My Prize

I'm feeling better! Right around 2:00 this afternoon, some kind of fog just lifted out of my head and I felt...like me again. Only with a bad cough. And really, really bad hair ( I fell asleep with wet hair after my shower).

And what do I have to look forward to with my renewed strength and energy?


Mess #1:

Mess #2

Cleaning sandwich crumbs out of the fireplace:

Finding things that Henry has placed all over the house:


Cleaning Henry's room:


Being a drill Sargent and making the boys clean their room:


Washing my sick bedding and making my bed:

Not to mention about five loads of laundry.

Yay for health!

I am actually glad to be feeling better. It is almost a Shakespearean tragedy when mom gets sick!

Kindness

I am sick. I'm pretty sure I have influenza. My whole body hurts and I have had a fever and chills for 24 hours, a bad cough and even my jaw hurts now. I've stayed in bed most of the day, read a really bad book, but had to get up and go to Seth and Sam's trimester parent/teacher conferences because Jay couldn't and I know how hard those 15 minute intervals are to reschedule...especially for siblings. Besides, I wanted to hear from the horse's mouth how fabulous my boys are (they are fabulous).

So, I went and bumped into my friend, Lori, who took pity on me. When I got home, she had left a Papa Murphy's take-n-bake pizza on my doorstep along with some cookie dough.


Even though Jay will be on his own for dinner, not having to fix anything for the boys helps so much.

Already moved, I stuck the pizza in the oven and came back to the couch to find this:



Sam brought my pillow out along with a few quilts and his special blanket.

If kindness could single handedly battle the flu, there's no doubt I'd be bright eyed and bushy tailed right now. As it is, I can only say, to both....

Thank you.

The Poster Child

I have recently embarked on the life path of buying Mary Kay products. I say that because 1) I actually like the products and find the price competitive to similar quality products from Clinique, Estee Lauder and Lancome, and 2) because I happened to have purchased my skin care line from an ambitious lady.

I did not know this when I naively accepted an offer to have my neighbor come to my home to do my "colors" for me. I thought it would be kind of fun but soon realized as she kept rolling out the paraphernalia that this was business. Serious business. Being the sucker that I am, by the end of my session, I was $200 poorer.

This same neighbor of mine is clearly making her way up the Mary Kay ladder. Recently, she started cruising around in a shiny new black SUV with the Mary Kay insignia emblazoned on the back. She is also, as I discovered last night, a trainer for up and coming newbie Mary Kay ladies.

Several months ago, she started sending me evites to a Mary Kay party where you get a make-over and there are door prizes and food and all sorts of super fun. I have declined (ignored) the invitation for months, but when she personally called me, I found myself unable to say no. She offered me half off a brush set if I would be willing to have her do my "colors" again, for newbie training, and having a newly discovered desire for a brush set (as of her offer), I agreed.

I went to the "party"...early even because there was an early-bird door prize, and realized it was just me with four Mary Kay ladies in business suits. There was supposed to be one other victim/customer/willing participant but she had the sixth sense not to show up.

With all eyes on me, I sat still while Miss Mary Kay described my face shape, why she was choosing the colors she was and what "look" we were going for. I had my choice: natural, classic or dramatic, and with much boldness decided on dramatic.

For about 45 minutes, I followed her instructions and washed, buffed, moisturized, applied and puckered until I was deemed adequately dramatic looking. Then, I had to sit there and listen to all four ladies give me compliments about how fabulous I looked.

There was the awkward plugging for their products, which she disguised as letting the other Mary Kay ladies know about what the company's current offers were and the even more awkward sharing of my opinion about how I was not interested in starting my own home business. With those out of the way, Miss Mary Kay was ready for my order.

What? I just came for the brush set. But, as she circled all the things she used to get me looking so, so fabulous, I sensed my defense softening and ordered two things. Help!

I really like Mary Kay but I think I may need to start screening my phone calls. Or grow a backbone.

If these before and after shots don't make you a believer in their cause, I don't know what else will.

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!

