Civilize-ation

This past weekend, Craig and I attended the funeral of his much-loved grandmother. We reconnected with members of his family we haven't seen in ages, and spent a particularly touching evening with all of the extended family, reminiscing about Grandma: her many idiosyncrasies, her intelligence and ingenuity, but most off all, her powerful influence -- an influence that, no doubt, will send ripples through the generations in both directions.

She raised five sons. Those five boys are all, I'm happy to report, extremely civilized and happy in their adulthood. This surprises me not because I know them now, but because I have inherited Grandma's life's work: raising sons.

I don't always love this job. In fact, there are times that I downright detest it. Don't get me started about dirty bathrooms and the tendency to turn everything into a weapon. They've even taught their little sister so much about defending herself that they call her our "Tackle Baby" -- a weapon, indeed. I could go on and on about potty mouth, fascination with gross noises, and the hearing aids I'm pretty sure I already need as a result of the perpetual escalation of indiscriminate noise-making.

Over Christmas break, I was talking to my sister on the phone one day while doing the dishes. my childrens' noise level became so unbearably loud that I could no longer hear what she was saying. It sounded like howler monkeys had invaded my living room, and were entertaining themselves by swinging back and forth between the Christmas tree and the ceiling fan.

"Jenny!" I moaned. "I think I live in Lord of the Flies! And I'm a little afraid that I am Piggy!"

And then, of course, I immediately got off the phone and turned my attention to the thing that should have, actually, had my attention in the first place: my unruly clutch of male-children, waiting, desperately, to be civilized by the touch of a woman.

I noticed something interesting about my children very early on: they have always been calmed by the presence of an older female. Their cousin, Lucy, has an especially settling effect on them. She's a born boss (it's one of the many reasons I love her!) and even though she's but 15 months older than my twins, when she starts barking out orders, they listen.

Last summer, I would go spend the day at Jenny's house and let the kids (all boys, except for Lucy) play: sandbox, Wii, swimming at the community pool, usually followed by a couple of Little Caesar's pizzas thrown onto the back deck with a box of Capri Suns and instructions to stay outside until their swimsuits were dry. Lucy would make sure everyone was done eating, then line them up in Mother-May-I fashion for the orderly distribution of popsicles while Jenny and I sipped our Cokes and watched from the kitchen table on the other side of the french doors. I was fascinated -- awed, even -- by how different boys behave when there's a little estrogen in the room.

As I've struggled through the past six weeks of schoollessness (yes, it's a word -- I just coined it) brought on by three weeks of Christmas break, a week of DisneyWorld, and a bunch of snow days, I have often lamented to those who are required to listen (husband, sister, mother, friend) that my house right now is not at all the way my house was when I was growing up. I am the oldest of four, and my two brothers are seven years apart. They did not rough-house. They did not horse around. They did not wrestle, tackle, bite, kick, fight, body-slam, or fart on each other. Our house was loud and happy, but it was not a testosterone-laden den of boy smells and car noises.

I said this to Craig the other day, and he sort of snorted. "Oh, this is exactly what it was like at my house."

God bless his mother. She had exactly what I have now, in reverse order: girl, boy (Craig), then three years later, identical twins. She had the intelligence to quit after the twins, as many more-sane people do, and you should hear the laundry list of antics those three got up to. Someone once gave them boxing gloves for Christmas. I kid you not. And I think it actually worked. Nothing stops fighting like good, old-fashioned permission.

While listening to all of those stories about Craig's grandmother, I realized exactly what we're here for: to civilize. She raised five sons who have all made lasting contributions to the world they live in. They have raised families of their own, started businesses, served others, and lived the Gospel. And the reason they had the skills to do what they have is because their mother recognized the potential underneath the wild-man exterior that, I'm convinced, every boy exhibits to some degree. She molded them, shaped them, prepared them to be husbands, fathers, and leaders, helped them become so much better than they could have ever been without the calming influence of the great civilizer of society: the mother.

For This Child I Prayed

I don't usually teach Gospel Doctrine, so when I have to substitute for my brother's class, I tend to over-prepare. I'll be the first to admit I'm a little intimidated by the breadth of material covered by these Old Testament lessons, and heaven forbid I should disprove my know-it-all reputation by failing to cross-reference every footnote in the reading material.

I began preparing for a lesson on the later chapters of 1 Samuel by reading Hannah's story at the beginning of the book. It had been a rough day with the boys, especially G-Dog. Though he is a twin, he is still consistently dominant and takes on the role of oldest child. He tends to amplify the intensity of any situation, good or bad: when things are going well, he thrives on the praise he receives for his good choices, but when we're at odds, he has a tendency to keep pushing until one or both of us spirals out of control. I am the adult. I should not lose it, but the reality is that sometimes I lose my cool and it's almost always over something G-Dog has done, or won't do, or won't stop doing. I am not proud of this.

I have always felt a certain kinship with the many infertile women of the Old Testament, and found a certain solace in the use of barrenness as a metaphor, but I had never taken notice of Hannah before. After enduring years of childlessness, she pleads for a son, vowing to give him to the Lord. The Lord opens her womb, and after her Samuel is weaned, she delivers him to Eli at the temple so that he might be trained in the ways of the Priesthood.

She says: "For this child I prayed; and the Lord hath given me my petition which I asked of him: Therefore also I have lent him to the Lord; as long as he liveth he shall be lent to the Lord. And he worshipped the Lord there." (See 1 Samuel 1:27-28)

I got hung up on that first verse: "For this child I prayed: and the Lord hath given me my petition which I asked of him."

And I could not help thinking of G-Dog. For this child, I prayed. For this child, I begged, pleaded, bargained, wept, despaired. For this child, I endured needles, probes, surgeries, heartache, frustration, desolation, drugs, pain, and indignities. And the Lord hath given me my petition which I asked of him.

And then I heard a voice. "He is mine," it said. "He is mine." I knew then that this child, who is my toughest, who is a challenge harder to handle than the seven years of infertility we endured before he was born, is loved, watched, cradled, cherished by the Lord.

I am now exactly where I wanted to be: my babies all slumbering in the next rooms, husband asleep at my side, life full of people I love and time occupied by worthy projects. And yet. Time and again those things are not enough to motivate me to choose better. To be better.

This child -- all of these children -- lent to me but for a short space, are my teachers more than I am theirs. I wonder that their noble spirits were given to me, a most unworthy mother, and pray that this petition, too, will be heard by the Lord: that I will be equal to the challenge. That I will not damage them with my lack of patience. That I will be humbled -- finally, by strong-willed children who can teach me to rely on the Lord more than I have ever had to. That we may all grow together. That I can be like Hannah, and recognize in my little ones the spark of divine.

An Embarrassment of Riches. And An Embarrassment.

Late at night, when I check on my sleeping children, I always experience a little heart-squeeze. Do you know what I mean? I look at their sweet slumbering faces, completely relaxed, safe in the cocoon of home. I love those moments. And I must admit that, sadly, they don't happen too often when the yahoos are awake. Somehow, I think quiet is required for those tender moments and that is a true rarity in this house full of loud, raucous, rowdy boys.

Because these moments are so rare, I take note when they happen, and lately, I've been taking note more often than usual. I'll share some of them . . . but first, something to ground even the highest of fliers.

Ahem. I have a mouse in my car. Or, I did. Which, I guess, is better than the petrified dog poop found by a certain old friend of mine in the back of her car. But still. Last Saturday, we piled into the van to go out for breakfast. As I put on my makeup (which lives in the car, and no, I never put it on while driving, but the light in my driveway is great, and my kids, so far, patiently stay strapped in while I apply the little bit of cosmetics it takes to get me from "she's a man" to "she's not half-bad" . . . but I digress), I found myself in need of a tissue. Those are stored in the glove box. Oh, how I wish I had taken a picture of what I found when I opened it. All 50 million of those shop-lifted fast food restaurant napkins had been chewed and torn to bits, creating the happiest little rodent nest I have ever had the pleasure to encounter.

Last Saturday was CPod's first day off in weeks. He had plans. In that moment, they all changed. He cleaned that van so well you'd think he's trying to hide something from CSI. The good news is CPod saw Little Mousie in the garage, so at lease he's moved out of our vehicle. I'm not all that okay with vermin in my garage, but somehow, it's better than my van.

So, in the midst of all that car-cleaning, intermingled with General Conference sessions and other general Saturday tasks, CPod managed to take each of our big boys on an individual date: errand plus ice cream equals confidence boost and behavior upgrade. GDog's date involved the purchase of mouse traps at the Big Blue Home Improvement Store. During the course of his conversations with CPod, GDog realized that mouse traps do a bit more than just snap off little mousie tails -- and he was distraught.

