brother is a mess on days of significance. We saw him earlier in the day and I suspect he was traveling with a barf bag. Not like he was nervous or doubting - just super anxious. He wanted everything to be perfect. (spoiler alert: it was)

First, the location was gorgeous. We arrived early for some pre-wedding photos with the bride. Jess looked stunning, and as she and her bridesmaids finished up their pictures, Joel and I did everything possible to keep our kids clean.

This is where having a bunch of Backyardigans episodes on my phone comes in handy. And look! Their dresses stayed clean!

Then Jess and the ladies went into hiding and out came the men.

Tying rings on is a skill.

Dono and Uncle David

The picture is of Donovan in front of the men. But the gift is a glimpse of my mom with her smokin bod.

This picture says it all. Mom: joy. Becca: Excitement. Donovan: Let's be crazy!
Occasionally he takes good pictures:

The kids with their Grandparents. Obviously Annabelle is distraught to realize WE are her relations.

My sisters and me.

Would you believe me if I said we didn't know what anyone else was wearing. We just all walked out of our rooms and said, "Oooh, I like your dress!" It wasn't until we were lining up to photograph that we thought, "Hey - we look like we coordinated!" We have skills like that. Also, props to Becca for not wearing the hot pink number she had contemplated. (I kid!)

I may be biased, but I think my bro is pretty handsome.

Dono looks a bit off in this photo, but it's not very often I get a picture with just this little guy.

The photographer was snapping pictures like a maniac and issuing instructions about how to build our photos, saying, "Let's do a picture with just Jeff. Then just Jeff and parents. Then add siblings. Then add spouses. Then add kids, etc." So we all lined up for the Jeff+parents+siblings picture and the photographer said, "No - just siblings right now." And we said, "Uh...yeah." And he came to a complete standstill with his mouth hanging open. "You're...They're all...These are ALL you children?!" My parents shrugged as if to say, "I guess so." The photographer just shook his head in wonder and said, "Wow. You do NOT see this any more." Heh.

My family. And I'll know Joel has read today's post when I hear him shout from the other room, "Why didn't you let ME edit that last one?!" Answer: It's been sitting marked in the folder ever since the wedding, my love, so I took matters into my own, however unskilled, hands.

This post is getting too long. More photos later. A lot more.

Waiting for the Wedding

2011-06-24T17:18:00.000-06:00

For some reason I have zero pictures from the wedding rehearsal, but I guess that's better than having zero pictures of the actual wedding? Anyway, we had the rehearsal and it was fine, though I did worry a little about Gemma pausing occasionally to pick up an ant on her way down the aisle (cue dramatic foreshadowing music). All in all I thought it would be just fine. And the location was gorgeous.

That night we enjoyed a delicious meal at Bridges Restaurant, best known for it's delicious fare and role as the backdrop in the restaurant scene in the movie, "Mrs. Doubtfire." I have some really unflattering pictures here, which I'm sure everyone will be really happy about.

My soon-to-be-sister and bro in a sweet jacket enjoying their delicious salads. (not sure what the best man is doing there.

Aunt Nancy, my dad and me, also enjoying our salads. The head server conjured up these coloring sheets at one point. I didn't know restaurants that had multiple forks on the table even offered coloring - yay! Oh, and Gemma's macaroni and cheese might be the most delicious mac & cheese I've had in a loooong time (read: since I had the lobster macaroni & cheese at Mizuna).

At least my nieces are looking!

On Saturday, between the rehearsal and the wedding, my dad took the grandkids horseback riding. Becca and Austin went because they drew the short straws. And I'm pretty sure she's going to LOVE this picture:

The adults were good sports and wore helmets since the kids had to.

Emaline, with visions of the Belmont Stakes.

Donovan, with visions of being cool.

Gemma, distraught that there was a rule you had to be 5.

Looking at the horses.

Gemma takes petting horses very seriously.

This might be my favorite picture of my dad right now.

Salt Lake City

2011-06-23T15:53:00.000-06:00

On the way out to the wedding of the year (hint: NOT held in England), we drove through Salt Lake City. Joel and I thought this would be a great time to let the kids see Temple Square and then eat a lot of meat. The two don't really go hand-in-hand except that they are both pretty important in my life (priority based on my mood. I KID!...).

While we only spent a quick couple hours on Temple Square (seriously, self, how do you not remember how much stuff there is to see), it was a nice, peaceful and relaxing way to close out 8 hours of driving (and preface an hour of eating). There's a lot of history there, both the actual physical location and a lot of history relating to our church (which, once you get into scripture, really goes back in time and is part of American - the continent, not the country - history). But anyway, if you don't know what I'm talking about, then let's just look at some pictures. And if you do know what I'm talking about, then let's still look at pictures:

Obligatory family-in-front-of-the-temple shot. You don't have to be LDS to appreciate the beauty of this place. (but it's sure fun to say, "Daaaaaaang. Ancestors got mad skillz!" My ancestors are so embarrassed right now)

Stairs up to one of the front doors.

The doorknob. Honestly, shouldn't it be called something else? "Doorknob" sounds so...Home Depot. This knob did NOT come from your average hardware store.

Inside the Tabernacle. This building has crazy amazing acoustics. We saw the demonstration where someone stood at the pulpit and dropped a pin and you could hear it EVERYWHERE. Also, the place was built without nails. Are you KIDDING me? Nope.

Look - there's Joel! And now you probably won't see him again for another 6 months. (As I was picking photos, Joel commented that I was picking ones where at least one person looked a little...odd. That's what I kind of love about these photos. Because let's face it - we're odd. And we took a trip.)

I swear to you I am NOT imitating the statue. I think I'm saying here, "The acoustics in this room are weeeeeeeeird." They really are. It's a circular room and you feel like you're shouting when you're talking. Also, Gemma pointed at the mural on the wall and shouted, "WOOK! It's duh milky WAAAAAAY!" And it seemed like she had used a bullhorn. Reverence, shmeverence.

Also, not to be sacrilegious (what a terrible way to start a sentence - because you know that's exactly how it will sound), I kind of really hope Jesus really is that tall. That would be awwwwwwesome.

At the Conference Center. This building doesn't really have a roof - it has a GARDEN up there. Like, acres and acres of meadow, wildflowers, old trees and fountains. It's pretty amazing. I don't think that's going to be in our remodeling budget anytime soon. I picked this picture solely because Gemma, who was having the time of her life jumping down each and every step, is mid-air.

Checking out one of the fountains on the roof with the Temple in the background.

Gemma. Because I can.

And another. These are the pictures I need when she is wailing her head off at...anything.

A lot of people (I think) wonder what in the heck the insides of our Temples look like, especially not just anyone can go inside. Hint: Before ANY temple is dedicated, you can go through. Once it is blessed for member use, it is limited. On Temple Square, they have a replica of the Salt Lake Temple with half of it cutaway so you can see what it really looks like inside. The wallpaper, furniture, etc. is all just like it! It's like the greatest dollhouse ever. Anyway, it was fun to point out to the kids the rooms where we go for a service, or a sealing (wedding), or my favorite: The Celestial Room (the white room with sofas directly to the left of Dono's raised hand) - where you can just sit in silence and ponder/pray/meditate. Every temple has one. They're heavenly. Seriously.

As I finished pointing out some of the rooms ("That's just a hall, Dono. But there's a room like the one Daddy and I were sealed in. See the altar where you kneel? See the mirrors on either side that make it look like it goes on forever?") I heard a guy mutter in back of us, "I just don't get it." I turned to look at him and he was shaking his head and shrugging his shoulder. "It's just...weird." Um, ok. It's a BUILDING. I wonder if he goes into a Cathedral and walks into some of the side chapels and says, "This is WEIRD!" Maybe.

I wasn't sure if Gemma was exclaiming something or yawning, until I saw the next picture.

I guess it was yawning.

I don't have any pictures of the meat extravaganza. But you can be sure it was delicious. Next up - wedding photos and recap. FINALLY. Sheesh, what am I doing with my days?

He's so big!

2011-06-20T13:14:00.000-06:00

Over 19 years ago I stood in the delivery room alongside my dad as my mom pushed my baby brother into the world. "He's so big!" she gasped as he emerged. I, being but a nearly-16 year old, was confused since he looked very small to me. Was there something wrong with him? Turns out that a 9 pound baby looks small to anyone who hasn't ever given birth. He was my baby brother and was 2 years old when I left for college and my adult life. He has kind of always been my baby brother, despite a list of physical, educational, and personal achievements.

I don't often use my blog for spiritual things, not because they aren't important to me, but because they are very personal. But something big is about to happen, and I need to get this out.

In two days, he enters what we call the Missionary Training Center (MTC) for his 2-year mission for our church. It is something he has eagerly anticipated for a long time. This is a voluntary service and he and my parents (or probably mostly my parents) will pay for this. He will rely on his allowance and the kindness of strangers and members to feed him. He will immerse himself in the Mandarin Chinese language. It is a rite of passage, of sorts, in our church, and something all of the male members in my immediate and extended family have participated in, covering countries across the world. They go because they believe. They believe because they have studied. They share because they love.

A friend asked me if I was going to miss my brother while he was gone. I had to think about that one. I mean, I love him. It's just that I haven't lived with him for most of his life. I see him a couple times a year. I chat with him a handful of times. But more importantly, I know he has wanted to do this. I have wanted him to do this. So I kind of shrugged and said, "Nah. He's going to do great things and I'm excited for him."

As Joel said last night, he is about to embark on the singularly most intensely spiritual and demanding experience of his life. When other 19 and 20 year old are doing whatever it is they do (I don't want to know), my brother is going to be waking at 6 am to spend his day in service of others. When others are establishing some of their first significant relationships, my brother will be learning what it is to love his neighbor. When others are struggling with trying to figure out what they're doing with their life, my brother will be testifying of a Heavenly Father who loves us.

When we were in California, we got the chance to hear David speak in church in front of several hundred people. I'll be honest - I wondered how it would go. David isn't known for his...um...preparation. He, like myself, prefers to challenge himself by doing it at the last minute. But not this time. And as I sat there and listened to him speak, I had a realization: He is NOT my baby brother.

It was rather jarring.

There stood a strong, confident, capable young man. And as he spoke, I could not help but feel so crazy proud of him. "Look at YOU!" I wanted to squeal (I didn't). I had known he'd be able to serve a mission, but as he spoke I realized he was going to serve the bejeebers out his mission. What does that even mean?!?! I don't know! I'm too proud to think straight!

I think it means he's not just going to go through the motions, he's going to be powerful. It was a delight to spend 10 days with him and watch him play with my kids. As we played games and talked and hugged, I realized I'd been looking at him with the same nearly-16 year old eyes - seeing someone small when others saw someone big. He's not small. He's not little. He's not my baby brother. I can finally agree with my mom's assessment, "He's so big!"

I love this kid so freaking much. I look forward to hearing how crazy awesome he is (and hunting him down when I'm out there in November).

to the best from the worst

2011-06-19T08:03:00.000-06:00

Last night, as I passed the card aisle at Target, I confirmed to myself that, no, I didn't need to get cards because the kids love making them (Donovan even draws on a bar code on the back) and maybe I would get Joel one to say I loved him because, after all, he wasn't MY dad...ohhhh...CRAP!

I totally forgot to get my dad a Father's Day card. I am the WORST.

I walked, as if in a daze, and promptly checked out and drove home. I think I forgot half of the things on my list. But in that daze, I thought about what I could possibly say that would measure up to my dad.

Then I flashed back to an hour before when I was on my hands and knees mopping the kitchen floor. Joel and Ainsleigh were sitting on the family room couch and he was showing her the photos he had taken at the car show he and Donovan had just been to. Joel was explaining how to apply different filters and Ainsleigh, to her credit, sounded genuinely interested and was trying different things he suggested.

I remember my dad explaining some idea - maybe it was about space, or the body, or nature - and loving it. Partly it was because I liked learning stuff, but more because I was spending time with my dad. He was talking to me like a regular person. And he seemed to be ENJOYING it.

I guess the highest compliment I could pay my dad, is that I love him so much that I wanted the same for my own children. I wanted someone who would be the calming force in their lives. I wanted someone who enjoyed playing. I wanted someone who would explain ideas and read books and go on walks. I wanted someone who, when asked for something by their child, would respond, "What did Mom say?" not because he couldn't make up his own mind, but to signal that a) they were a united force, and b) he was aware of the "if mom says no, I'll just go ask dad" game.

I wanted someone who would love me, and show it, even if the kids pretended to be weirded out by hugging and (gasp) kissing in front of them. We used to groan when my parents would be affectionate, but I'm not sure why. I think I thought I had to act grossed out when we'd get on a ride at Disneyland and my dad would say, "Your mom and I are going to sit in the back so we can make out."

I wanted someone who would value physical fitness. Now, my dad wasn't always a workout machine - it was something he discovered as he got older and has only ramped up as he ages, but it is inspiring. Actually, sometimes it's annoying. I mean, having your dad run faster than you when you're 5 is one thing. Having him outrun you when you're 35...oh who am I kidding, it's still pretty fantastic. He recognizes that as he gets older, he has to work extra hard to battle the effects of aging. And let me tell you, it's a battle he is clearly WINNING.