It Means....I Love You

When you wake up at 6:00 and quietly watch Star Wars: The Clone Wars instead of waking me up, you're saying, "I love you."


When you take Sammy for a sleepover and play 20 games of dominoes with him and let him read story after story out loud because he loves to practice reading, you're saying, "I love you."


When you hear your little brother wake up and go into his room to get him out of his crib, even though he screams, "NO!" and you try again (several times) and eventually climb into the crib with him so that he'll stop crying allowing me to lie in bed a little bit longer, you're saying, "I love you."


When you hug me tight as we say "Good morning", you're saying, "I love you."

When I make you pancakes for breakfast, because they are your favorite, I'm saying, "I love you."


When you unload the dishwasher, you're saying, "I love you."

When I clean up the kitchen after breakfast, I'm saying, "I love you."


When you leave for work early on a weekend morning, because you're on call and that's part of your job, you're saying, "I love you."


When you play next to me for an entire hour while I'm on the treadmill, I know you're saying, "I love you."


When I scrub your toilet, and wash your tub, sink and mirror and put out clean towels, I'm saying, "I love you."


When I give you your Valentine's Day treat,a box of chocolates, and you give me the coconut filled one because you don't like it, we're both saying, "I love you."




I love how in true Seth style, you have rationed your chocolate so that it lasts while your brothers quickly inhaled consumed theirs.

When I make the bed, and pull up all six layers of your blankets, I'm saying, "I love you."


When I do your laundry, even if I shake my head about how many clothes you boys go through in a week, and put them away in your closet and drawers, I'm saying, "I love you."

When you wait patiently for me to finish "Howard's End" before I fix you lunch, even though you are really hungry and the movie seems like it will never end (for both of us), you're saying, "I love you."


When I clean up the kitchen, again, after providing a lunch of crackers, cheese and summer sausage and chocolate milk, I'm saying, "I love you."



When you send me an email that makes me laugh in the middle of the day, because it references Dwight Shrute, I know you're saying, "I love you."


When I take you to your basketball game, and cheer even though Henry is squirmy and hard, I'm saying, "I love you."


When you come to a 3rd grade basketball game, and stay for the entire hour even though Seth only touches the ball three times, you're saying, "I love you."


When you share the cookies grandma gave you with your little brother during the game, you're saying, "I love you."


When you come to Wal-Mart with me, on a Saturday, and walk through the whole store without complaining so that I can get everything I need, you're saying, "I love you."


When I buy you five king-size Snicker and a Reece's Peanut Butter shaped heart, in desperation because Wal-Mart doesn't carry electric blankets and that was my idea for a Valentine's gift for my poor, cold husband, I promise I'm still saying, "I love you."



When I rent you a movie from Redbox and give you each a big bowl of buttered popcorn that you get to eat in front of the TV, I'm saying, "I love you."


When I prepare Burgundy Pork Tenderloin, Balsamic Roasted New Potatoes, and Pan-Fried Asparagus, for a special Valentine's dinner, I'm saying, "I love you."


When you finally get home at 5:30 and kiss me and say, "I've got a Chest CT coming. Sorry." and head back to our bedroom to work for another hour, I know you work so hard because you are saying, "I love you."

When you break open the bottle of wine by tapping it ever so carefully against the sink, because it's the first wine I have ever bought that wasn't in a grocery store aisle because the recipe called for something better so I went to a wine store and listened for 10 minutes while some guy told me all about this particular wine and how it doesn't have an oak aftertaste even though I just wanted it to be inexpensive but he convinced me that not having an oak aftertaste was important so I bought it and then realized I couldn't open it because we don't have a cork screw opener, because we have never needed one before...you're saying, "I love you."


When you sit down to a romantic dinner with candles burning and roses on the table that you had delivered to me a couple of days earlier, and encourage our three sons to behave during our special meal because you know it took a lot of effort on my part, you're saying, "I love you."




When you ask to be excused and quietly leave the table, even though you didn't eat anything, I know that you are only trying to avoid hurting my feelings because you didn't like it and are really saying, "I love you."