So his solution was to warn off Mr. Mouse. "Mommy, I told him that he has two days to vacate the premises. After that, we'll have to put out the traps." He was serious. And somehow, it worked. Oh, I love that boy. Heart squeeze number one -- my tender-hearted, big-mouthed, bossy-just-like-me GDog.

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We took the boys to see How to Train Your Dragon (highly recommended by our entire family). The movie started at 4:20, so CPod met us there after his last patient. He was a few minutes late, and those first few minutes contain key plot elements and some serious excitement. He joined us in the dark theater, and the boys just jumped on him. They could not get the words out fast enough. Their sentences tumbled over one another as they raced to convey with abject adoration and uninhibited enthusiasm their total excitement about what they were seeing. They love their daddy. Heart squeeze number two.

 ConMan, GDog, MayDay -- and I can't even remember how he got that black eye!

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Last week, I spent a day at MommyJ's house. We cooked and boned four whole chickens! We filled her freezer with enough food for her husband to be able to take care of dinner for several weeks after her baby is born. Our kids played so well together, and if you know how much I love my sister, you know how happy this makes me.

We ate lunch outside on MommyJ's front porch. MayDay and Henry, who are just 6 months apart in age, shared a chair and some cantaloupe. My little MayDay looked over at his cousin and said, "Henwy, you're my favorite one to pway wiff." Heart squeeze number three -- my train-playing, thumb-sucking, baby boy MayDay.

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The other day, the boys clustered around the Lego bin. "Mommy", GDog said, "I need a human for my car. Will you help me find one?"

I'm a singer. And he said "Human". So I dug through the Legos and began to sing, "Are we human? Or are we dancer?" And ConMan totally picked it up. "My sign is vital, my hands are cold . . ." He kept going, so I turned on the CD: The Killers -- Live from Royal Albert Hall (also highly recommended), and ConMan sang his little heart out. Heart squeeze number four -- my Lego-building, Killers-singing, ladies-favorite, ConMan.

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And let's not forget Miscellany. She's growing so quickly . . . too quickly. She's beautiful. She recognizes her name. She reaches for me. She's so, so happy, and she smiles like a Muppet -- as though some puppet master opens her mouth as wide as it will go every time she grins at her brothers. GDog plays a little rough, and I spend a lot of time warning him off of the baby, but her reaction to him does not exactly reinforce my position. I have a little heart squeeze just about every time I pick her up and smell her lovely auburn head.

Oh, it's fun, isn't it? Even though it's peppered with moments like this one (look away if you're squeamish):

 The ones like this never fail to make up for the unpleasant patches:

I love watching my children . . . become.

The Mommy Diet

I'm back! Did you miss me? I missed me. But I'm back, for real. And, for real, I'm not going anywhere in the foreseeable future.

So I'm back on the treadmill again. The last time I ran was March 1, 2009. (I was pregnant and sick -- don't judge.) And then Miscellany was born, and I ran a few times a month ago, in February. This time around, though, I am committed. And it feels good. I am amazed at the mood stabilizing effects of exercise. There really is something to those endorphin thingies, I guess. After a run, I just feel better -- about everything. I can handle my children. I can handle my life. I actually like my life. And I feel somehow . . . faster. I unload the dishwasher, or fold laundry, or clean the bathroom, and my whole body is awake, present and participating in the activity. I walk taller. I work better. I breathe deeper. And I'm happy.

To capitalize on all this exercise, CPod and I have also been counting calories. Being the nerdy people we are, it goes without saying that we're approaching it scientifically: calculate your basal metabolic rate, decide how much weight you want to lose, factor in exclusively breastfeeding a 4 month old baby and estimate your activity level (how many calories does it burn when I chase GDog around the house trying to enforce a time out?), blah blah blah. Suffice it to say I do not enjoy 120 extra calories of Co'Cola unless I've done one thing or another to earn them. To that end, I record everything I eat, as does CPod, and I have noticed certain . . . disparities between our lists.

Take, for example, lunch. CPod's list is pretty straightforward:

-onion roll with three slices of ham, mustard, lettuce, NO cheese
-a pear
-10 pringles
-a handful of cocoa roast almonds
-water, water, and water.

My food list for the day is slightly more complicated:
-3 pringles (I assume, when you add up the surface area of all 17 crumbs I managed to grab)
-the peanut butter left on the knife after I made three other sandwiches
-1/4 of a pear, plus 2/3 of 1/4, plus 1/2 of 1/4, plus 1/3 of 1/4 (even for a math nerd, that's more computation than I want to do just to record my calories)
-6 almonds
-2 animal crackers
-half of a juice box (also leftover)
-1/2 serving of pineapple in lime jello (the rest thrown back in the refrigerator so I can eat it after refereeing a squabble between the twins)
-one slice of ham, as I put away what CPod left out when he made his lunch (because he thought I would use the same ingredients to make mine)

I think I spend more calories recording the food I eat than I actually consume. I mean, surely the 35 calories worth of animal crackers are burned as I fend off the interlopers who try to take over the computer and play pinball every single time I sit down to add another food to the list! Don't they cancel each other out?

Do I have to count the seven goldfish in a little baggie I found when I was cleaning out the car? How about the one peanut butter cracker left in the pack in ConMan's preschool snack? Or the chocolate covered raisins I found inside MayDay's stacking cups?

The Mommy Diet? How about the Homeless Foragers diet? The Cinderella's Mice diet? The One-Sixteenth Portion Diet? Whatever it's called, I can't believe the weight isn't just falling off of my bootylisciousness.

Oh, wait. There are some things I consume in whole portions. Blue Bell Almond & Pistachio ice cream, with a light drizzle of Hershey's syrup? That, I savor slowly, after my children sleep, whilst enjoying a book, a blog, a brief conversation with beloved husband, a bad singer on American Idol.

Dinner with my girlfriends? I can finish off three days worth of leftover calories in one fell swoop: spinach salad with gorgonzola, applewood smoked bacon, craisins, sugared pecans, and mustard-honey emulsion; or New York-style pizza with fresh basil and house-made mozzarella; or the best fried shrimp ever with cole slaw and roasted sweet potatoes, topped off with warm chocolate chip bread pudding doused in pure, unwhipped, unadulterated cream.

Have I said before that I love food? I do. Truly. Sometimes I think I do all this calorie counting and exercising just to keep myself from getting fatter. The thing is, I'm totally okay with that. I run, and it feels good. I eat, and it feels good, too. And this body? It's not half bad. I think I'll keep it.

From Shadow to Light

Go easy on me, readers. I'm about to bare my soul here, and it's still pretty raw.

(And please note: I throw around the word "crazy" a lot in this post. This is a common word in the InkMom lexicon, and it's more descriptive than clinical in nature. Please don't take offense.)

I have a new baby. She is beautiful. Lovely. She is making me a bit crazy (there I go!) right this second because she won't go to sleep, but I adore her. My Miscellany.

I have always adored her -- from the first moment I knew her little body was taking shape and being formed inside of mine. It was the same with my sons, her three older siblings. I have never ceased to wonder at the miracle that is conception and childbirth, growth and development, emergence of personality and character.

When Miscellany was about eight weeks old, I started to feel . . . not right. I began to overreact to the normal messes and spats and needs-to-be-met that happen in a house full of little boys. I started to feel like I was drowning.

I was experiencing Postpartum Depression. Did you know it's the most common complication of childbirth? Yeah. I didn't know either.

I have a lot of people who love me. They knew something was up. My mom said it first.

"Do you think you might have some postpartum depression going on?" she asked me one day, after a long crying jag when I tried to convince her I couldn't possibly be a good enough mother for my children.

My husband was next. Three days a week, his commute home is exactly one hour. That same night, fifteen minutes into his commute, I called him and unloaded: the kids did this, then that, and I just can't do it any more and you have to get home right now. Needless to say, he was worried. He told me later that he was baffled, because all of those things I listed were pretty much the norm for our kids: a little wild, a little intense, but totally under the umbrella of average behavior in the InkMom & CPod household.

I saw my doctor, and PPD it was. She did not recommend medication for me, but she made me promise to give her phone number to my mom, my sister, my husband. If things became more severe, I might not be objective enough to ask for help, but they could make the call. We talked; we worked on some coping strategies. And I went home.

The last couple of months have been hard, but I finally feel like I have emerged from a fog. This is what I wrote to a dear friend during the worst of it:


"This has been the hardest thing I have ever experienced. My husband says he remembers a little bit of baby blues with MayDay (my third) but nothing like this last time around. I have had days where I have done and said things that make me not recognize myself. There are many days I feel like I'm flirting with the edge of an abyss of blackness, and it wouldn't take much to push me under. Most days, it's much better than that -- although I've never before in my life even known that an abyss of blackness exists in the world, and now all of a sudden I'm painfully aware of it even on my best days.

