Moms Are Smart

I sat down to write this entry as an early Christmas gift and ego boost to myself. A recent exchange with Judsen left me baffled and speechless, so I wanted to battle back. We were discussing something and he asked me a question I didn't know the answer to. He said fervently that Daddy did know the answer and I agreed, "Yes, Daddy's smart." Judsen then shook his head sadly and moaned, "Mom, I wish you were smart." At that moment I couldn't even combat his words. It was just as I was putting the kids to bed and the best response I could come up with was, "Lrghksj...well, you're a cheese face!" Nice.
But then I started thinking - moms can do stuff. Cool stuff, like control the future. Like we can make our babies poop on demand and in inhuman proportions by not bringing a diaper out in public. And we can mind-control our kids into finding new heroes to look up to, simply by scheduling family pictures the next day. As soon as you hang up that phone, they will instantaneously become fascinated with the likes of Mike Tyson and Evander Holyfield, attempting to beat each other into orange pulp. And if we really want to be cruel and give them nightmares, we just fix green beans for dinner and they will start screaming and be permanently scarred by the horror.
So with that in mind, I set out to write about all the other great things moms can do and how awesome they are. Except then I had the day I had, which proved once and for all that Judsen was right.
We planned a little Christmas weekend getaway, so I spend much of the morning packing. I used my mom smarts to forget a stroller, arm floaties, baby food, and other traveling necessities. We made it to the hotel anyway and attempted to all have a nap.
This worked pretty well, except for JJ who had slept for 20 whole minutes in the car and had deemed this nap sufficient for the duration of her life. So as we laid her down, she screamed the being-drawn-and-quartered scream. It didn't take long for my mom smarts to pick up on the fact that this was going to be a hindrance to anyone else in the family getting to sleep, so me and my brain decided it would be a good idea to use this time to travel to the local Walmart and pick up some of the supplies we forgot, in particular the stroller, since we intended on doing a lot of walking over the next few days.
JJ and I get to Walmart, locate the stroller section, find it empty, track down an employee, ask her if there are any strollers, she asks someone else who has to go look in the back, which is apparently located somewhere in Antarctica, and over 20 minutes later they both come back to tell me there are none. Oh boy. Okay. They suggest another store in town and I set out. Over the next two hours, I stop at four more stores, get lost twice (since my GPS is evidently on his honeymoon in Eurasia and forgot to appropriately set his out-of-office reply), and yelled at once as I'm trying to turn around. By the third stop I was so tired and frustrated and lacking in smarts that I literally had people cowering in fear from me. I hauled the now sleeping JJ (imagine that, she was tired) into the store, shuffling like Quasimodo and with a crazed expression on my face and asked if they had any strollers. The girl's eyes got wide, and no joking, I saw her skin go white. She stood partially hidden behind a cabinet door and said, "No. I'm sorry. We don't. I'm sorry. If we did, I would tell you right away. I'm so sorry." I read the unspoken, "Please don't eat me, " in her face and let the poor thing live.
When I got back to the hotel room after all that, sans stroller, I flung my few meager bags on the bed and sat on the chair in the shower and cried. (They had checked us into the handicapped-friendly room, apparently on a premonition that at least one of us would not be functioning at our full capacity during our stay.)
When I collected myself and the few smarts left that hadn't gone down the drain with my tears, we set out on a walk to see the sights and get dinner. This went alright. We had burgers at a popular local place, and being children of the desert who instinctively take every chance to cool off even when it's 39 degrees outside, got chocolate shakes to accompany us on the walk back home. Except that my family, evidently still possessing more computing power than me, realized it would be ridiculous to walk outside in mid-December carrying a giant ice cream and finished theirs in the store. I, however, clung, with icy fingers, to mine like a lifeline, running the freezing streets and slurping it down.
We got back and decided it would be a smart idea to take the kids swimming. They love swimming. As we got into the pool, they all decided to celebrate by playing one of their favorite games, Leech. I don't know if you've heard of it, but my kids love it. The rules go like this, "Let's all squeal and grab onto Mommy and pull down the front of her swimsuit because she doesn't have a free hand to hold all of us at the same time, and the first one to see her brains oozing out of her ears in retreat wins." I tried to hold my wits about me, but they were rapidly disintegrating and the fifteenth time someone screamed, "Mommy! Hold me!" I lost it. I didn't know what to do. How do I manage kids in the water? Can kids even get in the water, or does water make them melt? Wait, is that the Wicked Witch of the West? What does make kids melt? Or do they more evaporate? What am I talking about? Hello, Brain? Is anyone in there?
Needless to say, we immediately got out of the pool and put everyone in bed. And now I am here, typing this post and feeling more sympathy than ever for poor Scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz. It's awful to be without a brain.
But perhaps I can overnight a letter requesting one to Santa. Maybe he'll come across a used one at a rummage sale and leave it in my stocking Christmas morning. I hope so. Regardless, though, Happy Holidays to you and yours!