I wanted someone who would take the opportunity to educate his children. Whether it be from dissecting a frog as a family, or kindly teaching me the principle of honesty, or sitting down all of my siblings as adults to discuss the financial market and how best to invest for our future, I have loved every minute of it. Well, as in the case of the honesty, I've loved that he took the time, even if the actual lesson was somewhat painful.

My point is this: I wanted for my children the same safe, secure and loving home that I enjoyed, and I found it in Joel. I honor my dad every day with who I have as a partner. Like today, maybe someday one of Joel's daughters will forget a card. And like my dad today, Joel will laugh it off. Because they don't need a card to know their daughters think they are the greatest dad there ever was.

Happy Father's Day, Dad. Maybe I can get Donovan to help me slap on a bar code here at the end.

(Weird photos courtesy of our trip to California. Stay tuned for more sweet moments.)

A nerd like me.

2011-06-13T13:10:00.000-06:00

Reading Harry Potter to Ainsleigh is one of the best things about being a mom. First of all, I get to re-read some good books, so I'm already winning. Second, she is so completely INTO it. Even if I've been reading for 45 minutes and I go to close the book, she'll beg, "Just a little more?!"

I've noticed, out of the corner of my eye, that she will mimic some of the characters' actions. If someone nods slowly, up and down goes her head. If someone punches the air in excitement, her fist is up there. If someone covers their face, her hands hold her own. It's really quite endearing. And, ok, I think I'm a pretty good reader. It's all about accents and FEELING.

A couple nights ago we were reading about how Harry's team was trying to win the Quidditch Cup (and if you don't know what that is, then you are a sad person. Rectify the situation and get thee to the library) against his nemesis. Oh it is an exciting match, and it was a chapter Ainsleigh had been eagerly anticipating. When we reached the part where Harry's team was pronounced the winner, Ainsleigh heaved a sigh of relief before clapping and rocking back and forth, a huge grin on her face. Moments later, as I went to tuck her in bed, she was kicking her legs and giggling uncontrollably. I kissed her goodnight and as I walked out, happened to glance over my shoulder. There she was, rolling to her side and quietly giggling to herself, "Gryffindor WON! They really WON!"

Then last night, as I read a rather crucial scene, I got to the part where our heroes are in perceived danger and Hermione reveals a rather shocking discovery she has made about an important character, "He's a werewolf." At this, I glanced up to see Ainsleigh's face.

"WHAAAAAAT?!" She squealed. I could see her eyes slowly circling and as it sunk in, her mouth still hanging open. "But he...but Harry...but Sirius..." she shook her head and blinked slowly. "WHAAAAAT?!" came another squeal.

Donovan, in the meantime, was just totally blown away. "A WEREWOLF? How is that even POSSIBLE?!"

Kind of like when we took the kids to see Kung Fu Panda 2 (highly recommend it, by the way) and at a certain part, Gemma yelled, "WHOA! Did you SEE that?!" While Donovan, in wonder and awe, said, "How did he DOOOO that?"

They're still at the age where animation and fantasy are still options, and I love it. (though I know there are a lot of adults that still hold onto this, too, like those people who were all depressed when they realized 'Avatar' wasn't reality? yowzah.) Last night, as I talked about this with Joel and how much I love reading to Ainsleigh, he nodded and said, "Yeah. She's kind of a nerd," and then patted my shoulder and added, kindly, "Just like you."

It's one of the traits I'm proudest of passing on.

So much.

2011-06-12T17:42:00.000-06:00

Who knew that a Saturday full of hard work and house cleaning and home maintenance and an evening walk to dinner could be so joyful? I watched as Joel handled (man-handled?) a stump grinder to eat away the remains of a cottonwood the previous owners ignorantly planted too close to the house. As he spent the hours out there at work, I helped the kids with their chore charts and instructed them on the finer points of organization. After lunch, Joel and I installed my birthday toilet. And then he patiently obliged as I wanted to rearrange Gemma's room, requiring him to run to the hardware store. As dinner approached, I was feeling unmotivated and so we opted to walk the mile or so to Rubio's for fish tacos. As we returned home, with Ainsleigh and Donovan pushing along on their scooters, and Gemma galloping ahead of us as the clouds lightly sprinkled down on us, I thought about how twelve years ago I was getting ready to marry this man walking next to me.

Sure, as you're planning a wedding, you're thinking about all the exciting and fun things you're going to do. You have an ideal. The ultimate. My ideal? My ideal was exactly this: Doing the everyday, the basics, and being able to accomplish those with teamwork and jokes. And then walking to fish tacos and coming home and taking showers and reading Harry Potter.

Ok, so that last part wasn't in my original ultimate, but that's only because I didn't know they COULD be. What I'm saying is this:

MR. JOEL HILL: I LOVE BEING MARRIED TO YOU. SO MUCH.

How to enjoy a road trip with kids: Entertainment

2011-06-09T15:41:00.000-06:00

There will probably be only two "parts" to "How to enjoy a road trip with kids" since food and entertainment pretty much covers it, other than, "Don't get lost." But that would be short. So let's talk entertainment.

MOVIES
Hallelujah for DVD players. They really are the best. Our set-up is such that the two older ones can be wearing headphones and listening to the DVD player while Gemma watches something on an iPhone (also with headphones), while Joel and I can talk or not talk or listen to something up front. As we discovered last year, however, the headphones make carsickness more likely (I'm not sure the exact reason, but all I really need to know is headphones=barf so we nix the headphones for the DVD player). I decided we needed to play things that actually appealed to Joel and me (unless we just put the fader to the full rear position. Which happens.). I picked out a couple loved movies from home, threw in a couple new Netflix offerings (is there anything better than hearing your children giggle uncontrollably? Thank you, "Nanny McPhee Returns!") and then, in a stroke of utmost brilliance, checked Be the Creature out from the library.

Hint: Get this. Get it now. As a family who are major fans of the Planet Earth series (I cannot tell you how many times we've seen those episodes - they're AMAZING), I figured we'd enjoy it. Add to it that Wild Kratts (the most recent offering from the Kratt brothers - Be the Creature was their first endeavor) is Donovan's most favorite show ever (right now). SUCCESS! For nearly 10 hours total, we were distracted by various animals (wild dogs, anyone?). It was educational and really quite funny. I would say it's rated around a PG because there are some predatory parts (which, it turns out, didn't bother my children at all). These guys really try to live LIKE the creature and get the full experience. I'm laughing, just remembering some of the parts (um, Kangaroo boxing, anyone?). I found a lot of the information very interesting, and not just because there's nothing to look at in Wyoming. And when we spent significant time in the car driving out to Virginia City, some of my siblings got to learn stuff, too! So this was a major score.

WINDOW CRAYONS

There really isn't much more to say there. Just get a package of these and let your kids go crazy. It requires window cleaner to get them off, and that should probably be done at a time the car can be aired out, but let your kids clean them off, too. Kids like that kind of thing. Kids are WEIRD.

MUSIC
This one speaks for itself. We have kids music and we have "rock out" music. And when you're frustrated with Gemma and she looks at you sympathetically and says, "Just dance, it will be ok Mom," you know Lady Gaga has surpassed The Backyardigans in playtime. The only thing worse is when Donovan tries to analyze the lyrics of "Bad Romance." I don't know how embarrassed I should be that Gemma needs only the beginning three-note pulse of "I Got a Feeling" to squeal, "It's the Good Night! I WUV dis song!" Oh wait - yes I do: Incredibly. I'm a sucker for pop music, though. I CAN'T HELP IT.

WORKBOOKS
This trip gave me the opportunity to introduce Ainsleigh to Sudoku. I've heard that old(er) people do it to keep their mind sharp. I just barely started doing it because I turned 35 this year, so obviously everything is downhill now. I'M KIDDING. But seriously, I figured if it helps people keep their mind sharp, then maybe it will help sharpen budding minds. See the logic? Sudoku Puzzles For Kids has 6 boxes of 6, so it isn't as complicated as "real" Sudoku. For Donovan, I got Fun Beginning Puzzles and it has number searches (great for kids who can't find super long words in a word search, but can find 3-4 digit numbers!), word searches, and then crossword and sudoku puzzles for the more advanced. Since returning home, they have to complete two puzzles each during "quiet time" before moving onto the activity of their choice. Sharpening minds, people. That's what I'm aiming for!

STICKER BOOKS
This is the big one. First, I bought a couple sticker books for Gemma, wondering if she could handle it. I am pleased to say that she only ripped a few, AND she managed to actually place some of the stickers on the right spot. The important thing here is that it occupied some time. Also, that it was fantastic to hear her say, "Mom, can I have my Dora sticker book now? I need to do some work. Don't bother me." Hm...where has she heard that before?

Second, may I introduce you to ~~perhaps~~ the GREATEST STICKER BOOKS EVER?!?! I have yet to see an Usborne product I didn't think was fantastic, and the Sticker Dolly Dressing Fashion Long Ago is no exception. And they have a Knights one! Each page has 2-3 characters in the bare minimum (underwear/undershirts) and then there are pages of stickers that correspond with those people.

The ability to read helps, but Donovan could tell which clothes were for Sir Geoffrey from the Medieval Page and which ones were for Saladin from the Holy Land Page because he knows to look for the G, M, P and S, H, L, P. Get it?

I also got Ainsleigh the dancing one and it covers all styles. A few pieces of clothing for each person and then lots of accessories/decorations. And each page has a little spiel about that person in that age/place.

The Around the World sticker book has each page devoted to a scene and then there's a sheet of stickers for that page and you build your own scene. Still super fun for kids, but not as specific and detail-oriented as the dressing ones.

When Ainsleigh had completed her book (after much much time - yay!), I will admit to taking it and reading through it and admiring her work. $8-9 might seem like a lot of money for a sticker book, but these really are exceptional. Also, I don't want to divulge how many of these books I bought. Let's just say they are helping with "quiet time" as we begin Summer Break.

I should also plug the Lego Minifigure Sticker Collection. We didn't bring it on this trip, but Donovan got it for his birthday and loves it. The Lego Harry Potter sticker book now available was NOT released before our trip. It will probably show up around Christmas or something.

Summary: I LOVE STICKER BOOKS.

So that concludes the entertainment that accompanied us along the way. It might seem like a lot, but consider we were driving for 45 - let's type that out: FORTY-FIVE - hours. That's week of work. So you have to come prepared for success. I wish you well on your next road trip, and hope that you get to bypass Wyoming.

Now on to wading through all our pictures!

How to enjoy a road trip with kids: Food

2011-06-08T11:32:00.000-06:00

Originally I had titled this, "How to SURVIVE a road trip with kids." But then I realized that surviving is always possible. And my kids are actually pretty good travelers. So I switched it to "enjoy" because enjoying something is way better than merely surviving. Also, I have to acknowledge that this really only applies to my family since who knows if other kids have an infatuation with sticker books. Or Happy Meal toys. So let me begin, and cover the basics.

MY KIT
This is my "prepare for success" method of trying to anticipate any need we may have, and packing accordingly. This means that in my college backpack (yes! It still works! Thank you Jansport Super Pack!) behind my seat, I have the following: Big compartment - surprise time items (more later); medium compartment - DVDs (more later); small compartment: iPod, window markers/crayons, extra pencils/pens, dramamine/advil/tylenol (and now excedrin!), hand santizer, tape, chapstick, scissors, stamps, neosporin, bandaids, and safety pins.

Next to that bag, directly behind the console that sits between Joel and myself, is our collapsible cooler packed with frozen juice boxes (to thaw/cool), cut up apples, baby carrots, string cheese, chocolate milk boxes, and whatever other coldish things I want to bring. Maybe an extra water bottle, but not ALL water bottles. Note: Peeled oranges to not do well because they get mushed and are juicier and juicer=messier.

Next to THAT bag, behind Joel's seat, but within easy reaching distance, is the SNACK BAG. This is where I give myself free reign to go CRAZY. What did we bring this time? Beef Jerky (lots of it), peanut butter m&ms (lots of them), starburst, sour patch kids, chocolate covered pretzels, veggie straws, goldfish, dum-dums and red vines. I re-implemented my strategy from our previous road trip of giving the two older kids small gift bags filled with baggies of snacks (1/4 c of candy, 1/2 cup of crackers, or just a mess of veggie straws or several slices of apple). They had picked out a treat for themselves (Donovan=hot tamales; Ainsleigh=Reese's peanut butter cups) and so that was the only difference in their bags. This way, they have a variety of snacks in the back seat and don't have to ask me for a little something here and there. I think this helped with staving off carsickness. This time I also reminded Donovan about what happened LAST time (if you don't know - he got a major stomachache when he gorged himself - lesson learned!).

So the kids have snacks to start, but if they want more, say, goldfish, I dig into the Snack Bag where there also resides a roll of paper towels, a box of ziplock bags, and several plastic grocery bags. I retrieve the ziplock bags and the snack, fill, seal, then throw it back to them. Hooray! As they have garbage, they put it into a plastic grocery bag and whenever we stop, I do a brief scan and toss it. Empty wrappers are NOT YOUR FRIEND on a road trip.

Finally (snack-wise), everyone has a sport-top water bottle with their name on it. Drinking water is cautiously encouraged. I say cautiously, because excessive liquid intake results in more stops and STOPPING IS THE ENEMY. Our goal is to stop no sooner than every 2.5 hours, and every 3-4 hours is preferable. And that's how we roll.

