Why I Keep Them Around, Part II

For my birthday, Grace gave me a beautiful shirt, in my favorite color (green), probably a size or two smaller than it should be to comfortably fit NOW--but hey, I'm optimistically still moving down in size, so that's okay.

Today I wore said shirt to church, wincing a little at just how snugly it fit, wondering if it crossed the line into "too-tight-for-modesty."

When Grace saw it her eyes lit up, which was, after all, my primary reason for wearing it.

"Hey, you're wearing the shirt I gave you!"

She began rubbing my tummy through the shirt. I sighed. "Does it show off my fat tummy, sweetie?"

Big-eyed, she looked up at me. "No! Your tummy looks smaller in this!"

Eric joined in. "And soft. You look softer. I like a soft Mommy. You're a pretty mommy."

They may be loud, obnoxious, and crazy, but they're keepers, those kids of mine.

If My Kids Ran the World

• Mankind would survive on mac & cheese with hot dogs, juice boxes, and candy.
• Putting away laundry, picking up toys, taking out the trash, and setting the table would earn valuable prizes and be accompanied by personal cheerleading squads EACH and EVERY time.
• Mothers would have a silencer button.
• The daily routine of every child would be equal parts playing outside/art projects/ watching Harry Potter movies.
• Mommy would wear the hairstyles created for her by her insanely creative and gifted children out in public, preferably to church or to work.
• Baths would happen once a year and consist of running through sprinklers.
• Six would be the legal age to drive.
• Hannah Montana would be our next-door neighbor.
• Mommy would be married to Santa Claus or Uncle Dan, in that order of preference.

And...You....Are....Not....It...

Tonight at the gym I was using the track when I noticed two adorable little boys, probably around ages 8 and 10, doing their darndest to work out on the adult-size equipment, and doing an admirable job.

I also noticed a nicely-fit and relatively attractive, slightly older-than-me man running laps around me. Truly--I didn't notice in a lusting way, just in a "wow-he's-in-pretty-good-shape-for-an-older-dude" kind of way. Sometimes I notice people who are further along the fitness track than I am, and I kind of use them for motivation, and that's what I was doing with Mr. Silver-Haired Buff Guy.

Then I realized he was the Cute Boys' dad. I deduced this when I overheard the following LOUD tirade from his mouth:

"Hey! What is this??? Why aren't you exercising anymore? Come on, get going, boys. You're a couple of wimps. We came to the gym to exercise--I want to see some exercise happening. You want to be a flab-o like your mom? What are you whining about? You want me to leave right now, this minute, and go get you a hamburger because your poor stomach is so hungry you can't wait 10 more minutes? You need to get to work. It's my job as your dad to push you and teach you to stay in shape. You boys are pathetic."

no. 1: I couldn't decided whether to go out to the car and cry for those poor boys or take my fingernails to Mr. Dad-of-the-Year's face. The latter was most tempting.

no. 2: I was hoping he sure as heck wasn't married, because anyone who would say something like that about his wife, to his own sons, doesn't deserve even a lousy marriage.

Number two concern was addressed a few minutes later when Jerk Daddy fell into step alongside me and did the "so, do you come here often/hey, I haven't seen you here before" routine that happens from time to time at the gym.

I don't think I've ever shot someone down so fast.

Being in good shape is nice; being nice is better.

Then & Now

Two weeks ago--

Mia: "For Christmas I want a Hannah Montana Barbie--another one--and a camera. That's all."

Yesterday--

Mia: "For Christmas I want Santa to bring me a Wii and an Ipod Touch and a Kindle and a camera phone and an mp3 player. And a regular camera. And a scooter that goes by itself. That's all."

My little girl is growing up.

Sigh.

Why I Keep Them Around

Mia: "Why did that guy say 'hot'? What does 'hot' mean, anyway?"

Mom: "It means really, really pretty, like if someone is really beautiful, we say she is 'hot.' "

Mia: "Oh! Like Mama!"

Mom: "Eh?"

Mia: "So you are hot, right?"

I love my little schmoozers.

Just Another Scatalogical Saturday

Eric: Mom! MOM! Come quick!

Mom: Uh, I'm kinda busy--what do you need?

Eric: I'm pooping, and it's SOOOO big! It's a HUGE poop! Come see!

Gee, tempting, but I think I'll pass...

Mom: I'm making breakfast--sorry, bud.

Several minutes pass.

Eric: MOM! I need some help here!

Mom: With what?

Eric: I need help wiping my butt!

Mom: You're a big boy; you know how to wipe your own butt.

Eric: But this is a BIG poop, and it's ALL OVER!

Sigh.

Mommy stands in the bathroom door. To observe. And guide from afar. My mantra is to teach self-sufficiency. Especially if it involves poop.

Mom: You're doing fine, Eric.

Eric: Yeah, but I really hate wiping butts. Wiping butts is so disgusting. It's so gross.

Tell me about it. Try wiping someone ELSE'S butt. Welcome to parenthood, son.

Mom: Well, it's better than NOT wiping your butt.

Silence. Eric digests this thought.

In a tone of awe suggesting that maybe, just maybe, Mommy is NOT dumber than a pile of rocks...

Eric: Yeeeaaaaaaah. That's true!

Nice to know someone out there is still awed by my brilliance.

Family Home Evening, Eric-style

Mommy: So, before you came to earth, we all lived with Heavenly Father and Heavenly Mother--

Eric: Hey, who's Heavenly Mother?

Mommy: She's your Heavenly Mother, the mother of your spirit, just like Heavenly Father is your Heavenly Father.

Eric: Oh! Like Mary, right?

Mommy: No, Mary was Jesus' earthly mom, but she's not your Heavenly Mother.

Eric: Then what's her name?

Mommy: Um, we don't know exactly. We just know she's our Heavenly Mother.

Eric: Oh, because she and Heavenly Father are divorced, right?

*************

Eric: Dear Heavenly Father, we grateful for playing pick-up-sticks and for surprises and for chicken nuggets and thankful that Mia could eat peanut butter and thankful for Madame Blueberry and Mommy and, and, and....

(eyes tightly closed and arms folded, Eric stands up and begins madly jigging in place)

thankful that we can dance really fast like this.

*************

Eric: Mercie! You cannot sing "I Hope They Call Me On a Mission" with me because you are a girl!

Mercie: MOM! Eric told me that when I grow up I can't be a missionary because I'm a girl.

Mommy: That's not true. Girls can be missionaries if they want to.

Eric: Well, she's only going on a pink mission, then. Boys go on blue missions and girls go on pink missions. The end.

************

Mom: CHILDREN!!! It's not reverent or respectful to booty-shake during a prayer! If you want to dance, wait 'till we're done with family prayer!

(children wait out the prayer, as reverently as a 6, 5, and 4-times-2 year old can).

Mom: ....Amen.

Children: Oh yeah, oh yeah, WE LOVE JESUS!!! WE LOVE TO DANCE FOR JESUS! JESUS LOVES US SHAKING OUR BOOTY FOR HIM!! OH YEAH! OH YEAH! DANCING, DANCING, DANCING, WAVE YOUR ARMS, SHAKE YOUR LEGS, MOVE YOUR BOOTY 'CAUSE WE LOVE JESUS!!!

Call me sacrilegeous, but I think Jesus grins every time my kiddos start workin' it in His praise.

