They Grow Up So Fast!

I recently read From the Mixed up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler.  It's basically My Side of the Mountain for inner city kids.  In the book, a character references people who take so many pictures to show everyone what a good time they had that they essentially forget to take the time to HAVE a good time.  I won't lie, I've had this thought plenty of times.  Usually as I watch guiltily while someone else snaps away.  I just. can't. make. myself. do it.

However, I do recognize that it's my own guilty way of justifying my terrible habits.  So that I can explain to my children someday that we were so busy having a great time (ahem...) that we just couldn't stop to take a picture.  So, recognizing that this was pretty lame, I set a goal to do better.  You wouldn't know it by the results, but I really tried.  Luckily, smartphones provide an opportunity for all to be photographers.  Including my children.  And what we lack in quality, we make up for in quantity.  So, after searching through the 4000 + photos on my iphone (and yes, I really do mean that), it turns out we actually do have a record of our lives.

For example, this fall, we took the family on a haunted hayride.  Translation: one person in a mask jumped out of the cornfield and scared the daylights out of us while we rode by on a hay-wagon.  Luckily, someone offered to take a picture for us.

Hmmm...  We also celebrated Halloween.  Oh, wait, I have no proof.  But we DEFINITELY carved pumpkins.  Sans one sleeping baby.

And thanks to a particularly nasty sickness we were all passing around, I cooked my first Thanksgiving (mostly) solo.  Let's take a picture!  Of the post-inferno yam pan, at least.

They were delicious anyway.  They say on average, a household has a kitchen fire once a decade.  We're just doing our part to keep up with the statistic.  And yes, we're still checking the fire alarms!  We also celebrated New Years Eve.  Eastern time.  It is our annual tradition.  As you can see from the photo, unbeknownst to us, Elias didn't keep with the rest of the tradition, which is to pass out on the couch, drunken only with our own exhaustion.  And completely miss the celebration in our own time zone.

As you can clearly see, I have been sincerely trying to capture the significant moments of our lives.  Now for a bit of the insignificant, because that's where the real and interesting moments lay.

 

Despite having to scroll daily through 200 new close up pictures of someone's eyeball, I hope that they continue to capture these moments so that we can remember what it was really like.  The good, the bad, and the really really strange.  Keep your fingers crossed!

Balance

Life is full of ups and downs.  A giant roller coaster of emotion and experience.  Sometimes you really are hanging on for dear life, doing whatever you can get to get you through to the next day, or even just to the next moment.  I still remember getting a text from my sweet friend Tara telling me that she was expecting her first.  Oh, the joy of Motherhood!  So, I looked down at my screaming toddlers lying on their backs, arms and legs flailing, took a video and sent it to her with my full congratulations.

And other times, you can just roll with it.  I have to say, it's a good thing Addie's not the first, because we roll with a lot around here.  When I need a hand, there's always someone willing.  Caden is especially helpful.  One day I really needed someone to feed Addie for me and Caden was my desparate volunteer.  So, of course, I wedged him between a few pillows, propped Addie on top, propped the bottle on the very top, and wallah...  A few minutes later, I hear, "she's done!"  I come into the living room and find Caden worming his way out from under Addie, who is arched over with the bottle dangling (full) off of the side of her mouth.  But, man, I needed those few minutes.

And Liv is always looking out for her.  On the way home from Addie's two week doctor's appointment, Liv had her sucker in hand and I gave the typical lecture: No food for baby, she's too small (blah blah blah in toddler terms). So, of course, Addie had a sticky blue face when we got home.

And Addie never gets lonely.  She doesn't have the chance, really.  If she's unfortunate enough to be left sitting on the ground, someone is sure to rescue her.  Or sit on her.  Or lay across her.  Or pick her up and move her to her new home.  Once, while I was in the bathroom, Olivia thought it would be funny to roll Addie under the coffee table and then lay her own body in front to block my view.  That was a frustrating, and quite frankly, confusing, few minutes until I found her.