Oh, when possible, I pack a lunch in a smaller cooler that stays in the back. When we're doing two days of driving back-to-back, we buy a lunch on the second day. This is where Happy Meals come in handy. When we were getting off the freeway to go to McDonald's, Ainsleigh said, "Um, Mom? I thought you said McDonald's isn't good?" And Donovan joined in, "Yeah, you said it's gross." Did I? "When we have In-N-Out available, we go there. When we have Chick-Fil-A, we go there. When we're in the middle of nowhere and our option is McDonald's, McDonald's is great. Plus, they have free wi-fi and Daddy needs to work." They were a little skeptical. I didn't make a very good case, I guess.

I have to hand it to McDonald's - they've upped their game. Plus, they had an amazing play place where the kids went crazy while Joel finished uploading some stuff. I had a salad that was pretty good. But the kicker was they got TOYS! Who knew three Batman (I think?) figures would entertain Donovan so much. They did.

Generally my rule is to KEEP DRIVING while eating because a) everyone is quiet for a little bit, and b) it gives them something to do while the car is moving forward. When we stopped at the play place, I had a bit of anxiety as the minutes ticked by and we were NOT moving forward. But Joel had to get some work out, and the kids deserved some activity.

Confession time: I started out this roadtrip with a 44 oz cherry coke and 2 excedrin. PREPARE FOR SUCCESS, people. Most gas stations from here to California offer refills at half the original price. Let's be honest - at 44 oz, I'm not doing a ton of refills. And Joel is helping himself to some. But anyway, there it was. And I am pleased to announce that I did not have a migraine. And THAT is a major factor in ENJOYING a road trip.

This is getting long. So tomorrow I will delve into the ENTERTAINMENT aspect of enjoying a road trip with kids. Stay tuned!

I'm a roadtripping PRO

2011-06-07T16:11:00.000-06:00

I'M BACK!!!

Did you miss me? Did you even know I was gone? Well I was. See, we've known for a while that the Memorial Day Weekend that would be overshadowed by my brother's WEDDING was coming up. I said to Joel, "We should probably drive." And Joel nodded and said, "Yeah, that makes sense." And that was the end of that. Never mind that just a month ago we drove the 13 hours each way to Boise. Never mind that it would take us two days just to get there. Never mind that a combined tally of 45 hours of driving is REEEEEEEALLY long. It would be summer and roadtrips are what you do in the summer right?

It wasn't until we were half a mile from my parents' home, with the first 20 hours under our belts that I said, "Um, I can't believe we actually drove to California." And Joel said, "Yeah. Maybe we should have flown." We each expected/thought/hoped the other to bring up the flying option a couple months ago. But we didn't, so we drove. And we are stronger for it. I think. More on surviving a roadtrip with small children later.

We DROVE and it was great, due in large part to snacks, candy, a refillable 44 oz cup from a gas station, and DVDs.

The first proudest moment of the trip came about 4 hours into the trip when the kids asked for a movie and Gemma squealed, "Despicuhl ME!" and the older two asked for two other movies. After briefly conferring with each other, Ainsleigh and Donovan said, "We want to watch 'Despicable Me' because Gemma wants to, and we want her to be happy." They've watched this movie several times (it being Gemma's favorite), so it wasn't new to them. But it really improved her mood at a time her mood needed most improving. Good work, team.

There was just a brief hiccup as we were about an hour into the Salt Flats when I realized, with horror, that I had neglected to pack the MOST AMAZING STICKER BOOKS EVER (more on those later, too). Honestly, you'd have thought I'd forgotten to pay our taxes or something (note: when I forgot to pay our taxes, I actually didn't feel as bad as this). Nothing grips a parent's heart with dread like the notion of 11 hours of nothing to do. Because even a DVD player can only hold interest for so long. TRUST me.

Thanks to the Amazon app on my phone, however, and a trial Prime Subscription, within half an hour I had MORE sticker books ordered and en route to my parents' house for the other 3 days of driving before us. And this is where I give great thanks for living in modernity and having access to Amazon in the middle of nowhere.

We were gone for nearly a fortnight and in that time we enjoyed lots of laughter, too much delicious food (though the scale seems to be making a strong case for a steady diet of chocolate, licorice and beef jerky), the best sisters, a wonderful new gorgeous-bride-sister, a handsome brother-turned-groom, a grown-up and matured baby brother, parents who put all other parents to shame (sorry. but that's how it is), doting aunts and pseudo-aunts, a sister's boyfriend who might be the best sport in the world, a horseback ride, a trip to the temple, Kung Fu Panda 2, In-N-Out, a snow hike, a ghost mining town, endless hysterical conversations, etc.

More later as I compile the pictures. My mom added some great ones on her blog. I'll add my favorite one here, since it comprises of my favorite females. And guess what! We didn't know what each other were wearing. We each just walked out of our rooms, looked at each other and said, "Oooh - I like your dress! What a great color!" And then didn't register how matchy we were until we lined up for pictures. I'd hesitate to pat ourselves on the back, but you know it would just be false modesty.

ps - if there were competitions for hair, wouldn't my mom win? EVERY.TIME.

Wait - one more:

Poor Annabelle did not realize that those fantastic pigtails make extended photography sessions MANDATORY. If my parents were so very Hollywood, then those grandchildren would just be children. Ahahaha!

ADHD, a year later (part II)

2011-05-18T20:44:00.000-06:00

Recently, I've received emails from different friends (well, I consider them friends, for emailing me with such personal questions) who have suddenly been presented with an ADHD diagnosis, wanting to know what my experience has been like. They are where I was a year ago, trying to decide between the medication vs. non-medication route. I have had the opportunity to share with them what we have done and I'd like to document it for those who might be wondering but not asking; for my own personal record; and so Ainsleigh will someday be able to read this.

First, let's all repeat: Every child is different. I am not a doctor and I'm not going to write a self-help book anytime soon. (are you still repeating? because I just meant that first sentence. you can stop repeating now) Ainsleigh was diagnosed with ADHD Inattentive - the "quiet" ADHD. Focus is the issue. Which is kind of a disservice to her, since she isn't inattentive to EVERYTHING. Just to...stuff she isn't interested in. Or stuff she's overwhelmed by. Give her a pad of paper, or fabric and a Barbie, or a TV show, and a parade of elephants through the room wouldn't distract her from the task at hand.

We have not medicated Ainsleigh. It's something I wonder about every now and then, but then she'll have a really good week or so and I think, "This is a learning opportunity for us."

I've read a lot about the pros/cons of medicating, so I am not at all critical of those who go the meds route. I just wasn't sure it was for us. Our pediatrician said there were three options: meds only; meds/modifications at home; modifications only. We've gone the modifications only route. These include things like making sure she has enough to eat; getting enough rest; having her downtime; talking about reactions; etc. I'll explain a little more.

You'd think I'd feed my kids enough, right? Isn't that what moms are FOR? Ainsleigh has always been small for her age - 10th percentile - and has eaten healthy, but small, portions of food. Then along came her brother who can PACK away the food and I found it startling. As he has grown, he has been very vocal about needing MOREFOODI'MHUNGRYWHATELSECANIEAT?!?!?! I've been giving Ainsleigh more to eat lately and I've noticed that she is eating a LOT more. And she isn't a sweets nut - she loves fruits and vegetables (and nuts). I have to stop myself from being alarmed at the amount of oatmeal she'll eat in the morning. It's more than *I* would! And then she'll drink a green smoothie (spinach, carrots, oranges, apples, frozen berries, etc.). But I've had to retrain myself to remember: kids are growing (duh); a kid whose appetite has been satisfied can focus better; she needs it. I also have to stop myself from wondering if I've underfed her in the past. I don't think I have, but even wondering that doesn't help me going forward.

Sleep - that's a huge thing. Sometimes it's hard for her to fall asleep, and on those nights I'll do some relaxation/massage techniques with her. I can't remember if I read it somewhere or a friend told me about it, but it's basically helping them visualize each body part and saying goodnight to each one. I'll rub her back/arms/legs/head for a few minutes and then start at the top (head) and I will say each part and apply pressure (either massage or just weight) "Your scalp is going to sleep. Your ears are going to sleep. Your neck is going to sleep. Your shoulders..." etc. She really likes it, and Donovan will occasionally ask for it as well. I notice it more on the nights we're getting to bed a little later, or the kids are wound up from the afternoon.

Her bedtime is 8, but usually she's going to sleep around 8:15-8:30. I would imagine that with summer fast approaching the bedtime will be pushed to 8:30. She usually wakes anywhere from 6:15-7:30. Every now and then she'll sleep later and I attribute that to a build-up of fatigue.

This kind of ties in with downtime. She has always been the kind of kids who likes to have some time to herself. Sometimes when she gets home from school she prefers to go into her room and play by herself. Most of the time she prefers to go outside, but I see her natural separation every now and then. I'm the same way. I need my me-time. Sometimes when I can see she is about to have a meltdown, I'll head it off by asking if she'd like to go play by herself. It isn't a punishment. If she doesn't have downtime, then sleeping at night is harder. This downtime is one reason I hesitate to combine her and Gemma into a shared bedroom. Joel thinks the girls should bond, but I don't know if it's a good idea just yet.

Several years ago, I picked up the book When I Feel Angry through the book orders at school. It came in a "feelings" pack. It's actually a really good, simply-worded book. There have been times in the past when she has been upset and I'll just pull the book out and leave it on her bed. This does not always go over well. BUT, there have been times I've seen her pull it out on her own, even now. This book has helped us coach Ainsleigh that as she begins to overreact to situations to take deep breaths. Honestly, I thought it was a futile exercise until recently when I watched her begin to get upset and then saw her step back and take some deep breaths. I almost began to applaud. Seriously, it was that little sign I needed that these little things I'm doing are actually going to WORK. Well, not all of them. But SOME. And I'll take that. Anyway, talking to her about the right way to react has really helped.

And then, as far as schoolwork goes, I just have to be super vigilant about asking her what homework she has and what she needs to work on and if she put it in her backpack to take back to school (such a simple step, and yet so easily overlooked!). But even this is getting better and I see her taking responsibility for this on her own. Math can be hard (we need to work on our fractions this summer, but she knows her math facts), but she excels at spelling (most of the time) and she writes pretty well. Her reading (as I mentioned yesterday) has improved dramatically. I have to remind her to practice the piano and brush her hair and pick her dirty underwear up off the floor (eck). In short, a lot more reminding. Donovan sees stuff she doesn't. He figures stuff out that she is blind to. Different personalities. That's been the hardest. I'm much more like Dono.

For myself, I've worked on patience. My mind works fast. Probably too fast, at times. I always have a to-do list and I'm always in the middle of five of those things. Quantity doesn't always translate to quality, though. I'm marginally good at a lot of things - I don't think I really excel at any one. My mom has reminded me that some people's brains just work slower. My mom, for example, is very smart, but she doesn't have the frenetic video-gameish mind that a lot of people do. She's very methodical. I see that in Ainsleigh. I am working hard to slow down.

Ainsleigh began piano lessons this year. I was hoping that learning to read music would help with her fluency since in music you cannot skip notes. Her teacher has been fabulous and used some new program by which Ainsleigh effectively did the entire first year in a couple months. Her teacher said this format was definitely only for certain kids, and Ainsleigh is one of those certain kids! I am actually kind of surprised whenever I go in to observe her practice to hear that she's actually doing it correctly (I'm so lame).

About a month into the school year, my sister asked me if I had read anything about Omega-3s. "That's the fish stuff, right?" I'm kind of an expert, obviously. She said she had read somewhere that some studies showed it might help improve focus. Now, "some" and "might" are pretty vague terms, but I figured it couldn't hurt (when properly taken). And Costco carries delightful sealife-shaped gummy vitamins that make the kids feel like they're eating fruit snacks in the name of health.

I don't know that any one of the above has helped. I don't know if even the combination of the above has helped, or if just with age and her own learning she is adapting. The point is, things are getting better. Not perfect, not without frustration, but better.

I think at the core, for anyone with a child facing a learning disability (or not), you need to go with your gut. Your educated gut. Do the research, but also know when you've overloaded and overwhelmed yourself and stop there. Try a few strategies, but don't let it crush you. Figure out what you can handle, and then go from there. Victories that may seem insignificant to others (and even your pre-mother-self) will become monumental. You stop dreaming of a scholarship to MIT and start dreaming of them finding true joy and peace in life.

I think that's what I've figured out for myself - I'm not going to win a very public award or become a spokeswoman for someone. But I find real joy and peace in my life with the milestones we, as a family and as individuals, reach. I am a spokeswoman for my children. And that cause is what drives me. That cause is what has sent me back to the library for more tips. That cause is what has fueled me to try a dozen different things for making homework easier, until we have found what works for us. That cause is what makes me break down in tears in between stacks of fruit and patio furniture at Costco when I read that my child is back on grade level after falling far behind.

A learning disability isn't the end of the road. It's just a new road. It might be harder at times, and seem impassable at others. But sometimes the view is far more fabulous than that original road. I'm grateful for this road.