"I had never before entertained the possibility of PPD. I just thought I was crazy, and the crazy just sort of came out when I was stressed by my kids. When my husband and my mom mentioned to me that they thought it might be PPD, suddenly I became . . . lighter because there was a reason I was feeling so rotten all the time. Somehow, naming it made it more bearable -- naming it made it not my fault.
 
"Talking about it helps a lot. I am VERY lucky to have my sister, who talks me through some very difficult days. There are days when she talks to me for hours on end, and helps me get through the craziness of three little boys without hurting anyone, or yelling too much. I am grateful that she is not only willing but sane enough herself to help me see reality with some clarity. 

"I also have a wonderful husband. My husband DAILY helps me to remember who I am. He literally holds onto me for dear life and tells me what he knows I am capable of doing, and how much he values me, and how grateful he is for the sacrifices I make to care for our family. He does this every night. I can't tell you how much this helps.

"My mom lives nearby, too, and she is available at the drop of a hat. She will rearrange her entire busy schedule if I need her to take over because I'm no longer capable. She checks on me regularly. Sometimes hourly.
 
"PPD has made me question the validity of my feelings. I have to really think now -- when I'm upset about something, I second-guess myself and wonder if this is just the PPD talking, or if I really have a reason to be upset. 

"This is hard. I'm a highly logical person -- I don't usually get upset about stupid stuff. Sometimes I have a visceral reaction and it takes me some thinking to figure out what the root of it is, but I always figure it out and structure my arguments accordingly. Yeah. Isn't my husband lucky? He hates to fight with me because I am so darn good at it. Now, I find myself retreating into my internal space and having a crazy person's dialogue about whether or not I'm upset. This is a degree of insecurity that I am not used to -- because insecurity of any type is not exactly a common theme in my life."

And here is my friend's experience, which prompted me to write all that stuff in the first place:

"My little sister delivered her first child in January and is now experiencing some severe postpartum anxiety.  There have been panic attacks, a lot of crying out for help while desperately trying to keep it a secret, and an overwhelming shift of life from 8 childless 'bliss-filled' years of marriage to this new mysterious and daunting present.

"I'm struggling with the balance of reassuring her that everything she's experiencing is normal and common among many women (in other words, she's NOT a freak), but at the same time helping her to recognize that it's serious enough that she needs to seek professional help and reach out to and allow help from others." 

My friends, I know I'm not the only person out there who has experienced something like this. It's estimated that 15-20% of moms suffer from some sort of perinatal mood disorder. Why didn't I know that? Postpartum depression is temporary and treatable. How many suffer in silence because they don't even know their feelings indicate a legitimate and treatable disorder? Why are we not talking about this more?

Well, today, we are. Go over to Mormon Mommy Blogs, because the topic for Discussion Wednesday is Depression in Motherhood. Go. Read. Comment. The more we talk about this, the more prepared we will be to help our loved ones through it, or to recognize it in ourselves. The more we talk about this, the more we do to advance the cause of mental illness treatment and awareness.

I do not presume to understand what it's like to deal with the pain of depression on a daily basis, but my experiences with PPD have certainly given me a new appreciation for the fortitude it must take, for those of you who suffer from mental illness, to keep going. God bless you.

And -- if you or someone you love is suffering from a perinatal mood disorder, and you haven't gotten help yet, please do. You can find more information here:

Postpartum Support International

and

Jenny's Light

See you over at MMB, where I'll be reading and commenting all day.

A few little pieces of delightfulness

I saw my OB today. Good news: the baby vault it locked up tighter than Fort Knox. I know, you're all scratching your collective heads. You mean she's 36 weeks along and she doesn't want to be getting ever-closer to finally having this baby?

Au contraire, my friends. But I don't want to drop this baby in some random hospital in downtown Atlanta. And because going into labor is not something the women of our family do well (or, at all, if history is any indicator), I have been cleared for travel. Which means . . . tomorrow night, CPod and I will be rockin' out at the Georgia Dome to first, Muse (bonus!) and second, U2. Go ahead, be jealous. If I weren't going myself, I would be green with envy.

Now, just say a prayer for MommyJ's husband, Josh, who has been feeling poorly as of late. I will dispose of their tickets if I must, but it would make me much happier to be able to share the experience with them.

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We had a superb experience this weekend watching General Conference on BYU-TV via our DirecTV dish. I used to love conference weekend. Until about 3 years ago when suddenly our twins were mobile and chasing/caring for them precluded first, any listening, and second, any retention. This weekend, a miracle happened: they listened. They played quietly. They worked on their conference packets, coloring and doing mazes and decorating ties. They yelled out "Joseph Smith!" or "Temple!" in stentorian tones to earn treats when they heard one of the speakers refer to an image we posted to prompt their attention. (Perhaps it was not the best of ideas to add a picture of our Savior to the other ones from the Gospel Art Kit we posted on the doors to the tv cabinet . . . their references to Him were, ahem, not exactly reverent.)

And my love for General Conference weekend is back. With a vengeance. My sincere thanks to Steph at Diapers and Divinity for her inspiration and ideas about enjoying conference with small children -- she knows her stuff, that Stephanie!

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ConMan & GDog both had a great week at school, and as a reward for their good behavior, CPod took them camping. (Lest you think we reward our children every single week -- this was in response to some poor choices perpetrated by one of our twins who shall remain nameless, and needed some further motivation to learn some healthy respect for the rules at school.) MayDay went, too. I went out to dinner with a friend (and ordered mushroom pizza drizzled with truffle oil . . . truffles always make me feel bought, because you could put truffles on dirt and the dirt would taste better than anything else you have ever eaten in your whole entire life) then came home, watched shows my husband doesn't enjoy, and then went to bed. By myself. In a completely, eerily silent house.

And I slept until 11AM on Saturday morning. I really didn't think I had it in me to sleep that late, but sleep I did, and, wow! I had forgotten what it feels like to get enough.

The menfolk arrived home just before noon, so we scrubbed all the dirty children and then fed them lunch while we listened to the first glorious session of General Conference.

Here's my secret: as nice as it was to sleep in and not be awakened by turbo-charged, energetic preschoolers, I missed them. A lot.

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Sometimes, I think ConMan just lives in his own little happy universe. He is frequently oblivious to the world around him, and, when he's in one of his little reveries, moves at his own pace and cannot be rushed. Saturday, it took him twice as long to finish his lunch as it did his brothers. They had been playing legos for 15 minutes while he was still sitting at the table extemporizing conversations between his Cheez-it crackers.

As I cleared the counter of crumbs left over from making PB&J for all the little ones, I listened to Elder Bednar's talk about expressing love to your family members. Suddenly, ConMan stood up in his chair, turned around and said, "Mommy, I love you!"

He smiled, then said it again. "I was listening, and I love you, Mommy!"

I nearly cried. I was so happy not just that he was paying attention, at least a little, to the words of our apostles, but that he had enough practice saying it in the first place that he was comfortable expressing his love for me so spontaneously. He can say it, because he hears it. And because he says it back. And because he knows it.

Sigh. Sometimes, I do something right after all.

Dear Babysitter

I've already written about the glorious child-free weekend CPod and I enjoyed recently.We were fortunate that Whitney, our favorite babysitter, was home from BYU for the summer and finished with her EFY counselor gig. For some reason, ConMan called her Apron for two days. We're still trying to figure that one out. But everyone was still alive when we got home, babysitter included, and, really, what more can you ask? I'm pretty certain, though, that Whitney/Apron will not be having children of her own any time in the near future. And by near future, I mean, like a decade. She may be scarred for life. Without further ado, here's what the babysitter needed to know to get through 28 hours with our brood, minus lists of food they can eat and ways to entertain them.

Dear Babysitter,

I can't tell you how appreciative we are . . . you're putting both your sanity and your desire to have kids in the future on the line here, and we're very grateful!

A few things you'll need to know:

1. The toilets WILL look like you've mysteriously been transported to a truck stop before 24 hours is up. Do not let this concern you -- seriously, it's CPod's job to clean them, as it's his job to correct aiming problems.

2. G-Dog is highly allergic to mosquito bites. I can't keep him from getting them, so we give him allergy medicine to prevent the reactions, but it still won't be a lovely sight if he gets one. Don't let this worry you, either -- just put a band-aid on it to keep him from scratching and make sure it stays clean. It seriously might make his entire leg swell up if he gets one, but it won't kill him, so don't worry about it.

3. Sometimes my kids talk about body parts. Don't be alarmed. Also, the big boys will need you to wipe bums if necessary. This is usual. BE ALARMED if ConMan doesn't ask you for help when pooping.

4. Sometimes they refuse to eat whatever dinner you put in front of them. If they do this, no treats. And don't worry -- they won't starve to death. Just be prepared for them to eat a lot of cereal for breakfast the next morning.

