Oh Me of Little Faith

I had a visitor on Wednesday.

LAURIE!

She drove to see me with her brand new baby in tow, and I got to hold him and accidentally make him cry!  We got so wrapped up in conversation and Irish soda bread that I didn’t notice my kids were jumping on the bed.

I mean, I remembered that my daughter had taken a GLASS bowl full of yogurt into her room to munch on, and though I don’t usually allow food in bedrooms, I did yesterday on account of it gave me more time with Laurie… (I’m sorry.  I think somewhere in that sentence, I lost all sense of structure).   My daughter, crazy kiddo that she is, jumped on her bed and THREW the glass bowl against the wall.

Because… she inherited her father’s insatiable curiosity for breaking things.  Seriously.  When we were looking at engagement rings, he came across one where the diamond seemed to float freely between to prongs, and he said, “I just want to take a mini hammer and whack it outta there!”  I still married him completely ignorant to the fact that he would spawn more like him.

Rewind:

When I was in High School, I asked “Santa” for a CTR ring one Christmas.  That was all I wanted, and the one I wanted most was only $10.  My Dad, er… SANTA took one look at it and decided against it.  Anyway, it didn’t matter.  Not a single LDS store had that style in stock.  Santa picked one out for me.  I don’t think I’ve ever told you, but my Santa has impeccable style.  From his taste in cologne to his pristine Western Wear and Tony Lama Boots, he always looks classy.

It came as no surprise that my ring was just as beautiful.  It was gold -real gold -and the CTR was written in a heart.  I wore that ring everywhere!  I still do, in fact.  It sits on my right hand ring finger and reminds me not to say THAT and not to EAT THAT and to always, always, say my prayers.

One night for Family Home Evening, we were trying to explain meaningful prayer to Lacy.  We’ve done this in the past, but she’s four.  She doesn’t rightly remember everything.  Her prayers always have been of the utmost sincerity (who blesses the comic book store?  Lacy does!), but during the lesson we emphasized that Heavenly Father will answer our prayers.  I went on to tell Lacy about the time her Daddy lost a snake.  He was so sad, but he prayed to find it and before he could even complete his prayer, he heard his mother scream from her bathroom.  The snake was in the tub!

The story didn’t go over well.

“Snakes are in the TUB?!” She asked, horrified.

Okay, okay… I tired to regroup with something a little nicer.  Glancing down at my hand, I saw my ring.

“See this?” I held my ring out for her to see.  I went on to tell her the story about how Grandpa had bought the ring for me.  I told her I loved it very much and wore it all the time.  One day, I lost it.  I was so sad.  I looked for it everywhere.  At that point in the story, she was transfixed.  Her eyes were BIG and sympathetic.  A lost RING!  The horror!  The sadness!  THIS she could understand!  I told her that I prayed everyday to find the ring, and one day it fell out of my laundry basket -right into my line of view.  I hastily put it on and knelt down right there to thank Heavenly Father for helping me find my ring.

Lacy looked at my ring again.

“It has a C and a T and a R,” she said.  Then she perked up.

“Hey!  I have a ring like that!  My green ring!  But I lost it…”  The gears in her head started turning, “I could PRAY about it!”

Yes it was true.  I had given her a tiny CTR ring a couple years ago, and instead of saying CTR it said HLJ or something like that.  It was the spanish version.  Please don’t ask me where I got a spanish ring.  I really can’t remember.  Anyway, she loved that ring.  And she HAD lost it.  Long, long, long ago she had lost it.  I mean that ring was LONG LONG LONG gone.  I imagined it was sitting buried in a few inches of sand in some playground somewhere.  But as Lacy said the closing prayer for Family Home Evening, she prayed to find her ring.  After the prayer was over, I pulled her close and told her that I would get her another green ring because her old one was very lost.  She hugged me and bopped off to bed.

Well remember how she threw a glass bowl against the wall?

