Daily Gratitude - Day 17

Have you ever played Would You Rather? It’s totally my kind of game and I’ve played it my whole life, even before I owned a copy of the very silly board game. I recall spending many hours debating the merits of this vs. that and being spectacularly arrogant with some of my answers. Somewhere, in my tangled heap of embarrassing memories, I remember declaring to a date that of all my senses, hearing was the most important to me. It was during the 90s and I was probably wearing Doc Martens and sitting in a coffee shop and I give you that image so you can full appreciate the dramatic moment. I went on and on about how important music was to me and how I would rather lose my sense of smell, sight, touch and taste before I lived a life without hearing music.

For real. Oh to be 19 again (never!).

I haven’t thought about which sense is the most important in my life for a while but, today, my sense of smell wins the prize. My sniffer helped prevent Daniel from burning down the house.

Remember how I had that Christmas project that I really needed to focus on and finish and that I have poor multi-tasking skills? Well, I was working on that very thing today and really doing my best negligent parenting. The TV was on a morning cartoon...Daniel was somewhere...and I was at the computer working on a deadline (it had to be done today).

I didn’t hear the microwave open. I didn’t register the sounds of the buttons beeping or the microwave starting.  So much for my desperate dependency on hearing, eh?

What I did notice was when the overwhelming smell of smoke reached my nostrils. Then, my brain zoomed away from my project and my eyes noticed the smoky room. That makes two senses that I would normally prioritize over smell that sort of failed me. It was smell that saved the day.

I ran over to the whirring microwave and pushed the Open Door button.  More smoke billowed out of the small box stemming from a source of black ooze.  I hollered for Daniel, who was no where to be seen. It didn’t look like metal so that wasn’t responsible for the mess (we have dealt with that before as well.  Older boys have learned to take foil off of pizza if they want to reheat it). After taking out the circular tray and really inspecting the charred semi-solid pile, I deduced that it was a severely overcooked package of Pillsbury mini pancakes.  I guess Daniel was hungry.

He must have gone to the big freezer and pulled out the pancakes.  His older brothers do this all the time. He obviously put them in the microwave. Again, he must have learned this through observation. I don’t know how much time he put on the microwave but 26 minutes and 14 seconds were left on the timer.  The instructions on the packet say to heat them for 45 seconds. He was very, very thorough in the cooking of his pancakes.

The entire house smells like smoke. It is cold but doors and windows have had to be open for hours to try and mitigate this stench.  But, if it wasn’t for that stench, and the amazing ability of my body to sense it, who knows the extent of damage a two year-old and a little package of pancakes might have caused.

Take that, 19 year-old, Lucy.

Daily Gratitude - Day 11

You know...I sort of thought doing this daily gratitude thing would make the month seem full of hearts and rainbows. Isn’t a happy heart a grateful heart? Well..yesterday, in spite of lasagne tasting better fully cooked, the day was quite awful. I wasn’t feeling grateful at all.

Mondays are early-release day from school so the boys were home early, around 3 o’clock. Fall sports have finished and Winter sports not quite begun and so there was nothing for us to do or be in town for. I thought it would feel nice to be home and not be running around in the car.

Perhaps I should have sent them outside. Perhaps I should have organized a board game. Really, other than the 2 year-old, I don’t feel the need to keep an eye on my kids while they play. And when the older boys are home, my eye frequently leaves the 2 year-old as well. With nothing planned and no where to go, they went to play in the basement. Unsupervised, calamity struck.

Literally. Into the flat screen T.V. downtairs that is only a year-old. A mini-football helmet was errantly thrown or accidentally batted into (the story isn’t confidently told) the TV and the screen is cracked. The TV no longer turns on.

I heard the “oh no”s before I knew what caused them. I closed my eyes, prayed for patience and went downstairs. My blood felt like boiling.

Weak excuses. Mea culpas. I tried not to lose it.

“Go upstairs. I don’t want to see any of you. Start cleaning something and get your homework done. I feel so, so mad.” I quietly and probably scarily seethed to them. I was proud of myself for not screaming but I think my low, growly, batman threat might have been equally as scary to them.

They scurried upstairs to their bedrooms and I just got more and more mad the more I looked around.  Messes. Food that doesn’t belong downstairs. Xbox games left out. That awful cracked screen.

Even though Seth wasn’t downstairs when the accident occurred, he had actually broken his phone earlier so he knew that his own irresponsibility contributed to my dark mood. He wisely disappeared too.

It was only 5 o’clock and already mostly dark outside.  Jay wasn’t home yet and after texting, I knew he wouldn’t be home for hours. I decided to teach the boys something about perspective.

We’re so comfortable. So blessed. We have the things we need and a lot of the things we want. Our home is large, surrounded by space and trees and we all get to do so many things that cost a lot of money. They have iPods and video games and bikes and nike elite socks and none of it seems to mean that much to them. At least, they don’t seem to understand that a lot of kids aren’t nearly as fortunate.

So, although I was irate and wanted all of their annoying-breaking-things-selves away from me, my decision to make them go without dinner wasn’t just me being cruel. I wanted them to be hungry. I wanted their perspective to include the thought that maybe they shouldn’t take all of their comfort and material possessions for granted. Maybe, if they were hungry for one night, they would remember to take care of their stuff and stop breaking my and Jay’s stuff. Maybe, in their want for food, they would be humbled. Look at me playing God.

They stayed in their rooms the rest of the night. I heard some giggling here and there and Sam let me know there was some stealthy gathering of all of them in his room for Halloween candy and I made them a big bacon, eggs and hashbrown breakfast this morning and all is well but do you want to know what really changed over night? Me. My perspective. Some sleep...perhaps some elevated hormones approaching more sane levels got me remembering that things are things and people are people and my kids are my beloveds. Maybe they’ll be more careful with their stuff. Maybe not. They are boys and they are so wild sometimes so I know things will continue to be ruined and I will continue to lose it and be mad and dole out my punishments. But, today, I’m so grateful for nights’ rests and boys who are sorry and anger gone from my body. I hate feeling angry. I love feeling peace.  Everything has its opposite and anger and peace are definitely opposites. So, I suppose I’m grateful for anger even though I hate it. Because, I love, love, love peace.

Are You What You Are Or What?

Did you hear that Edie Brickell hit Paul Simon last week and their domestic dispute got them both arrested? I suppose I’ve thought about Paul Simon once or twice in the last few years as he has many hit songs that still get played here and there but I hadn’t thought about Edie Brickell since her big hit back in the early 90s. Her “What I Am” is quite catchy and her name resurfacing transferred her long ago hit into a bit of an ear worm this week. It was triggered again this morning when I miraculously managed to drop Seth off at his middle school before the morning bell and actually got to watch him walk up to a group of friends before driving off instead of hoping he’d pick up his gait to avoid yet another tardy.

Does it make me creepy that I wish I could spy on my children when they are away from me?  Seth recently turned 14 and there are so many things I love about this teenage stage but his new-for-me preoccupation with his friends and my limited ability to know who all these friends are and what they do and all the stuff that goes along with that takes up more space in my mind than I imagine is healthy. Sometimes, after visiting his Instagram page or clicking on the profile of his friends who like or comment on his pictures, I am left reeling. Teenage girls in bikinis for their profile pic. Drug references. Vulgarity. And they’re proudly showing it!

I’ve talked to him about social media standards and safety and what I expect from his end a few times but he’s a boy, nay, a teenage boy, and he seems to have inherited my aversion to talking about anything stressful so his ability to address my concerns vocally is kind of limited. What’s really interesting is right when I’m on the edge of total freaked-outness, a reassurance washes over me that he’s fine. All evidence points to him being a likable, friendly, funny boy who isn’t doing anything wrong. Do I wish he had a picture of a temple and some scriptural reference on his Instagram bio? Yes, yes, I do. But I need to acknowledge whatever comfort I’ve been given that he is who he tells me he is: a good boy.

Perhaps my cynicism or whatever negative emotion that causes the doubt comes from the knowledge of my own duplicity. I have days when I omit my lazy hours, binge sugar eating, toddler neglect or whatever less-than-proud behavior from the record. Those moments tend not to be reflected in the pictures that I take, conversations I engage in or recountings of our day that I give to Jay. In all honesty, when I used to blog more, I felt like there was a more accurate over-all picture of who and what I am. Now, I can kind of craft whatever image flatters me best.