5. Feel free to administer time outs as needed. But -- they should always get an explanation for why they're being disciplined.

6. Bedtime: 8PM or thereabouts. No bath required tomorrow night -- we just did it. Clean diaper/"empty tank" (potty), jammies, teeth, hands & faces, family prayer (they will fight. I need to make a chart. If they're really arguing, just let everyone say their own prayer.), hugs, kisses, and dreams. Just ask each one what they're going to dream about tonight. G-Dog's will be totally off-the-wall, ConMan's will be about Fire Mario, and MayDay's will be about an assortment of Marios. Lights out (pull the chain on the overhead light in the twins' room), doors closed. Mason will probably want a drink of water. That's fine.

7. All three have been stung repeatedly by wasps and/or hornets this summer. This has made them wary in a BIG way of playing outside. If you can persuade them to go outside, please do. Use the "picnic blanket" (sunflowers, in the corner in the living room) and take lunch outside to sit in the shade under a tree; engage them in tricycle races down the driveway or relay races in the cul-de-sac -- anything to get them some Vitamin D. They are especially leery of the playground because the wasps keep building nests inside it. Check it out, and if it's still clear (you'd be amazed how quickly those nests go in) play pirates with the boys. They love this. They also love to pretend the bottom part is an ice cream stand. They love playing with the hose, too -- they call it a snake monster. Our wading pool has a big hole and, sadly, can no longer be inflated. It will be hot, though, so if you want to just hose them down, you can. They are also welcome to play with any of the neighbor kids whenever.

8. I don't care if you feed them snacks all day long and don't do a one of the things I've listed here. As long as they're still alive when I get back on Saturday, I'm good with it. One day of different routine will not undo the whole system!

(And here are some things I should have included, but didn't occur to me until later.)

Please be advised that we have recently come to suspect that the house across the street from us, which is now vacant, was, in the not too distant past, a marijuana grow house. We're not certain, but when your neighbors who've been renting suddenly up and buy a house triple the cost of the most expensive one on your street, and when you smell pot whenever you are near the house, it's not so hard to put two and two together. And since the grass is so tall, there are certain to be snakes. Do I need to tell you to stay away?

I'd like to tell you that every night after the kids go to bed, I'm super industrious and get all of the cleaning done so we can get up the next morning and start the day with a neat house. But I'd be lying. Because mostly, I collapse onto the couch and hardly move until I finally drag myself to bed. And I will not fault you one bit if you decide to take exactly the same course of action!

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Sincerely,

InkMom

PS We'll leave you with keys to our van, just in case you need/want to leave the house. Or you feel like running away. But please call another babysitter first, and let me know where I can pick up my car.

Atrophy of Roots

On our first anniversary, CPod and I graduated from BYU. We spent that week taking finals and packing up all of our earthly belongings, and the morning after graduation, we headed out to Memphis, TN where CPod would embark of the next stage of his education.

We rented a little apartment in Midtown close to the school. We only had one car, and once I had a job, I would drop CPod off for class, drive out to the other end of town for work, then pick him back up after I finished working, or at 11PM if he was closing the library.

Here's what they don't tell you about Memphis: it's patchy, in a strange way. You can go from well-maintained 100-year-old estates a city block in size to housing projects to slums to buildings with signs that announce "Drug dealers evicted here" by just crossing over to the other side of the street. Once you know the safest route through to your destination, you don't look for shortcuts because you're never sure what kind of area you will encounter on the way.

Our apartment complex was safe enough. After all, it was surrounded by a chain link fence topped with three feet of razor wire, and an armed guard manned the entrance at all times. It felt like a prison compound, and the cockroaches didn't do much to dispel my gloom whenever I thought about our living situation. You just never get used to pouring bleach down the drain before you take a shower. You can try. You can pretend. But you will never like it.

I had a good job -- a great job, really. And CPod had his work study job at the library (which I still hold single-handedly responsible for any honors he received at graduation) as well as another job that accommodated his limited student schedule. Housing is cheap in Memphis, and after crunching some numbers, we decided to look for a house to buy. If we played our cards right, we could end up spending less on a house note than we were on rent. For cockroaches.

We searched, and found a great little house. And it had a tree in the front yard. I was sold. It was one of the only trees on the street, and it was lovely: tall, and broad, and it provided shade to the little flower garden by the front porch. I had been longing to get my hands in some soil, and it looked like I would have the opportunity.

I loved that tree. I fertilized it, and pruned it, and took great care to keep it healthy. In return, it ensured lush grass and blooming flowers in my little planter. It's H.O.T. in Memphis -- the kind of sticky, humid heat where you just become complacent in your discomfort, when your clothes always make you feel like you are encased in hot dog skins, when your sunglasses fog up between the front door and your car even if it is only 7:30 in the morning.

The tree was a Bradford pear. Do you have one? You should get rid of it. They're useless.

One early Sunday morning, we were experiencing one of those Memphis storms, with a lot of wind. (It's the only place I've ever lived with tornado warning sirens. Scary.) We heard an awful crack, and when we checked the front yard, our beloved tree had split down the middle and half had fallen on our neighbor's new truck. Nice.

Turns out, Bradford pear trees are the antithesis of delayed gratification. You plant one, and just a few short years later, voila! You have a big, beautiful shade tree. But all of that growth you can see comes at an extreme sacrifice: very little growth under ground. The Bradford pear expends all of its energy branching out above the ground without building the necessary support system underneath, and when a little wind comes along, it doesn't have the strength it needs to stand strong through the storm.

It only took a few days for my flowers to die. You see, they relied on the shade of the pear tree to protect them from the brutal Memphis sun. And when the tree was no longer there to shelter their delicate blossoms, they did not have the resources they needed to survive in their environment.

Lately, I've been feeling pretty drained. I've had a few strong contractions that have worried me a bit, but I've taken it as a cue that I need to slow down. (Don't worry, my doctor is in the loop. I'm talking, like, 5 contractions. Total. Over the course of a week.) I mean, I'm supposed to have 14 more weeks of this! I've figured out (duh) that I don't eat enough, I don't drink enough water, I don't sleep enough, and I don't rest enough. And I don't take care of my spiritual roots enough, either.

I'm determined not to be that Bradford pear tree, because my responsibility to shelter my family is one I take very seriously. But taking it seriously means, first, strengthening my roots: caring for myself physically, and paying attention when my body tells me I need to take it easy; partaking of the spiritual sustenance that comes only through the activities of personal discipleship and maintaining a relationship with my Savior; saying "no" to outside activities and additional stressers when it's time to slow down.

How many of us look great to the outside world, but are really withering inside because we have neglected our roots? I would wager there's more of us out there with atrophied roots trying to maintain the facade of well-being than we would imagine . . . like, maybe, all of us, to a degree.

We are responsible for so many things -- as my mom used to say, semi-jokingly, when I was growing up, "If there's a war in the middle east, somehow I'm responsible." But the thing we are responsible for first and foremost is our own well-being. My ability to provide shelter, to bless others with my talents, to care for those both in my own family and out of it is directly related to how much care I have been taking to ensure my own physical, emotional and spiritual well-being. And yet. It's those very actions that demonstrate care for others that I choose to do instead of first working in my own vineyard.

I will not be that Bradford pear tree. The winds come every day, and I pray that my roots will be strong enough to support me, to withstand the buffeting that, certainly, will not lessen before my job is through.

Hell hath frozen over . . .

Please press play. I'm serious. (And please don't give me grief about the misspelling of Handel's name in the title. It was the only embeddable Mo-Tab version I could find on YouTube. It's kind of driving me crazy, but I've had to just let it go and make peace with something less than perfection.)



Thank you. Now I can proceed with my news.

Many of you know that today I had my anatomy scan ultrasound. And we are having a healthy, long-legged, average-headed . . .










GIRL!

CPod is really proud of himself. To be honest, we weren't sure he was capable of fathering a female. Turns out, he can. And we are excited. Can you tell? I am thrilled to balance out the hormonal scale in this house. Or maybe I'm not so excited about that part, come to think of it. BUT. I can't wait to broaden my childrens' wear horizons, to allow my cart its obligatory detour past the baby girl section of Target, to give my boys a reason to learn what it means to be gentle.

Congratulations to us!

Lines

First things first: I have been a neglectful blog steward. Sorry. Lots going on, including some traveling. But I'm back now.

I finished a book last night about a 19th-century Mohawk medicine woman working amongst the American prisoners of war across the British-Canadian border during the War of 1812. She is summoned to the quarters of the commanding officer, and does not know what to expect of the meeting. She knows the British do not see value in her work, and cannot imagine that his motives or intentions are either in her favor, or that of the prisoners she tends.