Carnivals or "How to Cement Your Decision to Become a Hermit"

   I've been quite tired lately. Right, I know. As discussed in previous posts, I understand that this is part of my job description. But the kids have been sick recently and JJ is getting in four teeth, so not lots of sleeping has been going on, thus resulting in higher-than-normal fatigue. This is the kind of fatigue that makes you laugh hysterically as you watch Curious George with your babies, because that darn silly monkey tried to put ice cream in his hat and it melted all over his head and sends you into fits of giggles as you read "The Pigeon Finds a Hot Dog" because that pigeon sure does love a good hot dog. But, then again, who doesn't?
   Because of this tiredness, we have not been doing lots of exciting things as a family and we finally decided we needed to get out of this funk by doing something fun. So, we took a family trip to a very popular local hot air balloon festival. We were all anticipating it greatly; it's a well-renowned event, famous for its breathtaking views of balloons both up close and in the sky.
  The evening started out well. We got on the borrowed school bus to be transported to the fairgrounds and the kids were in straight-backed, uncomfortable heaven. They LOVED being on the bus and experiencing the scary thrill of not having to wear a seat belt and of being able to look out the window at the passing world, high above all the other cars. Josh and I reveled in their delight and enjoyed the ride as well.
  We arrived at the fiesta at about 6:00 pm, 15 minutes after the "glow" event was scheduled. This is supposed to be incredible, with hundreds of balloons blasting their flames and glowing all at the same time. As we walked around the field, we noticed all the balloons were just being inflated and we were very happy not to have missed the event. So we strolled, becoming further and further intoxicated by the sound of roaring gas flames, the smell of giant fried turkey legs, and the sight of another spectacular New Mexico sunset. Like most intoxications, it was a happy delirium that temporarily clouded out the common sense of experience - you've done something like this before and woke up with a headache the next morning, whether from your drink or from eating too many soggy funnel cakes and melting ice cream cones, having blown your life's inheritance on wildly overpriced make-you-wanna-puke rides and ridiculously expensive toys that disintegrate the moment you walk away from the booth.
  But we ignored all this and enjoyed the experience. We took some pictures, looked at balloons, talked to some of the captains, and waited for everything to light up. Finally at around 6:30, the PA man announced the glow would now take place. Everyone held their breath as we counted down. 10..9....3..2..1! Pause. Pause. One little balloon lit up proudly for a moment and then flickered out, as if he was embarrassed. The PA guy cleared his throat and said, "Okay. Let's try that again." Again, the collective breath was held as we all hoped to be amazed. 3...2...1! Out of hundreds of balloons, the same brave soul and a couple of his friends lit up for a second, but other than that, nothing. This time, Mr. PA sounded embarrassed. "Um, they can't hear they PA system too well out in the middle of the field, so we'll give it a few minutes and try again."
  Now, I'm no expert, but it seems to me that on opening night of a huge event like this, you could think of something better than, "I guess they can't hear us." How about a group text message? Smoke signals? Morse code using flash lights? Carrier pigeons or messenger monkeys?
  After a third failed attempt at the glow, all the pilots started letting the air out of their balloons and laying them flat on the ground. At this point it is 7:00 and not only have we missed the lighting-up, but we full-on skipped the Great Balloon Race launch. We were under the impression we would see hundreds of balloons lift into the air, in a celebration of life and humanity. Instead, the balloons were as limp and dead as the $10 lightsabers we suckered on for Judsen and Felicity at a nearby stand - dissolved in the hands of five year old Yoda and three year old Darth Vader mere moments after purchasing them.
   Well, at least there were still the fireworks, the grand finale of the whole evening. Since the fireworks were supposed to start at 8:00, I held our spot on the grass with JJ while Josh took the older two to ride some rides. We just had enough time for me to try to airplane some applesauce into JJ's mouth, when the fireworks show began, 25 minutes early. Josh and the kids came running back to watch. The fireworks were nice, I suppose, but after a few minutes, Judsen and Felicity tired of them and preferred to play with lightsaber scraps than see any more.
  About this time, the dreamy mist wore off and I realized the same thing I always realize after attending a carnival-like affair, THIS is why I swore off these things last time. No more! No more of these ever! We will move to Walden pond, change our last name to Thoreau, and spend our time enjoying the beauties of nature and NOT spending $24 so we can get into the park and give up more hard-earned cash on things we don't want, need or really even like.
   At 8:02 the night was over and we loaded back on to the buses to go home. We had dinner and went to our room where, in an effort to crown the evening in glory, Judsen promptly threw up his evening meal. We cleaned it up, put him back to bed, and as I used the bathroom before going to sleep myself, I realized we had missed some of the vomit. Because I was now sitting in it. Lovely. A fitting throne for the anti-carnival queen I have become. Now we are definitely moving to Walden pond. This never would have happened if we lived in a cabin in the woods, I just know it.
   As a child, I never understood why my parents wouldn't give us money to go to the fair. We didn't go on the festival rides or buy the food. I didn't get it then, but I do now. And as they read about me unintentionally wallowing in my kid's throw-up after an evening of indulging a childhood whim, I'm sure they're laughing and enjoying the sweet irony.
   It's fine, though, because I'll get my day and it will be a wonderful win-win. Judsen just told me how much fun he had when we went to see the balloons and he got his light sword. I'm so glad, truly I am. We made a precious memory with our sweet children. A memory so good that they won't be able to resist taking their own children to events like this and experiencing the true pocket-clearing, sanity-erasing reality of them. And I'll get to sit back and lick my fingers, dripping with the deliciousness of that moment.