While I was thoroughly cleaning glass shards from hard-to-reach places, I spotted something on the ground.  I nearly vacuumed it up, but as a leaned closer I saw:
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That blasted missing-for-a-year ring. It was tucked tightly in the very corner of her room under her bed -a place I had looked before, but not for the ring.
I sat down and marveled for a moment.
Then I chastised myself.
Then I gave it to the happiest girl in the world, who believed all along that she WOULD find her ring. When I gave it to her, I told her that she should thank Heavenly Father for helping her find it.
“…thank thee for this day. Thank thee for Heavenly Father could find my ring. I love him so much, Amen.”

Ah, kiddo.
You have so much to teach me.

Learning and Growing

I teach my daughter preschool from home.  We stick to a typical school day: worksheets, flashcards, wiggle time, snack time, recess time… She loves it.  But after school lets out, the learning doesn’t stop.  I just set aside the worksheets and flashcards.  A few days ago, a family friend gave the kids some temporary body markers.

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By the end of the day, she could read the word “foot” and “arm.” Take that, convention.

Lately, her imagination has gone (even more) wild.  I let it because it’s entertaining.  I mean, I’m all for letting your children express themselves and all that jazz, but I mostly try to keep from stifling her imaginative creativity because it’s fun for ME.

A few nights ago, she came into my bedroom where I was resting next to her Dad.

“You’re sick,” she said, “And I will give you some chocolate milk medicine. It will just make you BIG and FAT!”  I threw the biggest fit a sick patient has ever thrown.

“No!” I shook my head in panic, “I don’t want it!  I can’t be big and fat!  Don’t make me!”

“Okay, okay!” She held her hands up in surrender, “Take this Humpty Dumpty medicine and you will just turn into a big egg.”

“No!” I repeated my fit, “I don’t wanna be an egg!  I don’t wanna be an egg!”

“Okay, okay,” she held her hands up again, “Nevermind about it!  We’ll just…” she thought for a minute, “Get the babies out of your belly.”

“There’s babies in my belly?” I asked.

“Yep!”

“How will they get out?” I asked.

“I will just cut a hole in your belly,” she replied.

I hit my husband and forced him to get his focus OFF angry birds and onto what was going on.

“How are you going to get them out?” I asked again so my husband could hear her answer.

“I will just cut a hole in your belly with a sharp, no-crying knife.  I will go get it.  Relax!” She said.  I bit my bottom lip hard to keep from laughing.

Relax?  Right.  Okay.  I’ll just kick back while you retrieve a sharp knife to cut me.

She reached behind her, pulled a knife out that looked remarkably like her pointer finger, and she proceeded to “cut” my belly.  I watched in fascination as she moved my belly to the side and delivered 13 babies -one by one.  They were small, about the size of a hot dog.  She put them on a napkin by my pillow and proceeded to dress them.  After they were dressed, she began to name them.

“This one in pink is named… Jessica,” she said, “OH NO! I forgot!”

“You forgot what?” I asked.

“I forgot about you belly!” She said, putting Jessica down and reaching for the imaginary belly sitting by me. (I can’t seem to correct her when she says “you” instead of “your.”  Thank your.)

After dumping imaginary water in my belly where the babies used to be, she replaced the belly and then used imaginary scotch tape to tape it all back up.  I was a little skeptical about the tape, but I gotta say: that stuff is amazing.  Two days after delivering 13 babies, I feel great!  It worked wonders.

That girl is something else.  Something else altogether.  HOWEVER, we did have a first today.  She cried for no good reason in the middle of preschool.  I was mixing a bunch of letter tiles up so the kids could go “hunting” for the letter R and I warned them not to peek while I mixed them up.  The kids all put their heads down.  But not Lacy.  She cracked one eye open.

“I’m peeeeeeeeeeking,” she teased.

“Go sit on your bed,” I teased back.  Only she didn’t think I was teasing and she burst into tears and ran into her room.  I followed close behind, apologizing profusely.  I settled her down, gave her a million hugs, and then walked her back to the table.  Once there, she set to hunting for the letter R.

I watched her start to giggle over nothing.

“Why are you laughing?” I asked, smiling.  Then I noticed her giggle was sort of weird -sort of… forced.

“Lace…” I tilted my head and looked closer at her, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah!” Her strange giggles got louder and stranger.