Why He's My Favorite Boy

Eric: "Hey, it's a magic wand! Poof! I turned you into a beautiful princess! Wait--you already WERE a beautiful princess-mommy! I didn't even need a wand!"

I think he's preparing now for his high school harem.

Advice:

Never skip church to stay home alone and sneak the last quarter of the lemon meringue pie before the kids get home. Karma will bite you in the butt.

Thanksgiving Traditions

Somewhat unexpectedly the kids are going to be with me on Thanksgiving. Since I a.) don't have it in me to do the big dinner thing this year, and b.) want to make the most of a whole, entire day at home with my kids, I told the kids that this year for Thanksgiving we'd start a new tradition called "You-can-each-choose-one-thing-to-make-for-Thanksgiving-dinner-and-Mommy-will-help-you-make-it-all-by-yourself."

Mommy didn't think this one out very well. Here is our Thanksgiving Day Menu:

Mac & Cheese (Grace)
Ramen Noodles (Mia)
Hot Chocolate (Mercie)
Doughnuts (Eric)

I tried to steer them toward more traditional choices, but I was reminded that I'd said they could choose. Okay-dokey.

If anyone needs more starchy carbs to round out Thanksgiving Day feasting, apparently you can just stop by our house.

Creativity, Or Something Like That

My talented friend Shanna manages three high-energy children, runs a busy house, works as a NICU nurse, writes a hilariously funny blog, and manages to make time to create darling Christmas mini-quilts for her friends--such as the sweet little Santa I discovered yesterday in my mailbox. She's a source of never-ending inspiration.

Me, I make spherical cows to keep my hands busy during General Conference. That there Bessie's a cute 'un, if I do say so myself.

A Different Kind of Top Ten

Here's the deal--I LOVE my kids.

I mean, I adore them, I treasure them, I went through h-e-double-hockey-sticks and back to get them, I schedule and prioritize nearly everything else in my life around them, and in every single, conceivable way, they are the center of my universe.

And I've noticed, over years of connecting and bonding with other parents-via-adoption, or women who have struggled with infertility, that we perhaps value our parenting experience a tad more at times, because 1.) it didn't come easily (or quickly), and 2.) we're sensitive to those who are still in the waiting-longing-praying-hoping-waiting-endlessly-waiting stage, and we remember all too well how it felt to hear parents complain about small & stupid little child things as you sit there and think how you would cut off your right arm to have that irritating moment with a child of your very own.

So I have held back as long as I could, but folks--I just can't keep it in any longer.

Yes, I love my kids. In spite of the following.

TOP TEN PET PEEVES ABOUT CHILDREN:

1.) Whining
2.) Poopy nighttime diapers that spread far beyond the confines of the diaper and cover the jammies, sheets, blankets, pillow (what the heck?!! Were you sleeping with the pillow over the opposite end from your head?), and then get tracked across the bedroom floor, up the stairs, into the bathroom and across the front room before a sibling announces the reason our whole house now reeks of smeared poop.
3.) High-pitched screeching
4.) Tattling
5.) When you finish cleaning up the child in no. 2, along with the floor, the bedding, and scrubbing your hands raw from all the disgusting germ exposure they've just received, hearing a different child announce that he also has a 'messy poopy' and needs Mommy to clean it up.
6.) Whining
7.) Whiny children who whine, beg, and plead for a treat, and when Mommy finally parts with cold, hard cash to obtain said treat, take one bite and decide they don't like it anymore.
8.) Ignoring Mom's command to stay out of the mud, adding to the mud by using the forbidden garden hose, soaking yourself and your brother head to toe which makes you a magnet for grass clippings, leaves, sucker sticks, and assorted other debris--not to mention dirt, which creates even more MUD--and then climbing into Mommy's clean bed when the above-cited activities make you so 'coldy.'
9.) Foregoing all the cute, well-coordinated, and moderately stylish clothes that Mommy buys for you in favor of outfits that little orphan Annie would shun, leading to such a vagabond look that a total stranger in a restaurant would say, "Are all these kids yours? Do you do foster care? Gosh, you'd think the government would at least pay for decent clothes for the poor kids." Just for the record, no--none of my kids were adopted through foster care, and yes, the state does pay for decent clothing for foster kids, and yes, all four little beastie-children are mine. Ratty clothes and all.
10.) Whining.

On days when this particular top ten list is at the forefront and becomes a little overwhelming, there is another little teeny list that saves my children more than they know.

1.) They are SOOOO stinkin' cute.
2.) They are SOOOO stinkin' smart.
3.) They are SOOOO stinkin' mine. For always. For good. And even in their most poopy, whiny, messy glory, I'll always be theirs, too. That's why I did the h-e-double-hockey-sticks stuff to get them here, and why I do the poop-cleaning and headache-surviving now, and why I'll somehow make it through teenage years and driving lessons and dating and college expenses and missions and weddings times four. At the end of the day, it's nice to have four little people who matter to me, and it's nice to matter to those four little people, too. Family = belonging. Forever.

That's even stronger than the smell wafting from the downstairs carpet.

Language Barriers

Grace: "Here, Mom. I wrote your name for you."

Me: "Um, that has some of the letters, but it's not actually my name."

Grace: "I know. I wrote your name in Spanish, like W-E-N-D-E-C-I-T-A."

The Course of True Love Never Did Run Smooth

My kids routinely shuffle through a varied list of potential marriage partners--a list which, if we took out each of them (since they mostly just want to marry each other, and yes, that does mean three sisters fighting over who gets Eric), would be reduced to a few neighbor kids, a couple friends from preschool, and one 'lucky' colleague of mine who is the latest object of Mia's five-year old affection (much to his chagrin & my ongoing entertainment, but that's another story).

Anyway, backseat discussions that involve wedding planning are semi-standard fare around here. This morning on the way to preschool Eric & Mercie were discussing how many potential mates they could have--could Eric marry two princesses or three, could Mercie marry both Jaxon and Aiden, and if so, could she still marry Eric, and how exactly would that work if they married each other and a few other people, too?

Somewhere in the conversation Eric remembered the first real love of his life, his beautiful, blond, blue-eyed babysitter Erynn, who he's had a flaming crush on pretty much since he got off the plane from China. Perking up when I heard her name, I asked Eric if he would marry Erynn when he grew up.

"No way," he asserted.

"But I thought you liked Erynn the best."

"I DO like her the best, but I can't MARRY her."

"Why not?"

As if I'm the dumbest, most dense mommy on the planet--which from his perspective I probably am--he slowly explained, "Because I cannot marry her, because I cannot kiss her."

"Um, why can't you kiss her?"

"Because I can't REACH HER!"

This morning I had a small audience while applying makeup.

Mercie: "Wow--you look pretty, Mommy. Like a pretty witch instead of just a regular one."

Um, thanks...?

Sibling Issues: How It Begins

Mercie: "ERIC! Why do you keep trying to sit by me??!!!"

Eric: "Because I jes' love you."

Long pause. Mommy is in the other room feeling all warm & fuzzy over this rare moment of sibling affection.

Mercie: "Well, I actually don't like you much, but I guess you can sit by me."

Ah, well. I'm pretty sure I disliked a couple of my sisters rather intensely until we were in our twenties or so.

Nudity, Equine-style

Mia: "Can I take off all of my clothes to play horsey?"

