Sibling Rivalry

 

I was happy to grow up with Marianne.

She took care of me.

She made everything more fun.

She climbed into bed with me and put her arms around me when I cried because life was awful in 6th grade.

Before any new experience:  junior high, college, girls' camp she'd tell me in detail what to expect to allay my fears.

She helped me learn the scripture mastery scriptures on the way to seminary.  She taught me all the words to the songs she knew because our car didn't have a working radio.  She helped me pass biology 100 at BYU by prepping me before every test (I was distracted by Adam during class and didn't listen).

life was more pleasant than our expressions in this picture would suggest

Marianne allowed me to tag along with her and her larger sphere of friends.  She set me up on dates when I visited her at college.  She paved the way for me, making everything easier.

It was wonderful to be her younger sister.

Except for when it wasn't.

She excelled in everything and I...didn't.

She got the lead in the school play and I...didn't get a part.

She won prizes for public speaking and I...didn't.

Our teachers wanted me to be more like her and I...wasn't.

She was a star basketball player and I...wasn't.

One night our school was in Eureka, NV for basketball games.  Before the game, I was walking into the gym.  I heard someone whisper furtively, "That's Marianne Dahl's sister."

We looked a lot alike.

Except she was six feet tall and I...wasn't.

In the basketball game, that night in Eureka, she scored something like 50 points and was in the USA Today the next day.

I wasn't.

In college I was in a memoir writing class.  I loved the class and one day convinced Marianne to go to the class (she was visiting me at BYU...home from her mission and waiting until the next semester to enroll).  There's something about a memoir class that creates a bond...and I wanted her to meet my class.

One boy looked at her with mistrust and an arched eyebrow.  He said, "So you're Marianne."  Later Marianne asked me what I'd written about her.  

I guess I had worked out some of my issues.

And soon enough we were equalized.  I was no longer the almost as good but not quite little sister.  We were wives and mothers and struggling through the same struggles.  I still look to her for advice and she even seeks my advice on a few topics.

But then.

Every once in awhile.

There it is again.

That sibling rivalry.

Looking on my splendid niece Desi's blog this morning, I saw the pictures Desi had posted of the Valentines she had made along with her siblings.  For their mother.  Marianne.

Emma, the bright spot of thoughtfulness in my trio of children had made me a simple Valentine.

Braeden told me after church on Sunday that he'd been given some candy during Sunday School.  He'd considered giving it me for a Valentine gift but then thought it would melt if he waited that long.

So he ate it.

I don't want to talk about it.

Nobody likes you, Marianne.

No. Bod.Y.

Except your children (obviously), and everyone that knows you (of course),

and me.

I love you and always will.

I can't help it.

What Can I Say...We're Foodies

Instead of going to dinner like Adam and I often do on Valentine's Day, we treated our children to a fancy dinner at home.  It was a seven course meal.  There is no end of wonder at a seven course meal if you are a kid...this we learned. 

Adam was the genius (and cook) behind the magic.  For your viewing pleasure (and so I can have a record to show our children:  see we did do nice things for you that one time), our meal:

The Appetizer:

bruschetta and crostini

The Soup:

coconut chicken curry soup (purchased soup...he's only one man)

The Salad:

caprese salad (one of my contributions)

The Sorbet:

lemon sorbet:  "to cleanse the palette"  

we weren't messing around

The entree:

thyme steak, shrimp, sauteed mushrooms and asparagus, baby potatoes, spreadable pesto cheese...it was all so amazing...

the servings were small, they had to be, it was so much food

Dessert:

 raspberry mousse from L'Artisan, the local French bakery

Janet introduced us to these marvels of culinary enchantment.

We may never be the same.

The Cheese Course:

 we sampled double gloucester, havarti dill, and cheddar with smoked salmon

ahhhhhh

Our children and I decided I should hang up my apron and let Adam do the cooking from now on.

He said, "I couldn't do this every night."

I told him he could start with every other night and work up from there.  We're patient like that.

Valen-Tiny

Besides wishing for a cat (and that's never going to happen), Emma asks for very little. 

It makes her hard to resist when she does want something.

And she wanted a Valen-tiny party.  As a devotee of American Girl Magazine, Emma saw the idea in its pages and reeled me in.

We sent tiny boxes of chocolates (chocolate chips in jewelry boxes) with the invitations and Emma invited three of her friends over on Saturday.

 First I served the tiny treats (all of these ideas were not my own...thank you, American Girl).

tiny Strawberry Ice Cream Cones:

tiny Candy Kebobs:

tiny Shirley Temples:

 

tiny Chocolate cake: 

really tiny:

To keep me from feeling too guilty about all the sugar, we also had tiny sandwiches:

I didn't get a picture but we also had powdered donuts (Cheerios dusted in powdered sugar).

It was delightful to the girls that they had each eaten five donuts and three ice cream cones and an entire chocolate cake.

They couldn't wait to tell their mothers.

Mark and his friend Holden ventured through the party of giggling girls to get to his room and legos which are much less dangerous.  Tween girls may intimidate seven year old boys, but I love them.

How could I not love my daughter's sweet friends?

Friendship isn't a big thing-- it's a million little things.

-unknown

My Valentine

Lately the airwaves have been inundated with commercials for jewelry stores.  According to them, the way to show your sweetheart that you love her on Valentine's Day is to give her jewelry.

I guess they haven't met Adam.

He needs neither diamonds or gold to convince me to be his valentine.

I am forever willing.

Someday

Cleaning up after my children is a soulless pursuit.  It's tiresome.  I try to strike the balance between teaching them to clean up after themselves and me just getting it really clean and I never can quite seem to get it right.

