Addendum

We are in the middle of math as I write.

Mark is learning about units of measure.  I was showing him milliliters and liters.  He said, "I've got news for you Mom, we won the war." 

He was quoting Corner Gas, the best thing to come out of Canada since ketchup potato chips. (Never mind.  Ketchup potato chips are nasty).

Mark is like his brother and sister and remembers funny lines from TV shows and movies with perfect clarity.  I wish I could translate that into them remembering other things with perfect clarity.  But I am glad that my children are armed with wit.  They bring out the big guns when they know I need to smile.

Sometimes

Sometimes (like this morning) I wake up in the morning and feel like my life is a drudgery.  Too much.  One unpleasant task stacked on another (and also my new-ish oven self destructed last night).  Sometimes I wish I could change things.

Sometimes I wish I had more time.

More time to write.  More time to restore/create some order around here.  More time to exercise/improve myself/decrease my carbon footprint/learn Latin...who am I kidding?  More time to read.

Sometimes I consider how much more time I would have if I sent my little goblin to school instead of working on school plans and negotiating with him to be in a motionless state for longer than five minutes.  I wonder how I would spend my days if they didn't include trying to keep Mark writing/reading/adding/subtracting.  What would I do with all the time I wasn't spending convincing him that he's not too sick for school, that he'd be plenty warm (and not need to be wrapped in a blanket) if he went and put a shirt on, and that no, we aren't going to snuggle until you are done with math.  Would I for once in my life be On Top of It.  Whatever It is?

I doubt it.

And the day I trade more time for days without Mark will be a dark day.

I mean, look at the way he makes hot chocolate for me.  (The kid knows his way around chocolate.)

Sometimes Mark and I play Scrabble when everyone else is gone in the evening.  I destroy him.  I know, he's nine.  But still.   

Yesterday, while we were eating lunch, Mark and I were trading hi-larious jokes.  His two favorites:

Q: What has a bottom at the top?

A: Legs.

Q:  What goes ha ha kerplunk?

A:  Laughing your head off.

Life is like pizza.

Even when it's bad, it's good.

Forgotten Photos

I am plugging away at approximately 35 partially finished projects at once (a good solution for when I have a short attention span).  I am making photo books of our last year and found this picture.

We were driving home from Lake Chelan last September.  I was in my happy place, in the front seat, next to Adam.  He spotted the license plates and said, "Take a picture!"

I did.

It makes me laugh.

I also saw this picture, from the Mukilteo Ferry.

My boys.

There were a lot of pictures like this:

Pictures of me with straight hair.  Weird.  (I always ask someone to take a picture after I have Megan, the wonder stylist, straighten my hair because it's so startling to me.)

And a happy sunshine picture:

no more straight hair

None of these pictures will likely make the Snapfish book cut.  But, they are good pictures to remember.  Good to remember; life is pretty good.

We Might Just Agree

When I was about a junior in high school, I had a brief love affair with Southwest style.  A Georgia O'Keefe phase?  I loved cacti, painted pottery, and muted colors.  I decided that I wanted canvas bedspreads for my bed and Marianne's bed.  (She was gone to college and her bed was sort of a staging area for my laundry but I wanted a new bedspread for it as well.)

I asked my mom to make me two canvas bedspreads.  "Canvas?" she said incredulously.  Yes.  I liked the texture.  It was spare and seemed like...sand.  It took a little convincing but soon enough, I ended up with two canvas bedspreads.

One day I came home from school to find a prickly pear cactus my dad had dug up from the sagebrush and put into a pot for me.

Another day I came home and found a cow skull on my shelf, which delighted me.  It was perfect.

My parents thought my decorating ideas were weird but they supported them just the same.

So now there's Emma.

As mentioned earlier, we've gone back and forth about her bedroom.  I thought her ideas were cheesy.  I had such better ideas.  Neither of us could get the other one to see reason.   Then I remembered my parents--my mom sewing canvas bedspreads, my dad digging up cactus and gifting me with a cow skull.  (If I can align my parenting as close to my parents' as possible, I think I'll do OK in the world.)  I also considered that the part of Emma that is self-assured and independent is (usually) one of my very favorite parts about her.  Who was I to squelch her ideas, her vision?

I told her we would do whatever she wanted.

Yesterday afternoon, we were driving to the store to gather paint chips.  She said, "I've been thinking about what you said and I think I see your point."  I nearly fainted dead away (which isn't safe when you're driving to the store to gather paint chips).