"Tales from the Pot" or "WTMI"

   This post begins on the toilet, the unfortunate setting for many of our stories. If you read on, enjoy. But here is your fair warning that you may receive way too much information ("WTMI").

As all parents know, the toilet is both a wonderful and a terrible place. It is wonderful as you watch your child finally conquer their bodily functions and put them in the appropriate place, because up until now they have been desperately determined to have a bowel movement anywhere other than the bathroom due to an apparent wild fear of toilet snakes. It is wonderful to watch your child grow and progress and be proud of themselves. And terrible...I don't think I need to go into graphic details about terrible.

   Before you have kids, no one really warns you that your own bathroom time will suddenly become a family affair. On the cute little baby shower advice cards, no one writes, "Stock up on picture books for your toilet magazine rack, because this is the place where your children will suddenly and passionately need you to teach them to read." So, if you are reading this and you have yet to procreate, I am doing you a favor and telling you this now. Get comfortable with your body, whatever it looks like, because whenever nature calls and your children are around, you will feel like the Super Bowl half time show. When you are in a public restroom and your daughter shouts, "Wow, Mom! You have a big bum! Are you doing a big poop?" you will be able to exit the stall, wash your hands like a decent human being, and leave the bathroom with your head held high.

   At home, my kids (like most, I think) have decided that Mommy's toilet time is a good time to come ask me things, often revolving around food. Judsen bursts through the door the other day. "Hi, Mom! What are you doing?" "Um, using the bathroom, honey." "Oh. Okay. Can I have this candy?" "Can it wait until I'm off the toilet?" He leaves for a second and then returns. "Will you open this, Mom?" "Jud! Please wait until I"m done!" Finally he comes back for a third time. "Mom, please open this and don't drop it in the toilet." I give in, but the impish prankster in me can't help but seize the opportunity for revenge. As I pull open the wrapper, I drop the candy through my pant legs to the floor, but from where he's standing, it looks as if I've done exactly what he reminded me not to do and my horrified face sends him into angry moaning. "No, Mom!!" I let him writhe for a minute, then pick up the candy, unsoiled, and hand it back to him. "Here it is, Jud, but don't ask me for food when I'm on the toilet anymore." Apparently it worked, because he hasn't come back when he knows I'm in the bathroom.

  Felicity has no such qualms, however. She stands next to the ever-open bathroom door and plays restaurant. "What kind of pizza do you want, Mom?" Um, the quiet time special. She brings me a concoction of plastic shower toys, empty shampoo bottles and dirty washcloths and presents it with spectacular flair. "It's a chocolate pizza, Mom!" And I eat up, lest her feelings be hurt and she be discouraged from ever cooking again.

   JJ uses her willpower-melting cuteness and just marches on in. And here I'm left with two awful options. One, I slide her out the door with my feet, shut it and listen while she cries and sticks her fingers underneath. Then she waits there until I try to come out but am trapped inside because she's sitting next to the door and my only choice is to use it to, as gently as possible, glide her away, across the floor like a tiny, sad hockey puck. Or two, I hold her on my lap while trying to take care of business because if she's left to her own devices, she'll smack things with the plunger and chew on the empty hemorrhoid cream tube that's been neglected behind the toilet for months. So I put her on my knees, singing the Mexican Hat Dance and To Market, To Market. She adores this and to show her appreciation, tucks her little head on my shoulder and settles in for some quality cuddling. Seriously?? You want to snuggle now?

   The few times I am alone are somewhat like eating an entire chocolate cake. At first you can't believe your good fortune and you scarf down all you can, reading magazines like there's gold at the end and sticking it out until your feet fall asleep. But after about half an hour, you realize everything is silent and you begin to feel fairly sick to your stomach because that means either everyone is dead or all your belongings are so torn up you should begin filing the paperwork for your house to be declared a natural disaster zone.

   I guess we'll just keep using the bathroom anyway, though, in spite of all this, partly because it seems there are few other options and partly because, darn it all, I love my kids regardless of what else I'm trying to accomplish.

Dinner

So, dinner. Occurring regularly since the dawn of time, this most primeval activity happens without forethought or preparation when you are a child. At Mom’s and Dad’s house, the magic dinner fairies wave their wooden spoons and dinner appears, hot and fresh and ready to consume at a beautifully set table.