When the hospital calls right after dinner with more stuff for you to read, and you have to disappear again but call me back to the computer a few minutes later to check out the images of intestines twisting around blood vessels, you are really saying, "this patient needs to have surgery" AND "I love you."



When I put you to bed and you have about 100 Lego's all over the floor but both you and I are too tired to pick them up so I don't say anything and you go right to bed without giggling and sneaking out of bed for endless cups of water, we are both saying, "I love you."



When I clean up the kitchen, again, I am saying, "I love you."


When we are finally together, side by side, without kids, on the couch to watch a movie, when you hold my hand, you're saying, "I love you."


When the hospital calls you, again, and I end up watching National Treasure 2 all by myself because you have to help those Texans who come here on long weekends to ski figure out what's wrong with their knees or because you are on the phone with the ER trying to figure out what needs to be done tonight and what can wait until tomorrow, I admire how hard you work and how smart you are, and how good you are at your job and think the whole time, "I love you."


When 11:00 hits, and they aren't supposed to call you anymore, and we get into bed and you put your cold, cold feet on my warm leg, and I let you, I'm saying, "I love you."


When I turn off my light and you read by red light on your headlamp, because it makes it darker and easier for me to fall asleep, you're saying, "I love you."

The chocolate and roses are nice, but it's the stuff in between and every day that really counts. Valentine's Day 2009 - subtly full of love.

Book Review #35 - The Story of Edgar Sawtelle

It's not this book's fault that it suffers from being way overly-hyped. I'm not even sure an author can be grateful to Oprah anymore as her brand seems to automatically make haters out of book critics (heaven forbid a great reader appears to be on an Oprah bandwagon) as well as raise expectations thus leaving very little room for anything that comes short of perfection.

Her brand also makes any author a millionaire so they can't be too upset. But I don't think this book would be nearly as popular as it is if it's front cover weren't emblazoned with the big "O."

Not because it isn't a good book but because it's a really, really sad book. Dramatic and compelling - yes - but so, so tragic at the end. Still, I liked it. What I've been trying to figure out since reading it, is if I liked the book because I liked this story or if I liked the book because I liked the original.

After much reflection, I believe I liked both. As most everyone probably knows by now, this is a re-telling of Shakespeare's Hamlet. Wroblewski doesn't even try to hide the attempt as he calls the main character's mother, Trudy (Hamlet's mother was Gertrude) and the evil uncle, Claude (Hamlet's evil uncle...Claudius). Some of the other mirrored characters were more disguised but most were there. And if you know the story of Hamlet, you understand that a son goes nearly insane trying to prove his beloved father was murdered by his uncle, who sinisterly and without remorse takes his father's place in both profession as well as in his mother's affection. It's a known tragedy and the ending is not happy. No apologies.

I can handle an unhappy ending. However, I think at Sawtelle's end, the author thought his book would become a tragedy if he simply ending everything as horribly as he possibly could. I felt sad, bad and mad compared to the more desperately ironic tragedy of Hamlet's demise. Furthermore, even though I knew the bad stuff was coming, I stopped expecting it because Edgar was just a kid. A mute kid. A mute kid responsible for beloved dogs. You don't write kids and dogs in despair without some kind of silver lining in modern day books. You just don't.

I know it seems like I'm spoiling the ending but I don't know how you separate The Story of Edgar Sawtelle from Hamlet and I can't be blamed for including spoilers about Hamlet. Because the skeleton of Edgar Sawtelle's plot is not original, I don't think Wroblewski gets credit for it. Shakespeare does. Sort of like the movie Clueless with Alicia Silverstone. Cute movie. Funny. But it's really Emma: Jane Austen's brainchild.

Wroblewski does get credit for making Edgar mute, a brilliant angle to writing the young and confused protagonist's inability to effectively communicate. In that, he created a unique Hamlet character that managed to be separate from the original. I believed in Edgar Sawtelle. I believed in his innocence, his loneliness and why he runs away. The author also gets credit for its stark midwest setting and the fantastic dog characters, which certainly creates an effective emotional response. You absolutely believed that those dogs loved Edgar without condition, particularly Almondine, an ability which seems lost to most human relationships these days.