But Elias and Isaac are truly helpful and have made it possible, on many nights, for us to even have dinner on the table.  They are so loving and helpful.  They even love her so much they have, on occasion, been known to wrestle it out over who gets to hold her.  Last man standing wins.

Wrestle-mania.  Please don't judge.

But this picture really just says it all.

It really is the small, sweet moments that carry you through- keep you going and balance out the rougher times.  Like when your adorable little two year old son comes and sits next to you after a particularly tiring day and starts playing with your hair.  And it feels so good that you ignore the horrible smell coming from him.  And then you look over at his shirt and see big brown smears across the front, done with those same, cute, chubby fingers that are currently wrapped in your hair.  Like I said.  Sweet moments to balance out the revoltingly nauseating ones.  And sometimes, they're packaged in the same moment.  For their own sake, it's a good thing they're cute.

Late Bloomers

So, I'm reading a book written in the 1800s, and in it, the author refers to a girl of 40 who's "bloom has vanished."  I seriously had to put the book down, stare in the mirror, and then think about it for a day.  I'm pushing 40- has my bloom vanished?  And what does that even mean? I called my sister Carolyn and she assured me that yes, my bloom had most definitely vanished.  Well, there it is.

Elias happened to ask me that night if I liked myself better as a baby, a teenager, or an adult. I said as an adult, and he agreed.  When I asked him why, he answered that it was because I lost all those freckles and my hair went straight.  Brutal honesty.  Maybe I never had bloom.

But I really do like life better as an adult.  I had a friend say after she got married that she felt more comfortable in her own skin, and that is a very good way to describe it.  Although, I won't lie.  The other day we saw our cute photographer in the store and rather than say hi, we ducked our heads and ran, hopefully undetected. But that's only because lately, we look like this:

It's the best we could do (Christmas card photos might just be a thing of the past).  I didn't want to burst that (nonexistent) bubble.  She's only ever seen us at our finest.  And by finest, I mean dressed up, hair mostly done, and begging our kids to please get their fingers out of their noses.

This might be our new look for awhile.  Thank goodness for photoshop.  But despite all of the craziness, if I had to sum up what it feels like to push that barrier and enter into the realm of five children, I would say... relief.  Logistically, you just throw one more into the mix and keep on going, but now I can finally stop looking around for my missing child. a feeling that has been plaguing me since Caden was a tiny baby.  Maybe I haven't lost my bloom as much as finally found it.

Some Perspective

So, I recently bought journals for me to write in for each of my kids.  An idea apparently every mom in the world has heard of except for me.  But I have to say, I love it!  It is so fun to write down their quirky or fun or interesting things for them, and it really helps me to appreciate parenthood.  Especially on days where your daughter runs away at Wal-Mart (and we're talking half the store, not a mere aisle or two), steals the bologna from the fridge about five times in one day and hides behind the couch to stuff her face, (granted, even if I never did find the package, it wouldn't be much of a loss- other than dealing with the inevitable food poisoning they'd get when she and Caden ate it three weeks later), and plays Frisbee with her taco-filled chips during dinner.

I get so used to thinking like an adult that writing about it AFTER gives me a chance to relax and laugh at things.  I recently watched "My Side of the Mountain" with my boys.  It's about a twelve year old boy who leaves a note for his family, packs a bag, hops a bus and heads for the mountains to live off the land.  Today he would have his own survival show.  As a little girl, the book was magical- I mean, he lived in the hollow of a tree!  (This coming from a girl who used to make clothes for little acorn people and lick cement when no one was looking.)

As an adult watching the movie, all I could think is, "Are you kidding me?"  I would be so mad.  And worried.  And really mad.  And spoiler alert for anyone who has been waiting since 1969 to see the movie, I noticed it ended with him leaving the mountains to go home, not the happy return. 

It's funny to think from the perspective of a kid again.  I was telling Jeff about this HUGE tricycle that my Grandpa Losee had on the farm when I was growing up.  It was amazing, like, Paul Bunyan sized.  It went all the way up to my chest!  Well, someone pulled it out last time we were there.