ADHD, a year later

2011-05-17T15:44:00.000-06:00

A couple weeks ago I was at Costco and happened to check my phone where I keep my lists. I noticed I had a new email. When I saw that it was from Ainsleigh's teacher and the subject was "Ainsleigh's ILP," I got a pit in my stomach (ILP=Individual Literacy Plan; a specialized plan for those who are underperforming - Ainsleigh was placed on it last year, a couple months after the ADHD diagnosis). Ugh. I did not want to read it, figuring it would not be good news and probably result in my overbuying to compensate for my perceived failure as a parent (it totally makes sense, just go with it). But I opened it anyway, and read the following:

Hi Sarah,
I wanted to let you know that I have updated Ainsleigh's ILP for the end of the year. I am absolutely thrilled with the progress she has made!
She came to me reading at a middle of 2nd grade level on the Developmental Reading Assessment (DRA Level 24), and she leaves at a DRA Level 38, end-3rd grade! This shows more than a year's growth!
Her reading MAP scores have improved from the 48th percentile to the 54th percentile in the winter. (50th percentile is considered on grade level)
She has grown from the 53th to 60th percentile in STAR reading.

Is it at all surprising that I could barely read the rest of the email because my vision had blurred with tears?

(have I really not posted birthday photos? boo.)

When Ainsleigh came home from school, I wanted to share this with her, but wasn't exactly sure since we've never really talked about ADHD. So I said, "When you were done with second grade, we learned that you weren't reading at the same level as other second graders - you were about half a year behind." At this, her face fell and I could see something like doubt/fear/shame cloud her eyes, so I quickly continued, "So the school has been helping us do extra things like reading groups and I've been having you read extra here at home and I have great news: You're all caught up. In one year you've done a year and a half of work. I cannot even tell you how proud of you I am. I am just so proud!"

At that, she threw herself into my arms. I had teared up as I was telling her this, so she pulled back and looked into my eyes, seeing them shine with pride. "Oh Mommy! I want another hug!" And back into my arms she went.

This is a huge victory for us. I have long since discarded the notion that my child will test into the 99th percentile. Who knew I'd ever celebrate being average? Well, average in book terms. I recognize she is in the 99th percentile for a host of things that are not, and never will be, tested. Instead, I take great satisfaction in knowing we have been presented with a trial, and we are meeting the challenge.

I wanted to share one small thing that another parent brought to my attention. At the end of the school year, the kids get to "buy" things with "money" they have accumulated through...something. A Junior Achievement program? Anyway, Ainsleigh had one of the highest running totals and purchased something that several girls wanted, but did not have enough funds for. Later, the parent in charge saw one of the other girls holding it, and Ainsleigh holding something else. When she asked Ainsleigh about it, worrying that she had been swindled (do we still use that word - I'm using it), Ainsleigh said they had agreed to buy things for each other. This parent was worried that Ainsleigh got the short end of the stick and asked if she was ok. I told her that Ainsleigh had told me the story, but in a different light; that she and this girl decided they would each buy the other something they really wanted, and that this girl she gave the item to was really excited, and that made Ainsleigh happy. One of Ainsleigh's untestable gifts is that she places much value in relationships and having interpersonal experiences. Sometimes this is a source of frustration to me, since she doesn't always place value in things. But I recognize how good her heart is, and how she has genuine compassion for those around her. That parent worried that Ainsleigh was being bullied. Knowing Ainsleigh (and the little girl), I am incredibly proud that she thinks of others and how to make their day happier. I see it with the way she interacts with her brother and sister, and I am glad it extends to friendships. This will serve her well as she gets older.

I have a few more thoughts on this whole process, including what we've done at home and what we will continue to do, but I'll save that for another day. She has come a long way, in a short while. I love this girl so dang much, and celebrating her achievements is one of my greatest joys in motherhood.

"I'm FREE!"

2011-05-16T08:30:00.000-06:00

That's what Gemma squealed as she popped up in her crib after we had all walked into her bedroom yesterday morning, singing "Happy Birthday."

My baby - the babiest of my babies - turned three. She was delighted each time someone wished her a happy birthday and crowed right back at them, "Happy birthday!" much in the same way we exchange "Merry Christmas"es.

She celebrated with a new fancy skirt that she wore to church (thank you Aunt Laura!) and is wearing again today. I scored a major find at the local Bed Bath and Beyond and instead of a new duvet cover on clearance for $60, came home with a comforter (in the same print) and two shams for $15. We've been talking about moving her to a big girl bed on her birthday and she has been counting down the days.

We had cousins over for dinner and Gemma, who has a special love for my cousin Mark, spent a good part of the time with her head resting against his leg. She's a lover. And then we had a few families over for cupcakes, cookies and ice cream. And as 26 of us sang to Gemma, she awaited her turn to blow out the candles on the strawberry cupcakes she had so specifically requested. I have to say, they were pretty dang delicious. And very pink.

That night, in a break from the tradition of Gemma singing to the older kids and then closing their doors, we gathered around her bed to sing the nightly "You are my Sunshine." She sunk down into the covers and closed her eyes. When we finished, her eyes flew up and she whispered, "Now can you sing Happy Birthday to me?" And as we did, she grinned with eyes closed and silently giggled.

Her labor was long and hard and as the years go on, I realize that every second of that 34 hours of hard back natural labor was totally, completely, wholly worth it. I love each of my children, but she is the child of my heart. My heart that wants to just cuddle tiny children on a comfy bed. And a comfy bed of bedding on clearance - is there anything better?

It's good to be three.

PSA: I am not a cat.

2011-05-11T12:41:00.001-06:00

Oh dear. It's been a while since I've had to do one of these. Commence humbling moment...

When your kid has a runny nose and they wipe it with the back of their hand and it streaks across their cheek so you don't see it until it has dried into a crusty snot-scab, a mom's job is to clean them up. Generally, when a water source is nearby, this is done by wetting a cloth/tissue/sleeve first. When you are lacking a water supply, you lick your finger/tissue and touch them up. If that sounds gross to you, I'm guessing you don't have children. Children are walking challenges to everything you ever thought was the right way to do something.

Here comes the PSA:
No matter how grossed out you are by the snot-scab, do NOT do the lick-tissue thing when you're sitting in the exam room at Urgent Care, detailing the list of symptoms you and the snot-scabbee have had for the past few days. Because I can tell you right now what happens next:

Doctor: So...did you just lick the tissue and wipe her face?
Me: ...Uh...uh...(like a kid who has just been caught red-handed)...yeeeeeeeah.
Doctor: So, see right there - I can see that you're just passing germs back and forth. And so we probably have a number of things going on here.

He didn't say it in a condescending way or try to make me feel bad. I think he just kind of thought, "Uh, yeah, you're a mess. And with what else has been plaguing your other kids, it's probably a safe bet that you have a nice colony of viruses and bacteria playing ring-around-the-rosie in your body. Also, you're not a mother cat so don't lick your child."

The upside is we left the office with prescriptions for the mess of disease and coupling that with Advil, I'm starting to feel better. Also, I have a super freaky voice right about now and my kids keep saying, "Can't you talk louder?" My voice isn't super quiet - I think they're just used to, shall we say, an energetic volume.

Summary: Stay healthy, and don't use your spit to clean your kids. At least not while a doctor is watching.

a real mother's day

2011-05-09T09:36:00.000-06:00

Mother's day. Is there a more obvious way to spend it than running a fever and feeling lousy, and not wanting to eat anything, while taking care of sick fevered children and trying to keep everyone from losing their minds?

I submit to you that Mother's Day is for when your kids are older and have the capability to take care of themselves so you can lay around reading a book and playing sudoku and eating steak.

In the meantime, as un-celebratory as it was, hearing Gemma croak, "My eyes are so watery I cannot seeeeeeeeee!" is both pathetic and adorable all at once.

I have little room to complain, however, after a glorious birthday week. It's just a little anticlimactic when you are standing there with a pounding head, looking at your kids rolling around all whiny and crying, and you declare loudly, "HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY TO ME!"

Good news: one cara cara orange (our mvp orange for the past few months) + 1 T sugar + 1.5 cups ice on ice cream cycle in blender = a most delicious orange sorbet that heals my soul if not my throat

The year I got a toilet for my birthday

2011-05-04T11:44:00.000-06:00

Yesterday was quite possibly my best birthday ever. First, I'm a big believer in birthdays. I am not one of those people who will let the day go by and then casually mention to people a week later, "Oh yeah, it as last week." Oh no. I believe your birthday is going to be as good as you are prepared to make it. And these days, my motto is "Prepare for Success" (inspired by my super wise friend Heidi).

From the minute I woke up, I was prepared to have a great birthday. I handed the old man at the desk my gym card at 5:48 am and when he said, "How are we doing today, ladies?" I squealed, "GREAT! It's my BIRTHDAY!" People love to say happy birthday and I love to hear it. IT'S MY BIRTHDAY - EVERYONE EAT BACON, I told Facebook.

I returned home to find a giant box on the kitchen table along with a suitcase, which I could only imagine was Joel's creative attempt at wrapping something? After showering and coming back downstairs, I got to read the cards my kids made me. I love that Donovan writes, "Dear Mom, I can not bleve that you are 35. My crd is a game. I love you. From, Donovan." What does he hear every birthday? I can't believe you're (age)! So I guess that's what he figures you're supposed to put in a card. Also, the game is in reference to a rather detailed maze he drew. And finally, he enclosed a beloved $1 bill for me to spend. NICE!

I opened the suitcase and inside was...a paper! A paper that told me I got to spend the night at the Broadmoor Hotel. "Oooooh! I'm so excited! I wonder when we'll get to go," I said. "Friday," Joel replied. What? THIS Friday? Uhm... But what about (event)? or (other event?) or... Each question was answered with, "I took care of it."

Joel and two of my friends have orchestrated this most fabulous gift - one will be shuttling kids from school and to soccer practice/game and the other is having them overnight. The kids are ecstatic because this is the loophole in our family "no slumber parties" rule. And me, well, I get to just pack a few things and feel fancy for a couple days.

And then the big box. I should back up - for Joel's birthday I got him a super powerful blender to make his post-workout smoothies (more about this later) and then I went ahead and got him a panini press because when we were at my brother's apartment over Christmas, he and my (3 weeks away so I'll just say she IS my) sister-in-law made these Reuben sandwiches that I have been dreaming about ever since. And dreaming and drooling is gross. So we had a good laugh about how I gave my husband kitchen appliances for his birthday and how un-romantic was that.

A few weeks later I was at Costco and saw they had toilets. We've talked about getting new ones, but haven't. Yet. Costco has $80 toilets! So I mentioned that to Joel and he said, wryly, "Maybe I'll get you a toilet for your birthday." I clapped and said, "I would LOVE that!" The kids thought that was hilarious - on par with wanting underwear for your birthday.

So there was the big box. A big box for a toilet. And I'm thrilled. Yay!

Then I was off for a morning of delicious food (Snooze) and shopping (trying on jeans that fit is a joy - can I get an amen?). I have some very generous friends who gifted me tickets to see the musical "9 to 5" and it's for Thursday night, so this is quickly shaping up to be a birthday week (which, let's face it, it SHOULD be). I returned home for a nap and some reading before heading out with the family to see Rio. On the way home we picked up fish tacos (divine!) and then I blew out a candle on the tuxedo cake Joel "made at Costco."

On top of that I had several generous friends drop off cards/treats that will tide me over for the next few days, in the event my sugar high begins to fall.

Birthdays are TERRIFIC! I am looking forward to totally surrendering my schedule to a night away (and anyone who knows me knows how my fingers itch to check my calendar every hour or so). I'm going to go think about it. Maybe on my new "chair."

three times and no nuts

2011-04-28T22:07:00.001-06:00

I looked at Donovan, standing there in his underwear, just about ready to take his shower and gave myself a mental pat on the back for having reviewed so well the basic (delicate) pointers of personal hygiene. I had just told him to make sure he washed his stinkiest parts (and we all know what THOSE are) three times, figuring that would be the best way to attain success. I nodded, and said one last time, "Three times." And he looked at me, his face full of understanding, and very deliberately raised his right hand to his left armpit and pumped his left arm as if to underscore each word, "THREE TIMES. Got it." Then he cocked his head to one side and sort of squinted his eyes as if the thought had just occurred to him, "Wait, do I wash my nuts first or last?"

Speechless. That's what I was. What the? I wanted to reply, "The only nuts I ever talk about are the cashews in the pantry and they aren't ever washed." Or gasp, "Land sakes, child, go wash your mouth out!" Instead, I just kind of laughed and said, "Um...you can wash yourself first AND last, but don't call them nuts."

"Three times. No nuts. Got it." All with the armpit pumping. Someday, when I write a book on parenting (or kids, or me, or whatever), the chapter where I introduce Donovan is going to be titled, "Three times and no nuts."

Of course she knew it.

2011-04-24T21:49:00.000-06:00

In talking about how my brother David is going on a mission to New York City (and reviewing where all their relatives have gone: Brazil, China, France, Texas, Austria, Switzerland, etc.), I overheard this in the car:

D: Guess where I want to go.
A: China?
D: No.
A: France?
No.
Australia?
No.
Italy?
No.
Japan?
No.
South Africa?
No.
Mongolia?
No.
Iowa?
No.
Peru?
No.
Mexico?
No.
Portland?
No.
Sweden?
No.
Russia?
Wait, does it get really cold or really hot there?
Cold.
Then no.
Florida?
No.
Egypt?
No.
Michigan?
NO WAY!
Spain?
No.
Greece?
No.
California?
No.
Turkey?
Is that even real?
Yes.
No.
Philippines?
No.
France?
You already said that.
Oh, right. India?
No.
Costa Rica?
No.
A: New Zealand?
D: YEAH!
A (mutters): I knew it.
D: Yeah, I knew you did.