In the end, I think it's a good book because Shakespeare is a genius and created an interesting plot and Wrobleweski didn't ruin it with his modern interpretation and more than competent writing. But he didn't make it any better either. Three stars for being a decent copycat.

The Greener Woman

I don't like teenagers. Well, more accurately, I'm scared of teenagers. Even the ones that don't freak me out with their awful language, total disrespect for rules and manners and their please-don't-ever-let-my-children-dress-like-that-or-date-anyone-who-does fashion sense usually confound me with their moods, physical hyperactivity and vacuous stares. Individually, I enjoy a few but as a whole... yeah....no.

I am aware that every day, my own sweet innocent children get one day closer to becoming one of them, so, underneath all of my fear and loathing, I want to have a better understanding of this age group. After all, I was one of them once. I should be able to drift back, remember my teenage self and feel empathy. The problem lies in that even my own teenage self bewilders my current self. Why are there so many pictures of me doing the most obnoxious things? Oh...because I was obnoxious.

I must send out a "I don't like the teenage set" vibe because I have never been called to work with them. Not in Sunday School. Not in Young Women's. Not as a camp counselor. Not as a trek Ma or Pa. There's real brick wall me and them. I've been fine with it but I have started to wonder if I shouldn't...you know...reach out and overcome this particular phobia.

When the Young Women's president slipped me a piece of paper after Relief Society two weeks ago and asked me if I would come into their room during the third hour and "talk to them about womanhood and motherhood" from my current perspective, I smiled and said, "Of course." It seemed more polite than refusing because I don't like them.

With one strike already against me (talking to a hostile crowd), I quietly thought about what this particular set of girls needed to hear about womanhood and motherhood. I tried to place myself in their shoes. Small town. Tiny young women's program. Several different family backgrounds to consider and be sensitive to. I went to my usual fount of inspiration over at lds.org (I love that site. There is nothing you can't find on it!) and started reading. Talk after talk reminded me that what they needed to hear...and what, no doubt, the Young Women's president expected me to talk about...was that womanhood and motherhood is glorious and fulfilling and the best thing any girl could imagine for her future. Swing and a miss - strike two (lying in church).

Why I was slated to give this particular spiel is anyone's guess. Perhaps I was the first person she saw in the hallway. Or maybe my new black boots caught her eye and she mistakenly thought I was cooler than I really am and someone young teenage girls could relate to. Or, maybe...just maybe, Heavenly Father wanted to soften my heart and teach me by the spirit. Maybe. If you believe he's into that sort of thing. (I do).

On Sunday, when the time came to talk to the three girls who were there, I heard words come out of my mouth about the power of being a daughter of God, the rights and privileges of our gender as well as the opportunities and fears. I heard myself describing my own road at 15, 16 and 17 - paved with confidence and ambition. I even heard myself describing that amid all of the messes, stinky pants, battle of wills and fatigue comes an unprecedented understanding of God-like characteristics: unconditional love, agency, charity, and sacrifice. Above all, I identified with President Uchtdorf's talk on being creators and spoke with wonder about this ability of ours to create. Life. Homes. Relationships. It felt good. I felt real but also optimistic. And I truly believed every word I said - no lying whatsoever.


I was all ready for the fade-to-black happy ending with my warm and fuzzy soft heart except that come Sunday evening, the feeling was gone. Three days ago is too long for me to remember the specifics but, suffice to say, something happened, probably something inconsequential and minor, that left me feeling resentful regarding my gender.


It all started with the return of my period. As I type, I hear your silent protests and add my own and even more shrill (and panicked by now) voice of Jay to hit the backspace button and delete the first sentence of this paragraph and avoid any mention of that particular aspect of womanhood. I've shifted in discomfort myself while reading blogs mentioning Aunt Flow or cramps or PMS and throughout my four-years-without-even-a-thought-about-it experience - felt justified in doing so.