“Okay, because it almost seems like you’re about to cry…” I said.

“I’m LAUGHING!” She said, her giggles getting EVEN LOUDER and EVEN CRAZIER.

“Okay…” I said, doubtfully.  All at once, her giggles were gone and she erupted.

Tears!  Tears!  Tears!

I scooped her up and took her to my room.

“Honey, why are you crying?” I asked.

“I just thought I might so I laughed and then I just CRIED!” She wailed.  I’ll be darned if it wasn’t just the cutest thing.  Being a girl can be so tricky sometimes.  I put her in the middle of my bed with her favorite draw board.  Before leaving the room, I put on some kid music.  I left her alone.

A few minutes later, she emerged.

“I’m all done crying now,” she said, brightly.

Poor kid.  Poor girl.  Oh, how I understand.

Valets and Vallerinas

A couple weeks ago, I purchased two tickets to the Prince and Princess Ballet that BYU was bringing to our little town.  The flyer that came with the tickets instructed the princess and princes dress their very best.

For a while now, I’ve been wanting to do a girl date with Lacy where we dress to the nines and do… whatever.  Anything at all!  This ballet seemed like the best place to fulfill that dream, and yesterday -a few hours before the ballet -I went up to my mother’s house and snagged all of my old formal dresses.  After my son went to sleep, my daughter ran toward me.

“It’s just YOU and ME!  Just YOU and ME!”  She squealed.  I had told her that when her brother went to sleep, we’d paint nails and pick out jewelry and dresses.  We painted our nails first which turned out to be a very grave mistake.  As we made our way to my bedroom to try on dresses, I mutilated my paint job trying to zip my old dresses up!  But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get the dresses to zip up past the middle of my ribs.

Childbearing makes your ribs wider, right?

As I pulled on my favorite dress -one I had made myself in high school (with a great deal of help from a neighbor) -I was sad to feel that the sleeves had tightened and ever more sad (sadder?) to realize that it wouldn’t fit at all!  It had been rather big in high school, and I assumed it would fit better now!  My daughter tried cheering me on.

“Do the zip up, mom!  You can!  You can do it!”

Not to be defeated, I sucked in with all my might, and FORCED that zipper all the way up!  And guess what?  It went!  I was ecstatic!  In a burst of triumph, I let the breath I’d been holding out and….

the zipper popped.

Wide open.

Broken.

It was then I decided perhaps my old dresses were going to stay hanging in the closet until Lacy turns 13 and pulls them out to make fun of my formal style.  I remembered when I had grabbed my old dresses that my sister had some dresses hanging in the same closet.  There was a chance that they might fit! I called her and asked her permission.  She granted it.

“Guess what?” I said to my daughter as I hung up the phone, “Julianne said I could wear one of her dresses!”

“IS SHE DEAD?!” My daughter cried out, horrified.

“Um, no.”

“Okay!” She said and went back to bopping around my jewelry box.

I spent the afternoon fixing my daughter’s dress.  It’s a size 8 and way to big, and there was a heart-shaped hole in the chest area that looked WAY to big on her tiny body.  I took some white sparkly material and stitched it in the heart hole and made sure to tie her dress back nice and tight.

She asked for me to do her hair “all spidery” which meant she wanted me to use my 3-barrel waver.

And I couldn’t influence her choice of shoe. No, I could not.

Of course my husband called to say he wouldn’t make it home to watch our son while Lacy and I had our girl date. He asked, “Is there anyone you can get to babysit?”
Ha, ha.
The entire female population of our small town was attending the Princess Ballet.
Enter: grandpa. My Dad -THANK GOODNESS -took on Trenters so Lacy and I could go out. I’m so happy he did! Lacy and I had both been looking forward to our night for weeks. We spent it with my mom, my sister-in-law and my niece Elly.