Still, I know that my own online image isn’t false or made-up - only incomplete.  I suppose that is the root of the worry. What am I missing?  Most days, school and all that jazz consumes the bulk of my school-age children’s hours of the day. I don’t even think that schedule is odd or wrong. We are, after all, preparing these growing souls to eventually be independent enough to go away so it would be more weird to keep them by my side all day long. And yet...I wonder. What gets said in that group of friends whose circle he happily joins? Do his friends get the more real side of him or do we get it at home? Are the two sides even that different?

Oh, my goodness, I am out of practice thinking at this slow, blogger pace. I can’t remember what point I set out to make or why I felt like it was important enough to break the silence but I’m going to leave it as is. In conclusion, (my kids are learning how to wrap up an essay and I see this a lot in their writing) I worry too much. Edie warned me about that.

P.S. After much thought I decided that I’d rather blog publicly, stalker potential and all, than not blog privately. We’ll see. I’m hoping it’s not too late to try and write again.

When Two Rights Make A Right

Jay and I get tired of playing the heavy in Seth's life. We both understand the parenting concept of finding and focusing on the positive, encouraging better behavior by rewarding the good rather than punishing or complaining about the bad but I think we both struggle in its execution. I am the homework/grades, piano practice and room cleaning nag and Jay is his scoutmaster and Deacon's quorum advisor and we both feel that he hears the words, "You need to..." leave our mouths much too often. Basketball, in a way, has become a way for us to dabble in the art of positive reinforcement. We love the confidence he has gained with improved skills and we are impressed by his daily work ethic and dedication. He loves the sport. Period. Playing it. Watching it. Practicing it. Reading about it. Dreaming about it. Other than it dominating all of his free time and the cause of subsequent homework/piano/chore/scout nagging, basketball is a very good thing for all of us.

His free throw still needs work but he made it in this shot!

He's got a great outside shot even though he usually ends up playing post because of his height.

An earlier tournament from two weeks ago (this one was Saturday only) that his middle school team won.

Post tournament breakfast at Denny's.  Seth benefits when eating with his gluten-free dad and brother because he gets their toast. He loves sourdough.

For those reasons, Jay and I were both inclined to say, "Yes" when an opportunity arose to compete in a basketball tournament down in Albuquerque the weekend after Christmas. The team was a mix of players from both junior high schools and beside the fact that he would be able to continue to practice and play, we thought it would be a great chance to meet and befriend some of the boys he will undoubtedly know next year in high school. Because my parents would be in town and the tournament was a Saturday/Sunday event, Jay was the logical choice as the parent who would accompany him and bring him home Saturday night. I didn't really know any of the other parents well enough to send Seth with them and even though I'm fairly certain Seth wouldn't have chosen to play on Sunday anyway, not having to sit on the sidelines and watch others play the game he loves without him made his choice a bit easier to make.

His team won their first game but got clobbered in their second. That defeat put them in a bracket that required a 9:00 pm Saturday night game. The momager in charge assumed Seth would miss this evening game due to the 3.5 hour drive home but Jay didn't even hesitate with his response. If Seth was going to sacrifice his desires by not playing on Sunday, than he would make it possible for him to play every game he could on Saturday, even if it meant getting home in the middle of the night.

With their previous game ending at 1:00 pm and having already checked out of their hotel room, Jay and Seth had seven or so hours to kill. They went to the mall. They went to a movie. They drove to see the Albuquerque temple. They tried to nap in Jay's truck. Jay texted me a few time with pictures and warned me that they were both starting to feel a cold coming on (because there are still a few more days left in December to shore up its "Worst month of 2013" title).

Seth played tough and ended up on the ground a few times. He was more upset about the hole in his beloved basketball culottes (my word) than the painful raspberry on his knee.

In front of the beautiful Albuquerque temple.

At his happy place. Looking at all things Nike.

I wished them luck and tried to stay awake to learn the outcome of their night game. At 10:08, Jay texted, "56-20 loss. On our way home." A disappointing loss for sure, but the team they played was bigger in size and more polished from practicing and playing together for a year. The loss ended the tournament for the entire team, making the Sunday play issue obsolete - which was a relief to me. I wish it didn't matter but I hate the whole Sunday and sports issue. I would like to avoid the conflict entirely, even if it means losing.

Tournament team. I only know the names of about half of these boys.

I barely heard Jay come to bed and come morning time, we were all struggling. Well...my parents seemed fine and relaxed but all of my kids were off and grumpy and I had overslept and, in one harried hour, was trying to get myself ready, Daniel and Henry ready and in my daze of hairspray and buttoning shirts and pants, didn't realize Seth was still asleep at 8:10 am. Sam woke him up but when I saw him come downstairs, with his glassy eyes, scratchy throat and runny nose, and say, "I'm sick," I was ready to do battle. As heartless as it sounds, he had already missed church twice in the last month with legitimate illness (tis the season, I suppose) and if his dad, who was also sick, was well enough to go, then so was he. I didn't even have to say anything. Jay felt the same way and his response sent Seth angrily and upset up to his room to get dressed as fast as he could. The rest of us sat in the car and waited for him.

He came scrambling out to the garage and even though the rest of us were waiting in my car, he got into Jay's truck. With a running count of heavy sighs already, I got his attention and he switched wordlessly over to my vehicle, shirt unbuttoned, barefoot and holding the rest of his wardrobe in his hands. I had to bite my tongue from saying, "There will be no future basketball tournaments if this is your attitude on Sunday!" I knew the majority of his major moody meltdown stemmed from him feeling sick, but I still felt annoyed. Where was the gratitude for his dad's late night driving? It was a silent 20 minute drive to the church.

On the drive over, he had tied his tie and flattened down his hair but it wasn't until we were only about 2 minutes from the church that he finally started to put on his socks and shoes. With a groan and a thrashing of his head back into the front seat's headrest (Yes. His father had kindly sat in the backseat as well) he announced that he had picked up a shoe that wasn't his and he only had his right shoe. The other was an old Payless brand, black slip-on that was a size 6. It was also another right shoe.

I didn't respond but my mind made the decision that I would drop everyone else off at the building and then drive Seth back home to get his other shoe, most likely lecturing him the entire way about being more responsible, grateful, and organized. We parked and I got out of the car to get Daniel out of his carseat but left the vehicle running since I would be right back in it. Jay, on the other hand, had other plans. He efforted his way out from the way, way back and took off his shoes and told Seth to switch him shoes. I was a little distracted during this exchange, because Henry was forcing his way out and pushing the middle seat into Sam and was managing that minor squirmish but I saw Seth dash off towards the chapel in Jay's brown shoes. I didn't know what to expect when I came around the back of the car, and found Jay attempting to put on Seth's mismatched black shoes. I certainly didn't expect what had been a stressful and tense Sunday morning to become one of the most humorous and memorable of my life.

There was Jay, sitting sideways on the passenger seat, with one normal looking shoe and one much-too-small-obviously-non-matching-wrong-footed shoe. My immediate thought was to a scene in the movie "Strictly Ballroom" when a woman's husband can't be her dance partner because of his literal two left feet. That comedic genius was now Jay's reality and I laughed so hard I started to cry. He wasn't really going to church in those shoes, was he? Oh, yes, he was.

Jay usually helps the deacons with the sacrament but he didn't that day. I think he knew he might cause a scene if he attempted to reverently pass the sacrament with one foot halfway out of a shoe pointing in the wrong direction. Instead, he sat next to me and I intermittently got uncontrollable giggles if I glanced at his feet. My mom asked me what was going on and I told her and she got the giggles too. All was fine and well until Daniel sat on his squeezable pouch of sweet potatoes, making a huge orange mess on the carpet which led to his own personal meltdown. Jay, sitting on the edge of the row, swooped him up and shuffled out of the chapel as fast as his two right feet would allow.

He didn't make it back into the meeting and I don't know if it was due to Daniel's stubborn tantrum or his desire to avoid more awkward movement but I didn't give it much thought until I saw him again after the end of church. Colds that are worst in the morning had let up and both he and Seth seemed in good spirits when they returned to the car. I asked Jay if anyone said anything about his shoes and he replied, "No. Nobody even noticed. I don't think anyone checks out my feet." We all laughed and laughed at the ridiculousness of it all.

It's sort of hard to tell from even this short distance. I guess that's why Jay was able to make it through church without drawing much attention to himself.