And this - this is why I don't turn on the radio. Kid conversations are awesome. Boring and awesome. Personally, I was impressed with how many countries/places Ainsleigh came up with (these are only the ones I can recall - there were more. Boringly so many more).

a harrowing night

2011-04-21T10:00:00.000-06:00

It was one of those nights where you're awake more than you're asleep. Such is the lot of parenting.

I would say that Joel got the better end of the deal since he was up just twice with Donovan Sunday night, whereas I spent the better part of last night up with Gemma, but he was actually incredibly sick himself, so I don't know who is better off. I'd say me, but I might be a couple years closer to a heart attack or stroke after what happened.

The second time Gemma cried out and I ran into her room, it was to discover she had barfed all over her bed. Hopping from foot to foot (as I do) and trying to determine how best to extricate her from it while not creating more of a mess through drippage, I heard Joel go downstairs to get a bowl to catch more barf. Now, it needs to be said that yesterday was not a good day for Joel. We weren't sure if it was something he ate or a bug or what, but he was having major intestinal issues, and he ate hardly anything. So I was appreciative that despite not feeling well he was helping. Appreciative until he brought in the bowl and stood by the side of the crib, only to suddenly slump over it, unconscious.

I caught him and lowered him to the ground, saying more loudly, "Joel! Joel! Joel!" and wondering what I was supposed to be doing. Gemma had gone silent, except for the occasional, "No Daddy! Stop it! Get up!" and I began to consider my options at that point. Right as I was ready to walk out and call someone, he said, "What? Why am I down here?" We later determined the sudden movement out of bed and locking his knees were contributing factors.

That was when I think my body registered the outrageous amounts of adrenaline coursing through my system and I suddenly had to lay down. Panic attack? Um, yes. Meanwhile, Gemma was bringing Joel up to speed, "Mommy was saying JOEL!JOEL!JOEL! and you were not talking."

I recovered after a couple minutes and while Joel continued to lay there remaining conscious, I proceeded to strip Gemma's bed. This is where the full scope of disaster registers as she sees me scoop up Ducky for the washer. "No! I barfed on Ducky?! Oh no!"

I could hardly be expected to fall asleep after that. Here I was, considering the weekend we just returned from, in panic mode as far as what I would do if something happened to Joel. I mean, I didn't even know what I would do if he didn't regain consciousness. Or had a seizure. I'd probably call my cousin who has extensive experience with this, and she'd probably be up with one of her kids at 3 am, right?

And then Gemma continued to barf and barf until her poor body was just dry heaving. Around 4:30 I took her to the bathroom to see if that would help. There I sat on the edge of the bathtub, elbows on my knees, hands cupping my chin, eyes closed, while she perched on the toilet, waiting to see if something would happen. Gemma leaned forward so her forehead rested against my arm. Nuzzling it, she croaked, "You're veh-wee veh-wee nice, Mommy."

I giggled.

I wish I was exaggerating to say she was up 9 times. This morning Joel apologized for his "contribution." I told him the best way to show he was sorry was by NEVER DOING IT AGAIN. Both Joel and Gemma seem to be doing a little better. I think I'm still running on adrenaline. That, and the little voice in the back of my head that tells me I'm very very nice.

Some lessons from the trip

2011-04-18T12:53:00.000-06:00

Usually when we go on a long road trip, we have "surprise time." This was one of my mother's greatest contributions to society (besides us, her musical talents, her sewing talent, her love of learning, her cinnamon rolls, and her high pitched crying/laugh) thus far. Every couple hours along the way she would say, "It's SURPRISE TIME!" and out would come new little toys/activities for us. We loved it. So it has been fun to share this tradition with my children.

But this trip, I just wasn't feeling it. Maybe it was the somber occasion, maybe it was that I was tired, but the reason I gave them was, "I walked into Target, looked around, and realized you HAVE EVERYTHING ALREADY. So I walked out." They were indignant, "We don't have EVERYTHING." Let me clarify: you have everything that can fit in our house. The end.

So I rounded up bags of crackers and pretzels, boxes of gum, oranges, carrots and apples, chips, cheese sticks, beef jerky, and about a billion kinds of candy: skittles, jelly beans, starburst, sour things, m&ms. Basically, things made out of sugar and then dipped in more sugar. Put smallish amounts in bags and put them all in a gift bag (it looks like a present!) and pass them out at the beginning of the trip. Then every hour or so, tell them to pick a treat! (Joel got something whenever he opened his mouth. He might have eaten an entire party-sized bag of peanut butter m&ms.)

This was one of my greatest ideas. Ever.

Until we were returning home and I just poured a bunch of different kinds of candy into one bag for Donovan (who had unwisely popped all of his other bags - dummy) and let him go whole hog. The last hour of a 13-hour car ride is an exercise in survival.

"Yes, eat whatever you want."
"Yes, watch that Dora episode on the ipod for the 9th time even though you don't have earbuds that fit so it's silent."
"Do whatever you have to do to not lose your mind!"

This works well until Donovan appears at your bedside at 3 am because his stomach hurts. And he runs to the toilet and barfs. It works even better if you're the spouse who stays asleep while your husband takes care of everything.

Let's move back to the positives of this trip:

1. I'm really glad I bought new windshield wipers especially in light of the major rain/sleet/snow storm we hit coming up over the pass. I would have been happier if I had had time to actually put them ON the car. Details.

2. The Best Western (hotel or motel? they said Hotel, I say Motel. If it even matters) in Evanston, Wyoming, is the nicest hotel on the planet, at least according to a 6 and 9 year old. It was actually quite satisfactory with 2 king beds and all three kids sleeping in one.

3. Refills for a 44 oz soda range from $0.50 to $0.70 from here to Boise. Don't judge me.

4. Singing at a funeral is not that hard when you don't look at anyone and you look at one word at a time and you have a running loop in your head saying, "This day is dumb. This day is dumb. This day is dumb."

5. A police escort is the best thing about a funeral. I don't care if I get a cheap casket - there WILL be an escort at my funeral.

6. Every color gerbera daisies and roses are a wonderful reminder of joy and happiness when it seems like maybe there isn't.

7. Seeing family members you haven't seen in a long time and laughing together.

8. Spending an entire day at a park relaxing and talking and giving thanks that we get to be related to such a woman. Also: the annual KFC bucket. We determined that it's only respectable to eat it once a year, at a park, with no plates.

9. Shaving an hour off your drive home.

10. Returning home to vacuum tracks.

I am unable to articulate just how much the cards, emails and calls from family, friends and strangers have meant to Joel and me. It is comforting to know that others recognize the gravity and sorrow, and are willing to mourn with you. That is the true mark of humanity and with that, and Melissa in mind, I return home with a renewed sense of purpose. The first being to be a better mother to my children. And that starts with not letting your kid OD on candy.

Mourning Brown Eyes

2011-04-08T16:19:00.002-06:00

A door opened and light from the apartment within spilled out into the dimly lit hall where I stood, next to my future husband, waiting to meet his oldest sister. Joel had shown me pictures of Melissa from her wedding where a small, thin, beautiful woman stood beaming next to her handsome husband. Her smile spread from her lips to her eyes and poured out of the photo. So it was a bit of a shock to see the person before me: still small, but with black frizzy hair where once had been light brown, a face bloated from prednisone. As soon as I looked into her eyes, though, that same love and warmth poured out and I knew this was the woman from the photos. Melissa was battling her second round of Leukemia and her body showed the effects, but her voice was steady and her smile constant.

When people are diagnosed with cancer, the response is often, "I'm going to fight this." I've considered this statement and have often, unfairly, thought that the fighting lay more with the doctors and the treatments than with the person themselves. Melissa taught me how wrong that assessment was.

Over 22 years, Melissa actively fought and survived six cancers. But being a fighter is hardly what defines her. When I asked family members to share a few thoughts with me, they all spoke of how she was courageously noble in mind and heart, generous in forgiving, and was unselfish, almost to a fault. That is the very definition of magnanimous.

What she wanted more in life was to have a family. The cancers seemed to make it impossible. I can only imagine how heartbreaking that was for her, because she never spent much, if any, time lamenting her own disappointments. Instead, she immersed herself in others. As a sister and aunt, she remembered every birthday with cards and phone calls. She volunteered for charities and in elementary school classrooms. She spoke about what she had learned from her trials with others. She never accepted that she was a hero, but would acknowledge that her life had a purpose and her duty was to share it.

After years of being cancer-free, she and Rich began to think of adopting. And then everything fell into place. I know few people trying to adopt who get a baby so quickly. And then two years later it happened again. Melissa was a mother, and the ease with which her babies came seemed like a reassurance from above that this was what she was supposed to be doing. Last year, as cancer returned, she shared with me her confusion about why adopting was so easy for them, and her fears for her children.

I've never known a mother who spent so much time reading to her children. It was her passion. And when cancer loomed, she continued to read to her children, but spent their sleeping hours reading some more, this time into a recorder. When they had to perform a tracheotomy, she cried not from pain, but knowing that she would no longer be able to read to her children.

When the doctors found the cancer had returned, Melissa knew she had fought all she could. There was nothing else that could be done. But Melissa wasn't content. She picked up a pen and began writing birthday cards for the children she would not raise to adulthood. She wrote and she wrote, sometimes taking a couple hours, in her weakened state, to write a few lines. She wrote notes of gratitude and love to family members. And still she wanted to know how others were doing.

As her body weakened, she slept far more than she was awake. Family members would talk to her with no response, but the minute her children touched her, her eyes would open. A few nights ago, Rich thought she might pass in the night, so he brought the children to hug her and say goodbye. She opened her eyes for the first time that day, saw the loves of her life, and wept.

How is this ok? What "plan" is this a part of? How on earth do I explain to my children why something like this has to happen, when I don't fully understand it? Donovan asked why Melissa would get sick, "Is it because she did drugs or something?" I doubt anyone lived a cleaner life than she did. But it's natural for us to want to point to something and say, "That's why." But in this instance, there is nothing.

I don't know how to walk the fine line between letting my children see and know grief, and not traumatizing them. I don't know how to comfort my husband who is losing his beloved oldest sister. I don't know the first thing to say to a brother-in-law who wonders how "this single parent thing works." I don't know, and it sucks.

Rich had called a couple weeks ago to ask if I would help write Melissa's obituary. How do you respond to that? "I'd love to!" Um, no. But yes. But no. How could anything I say equal the woman she is? A week later he called and said he was sending the information to me. He said, “I thought Melissa wasn't doing so great and maybe she would go soon, so I started to write something. When I showed it to Melissa, she scanned it, and then walked over to her iPad and typed just one word: Sarah." I will hold those words in my heart forever. Her regard means more to me than she will ever know.

Melissa is not one to go quietly. She is small, but she is determined. She is quiet, but she is feisty. Even at the end, as family members discussed her life at her bedside, unable to open her eyes, the rise and fall of her eyebrows indicated that she could hear them.

There are levels of tragedy with her passing. I cannot really envision a world without Melissa. Often it is easy to remember only the good in those who have passed. In this case, there is only good to remember. For me, her passing is a call to do better. The world has lost goodness, and we need to try to make up for that deficit.

As I consider her presence in my life, I see her eyes behind the camera as she took a picture after Joel proposed; as she prepared Thanksgiving dinner; as she walked along trails in the mountains; as she spoke of her children; as she told about her experiences with cancer; as she quietly spoke of her unwavering faith; as she laughed, cried, and grimaced; as she shook her head in despair, unable to comfort her child when she was too weak to pick her up. But mostly I see her eyes as she listened. She was an incredible and intense listener. She heard everything you said and actually cared.

I do believe in the afterlife, and I do believe in the Resurrection. I do believe she is in a better place, and I do believe we will see her again. But that's a long way off, and she has left a lot of people behind who will miss her terribly. Right now -- right now I'm incredibly sad, because those wonderful, beautiful caring brown eyes closed for the last time today.

My Mother's Day is today

2011-03-31T13:44:00.001-06:00

Because nine years ago today, this happened to me:

And I've been grateful every day since that I am her mom.

This morning she awoke to a room strewn with silk flowers. In a rare stroke of creative genius, I saw the package of 12 leis on clearance for $3.48 at Target as an opportunity for birthday magic. Last night Joel and I snipped half of them apart and compiled the individual flowers into a bowl, with similar results (though on a smaller scale) as the balloon extravaganza last year. Static is a spunky mistress. As we tried to get them inside the bowl, they stuck to our hands, to the outside of the bowl, to anything but the INSIDE of the bowl. Seriously, they would jump back out onto the carpet. And of course we're doing this at 11:30 at night, so hilarity ensued.

But the effect was achieved. A couple leis decorated her wrought iron headboard. I asked her later what she thought and she acted it out: sitting up, looking around, then clapping and squealing, "It's beautiful for my birthday!"

Last year I mourned that she was another year older. This year, I'm embracing it. She is a person. She can have actual conversations. She is FUN. And I couldn't imagine I would love her more than when she was born, but each year proves that loving just gets bigger.

Last weekend Joel took just Ainsleigh up to ski. Donovan had a soccer game and Joel was considering the just-Ainsleigh option, but also knew she might want to stay home. One of the men he is working for mentioned he was taking his oldest daughter to visit the college campus she would be attending in the fall. Joel asked if he ever thought he'd have a college student. "No," he said, after a pause. "I don't know what happened. There were the first nine years, and then suddenly she's 18 and I don't know where the time went." The thought that Ainsleigh was turning nine in a week flashed like a neon sign in his mind and in almost a panic, he thought, "Come on, Ainsleigh, we're going to go bond!" I think we both feel the urgency of making the most of the time we have.