Mom: "Uh, why do you need to take off your clothes to play horsey?"

Mia: "Because I'm going to be a BROWN horsey."

Mom: "What are you going to wear to be a brown horsey?"

Mia: "My SKIN!"

Mom: "Well, you probably should at least wear underwear."

Mia: "Why? Horses don't."

They Don't Miss a Thing...

Grace: Mommy, you're not going to believe this! Drake's mom shaves her LEGS!!!

Mom: Actually, most ladies shave their legs. They they like their legs to feel smooth and soft, so they shave all the hair off. That's a pretty normal thing.

Grace looks skeptical. She runs an experimental hand over my bare leg.

Grace: Oh! And you are one of the ladies who likes to have whisker-y legs, right?

The World According to Mia

"Wow, Satan is like the worstest kid ever."

"When I die I'm going to be creamed, not like putting myself in a box, but that other thing, like creamed except we're not supposed to talk about it because it makes me scared. WHY ARE WE TALKING ABOUT THIS??? AUGH!!!!" Mia, you're the one who started talking about it. "Well, why did you let me?"

"Dear Heavenly Father, thankful for this day, thankful for the food, thankful for my kindergarten, thankful for Eric could not poop in his underwear because that's so disgusting, thankful that Gracie can change him and not me, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen."

A Rose By Any Other Name

Having a sister 23 years younger than me leads to some interesting conversations as the kiddles try to sort out this "aunt" who seems more like a cousin.

Mia: What is the name of Emma's mom?

Me: Grandma

Grace: No, what is her REAL name?

Me: Sherry, but we call her Grandma.

Mia: That's weird. Do we call her Grandma because she IS a grandma or because she just likes that?

Me: Uh, she's YOUR Grandma. You know, Grandma--my mom, your grandma. That one.

Grace: Whhaaaaaattt?

Mia: Oh. My. Gosh. This is just too weird.

Through the Eyes of Gracie

Mommy: I showed my friends some pictures of you, and I was sooooo happy when they thought that I looked like you, Grace! That was a very nice compliment, because you are beautiful, so if they think I look like you, that means that I am beautiful, too.

Grace: That's not a truth. I don't look like you at all.

Ouch.

Mommy: Why exactly do you not look like me? (gee, let's think here--is it your gorgeous brown skin compared to my splotchy pinky-whitey skin? Or your eyes that we lovingly refer to as 'chocolate,' compared with mine that you kids call 'grass eyes'? Or is it your tightly curled tresses as opposed to my limp locks? Maybe the fact that you barely hit 50 pounds and I, uh, passed that marker on the scale years ago? Which specific dissimilarity did you have in mind?)

Grace: Duh, Mom. You have big breasties; I don't.

Of course. Because other than that we'd practically be twinners.

My Little Charming

The other night Eric curled up on my lap, getting in some good snuggletime before bed. In one of his most loquacious moments ever, he shared the following:


"When I grow up I am going to be a prince, like Prince Phillip, and have a real sword. I am not going to be like Prince Eric--he's boring [yeah, I always thought Ariel's prince was a total wuss, too]. Even though my name is Eric. I will still be Eric, but I will be like Prince Phillip. With a sword. And I will fight the naughty guys. And Adalyn will be my princess, because she is beautiful. And she will be the princess, like Princess Aurora, and wear a beautiful dress, and I will be her prince and I will save her from the naughty things, like dragons, and I will kick them and hit them with my sword, and say 'AUUUUUUHHHH,' and they will be so scared. And I will be scared, too, because dragons are scary. And witches are scary. But I will still fight them even if I am scared, because I will be the prince. Princes have to fight. With swords. Sorry, sweetie-mommy, they HAVE to. That's it. The end. And, and, and--Adalyn will be the princess and I will marry that. Okay, that's all."



Who needs Jane Austen with romance like this flying around the house?

The List: Next Generation

Yesterday Mia entertained herself for more than an hour writing all the words she knows how to spell in a wire-bound notebook. I was mightily impressed with the sheer quantity of words she has committed to memory--she filled pages and pages with her sprawling script.

When she was done she brought me a torn-out sheet. "This is a list of my favorite things," my future spelling bee champ informed her doting mama.

The List read as follows:

T-E-M-P-L-E

G-O-D

H-A-N-N-A-H

M-I-L-E-Y

D-E-L-I-A, with M-O-M added in after, in case I missed the reference, because she's smart enough to recognize that her penchant for referring to her mother by middle name is not the norm.

I'm thinking, A.) at least God and temple made it on the list ahead of Disney's Princess of Pop, B.) at least Mom made the list, even in dead last position, and C.) should I be worried that two of her five favorite things are variations of what starts with "Hannah" and ends with "Montana?"

Eavesdropping Outside the Bedroom Door

Mercie: Hello, my name is Mercie and I go potty. I like going potty.

Mia: How do you go potty, Mercie?

Mercie: Like a rock star! Oh yeah!

???

On second thought, some things are better unexplained.

Channeling His Inner Johnny Cash (Bonus Points If You Can Name That Song...)

Mia: I am going to have one boy and one girl, and I will name them Thomas and Honey Bear.

Grace: I am going to have 21 kids and they will all be girls, and I will name them Grace and Grace and Grace and Grace and Grace and Grace and Grace and Grace and Grace...(you get the idea)

Eric: I know! I know! I have the best one! I will have one boy when I grow up and I will name him....SPARKLES!!!

I threw a few more bucks in the therapy fund since it now appears that it will serving my grandchildren, too.

My Pretty Mama

People usually think she's my sister, which is fine until they ask if I'm older. My brother sent these pics from a recent visit home (that's his cute little patootie in the top and bottom picture; my step dad Dale in the middle one), and it reminded me for the millionth time that I have a pretty mama. Who can fear growing old with genes like this? Lucky me :).

Should I Be Worried?

Mom: Why do you like Hannah Montana so much?

Grace: Omigosh, Mom, because she is SOOOO funny! And-- she kisses boys!

I think I'm in trouble.

But of Course...

Recently I was interviewed for a research study on international adoption. One of the questions the researcher asked was whether any of my children seem to struggle with their self-image/esteem because they are A.) Adopted, and B.) Transracially Adopted.

I gave her that "you've-got-to-be-kidding-me" look.

Consider the evidence--

Mia: Gracie, what is something you are really good at?

Grace: Mowing the lawn.

Mom: What?! When have you ever mowed a lawn? Did you 'help' Daddy mow the lawn?

Grace: No. But when I grow up I will mow lawns and I will be VERY good at it.

Pills, Princesses, and Lessons Learned

Last night the girls told me that they went for a litter walk at daycare. They solemnly informed me that they found some of "those bad smoking things." This opened an entire discussion about cigarettes, smoking, and just saying no to harmful practices. As usual, their favorite part of the discussion was role-playing different situations where someone might ask them to do the Bad Thing, and practice different ways of refusing.

Being the astute Mommy that I am, I saw an opportunity to throw in other potential peer pressure situations, involving other potentially harmful things/practices (or things that aren't kosher within our religion or just within our family). What if your friend wanted to show you her underwear? What if she wanted you to drink coffee? What if someone told you to take a toy from the store without paying? You get the idea.

I tried to bring up drugs in a way that a barely 5- and almost 6-year old could understand.