It could have been such a different story. I could have gotten involved and fumed and fussed about privilege and priorities.  In other words, it all could have gone so poorly. I'm enormously proud of Jay's handling of the entire weekend - from the late add-on basketball game and midnight drive to the sacrifice of his personal vanity. The lesson we were going for, from the moment the invitation to this basketball tournament came, was, "We support you! We love you! We want you to be happy and you can be without ever compromising your values or breaking the commandments!" Two right shoes could have thwarted it all.  Instead, his father showed that honoring your priesthood responsibilities is always the right thing to do, even when you're tired, sick or in a hurry.  We all know that two wrongs don't make a right but two rights certainly can.

Closer up. I'm still giggling. It's like Cinderella's ugly black slipper not fitting!

Control

Quite awhile ago, I had a conversation with a friend who is going through a terrible time. As I sympathized with her about life's hard knocks and why we have them, I couldn't help but comment on her fabulous physique. I said it in jest...as a sort of, "at least you've got your looks" dumb thing to say, and she got a bit teary and replied, "It is the only part of my life I feel like I have any ability to control.  I can run as hard as I want and wherever I want and it keeps me sane."

I've been thinking quite a lot about her reasoning lately. I have been trying to get in shape and find some kind of weight-loss/healthy body mojo for months. Lots of months. Enough months wherein some motivation should have been found or pounds should have been lost. Instead, I find myself definitely stronger but horribly lacking in both calorie control and consistency. In other words, I am out of control!

But, I don't think that's how my psyche sees it. I've been thinking a lot about this and why I continue to make poor choices and I believe that, unlike my friend, who controls a portion of her life through rigorous exercise, I control it by choosing NOT to exercise on days when I can and choosing to eat whatever the heck I feel like.  I think this unfortunate perspective comes from the chaos and constant frustration I feel about the rest of my day to day activities. I  feel like what I am able to do in any given day is dependent on the whims and needs of everyone else...mostly from my children and their activities and moods but also from other outside forces. It's probably from having a toddler once again, a delightful but messy and unpredictable age, and I hover at about an eight or nine on a scale of I'm-going-to-lose-it-at-ten all day. And when I lose it, I eat. Whatever I choose. I gain some control back. Get that 10 back to a more functional 6 or 7 until the sugar euphoria morphs into body shape shame and I'm back at that 8 or 9. A ripped book, juice spill or heavy traffic will start the vicious cycle all over again.

Then, recently, a new development turned my head creating a different perspective.  While in the throes of the hardest job on earth, parenting, I produced a rare, suspended reaction in dealing with one of my children and a mistake he made. A mistake that definitely needed attention but I surprised us both when I didn't fly off the handle or cry or panic. I hugged him and said I needed to think about what to do. I apologize for the vagueness of the story but, out of respect for each of them and their privacy, I have realized I can only share my own woes now. To preface, I am acutely aware, given the ages of my boys, of how different it is to parent teenagers and toddlers. With a tween and a young boy in between them, I am frequently unsure what the most appropriate and effective method is. My stern and loud, "No!" still generally works, especially on the younger set, but I can already see its ridiculousness in more mature settings. Moreover, talks and instruction given by wise leaders about how our role as parents is not to control our children or their choices, but to teach them our values and morals so that they can succeed on the merits of their own decisions and subsequent consequences, ring true to me. It was how my parents raised me - a benefit and blessing to me but a feat and child rearing tactic that I fear is much, much more difficult to practice than I ever imagined. When this certain child made a mistake, owned up to it and patiently (and nervously) awaited my judgment, I prayed to handle this teaching opportunity wisely.

The easiest and most instinctive thing for me to do was to still shout, "No!" even after a few days. I knew I could use it with cause and regain some sense of control. I also knew this was the route my son expected me to go and maybe even was hoping for a bit. It's comfortable. Sadly, I fear I've used this technique too much over the years and it is what they are all used to. No sleepovers. No rated M games. No Sunday sports or birthday parties. If homework and piano practice aren't done, No TV or electronics. If messes aren't cleaned up, No...whatever (snack, friend, football game etc.). I am very good at No (and all those things will continue to get my "No"). But, almost immediately after asking for help to not make the situation worse, a talk given by an area authority from our last Stake Conference came to my mind and I remember him saying (paraphrased. I can't be sure as to his exact words because I am not a note taker), "You can parent military style and be an excellent general of your family, demanding perfect obedience to your rules, but when that child leaves your home and your rules are no longer the primary influence of their lives, will you have taught them to want to live the gospel or just to be obedient to you?"

This thought clamored around my head for days and I knew my go-to "No" wasn't the best option. I counseled with Jay who basically said he would support me in whatever I decided but also reminded me that, above all, we are in this parenting business to protect our children. I agree. So, it was really surprising, alarming even, when I felt strongly that the best thing to do was...nothing.

Not nothing as in not address it or act like nothing happened but to give him another chance to make a better choice next time. The acknowledgment of wrong and awareness of why was already there, provided by him, and I didn't want him to think that his courage to admit to a mistake went unnoticed by me. When I talked to him about my decision, he was surprised and I could tell that he was pleased, but what I really wanted him to know that, like Albus Dumbledore said, "It is our choices who make us who we are...far more than our abilities." I told him, ultimately, only he had control over his choices. Specifics would make this make so much more sense but I hope the generality is helpful to me in the future when I look back at this post.

You'd think an "ah-ha" moment like that would have quickly been applied to my own mistakes and choices but it took me until today to realize that I need to take my own advice (or, more accurately, several general authorities and Albus Dumbledore's). I know that I'm able. But, my choices are controlling and influencing my life much more than my abilities. I do the grocery shopping. I make the meals. I buy myself lunch (too often) and choose what to order from the menu. How much more control do I need? I wish it were easier, all of it, from my son's choices to my own. I wish both of us could make a good choice once and be done with it for forever but that's not how it works.  If I expect him to recommit to good choices daily, and I do (I told him so), then I need to expect the same thing from myself.

It's so interesting how we continue to learn all the time, isn't it? Somebody who is much smarter and kinder than me is clearly in control.  Thank goodness. 

I Guess I'm That Weird Mom Now

When I turned twelve, I had a slumber birthday party. My birthday is in August and so my birthday parties were always a bit odd. Friendships tend to suffer over summer break without the forced regular contact of school and so my guest lists were always a mish mash of school friends with whom I stayed in touch, cousins and church friends. Turning twelve was a particularly weird year because elementary school was over and I figured some girls from church, who had attended different elementary schools, would most likely be my new school friends come September when school started. I also remember inviting a girl from church, Angie, who I didn't necessarily see becoming a close friend but who I also didn't want to feel bad should she find out at Beehives that I had invited several of the other girls. Maybe my mom asked me to invite her. I can't really remember. But she was there.

The specifics of the party I barely remember. That was the last year I was in gymnastics so I do remember doing back handsprings on the striped green couch. I remember Angie's birthday present to me: a homemade clown with a store bought plastic face and plastic hands glued onto some kind of can and a sewn blue and polka dot clown outfit sewn into the shape of a body. It even had blue yarn for hair. It was impressive although a slightly immature gift for a twelve year girl.

I also remember that Angie could not spend the night. That seemed weird to me. In fact, her whole family seemed weird to me. I'd see them at church in a row and Angie and her sister would match perfectly from their fancy homemade dresses with lace and bows to their long, curled hair. It was like their mom was playing dolls every week. Maybe it was cute on four or five year olds but I felt bad for twelve year old Angie. Her parents definitely made her "uncool."

Perhaps the world seemed scary to Angie's parents like it seems to me now. Last night, at bookclub, a friend who has a very popular 7th grade son at the other middle school told me she went through her son's texts messages (we all agreed that parents can and should check phones) and there was a message from a girl offering him a blow job. Awhile back, another friend of a 7th grade girl told me her daughter got a text from a boy about masturbation. I'm sorry if those sentences seem crude and best left unmentioned but these are the voices in my head today. I don't mean to be vulgar but that is the reality of present day middle school. Sexually developing and curious and insecure kids with much too easy access to bad information. Not all boys and girls act and speak like that, obviously, but technology seems to make bad decisions that much easier to make. So, yeah, the world kind of seems scary to me and my decisions as a mother become affected.