As she walks through the garrison on her way to the lion's den, she recites her lineage, which, amongst the Mohawk, is matrilineal. She lists the women who were her progenitors, her mother, stepmother, grandmother, and so on. She tells herself that they can take away everything, but they cannot take who she is: the product of generations of women who lived their lives in a way that brought honor even to those offspring they would never meet.

Her connections define her identity -- and her connections comprise her most prized possessions.

I have an ancestor named Mary Keaton. I didn't know her -- I have never even met anyone who met her, because she lived many generations ago. She is my father's 4th great-grandmother.

My dad grew up on a tobacco farm in central North Carolina. It was very rural, and they were very poor. His parents were both God-fearing, Christian people. His mother, my grandmother, attended a primitive Baptist congregation where she was known for her benevolent spirit, charitable nature, and beautiful singing voice. My grandfather did not attend services, but he read his Bible every day. They raised 13 intelligent, hardworking children who all survived to adulthood, a miracle unto itself.

Before my baby brother left on his mission, my entire family (mom, dad, four children and the three so-far spouses) attended the temple. After Little Bro's endowment session, we gathered together in a sealing room to do some family file work. My husband and I had the privilege to proxy for my grandparents so my dad and could be sealed to them. It was truly a choice experience.

My parents proxied for the sealing of Mary Keaton to her husband. I can scarcely describe the spirit that existed in that tiny room as we participated in uniting another generation of our family for eternity. Even the sealer was affected.

"I don't know who she was," he said, "but she was really special."

We all felt it, and I had the clear impression that the reason my dad was prepared to accept the Gospel when he heard it generations later was because of the habits that Mary Keaton instilled in her children so many years ago . . . who passed on the same values to their children, and their grandchildren, on down to my dad's generation. The same values he has tried to instill in us, and that I am responsible for teaching to my own children. No matter the gender of this child I carry, Mary Keaton will be honored somehow.

I am InkMom. I am the daughter of a great woman, who saw the Gospel for the truth that it is before I was born, and taught it to me and my siblings, and who taught us how to live the same way her mother taught her. I am the granddaughter of Clare, who loved and lived better than anyone else I know, and who I think held onto my babies in heaven until I was ready to receive them; and I am the granddaughter of Stella Catherine, who worked so hard in her life that she even died at her quilt frame, and whose fervent example of hard work I will never cease to emulate, and always fail to attain.

I am a privileged daughter of God, brought to this earth during a time fraught with spiritual danger, but rife with opportunities to grow and share the Gospel with others. I was shaped by the choices of the generations that came before me, and my unique spirit brings new and different dimensions to the family that will be mine for eternity, and that I enlarge as I bring my own children into this world and raise them.

Intelligence? Yes, we will take it with us. But what is it worth without our connections?

On Mothering

Most days, when I was growing up, my mom was waiting for us in the kitchen when we got home from school. Occasionally, she wasn't.

"Mom?" I would call from the front hall.

"Yes?" She would answer back from somewhere deep in the bowels of the house.

"Okay."

This conversation happened over and over, with every kid in my family. We just needed to know she was there. And I have already participated in the same conversation, this time from the other side, in my own home.

I've been thinking of the meanings implicit in little, tiny statements and conversations like that one. My mom was more than just a presence somewhere in the house when I was growing up. Her "being there" meant so much more than just physical presence. It meant if we needed her, she was just a room away. It meant we had a full-time guardian who would patch up skinned knees and bake cookies and just talk if we needed it and pay close enough attention to keep us from even entertaining thoughts of getting into too much trouble. I cannot place a value on her constant presence in our lives.

I know she sacrificed a lot to be our mom. And I can scarcely express my gratitude.

Another common statement in our house: "I expect you home in time for dinner."

I've been reading Barbara Kingsolver's Animal, Vegetable, Miracle. It's mostly about food, but it's a bit about family, too. She says that most of her effective parenting has been done at the dinner table or in the time immediately before and after a family meal. The "family dinner" has just about been excused from the table of society: it's just too complicated to coordinate the busy lives and schedules of all the people in a family.

We had complicated schedules when I was growing up, too. I was the worst one -- even in high school, I played in three symphonies and a string quartet, took piano and viola lessons, had a viola student, and still went to early morning seminary and rarely missed Wednesday night YW activities. But evey night I could be home for dinner, I was expected to be home for dinner. No exceptions. No cellphones. Just expectations.

A few weeks ago, we went out for FHE dinner to our little hotdog joint downtown. Come visit me, and I will take you there. The all-beef chili slaw dog it outta sight. We sat outside at a picnic table to eat our yummy dawgs and fries and milkshakes. While we ate, I observed a little family a few tables away.

The family was composed of a mom and a dad and an 8 or 9 month old little boy. They all arrived in different cars. It was obvious that both parents had just left work. They met the babysitter at the restaurant, and she brought them their baby. The babysitter's husband eventually came, and they all sat down to a wonderful meal of hotdogs together.

And here is what I noticed. The babysitter played with the baby, and said things like, "Clap for Mama! Can you show Mama what you learned today?"

And, "Can you say, DA-DA-DA-DA-DA? Good boy!"

I looked at the mom . . . and I can hardly describe what I saw in her face. I wouldn't have been surprised to see tears in her eyes. It was as if she wanted to say, "But he's mine! I'm his mama!" And in that moment, she realized all she has already missed, and all the things he'll do for the first time when she's not around. My heart broke for her.

I make no assumptions about her situation. I pass no judgment about her decision to work instead of staying at home with her little one. But I have come to realize what a great luxury, a priceless privilege it is to just BE HERE.

I used to think that moms who "get" to work really have it pretty good. They get to have adult conversations, and use their brains for things that actually seem challenging, plus they get paid for it. I'm not so sure now. They also have to entrust their children to someone else for most of their waking hours. They have to miss so much of their little ones' lives. And they're still responsible for all of the things that aren't so fun, like laundry (the bane of my existence).

Here's what I know: My mom was spectacular then, and she still is now. She has never stopped BEING HERE, even when she's not physically in the same place as me.

Here's what else I know: No matter how hard it is, this job that I have now -- this mothering gig that seems to be so incredibly demanding and never-ending and usually thankless -- is the greatest, most rewarding job in the entire world. I tell myself that I should feel lucky, blessed, fortunate to be able to stay at home with my children. And I am all of those things. But I chose it. My husband and I carefully arranged our lives so that my choice to stay at home would be possible. And I feel for those mothers who don't even have that choice to make.

Elementary Physics

All hail spring time! The warm weather has been great for my sanity, because my children love to be outside. Last night, CPod came home from work and played with the boys outside. ConMan had asked me to teach him how to throw a football. Yeah, good luck with that one, son. We'd better leave that task to Daddy. So they were all outside doing boy things, and I was all by myself inside.

I listened to this:



And while I reveled in the glorious violin skill that is Lara St. John playing the J. S. Bach Sonatas and Partitas, I made real food for dinner -- in other words, not morning sickness friendly-food. Yes, friends, we had more for dinner last night than crushed pineapple suspended in cherry Jell-o. Even better, I slept less than ten hours last night and I am significantly more functional than a zombie this morning. I hesitate to make this declaration, but I think I am finally out of the woods. 12 weeks sounds about right for that, doesn't it?

Now that I am out of the fog and can see my home clearly once again, I am appalled at the level of disorganization that surrounds me. Usually, I can't function like this. What am I talking about? I haven't been functioning! I've been surviving, and, as I'm sure you will all agree, there is a significant difference between functionality and survival.

A brief definition, and explanation:

entropy \ˈen-trə-pē\
noun
1. the degree of disorder or uncertainty in a closed system
2. the degradation of matter and energy to an eventual state of inert uniformity
3. CHAOS, DISORDER, RANDOMNESS

(Thank you very much, Merriam-Webster.com.)

Have you ever heard of Chaos Theory? It's a mathematical theory stating that (and I'm way oversimplifying here) something may look as if it was created randomly, but its creation was determined by certain conditions at the outset. In other words, things that look disorganized and random, usually aren't. The location of each component can be traced in a sort of cause-and-effect genealogy back to the very germ that was its inception. And the most insignificant, miniscule change can have very surprising and far-reaching consequences. Fractals, geometric figures composed of seemingly random iterations of a pattern in smaller and smaller scales, are a very visual example of this (Thank you, wikipedia, for this julia set):

(And thank you, Mrs. Caldwell, for forcing me to learn about fractals in junior high algebra.)

When you consider the world around us, you can find examples of entropy and Chaos Theory everywhere. Think of what happens to your yard if you don't mow the grass, weed the flower beds, and take care of things in general. Dandelions take over, but only until the grass is tall enough to choke them out. It becomes a mess of disorganization and, well, entropy. And though it looks random, every single uninvited plant is there because some bird dropped a seed that it consumed elsewhere and then passed over your garden, or because a gust of wind (also not random, by the way) carried it from its parent plant miles away. Each of these things can be explained, and if not exactly quantified, estimated. To quote a platitude I usually abhor, everything happens for a reason. (Completely unrelated: for a really great example of everything happening for a reason, read Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged.)