As a parent trying to replicate this glorious occurrence in your own home, you learn that the dinner fairies are dead, for they cannot survive outside of their natural environment of your parents’ house, and that when you tried to plead and wheedle to get them to come, you have only infuriated the Supreme Dinner Being who will now and forever muddle up your brain as you try to plan a menu. “Ground beef? What am I supposed to do with ground beef?! There’s not a recipe in the world that uses such a ridiculous ingredient!” But you do the best you can to feed your family and keep the illusion alive so that when they move out, your poor unsuspecting children will be greeted with the same dead fairy reality that you were.

In spite of this magical handicap, we were making dinner a few days ago for some friends who have just had a baby. As usually happens under these circumstances, the pressure is on to get the friends’ dinner done and so your own kids have to wait, hungry and pleading as you scream in a flour-coated, stress-filled voice, “No! You can’t eat anything! Darn it all! I’m trying to be nice to other people!” (At least, this ridiculous scenario happens too often in my house. Maybe, hopefully, not in yours.)

Anyway, we got the friends’ dinner done on time, it looked terrific, and the dessert had turned out divinely, so I was very proud of myself as we drove it over to them. Because they’re fairly good friends and we were not staying long, only dropping the food off, I permitted us all to go without shoes on, thinking, “It’s fine. This is just a fun, friendly, casual thing.” We take the food inside and as Josh is driving us home, I put my feet up for a moment to enjoy feeling good.  This forces my pants into view for apparently the first time in a decade, and I realize I have orange jello crusted down one entire leg of my capris and it has somehow dripped onto my skin without me realizing. Oh my. Ok. I probably shouldn’t have gone into their house like that.  As I continue my now-embarrassed search, I realize I have a giant black schmear across the other leg, from who-knows-what and having been there for heaven-knows-how-long.

At this point I’m replaying the conversation with our friends in my head. As I happily announce their delectable dinner and with it, implied confidence that it was prepared in a clean, healthy kitchen, I change their response from, “Wow. This looks delicious. That Sephonnie sure has it all together,” to “Aaahh!! Why aren’t you wearing shoes! And look at your legs! Put the food down and go take a shower, woman!”

We get home and trying to forget about this less-than-impressive debut, I busy myself finishing up our dinner. The kids have decided on spaghetti, so I put the noodles on to boil and tidy up the kitchen while we wait. The timer goes off and I secure the fancy drainer lid to the pot and pour out the cooking water. And then I go to take the lid off. In the mere 13 seconds the lid has been on the pot, it has apparently decided to weld itself to its partner and take up permanent residence there. The lid will not come off. I’m struggling and squeezing and turning and banging the pot against the sink. It will not come off. I run water over it. I get a giant butcher knife out and try to pry it off. It will not budge. At this point I am praying and near hysterical crying. It’s getting late, Josh is gone, and it appears there will be no dinner for anyone. Ever. The kids have caught on to my distress and are alternately weeping helplessly, “What about our dinner??” and rummaging through the drawers for every sharp kitchen object they can find – meat forks, steak knives, can openers – to assist me in this wretched noodle pot battle. In an effort to frighten the lid off, Felicity also gets out two pot lids and begins enthusiastically smashing them together, effectively making road kill out of my last remaining nerves and tolling the death knoll for all happiness everywhere. Just when I’m ready to throw the pot through the window and go get us all Happy Meals, something unhooks and the lid finally slides off. Exhausted, I dump their noodles and sauce in a bowl and settle on Reese’s Peanut Butter footballs for my own evening fare.

Going out to eat is not better for us. I’ve heard we’re not alone in this trial, and I’m not sure if the terrified looks we get from older folks and honeymooning couples as we sit in a nearby booth support or discourage this theory. I was at Denny’s with the three kids while we were out of town recently. While waiting for Judsen’s and Felicity’s food to arrive, I decided to give JJ her cereal. I got out the box, mixed some with her veggies, and began to feed her. Everything is going well until Judsen says, “Uh oh. I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean to.” I look over and he has knocked down the box of cereal, spilling its contents everywhere and turning our table surface into a vast desert of oatmeal dunes. I reply calmly that it’s okay, I know it was an accident, although I’m not sure if my calmness stems because I’ve done a good job of accepting the reality of dining out with children and I am handling the situation like a pro, or because my mind has finally snapped and I’m just seconds away from grabbing a handful of sugar packets myself and starting an all-out food fight.

Our server comes over to see how we are and Judsen, to his credit, is very sweet about apologizing for the mess. Server starts to assure us it’s fine, it happens all the time, and he’s not offended about cleaning it up, when he looks down to see what exactly has spilled. I see a look of horror in his eyes as he gasps, “What is that?!” Oh, just baby cereal. He seems to calm down at the easy explanation of the foreign substance and heads off to get a rag. As soon as he steps away, Felicity decides to add to the excitement and slosh her pink lemonade onto the table as well, creating a sloppy, gooey stew of oatmeal flakes and soft drink. Poor Server comes back to find an even larger disaster and then returns a third time with an enormous bucket-like saucer to slide the mess into. Poor thing. I should have also encouraged him to find a Haz-Mat suit. Needless to say, we left a very good tip when we were done.