Earlier that day, the dancers had given an assembly to the school kids. My aunt took Lacy, and the minute we walked in the door to attend the pre-party, she talked non-stop about…
Vallerinas.
Who wanted to correct her pronunciation? Not I!
“Mom, that girl was dancing and the boy looked like just wearing brown and he held her hips and she… (at this point she went into a fit of kicks)… can you do that on my hips so I might dance?”
“Sure!” I said, picking her up by her hips. I brought her up so her face was next to mine and waited for her to start kicking and turning. But she didn’t. She didn’t even budge.
“Aren’t you going to dance?” I asked.
“You’re doing it wrong,” she said, locking eyes with me.
“Oh, sorry,” I shrugged, putting her down.

I always was a disappointment when it came to dancing.

During the party, we were able to take pictures and talk to the Vallerinas and eat a little snack.
Lacy was dying to talk to the first vallerina we saw. But she was too scared. Can you see her, standing off to the side, begging to be noticed?

When the vallerina turned around, we got a picture.

The next ballerina we saw was Little Red Riding Hood. Lacy had seen her dance in the assembly and had talked of nothing else. Look how excited she was to MEET her.

I had accidentally changed the flash setting on my camera, so the next few pictures aren’t the best.

The ballerina on the left told Lacy she looked Giselle from “Enchanted.”  She might have given her a santa sack full of toys and gotten the same reaction.

I have no idea who this girl is, but a picking-nose princess? Priceless.

As we went to get a cookie and punch, we were served by Great JuJu -much to Lacy’s delight.

On our way into the ballet, we stopped to get a picture with our friend Aimslee -a fellow true princess. A few months ago, we took a picture of Aimslee and Lacy trick-or-treating together. They had both decided to be Cinderella without even consulting one another.

Her mother and I share similarities too -like how we both used ballet tickets to bribe our children.

Once the show started, Lacy was in Heaven. Little Red came out. The boy in the brown pants came out! I finally saw the “right way” to hold hips. Then came intermission.
The ballerinas invited the little princesses up on stage. My little princess was DYING to go, so I took her hand and walked her up to the stage.
As we neared the stairs that lead up to the stage, she looked up at me and said, “Mom, I can go by myself. You don’t have to hold my hand anymore.”
And I teared up.
Like a fool.
Then I hurried and pulled out my camera to get a picture.
This was all she would show me.

Then, to my surprise, she made her way -instead of INTO the crowd -IN FRONT of the crowd.

At this point, I shifted my camera from “picture” to “video” mode. I had no choice.

Throughout the rest of the performance, she kept begging me to let her run into the aisles and DANCE. I explained to her thirty times that it was the ballerina’s turn to dance and that dancing while they dance… is rude. But the intermission was really cute. Thanks to Kyle for letting me steal his picture from facebook. See the small, white, blurry tornado in the right corner? She belongs to me.

When we made it home, I snagged a few pictures of the girls.



And when we got home, she changed her dress, put on her red “ruby slippers” and danced while I streamed the Sleeping Beauty Ballet music over the internet.
Then she curled up with a book and her little brother.

I couldn’t leave this picture out. Those red shoes make her so happy.

I believe it’s time to start researching ballet teachers in the area.

The Simplicity Complex

Do you feel tired?  Overwhelmed?  Overscheduled?  Overworked?

Yeah, me too.  I feel like life time is moving too fast, but I think it’s me that is.  Don’t fret -this isn’t a “stop and smell the roses” post.  This is a “I think I figured out why Farmville is addicting” post.

I’ve been wondering for over year what the HECK is up with Farmville.  I’ve never played it because I’ve heard it’s addicting, and frankly I’m a little insulted that there is such a thing.  I’ve harvested peppers -real peppers.  I’ve fed cows -real cows.  I’ve worked hard and harvested hard (and yes.  “Harvest” in this sense refers to both the peppers AND the cows).  There’s no way to click your way to satisfaction in this sense!  You have to strain yourself!

I’ve often watched a youtube video that depicts some of my feelings perfectly.

I must say: my feelings have changed.
No, no. I haven’t started playing farmville. And I never will.
But Saturday, I watched my simple children play Fruit Ninja on my brothers’ iphones.
The point of the game is this: use your finger to “chop” fruit that is falling on the screen.