"What if your friend said, 'Hey Mia, want to try some of these cool pills I got? They're like medicine and they make you feel all weird and good.'"

Mia looked confused.

I tried again.

"Hey Mia, my older sister said they're really great. You just pretend they are medicine and swallow them. It will be fun--wanna do it?"

Mia still looked confused.

I stepped out of my role-play to be Mommy.

"Remember how we talked about not pretending anything is medicine, Mia? And only taking medicine when Mom or Dad gives it to you?"

Mia nodded.

I tried one more time.

"So, Mia, do you wanna take these pills? They're super fun."

Mia still looked confused. I decided to terminate this particular role-play for a round of more didactic teaching. Just as I opened my mouth Mia spoke up.

"I just have one question about the pills..."

I nodded encouragingly.

In total barely-5 year old earnestness she whispered in a scarcely-daring-to-hope-voice,

"Will they turn me into a princess?"

Ah, innocence is such a sweet and fleeting thing. Is there a way to wrap a little bubble around my wee ones, and keep them in this place where the only reason anyone could offer a *magic* pill would be setting their inner royalty free? Where a friend asking to see your underwear, or, heaven forbid--offering a sip of coffee--, is the worst temptation you might encounter?

Maybe that's why we guard childhood so fiercely, and enact such harsh penalties against those who destroy youthful innocence. We know how brief--and how very, very precious--these short bits of eternity are.

"Let them be little,
'Cause they're only that way for a while.
Give them hope, give 'em praise,
Give them love every day.
Let 'em cry, let 'em giggle,
Let them sleep in the middle,
Lord, let them be little."

The Junior Princess Turns Four

Mercie's birthday party was last week.

Things I learned:

• When a group of four-year old girls get together, they are completely unintelligible. They sound something like a room full of poodles and parakeets.
• Four year old girls have complex and discriminating tastes. One girl would not eat her cake because the frosting was pink and she doesn't like pink frosting. A short time later I noticed her bringing a chunk of something gummy & squishy to her mouth, and I wondered where she got the fruit snack, since we weren't serving fruit snacks. Then she repeated the motion and I remembered that four year old girls are still firmly in the "booger eating" phase. That ended my appetite for pink frosting. Or cake. Or anything else.
• Four year old girls are much smarter than older girls. I told the girls the story of the Princess who kissed a frog. I put bright red lipstick on the girls and pointed to a computer-generated picture of a frog taped to the wall at four-year old height, and told them they could try kissing the frog. S. and C. were terrified that a prince would pop out and scare them. E. was afraid she would get slimy on her lips. Mercie just wanted somebody else to go first. I finally coaxed them all into doing it, and there were neat rows of little lip prints all over the white edge of the paper around the frog. I asked the girls what they thought of that story and E. said, "It's kind of dumb." Excellent observation! We girls must get stupider as we get older, to believe that the slim possibility of getting a prince is worth kissing a blechy frog.
• A big bag of M&Ms is more than enough to decorate four birthday cakes, with plenty left over. Mia had a rainbow cake, Mercie got the tastefully simple crown and trim you see above (yes, I know pink and brown is so *last year* but four year old girls are not yet that style conscious), Eric is getting a car that will test my M&M artistic abilities, and Grace wants some kind of rockstar image--she's voting for a portrait of Hannah Montana in the medium of candy-covered chocolate--with the last birthday of the bunch she'll be lucky to get a cupcake with sprinkles.
• Four year old girls like to giggle. A lot.
• Four year old girls like to hug and kiss each other. A LOT.
• Four year old girls are just the cutest thing out there. Except Adi, because she's my favorite cutest thing. And Adam, who doesn't want to be my favorite cutest thing anymore. Still, totally adorable.

I'm not sure what Mercie thought, but Mommy had a blast :).

I Think They Have a Future In Politics...

Dinner last night at our house:

Children: Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthday to you! Happy birthday, STINKY-DIAPERHEAD, Happy Birthday to you!

Mom: That doesn't sound very nice.

Silence.

Children: Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthday, BOOGER BRAIN! Happy Birthday to you!

Mom (every child knows this mother-warning tone): C-h-i-i-i-l-d-r-r-r-e-e-e-e-n.....

Children: Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday, LITTLE POOPY BUTT, Happy Birthday to you!

Mom: Okay, the next person who sings something ugly is going to try the new purple soap to clean those ugly words right out of her mouth.

Silence. Whispered consultation.

Children: Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday, SKINNY MOMMY! Happy Birthday to you!

Sharktooth

If you can see past this embarrassingly bad picture, taken with my embarrassingly old camera, because the much better picture I took with my cell phone can't be uploaded, as I'm embarrassingly technologically illiterate,

You will note that my daughter Mia has a double row of teeth.

Two of her adult bottom teeth have grown in behind her baby teeth.

The dentist assures me that this is normal, and since her baby teeth are a weensy bit loose, we're just going to wait for them to fall out. In a few years we'll know if she needs braces or not. Hoping for not.

Personally, I think it's extremely cool that Mia is a five-year old sharktooth. She's rather sensitive about it, and has been keeping her lips together ever since the first tooth broke the gums. I had to threaten and bribe to get the picture.

With one row of teeth or two, she's still the prettiest little newly-minted five year old around.

The March List

What I'm thankful for this month:

HOME TEACHERS!

We have the very best home teachers, for lots and lots of reasons. See the sandbox above? It is filled with sand, with a lid to cover it, thanks to our home teacher Keith. Oh, and all the sandbox toys, too. The best part? As Grace said, "They sneaked to our house and put sand in the sandbox while we were sleeping! Home teachers are so sneaky!" The kids played in the sandbox for FOUR hours last Saturday (which gives Mommy a whole new list of reasons to be thankful...). When I called to thank Keith and Susan for not only providing the stuff, but also doing all the work, Susan said that Keith loaded the sand up after dark so the kids would be surprised the next day with their new sandbox. It worked!

A few weeks ago we went out for a Sunday afternoon walk. The kids were running far ahead when one of the girls accidentally bumped Eric and knocked him down. In what looked like something from a Three Stooges movie, their friend Adalyn couldn't stop her bike in time and ran right into Eric as he bawled on the ground. I ran for him, but our home teachers got there first. Lindsay was down on the ground, Eric in his arms, wiping his face and telling him he was a brave boy, letting Eric wipe his snotty, teary face all over his suit.

My favorite thing about official home teaching visits is watching my kids dogpile the home teachers. Once upon a time we started out with Mom and kids on the long sofa, and the home teachers sat on the loveseat. It has now become Mom alone on the long sofa, with two home teachers on the loveseat, wedged in all around and under small children. If one of my kids can't find a lap, she will drape herself across the top of the loveseat, just to be close to the home teachers.

A recent conversation with Mercie:

Mommy: Who are all the people who love you?
Mercie: Gwace and Mia and Ewic and Mommy and Daddy.
Mommy: Who else?
Mercie: Gwampa and Aunt Sue!
Mommy: Who else?
Mercie: Gwampa Bob. And Emily.
Mommy: Anyone else?
Mercie: HOME TEACHERS!

For some reason lately I've been thinking a lot about the term "ministry" and how we don't often use it to describe what we do in our family relationships and in our church responsibilities, and how maybe we should. The most important ministering seems to be the personal, one-on-one ministry that constituted so much of Jesus Christ's life.