Our younglings have also been known to choke mid-drink and spew milk all over the nearby walls, booths and people (aka The Splash Zone), leave a scrumptious potpourri of half-chewed chicken nuggets, fries, and napkins on the floor, and scribble all over pristine white walls with generously given crayons (ironically delivered to distract the children and keep them from getting into trouble J).

Yes, regardless of where we have it, dinner is an adventure. (We say “adventure” because Horror Story seems too Halloween-y and it’s not even October yet.) But we love our little gourmands and I guess we’ll just keep feeding them, in hopes that science soon figures out how to get those darn dinner fairies to adapt to other surroundings. Perhaps they could breed them with a hardier species, like some kind of dishes-cleaning robot. 

The Bear Necessities

Savoring the necessities of life is nothing new to me. As a busy high school student, I relished the times I could sleep all I wanted and just eat with abandon, instead of snatching a nap during a video clip in history class or cramming in a granola bar before softball practice. Since becoming a mother, this appreciation has been taken to Mt. Everest-esque heights; I have begun to cling to every memory of a bite or snooze taken in peace with the ferocity of a drowning sailor clinging to a piece of driftwood. Except if I really was a sailor clinging to a scrap of wood, I'd either be so excited for a moment alone that I'd fall into a delighted stupor right there and sink to the bottom of the ocean, thus eliminating my need for driftwood. Or, I'd start plucking fish out of the water and stuffing them into my sleeves to stave off the inevitable, "Oh, Mom. Glad you didn't drown ... So, what's for dinner?" that would ensue as soon as the rescue boat hauled me aboard.
Anyway, the necessities of life/luxuries of motherhood are a big deal.
Our morning schedule has recently changed; Judsen's school and JJ's teething have "encouraged" me to get up much earlier than I would like. But, I'm trying to have a good attitude about it, so I get out of bed and try to get things accomplished, even though I'm still tired. (Even if I stayed in bed, it would do no good, as Felicity has recently taken to ripping the covers off my body and hollering, "Mom! Get up! Get up! The sun come-d up! And I'm hungry!!"  And yes, I understand that the fine print in the motherhood contract reads, "By engaging in this profession, you will henceforth and forever feel like you've been run over by a truck.")
So, when my alarm went off the other morning, I had already been up for an hour and a half. The girls were somehow still magically asleep, so I jogged into the other room to turn off the raucous singing. And sitting there, blinking its innocent little doe-eyes at me was the "Snooze" button. Up to this point, I had been handling the morning well, feeling proud of myself for getting things accomplished and not even having a terrible attitude about it. But when that little electronic bully started taunting me with "Hey, Seph? Wanna little snooze?", my mind flashed white hot and I wanted to slap that smug red button off my iPhone's screen and scream back, "You think that's funny?? Of course I want to snooze! That's all I've ever wanted! Well, I'll show you snooze!!"
Thankfully at that moment, my too-long-ignored semi-reasonable alterego decided to speak up. "Sephonnie, calm down. It's just a phone, for goodness sake. Just words on a screen. It's not trying to make fun of you."
Reasonable and I had a little tug-of-war, but finally, with a dirty glance back at my cellular device, I let her win and went back into the kitchen.
It's not just moms that crave these necessities, I've found, though. Josh went to "put the kids to bed" the other night, which I was very grateful for. I walked into their room a few minutes later to enjoy the fruits of his labor and found an all-out circus. JJ is doing squats in her crib, giggling and cheering on her siblings as Judsen and Felicity sprint laps around the obstacle course they've built, consisting of their mattresses, some toys and books and the dozing form of their father, who is fast asleep on Felicity's bed. Sometimes you just have to laugh, shake your head, and back away quickly before they notice you and you also end up face-down, fallen in bedtime combat next to your comrade-in-arms.
Food is not really more successful than sleep in our house, I realized in wonder-awe-disgust the other night when I had been working like a crazy person way past dinnertime. After we put the kids in bed, I was cleaning up their leftovers. Overcome with hunger and an animal-like frenzy, I scarfed down the macaroni and cheese that sat congealed at the bottom of their bowls, not stopping until it was gone to look around and make sure no one was watching the death of my dignity.
The kids are good at making sure I feed them, though. We talk about food a lot. Judsen announces loudly, "I want a donut. Those are scrum-ectable!" While digging at the playground, Judsen decides he's digging for big diamond, but Felicity says excitedly, "I'm digging for a big peach!" JJ watches her siblings as they come marching into my bedroom in the morning with a roll of candy they proclaim that they would like for breakfast. JJ has already awoken, eaten her breakfast, and gone back to sleep, I thought. I take the candy from J&F and set it next to me in bed and all of a sudden, I feel Little Octopus wiggling around. I look over in surprise to find JJ not only awake, but grinning at me around the entire roll of candy she has stuffed into her cute little pie hole. Let us note here that she's only 8 months old; she shouldn't know that candy is something to be revered and then devoured quickly in case of competitors. Apparently my sweet tooth has been bred in to my offspring.
During lunch preparations, the kids holler requests at me and play while they wait. The other day they're playing super heroes and shouting out their super hero names. "I'm Captain America!" "I'm Iron Man!" "JJ is Firestar!" And then, "Mom, what is your super hero name?" Inspired by their game, I try to think of something catchy and fabulous based on what I'm really good at, what my mad skills are. The best I can come up with? "I am the Amazing ... Lunch Lady."
And I can never just put lunch down on the counter and walk away. My children insist on having it presented with an Iron Chef flourish. "No, Mom. We're the judges and you're Cat Cora. What is the secret ingredient?" "Um...lunch." "No, Mom. Tell us what you made." So we go through the list while they spout off their opinions on if I did a good job or not. Oy. By the time we're done with all this, the only thing I can think of to make for myself for lunch is pancakes, and those have recently been outlawed by Felicity. About a month ago, we drove past IHOP. Standing out on the corner, was a giant mascot-type pancake. Yes, a pancake. With huge eyes. Waving at the people driving by. The kids thought it was funny for a minute, but then at every corner they apparently had Vietnam flashbacks and started asking worriedly, "Where's the pancake with eyes? He's going to get us!" Now whenever we drive past an IHOP, I have to distract them and get them to look the other way, so we don't have a meltdown about where the scary phantom pancake with giant eyes is hiding.
And what do I get for all my trouble? What do I earn for keeping my little bear cubs supplied with life's necessities? I get early-morning presents from Judsen ("Here Mom! I have something for you!" - an old dish sponge), I get to listen to Felicity's ballads about her life: "I am a cow-boooooy. Cowboys have binoculars. And a belllllt. I am a cow-booooy." I get to feel JJ's tiny hands attempt to pinch my nose because she's already learned that I hate that and all the other kids and Daddy think it's funny to try. I get to watch them wrestle with each other and hear them ask questions like "Where are those humans going?" when they see other people at the park. I get to drag them through the grocery store as they drop to all fours, panting and slobbering and crawling like baby grizzlies. And seriously, even though life's necessities may be in short supply for me, if this sacrifice means I get to be Mama Bear to these little cubs, I'll take it. And just wait patiently for the winter I get to hibernate for four months straight.