So easy even a small child can do it.
I got a kick out of watching them, and my son -after even one successful “chop” would parade around the house.
“I got da STAW-BERRY!”
Okay, fruit ninja. Good job, I guess.
Last night, my husband gave me some very direct instructions. “At ten to seven, I want you to draw yourself a hot bath and light some candles. Put on some soothing music and soak for however long you want. After your bath is over, put on some of your most comfortable pajamas and wait for me.”
When my bath was over and my pj’s were on, he gave me the nicest back massage and then put the kids to bed while I relaxed in my bed.
I had a long day Saturday, one that left my body aching all over. I can’t tell you how much I needed that massage! But I can tell you how much I appreciated it -SO much!

I pulled out some of my old blog entries that I’ve printed out and started reading through them and after the kids were in bed, my husband crawled in bed next to me. He pulled his ipod out and started playing games, and I started reading out loud. The old blog entries were funny -one about a mouse crawling across my bare toes, one about my utter lack of imperturbability.
Pretty soon, I noticed the sounds coming from my husband’s ipod.
“Are you playing angry birds?!” I asked.
“I just want to see what all the fuss is about,” he shrugged.

I’ve never played. I never will play. I’ve heard it’s addicting and frankly, I don’t like the idea of the whole thing.

I stared on in wonder as my husband slung birds at pigs and giggled like a school girl, and then I realized something monumental:
Angry Birds and Farmville give people the simple escape they crave so much.
Live is so crazy, so full, so frustrating, that sometimes the best cure is something extraordinarily SIMPLE.

On that note, I’d love to take a survey of people who have made family mottos this year. I’m willing to bet about 60% chose “SIMPLIFY” as their motto.

 


I have my own “farmvilles” and “angry birds.” They are crocheting and putting on an apron to simply READ a cookbook from the 50s (a simpler time).

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My mom came over and put this book in my hands.
It wasn’t even Christmas!
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I’ve got a friend who promises to play Florence while I’ll take the part as Irma. We’re going to bake. In aprons.
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And so who am I to judge Farmville? It stands for everything I support! Cows, chickens, peppers, and SIMPLICITY.
That doesn’t mean I’ll play and that definitely does not mean I’m going to take up slinging birds at pigs despite my husband’s insistence that I’d really like it.
Please honey. Leave the gaming to the childrens.

(See my brother Steve’s hand? After I snapped the two pictures of my kids, he said “You’re getting blogged” to my daughter. She didn’t respond either because she was a) too wrapped up in chopping fruit or b) it was old news.)

First Responder

When it comes to cries for “HELP!” I’m generally the first responder.

Take yesterday, for instance.

He was yelling for me as loudly as he could.

“MOM! HELP!”  He was stuck.  I was 100% shocked when he got after me for getting him down.  Apparently, he didn’t want down.  He wanted in the crib.

He’d cabbaged onto a Candyland game board, so I thought he wanted to play.  I told Lacy that Trent wanted to play Candyland with her, and she happily hopped into the crib with him.  I went into the kitchen to clean or something else housewifey when I heard Trent screaming.

I went in to see them fighting over the game board.

“Trent!  It’s MY! I just got it for my BIRTHDAY!”

“MYYYYY COMPUTER!”

Ah.

Computer.

And all this time I thought he was actually using it as a game board.  Never once did I see it’s “lap top” capabilities.

Can you see them now? When you fold the game board in half and tote it around, it looks like a very thin very large tap top. And when you open it?
Magic!

Lucky for me, I happen to have TWO Candyland game boards on account of Lacy’s sabotaging her first on with all manner of playdough and juices.

Within minutes, the problem was resolved and went back to watching Bleak House. Er, I mean… cleaning.

Planning to Fail for Success

During the past week, I’ve been working hard to keep the house in order.  I’ve been cooking and cleaning and spending the day looking forward to when my husband would walk through the door.

Monday night, I made a fancy-for-us dish: chicken teriyaki skewers.  They came out of the oven beautifully, and luckily my ma, pa and little brother came over to help eat them as my husband had to work late.

Thinking the next day would be different, I repeated the process.  I planned the meals out and worked hard on them, I cleaned and completed projects… and again went to bed alone.