Can you see where I'm going with this? Don't feel bad if you can't -- I'm not sure I can either.

I believe that my children are real-life, honest-to-goodness superheroes. They are agents of The Universe. I wouldn't be surprised to find out they have secret agent code names and use talking Transformers toys to communicate with their superiors. Their special gifts? They are Entropy Specialists. They excel at facilitating the ultimate goal of our physical surroundings: the creation of disorder, the degradation of matter, the achievement of "inert uniformity" (everything is exactly the same, evenly distributed, and not moving). How do I know this?

Oh, I have evidence. I have seen MayDay's unparalleled skill in unfolding and tossing an entire basket of neatly sorted and folded clothing. I swear to you, it's like seeing a fractal on my living room floor.

I have seen G-D0g's amazing ability to evenly scatter 5 trillion lego pieces across the shag carpet of the area rug in our living room. I'm telling you, it looks random, but it isn't random -- it's chaotic, and every move he makes has direction.

I have seen ConMan throw a ball in the house (absolutely not allowed, but it still happens) with such perfect precision that he achieves the maximum amount of mess when projectile meets intended target, be it picture frames on the mantel or a glass jar of Skittles (MayDay's potty treats).

And I have watched in wonder as one child or another sashays through the pile of dirt I have so carefully swept from the huge expanse of lovely cherry planks on our main floor, and manages to scatter every blasted crumb to the far corners of the rooms.

It would seem that through my six week nausea and fatigue-induced sabbatical, that entropy has been achieved in my home. Maybe the secret agents, mission complete, will retire from Disorder Enforcement. Probably not, though. Because I have not given up! I will continue to fight entropy with every fiber of my being! I will refold that laundry, pick up those legos, put those Skittles back in the jar, and resweep that floor. And I will do it all again tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day, ad infinitum until finally in my celestial mansion dust bunnies do not exist and order becomes the goal of the universe.

Gotta go. Time to start sweeping.

Lemme 'splain . . .

Okay, so my last post implied a great deal of vomitous occasions in my house lately. The truth is, I am wishing for more. What? Yeah, you heard me. Please, God, let me throw up already!

Because I am pregnant. What? Yeah, you heard me. Turns out, that thing you do that sometimes results in pregnancy? It actually, occasionally, works. In our case, it's nothing short of a miracle, considering the extraordinary measures we took to conceive the twins. Adding a fourth child to our family without the use of cutting edge technology and the expense to match will bring down the average cost-per-child to a number that I can almost say without hyperventilating.

I am due early in November -- yes, I'm just getting started here. I should probably keep it quiet a little longer, but I'm not good at keeping things quiet. At least, not things about myself. I'm happy to keep someone else's secrets.

That means I have . . . at least another 6 weeks of wanting to sleep 18 hours a day and always feeling like I'm trying to keep the cap on a fire hydrant. My poor children. They have resorted to performing magic tricks like "disappearing" (yes, that is a verb) Mommy by covering up the sleeping lump on the couch with a blanket. Yesterday, I stayed in bed so long after CPod went to work that the kids brought toys to me and we built legos while we lounged, propped up on pillows.

Also, I am so not running a race on April 11. I promise to put the sidebar back up eventually . . . but for now, I just can't do it.

And . . . I hate complainers. So I won't be one. I am thrilled to be pregnant. (Yes, MommyJ, it's true. I'm not lying.) I am really thrilled to think about being finished after this one . . . and to reclaim my body by having some very necessary surgery to repair some things that have been seriously messed up by childbearing, and to reduce my bustline to something that can no longer be described as titanic. Yes, I feel like a much paler shade of myself right now, but I also know from experience that it's temporary. So no more complaining. But I thought you at least deserved an explanation for my lack of presence here in the blogosphere as of late.

That's all for now. I do have other things to post about, but the urge to dry heave is overcoming me . . . must sleep, too.

Hablaba

A haiku:

Throw-up in your hair
Vomit on the walls and floor
Nervous break-down soon?

I am so done with sickness.

Heard from G-Dog yesterday after a violent round of ralphing:

"I wish I was another guy who never frowed up, mommy."

Heard from MayDay yesterday morning, at my mom's house, before we went to get the doughnuts I'd promised him:

"Mommy, dis," waving hand in the air, " is NOT de donut shop."

That's all I got. I promise I'll be back soon.

I'm outnumbered -- not that there's anything wrong with that

This is one of those weeks when I miss bedtime 6 out of 7 nights. Except not really because of the snow, but please, let me have my pity party. I have a symphony concert tomorrow night, so I spent this evening rehearsing a dozen or so arias in the orchestra with some very talented operatic soloists.

(I haven't been to the opera in so many years that I had forgotten what it's all about. And I'm going to force CPod to take me again sometime soon. When I was at BYU, the opera department put on La Boheme, which is fantastic, and also a good one to start with if you're an opera novice. Ever the positive thinker, I bought two tickets, even though I didn't yet have a date, and had not yet met CPod. So then we started dating and I was not going to miss the opera -- do not be mistaken. First date: hockey game. Second date: Nutty Putty Cave, and I had to pee behind a bush with my future husband about 20 yards away. Third date: yep, you guessed it. La Boheme. That's when the compromises began.)

One of the soloists induced an extreme case of the eye rolls in me when I saw him sitting in the audience. He actually had a silk scarf around his neck, and perfect glossy helmet hair, and this haughty plastic face . . . if you discount the whole Pavarotti-esque contingent of opera singers, this guy was the epitome of the "primo uomo" (maybe I'll coin a phrase here . . . how about mandiva? prima donny? suggestions, please).

And then he came on stage. I was absolutely captivated. His diction was flawless, the tone quality of his voice was luscious, and I could tell that every gesture, every look, every note was fine tuned and honed to perfection so that he could take those of us listening to a different place. He was theatrical without being overly so; he was sincere and believable and beyond passionate. I loved it. (You should give it a shot. If an LA prostitute can get it enough to sob through the whole thing, you can, too.)

I started to think about how proud his mama must be. I mean, every time she watches her baby perform, she doesn't just see someone who is really great at his job. She sees someone who has found something to do with his life that he loves. Shouldn't we all be that lucky?

That led me to thinking about how great it is to be a mother of boys. I must confess, I have been known to lament the overload of testosterone in our little house. I would be lying if I didn't tell you that I glance longingly at the little girl clothes as I pass them on the way to the blue jeans and t-shirts department.

There are some definite peculiarities to mothering boys, and many of them are significantly less than pleasant: you will NEVER have a clean bathroom again. Ever. You will become intimately acquainted, in a clinical way, with parts of the anatomy you don't actually have yourself, and will be completely comfortable discussing these parts and their functions in every day conversation. You will learn to tolerate Legos, even though the bottoms of your feet will be eternally scarred by tiny circles and sharp corners.

You will learn that silence is NEVER golden, because it usually means someone is doing something they shouldn't be doing. You find yourself actually laughing at jokes and real-life incidents involving boogers, snot, hurl, farts, burps and poop. (That's not such a stretch for the girl whose claim to fame was belching the alphabet all the way through and then to Q again.) And you even get good at tuning out at the constant sparring for dominance that occupies nearly every waking moment of little boys' lives.

But it's not all bad. I have recently discovered some really great things about mothering boys. For example, as long as both parents are present when we are out of the house, and if I time things just right when CPod's not around, I might never, ever have take one of my kids into a public restroom again. Doesn't that sound fantastic?

No one has messed with my fingernail polish. At least, not yet.

The best part, though, is that these boys love me. No one brings out the tenderness in rough and tumble little bundles of energy like Mommy. They are reminded daily by their daddy that mommies are different than daddies -- that daddies are for wrestling, but mommies are for hugs. I get to set the standard of femininity for these guys -- that's actually a little sad -- and help them determine the characteristics they want to look for when they grow up and get married. (Like Mommy, or not like Mommy? Reality here -- I think that one could go either way!)

Secretly, I think I might love all the gross parts, too. Except for the dirty bathrooms. I will never love that. It's such an integral part of boyness -- dirty fingernails, boogers wiped on the wall/table/mommy's bum/MayDay's arm, poop jokes, truck noises and all. Hopefully, one day they will call me blessed, because blessed is exactly how I feel when I think about these three beautiful, sweet hoodlums -- especially when they are sleeping.

Close Calls

I had a bishop once who taught me many colorful and descriptive phrases that I have found frequent occasion to use throughout my life. For instance, when something is really hard, it's "like peeing up a rope." Or when you are making a situation more complicated than it really should be, you're "going around your elbow to get to your butt."