Here's the thing about Emma.  You just never know.

I Just Don't Know

I have a lot of ideas for redecorating Emma's room but she has different ideas.  I am trying to strike a balance.  On the one hand, it's her room.  I want her to have the thrill of coming up with an idea, executing it and watching it fail or succeed.  On the other hand, she's not paying for the paint, curtains, etc.  And I'll be doing most of the work.  I have a vested interest in it all.

I have a single spaced nine page long typed list of books I want to read (really, I am not kidding) and I'm reading a boring book right now.

I want to spend more time writing but every day it gets pushed to the bottom of my list then falls off the list, right onto the floor.  Where it's kicked around.

Just when I feel like I have conquered one teeny little corner of motherhood, my children dazzle me by doing something so stupid I realize I have to reassess and give this new problem immediate, prompt attention.  (Why can't those people let me rest on my laurels, however puny those laurels may be?)

Just when I feel like maybe I have rotten children after all, they do something terrific and charming and make me believe that maybe all isn't lost.

Marianne and I have children that sleep through the night, can get dressed themselves, put their own shoes on, buckle their own seatbelts and even get their own snacks.   But we never have time to talk on the phone.  If you had asked us ten years ago if we'd have more time now, we would have said an emphatic yes. What happened?

Sometimes I don't feel like I know very much about my life.

But here's something I do know:  I have terrific friends.

Yesterday:

Janet picked up Braeden from play practice (and Hans didn't even have to be at that practice).

Stephanie hosted Mark when I needed her to.

Jill agreed with me about Emma's room.

Heather inquired about my writing which made me feel good.

In a world where a lot doesn't make sense, my friends do.

A Poem for My Sister

Marianne is really the one that's good at writing clever poetry but I changed a few words in "Oh The Places You'll Go" by Dr. Seuss in honor of my sweet little sister, Olivia.  She recently found out that baby number five will be boy number four!  It's exciting news.  Babies are always exciting news.

So here's "my" poem.  (I'm the Milli Vanilli of poetry.)


For Olivia:

Congratulations!
Today is your day.
You're going to have four!
You're off and away!

You have brains in your head.
You have feet in your shoes
You can pick a name
any boy name you choose.
You're not on your own.  (And Edgar’s picky you know.)
But I’m sure you'll decide a name that will go.

You'll have four boys to love.  Look 'em over with care.
I know you will say, "I am glad that they’re there."
With your head full of brains and your shoes full of feet,
you're too smart not to know that four boys are a treat.

And Lili will not have any
reason to frown.
No sisters, of course,
but lots of girl cousins in town.

It's lively there
when four sons are your share.

To moms things can happen
and frequently do
to people as brainy
and footsy as you.

And when things start to happen,
like cub scouts.  Don't stew.
Just go right along.
You'll start sewing badges too.

OH!
THE BADGES YOU'LL SEW!

You'll have some wolf pups!
You'll have pack meeting nights!
You'll even have eagles
who soar to high heights.

Your pinewood derby cars will have the speed.
You'll pass the whole gang and you'll soon take the lead.
Wherever you fly, you'll be the best of the best.
Wherever you go, you will top all the rest.

Except when you don't
Because, sometimes, you won't.

I'm sorry to say so
but, sadly, it's true
that boys and their laundry
can happen to you.

You can get all hung up
in clothes that smell bad.
And your gang will fly on.
You'll be left sort of sad.

You'll come down from the Lurch
with an unpleasant bump.
And the chances are, then,
that you'll be in a Slump.

And when you're in a Slump,
you're not in for much fun.
Un-slumping yourself
is not easily done.

You will come to a place where boy socks seem to rot.
Some things are picked up.  But mostly they're not.
A place you could sprain both your elbow and chin!
You may wonder what happened to your little kin.
When did they get tall and with hair on their chin?

They’ll start to be hungry all day and night...
“Is there something to eat?” Food will vanish bite by bite.
They’ll always be famished, want snacks of any kind
Simple it's not, I'm afraid you will find,
providing food; you may lose your mind.

Then they’ll need rides
and you'll start in to race
down long wiggled roads at a break-necking pace
and grind on for miles across weirdish wild space,
headed, I fear, toward a most useless place.
The Waiting Place...