That's right. Four years. Without a period (there's that word again. Sorry.) Last week, when my skin resembled my pre-Accutane years and I couldn't control my urge to consume chocolate, I didn't even suspect the real culprit.

But now I get why some mention it on their blogs, in spite of the uncomfortable position it puts any and all readers. Because it stinks. I hate it. Everything about it. If potty training tops the list of "worst part of parenting" then menstruation is it's first cousin over on the "worst part of being a woman" list.

I felt like such a hypocrite being so angry about womanhood only a few short hours after selling it with such reverence to the Young Women.

That feeling of hypcricy quickly turns to feelings of inadequacy as I involuntarily compare myself to the multitude of amazing women I know who don't seem to have this problem. Women who seem to employ themselves in the job of being and believing in the wonders of womanhood full-time.

The ones across the fence who are better organizers, better friends, better lovers, better writers, better mothers, better scripture readers, better bread makers, better decorators, better exercisers. Women who are funnier. Women who seem to always be dazzled by their children even when I know for a fact that those same children are annoying sometimes. Women with more patience. Women with more tolerance. Women who would never feel compelled to write something like this.

Thankfully, these same women are the ones who will also, undoubtedly, assure me that all is well and that I'm awesome too. Which I do already know. I just wish I believed it all of the time.

That and another four year hiatus.

And a world with no teenagers.

Book Review #34 - Parenting With Love and Logic

I have heard so much about Love and Logic style parenting that I thought I might already know all there is to know about it and didn't even need to read the book. On the off chance I was wrong, I checked it out.

Turns out, I knew very little. I had heard about the "give choices" aspect, but there were plenty of ideas that were brand new to me.

Written by a child psychologist and physician, Love and Logic is a parenting philosophy that seems to use Zen techniques to avoid angry confrontations with children and teach them personal responsibility through natural consequences. To teach them, a parent must never dictate what that child must do but rather manipulate, er...help, that child to decide between two acceptable outcomes. If a young child has a tempter tantrum when you tell them it's time to leave, instead of physically taking over or allowing your child to turn the situation into a never-ending negotiation, you ask, "Would you like to leave here with your feet on the floor or your feet in the air?" Supposedly, the freedom to choose solves all problems.

I don't disagree. I think there is much to be said about the dignity and responsibility of choice. I don't doubt that when run to perfection, the Love and Logic technique produces lovely, independent, resourceful children and more. The trouble I have is that it requires parents....me....to do our jobs flawlessly.

I'd love to implement Love and Logic techniques into our home. Sadly, as one of the adults that is required to make this work, I am also equipped with emotions that do not always bring out the most mature responses. Sometimes, when my children are being unreasonable, I lose my patience. No where, and I mean no where, did I see a situation in where a parent was allowed to do that. Our emotions and subsequent response to each and every situation needs to be calm, neutral and delivered with a robot matter-of-factness. The line the authors give if unable to think of an appropriate response is, "I love you too much to argue." Huh.

Another complaint I have with Love and Logic is that there doesn't seems to be a situation where the authors feel that the natural consequence wasn't the best consequence. If your child sleeps in, then they miss school. They can't bother you because that's not part of your day and if you need to leave then they have to pay for the sitter and they have to face the consequences at school for having an unexcused absense. In the very next chapter, the consequence for staying up late was being tired because you wake them up at 6:00 - no matter what. Wait. I agree that a consequence of staying up late is being tired the next day but what was that whole chapter about missing school?

The authors explain these consequences as paying a price. They argue that the price for learning these things is small and affordable when our children are young and much more costly if they are forced to learn these things as teenagers or, worse, adults themselves. I agree, and would even let my children stay up late or "pay" for an unexcused absense, but when one of the authors (I can't remember which one) wrote about teaching his 12 year old foster son about being on time and telling him, "I'll pick you up at 5:00 and will stay until 5:03. If you're not there then I'll come again at 10:00 and stay until 10:03. If you're not there then I'll come again at 7:00 in the morning." The boy missed the 5:00 pick up and only came out from behind a wall as he was about to drive off at 10:03. Was he seriously going to leave a 12 year old out all night long? To teach him about being late? Yikes. That sounds like a call to CPS to me, not good parenting. While we have to teach and train, we also must keep them safe and a 12 year old is not equiped to stay out all night.