Still, there is a part of me that knows that while this behavior seems more overt and certainly more damaging, thanks to cyber trails, than it was during the late 80s when I was transferring from girl to woman, it isn't brand new. There were rumors about kids who did that kind of stuff when I was in 7th grade. I didn't really know what any of it meant back then, but I heard about it. Also, they were the bad kids. I had the benefit of being the fifth child whose parents had already experienced teenagers and rebellious fashion and independent hair styles (I flew the mom-controlled-hair coop in fourth grade and have the bad pictures to prove it) and they were pretty relaxed and trusting when it came to my friendships while Angie was the oldest. Maybe Angie's mom somehow thought that was what happened at parties even back then and wanted to protect her child. Now, I have an oldest who seems to be the victim of my own desire to protect. I've explained our decision against friend sleepovers before. That rule isn't changing but I also haven't had to knowingly enforce it this past year. I thought the invitations had stopped. Turns out, my kids frequently turn down sleep over offers on their own with a "My mom won't let me do sleepovers" response (seems a bit unfair that I am the bad guy as Jay is equally opposed to them). Thanks to technology and Seth being invited to a friend's birthday party sleepover tonight via text, I have his text response to prove it.

So, I'm picking him up tonight sometime between 11:00 and midnight. That's late, right? I felt so generous offering him that pick-up time yesterday but now his friend's text response is haunting me.

"Sucks to be you!"

Ugh.

At least he's not going to the party with a clown for a gift.

Sleep Over Tired

Growing up, sleeping over at a friend’s house was one of my favorite things to do.  From as early as second or third grade, I had sleepovers at my cousin’s house.  I know fifth and sixth grade were full of them, mostly attached to a birthday celebration, and they continued through high school. I have many fond memories of staying up too late, eating pizza out of the box and not at a table, drinking soda, watching movies, dancing, playing MASH and talking about boys.  I also have plenty of not so fond memories of watching totally inappropriate movies, playing a Ouiji board, trying to make each other faint and be “stiff as a board,” sneaking out to see boys, seeing pornography and other less than ideal situations.

I never thought about it much as a parent until a General Authority spoke about the topic a few years ago.  Due to us moving around frequently during Jay’s medical training, we never really faced the dilemma with Seth as he seemed to lack the close friends that would normally invoke an invitation during his younger years.  Although we had already made a decision as parents against sleepovers for any of our boys, listening to this conference talk reaffirmed our decision.  Since then, Seth has been invited to a few of his friends’ homes for sleepovers but we’ve politely declined without much argument from him.  Because he’s not very verbal, I’m not completely certain he doesn’t hate us for this protective parenting strategy but I rationalize that his childhood isn’t deprived because he gets the flavor of a sleepover when visiting with cousins yet in the parent approved environment of trusted family members.  Win/Win.

Sam, on the other hand, is much more social and verbal.  For years now, he’s been invited to spend the night with various friends and sometimes I feel like the only parent on the planet that says, “no.”  Even though he wishes he could, and says so, he is Mr. Obedient and hasn’t given us any real resistance.  Now, Henry is getting invitations.  I didn’t think it would be as hard as it has been to stick with our resolution.  Every explanation of, “We don’t do sleepovers,” feels like a judgment on those who do and...well...I kind of feel like a fuddy duddy.

Last year was our first year of enrollment at our elementary school and the year long reading program incentive was a sleepover celebration for those who completed all the levels.  While both Seth and Sam completed the challenge with ease, I thought it was weird to have a sleepover at the school and told the boys they could go and I would pick them up that night.  Neither chose to go.  I guess it was embarrassing or something to get picked up early.  I don’t know.

This year, Sam was surprised when I changed my tune.  I’m not sure when or exactly why I did, but it didn’t seem like a big deal to have him participate in the reading challenge sleepover event.  I know the teachers and the principle better as well as many more of the students and I thought, “It will be safe and fun and Sam will get to sleepover with his buddies for once without most of the dangers I hope to avoid.”   He was excited this entire past week in anticipation of Friday night’s activity.  When I dropped him off at the school and watched him greet his friends I wondered if, perhaps, we’ve sheltered him and our other children too much.  Sam is so confident and fun and I love watching him build friendships with these boys.  As they disappeared into the party, I was glad for him and made a mental note to revisit the issue with Jay and perhaps allow a sleepover here and there when our parent-dar deemed the situation safe.  Like running after ice-cream trucks, making snow angels and getting visits from the tooth fairy, sleepovers just seem like an essential part of childhood.

The weekend fallout hasn’t been pretty, however.  Sam had a soccer double header on Saturday.  The day’s temperature reached into the 80s and by the time I got home from the stake youth temple trip (my sister, Sarah, came to help me this weekend and had Sam and Henry all day) and got the day’s scoop, Sam was wasted.  Too tired to answer any questions.  Too tired to be nice.  Too tired to even eat.  He went to bed without dinner (not forced.  His choice) and slept solidly through the night.

I thought that would be the end of the sleep deprived hangover but he has been grumpy and tired today too.  I witnessed a curmudgeon-esque reply to his primary teacher in the halls after our meetings were over and he was the most impatient of all our boys when Jay and I had to meet with the bishop for a few minutes.  After linner (the name of the meal we eat at 3:00 on Sundays after church), he took an hour long nap and just wasn’t himself the entire evening.  I hope tomorrow is better.

So, I think I’m back to my original guns.  No sleepovers.  For all of my original reasons plus the grumpy robot figure that replaces my adorable child in the aftermath.  Still, that gleeful feeling of watching my son enjoy a moment of childhood remains fresh in my memory.  It makes it hard to completely commit.  I hope my awesome parenting skills are what they need to be to both protect my children and let them BE children.

What’s your stance?  No right or wrongs here, just experiences and choices, if you please.





Sleep tight, tired boy. And no more lip tomorrow!:)

Lucy or Lucifer

Until about 5:30 this late afternoon, I was a cool mom.  Seth, who is so hard on shoes, but legitimately needs a new pair, was given permission to hang out at the middle school playing basketball until I dropped Sam off for his soccer practice at 4:15 and then go with me to the mall to buy a new pair of shoes.

A few weeks ago, I got a $25 off coupon in the mail for Famous Footwear and that was the first place we went.  I thought a few pair looked like they would do...not nerdy but not trendy and his sullen response caused me to respond, “Well, I’m not going to buy you a pair of shoes you so obviously do not want.”  Still not overly frustrated, I suggested we go look in the newly opened TJMaxx at the end of the mall.

They don’t carry boys sneakers.

So we walked to Bealls.  Nothing he wanted.

JC Penney.  Nada.

Determined to end the shoe shopping afternoon successfully, I drove down the road to Big 5.  I sent him in alone with instructions to come get me when he found a pair he liked, (my shoulder and bicep were throbbing from carrying Daniel around in his infant carrier because I forgot the stroller and he was asleep so I left him in it) but he came out ten minutes later shaking his head.

“What kind of shoe do you want???” I asked completely exasperated.  I was under the impression that he wanted a pair of Nike but every single place we went to, minus TJMaxx, had Nikes but obviously not any he wanted.

“Well, Landen has a pair of Freeruns and so do a bunch of other people and I really want a pair of good running shoes that has a built in tongue and.....”

With a certain amount of annoyance in my voice,  I said, “O.K.  But I’m not going to spend a ton of money on a pair of sneakers just because you only want a certain kind.  And you could have told me what you wanted before I spent an hour lugging Daniel around the mall.”

Then, he stopped talking to me.

Just this past weekend, my sister, Emily, asked me if my kids were into brand names.  I proudly declared them not and wonder now if I jinxed myself? What’s up with him needing shoes like his friends?  It’s not like I was going to buy him a dorky pair of Avias or LA Gear.  I’m not clueless.   I miss the ease of shopping for young children or, in actuality, I miss buying what I want them to wear.

Is this an exercise in agency?  I gave it my all...went to five different stores to support his choice but I’m at a point where I want to command, “Here are your shoes!” because I sort of know best.  I looked up these freeruns online and they are kind of wimpy shoes.  Billed as minimal shoes (aka no material used for cushion), they should be cheap but, of course, they are not because apparently, boys want them.  They come in funky bright colors and you can even build your own pair but it all seems like much ado about nothing.  They are shoes.  He’ll destroy them from misuse in a few short months.  His method of shopping is inefficient and painful. I could free him of that pain.  I could choose for him.

Cue the My Turn On Earth soundtrack...now.

The Law of Moses

Having my sister-in-law here for a month has more perks than just having a workout buddy.  With her quick wit, love of games and educator know-how, I asked Stephanie to teach the Young Women lesson today hoping the girls would enjoy a different voice and perspective than the ones they hear every week.  As I knew she would, she turned a not-this-again lesson about our attitudes towards our divine roles as wife and mother (mine obviously needed an adjustment) and made it fresh, interesting and completely true.  I'm inspired to be a better wife and mother not to mention a better teacher of YW lessons.