I want her to wake up every day, clapping and squealing, "It's beautiful for me!" Because if I've learned anything recently, it is that the world is beautiful and each day is precious.

Happy Birthday to my See-see, my Miss A, my firstborn, my Ainsleigh. You are a gift and wonder, and I celebrate you.

half and half

2011-03-29T16:37:00.000-06:00

Did I mention I'm grumpy?

But I try my best. Donovan wanted help reconstructing some of his Legos and couldn't find the little pot that sits atop his fortress, from which fire pours down on would-be attackers. I looked at his disaster of a bedroom and told him he needed to clean his room first. Then I went into Ainsleigh's room and began to search her closet bins in case the piece was in there (as it, and others, often are - I do enjoy how well they usually play together: the Legos, the Playmobil, the Pet Shops, and the Princesses in symbiotic harmony).

Soon, moans and cries wafted through the door and I returned to Dono's room to see him laid out on his bed, his despair clearly etched on his face as tears ran down his head and into his ears.

Impatiently, I told him to get off the bed. How many times have I said, "You can cry about it, and then clean it up, or you can just clean it up and have a lot more time to play. Either way, the cleaning gets done, but only one way does it get done with a Mom who is happy."

I sat down in front of his closet and began to sort toys according to type: Legos, Playmobil, cars, dinosaurs, bugs, Star Wars, etc. Donovan peeled himself off the bed and stomped around the room (which is actually kind of remarkable considering the limited floor space amongst the toys which have an uncanny knack of reproducing when I'm not looking), crying inconsolably.

I might have told him to cut it out.

I might have also told him he was in danger of losing a new toy if he kept it up.

"Ohhhhhhh!" he hiccup-squeal-cried, "You are the WORST MOM EVERRRRRRR!"

This is one of those ridiculous moments that you can't possibly be mad at. I looked at him, giving him my best wry "you're dumb" faces.

"Reeeeeeeeally? Because I thought I was in here to help you find your Lego piece so I could help you reconstruct your enemy outpost."

He paused and seemed to reassess the situation. Not quite as dramatically, but still with immense emotion, amended, "Well, I meant you are half the worst mom ever and half the best mom ever."

I think by the book of Moms, that's just about the best indicator that I'm doing my job correctly.

something a little lighter

2011-03-28T10:42:00.000-06:00

My sincere gratitude for those who have shared their thoughts and/or experiences with cancer via email after my last post. My heart aches for those who have had close encounters. My kids have been asking why some people have to get sick, wanting to know if it was a result of poor choices, lifestyle, etc. It's hard to help them understand when I don't think I even really do. But thank you. Your support...love...commiseration? means more than you know. We appreciate prayers from all faiths and good thoughts from the rest.

Time for a lighter topic. Namely: Contacts. Or, rather, contacts from Costco.

Tuesday night I was out with some friends and after a delicious dinner at "The Corner Bakery" (if you have one nearby, get thee hence and partake of the chocolate peanut butter whoopie pie. it is exquisite.) we headed over to the theater. Well, movie theater, but it sounds much more grand to call it "the theater." En route, a stabbing pain hit my right eye and I knew it was the kind of situation that warranted removing my contact, rinsing it, and putting it back in, rather than just waiting for it to water itself out.

It should be noted that I wear hard contacts. Gasp, I know. What am I, 72 years old? Do I also own a phonograph? No, smarty pants. Hard contacts make your vision clearer, last longer, and are the only solution for an extreme astigmatism. And since my eyes are used to them, they're easy. Plus, when I get something in my eye, it's a cinch to pop them out and and put them back. Almost always.

So, like I've been doing for the past 20 years, I popped it out. And, like two other times in that 20 years, it hit my cupped hand just a little too right of center, and flew into oblivion. Oh shhhhhhhhooooooooooooooot.

The next 10 minutes with a flashlight and gentle combing revealed that I would be watching the movie one-eyed. Call me Cap'n Sarah. I wished I had Donovan's hand-hook and eyepatch. I should really carry those with me in case of an emergency.

One of the great things about hard contacts is that they last a really long time. This particular pair is 4 years old. The previous pair was 7 years old. So even though the initial cost is a bit more than soft contacts, it is actually cheaper in the long run. But the initial cost for the pair, in the past, has been anywhere from $200-250. And that's after the $200 eye exam.

So I was not thrilled with the idea of dropping a few Franklins in the name of a contact-catching error.

I called around to a few optometrists the next morning and made a tentative appointment at one place. An hour later I was at Costco picking up a zillion pounds of oranges (as one does) when I happened to walk past the Vision Center. On a whim, I asked if they did contact lens appointments for hard contacts. The lady looked at me like I was an idiot, perhaps because right above her head was a giant sign reading, "$100 for Contact Lens appointments - all kinds - includes glasses rx!" She confirmed that the sign spoke true. So I asked how much contacts generally cost.

"Usually they're $37. But sometimes as much as $80 - that's pretty rare, though." I just stood there, blinking stupidly at her. THIRTY-SEVEN dollars?!?! What the....are they made out of those boxes you guys always ask if I want?

I am here today to tell you that they do, in fact, only charge $100 for an appointment that includes prescriptions for both glasses and contacts. And that my hard contacts each cost $37. And it doesn't take a math whiz (though I kind of am) to know that ($100+$37+$37) < ($200+$100+$100).

The only problem is that I have to wait a week (but that's not Costco's fault - that's how long it takes to lovingly sculpt a tiny disc of plastic so that someone with 20/500 vision can then see perfectly). Until then I am forced to wear my glasses. My glasses which are eight years old. And not the right strength. And which I associate with being sick and/or lazy. I constantly feel like I haven't showered or am still wearing my pajamas (the latter might actually be true). So it makes me grumpy.

Yesterday, after I snapped at the kids for something which obviously warranted snapping, Joel ushered them out of the kitchen and upstairs to read stories, theatrically whispering, "Mommy needs to get some contacts," and then shooting back over his shoulder, "You stay here."

So I feel like I'm at a disadvantage since I can't see. Things are blurry. When night falls, my depth perception evaporates. And I cannot take responsibility for my makeup. So I'm grumpy.

But not too grumpy. Because Costco is quickly verifying that, yes, they can take care of everything for me. And at a fraction of the cost.

When hate is ok

2011-03-22T10:46:00.003-06:00

For personal reasons, I've disabled comments on this post. If you would like to email us, we thank you for your time.

I remember watching an episode of Oprah maybe 10 years ago where a young mother, who had been diagnosed with a terminal cancer, was recording hours and hours of video of herself giving her daughter advice and telling her stories about her own childhood. I remember thinking it was all so sad that she wouldn't be there for those moments, and how painful even making those recordings (and trying to be upbeat) must have been.

It's every mother's nightmare - to die before your children are raised.

When my own baby was just a few weeks old, I read on a message board about a woman who nursed her 6-week-old baby for the last time before she handed the baby over and went back into the hospital to die of the cancer that had spread throughout her body during pregnancy.

How do you hand your child over? How do you accept that you won't be there for the birthdays and the dating angst and when someone hurts their feelings? How can you say goodbye to the love of your life?

I know it happens. My aunt died when she was just 42 years old, leaving behind 5 children. I was 13, and that's when I was struck with the reality that bad things happen to nice people. Cruel things happen to wonderful families. Miraculously, all five of those children are functioning, happy, compassionate adults. They have 18 kids between them. My aunt's legacy lives on.

But it is still tragic.

This is the conclusion I've come to: I hate cancer. Hate it. HATE.

I try to encourage my children not to use the word hate. Donovan will tell you he "doesn't care for (food item/toy/person)" and Ainsleigh will say, "I'm not in the mood for (food item/toy/person)." I think hate is a really strong word. A heavy word. An evil-rooted aggressive word.

But I'm ok with using it in the same sentence as cancer.

It's not that I don't care for it or that I'm not in the mood for it, it's that I absolutely entirely wholeheartedly HATE that a mother sits writing birthday cards for her small children for the next 15 years of their lives. That she has to consider which milestone birthdays she wants to finish first, in case she can't get to them all. Each card takes her a couple hours to complete, as her ravaged body has trouble maintaining the energy it needs to stay awake. Her brother sits at her side, helping her write, just as decades ago, she sat at his side teaching him how to write.

As cancer wages its final battle through the body of a beloved family member, I consider the enormity of being asked to help write her obituary. I am humbled, honored, and devastated at this prospect. I already know it won't measure up. She is a small woman, but a giant in faith, determination, patience, devotion, intelligence, selflessness, endurance, and love.

Cancer has no right to take up residence in her body.

I hate it.

HATE.

Don't worry about it.

2011-03-21T15:35:00.000-06:00

"Don't worry about it." This is what Gemma says to me, with her chin tucked slightly, looking up at me with huge blue eyes, face perfectly still, lips slightly pursed, and hands actively engaged in things to worry about: cutting Donovan's homework, digging into a tub of Eucerin, drawing with permanent markers. "Don't worry about it, Mommy. Don't worry about it."

If I've lost track of where she is and call out, "Gemma, where are you?" and she responds, after a bit of a telling pause, "Don't worry about it, Mommy!" then you can bet I am scrambling like a maniac to find where, exactly, I shouldn't be worried.

She's a funny one, this little kid of mine. She loves to climb in bed with me on Sunday mornings and we cuddle for 20 or 30 minutes. Her ability, and desire, to just cuddle for an extensive period of time amazes me. If I am sitting at the computer, she will often come over and ask to sit on my lap. Like right now. And she'll sit, facing me, head resting against my chest or buried in my armpit (nice), singing songs or asking me questions ("How is your day?" "You go to school today?" "You take a shower already?" "Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Wook at me. Mommy. Mommy. I wuff you. Mommy.").

She's dependent, but also experimenting with independence. At naptime, she has taken to saying, "I rock mysehwff." So instead of sitting together and singing a couple songs, she'll climb into the rocking chair and rock back and forth while I stand there like a chump, singing. Sometimes she'll interrupt me to say she wants to sing by herself. And then she'll climb off the chair, squat down, and wrap her arms around herself and twist back and forth saying, "I wuff mysehwff. I wuff mysehwff. Ok, I ready to sweep!" I insist on loving her, too. I figure she's got decades of putting herself to bed and I've only got maybe a few more years.

Sometimes it makes me sad, to contemplate not having these moments where she depends on me for so much. Along with the scissors and markers and lotion, though, I imagine that if I told her, she'd just quietly say, "Don't worry about it."

Basketball, soccer and perspective

2011-03-20T10:42:00.000-06:00

There's no shame in supporting your school's basketball team in the NCAA tournament when you haven't watched a single game all season. Just like there's no shame in loving soccer once every four years. Or baseball during the World Series. My only real defense is that we haven't had access to the games up until now.

Now, though, we're totally loving it. Well, Joel has been gone so it's Donovan and me. And he is both amusing and frustrating to watch it with. Every basket is "YES! We're the BEST! It's 22 to 18. Are we creaming them?" And every miss is "Awwwwww MAN! We needed that!" And every 3-pointer sends him rolling off the couch with "OHHHHH that was AWESOME! Now it's 48 to 45. Are we creaming them?" And every time the OTHER team scores he grimaces and recounts the score. And asks if we're creaming them.

I had to explain to him that first of all it's not about creaming - it's about winning. Ha. This goes against what his coach tried to tell them at half time during their first game of spring soccer yesterday when one kid asked if they were winning. "Yes. But that's not the point." One kid smirked and raised his eyebrows as if to say, "Oh yeah?" and he glanced over at his dad as if to add, "That's not what my dad says." We try to teach them that it's not the end of the world if they lose, but I think the tunnel we make at the end for them to run through takes care of that. We all know it's more fun to win.

So Donovan is just locked onto the idea that if we're winning the basketball game by 5 points, we must be slaughtering them. Because in soccer that's like a 100 basketball points? I finally had to say, "We won't know until the end of the game. I don't really know if this is going to be that kind of game anyway. Just a winner and a loser."

Toward the end of the game, when we were winning by 20 points, he quietly says, "Mom? If we had 82 points and they only had 4 points, then would we be creaming them?" Yes, I told him. "Are we kind of creaming them now?" *sigh* Yeah, I guess so.

Because 89-67 in basketball is like 5-1 in soccer. Hooray for winners.

Meatless Mondays

2011-03-15T11:05:00.001-06:00

As I was putting the finishing touches on dinner last night, Ainsleigh walked in, glanced through the glass cover on the skillet and asked, "What happened to meatless Mondays?" I smirked and replied, "You're looking at it!"

Let me introduce you to our most recent family program: Meatless Mondays. This concept began to take shape as I pondered the question, "Could we have one meal a week that didn't have poultry/fish/beef?" I mean, I know there are vegetarians out there. I know it can be done. And that's when the question changed to, "WHY would I do this?"

Most of the time when I am facing something with that exact question (see: cloth diapering; making yogurt; installing a new fuse in the breaker box; giving up store bought bread for homemade; natural childbirth; repainting the majority of the inside of our house; getting up before 5 am to exercise; etc.) the answer is simple, if borderline juvenile: BECAUSE I want to see if I CAN.