For perspective, it hits me somewhere in the knee range now.  Apparently, I never realized that my memories are from when I was about four.  Maybe it was all the cement I licked.

Well, my boys tinker with and take apart everything.  When Elias was probably three, and Isaac about one and a half, they dismantled their entire dresser while I wasn't looking.  I won't lie- pride wasn't the emotion I was feeling.  They recently stripped down about five different monster trucks (all broken, of course) in the hopes of creating some kind of Frankenstein.  They remove batteries from everything they own because they want to see the power source.  They have built numerous rockets on the back deck out of random boards and toys.  It took a LOT of persuasion to convince them that they shouldn't actually light them up to fire them off.

But then I realized that I'm really not that much different.  Jeff ripped out some old baseboards, so I made a frame for the mirror in the bathroom.  A section of our wood fence fell down and I can't tell you how many projects THAT has become.  We live in a constant state of construction, because our dreams are bigger than the time slot we actually have to work on them.

So, rather than feel frustrated, I guess I can focus on how they're practicing to become adults. Yesterday, I told Liv that we could go outside as soon as I ate lunch.  So, I came out of the bathroom and heard, "Look Mom, I'm making you a sandwich!"

See how good they're getting?  (Yes, that is jam covering Caden's hands, face, shirt and pants.  And quite frankly, plates just create dirty dishes.)  Practice makes perfect, I guess.  Apparently we're all still practicing.

The Tiny Seed

I've always been a bookworm.  I remember a time when I was in Middle School and my entire family left me parked in a chair in the basement with my nose buried in a book while they went out to dinner (out to dinner!)  WITHOUT me because I couldn't be roused.  They may as well have gone to Disneyland, as abandoned as I felt.  But seriously- it was The Alliance.  Which, in my family, was a yearly ritual for everyone above the age of twelve.

I love a good novel, but I will always love the simplicity of children's books.  Remember The Very Hungry Caterpillar, by Eric Carle?  One of my favorite books growing up. I mean, who doesn't want to read about a caterpillar that gets to gorge himself on a cupcake, an ice cream cone, one slice of cherry pie, swiss cheese, salami, chocolate cake and a lollipop.  And that's the short list!   Well, somewhere along the way, we acquired The Tiny Seed, also by Eric Carle.  I won't lie, it is a book that I find to be painfully long and dry, lacking all of the delicious food of the Very Hungry Caterpillar.  But my kids tend to be very concrete, and they love it.  So tonight, as I was reading it to Olivia at bedtime, I was suddenly struck by what an amazingly simple and beautiful metaphor for life it provides.  The tiny seed (smaller than all the rest) floats on the wind, eventually lands on the earth, waits out the winter, and grows into the tallest flower- taller than a house!  People come from far away to see because it is so grand.

It's not that I had never realized it before (although their concrete thinking has to come from somewhere, I guess) but I had just finished looking at the newest pictures of sweet, tiny Edith.  She weighed less than four pounds at birth and is just so unbelievably small and cute!  Delicate little fingers, and long skinny arms, she was born to two of the most amazing, faith-filled and inspiring people I know, my sister Nicole and her husband Matt.  Her twin, little Owen, was just as sweet and tiny and perfect and lived seven hours before passing on.  They knew his life here would be short and chose to be happy and grateful for the time they had with him here, no matter how short-lived as he would always be a very big part of their family.  Such grace and strength.  As I was looking at my little daughter tonight, so pretty and funny and loving, it struck me the great potential that we all have, both in this life and the next.  We don't know the challenges that we'll face, but we get glimpses of the incredible happiness that awaits us and we know that we all have potential to be great, taller than a house! 

So while The Tiny Seed will never indulge my love of all things tasty, I can honestly say that I have found a new love for it and it will always be a reminder of the greatness inside the smallest of us.  As I'm sure it was meant to be.