Reading the book is just the tip of the ice berg. I find it ironic that the authors of Love and Logic bill this philosphy as "effective and easy to learn" but have also marketed the book into dozens of other, more detailed books, classes, movies, programs, websites and pamphlets. And, I don't think they are money wasted because as I have tried to apply what I learned from reading the book, I have found myself hitting all sorts of walls. It didn't answer all my questions and I need more information. That doesn't seem exactly "easy to learn."

As far as reading goes, the book is well organized. The first half takes you through the step by step reasoning behind the theory. The second half is separated into dozens of "pearls" which address specific "what if" situations. Even with those dozens available, my own particular, "what if" wasn't included. I'd love to know how to effectively help my oldest son stop being so hard on himself. But there was no pearl on what to do when your child says, "I'm an idiot." when I point out something he misspelled on his spelling homework. Somehow, saying, "I love you too much to argue" doesn't seem like the best response.

A great book club choice. This is a book that could be discussed all night. Probably even all year.

Book Review #33 - The Eleventh Man

Sometimes, I know exactly how I'll review a book and can hardly wait to get my thoughts down. Other times, like, this time in particular, a book is so lost in that foggy middle between good and bad, that my thoughts never seem articulate. I've avoided writing about The Eleventh Man, by Ivan Doig, for over a month now. I've got eight books dammed up behind it, waiting their turn for review.

I grew up looking at Ivan Doig titles in my parent's living room. Surprisingly, it wasn't until a few years ago that I finally read the first of his Montana trilogy, Dancing At The Rascal Fair. That experience taught me that Doig is in no hurry to entertain his readers. Rather, a lot like growing up in Montana, he rewards those who endure.

With this in mind, I began The Eleventh Man, Doig's latest novel. Ben Reinking grew up understanding how the world of journalism worked as his father owned the local paper in Gros Ventre, Montana. With a degree in journalism from Treasure State University, where he was also a member of "The Supreme Team" 1941 championship football team, he enlists in the armed forces as a pilot. Before he is finished with his training, however, he is given an assignment a war correspondent for the Threshold Press War Project. When the war department learns that the entire eleven members of "The Supreme Team" are enlisted in the war, they propagandize the situation into a opportunity to create war heroes. Ben travels around, visiting his old teammates where they are serving and writes a regular column, spinning tales of bravery and American pride. While waiting for his different travel assignments, he spends his time at East Base outside of Great Falls, Montana. There, he falls in love with Cass Standish, a married female pilot in the Women's Airforce Service Pilot (WASP. There really were female pilots. I had no idea!)

When his columns turn into obituaries as teammate after teammate falls, Ben is forced into understanding that nothing is fair in love and war.

An interesting enough look at WWII, but there is something almost too planned about this book to make it satisfying. It's almost as if I could see his brainstorm page lying somewhere on a table - "I'll have one guy serving in Italy. This guy in the Pacific. Another one in London and another storming Normandy. I need a few to be stuck in the states to highlight what went on here, though. I know...I'll put one guy in the coast guard and another will be stuck flying back and forth to Alaska where I can write up the Russia angle. To tie them all together, I'll make them all old friends....no...teammates! Even better. And one will know what's going on with everyone else and he'll mainly be in Montana so I can still write about the area I know best!" A jaded opinion, but it felt that way.

If you love all things WWII, then you'd probably enjoy this book as well. If not, then read Doig's other books instead. They're better.