In fact, I was so uplifted I had planned on summarizing her lesson as my blog post today.  I got as far as the parking lot of the church before my mood shifted.

While I was buckling Daniel into his car seat, Seth and Henry were fighting over a bag of frosted animal cookies.  Seth was begging Henry to let him have one and Henry was refusing to share.  Seth asked me to step in as mediator and impose the redistribution of cookie wealth but instead, I reminded both about The Golden Rule and that while sharing is nice, because we'll all be in the position of wanting at some point in our lives, it shouldn't be forced .  Even though I silently curse teachers who bring treats to primary because of the inevitable bickering it causes on the ride home, I'm still pretty sure the old saying "Life Isn't Fair" holds true. You cannot dictate generosity or harmony.  It's a lesson my children and, apparently, President Obama need to learn.

Before I could enjoy my majestic mothering moment, I beheld a gooey mess in the cupholder next to Henry's seat.  Beside the gooey mess was my tube of Burt's Bees lip balm - sans balm.

"Henry!  Did you steal my chapstick?!?  Did you ruin my chapstick?!?  What did you do to my chapstick?!?  Why do you always have to make such a mess and ruin things!!?!?!"

The tears immediately started because he is emotionally fine tuned to respond with tears when he knows he got caught making mischief and pleaded innocence. It was an accident.  His lips were chapped.  He didn't mean to.  Wah, wah, wah.

"Hand me those cookies!"

Sniff, gasp, sob, "My cookies?"

"Your cookies!  Give them to me!"

He reached forward and handed me the bag and I proceeded to smash them with my thumbs.

Shriek, wail, scream, "THOSE ARE MY COOKIES!!"

"That was MY chapstick!  It doesn't feel good when someone ruins your things, does it?!"

"But, I'm sorry!  It was an accident!" he cried.

"I'm sorry, too.  And our things are still ruined.  Sorry doesn't undo it."

I think he was shocked that I did it.  I am actually quite shocked that I did it.  At that moment, I was so tired of him ruining my things or his dad's things or his brothers' things and things in the house that I just wanted him to feel a bit of what it's like to have something you don't want ruined....ruined!  I wanted to get even.  In other words, I wanted what's fair.

An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.  A smashed bag of cookies for a ruined tube of chapstick. I can't decide if we're both blind now or if Henry needed this lesser law moment to help prepare him to one day live a higher law.  A day that includes sharing and generosity and respect and benevolence.  A day where he keeps his hands off of my things.

I've learned a lot today.  Like most Sundays, I've realized there is quite a gap between who I want to be and who I am - how I want to parent and how I actually deal with things. I can't help but wonder if Heavenly Father is holding our bags of frosted cookies and thinking about smashing them because we deserve it.  I doubt it.  I've been told He lives a much, much higher law.

Does it make me meaner that I took a picture of his ruined cookies?

Daniel Update:  He is still super stuffy and has a cough but he was worse yesterday which means, hopefully, that he is already getting better.  Still eating well and still sleeping a lot.  Now that I'm not freaking out, I'm trying to enjoy the quiet.  

A Tale of Two Moms

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way--

Dickens may have been referring to the atmosphere of a pre-French revolution, but his words are incredibly astute for this postpartum mom.  Just as I knew it would, the horribleness of my pregnancy disappeared moments after deliver.  I can’t explain it.  No doubt, there are skeptics who think all of my symptoms are psychosomatic and can thus conclude that their immediate departure is due to the fact that they were only in my head to begin with.  Maybe.  I’m not doubting my brain has that kind of capacity and influence over my body but I really do think there's more to it than that.

The nausea that overwhelmed me only two hours before delivery was magically gone....GONE as soon as I held the baby in my arms.  I felt it.  I even commented to the nurses and Jay about it.  And it hasn’t returned for a second since. I haven’t coughed because my throat is no longer coated with whatever it was coated with.  I can sing again.  The more obvious things are gone as well: the heartburn, compressed bladder, back pain, pelvis that seems to have no ligaments attached to it anymore (I felt so loose and wobbly!).

Even better, the oppressive fog of depression or fatigue or fitfulness or whatever it was that has held me hostage for months has lifted.  I see that scene from the Disney cartoon, Aladdin, when the Sultan finally breaks free from Jafar’s evil influence because Aladdin figures out that the reason the Sultan’s eyes are turning into red spirals and he’s talking complete nonsense in a monotone is because Jafar has been controlling him with a gold serpent staff, and destroys the staff.  Having Daniel was the equivalent of Aladdin breaking that staff.     I think pregnancy hormones are my personal Jafars but perhaps there has been a pointy-bearded sorcerer secretly following me around.  Either way, I’m free!

These things translate into the best of times.  I feel good.  My recovery has been swift and mostly pain-free (those first few days of afterbirth pains during nursing are not fun).  Daniel is a champion nurser, which is a totally new experience for me.  He sleeps well.  He’s cute and soft and cuddly and I’m thoroughly enjoying holding and kissing him as much as I possibly can.  They say you can’t overdo it with a newborn but I wonder.  It’s hard for me to get anything else done because I’d rather watch him sleep in my arms than vacuum or shower.



What I pretty much want to do all the time

What I’m not doing nearly as well is being an equally loving mom to my other boys, specifically, Henry.  His reaction to the baby was one of the most frequent questions we got and it was a funny, simple story to repeat.  He came to the hospital and wouldn’t look at the baby, wouldn’t hold the baby and pretty much told me he didn’t want me to come home.  When I told him I would be home the next day, he responded with, "Well, I'll be sleeping."  When I said I'd see him the day after, his comeback was, "I'll still be sleeping."   Obviously, he was feeling stressed and displaced and by the time we got home the next day, all was well.  He loved me and his baby brother.

Since then, he’s pretty oblivious to the baby.  He dutifully gets me my hooter hider if I am nursing - to keep me modest.  He willingly throws dirty diapers away.  But he never wants to hold Daniel or touch him or talk to him.  The other boys do but Henry is usually off somewhere else.

Which is not a good thing.

You see, when Henry is off somewhere else, I have learned that nine times out of ten, he is making a mess, playing with something he shouldn’t, ruining something or doing all three at the same time.  Honest introspection has allowed me to reach the conclusion that some of it is just him.  He is a bonafide Dennis the Menace.  But, he also loves positive attention and can choose to not be a menace if he’s getting all that happy love.  So, that’s the other part of it.   I am partly to blame.  Not wholly to blame.  I think it’s unrealistic to take credit for our children’s awesomeness or the parts of their personalities we find wanting, but it is fairly plain to see that he wouldn’t cause nearly as much mischief if he had constant supervision and more happy love.

Therein lies the problem.  I can’t do it - the heavy monitoring.  I don’t want to do it.  Like I mentioned up above, I have an adorable baby I want to gaze at and Henry’s disappearing act and subsequent disasters are killing my new baby love groove.  I discover them, or Jay does, and we just lose it.  His brand new DS he got for Christmas?  Cracked.  Seth’s new logic toy?  Pieces missing in Henry’s disaster of a room.  Food wrappers everywhere.  Crumbs galore.  Scissors missing.  I don’t even want to think about what that may mean.

I hate that this is so, because I love Henry and recognize that he is so desperate for me to be back to normal, but my energy and positivity seems to be reserved for the baby. Seth and Sam are faring better.  We’ve been watching and chatting during all the bowl games together at night and I while I’m sure that doesn’t qualify as good parenting for most, it meets their needs.  I was better with all of them when my parents were around helping.   They took up every bit of slack in my parenting rope and, during that first week, I could manage most the attentiveness required for competent mothering.

Now, lunches need making, homework needs checking, dinner needs cooking, and the laundry that seemed so doable while my mother did it, needs folding.  I’m really trying to let most messes go but there is a level of cleanliness that must be maintained or I lose any kind of perspective.  When it gets below that point, all the many, many good qualities my boys possess are overshadowed by what I perceive X theis slothfulness.  I rage.  It isn’t pretty.

So, it’s also the worst of times.  I sent Henry to bed the other night without supper because he would not stay buckled in the car.  He’s now sitting on the back bench with Seth and that extra distance away from me makes him think he can pretty much walk around the car whenever he wants.  I pulled over, waited for him to buckle up and he just kept doing it.  I was infuriated by the time I got home and he acted like he could have cared less.  Then, when he was explaining what happened to his dad, who went to have a little pow wow with him when he got home, he said, “Mom got annoyed with me and sent me to bed.”  No mention of the car, or the seat belt or anything.  Just me...being annoyed.  Which annoyed the crud out of me!