In this instance, I saw other benefits such as saving money, being a healthy alternative, and it works into the vague weekly meal plan I've set up for myself to help reduce that, "What am I going to make for dinner?" feeling that usually settles in around 3:30 pm (Sunday - whatever I want, but half the time probably a roast and mashed potatoes and a bunch of vegetables; Monday - Meatless!; Tuesday - chicken; Wednesday - fish; Thursday - soup; Friday/Saturday - misc/leftovers/pizza). But mostly I wanted to see if I COULD.

I'm happy to report we've been on this program (calling it that makes it sound super formal) for a month now with success! Last night I made Tasty Lentil Tacos (served in just soft corn tortillas) and I have to agree - they were tasty. I would NOT agree with the people who said it was similar to ground beef. It's not. That's not why I made it, though. And I certainly didn't think, "Wow, I really miss meat!" Served that with a variation on a salad the sensational Sarah told me she's been eating (chop a bunch of cucumber; chop a bunch of red bell pepper - or was it tomatoes? I use peppers; thinly slice a bunch of romaine lettuce even though she said she doesn't use it; wish you had some green olives as well; crumble in feta until you're satisfied; grind some black pepper over it and drizzle a couple teaspoons of both extra virgin olive oil and lemon juice; toss and EAT) and some of that crazy delicious sweet corn from Costco's frozen section and I was FULL. On top of it, Gemma snarfed down her taco as if having a piece of chocolate cake depended on it (maybe because I told Donovan it did?). The point is: she loved it. The other kids enjoyed it as well (Ainsleigh: "Mom, you made ANOTHER favorite meal!").

So we've done a quinoa-based main dish (delicious - don't forget to rinse your quinoa first), a Cuban black beans and rice night (I enjoyed it more than Joel - I don't think he was expecting it to be a little sweet thanks to a tablespoon of balsamic vinegar added at the end), and then I phoned it in one night and made waffles.

Also, if you happen to check out those recipes and see that they have chicken broth in them (not the waffles, duh) and get all, "That's not vegetarian!!" Then just pipe down because I'm just talking about not using meat. And I don't have vegetable broth. Yet.

But I think I'm going to need some inspiration. I mean, I can do different beans/rice/quinoa combinations, but I'd love to know if there are any tried and loved meatless main dishes out there.

Here's the catch, though: I'm not doing tofu. I just can't. It doesn't taste like meat. And I'm not pretending to eat meat. Just like I don't hide vegetables in food so we pretend NOT to eat them. So no tofu/meat-substitute recipes. I mean, WHY would I try using tofu?

Uh oh...

Six

2011-03-13T17:28:00.000-06:00

It was love at first sight for only one man in my life, and today he turns six.

Legos, dinosaurs, cars and sound effects are far more fun than I ever imagined. His love of adventure and hugs exceeds my wildest expectations. Today we celebrate this little man in our lives with presents and the second Harry Potter movie and a seven-pound chocolate cake he has been begging for since his last birthday. He is a boy worth celebrating. I love that he is mine.

Happy birthday, Donovan.

It's official.

2011-03-11T08:48:00.001-07:00

This kid, on June 22, will embark on a 2-year volunteer opportunity to perform service, teach about our church, and prove to the rest of us that he is no longer the little dude running around in "Mickey Mouse pants" (black tights). Yesterday, with all of my siblings and parents on a conference call (now THAT can be confusing with 8 phones involved), he tore into his letter and excitedly revealed he will be serving in the New York, New York South Mission (so - Long Island, Staten Island, a little bit more, and...Bermuda? Ok...) speaking the Chinese Mandarin language.

Ainsleigh promptly guffawed. She thought he was kidding. "Are there even Chinese people IN New York?" she asked. I guess he will find out.

David has been taking some Mandarin classes, and was really really hoping that's what he'd end up speaking. I just don't think we actually considered he would be stateside, speaking Chinese. After an intense language course for 12 weeks (it's so intense and effective that the CIA and FBI have come to learn their techniques), he'll be unleashed.

I am incredibly proud of this brother of mine. He is such a good kid. A good, thoughtful, loving kid. For Christmases he maintains that he "doesn't need anything" but just wants everyone to come home. So I get my big sister act going and grill him about ladies and life and secretly love it when he calls me "second mom."

You're going to be great, Doov. I guess I'll start watching "Ni Hao Kai-Lan" with Gemma to brush up on some Chinese. Pack for all weather - it's going to fluctuate. But leave the Mickey Mouse pants at home.

let's talk about food

2011-03-10T10:06:00.000-07:00

I'm feeling a little sad today. I think a little bit of it stems from knowing my baby brother, the one whose birth I witnessed when I was almost 16, should be receiving the letter today that will tell him where he will be for the next two years of his life. My dad went to Vienna, Austria; my other brother went to Geneva, Switzerland; Joel's brother and Dad both went to Taiwan; Joel's other brother went to Texas; Joel went to the Amazon in Brazil; I know people who have gone to almost every country on the planet. It's something my baby brother has always aspired to, but another reality altogether to see that he is actually going.

And my own first baby is turning 9 at the end of this month. She just looks so dang big, what with her talk about bras and Taylor Swift and the way she'll roll her eyes at me. She tries to reassure me that she is NOT, in fact, big since she is only taller than one other person in her class. I hugged her this morning as she prepared to leave for school and a tear rolled down my cheek. Gemma, ever vigilant, said, "You sad, Mommy?" A little, I told her. "Sometimes Mommy is sad about how fast her kids are growing up. It's because I'm so crazy proud of them and love them so much and I'm afraid that one day I'll wake up and you'll all be gone."

Note to self: contain emotion until after Ainsleigh leaves for school. She's a sensitive one, that girl. When she pulled back from my arms, she had tears in her eyes as well. But also a smile. "It's a good thing to love something so much you're sad when they leave, right?" I asked. We laughed together as she nodded and said, "Yeah. A REALLY good thing."

Argh. Maybe it's my brother and Ainsleigh and my growing kids. Maybe it's a speaking assignment I received that I'm not particularly comfortable with. Maybe I'm hormonal. Yeah - that's what I'm going with. So what do I do in this situation? I cook. (ok yeah right - I cook for just about any situation... but still)

With that in mind, let me introduce you to perhaps the greatest white chili on the planet (as far as I'm concerned), courtesy of the fabulous Janine:

1 T oil
1 onion, chopped
4-5 stalks celery, chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 lb chicken in bite-size pieces (prefer shredding a Costco rotisserie chicken - for various delicious reasons)
3 C chicken broth (but sometimes I add a 4th)
2-15oz cans Northern Beans (or pinto)
8 oz diced green chilis
1 tsp oregano
1/2 tsp cumin
handful fresh cilantro, chopped
salt/pepper to taste
lime juice

Heat oil in a large pot. Add onion, celery, garlic (and chicken if it isn't already cooked) and cook until softened (or chicken is done). Add remaining ingredients (except for cilantro) and boil for 20 minutes to 1 hour. Stir in chopped cilantro and a teaspoon or two of lime juice.

Crush a few fritos in the bottom of a bowl, stop with shredded cheese and a dollop of sour cream. Ladle soup over all. If you're feeling really crazy, top with diced avocado. Of course, this last part is completely optional, but you'll be glad you did it.

Gemma loves this. There are two meals she repeatedly asks for as I begin making dinner, "We having fish tacos?" or "We having chip soup?"

Make it tonight. Get a little person to help you. It will help you forget that your babies will grow up. Well, for a little while, at least.

Dear Husband,

2011-03-08T12:59:00.000-07:00

I feel totally uninspired to document anything when I do not have pictures. And I do not have pictures when you take the camera everywhere. And yes, I have my phone but that's like me asking you to make a delicious dinner with a giant roasting pan, a wooden fork, and a box of Pasta-roni.

For instance, how can I document the intricate marble run Donovan constructed while I laid on the floor giving him precise directions? Or how we sat on opposite sides of the project and, upon completion, he sat back on his heels to watch the marbles fly. As they settled into the finish cup, he looked up at me, a grin spreading across his face. A second before he began to stand up, I knew a classic Dono-move was forming in his brain. He stood up, took the few steps to me, and threw himself into my arms, wrapping me in a hug of gratitude. "Do you know why I'm hugging you? It's because I just love when we build stuff together."

See, I need to take pictures because someday we won't spend our mornings making stuff. He won't fold giant piece of paper into phones ("See how it unfolds and changes from a phone to a treasure map?!") or dance with Gemma in a ballroom-esque fashion or ask if there's anything he can do to help me. Someday he'll want to leave me for good and on a day like today I can't bear the thought. So on that day, I want to remember what a great time we had.

But I have no pictures, so I'll never remember this.

Yours,
S

stories of growing up

2011-03-03T12:57:00.000-07:00

When was the first time you stuffed tissue in the front of your shirt? Should I stipulate I'm talking to women? Look, I'm not asking when was the last time you did it. I only ask (I have a good reason, see), because yesterday Ainsleigh came walking down the stairs like she had not a care in the world, with a bulging upper torso. She quickly picked up what I had called her down for, and began to go back upstairs when one half fell out. I was going to ignore it, but I don't want that mentality to set the stage for all future conversations about her body. So I adopted the straightforward approach I learned from my Dad.

Like the time he was scratching my back in church right right after I got my first bra and every time he came to the strap he slowly scratched over it as if to say, "Well WHAT do we have here?" I couldn't sit back until I knew my face wasn't red any more (like 15 minutes). Or the time I had my first period and I told my mom not to tell my dad (a plea I now find absurd - what mom ISN'T going to tell her husband their daughter has had a significant life-altering event?!) but lo and behold he was driving me to an activity that night and I remember the exact spot on Las Palmas Drive that my dad said, "So! I hear you're a woman!" I died a thousand deaths as I weakly replied, "I told her not to tell you." But even in that moment I realized how ridiculous the objection.

So with that everything-is-worth-talking-about mentality, I asked:
"What do you have there, Ainsleigh?"
She shrugged and kind of muttered, "Just...trying something. It's dumb." And pulled the other wad of tissue out.
"Are you practicing having breasts?"
"Sort of."
"Well. You're kind of young for them still. You'll have them someday," I said, and then whispered to Joel, "If you're lucky." (speaking from personal unlucky experience)

I am both startled that my baby is old enough to recognize what her body is and where it is going, and comforted that she is doing the exact same stuff I used to (and I like to think I turned out ok). But in that comfort is a little horror.

Gemma, on the other hand, has really discovered and claimed nudity. She prefers to sleep pants-less for naps, saying, "I sweep in my naked wiss no pants." And when she walks in on me getting out of the shower, says, "You in your naked?" But the best is when I strip her down for her shower and she kind of runs her hands over her belly while swaying side to side and says, "I am soooooooooo naked." As if there were varying degrees. Thankfully, she recognizes we confine that kind of (un)dress to the house (and, let's face it, that AGE - lest you think I'm running a nudist colony over here. ew.) and when she wants to go outside, brings me her pants.

I am pleased to report that for the moment, I am having no body talks with Donovan. That kid wore me out with his admiration for...himself. He is pleased, however, to discover that at nearly-6, he is taller than Ainsleigh was at over-7. But come on, that's not hard.

I don't know what happened to these kids of mine. They're...KIDS. And I marvel at what they learn and retain and just know. Or what they pick up here and there. After walking home from dropping Ainsleigh at school this morning, a boy with dark hair and glasses rode by on his bike and Gemma squealed, "Das Harry Potter!" loud enough for him and then his twin brother, following closely behind, to hear ("Das MORE Harry Potter?!"). I had to admit, they did look a bit like him. But maybe they wouldn't like the comment, especially coming from a 2 year old.
"That's not Harry Potter," I told her.
"He WOOKS wike Harry Potter," she maintained.
I was trying to keep it quiet, "No they don't."
She thought for a moment and then in a small voice said, "Kiiiiiiind of."
"Ok, you're right. Kind of."

Who is this kid? When she starts wadding up tissue and sticking them in her shirt, I'm going to pass out.

School projects, kindergarten-style

2011-02-28T15:02:00.000-07:00

Nothing makes me groan the way I do when I get that little note from school saying my kid has a project! With a poster! Or decorate something! Bleh. I hated those as a kid, mostly because I felt so artistically inept. I remember getting the assignment in fourth grade that we were supposed to design a cereal box. Everything from what the cereal was, down to the gimmicky game things and ingredient list. Most of the kids in my class knew how to wield a pencil and a pair of scissors with construction paper. I think I remember being surprisingly impressed with my finished product, though by no means proud. I'd like to know what the purpose of that was - to spotlight my inadequacies? Check. (on second thought - maybe it was to plant the seeds of appreciation for the world of packaging design - the very thing my future spouse would spend a lot of time doing. Huh, I never thought of that. Excuse me while I go ponder on this.)

Luckily, my kids do not have that same perfectionist anxiety. This is a blessing and a curse, really. They seem so dang proud of just about anything they churn out, and I suppose that's because Joel and I praise just about everything they create (messes not included). Then again, Joel has helped me to see that art short of museum pieces is still art. His responses to their projects show me that while I may not be raising the next Renoir, there are funny and wonderful creative details worth noticing.

So anytime they come home with those assignments and I groan, I also follow it with a shrug and a declaration, "It's your project. What do you want to do?" I'm not a scrapbooker or a stamper or a decoupager, and my children's projects do not look like I stayed up late putting the finishing touches on something my child may not actually have touched. These are THEIR projects. I almost challenge the teachers to criticize their minimalism.