I'm counting us lucky-- okay, blessed-- to have home teachers who follow His example.

Here's to wonderful, caring, "sneaky" home teachers!

Defining the Terms

Grace: Mommy, what does "adore" mean?

Mommy: Love something a really, really lot, like more than anything else.

Grace: Ah. So that's why you say you adore me.

Yup.

Every Kid Should Have An Uncle Dan

Can you tell that they love this guy?

A Tale of Two Babies

http://www.ksl.com/?nid=333&sid=5887942

Abandoned newborn found alive in clothes dryer
March 18th, 2009 @ 9:44am
By Phil Archer, NBC Newschannel
A newborn's cries may have saved her life. The baby, who was just about an hour old, was discovered stuffed in a trash bag and left in an old dryer in southwest Houston, Texas on Tuesday. Investigators said the baby is safe, but they are worried about her mother.

I know, I know, this is an all-too familiar story. Abandoned baby story always make me teary-eyed, and this one was no exception.

The baby weighed six pounds 12 ounces. She was taken to Texas Children's Hospital. The hospital's staff is calling her "Mia."

That's where I started sobbing.

Five years ago I was sitting in my doctor's office, listening to him tell me that a routine pregnancy test (years of infertility and assorted hormone-type drugs make pregnancy tests routine for every dr. visit, regardless of how inane and pointless they may be) was, no shocker, negative. My cell phone rang. It was Yvonne, a caseworker for the agency where we'd adopted my then-9-month old daughter Grace. "Are you sitting down?" She proceeded to tell me that Grace had a biological sister due to be born in a couple of weeks, and their birthmom wanted us to adopt her.

Of course we said yes.

I love telling this story because, really--how often do infertile women do a pregnancy test at the dr's office, read a negative result, and leave the clinic expecting a baby in two weeks?

On April 6, 2004, at just over 6 pounds, my little Mia entered the world, with a full head of fluffy hair, beautiful almond skin, a perfectly shaped nose, and a ferocious stare that has only been honed with time.

And oh, there just aren't words to tell how this girl has blessed my life. I love her big, generous grin that mirrors her birthmom's gorgeous smile. I love her belly laughs. I love her excited giggle when she figures something out or learns something new. I love the way she headbutts me when she wants a hug. I love watching her pull Mercie onto her lap and stroke her hair & face & back and call her "sweet baby." I love Mia's magic 'looking eyes'--that girl has an uncanny knack for finding lost objects. I love telling Mia she's beautiful just so I can see the embarrassed grin pop out on her face. I love spelling out words to her so she can write letters. I love Mia's bravery, doing things that her older sister is too scared to do. Even when it exasperates me, I love that Mia can't bear to see anyone else scared or hurt or sad, and that she'll sacrifice her own treats or comfort or safety to make the world right for someone else. I love her tender heart. She has a gift for kindness, a gift for peace.

I want to say all of that to the other Baby Mia's mommy. I want to tell her that this is what she threw away. This is what she literally tossed in a garbage bag and nearly took away from the world. I'm guessing there's a load of hurting behind a choice like that. Just like my little Mia with her younger sister, I want to hold Baby-Momma on my lap and rock her back and forth and stroke her hair and sing lullabies and call her "sweet baby" and tell her that there is hope, and there is redemption, and babies don't have to be left in garbage bags in abandoned dryers, and even if she doesn't know love in her life, she can choose to give Baby Mia a life filled with it.

Thanks to alert strangers and a civic structure that does still value life, even small six-pound, hours-old life, the other Baby Mia will be fine. I will sit at my computer and say a quick prayer for Baby Mia and those caring for her and loving her, and a little longer prayer for Baby-Momma, because wherever she is, she needs it.

I'll wipe the tears away and go back to the birthday party I was planning for my own precious Mia, thanking God for the gift of this sweet girl and the daily miracles she brings into my life.

The name Mia means "much-longed for child."

The Corpse in My Closet

Warning: photo illustrations in this post are not for the squeamish or faint of heart.

I have a little secret, which up until now was only known to one other person. Why I'm broadcasting it to all of bloggersville I do not know...therapy? sympathy? snickers? boredom?

Here's the deal: I hate mice.

I mean, I really, REALLY loathe mice. A lot. More than just about anything.

This is not a problem so long as mice obey the rules and stay in their wild and natural OUTDOOR habitat. Unfortunately, some maverick mice exploited a small crack they found in the garage floor and ended up INDOORS, specifically, inside my basement food storage room. And let's face it--a basement food storage room is pretty much Mouse Nirvana. Just like Lehi called to all of his family to come taste the fruit of the Tree of Life, my rodent invaders apparently invited the clan over for a tasting fair, compliments of Wendy's grocery stash.

My specific complaint with mice is their tendency to bring out the most freaky aspects of my character. I pride myself on maintaining control in all situations, keeping a cool head under stress, and dealing with life in a mature fashion. Mice blow that all to heck. Even dead mice. The one and only time I dealt with a dead mouse in a mousetrap all by myself was not a pretty scene. It took me three days to talk myself into doing it, which was enough time for the mouse to start decomposing and smelling rank(er). I changed into old clothes that could be thrown away afterward. I tied plastic grocery bags over my shoes so that I wouldn't accidentally track rodent-germs anywhere else. I used three garbage bags--one to put the mouse & trap in, another to put the first bag in, and yet another to hold that double-packaged parcel before dumping it all in the outdoor garbage bin. I used latex gloves, but still couldn't bear the thought of picking up the mousetrap, so I found kitchen tongs--very long kitchen tongs--and tossed them in the garbage after The Deed was completed. If I'd had a spare Hazmat suit sitting around the house, you can bet I would have suited up. It took ten minutes to get down the half-flight of stairs into the basement, mostly repeating positive affirmations out loud, like: "I can do this, I can do this, I can do this, I can do this--for crying out loud, Wendy, get a grip! It's just a dead mouse. YUCK! A dead mouse!!! I can do this, I can do this..." By the time I got to the mouse I was hyperventilating. And crying. And feeling extremely grateful that no one could see me. I only screamed a tiny bit, though, so I think the positive affirmations worked.

Loads of De-Con and cases of mousetraps later, not to mention several sealed-off holes in the garage floor and the passage of nearly a year, I have just recently started to feel semi-comfortable going down to the basement again. It's been about ten months since the last mouse sighting; I'm starting to hope that my home has been taken off the list of top-ten rodent vacation spots. The thought of cleaning out the room is a bit overwhelming. For the past few weeks I've been making a weekly trip down to the storage room, filling one garbage bag at a time with junk, and hauling it out. Just knowing that mice have been there is gross, but since there aren't any actual mice, I've actually been handling the cleaning task with a modicum of maturity and sanity.

Until today. I pulled out a bag of pasta and came eye-to-eye with this:

Yeah, that would be a mostly-decomposed mouse corpse, surrounded by mouse feces and I-don't-want-to-know-what-else.

You bet your sweet booty I screamed. Loudly. I made it up that half-flight of stairs in one leap, and that's no small feat for a chubby, huffy, nearing-middle-age Mommy.

I won't tell you what it took to get me back down there to take the picture, but it involved ingesting pills that made me feel all floaty and nice and even able to think about mice with only a little bit of shuddering and whimpering. This is SOOO not cute.