I look at him when he’s not watching and I ache with affection for him.  We cuddled on the couch this morning and I resolved to simply love him today.  No corrections.  No scolding.  Just time and attention and love.  Then I went to clean his room.  Hopefully, I can calm down before he gets home from school.

It’s heaven and it’s hell.  Hope and despair.  Belief and incredulity.  I think Dickens understood life with Henry and a newborn.

A rare moment of Henry being interested in Daniel.  

I'd Blog But....

I can't. There are not enough words to describe the gauntlet of emotions that have been mine this past week. I am functioning but coherence in written format is out of the question.
There's a chance that statement is tinged with my flair for dramatics but I've tried to write something all day, and I just keep deleting everything I type. It's not coming out.

But, I'm still here. I'm fine. My eleven year old can't stand me most of the time, but its good. I'm the parent, right? Not the child beginning puberty who is most likely confused by new emotions and all the changes that are going on both seen and unseen in his body. Knowing that should make a difference. My feelings shouldn't be hurt. My heart shouldn't be heavy with disappointment while he defiantly sluffs off his responsibilities or when I discover a note not intended for his mother's eyes. And I definitely shouldn't feel angry that I have no clue what I'm doing and wondering what in tarnation Heavenly Father was thinking sending me children to raise.

It's not always bad but tonight it was. Yesterday too. Saturday had mostly good moments but I thought I'd just enjoy the surprising truce instead of blogging about it. Friday was ok but probably only because my expectations are lower at the start of the weekend. Thursday was bad. Wednesday was downright awful. I could only cope by putting headphones in while I read in an attempt to keep myself from shouting. Tuesday was bad. And Monday was so wonderful, it makes all the other days even worse. Because I know it's possible to have a really great day together (it was his birthday).

I feel like he is much too young to already be going through this hormonal change but I can't think of another explanation - at least one that doesn't totally freak me out. So, I'm going to try and be cool. I'm going to pray a lot harder, read and study a lot more diligently and hopefully, hopefully, emerge from this terrifying fog of change a better mother with a loving and intact relationship with my son.

Lemons Into Lemonade

As we drove up to the ski resort yesterday, Jay had the radio tuned to ESPN, a rare occurrence in my van as I consider myself allergic to almost all kinds of talk radio. As has been the case frequently this week, the commentators were discussing the BYU basketball player, Brandon Davies, and his dismissal from the team due to an honor code violation.

Their discussion was fair and they even had a former BYU athlete on to explain what is expected of all BYU students, including student-athletes, and how the Honor Code and its tenets are never downplayed during the recruiting process and how all incoming students would be very aware of its rules and consequences. As a former student myself, I can vouch for how aware students are of the Honor Code. It's something you sign anew each year and requires the endorsement of a bishop, or ecclesiastical leader if you're not a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. So, yes, it's safe to assume Brandon Davies was well aware that having sex before he was married would be against the Honor Code and a serious enough violation to be considered for dismissal from the school.

I have a conflicted opinion of the Honor Code. While I was a student, particularly during my Freshman year, I found several parts of it restrictive, harsh and judgemental. Twice, I got notices from the Honor Code office: once for having boys in my dorm too late (a friend. In our kitchen. Past midnight) and once for wearing shorts that didn't go to my knee at the testing center. I understand the ridicule from the outside world at standards that seem conservative at best and prison-like at worse. But what I eventually came to understand while I was at school, and what I whole-heartedly appreciate now, is that BYU is not like other schools. They don't want to be. The standards expected there may seem extreme but in a world where values are relative and enforced at an age when life long paths are begun, I rally around a school that does its best to create an environment that encourages and supports students efforts to live a life in accordance to the commandments they've been taught all their lives. And, of course, like everyone has been saying all week, no one HAS to go there. If you want something different, there are plenty of other colleges to choose from (which I definitely considered during my time there, but, with hindsight, am so glad I decided to stay).

While it's been interesting to listen to and read the debate about Davies and the timing of his mistake, an unexpected benefit arose from yesterday's broadcast. I suppose I'm a little desensitized to what sports and athlete's behavior can expose my sports-loving boys to, but suddenly, the commentators were using their radio show to discuss pre-marital sex and how and why the school would even know or care so much about Davies's behavior. Jay and I sort of looked at each other, both aware of Seth and Sam's attention to the program, and I felt impressed that we needed to turn the information into a teaching moment.

Jay obviously felt the same because he turned down the radio and asked the boys if they had any questions about what they had just heard.

Sam answered. He said, "I know they were talking about Brandon Davies."

"That's right," Jay replied. "Do you understand what happened to him?"

"He had sex with his girlfriend." There it was. There was no going back.

We both paused for a bit. We've never had the talk with Sam. He did, after all, only recently turn eight, but I'm a firm believer in having this discussion sooner than later. Then, my hero, my love, my partner said bravely, "Do you know what sex is, Sam?"

He didn't so we proceeded to have a great and caring conversation about our bodies, what they are made to do, what Heavenly Father's commandments are what some of the consequences are when we break those commandments. He had all the age appropriate questions and comments, including the connecting-the-dots "Do you guys do that?" question that's always good for a chuckle (although we did our best to keep straight faces so that there was never an impression that sex is silly or embarrassing to talk about). Seth was very silent in the back seat but I could tell he was listening. As we (make that Jay. As I recall, I was reading Goodnight Moon in the next room) had the talk with him a couple of years ago, I was especially glad that he was getting a low pressure refresher course before the big Health and Maturation discussion that the school is planning on presenting to the fifth graders later this spring. We asked if he had any questions (he didn't). It was so comforting to my mother's heart that I knew my boys had just received good, accurate and loving information from not only me, but also from their father and role model, who they admire and adore.

Henry was in the van too and made several comments like, "Jesus loves me!" and "Heavenly Father made me!" when he felt like interjecting into the conversation. I don't think he really paid close attention to the details of what we were saying, but you never can tell with Henry so we may be hearing some anatomical terms in the near future:)

I'm sad for Brandon Davies and really sorry for the public attention he has received for a private and personal matter but I'm appreciative of the opportunity it gave us as parents to talk to our boys about what we believe, what our standards are, and what some real consequences are to a sacred and powerful act.

I'll Take It As A Compliment

I am learning, as all parents do, that my children are not flawless.  As shocking as that statement is, I'm also learning that there are times when certain behaviors and habits become particularly glaring.  Annoying, even.

Seth likes to cuddle.  Strike that.  He likes to nuzzle.  In particular, he likes to nuzzle with my arm.

I first noticed myself becoming perturbed with his style of touching on our trip to Boston a month ago.  Before flying to Boston, we were in Denver for one night and there was an incident during dinner with his cousins when I overheard (or think I overheard but all communication about said conversation is emotionally off-limits to Seth so I'm not sure I'll ever really know) an inappropriate comment from Seth.

Not being flawless myself (when did you first realize this Mom and Dad?  Or am I bursting a bubble here?), I overreacted, overwhelmed my highly sensitive child with some scary screaming, and shamefully attempted to rectify the bad parenting moment with high doses of positive bonding throughout the rest of the trip: smiling, game playing, compliments, gifts and, still Seth's favorite love language of all, physical affection.

The hand holding I love.  The lean-his-head-against-my-shoulder move?  Heart warming.  But once the head starts to move back and forth against my upper arm or, worse, I get the two hand gentle squeeze in the same place, it's all I can do to resist shaking him off.   Because I know what he's doing even if he doesn't.  It's like when a cat finds a soft place to knead.  He is absent-mindedly nuzzling my fat arms.

Really, it's a perfect storm.  His current height allows his head to be  aligned with my upper arms.  The warmer weather has brought out shorter sleeves.  And I've recently read a book about parenting highly sensitive children that, in a nutshell, says yelling, criticism or harsh words coming from "the authority figure" has devastating and long-lasting effects.  The author's son, a textbook HSC (yes, it really is an acronym), didn't drive until he was 26, and she supposedly did everything perfectly.  I don't want to drive Seth around until he's 26 so I'm trying to figure out how to be less scary.  Ergo...no, "Please stop with the arm nuzzle!!!!" exclamations.

I've tried to diplomatically move away but it feels mean.  Because I do not want him to think I don't enjoy his physical touch.  I am also afraid of saying something because Seth has a history of overreacting to suggestion. It's entirely plausible that his reaction to a mild, "Please stop squeezing my arm." would be, "Good-bye.  I'll never touch you again.  I'm going to my room."