He's also the one that used to say that some people can look at a pile of poop and say, "That's poop, and I don't want to get any on me. I'd better leave it alone." And some people look at it, smell it, inspect it carefully, and then say, "I wonder what that is? I'd better jump right in and see what it's all about!" It's still poop, and it still stinks, but it takes those people a little longer to figure it out -- they don't recognize it on sight like others do. They can still wash it off, but it takes a little more effort.

I think I have a kid like this. Let me explain. My G-Dog is a really good kid. But he has some personality traits that make him a little more challenging than the average 4-year-old. He is very emotionally intuitive -- he can discern someone's feelings about him better than some full-grown adults I know who make claims of emotional awareness. If he even thinks a little that you're upset with him, or frustrated, or don't like him in the least, or even that you don't "get" him, his behavior changes immediately and accordingly.

Although he and ConMan are twins, it has been clear from the very beginning that he is really the oldest. MommyJ says her twins came together because they needed each other. I think mine came together because, due to infertility issues, my chances of getting all of my kids here in singleton pregnancies were admittedly low -- they came together because I needed them to. But had they been singletons, G-Dog would have been first. He has that oldest kid assertiveness and innate authority that I know well, being an oldest child myself.

He hates to be wrong (again, just like me) and he does not like to have his experiences inhibited at all -- even if it's clear that I'm just trying to save him or his brothers from mortal injury/harm/loss of limb or privilege. He doesn't like to apologize -- instead of actually saying the words, he'll say, "Mommy, when I make this noise, it means I'm apologizing." And then he'll make the noise and think he's done. (He's not.)

He is stubborn, and thoughtful, and scarily smart in the connections he makes between events and subjects that seem disparate, even to me, but upon further examination, are absolutely related. He is willful and defiant and tries hard to negotiate in his and his brothers' favor, but if I can give him a logical explanation for what I have asked of him, he complies willingly. He is tender and sensitive to the needs of others, even while forcefully exerting his dominance over his siblings. He is idealistic in his expectations of others' behavior, and holds me strictly to a consistent application of all the house rules. He has many characteristics that I hope he still has when he's a teenager, but sure make for some difficult days at our house now.

Lately, we have had some experiences that have, for G-Dog, given him the first-hand knowledge he seeks, but have also provided me with the opportunity for significant teaching moments that, I hope, will stick. The first happened several weeks ago.

I picked the boys up from preschool one Thursday. At home, they played together as I made lunch. They popped in and out of the kitchen to monitor my progress, and I noticed them playing with a few toys I had never seen before: two painted sets of bolted tongue depressors, each stick labeled with a different number, 1-10, and a corresponding amount of dots. They were clearly handmade, and it was obvious they had brought them home from school. I'm not one to accuse my kids of anything before I have gathered as much information as possible, and this one made me a little curious, so I asked G-Dog where the counting sticks came from. "They just appeared in my backpack, Mommy! It's magic!" He glanced furtively at ConMan to make sure he would cover him . . . which he did, at first, but eventually, after I called the preschool and interrogated further, I got the whole story: the counting sticks came from school and belonged back at school, and G-Dog was the sole perpetrator of larceny, although ConMan became an accessory after the fact.

We piled in the car and drove back to their school, which is affiliated with a local Lutheran church. G-Dog protested the whole time, even though he had verbalized to me that he knew he needed to take them back, but it would be hard. When he's in that frame of mind, I just let him rant. We all need to do that sometimes, and I figured the time for a lesson would come later when introspection finally arrived in the company of calm. By the time we got to the school, he was significantly more subdued. We walked in with the toys, and had a wonderful experience with the preschool administrator who took the opportunity to talk to G-Dog about how proud she was that he had decided to do the right thing. She taught him a great lesson about being obedient to God's commandments and following Jesus' example and showing love for them by choosing the right. He was so receptive. I was amazed.

The next week, I left the boys playing in the living room and watching a show so I could go take a shower. G-Dog has been known to use these unsupervised opportunities to get out food they shouldn't be eating. He has a knack for finding things I have hidden, and opening packages that should be impossible.

(When he was younger, he got the baking chocolate out of the cabinet and by the time I found him, he and ConMan had eaten 4 squares. No nap that day -- instead, they sailed around the room in a caffeine and sugar induced frenzy. The next time, he smuggled out a box of unsweetened baking chocolate while I was putting away groceries. I noticed the absence of said chocolate and found him in the living room, box open, squares lined up neatly on the hearth, a small pile of white wrappers on the floor in front of him.

"Look, Mommy. It's chocolate!"

I asked him, "Are you going to eat all that?"

He smiled, and said, "Yep!" I didn't stop him. And all it took was one bite of bitter, unsweetened chocolate for him to become eternally leery of chocolate that isn't in candy bar or chip form.)

Back to the story. I finished my shower, and turned off the water. Immediately, I heard a blood-curdling scream. This is not unusual in my house, and 99% of the time, no bodily injury is involved, so I continued drying off and figured someone would let me know if it was serious. But the crying didn't stop, and I soon heard the pitter-patter of ConMan's little feet coming down the hallway and into my bathroom.

"Mommy, G-Dog has bleed."

I wrapped my hair in a towel, grabbed my bathrobe, and ran to the living room. Sure enough, G-Dog had tried to use my brand new bread knife to open a huge package of play-doh toys. He had grabbed the blade part of the knife and one of the serrations had punctured the meaty part of his middle finger between the 2nd and 3rd knuckles -- and it was bleeding profusely. It turned out to be very superficial -- no stitches needed -- but it was a great lesson for G-Dog.

How many times have I said to him, "No knives, G-Dog. They're too sharp for little guys to use." And over and over, he says back, "No, no, Mommy, I just want to do it myself." This battle used to happen repeatedly, but thanks to first-hand experience that could have been so much worse, G-Dog has learned his lesson.

The last one happened yesterday. He climbs. I'm certain it's how he gets to so many things he shouldn't get to. I was unloading the dishwasher and talking to a friend on the phone, with all three boys swirling around my legs like a hoop skirt. They were all up in my business, and they didn't really have a reason to be: no unfulfilled needs, no entertainment lacking, just general Mommy-proximity compulsions. Which drive me batty. G-Dog decided it would be a great time to climb up on the counter and, I don't know, search for hidden candy in the cabinets. (There isn't any.) I turned around to put something on the opposite counter and heard a terrible crash. G-Dog had fallen off the counter into the dishwasher, then rolled onto the floor. Amazingly, he was uninjured. The dishwasher was a little worse for the wear, but I fixed it eventually.

G-Dog was astonished that he could fall. I believe he absolutely thought he was invincible. We had a long talk about taking risks, and being obedient. He listened. He improved.

I am grateful for all of these experiences because they could have been so much worse. In each case, I think the Lord blessed us with an experience that was sufficient to teach the lesson, but not damaging enough to cause any permanent scars. G-Dog's behavior, in each case, has been altered drastically and each lesson he learned was one that I tried to tell him, but he needed to step in it himself to discover it was poop. They could have all been so much worse. I pray that the trend will continue -- that he will only wade into the shallow end of muck instead of deciding to bathe in it.

God give me the strength to stand back and watch him experience life instead of continually trying to intervene on his behalf. If I'm not mistaken, that intercession has already taken place. And though I will try my best to protect all of my children from the world, I would not presume to take away from them the opportunity to develop their own testimonies of the Atonement of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. I have a feeling these boys will continue to drive me to my knees -- at least, I hope they do. Otherwise, I'm not sure we'll make it.

Random! The Randster! Randarooney! Randomaliscious!

1. Do you think I'm damaging my children for life because we listen to No Doubt all the time? Sometimes I feel the need to increase the amount of estrogen floating around in the ether of our house and No Doubt is girl-power music to the nth degree. I love it all. Except for "Don't Speak" -- that one was ruined by a really bad break-up experienced by one of my college roommates, and I can never hear the song without remembering how unfairly she was treated. Sorry, 'ness!

2. CPod watched American Idol with me last Wednesday. His comment: "This is obviously live because otherwise, it would not be so . . . crappy."

3. Girlfriends are great. And girlfriends who are totally okay with the absolutely unfiltered version of you are especially great. I have a lot of those. It's a good thing because I'm usually pretty unfiltered.

4. Moving is not great. My friend Jen is moving this week. I'm sad. Michigan is far away, and her family's life will improve immensely because of their new situation . . . but still. It stinks, and I will miss her a lot.

5. Speaking of friends, I have some really, really great ones. I have old friends that I've known since junior high, and we don't talk that often but when we do, it's as if no time has passed. I have had college roommates who became like sisters to me. I have one friend in particular that became my entire support system when CPod was in graduate school. Her husband was CPod's study mate. Their new baby (now 10) was the one we loved like our own since we had no babies, and we had dinner together so many times that I can't even count them. She is the gold standard friend, against whom all other friends will be forever measured.