I've Created An Addict

Nothing quite like having someone else watch your children for awhile to help shed light on all the things you're doing wrong. Deep....deep....deep down, I knew I wasn't the stellar mom I once considered myself to be. I've attributed this much, much laxer parenting style to being older and wiser, on Henry's special speech needs, on our moves, on his size, and pretty much anything I can but when my mom pointed out Henry's abundant milk consumption while she was here, the spirit of good parenting whispered to me that it was true.

Henry has always had milk issues. He had a tongue tie at birth with which created some nursing problems. Then he was in the NICU for so long that he had nipple confusion. Then I got impatient with his on/off/on style of nursing and switched to exclusive bottle feeding. Then we switched from regular formula to the ultra expensive alimentum formula and eventually to soy formula because he had a milk intolerance. Then he wouldn't drink regular milk so we bought pediasure followed by very vanilla soymilk (he turned his nose up at regular vanilla soymilk).

By this time, I had come to the conclusion that his milk sensitivity was no longer an issue and it was simply a taste preference. I spent several days filling his sippy cups with regular whole milk and he wouldn't drink them. Frustrated, I added chocolate syrup to it. Bingo.

Henry loves, loves, loves his chocolate milk. Instead of syrup, I add a scoop of Ovaltine to his milk, which at least adds some vitamins to it. I try every now and then giving him a cup without chocolate added but there is no fooling his sensitive taste buds.

I have been aware for as long as I've been Henry's mother that he isn't a good eater. Again, I seem to be able to point my finger in any direction by my own. He missed his oral/motor development phase. He doesn't seem to have a good tactile sensor as to when his mouth is full and thus puts too much food in only to spit it all out when he can't swallow. He's picky.

All those things may be true, but, as my mother pointed out, another very likely reason he doesn't eat very well is because he drinks too much milk which is probably spoiling his appetite. A-ha!

As soon as she said it, I knew it to be true. As soon as he wakes up, I give him a sippy cup. Before I take the boys to school, I give him another. When he starts to whine and fret during the morning, I offer him food. He refuses. I give him milk. Whining gone. That pattern follows pretty much throughout the day.

For the last couple of weeks, I have made a concerted effort to limit his milk intake to three sippy cups a day or about 24 oz. Life with Henry is no longer easy. Oh wait...it never was. But, amazingly enough, it's now even harder.

Take this morning for example. I hear his cries at 5:45 am. I ignore them for all of 5 minutes but experience has taught me that my will is NO match for Henry's and he will not fall back asleep. I roll out of bed, walk down the hall to his room and open the door to greet a cranky Henry sitting up in his crib.

I pick him and his B up and carry them both to the living room. As I pass the kitchen and refrigerator, he knows his formerly guaranteed cup of cold chocolate is not coming. Cranky Henry turns into Angry Henry. He cries and he cries waking up both Seth and Sam. I rock and sing but now I've got all three boys awake, near me and wanting things and it's not even 6:00. I resent the situation. I want to give Henry milk. I know if I give him milk, those cries will stop and I can handle being their mother again. But I know if I give him milk, he won't have breakfast and the whole cycle of not eating at meal time will begin again.

I withhold the milk and sit and sooth Henry until 6:45. He's not crying constantly but he's not happy. It's time for the business of morning to begin and as I put him on the couch with his brothers so that I can go to the kitchen and get breakfast started, the crying begins once more. It's that whiny, not quite constant, low, needy cry that frustrates me. Why can't I just block it out? I used to be tough! I used to be the leader! Why have I let Henry take over? I am in charge....right?

Henry's mood rubs off onto everyone. His brothers are cranky which makes me cranky. I dish everyone a bowl of hot cereal, including Henry, which he angrily pushes away. I tell him that it's his breakfast and he needs to eat it. He doesn't. He just cries and cries and cries. And cries.

At 7:30, Jay takes Seth and Sam to school (normally this is my job but Jay just happened to be heading that way this morning) and I pick Henry up to see if I can feed him his cereal. No luck.

I'd offer him toast or cheerios or grapes or eggs or a smoothie but I know from experience that it's not about what's on the table. It's ALL about what's in the cup.

By 8:00, he still hasn't eaten and I'm tired of him and need him to be happy. Or at least quiet.