Girls' Camp

I had a recent epiphany which must have stowed away on a journey back from The Magical Land of What in the World - a mysterious place that most of my children's questions and general comments about life come from. There's no rhyme or reason to them, but they come anyway. "Mom, why is Daddy a beautiful pancake?" "Mom, when I was a baby I sprayed poop all over like a skunk!" "Mom, who is the Avengers' dad?"
So my epiphany was like that. I don't know why it came, but it did. And thanks to it, I have finally figured out why as teenagers we are sent to Girls' Camp. I know, I know. I know the reason they say - to give girls a positive experience with each other, to learn new skills, to have time to ponder the beauty of the outdoors. These are all valid reasons, but the real reason, the one they don't tell you, is that Girls' Camp is a rose-colored taste of motherhood. Wrapped in the giggly excitement of being 14 and away from home, all these things seem new and unusual and happy and something to savor in pine-scented memories; however, they are also an opportunity to peek through the shades into the future that awaits you once you become Mommy.
Let us explore some examples:

GC: Sleeping in a tent. Snuggled up next to your girlfriends, whispering and happily complaining about the cold air and the lumpy ground, it's super fun for one day, kind of fun for two days, alright for three, and happy to be headed home by day four.
Motherhood: Sleeping in a recliner, toddler bed, on the floor, or, on a lucky night, your own bed - wherever you give in to the zombiehood and finally pass out. Snuggled up, in sleep, next to the children who are also constantly hanging on you in the daylight hours , it's super sweet for one hour, kind of sweet for two hours, and by years three and four you are tempted to go throw a sleeping bag out in the cold air and on to the lumpy ground just to have a few seconds of sweet sleep alone.

GC: Learning and singing ridiculous songs that make everyone laugh. This is such a fun part of Girls' Camp, learning the songs, singing them to each other at morning get-togethers or around the fire, making up words about your experiences in the woods.
Motherhood: Learning and singing ridiculous songs that help everyone settle down after the family 4 am cry-fest. Remember these songs. You'll need them as well as your ability to improvise lyrics on the spot. When Baby gets up every hour, feeling sad for no indeterminable reason, you'll begin singing these Girls' Camp songs as well as seven variations on their lyrics in an effort to keep you both from crying. It probably won't work, but after crying, you'll feel better enough to keep on singing. And at some point, these crazy words will become the happy lullabies, the loving soundtrack to your children's childhoods.