By the end of the week, you would have THOUGHT I would have learned my lesson.  I made plans to spend an evening with a friend I hadn’t seen since the county fair (which didn’t really count) and before that, since the county fair the year before (and that really didn’t count because she didn’t see me) and before THAT since college.

Sorry about my sloppy English this morning.

For some odd reason, given the track record of the past week I still hadn’t learned the lesson: making plans is a no-no.  Live on the edge a little! Be spontaneous!

As I woke up yesterday, husbandless on account of his heading out the door early early, I decided that I would STILL plan.

To fail.

And maybe I’d succeed in getting my husband home.

Instead of doing the dishes, I plucked my eyebrow (singular).

Instead of cleaning the living room, I crocheted and watched three episodes of “Bleak House.”

Instead of sweeping and bleaching and mopping, I straightened my hair.

And you know what?  My husband is home!  It worked!  Success!  I’m a little sorry he missed out on the house being clean all week, but I’m more happy that he’s here to help me clean it today.

I haven’t told him that yet.  Shh.

And also -because I know you care -my evening of fun with my college buddy turned into an evening of fun with my college buddy with four kids in tow.  It turns out that we are multi-tasking CHAMPS.  They didn’t teach us that in college, kids.  We learned them skills in the school of hard knocks (otherwise knows as Childbirth and the Great Race of Young Mothering).

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a house to clean.  It’s a regular atrocity.  But it was all for my husband!  A noble sacrifice on my part.

(That’s what I’m planning on telling him while we’re cleaning the kitchen.)

The Face

The face of a girl who’s coming to grips with the fact that she doesn’t get candy for going potty anymore.
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I doubt she’ll ever recover.

Yesterday, Today

Growing up, the meal that brought our family together was not dinner. Sometimes it was. But we couldn’t really count on it. Dad owned his own business and ranched/farmed/irrigated on the side, and as the years went on my brothers and sister and I became involved in basically everything (not to mention the ranching and farming and irrigating), so having dinner together didn’t happen quite as much as having BREAKFAST together.
Ah, breakfast. The best meal of the day with the best food selection.
Pancakes! Eggs! Cream of Wheat! Pancakes! Pancakes! Pancakes!
Rarely do I ever order anything but breakfast when I go to Denny’s.

I once heard my mother remark that she was getting tired of the same old routine of setting the breakfast table: the butter, the sugar, the honey, the salt, the pepper, the homemade jams and jellies… only to take it all off again and be left with a mess of dishes haphazardly thrown in the sink as we all made our way out the door to school or work. I often wondered why she got sick of it. In my ignorance, I thought… ‘isn’t it her job?’
Well, yeah. It is. But now that I’m a mother, I could kick myself for not falling down at her feet when she said it and thanking her for making an effort to let us have that meal together! Waking up to the smell of bacon sizzling or walking up the stairs and catching the whiff of maple malt o’meal on the stove was literally the BEST part of my day. What’s more: it gave us all a chance to sit around the table and talk between bites. Dad always had something to say that would make us laugh (like the time he took a hold of the Rice Crispies box and scribbled out letters so that their animated health “spokes person” Timmy the Tooth Head became Timmy the Toot Head. I don’t know what was more funny -his doing it or mom’s disapproval of it). It always gave me a solid start to my day, and I’ll be danged if I’ve ever thanked my mother properly for it.
The side effect of my wonderful breakfasts is that I automatically wake up hungry. Truth be told, I’m more liable to spring out of bed if I know there’s food on the counter, even -or I should say especially -if it’s cookies.

I shouldn’t be surprised, then, that my son has this same tendency. When he crawls out of bed (which he does before his sister) and I’m the only one up (because his sister and his dad love sleep as much as Trent and I love breakfast), I take him into my arms and take in a big whiff of newly-woken up boy. It smells sweet right now and I’m trying to soak as much as I can in before he starts stinkin’. After our good morning hug, I immediately start offering him food.
“Do you want Bob?” I ask.
“SURE! A BOB!” And he bolts into the kitchen.