On the other hand, these folks have the right idea. If only their aim were better.

I think my plan at this point is to lay big ol' cinder blocks across the doorway to the storage room, with thick layers of mortar between them. The mouse vault can be sealed off from the rest of the house. I'll keep food storage items in the laundry room. The rodents can rest in peace and I can give the happy pills back to B.

The Eleventh Commandment

Thou shalt not eat thy boogers. Thou DEFINITELY shalt not eat thy sister's boogers.

Chalk up another on the list of things I never thought I'd hear myself say...

The New Commandments

As any parent knows, there comes a time when the family rules have to be updated, expanded, clarified, and otherwise revised to meet the changing needs--and outrageous imaginations--of the family. We have reached that point. Here are a few of our New Commandments.

1.) Thou shalt not open the blinds in Mommy's bedroom to see if it snowed when Mommy is getting dressed. Especially during the split second that she is completely naked. And most especially if the next-door neighbor has just stepped out to let the dog out a mere four feet away from said window.

2.) Thou shalt not take it into thy little heads to go play at the park without first consulting Mommy. Same rule applies for going to Jackson's house, or Adalyn's house, or Timmy & Hallie's house, or ANYWHERE outside the boundaries of our yard.

3.) Thou shalt not yank down the window coverings in thy room and use the curtain rod as your weapon in a 'swordfight' with thy sister, especially when the sister is an unwilling participant in a one-sided swordfight. Nor shalt thou use this same curtain rod to gouge long skid marks in the wall after Mommy puts an end to the swordfight.

4.) Thou shalt not tell the babysitter--or anyone else--, "I like to tickle my privates because they are so tickly, but Mommy says there is no tickling privates until we are married. I'm going to get married when I'm very old, like fifteen."

5.) Thou shalt not strip down naked, put a bookshelf on the bed and climb on it to reach the ceiling fan, use the ceiling fan to swing out into the room and drop onto a pile of blankets and pillows in the middle of the floor. And when Mommy breaks up the party, thou shalt not threaten to move to Daddy's house, because honey--if you think Mommy didn't go for the ceiling fan gymnastics, just try it on Daddy's ceiling fan.

6.) Thou shalt not attempt going to the temple on a special date with Mom looking like the Whore of Babylon after pilfering Mommy's makeup bag to score glittery purple eyeshadow, clumpy mascara, and bright red lipstick.

7.) Thou shalt not wake up at 3 am and whine & cry to sleep in Mommy's bed. And when Mommy takes pity on you, thou DEFINITELY shalt not pee all over Mommy's brand new sheets that she just put on a few hours earlier, most especially when she was waiting until the next paycheck to get the waterproof mattress protector.

8.) Thou shalt not tell the daycare teacher that Mommy got divorced so she could marry Grandpa.

9.) Thou shalt not steal all of thy sisters' money. When Mommy catches you, thou shalt not quickly stuff said money down thy diaper in a desperate bid to keep it safe.

10.) Thou shalt not refer to thy mother as "Oldilocks," no matter how accurate or how tempting it may be.

Just another fun-filled week at our house.

Deconstructing Gender Difference, Part Two

A.) Eric is my only boy. Eric also refuses to potty train. At all. He's going to be the only kindergartener still in diapers, but that's a different story.

Yesterday while getting ready for church--

Eric (dancing around the room naked): I have a penis! I have a penis! I ha-a-a-a-ve a penis!

Mommy: Yes, Eric you do have a penis. Now settle down and come get dressed.

Eric: Mercie has a penis, too.

Mommy: No, Mercie is a girl, so Mercie has a... (wait, let it come)...

Eric: A penis!

Mommy: No, girls don't have penises. What do girls have that boys don't have?

Eric: Underwear!

Only at our house.

B.) After church we went for a walk. Everyone was still in their Sunday clothes, so the girls were twirling around and pretending to be princesses.

Mommy: Wow, Mia, you look just like a princess in that twirly dress.

Eric: (pouting) I want to be a princess, too.

Mommy: How 'bout you can be a prince? A very handsome prince who fights the bad guys and saves the princesses?

Eric: No! I just want to be a princess and twirl!

Mia: Mommy, I think Eric is not exactly a boy.

Mommy: What do you mean?

Mia: I think he is like a girl-boy.

Mommy: What is a girl-boy?

Mia: It's like a boy, because he has a penis, but it's like a girl because he only wants to be a princess and stuff. So he's a girl-boy.

Seriously, with kids like these, who needs cable?

The Poop Story

For those of you who asked...

One day my sister Carole decided to make brownies from a mix. She tossed the mix box in the garbage and poured the brownie batter into the pan. While the brownies were baking, my brother Dan, who was two and potty training, had an accident on the living room floor. A stinky accident. As the oldest, it fell on me to clean up the accident, which I did, depositing the uh, deposit in the garbage, where it happened to land right on top of the brownie box.

12-year old Rob came by to put something in the garbage. When he saw poopy sitting on top of a brownie box, he assumed it was actually brownie batter, so he hooked a big ol' fingerful and popped it in his mouth.

Yes, he realized right away that it wasn't brownies. He spent the next half hour in the bathroom, gagging, retching, throwing water in his mouth with both hands--and he told us later that the taste still wouldn't leave for hours. Poor Rob. Only I wasn't saying "Poor Rob" at the time; I was standing outside the bathroom door laughing my guts out. Not so much standing as falling over with hilarity.

It definitely didn't end there, as the story entered that realm of family lore that ensures it will never die (and posting it on my blog is now further enhancing the immortality of Rob's poop tasting). At any family reunion someone will inevitably take a bit of something and announce that it tastes like crap, to which someone else will promptly call Rob over to determine whether that's a fair judgment. When Rob became engaged to his beautiful wife Teresa his beloved sisters tried to talk her out of it by pointing out that not only was she too good for him (true), but also that, given where his mouth had been, she might want to think twice before signing on for a lifelong relationship with Rob and his poopy mouth. And when someone once called me a potty mouth, my sister Carole didn't skip a beat in responding, "No, that would be Rob."

On Sunday I shared this story with the Primary kids. As you would imagine, they loved it. Afterward we talked about how Satan lies to us, and many of his lies are attempts to feed us crap, making us believe that really yucky and nasty things are actually something good. The latest issue of the Conference Ensign had some excellent examples of ways that Satan tries to deceive us.

The scary thing is, if you keep eating it you start to acquire a taste for it, and pretty soon you can't tell the difference between poopy and chocolate.

No matter how much it looks like brownies, it's still just a pile of crap.

It Warms This Writer-Mommy's Heart...

Last night I found this note on my pillow. For those of you who cannot read kindergartenese, I will translate:

GUMMOMGIVEUSGUM

In literate adult speak, that would be, "Gum. Mom, give us gum."

Yes, I am reinforcing a shameless lack of civility (you'll note the lack of "please" anywhere in the note), but I promptly slipped gum under the bedroom doors.

You're never too young to learn that written words are powerful things.

Lemons and Lemonade

I have a great job, a wonderful job, a job that in many ways is absolutely perfect. In a million years I probably never would have pegged myself as a good fit for this job, or this job as a good fit for me, but surprisingly, it is.