Donovan's recent project was part of being the "Beary Important Person" for the week. Among other things, he had to make a poster about himself. We talked about a few ideas and basically came up with the timeless adjectives-with-the-letters-of-your-name approach. And then I just printed a bunch of pictures. He added some dinosaur stamps. And then we taped on a knight. Done. Had it been Ainsleigh's project, I'm sure glitter and flowers would have been incorporated. So here's his poster:

He wasn't excited about using the toilet seat picture, but after I explained how much cooler he was for laughing at it (come on - LAUGH AT IT. Though I hope his embarrassment will serve as a deterrent for future shenanigans), he was game.

That's the extent of his project. I only penciled the letters on for him to trace over since I wasn't confident in his spatial reasoning (or ANY reasoning). I both laugh at the simpleness and marvel at his ability. Seems like only yesterday I was trying to get him to draw a face.

And today I'm stifling my giggles as he walks out to the car with a baseball cap on sideways, challenging me, "What? It's COOL, Mom. You just don't know." Except that I kind of do. I mean, I know it's cool to wear your hat off-center. I also know that coolness is negated when your hat has Lightening McQueen on it. Or that you're wearing it pulled down low in the front so half of the back of your head is showing. But I let him walk off to school with his confident swagger. Because who am I make him second-guess himself? I can't even make a cereal box.

I am so mad at my parents right now.

2011-02-23T11:23:00.000-07:00

About a year and a half ago, in anticipation of spending Thanksgiving with my siblings at our parents' home, we planned to run a 10k. I emailed my dad and said, "You should do this with us!" And after some self-doubt, he threw himself whole-heartedly into training. He even got a snazzy outfit. Cute! My dad is adorable, right? The night before there race, as we carbo-loaded, a friend was incredulous that my dad was going to run that far. "What's next?" he asked. My dad laughed it off and said, "NOTHING. I don't even think I'll keep this running up. It was good while it lasted."

He is such a LIAR.

So there I was last summer doing my own runs and such and toying with the idea of a longer race, or maybe just another 10k, when my dad proudly (and rightly so) emails that on his birthday he ran 6.5 miles. Couple that with having just watched the Marathon episode on "The Biggest Loser," and within days I was registering for a 10-miler.

Because I can't let my dad outrun me! He's my DAD. Getting whooped by your Dad is only cool when you're under 15.

With only 3 weeks to train, I told the lovely Sylvia what I was planning on doing. She slowly nodded and said, "Well then. We need to run 7 miles this weekend, and 8 miles next weekend, and then we'll probably be fine." She will never know how much that response meant to me. Then she said, "Should we set a goal?" Doh. I knew she meant time, but I said, "How about: 1) Finish. 2) Not die." And from miles 9 to 10 I was as close to NOT fine as I've ever been. Every footfall an effort. Every breath precious. We finished (alive) and even a few seconds shy of our goal. And I wondered if I would ever do it again.

When the lovely Sylvia mentioned the 10-miler a few weeks ago as something she'd like to do again, I shuddered. That last mile still hangs heavy in my memory.

But then, my mom casually mentioned, "Oh, did you know your dad is going to do a half marathon?"

WHAT the?!?! FRICK.

Turns out, my MOM is going to do it, too.

WHAT IS HAPPENING TO MY WORLD?!?!

My mom is an animal on her bike. She logs oh, I don't know, at least 150 miles a week. And she meets with her and my dad's trainer at least once a week. Don't even get me started on the trainer/gym stuff. But she has always said that she couldn't run. Biking was it. And I don't bike. We can stay in our respective corners.

But she DIDN'T!

My sister messaged me a couple days ago:
"Also, did you know that MOM ran 3.25 miles last week without stopping?"

So. I did what was only natural:

Goals: 1. Finish 2. Don't die. 3. Forgive parents.

I am so mad at them right now. Furious.

Just Say No to Headaches

2011-02-21T14:03:00.000-07:00

I feel like I have some wonderful exciting glorious news to share, and I wrack my brain trying to think of what it is and then I remember: Drugs. As in, I found one that has changed my life for the better. Well, it did once (so far). Let me back up.

For years now, I've been getting headaches. Ones that will start at the top of my head and then spread outward and settle behind my eyes. Tylenol doesn't even touch them. If I take 4 Advil early enough, they might help. But I often play that game of chicken where I think, "I don't need to take anything" that usually ends with the pain going beyond those 4 Advil and me kicking myself for wishing I had just up and took the pills. This will surprise Joel, who thinks I take Advil for a hangnail.

And they'll last not hours, but days. Sleeping doesn't help. Napping seems to make them worse. Few things really ruin my mood as much as waking up, but not yet opening my eyes, and feeling the pounding in my head that signals either a headache has already begun, or remains from the night before.

In the past few years, I've come to the conclusion that they are hormone-related, since they seem to occur in cycles and are even worse for the months following childbirth. I mentioned them to my doctor after I had Gemma and he said, "Sounds like migraines." Um, no. Notice how I didn't say flashing lights? Or nausea? I don't get migraines. But he proceeded to tell me the other symptoms I described were right in line. He even prescribed me migraine medication. And I ARGUED with him.

I'm an idiot. I mean, why was I so opposed to naming them? I think I was afraid that if I said, "I have a migraine," my symptoms would suddenly get 10 times worse and my head would explode.

So last weekend, amid a 4-day fever and general malaise and Joel being out of town, one of those head-pounding beauts settled in for a visit. As my ability to mother and will to accomplish anything began to spiral downward, I recalled my Mom recommending Excedrin Migraine. In a last ditch effort on Tuesday, I hauled the kids to the grocery store and bought a bottle. I took said medication at 11:40.

At 12:15 I suddenly had that giggly feeling Ainsleigh talked about last week (consequently, right as this headache was gearing up) and thought, "What is this feeling?" Oh yeah: happiness.

Joel got home that afternoon and cautiously asked, "How are you?" And I threw out my arms and squealed, "GREAT!" I told him about the Excedrin and he retorted, "So...you're high?"

Look, buddy, I have energy I haven't had in DAYS, I've done laundry and mixed up sugar cookies, I've made dinner and played puzzles with Gemma, and the thought of making plans and organizing my schedule actually makes me happy - I can think in terms of weeks, not just minutes! I'm not saying I advocate drug use per se...

All I know, is that in the past, those headaches were debilitating. And now, I have a weapon that actually WORKS. So yeah, this is big news for me. When (let's say IF) I get another headache/migraine/whatever, it's not going to ruin the next 3 days. Whee!!

Now, if only there was a medication that would keep me from locking my keys in the car...

Enchiladas, Harry Potter, and that giggly feeling

2011-02-15T16:54:00.001-07:00

Last weekend Joel went to visit his sister so I decided I wouldn't make dinners. Obviously. The first night we trekked over to Costa Vida, thanks to an awesome Groupon deal. Ainsleigh had walked into the house from school and promptly changed into pajamas ("Because I was cold.") and Donovan, hearing me tell her she could wear them to dinner, followed suit. It was only natural that I changed Gemma, as well. Conversely, I changed OUT of my yoga pants and into jeans. It's what I do. But now I had three kids in pajamas in robes heading to dinner. Cute, you say? Maybe. If it were late like 7 or 8. But no, it was 5:30 pm. That makes it just weird.

In a brief moment of inspiration, I stuck the book we're reading (Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets) into my purse. I figured it would be quiet there on a Friday night at 5:30 since it's more of a lunchy spot. Newsflash: Even if it doesn't expire for six months, Groupons bring in the people.

Yowzah, it was crowded. But tucked out of the way was a table for four where we sat. Donovan and Gemma had quesadillas and Ainsleigh asked for a sweet pork enchilada. I had forgotten that she claims enchiladas as a favorite food. The sweet pork was new to her and she immediately pronounced it the best enchilada ever.

So there we sat, eating dinner, sipping sodas, and munching chips while I read the latest happenings to our favorite boy wizard. Even in our tucked-away corner, it was pretty loud. I think the teenagers at the closest table were enjoying the story (I do really good voices, if I do say so myself).

As I was reading, Ainsleigh suddenly started giggling, "Oh dear. I'm getting that laughing-crying feeling."

"The what?" I asked, vaguely remembering a similar exchange.

"The feeling of being so happy that I might cry," she said.

I looked from the book, to her grinning face, to Donovan's nodding head, to Gemma with one chip sticking out of her mouth and one in each hand, taking in their fleece-robed bodies, and thinking of how I wouldn't want to be anywhere else in the world, and I smiled back at her.

"I know exactly what you mean."

a few thoughts on the day

2011-02-14T09:42:00.000-07:00

Love is...

...a brother and sister, running toward each other waving the candy they've just been given by their Sunday school teachers, each yelling, "I have candy to share with you!"

...a husband who cooks for his wife every year, even if it means hours of prep and clean-up.

...your children snuggling into all sides of you and shaking your body with their giggles as you read to them.

...the joy you feel when your oldest daughter, for whom focus has been such a trial, brings home nearly-flawless work. And has a nearly-tidy room.

...a whisper from your son's lips to your ear pronouncing you the best mom in the whole world.

...fluffy red hair bouncing in back of the tiny body who runs to greet you as you return home.

...watching your three children laugh and play at the pool and hearing someone say (not very quietly), "What cute kids. That must be the mom!" and knowing they're talking about you.

...sending your husband to sit at his sister's bedside for a weekend because one of the reasons you love him so much is how much he loves his family.

Honestly, I think Valentine's Day is dumb. I think the whole premise is redundant at best, and painful at worst. I don't need roses or chocolates or doily hearts. I'm more demanding than that. I need daily reassurance that I am loved and that I love. Gratefully, my family is happy to oblige. So if you'll excuse me, I've got some tiny buns to pinch.

my mini-man

2011-02-10T17:42:00.000-07:00

I've mentioned before that a trip to Costco ends with me saying, "And one churro, please," to the person scanning my items. It is the prize I promise, sometimes through clenched teeth, to bribe my children to not whine or poke/squeeze/torture each other. I hand Donovan the receipt and he runs over and shows the lady while singing, "One churro, please!" I take a massive bite as my tax, and Dono and Gemma split the rest. Once in a great while, we get two churros split between the three of us and we feel like kings.

A couple months ago, I was walking past the meat area and saw those tantalizing rotisserie chickens basking under the heat lamps, their intoxicating scent causing my stomach to groan in protest at the breakfast I had skipped. I considered the soup I was making that night that called for cooked chicken, and the chicken breasts waiting in my freezer at home to defrost, and thought, "Oh why not..." In a rash moment of extravagance, I put a bird in my cart. Turns out, those Costco birds are larger and less expensive than their grocery store cousins. Also turns out, prepared food does not equal expensive. Finally turns out, prepared rotisserie chickens are the most delicious animals on the planet.

When we got home, my inability to delay gratification overcame me and Donovan and I set upon the chicken like sharks to a maimed seal. With greasy fingers and bits of chicken stuck to his cheek, Dono proclaimed it the greatest lunch ever. I couldn't disagree. In our defense, we had our fill, enough for dinner, and more left over.

Fast forward to a couple weeks ago, we walked through the doors of Costco. Dono, with a glint in his eye and a small grin, said, conspiratorially, "Hey Mom. I know what we should get." I smirked back at him and played along, "What do you have in mind?" Almost giggling, with hands framing his mouth in a theatrical whisper, "Chiiiiiicken."

And this is where parenting gets fun. "Well, would you rather have a chicken or a churro?" I'll say it - I never had any intention of walking out of there with anything less than both of them. But it's fun to torment your children.

"Ohhhhhhh," he groaned. "I need to think about this."

It was the quietest trip I've ever taken to Costco with Donovan in tow. He debated with himself on the merits of each, never establishing a front runner. By the time we got to the case of chickens, he was in agony. I handed him a bird and he sat there hunched over, getting a chicken-scent facial, if you will. I made out a barely audible, "I just love chicken. But I just love churros. This is impossible."

By the time I got up to the checkout stand, he raised his mournful face to me, eyebrows knit together, and wailed, "I can't do it Mom. I can't decide. I just love them both."

Some parents surprise their kids with trips to Disneyland. Some parents surprise their kids with a puppy. Maybe someday we'll get to do that. For now, I surprise my kids with food.

"Well," I said, changing my face from sad to giddy, "I guess we'll just have to get BOTH."

We came home and he ate an entire leg and another drumstick. He sat back, licking the grease from his fingers, a satisfied smile playing at his lips. "That is the best lunch in the world. I just can't believe how much I love chicken."

I can. First, it's dang tasty. Second, my Dad's identical love of small birds runs deep (mention the words "Boston Market" and you'll see that same adoring look on his face that he gets when he reminisces about good BYU football games). Third, he's a boy. I don't know why the boy stuff takes me by surprise - his ability to make car noises from birth; how "quiet" isn't really a possibility; same with "sit still"; how any sport with a ball has his attention; how "faster" is always the challenge. And now: rotisserie chicken lover.

So when he hears we're going to Costco and he says, "Hey Mom, know what I'm thinking about for lunch today?" I just smile and love this mini-man of mine more.

Can you guess where we went today?

(pictures are actually from LAST January. I've been spending an exorbitant amount of time going through 80 GB of photos from the year.)