Pictures stolen from Facebook, taken by Karyn Nicoll, with Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep

And a Happier New Year

I'm really not one for New Year's resolutions- they feel a bit like a death-bed repentance to me.  Promised out of guilt, broken in complacency (prime example: my vow to change and go to sleep earlier after going to sleep at the wheel.  Yes, I am writing this in the wee hours of the morning.  But it's just so peaceful!)  But Jeff and I started talking with the boys about what we could each do better this year.  I said I knew what I could do, and the boys said it (with a little too much enthusiasm) before I could- be nicer!  And we should play more games.

The conversation actually started with Jeff talking about the role of each family member.  He asked them what Mom does for them and they were left scratching their heads.  Dumbfounded!  Finally, after a long and somewhat ridiculous silence, Isaac remembered that one time, (One time!) I cleaned their room for them (and I feel the need to say that the time he was referring to was mostly so that Grandpa and Grandma wouldn't have their air-mattress popped by a stray toy. You're welcome).

I'm a stay at home mom. That pretty much means that every waking moment is dedicated to taking care of them in some way. And by waking moment, I'm including the regular middle of the night fright I get from someone with their face about two inches from mine.

I laughed and laughed about how funny it was- it's like they just don't care at all.  They definitely take for granted clean clothes, prepared meals, debri-free floors (you know, like we all did- thanks, Mom!).  Then I realized that they really just don't care at all.  All they really do want is to play more and be loved.

So my New Year's resolution is to be nicer.  Specifically, to use my nice voice and not jump to conclusions.  And to play more games, of course.

A Merrier Christmas

When I was growing up, one of my favorite Christmas traditions was reading a Christmas story every night in the month of December.  My parents would gather us up and my mom would pull out the Christmas book- a big three ring binder full of Christmas stories, ranging from true, to folklore, to that would never happen in a million years, and I don't know who the sap is that's trying to wring every emotion out of us in a one page story. 

My mom would have her story picked out for the night, we would all sit reverently, quietly, while she would read the story with a catch in her throat, and in the end, we would be left feeling inspired to sell our long, beautiful hair to buy a pocketwatch chain for Johnny, (who, sadly, sold his pocketwatch to buy us a comb for our long beautiful hair), invite our poor neighbors to our Christmas feast, or sing carols to the lonely and brokenhearted of the world in general.  It truly inspired the Christmas Spirit and is a treasured memory of my childhood.

So, I decided that this was the year to finally carry on the tradition.  I gathered my own little family, had my story prepared (although, I must say, I only have tolerance for the documentably true stories and the one about Johnny and the hairclip), and prepared to relish in the spirit of the season.  Forty five minutes later we were FINALLY wrapping up the end of the story.  Tears had been shed, but not the kind that spring from a touched heart. 

Elder Maynes, of the quorum of the seventy, taught in General Conference that our children may not remember every detail of family home evening, but they will remember that we did it.

I think that's what happened to my memory.  I grew up in a family with six kids.  That lump my mom had in her throat was probably stemming at least partially from frustration.

President Uchtdorf compares our small successes in the home to the forget-me-not flower.  He said,

"Be thankful for all the small successes in your home...  Like the forget-me-nots, these successes may seem tiny to you and they may go unnoticed by others, but God notices them and they are not small to Him. If you consider success to be only the most perfect rose or dazzling orchid, you may miss some of life’s sweetest experiences.

For example, insisting that you have a picture-perfect family home evening each week (or in my case, a picture perfect setting reading Christmas stories while my angelic children hang on my every word) even though doing so makes you and everyone around you miserable—may not be the best choice. Instead, ask yourself, 'What could we do as a family that would be enjoyable and spiritual and bring us closer together?' That family home evening—though it may be modest in scope and execution—may have far more positive long-term results."

So, I don't interpret that to essentially mean I should give up.  But the part about making everyone around me miserable sure applies.  So, this Christmas season, my goal is to have true charity in my heart, starting with my own little family.  Kindness begins with me, as the old saying goes.  So, while reading a story about kindness and love is good, being a little more kind, patient, and loving with my own family will help them feel the spirit more than the words of the story alone ever could (but don't worry, we'll keep reading them anyway). 

 And while we're on Christmas traditions, here's my favorite:
Happy Birthday sweet Olivia!