Bob, it must be known, is what we call bananas. The thing is: the kids were crabby one day, so I picked a banana up and started pretending it was a phone with a personality and a name: Bob.
“Bob,” I said, talking to the banana, “I want to call grandma.”
“NO!” The “banana” yelled back in an irritated tone.
“Bob,” I scolded, “You don’t tell mama’s no.”
“NO!” he yelled back.
“I’ll spank…” I warned.
“NO!” he yelled back.
So I spanked. And while I spanked “Bob” yelped out in anger.
The kids went nuts for the Bob routine, much to my immediate delight and eventual dismay. They asked for Bob all of the time. Now I’ve got a son who is addicted to Bobs and I’m going through three bunches a week.
Literally.

Yesterday, while my son was napping, I streamed a movie while I folded laundry on the couch. The movie ended up being really touching!
It was a story about an old man named Robert who lived alone. He worked in a grocery store, bagging groceries. A woman moves in across the street and asks him out on a date. Their budding romance was so adorable that I got lost in it. By the end of the movie, tears were streaming down my face and only then did I notice that my son was bopping around the living room.
“Oh,” I said, quickly wiping my blubberings from my face, “Good morning, son!”
“Goo’ morneen.”
“Can I hab a kiss?” (Don’t you hate it when you start talking like them?)
“Sure, big kiss.” He walked over to me and LAID one on me. Strangely enough it tasted exactly like maple syrup.

I got up from the couch where I’d been folding and went into the kitchen where I found a chair pushed up to the counter and
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TWO spoons in the homemade maple syrup.
He woke up hungry.
I couldn’t blame him.

I woke up hungry this morning, like always, and after we ate breakfast together as a family I dropped Lacy off at preschool and took my son to get the mail.
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I seriously want to send every person who sends me a REAL letter a check for $100. I mean, I can’t…. but I want to. That counts for something, right?

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In any case, I’m going to send my cousin a check this week. She sent me this GEM of a card -arrived today! -and I’m going to order more. And as I opened and reopened and reopened the card this morning, I decided I’m going to forevermore pay my cousin to send me stationery (should she feel up to the task) for I’m going to send the crap out of these note cards. Be watchful lest your mailbox begins to resemble Harry Potter’s fireplace, teeming with real handwritten letters.

Perhaps I can convince my children to write letters with me. Perhaps they’ll really take to it. Perhaps then the cinnamon rolls and the frosting and the maple syrup will STAY PUT!

(Did you like my manicure in the picture above?  The lady who does my nails is only FOUR years old.  Can you believe it?  She was born with a talent.  Oh, and she gets her feelings hurt if I remove it.)

Chore Chart for Mom

Let me clarify: we don’t have chore charts around here.  I’m not against chore charts, mind you.  I’m just… not “there” yet.  Lacy’s probably old enough to have one, but I haven’t found the time/motivation to make one that suits our farmily.

But lately, she’s been cleaning.  I can’t tell you how happy this makes me!  A few days after Valentine’s Day, I cleaned the kids room and Lacy was SO HAPPY that she’s cleaned it every day since.  I made her a little graph and told her she can color in another space every night if she cleans her room before bedtime.  When all of the spaces are colored in, she gets something she wants very, very dearly.  A “Tangled” coloring book.PhotobucketThe only downside to her cleaning is that she’s noticed that her mother’s room is… ahem… less than Tangled Coloring Book Worthy.

So what does she do?

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Makes me a graph all my own. And tapes it to my wall.
I tried to decipher what she’d written on it and finally had to ask her to tell me.Photobucket

Fine.

After the Sitter Has Gone Away

My kids love the girl we get to babysit.  Heck, we ALL love the girl we get to babysit.  Minutes after she left last night, I went into the kids’ room to find:Photobucket

It was a welcome sight, and I relished it. The details of the picture make it all the more welcome. Look at how exhausted this boy is -his arms out, his mouth open… his head on a baby doll:Photobucket
My son has a really creepy ability to sleep with his eyes open. It has always scared me.Photobucket
Here’s his sister, fast asleep in her Cinderella dress. Photobucket
Yes, yes. We LOVE our babysitter.