Using the powers of introspection, I've wondered why this act of nuzzling bothers me so badly.  It didn't take a call to Dr. Phill to realize that with every squeeze, every head rub, I'm reminded of my big arms.  I don't want big arms.  I don't want soft arms.  I don't want anyone, even my own sweet Seth, to call attention to my physical imperfections.

I do, however, want a strong, happy connection to my child.  Yesterday, in a lighter moment, I smiled at Seth while he mercilessly nuzzled and said, "Why do you always do that to my arm?"   Predictably, he answered, "Because they're soft."

Then, he added, "And squishy."

I'm not sure calling anything squishy, ever, can be considered a compliment but I knew in the context that Seth was using that he meant it as one.

I love that boy.  I really do.  With all of his angles and bony limbs, I'm sure it's comforting to rest against something soft and squishy.  Although I'd choose most other physical displays of affection over the arm nuzzle (a back scratch, foot rub, or shoulder massage seem so preferable), I will not deny him my arm.  In return, I'm expecting a driver's licence at sixteen.

"Ah," I diplomatically replied.

He smiled back at me, grabbed my arm with both hands and squeezed.

Covering Nakedness

As soon as the hostess seated us, I cringed.  There, on the wall behind our table, hung a painting of a nude woman.  It wasn't a raunchy painting by any means.  On the contrary, it was quite...calming.  She, the nude, sat near the edge of a river on one leg with her other leg extended behind her.  Her bottom was fully exposed, but only one breast was showing, the other hidden behind her arm as she leaned over the bank.  I suppose she could have been at the river washing her clothes or, perhaps, her kitchen dishes, although her reclined position would have made any thorough scrubbing difficult.

"I should have just taken them to McDonalds!" I thought.  But, I don't like McDonalds.  And I was feeling fickle at three o'clock in the afternoon while we waited in town for Seth to finish his Destination Imagination meeting.  So I took Sam and Henry to a sit down restaurant in hopes of killing time and better food.  The dining room was closed, due to the odd hour of our repast, so we were seated in the bar area.  The Olympics were playing on the three televisions across the room and I quickly and strategically positioned my boys with their backs to the wall, crayons in hand and several games of tic-tac-toe.

Inevitably, Henry spied the painting.  With a grin on his face, he pointed to the picture and said, "Picture, Mom!"

I acted uninterested and simply replied, "Uh-huh."

"Mom," Henry insisted, "There's a bum!"

Those words drew Sam's attention to the painting.  As his eyes took in the body parts Jay and I have been conscientious to teach must be talked about appropriately and with respect, he immediately became embarrassed and covered his mouth with his hands while he looked at me with very worried eyes.  I don't want my boys to have weird hang ups about the human body so I explained, rather poorly, the various reasons why that picture was not "bad" but instead considered art.  I hemmed and hawed about the body being a beautiful creation of Heavenly Father's and how artists sometimes draw or sculpt the body in its naked form to draw attention to its beauty and wonder, but I wasn't very convincing.   Sam's response was, "Well, we can't draw anything like THAT in art.  That's a rule." Which led to more hemming and hawing about maturity and age and where and when it's appropriate.  Eventually, I just told the boys to turn around and stop looking at the picture.

I know I didn't handle it well and I've been thinking about our conversation and my discomfort ever since.  Truthfully, I didn't like the picture.  Like Sam, I was uncomfortable eating my hamburger next to it. The woman was too...well...naked.  Admittedly,  I have no formal art training to critique color or form or style, but my non-trained eye didn't like the naked part.  Who sits by a river, in that position, without any clothes on? What about twigs and dirt?  Realistically, wouldn't someone without clothes more likely be squatting?

I don't want to be that person, however.  The kind who feels uncomfortable around a nude statue.  The kind who feels that all nudity must be also be sexual.  It feels immature and petty somehow.  I want to see Michaelangelo's David and The Birth of Venus by Botticelli up close and live because even though I know very little about art, I know that those pieces are important.

And yet, I have three sons.  I am scared to death about pornography.  I think it is the scourge of modern-day society.   The cynic in me wonders when and not if they will see it and how I can help them understand that in spite of what the world thinks, it is evil.  I want them to follow President Hinckley's counsel and "Shun it."

How much more simple would it be if I could just say, "Naked people are bad!  Nakedness is bad!  Don't ever be naked or look at anyone naked!   Not ever!"  But I can't.  Because, someday, I hope they will be happily married and well-adjusted enough to love and honor their wives.  And because, maybe someday, they'll be a doctor like their dad, who sees nakedness all the time.  As much as we'd love to have all our parts and pieces clothed during our doctor visits and appointments, sometimes being naked or partially naked is a requirement.  Henry's surgery would have been impossible without exposing a private part.  And mammograms wouldn't have any benefit at all if women refused to uncover their breasts for the procedure or Jay refused to look at them.

My question:  Does nudity have a legitimate place in art?  If so (and I'm assuming it's so), where do you draw the line between art and pornography?  When, as a parent, do you cover your child's eyes?   The Supreme Court once said, "You know pornography when you see it." and I believe that.  This picture in the bar wasn't pornographic.   But, how do I teach my sons what is o.k. and what is not?  How do I ensure that they know pornography when they see it? Because I'd really, really like to skip the part where they see it.  Should I have encouraged Sam's reaction to the restaurant picture? It's exactly how I'd like him to react when he sees pornography.  I want him to be embarrassed and I want him to understand that it's not o.k.   But, I also want them to grow up understanding that our arms and legs, ears, toes, knees and, yes, breasts and bottoms are, in fact, beautiful.  And a wonder.

If you could tell me how to do this perfectly, with no awkwardness and no mistakes, I'd be much obliged.

A much less controversial piece of art by Sam 

Princess Leia, I'm Not

Sam is a snuggle bug. He loves to cuddle and after a late night with cousins, when fatigue and irrationality had him fighting bed, I promised him some morning snuggles.

He held me to my promise this morning, and after pancakes, I met him on the couch for our scheduled nuzzling. Included in the repertoire was the usual back scratch, nose rubbing and me kissing his forehead and cheeks.

The older my boys get, the less I kiss them on the lips. There is no exact age where I cut it off, after all, I'm playing this all by ear, but six for Sam might be the right time.

As I cradled him in my lap, he started puckering up and I gave him a few light pecks on his little lips. Then, he grabbed my cheeks and kissed me pretty hard. I chuckled and then he did it again.

"Sam, what are you doing?" I asked.

"Kissing you like Hans Solo kisses Princess Leia," he innocently replied.

We then proceeded to have an age appropriate discussion about why people kiss on the mouth and I found I had no good reasons to give except that when you liked someone, you wanted to. But, I emphasized that kisses like that should be special and rare and saved for when you are in love - mom and dad kind of love and not mom and son love.

It was no big deal and we sat and snuggled for awhile longer, but I've been thinking about it these last few hours.

I hate to be the one to limit touch with my boys and I know there will be a time in the not so distant future when their displays of affection will all but disappear, but, obviously, Sam needed a little instruction. Still, he's only six. I don't want to make a mountain out of a molehill.

What say you? How affectionate are you with your children? Is there a difference between the touch between your girls and boys (having only boys, I'm just wondering)? Does kissing on the lips make you uncomfortable?

Looks Like a Two-Peat

If any of you thought I was in any danger of losing my Mother-Of-The-Year Award, ne'er fret. It's not going anywhere while this turkey is under my roof.

If you've got a hankering for Tillamook cheese and Mom's in the shower, what's a boy to do?

In the Middle of the Tunnel

I keep thinking that eventually, as he ages, Henry will get easier. More publicly acceptable. Less...disastrous.

But, today, he outdid himself. Sam took him outside to play (new rule - he can't be outside without one of his brothers or me with him after the breaking and entering into the neighbor's house incident) while I helped Seth with his piano practice. Sam came running inside shouting, "Henry is outside without a diaper on!"

Imagining more laws broken, like indecent exposure, I asked Sam if he could bring him inside. Moments later, Sam prodded Henry into the family room where the piano is and, sure enough, Henry was without diaper but still fully clothed.

He had the all-too-familiar scent of my current least favorite thing, and I told Seth that I had to stop and take care him because poop takes precedence over piano. Every time.

"Where is your diaper, Henry?" I demanded.

"Garage," he replied.

"Show me."

We walked out to the garage and circled the van. Not there. With dread, I opened the doors of the van and searched inside. It was blessedly absent.