I walk into the kitchen and open the refrigerator.

I pull out a gallon of milk.

Henry stops crying and looks at me.

I go to the cupboard and pull out a sippy cup.

He smiles.

I fill up a cup with white milk.

He goes to the pantry for the Ovaltine.

He happily says, "Chokate, ma?"

I scoop and screw the lid on.

Henry wins.

I lose.

Every time.




I used to tell people I'd train their children to sleep. I had complete confidence in that part of parenting. I realize all of my flaws as I write this. Like the moms who told me, "I just can't listen to him cry," I hear those words now coming from my own mouth. I'm sure I've been inconsistent and am totally to blame for Henry's need for milk, but I also know that he has more determination, will and stamina to get what he wants than I do.




I'm already dreading tomorrow morning.

Any bright ideas about how to handle our mornings?

My Boys Like To Party All The Time

With Sam and Henry's birthdays both falling in January, we had our fair share of celebrating last month. Here are some pictures of the festivities...including a few other snapshots that didn't make the blog cut:)

Aunt Maureen came to visit for a few days and left on Henry's birthday.

Grandma and Grandpa were going to miss Henry's birthday so they dropped off his gifts before heading out of town. Grandma always thinks of the perfect toy. Henry loves his John Deere bucket with a shovel and two tractors.

Hey, Seth. Let me get a picture of Henry with Grandma.

Do your kids do this?

Cut it out, Seth.

Henry loves his grandma.

A few days later, when my parents came to town to take care of the kids while Jay and I were in Utah for his surgery, we had his birthday party.

My mom's birthday was the day after Henry's, so it was a cake for both of them. For some reason, Sam can't stop touching Henry.

I got Henry some Wedgits. Highly recommended. He loves them.

Why use a fork when you can just go in face first?

Grandpa and Grandma came to celebrate again.

So did Uncle Vaughn, Aunt Patty, Derek, Delanie and my parents. It was a great party.

Henry got a potty! He doesn't love it, even though he looks all cute and happy here. Hopefully soon. Like sometime this year...

On one of the days where there wasn't a birthday or birthday party, Seth had his first basketball game. He's the tallest kid on his team (though not the most aggressive) so stood in for the tip off.

More typical of Seth's style of play - happily spectating. Notice coach Jay in the background. I got him some trackpants and a whistle to complete the look.

Then Sam turned six. Here's another Gluten-free cake decorated by moi. Unfortunately, I'm unavailable for hire at this time.

Family came over to celebrate Sam's special day. He got spoiled!

Happy Birthday to you!

Everyone eating cake. Sam immediately put on the Broncos jersey his dad got for him.

He is capable of eating with utensils, but again, a child of mind decided to just stick his face in his cake.
Time for birthday spankings. Henry loved this part.

Sam's birthday party on Saturday. I didn't realize the lens on my camera was dirty so all of the pictures are etheral blurry. Here all the boys are playing "Darth Vader Says." Think "Simon Says".

This game really didn't work. The boys were supposed to be having light saber training and using them to keep the "dark force" off the ground (black balloons). this lasted for about two minutes before the boys just started jumping on the balloons to pop them. If only they knew what awaited them next.

More balloon popping! The Sith team had to destroy the blue balloons and the Jedis had to destroy the red ones. Sam started to cry shortly after this because he couldn't pop any balloons. It's almost more fun than I can stand.

Then we went outside for a Jedi training course. First, they had to navigate their way along the planet Mustafar (all lava) by only walking on the rocks.

Then they had to come down the skywalk.

Then they had reflex training (catching a ball after it was bounced off of the garage) and flight training around the universe (tricycle around the round-a-bout).

Presents. So fun.

Pizza. I tried to come up with a catchy name but it was just...pizza.

Sam's cake. I ordered it from a grocery store bakery and it was as gross as it looks. The party favors were one of these figures to take home.

After the party, Sam built his lego helicopter. Yes, Kool-Aid was served at the party.

There you have it. We are offically partied out.