...for mothers just waiting.
Waiting for scouts
or sports practice, or lessons
or doctors, or dentists
or orthodontists, or play practice
or waiting around for a Yes or a No
or waiting for their hair to grow.
Mothers are waiting.

NO!
That's not for you!

Someday you'll escape
all that waiting and staying.
You'll find the bright places
where Boom Bands are playing.

They’ll get a driver’s license,
once more you'll ride high!
In the meantime you’ll have books to read.
(Because audio books are what you will need!)

Oh, the places you'll go! There is fun to be done!
Your boys will achieve.  There are games to be won.
Your sons will be heroes at all kinds of ball,
will make you the winning-est winner of all.
Fame!  You'll be famous as famous can be,
with the whole wide world watching you win on TV.

Except when they don't.
Because, sometimes, they won't.

I'm afraid that some times
they won’t succeed too.
No one is perfect,

comforting will be up to you.

Being mom!
Whether you like it or not,
Making them happy
you'll be quite a lot.

And when you're a mom, there's a very good chance
you'll meet things that scare you right out of your pants.
There are some, down the road between hither and yon,
that can scare you so much you won't want to go on.

But on you will go
though the weather be foul
On you will go
though your enemies prowl
On you will go
though the Hakken-Kraks howl
Onward up many
a frightening creek,
though your arms may get sore
and your sneakers may leak.

On and on you will hike
and I know you'll hike far
and face up to your problems
whatever they are.

You'll get mixed up, of course,
as you already know.
You'll get mixed up
with many kid troubles as you go.
So be sure when you step.
Step with care and great tact
and remember that Life's
a Great Balancing Act.
Just never forget to be dexterous and deft.
And never mix up your right foot with your left.

And will you succeed?
Yes! You will, indeed!
(98 and 3/4 percent guaranteed.)

PARD, YOU'LL MOVE MOUNTAINS!

So...
be your baby a Buxbaum or Bixby or Bray
or Mordecai Ali Van Allen O'Shea,
you're off to Great Places!
Today is your day!
Your mountain is waiting.
So...get on your way!
 

              

The Shame

A few weeks ago, something happened.  Something embarrassing.  My friends have asked me when I'm going to blog about it.  I said, "Never."

It was humiliating.

And don't you think it's nice if you, dear reader, have only the best opinion of me?

Too late?

Alright.

Here's what happened.

We were sitting complacently at church in sacrament meeting.  It was testimony meeting.  All was right with the world.

A sweet, kind older lady in our ward went to the pulpit and told about her recent serious health scare.  She collapsed, was rushed to the hospital, had a cardiac arrest, lingered near death.  She spoke earnestly about how she'd been comforted during that time, how she'd felt like she wasn't alone.

Then she said, "On a lighter note, I got a nice get well card with names of adults and children.  One child had written, 'Get Well Sicko' and had drawn a circle around it. It made me laugh.  I don't know who Mark is, but I want him to know that this 'sicko' got better."

I had the sinking feeling that I knew who Mark was.

I had the sinking feeling that everyone else in the room, everyone else who was laughing, knew exactly who Mark was.

Mark excitedly whispered to Emma, "That was me!"  Emma jabbed him in the ribs and hissed for him to be quiet.

Braeden hung his head.  So did Adam.  And me.  Thankfully we sit in the front row usually so we didn't have to make eye contact with anyone.  I felt terrible.  Mark, Mark, Mark.  I also felt very grateful that this lovely woman had a sense of humor.

After the meeting, Braeden whispered in my ear.  "He has shamed our family."

Everyone else I talked to for the rest of the day was delighted by it though.  (They were glad it wasn't their child, I'm guessing.)

There's nothing like having your child's poor behavior called out in front of your entire church congregation.

Determined to make a lesson out of it for Mark, I told him that he needed to be careful what people knew him for.  I said, "You want people, when they hear the name Mark, to think of someone kind and good, not someone who is rude when they're trying to be funny."

I upped the ante.

I said, "You're named after your grandpa and he's a very good man.  You need to make him glad that you have his name by your good behavior."

Mark said, "Didn't your dad tie his teacher to his desk in high school?"

"Yes...he did.  But that was a long time ago!  Grandpa is a very good man now!"

I would give up but I don't want anything like this to ever happen again so I'll persevere.

I just want Mark to start wearing a sign pinned to his shirt.  "My mom really is trying."