(Once when Mark was a toddler and I was complaining to my mom about how...active...he was, she said, "I think you just want him to sit in a corner and be quiet."  Well, yes.  Why can't they all three just do that?  And not make any messes?)

Lately I've divided up bathroom cleaning jobs.  I have a chart and we rotate through each week.  I help Mark with his job so I figure that at least two out of every four weeks the sinks will actually get clean, the mirrors will actually be free of streaks.  Yesterday I was cleaning the sinks in my children's bathroom.

Ew.

Their aim with toothpaste is atrocious.

Their proclivity for leaving combs and deodorant and toothbrushes and toothpaste (sans lid) strewn across the counter is...

depressing.

I could be more on top of it.  I could enforce cleanup.  But I don't have the time (or more importantly inclination).

So what to do? (Because while I want a spotless house in theory, do I want it enough to give up reading books or blogging?  Perish the thought!)

Typically what I do, in these frustrating instances, is start thinking about "Someday".

Someday, there won't be a smattering of throw pillows all over the floor of the family room because the only reasonable thing my kids can think to do with throw pillows is...throw them.

Someday, their bathroom will be clean.  And stay clean.

Someday, their bedrooms won't give me heart palpitations on a regular basis.

Someday, there won't be Fablehaven books, and Diary of a Wimpy Kid, and first grade readers, and Chronicles of Narnia books, and American Girl magazines and Boys' Life magazines strewn EVERYWHERE.

Someday, there won't be snippings of colored paper under Emma's desk from her multitudinous art projects.

Someday, there won't be legos on the stairs and kitchen counters and deep inside of the couch cushions because Mark seems to trail legos in his wake.

Someday, there won't be Braeden's sweatshirts left...wherever he decides to shed them.

Someday.

But then,

Someday,

I won't hear giggling and Mark and Emma trying out English accents.

I won't hear jokes and singing and "Mom!  Look at this!"

Someday, I won't get kissed goodnight thirty times each by three children because they don't really want to go to bed.

Someday, I won't snuggle under a blanket on the couch each morning to read about the adventures of Ramona Quimby with Mark.

Someday,  I won't see Emma's exultant face after her first day of play practice.

Someday,  Braeden won't be asking me to turn off the radio "so we can just talk".

Someday, I won't be laughing at my children and their wittiness, not sure what they're quoting with their quips and lines or if they're just making it all up themselves.

Someday, I won't have anyone to sing opera with while taking pictures on photo booth.

So Someday, take you own sweet time getting here.

I am not ready for you.

(and how important is a spotless house anyway?)

Embracing the Melodrama

Lately Mark, the most energetic kid in America, has been droopy.

Selectively droopy.

When it's time for math, he's exhausted.  He doesn't feel well.  He didn't get enough sleep.

When he's practicing the piano and I tell him he needs to play the song correctly (such a horrible mother, I know), he is suddenly seized with pain and agony.  He can't possibly continue playing.  He needs to lay his sorrowful head on the piano keys.

Cleaning his room is completely overwhelming...just might cause chronic fatigue.  Everything is so hard when you're seven and your name is Mark.

Sitting in church, he becomes so terribly sick that he's sure he either needs to be taken home immediately or die.

One morning Mark told me (after he'd been running and playing and laughing with Braeden) that he was so sick.  He'd had such a bad night.  He'd had no sleep because his stomach ached all night.  (This information coincided with me sitting down to get ready to start school.)

I took him on my lap.  I said, "You do feel a little warm." (He didn't.)  He sniffed mournfully and said, "My throat does hurt too."  I comforted him and acted impressively concerned and saddened by his poor health. (I wasn't.)

I sent him to his bed and told him that he'd better just go back to bed and try to recover from his sickness.

He said, "Well, I'm feeling a little better..."

"Oh, no, Mark.  I don't want you to feel sick.  You rest.  Poor baby."

He trudged to his bed.

After a few minutes he called, "Can I get up?  I'm feeling better."

I hesitated.  "Are you SURE?"

He said yes so I told him to empty the dishwasher.  He said that his throat hurt.  I said, "You're either in bed or emptying the dishwasher."

He put on his cloak and told me he was a Jedi and went downstairs.  By the time he reached the dishwasher I think he was healed because he was chatty.

It's a miracle cure:

Too much sympathy.  And the boring prospect of a bed.

Why I Love It: Forays to the City

Via Tribunali:  photo from their website

Dressing up (well as dressed up as I get...I always wear jeans) and going into Seattle with Adam for the evening is kind of like playing pretend.  I pretend I'm a little more sophisticated and urban than a girl who grew up in the sagebrush.  I feel confident on Adam's arm navigating through city crowds and across busy streets (would you hit Adam as a pedestrian?  if you could help it?).

Everyone seems to wear black and there is always a swarm of people on the sidewalk...foolhardy souls that take the surgeon general's warning lightly.

(Seriously, people still smoke?!?)

It all feels so far away from the pastoral suburbs where SUVs and minivans reign supreme and people rarely walk unless they have a dog on a leash.

Last weekend we met Adam's siblings and his cousin, her husband and some of their friends at Via Tribunali in Seattle.  (When Jamie was introducing us to a friend, he said, "This feels like The Godfather, all these cousins.  All this family."  Jamie paused and impressively added, "And they're all siblings.")

We had a good time at Via Tribunali.  Ever since Adam whisked me off to Connecticut, I've been in love with thin crust, Neapolitan pizza.  This margherita pizza did not disappoint.  I folded over the crust and may have swooned once or twice.

 

Adam's calzone...really, Via Tribunali...you should go

Here we are with Adam's cute cousin Jamie...love her...love Seattle...love Adam*!

* how can you not adore someone who rhapsodizes about grass?