GC: Helping with chores like cooking dinner and cleaning up. At Girls' Camp, you are given responsibilities that you may not otherwise have at home. I know while I was at Girls' Camp, we prepared a chicken dish for dinner. This was the first time some of the girls had touched raw chicken and while they thought it was yucky, it was also fun and exciting because of the environment and the fun people cheering them on.
Motherhood: You will sell your soul to chores like cooking dinner and cleaning up. Your environment may look more like building block castles and the cheering section will probably sound more like Baby totally freaking out because the moment he MUST be held or die is also always the make-or-break moment in the dinner preparations. The good news is, though, that compared to lots of other jobs that come with mothering, raw chicken doesn't seem nearly so yucky.

GC: Comforting homesick friends who find themselves so sad they cry all night long.
Motherhood: I think we already discussed this. You're going to spend lots of time comforting people who cry all night long. But as we also already discussed, with those silly songs in your toolbox, you'll be prepared!

GC: "Snipe" hunting. I don't know who else was subjected to this, but my first year, the older girls woke me up at some unholy hour and whispered excitedly to me that if we hurried, there was a good chance I would get to see the elusive snipe that haunts the woods around where I grew up. The tale said this creature was a medium-sized black and white bird with huge yellow eyes. So I ran around like a headless goose, while members of the Snipe Committe, all dressed in black, followed me around the woods, making snipe sounds and shining their flashlights through tree leaves, so I would think I had just caught a glimpse of the beast's eyes. It was all very exciting.
Motherhood: "Snipe" hunting. Or monster hunting. Or hunting for the asparagus and/or shark that is digging a hole in the side of the house and keeping the babies wide-eyed with terror way past their bedtime. (True story. Not sure why asparagus and sharks. I presume this also is only explained by The Magical Land of What in the World.) Or hunting for anything that the littles' minds dream up and tell them they should be afraid of. And more often than not, these sojourns through the dark house or bedroom or closet to find the offensive imaginary creature happen way past the witching hour when everything is so dark and creepy that you yourself begin to feel a little frightened of the Asparagus Ghost.

GC: Latrine duty. Although this is also yucky at girls' camp, it makes you feel like a brave adventurer, as you strike off in the twilight, with your friends at each arm, to wipe down the toilet seat and replace the toilet paper. With them by your side, you can do anything.
Motherhood: I don't know if you know this, but in Latin, "mother" literally translates to: "she who spends approximately 85% of her time cleaning up, encouraging, or worrying about bodily fluids." This latrine duty is very good practice, as you will be cleaning lots of toilets in your motherhood career. And with your kids by your side, you'll have to do everything, including use the bathroom. If you don't include them in this activity and try to be sneaky by creeping in and softly shutting the bathroom door, they will hear the minute click from across the house and decide that if they cannot be with you THIS INSTANT all their limbs will probably fall off. And they will shriek accordingly.

GC: Taking time to appreciate beautiful things that you are always grateful for, but don't normally focus on.
Motherhood: Learning to recognize these small beauties is what makes the day-to-day grind of motherhood rewarding. Internalizing and appreciating the glow of understanding in a child's face, their happy giggles when they are supposed to be sleeping, her breathless excitement when a doggie licks her face, his joy at being celebrated on a birthday, and the warm love that flows as they cuddle against you.

Motherhood is awesome. Like at Girls' Camp, there are some days that you just get worn out, but at the end of the week, it's the happy memories and the moments that touch your spirit that keep you coming back next year. Or week. Or day.

Happy camping.

Quiet Books

So...quiet books. If you are unfamiliar with this concept, these are activity books we moms spend an insane amount of time making in a desperate effort to keep our offspring decently quiet at church. I am proud to say that in spite of my creative handicap, I have recently made two. And I've purchased two other super cute ones at the thrift store, so I'm equally proud of those. I was so excited to bring these to church and put them to good use; after all, now that I had these done, my life would be complete, right? My children would be reverent, their hair would stay neatly combed, and they would always eat all their vegetables. Yes!
So we brought them to church to put them to the test, and much to my delight, they appear to be working. Judsen and Felicity are each entertained by one of the thrift store books (Noah's Ark #1 and Noah's Ark #2) and for once, I am sitting peacefully in the meeting, enjoying the reverence and my obvious overwhelming success as a mother.
All of a sudden, a wild rumpus ensues to my right. I look over; Josh has Noah's Ark #1 in his lap and is happily arranging and rearranging the magnetic animals in their little magnetic boat. The look on his face is Christmas-morning delighted, "This is awesome! They have a mom and a dad bear and even a little matching label for each set of animals!"  Felicity is greatly distressed because Daddy has seized control of Noah and his family and is not about to relinquish it, so she starts making a big stink and trying to steal all the animals out of his hands. "No, Daddy! I had these first!!" She's thrashing and hollering and carrying on in the middle of church all over the at-this-point-ironically-named Quiet Book.
Choking back mostly a laugh and a few distressed tears, I look to my left to see the same situation playing out with Judsen and his Uncle Jared. Jared has Noah's Ark #2 in hand and is eagerly supplying felt Noah with his felt food bucket and pairs of felt elephants and gorillas. Judsen has forlornly given up on Uncle Jared letting him look at the pictures and whispers to me, "Mom, he won't let me play."
I guess it's important to point out here that both Josh and Jared are in their 30s; if I would have known these quiet books would have been such a hit with children of all ages, I would have brought more. Or at least fruit snacks for everyone.