However, nowhere in the job description did it mention that I would need to travel periodically. If it had, I might not have applied, because I have four children under the age of five--and that is very young-- and leaving them all day at daycare is hard enough; leaving them for a few days at a time is tortuous. Mostly for me, not for them. They have Emily (oh, the prayers I pray giving thanks for Emily!), so Mommy going away on a airplane for a few days is cause for celebration at our house. If you don't believe me just come hang out with us the night before I leave. It's a non-stop party in the kids' room, bouncing off the ceiling and singing loud extemporaneous hymns of praise that tomorrow is THE DAY they will get Emily all to themselves and she will actually sleep at our house and be there when they wake up and take them places and give them baths and let them have juice at every meal and wear summertime pajamas in the winter and all the other privileges that super-meanie mommy curtails.

A few weeks ago I was making travel plans for another trip and feeling kind of blue about it, when inspiration struck. I love temples + temples are all over the world = I can visit the closest temple whenever I travel, and make a game out of seeing how long my list will grow! Wahoo! Suddenly required travel just became loads more fun! It really worked--every time I started to feel sad about this trip I'd just remind myself that I would be visiting a new temple.

There is a new list on my blog: my list of temples. In order to count them, it has to be a temple that I've actually visited and done ordinance work in--the list would be twice as long if I counted open houses or weddings or even temple dedications, but since the point of temples is service and worship, I'm using that as the guideline for what goes on the list.

It's well after midnight. I'm typing this on my laptop in a hotel room a couple of thousand miles away from my kids. And I'm smiling because I just got back from the Raleigh North Carolina temple and it was marvelous and wonderful and precious, and everything I love about the gospel and the Savior, all tucked into one small, beautiful, extraordinary white building.

I've never acquired much of a taste for lemons, but I'm really kinda partial to lemonade. God is so good.

More True Than You Know

This morning I awoke to the sound of child voices wafting from the bedroom where all the kids had piled together for a 'slumber party' last night. Grace and Mia were leading the group in a rousing version of "I Am a Child of God," and this wasn't the version we learned in Primary.

" I AM A CHILD OF GOD," screeched my darlings. "AND HE HAS SENT ME HERE! HAS GIVEN ME AN EARTHLY HOME, WITH PARENTS KINDA WEIRD!"

No hint of irony in their voices.

I didn't bother to correct them. As far as I can tell, their version pretty much nails it.

The Criminal Mastermind

A few days ago I woke from a cold-and-flu induced sleep to a sound that wasn't possible. A door that is kept locked by orders of the Supreme Commander, a.k.a. Mommy, was opening and closing.

I got up to check. It was unlocked. Mumbling something that could have been "Well, I thought it was locked but I guess not..." I reset the lock and went back to bed. A few minutes later I heard the same door opening and closing, this time accompanied by suspiciously giggle-like sounds. The logical assumption would be that the kids unlocked the door, but this was completely impossible. The only keys for said lock are kept in an ultra-secret, very-nearly-childproof location, and there had been no security breaches of late.

I stumbled back out of bed and followed the giggles to a very proud and slightly nervous Grace. "Did you open this door?" Huge grin and huge nod. "HOW did you unlock this door?" Grace held up a hair clip she pulled out of her newly-straightened hair. "With this." "How in the world did you know to do that?" "Um, I just thinked it with my mind and it worked. My hairclips are magic, maybe."

Maybe it was the cold/flu stupor, but I just stood there and grinned at my dimpled darling eldest daughter. I had a little flash-forward picture of all the hard knocks life will throw at Ms. Grace--all the ways she'll be held back, held down, or held aside. She'll experience being hemmed in, restrained by false expectations--her own as frequently as other people's. She'll know the frustrations of doors that seem to be chained and padlocked shut to her.

And I knew in that moment that she'll be just fine.

A couple of magic hairclips and her 'thinking mind,' and Miss Gracie will take on the world.

Poor world; my money's on Grace.

Sometimes It's Better Not to Ask

Mia (mumbling into her cereal bowl): Just call my name Gracie. Then I can be bad, bad, BAD.

???

Deconstructing the Anatomy of Gender, or Just Another Dinner Conversation at Our House

Grace: If Mia cut off all her hair, she would turn into a boy.

Mia: Yeah!

Mommy: No, she'd still be a girl even if she cut all her hair off. Do you know why?

Grace: Because Heavenly Father made her to be a girl!

Mommy: Um, yeah, so that means her body would still be a girl body even if her hair was cut off, because she'd still have--

Grace: I know! I know! Eyelashes!

Mia: Shoes!

Mommy: Uh, not exactly.

Grace: Shiny berry lip gloss!

Mia: Knees!

Mommy: It's a part of your body that will help you have a baby when you are older...

Pause.

Grace: Oh. THAT. Hey, if Eric had long, curly hair he would turn into a girl!

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Grace: Why is Mommy banging her head on the wall?

When Toddlers Are Wiser Than They Know

Mom: Eric, are you going to go on a mission when you grow up?
Eric: Yeah!
Mom: What do missionaries do, exactly?
Eric: Grow up.

Casey

Casey was beautiful, smart, fun, confident, and happy. I met Casey at a point in my life when I rarely felt like any of those things; I could have hated her. But Casey’s great gift—the reason I love her, and the reason I will miss her—is that she made everyone around her feel beautiful and smart and fun, confident and happy. You couldn’t spend a minute with Casey without feeling better about yourself. If someone like Casey sees worth in you—well, you must be something pretty special.

Lucky angels.

Casey, we miss you.

Sitting in the Mud

Not too long ago Eric was having a bad day. He compounded his bad day by being mean to Mercie, which promptly earned him a punishment and scolding from Mom. Because he is three, and because this makes sense when you are three, he decided that plunking his butt down in the muddy snow and refusing to come into the warm house, while screaming at the top of his lungs, was the best response.

Being the coldhearted Momma that I am, I shrugged and told him to suit himself.

Mia gave me the most withering glare that a four-year old outraged older sister can give. "He's CRYING," she told me, in an accusing tone of voice usually reserved for ax murderers and terrorists. "He'll stop when he's ready," replied the Mother of the Year.

Mia glared at me again. Then she marched over to the muddy snowbank, gave me one more accusing--and slightly defiant--look, plunked her butt down right next to Eric, and began to cry with him.

Now let me digress for just a minute with another story. When I was 19 I thought I was in love, like really, really in love with the most perfect guy. Being 19 and incredibly stupid, I got mad over something dumb and dumped him. Within a week or so I realized that I'd made a foolish mistake, and I wanted him back. The only problem was, he didn't want me back. In the long run, with the hindsight of years, this was a good thing. But at the time, at age 19, it broke my heart. After we had the "I-want-to-get-back-together-but-you-don't" talk, I went back to my apartment, walked in my bedroom, threw myself face down on the bed and bawled. And I mean BAWLED. Massive, gushing sobs. This was, after all, the End of the World. Gradually I became aware that I wasn't alone. Confused, I looked up and saw, through a curtain of hair and buckets of tears, my friend Melanie. She had seen me come home looking sad and my roommates let her in to my room, and she was sitting on my bed, rubbing my back, and bawling with me. And I mean BAWLING. In typical girl fashion we ended up laughing and crying and hugging and crying some more, and then laughing some more, and then eating ice cream.