"Where is it?"

"Garage," he repeated.

Then, because we were near the open garage door, he pointed to another open garage door up the street. A garage door belonging to a neighbor who faithfully sits outside in her driveway while her boys play. Because I rarely do, I suspect I long ago lost her respect for my obvious parental negligence.

My heart said no, but my gut said yes and I told Sammy, "Run up the street and see if you can see a dirty diaper in your friend's garage."

Too embarrassed to remain outside, I ushered Henry upstairs and found an awful mess inside his shorts. I stripped him down, wiped him up and put him in the bathtub.

After a few minutes, Seth and Sam came running inside.

"You were right! It was in their garage!" Sam exclaims.

This is Henry. This is what I deal with every day. Outrageous behavior involving poop. If it's not poop, it's food. If it's not food, it's markers. If it's not markers, it's something else he shouldn't have. He unbuckles himself in the car while we're moving. He throws water out of the bathtub. He bites, he hits, he steals and runs away. He is simply...naughty. And I see no end in sight.

Normally, I take most of his antics in stride, and focus on his other many good qualities, but today I feel weary. I feel like we've been doing this for forever. I want to see a glimmer of light!

And I really, really, really want a fenced yard.

Competent or Incompetent - That Is The Question...

1) Tire store puts winter tires on car. Tire store, in their haste, rips off tire pressure valve. Tire store apologizes, says ordering in part, will call when part comes in. Tire store never calls. Customer figures that after a month of waiting, she'll just have gauge replaced when snow tires are switched back with regular tires. At appointment, tire store claims ignorance about torn off tire gauge. Tire pressure sensor still all aglow on my dashboard.

Competent or incompetent?

2) Rental company in charge of home rental comes to inspect tile damage in rental home kitchen. Rental company sends tile repair man to estimate repair. Tile guy never to be heard from again. At inspection for a lease agreement to be re-signed, rental company inspects tile damage in kitchen. Renters inform, "This has been neglected for a year now." Rental company apologizes, claims to have new tile guy, and calls later that afternoon to set up a window of time when tile guy can come the next day to inspect damage. Renter says "between 10:30 and 1:30." Tile guy never comes. Tile guy never calls.

Competent or incompetent?

3) Renter hires out house cleaning responsibility to cover bases for lease inspection. Woman with business cards push pinned into neighborhood mailbox area claims to be a professional house cleaner with 30 years of experience. Renter calls "professional" to clean home the day before the inspection. Renter has house picked up, leaving only cleaning to be done. Renter tells professional cleaner about problem spots, including windows with little hand prints all over them. Woman claims to have never cleaned windows before. Renter also shows stainless steel refrigerator with hand prints all over it. Professional cleaner doesn't know how to clean stainless steel. Renter leaves for errands for five hours. Renter returns to find woman finishing mopping but with the excuse that she didn't have time for the stove or microwave, which haven't even been wiped down. Renter says, "bummer" but pays professional cleaner agreed amount. Renter then walks through house to discover the dining room table and chairs still dirty, only sliding glass door windows cleaned and floor underneath dining room table having remnants of dried food. Later finds piano hasn't been dusted, TV stand hasn't been dusted and floor mopping is unsatisfactory. Renter re-mops floors, including getting the mess under the table removed and wonders why "professionals" aren't better and faster than her.

Competent or incompetent?

4)Renter schedules carpets to be cleaned with recommended company. Renter foolishly dismisses carpet cleaning company's offer to come by and do an estimate, as time is short. Carpet cleaners come and clean 861 square feet of white carpet, which now looks amazing and has a one year guarantee. Carpet cleaners move furniture, leave a bottle of spot remover, a magnetic marker board for refrigerator, notepad, pen and next day sends a thank-you note and message on answering machine hoping their service was satisfactory. Renter can't respond to any messages because she is still in a state of shock after paying carpet cleaning company over $500 for their service.

Competent or incompetent?

5)Mother agrees to sons playing outside, as long as older two boys keep an eye on little brother, as he tends to wander. Mother, in her defense, is putting together mother's day gifts for the four women she visit teaches. When older two sons return home, mother asks, "Where is your brother?" Nobody knows. He's not around our house. He's not around our neighbor's house (where he normally is because they have a swing set AND a sand box. She cannot compete with that). Mother walks over to neighbor's house because with a swing set and sandbox, he must be there. Neighbors outside doing yard work. They haven't seen little boy. When walking back in the direction of her own home, mother finds her little boys walking out the front door of neighbor's house. Mother picks up boys and wonders if she should confess about her son's breaking in and entering. She doesn't.

Competent or incompetent?

Person with the most correct answers will be rewarded with referrals for any company mentioned above plus an all-expense paid afternoon with Henry. As an added bonus, he's right in the middle of being potty trained! No purchase necessary to play:)

Fun Mom Points

On Jay's day off on Friday, he took Seth and Sam up to our local ski mountain to teach them how to ski. He's done this before. Last year, he took them both once and the year before that, he took Seth once. With that kind of frequency, the boys haven't exactly become little ski demons.

He came home and declared the day a success. Seth managed to only fall off the chair life once (right at the beginning of the lift because he wasn't paying attention and his ski got caught in the snow) and Sam was skiing independently down the bunny hill by the end of the day. Following in his fun-parent footsteps, I decided to take Seth and Sam up to the mountain, myself, on their Monday holiday.

I don't know why exactly, but I almost always have a feeling of dread before doing something fun with kids. Isn't that bizarre? Even when I know something will be fun, I also know it'll require a lot of work and patience on my part. As soon as we got to the ski rental place on Monday morning, which was packed, I knew I had to decide to put on a happy face...no matter what.

I hate crowds and lines and being where everyone else is, so waiting in the half-hour line just to hand out our rental slip to a grouchy ski bum who would clearly rather be skiing than dealing with all of us needy non-ski owners, while Seth and Sam bemoaned the fact that it was taking so long, was a test on my resolve. Even when a toothless jerk cut in line in front of us, I held my tongue and kept my "hmmmph"ing out of earshot.

Things weren't looking better when we got to the slopes. The day offered $25 lift tickets due to a fundraiser and everyone and their cousin seemed to be there. We parked far away which made for a grueling walk to the lodge. At one point, I was carrying all three of our skis while simultaneously encouraging Sammy to keep walking. The original plan was to have Sam enroll in the advertised all day beginner lesson for $19, but when I went to sign him up and truthfully told them that he'd been skiing twice before in his life, they said he didn't qualify because the class was for "beginners" only which obviously mean first time skiers. I did argue with them, because I knew Seth was ready for going to the top of the mountain and Sam was not, but my arguments fell on deaf ears. My perspective, up to that point, is that the ski industry employs grouchy people.

Eventually, we made it to the bunny hill and everything that had bugged me up to that point was overshadowed by the joy I had skiing with my boys. They were so good! Seth charged down that bunny hill with his skis straight and without making a single turn. After watching him struggle in basketball the last few weeks, it was refreshing to watch him do something he so clearly enjoyed and felt confident doing. Sammy needed a few runs between my legs before he was ready for skiing solo doing his "pizza slice" but by the time we went back to the lodge for lunch, I knew we were ready to graduate from the bunny hill and onto some real runs.


Greasy food tastes even better when you've been skiing. These boys had me laughing all day.



We went non stop for three hours after lunch and not one of us wanted to stop when it was time. I barely saw Seth all day as he was always out of sight ahead of us and because once we started riding the double chairlift up, he had to ride on his own. Sam did scare me twice by almost falling off the chairlift because one ski got caught under his other one and I had to pull him back up and on the same ride, he forgot to unload when it was time and I had to pull him off. Those things happen in seconds, but they were the only times my heart leapt into my throat. Even when Seth or Sam fell, they were both able to get themselves back up without usually needing help from me and I know after a few more days of practice, they are only going to become more independent.



The best part of getting off the bunny hill was having a better view!

It's hard to take a self-portrait on a chairlift.


Seth was always in front of us. On the chairlift but even more so on the downhill part.


I made him wait at the top of a run so that I could get a picture of him. It was the only time of the day I was further down the mountain than him.

This little boy improved so much! He was jealous of Seth and my poles and liked to pretend he was holding his own.

My reward was listening to them chatter excitedly on the way home and when Jay told me how animated they were when telling him about their day. Plus, because I pretty much spent the day in a snowplow in front or behind Sam, and carried their skis to and from the van, I got a really good lower and upper body workout. Go fun mom!