I Am A Mom

   So this is the first post for quite some time and a little break from the norm, but I just felt like writing down these fairly personal feelings on motherhood. If you're interested, great. Read on. If not, that's really fine. I have the feeling I''m writing this more for myself than anyone else.
   I am a mom. For this privilege, I am truly and eternally grateful. My heart weeps for those individuals who long for this opportunity and have not been given it. Why me and not them? I have no idea. I know so many who probably deserve it more than I do.
   Regardless, I am a mother and I love my children fiercely. For all I grumble about the chaos of my life, I love these little people wholly, completely. They are what I have chosen to dedicate my eternity to. I have three children now, and although I can hardly explain it even to myself, I would like more. In spite of the poopy underwear and vomity t-shirts and late nights and endless praying, I hope that I am given more precious spirits to take care of. I'm not sure how I'll manage it, but I hope to have the opportunity to learn how.
   The fact is, I am not a mom who has it all together. My house doesn't always, or even usually, look perfect. I would like it to, but my OCD is not so strong that I am not willing to prioritize other things over cleaning. I have laundry on the bathroom floor and usually some dishes in the sink and toys on the couch.
   I am not a mom who always looks perfect. I wear torn basketball shorts and Pep Band t-shirts from high school. I don't wear makeup often. I consider putting on jeans "getting dressed up". Again, I don't always love the way I look, but I often prioritize getting my kids fully clothed and out the door with my sanity in tact above looking beautiful.
   I am not a mom who collects beautiful things. I would like to, but it takes a lot of energy for me to keep them looking beautiful, and I'd rather have people just feel comfortable when they come to my house. I want my home to be a place that gets used and lived in.
And you know what? I guess I'm okay with it. I don't feel like I have the mental or physical energy stores to keep things pristine all the time. To tell the truth, I feel and have always felt intimidated by women who are able to do these things - they have their house nice, they serve dinner right at five, they work out every morning and put on makeup immediately after their morning shower. I don't know why I'm not this person or why my strivings to make myself into this have failed. But it seems I'm just not meant to be this way.
   I am, however, a mom who has spontaneous dance parties with my kids. We crank up the music and when a song comes on that none of us can resist, we all drop everything and dance like crazy people. We sing into our spoons and make up words and tease each other. I stop working or sleeping to come see the "cave" the kids built out of mattresses and comforters. I get into the inflatable pool and join the water fight. I spend a lot of time in the book section of the thrift store so that my babies can have fun things to read. Sometimes we have brownies for dinner. Or breakfast. We bake just for fun, just because we like to do it together. I sit down at the table to be served a plastic fish, a plastic jug of chocolate milk, and a frying pan so my kids will have someone to judge their Iron Chef competition. I read about sharks and bugs and dinosaurs. I read "Bears on Wheels" three times in a row. I sing verse after verse of "The Ants Go Marching". 
   I am a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints and I care very much about teaching my children the gospel. I want them to know God loves them, that He hears and answers their prayers. I want them to know that Jesus Christ atoned for their sins and that He is their best friend. I am not a particularly crafty person, but I spend time laminating religious art and cutting out scripture figures so that my kids will have a fun way to learn the gospel. I spend money on little plastic action figures from the Book of Mormon, so my kids will pay attention to the lessons. I spend lots of time writing in a personal journal, in hopes that they will someday consider it a link to their past and appreciate their family members who came before them.
   There are lots of things I don't do well and sometimes I feel bad for my children that they were not born to a more worthy mother, and for my husband, that he didn't choose someone who was a better home manager. I do try to do what I can, though. I am emotionally, mentally, and physically invested in this job 1000%. And I guess that's the point of this post. To remind myself that, hopefully, that's enough. I'm trying to have faith that "[I] know enough", like Neil L. Andersen said. For whatever reason, this is the person I came down to Earth as; this is the package I was given. And for whatever reason, my children were born to me. I know absolutely that they have a Heavenly Father who loves them and intently watches over them. He's not going to let me botch up their raising too completely; He's going to help me.
   I was touched by a quote from Marjorie Hinckley, "We women have a lot to learn about simplifying our lives. We have to decide what is important and then move along at a pace that is comfortable for us. We have to develop the maturity to stop trying to prove something. We have to learn to be content with what we are."
  I am tired of feeling badly about myself because I can't do what "everyone" else can. I'm tired of it. So from today forward, I vow to try a little harder to remember this quote from dear Sister Hinckley and to learn to be content with what I am. This is what Heavenly Father made me, so He must think it's worth something. I'm working hard to be the best I can and to show Him I'm grateful for what I have. And at the end of the day, I will take the courage to try again tomorrow and pray that what I'm giving is enough.