That was the first time in my life that I really started to understand the whole concept of charity, and what it means to mourn with those that mourn (Mosiah 18:9). After 30-some years on the planet I'm still learning what Mia knew instinctively--sometimes we just need somebody to sit down in the mud with us and cry. Don't get me wrong--acts of service are needed, appreciated, and most definitely part of the plan. But sometimes it's easier to keep our hands and feet clean, and our emotions safe, by signing up for a frozen dinner in Relief Society and ignoring the 'walking wounded' around us.

Which brings me to the real point of my post: I'm sad. I'm sad because my friends are sad, because they are suffering real pain right now. I have two lovely neighbors who are losing their battles with cancer, and it sucks. I love them and I love their families, and this just hurts.

Amy, Tyler, Aiden, Sam, Adi, and Mike; David, Sue, Gary, Katie, and all the others--I'm sitting the mud with you. And I'm crying.

When it's time to stop crying I'll bring the ice cream.
Love you.

Randomly For No Reason At All

Here is a link to a devotional address given recently by one of my very favorite people, and one of the best mentors I know in the art of discipleship:

http://speeches.byu.edu/?act=viewitem&id=1785&tid=2

Don't you just love the gentle wisdom that seeps through the text? Enjoy!

When Three-Year Olds Teach Gospel Doctrine

Sunday afternoon the kids made cookies. This was a glorious activity, which took most of the afternoon, made a HUGE mess in the kitchen, churned out a few billion pans of cookies, and provided Mommy with more than a few opportunities to duck behind the counter and choke back the giggles. Case in point:

Eric: I don't like Jordan. He's mean. He hits.

Mercie: Ewic, if somebody hits you, you hit them back. Dat's how we follow Jesus in our house.

Grace: Mercie! That's not a truth! That's not what Jesus says.

Mercie: Oh Gwacie, you are just kidding me to deaf.

The January List

Wow--it's a big one. In no particular order, here are the things I'm feeling grateful for this month:

• Johnny Cash. Mostly because I'm listening to "The Man Comes Around" right now and remembering all the reasons I like the Man in Black.
• Junie B. Jones! Discovering Ms. Junie B. with my own kindergartener and pre-kindergartener is the mostest funnest ever!
• Lisa's wonderful Wednesday dinners.
• I have the best visiting teachers. See above.
• Texting at 2am and 4am and 6am, because I know if my phone goes off in those wee morning hours it's one of two people, both of whom are happy reasons to be awake.
• Friends who do such a good job loving and taking care of us that my kids name their dolls after them (ahem, Alicia & Michelly).
• the gym. Nice people at the gym who don't laugh at me.
• I finally learned to drive through an automated car wash. I was so proud of myself that I kept peeking out to the garage at the gleaming, sparkly-clean shine. This has been years coming. It's a far cry from the days when my sisters and I would dump our quarters in the car wash box and use the high pressure hoses to go after each other. THAT'S the way to have a water fight.
• Draper Temple Open House.
• Students. I know, I know, I say this every month. Let's make that, FORMER students. Because this has just been a good couple of weeks that way. David stopped by my office to chat for awhile, Eric joined us for the Clueless orgy, and Tina took me out to lunch. I love having a job that allows me to know wonderful people!
• Fasting. And prayers. This hasn't been a good month for my friends Krista, Casey, Matt, and Sydney, all of whom are battling some form of the dreaded C-word. I'm grateful there is something I can do, and that we have Someone wiser and stronger and smarter to turn to when life is rough and doesn't make sense.
• My sister Smoochie is coming to visit!!!
• Diapers! I may moan about Eric's lack of interest in toilets, but I was reminded last night that it could be MUCH worse. He was running around naked before bedtime and I was thinking "Gee, I'm so glad that at least he's old enough that I don't have to worry about accidents..." and yep--massive, messy pooping all over the kitchen floor and all over Eric. Gracie volunteered to help clean up the floor, gagging and choking while saying, "I can do this. Even though it's disgusting, I can do this. Because I am brave." Dang straight. You are one brave little mama.
• Sunshine! Finally, a break from the endless snow.
• Seeing Chris last week. Because feeling 18 again is priceless.
• Warm AND cute pajamas. Thank you, Mom!
  

New Year. New Goals. New Post.

I actually, really, truly do have four real goals for 2009. I thought about posting them so that stating them publicly would force me to be more accountable, and the thought of embarrassing myself by failing to achieve them in front of my faithful blog audience (thank you, Mom & Betsy) would be a strong motivator to endure.

But the thought of keeping y'all updated on my efforts to get in shape or clean out my basement makes me want to pass out from sheer boredom, and I imagine you'd feel the same way about reading it.

In the interests of simplicity and order, I'm taking a page from several blogging buddies (what--you expected original thought?!) and posting New Year's Resolutions that I can readily keep, and that YOU can readily check up on.

1.) Stay single.

2.) Expand my reportoire of "breakfasts" that can be eaten out of a ziploc bag in the car on the way to daycare.

3.) At least once a month, skip the gym and the treadmill in favor of curling up with a book and polishing off a half pan of brownies.

4.) Fine tune the art of hypocrisy and take my self-righteousness to a new level by setting aside a two-minute meditation period in church each Sunday to reflect on all the ways I'm doing better than at least half the people there.

5.) Use my blog to regularly insult/poke fun/otherwise torture Brain Drain. WHY? Why??? Why do I have this constant sick compulsion, like an itch that must be scratched? Because I'm just a lousy friend. And a bad, bad person. And also because his wife helps--er, I mean, LETS--me. And it's fun. And his kids like it. And did I mention it's fun?

There you have it. 2009 will be the year of the not-so-new, not-so-improved Wendy.

Praying for Those We Love, Or Something Like That

Last night, in a moment of blinding inspiration, I suggested that we do something a little different for family prayer. Instead of one person voicing the prayer for all of us, we would take turns praying, giving thanks for each member of the family and asking God to bless each person individually. Brilliant-Mommy had visions of a sweet, bonding experience as the children tenderly expressed their love for each other in prayer.

It worked for a few minutes.

Then it was Mia's turn. "Dear Heavenly Father, why am I thankful for Eric?"

Mommy interrupted in a whisper, "No, Mia--YOU think of reasons you are thankful for Eric and tell Heavenly Father in your prayer."

l-o-o-o-o-o-o-ng pause.

"Dear Heavenly Father, why exactly am I thankful for Eric? 'Cuz I don't know."

Poor boy. On the other hand, I had some sympathy for Mia. Even as adult I've had my own moments of wondering about some of my siblings...

The Meanest Mommy in the World

Last night at dinner:

Grace: Bibbity, bobbity, boo--I turned you into a nice mommy!

Me: Wow--it worked so fast. Must be because I was already a nice mommy.

Grace: No, you weren't. But you are now because I cast a spell on you.

Me: Hmmm...well, what exactly do nice mommies do?

Grace: Nice mommies, when their children ask them if they can have mac & cheese for dinner, they say yes.

At least I know where I fall short.

When a Child Prays

Three-year old Mercie gave the family prayer last night.

"Dear Heavenly Father, we're thankful for juice and snacks and cookies at church. We thankful to Primary, except Eric. We're thankful for playing in Uncle Dan's room. Thank you that Mommy is a witch. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen."

There is a story behind this, but it's so much better left as is, don't you think?