I have had office friends and symphony friends; summer camp friends and neighbor friends; church friends and we're-all-in-the-same-boat graduate school spouse friends; employer friends and employee friends. I have really great sister-in-law friends and, yes, even a mother-in-law friend. I was in a string quartet once that was like being one cell of a multicellular organism. I have new friends that I wouldn't know if it weren't for blogging, and old friends who I might not ever hear from again if it weren't for the blogging world.

Now, I have the best friends I think I've ever had all at one time. Do you ever wonder at which point people become indispensible? I do. I don't know when it happens, but it has with many of my closest friends. I hope I am as necessary to them as they are to me.

And then there's my sister. Don't even get me started. When I was in junior high school (that makes me seem old, doesn't it? I mean, what's middle school?) we didn't text -- we wrote notes. And we would sign our notes with the ubiquitous "LYLAS": Love Ya Like A Sister! Well, I wrote it, but I didn't really mean it. How many of my friends would have been flattered if they had really thought about what it meant? I love you just like I love my 9 year old sister who annoys me to death! Yay! If I were to revert suddenly to seventh grade behavior and write you a note in huge bubble-script, if I wrote LYLAS at the end, you should consider it a compliment of the highest order. And I can't forget my mom. It's a wonderful place to be in when you are grown up enough to realize how great your mother is. I'm there, and she's the best. I am lucky to call her my friend.

(I think maybe number 5 should have been it's own post. Oh, well.)

6. I feel really cruddy. I think I know what asthma feels like now -- like Andre the Giant is sitting on my lungs and keeping them from inflating all the way. And I sound like a foghorn.

7. It strikes mortal fear in my heart when my husband tells me he might need me to come into the office one day when they're short-staffed. Why? Because of the inadequacy of the mommy wardrobe for any occasion that will not include poopy diapers and snot wiped on you at crotch-level. The one day when it was a real possibility that I would have to go to work outside my house, I had a 15 outfit try-on-a-thon and still wasn't satisfied with what I ended up wearing. I mean, I think I have a great wardrobe . . . until I have to do something besides A. play in a symphony, B. attend a funeral (that symphony black does have a dual purpose!), C. clean my house, D. play with my kids, or E. go on a date with my husband. Work clothes? Not so much.

8. My twins think everyone is a twin. Granted, they are surrounded by twins in their little lives: they have twin cousins, twin uncles, and 4 other sets of twins in their preschool class (I know -- it's not a wonder I can never find 2 pair of anything sized 4T at Target). They spend a lot of time figuring out who belongs to whom, twin style: of course, MommyJ and I are twins (we're not -- I'm *GASP* 4 1/2 years older!); our brothers are also twins (also inaccurate -- they're 7 years apart); and they have broken the twin bond of their uncles, and assigned Uncle C as daddy's twin, even though he rightly belongs with his identical brother, Uncle B. Very funny.

9. The crispy green beans at PF Chang's are nigh unto exceedingly AWESOME.

10. My family is notorious for playing the "you-look-just-like" game. CPod is always annoyed by it. So, just to spite him, CPod looks just like the dude from "Life" (NBC, Wednesdays at 9PM): Damian Lewis. (IMDB him. I promise you they could be brothers. And I didn't want to get permission to use any of his photos because I'm lazy, so if you really want to see, that's what you'll have to do.) Name any person (well, not any person -- I have to have actually seen who you're naming) and I will come up with someone they look just like. And if I can't, I guarantee my mother will be able to.

11. Sickness + Travel + Unrealistic Expectations = An Unrealized February Running Goal
Just because I ran 6.2 miles once does not mean I can do it every day between now and Saturday. I'll try to be a bit more . . . honest when setting my goal for March!

I'm done.

Higher Ground

Summertime usually brings rain in our part of the world. Nearly every day, the clouds build on drafts of warm air, tension increasing exponentially with the heat of the day, until the air is so ponderously pregnant with unreleased moisture that the humidity becomes almost unbearable. Finally, the cumulus clouds burst, accompanied by brief but violent claps of thunder and the occasional lightning-struck power outage. Tension is released, damp heat is eased, and active children take a breather from strenuous outside play time.

I've lived here most of my life, with a brief hiatus from southern mountain living to attend college in Utah and to accompany my husband to graduate school in Memphis and it's requisite internships in east Tennessee, South Carolina and Charlotte, NC. These summer storms were an integral part of my experience growing up, and I missed them when I was gone. Now, I'm disappointed when some natural fluke of circumstance keeps our storms at bay. I need that excuse to sit and snuggle on the couch with my kids, to have a contemplative moment, to listen for an instant to the great evidence of God's love that is rain.

We moved into our house on May 14, just before the daily thundershower ritual gets into full swing. Our house was new, and we had to take care of all the new house things: install blinds, get a lawnmower, put in a mailbox.

Shortly after we moved in, I came home just as one of these wonderful summer storms burst forth. As I drove up to the mailbox, I noticed some movement on the ground, but attributed it to the swiftly falling raindrops that were quickly soaking the interior of my car, my left arm, and my hair. I reached out to open the mailbox and immediately recoiled from a sight I could not believe.

Our mailman had placed a small adhesive plastic sleeve on the inside of the mailbox door, into which he inserted a small business-card sized piece of paper inscribed with our last name. The plastic sleeve was bulging with hundreds, maybe thousands, of ant eggs. Tiny sugar ants streamed too and from my mailbox, marching up and down the post in perfectly precise military formation.

I left the mail and slammed the door to the mailbox, racing inside, eerily shaken by a bunch of insects a tiny fraction of my size.

Later, after the sun came out and turned the fallen rain into a steamy mist rising from the pavement of my driveway, I decided the ants could not have my mail. I purposefully strode outside, and when I opened the mailbox I nearly accused myself of having an acid trip right there in my driveway, because no evidence remained of either the ants or their eggs.

It took me a moment to realize what had happened: as soon as the storm dried up, they took their babies home and left my mailbox alone. I suddenly understood what they were doing. When it rains a bunch in a short period of time, their home gets flooded. And so they took their most precious and defenseless family members to the highest, driest place they could find: the little plastic sleeve in my mailbox.

That summer, I avoided my mailbox whenever it rained. I knew it would be in use by some pretty fierce mamas. I admired their tenacity from a distance -- it took an awesome group effort to preserve their progeny, but when faced with adversity, they did what they had to to survive.

We heard on the news last night of a woman who was arrested for trying to trade drugs for food. She took her two small children to a local barbecue restaurant, ordered them some peanut butter sandwiches, and then, since she had no money, tried to bribe the cashier with two Xanax pills. My heart nearly broke. She didn't order multiple racks of ribs and whole cherry pies. She ordered peanut butter sandwiches. I mourn for the lost innocence of her little ones -- but I understand what she was doing. If I can't feed them, I'll do what I have to do to help them.

Can you imagine the circumstances that must exist for her to have access to Xanax pills, but not peanut butter and jelly? Some awful combination of poor choices and bad circumstances are depriving her unaccountable children of the life that every kid deserves. I can't decide whether to be sad or angry. Maybe both.

We are all faced with difficult circumstances, especially in this unfavorable economic climate. We may have to do things we never thought we'd have to to take care of our families. I think of those ants carrying their eggs to my mailbox, and I envision my house surrounded by flood waters -- literal and figurative. I hope that I am strong enough to continually find higher ground to protect my babies from the encroaching tide of drowning, devastating filth that seeks to weaken and infiltrate the insulation from the world I seek to establish in my home. I hope I can always find a dry, cozy spot where the warmth and comfort of the Gospel will get us through the toughest of times. And I hope I never reach the point of desperation required to attempt a drug trade to feed my family.

I am Gulliver . . .

. . . and today, despite Herculean efforts, the Lilliputians did not win. They had me nearly tied to the floor, but thanks to a rescue from CPod, I wrangled my way out and even put them to bed an hour earlier than usual.

The silence is deafening.

I just can't stay away from the bathroom

When CPod and I were dating, he complained to me about the toilet paper stocked in the bathrooms at my parents' house. He called it John Wayne toilet paper -- it's rough, it's tough and it don't take crap from nobody.

Of course, because it was so hilarious, I immediately told my mom, who then used this little tidbit to maximum embarrassment capacity for my fair and delightsome (and thus prone to blushing) husband. She still gives him a hard time about it and we've been married nearly 12 years.

She has not, however, changed her toilet paper.

And neither have I. I would rather use plain old toilet paper that doesn't leave a little something behind, if you know what I mean, and since I'm the one buying it, CPod's stuck with John Wayne. Besides, when my kids decide to unwind the entire roll, they're only a quarter of the way through before I notice that things are too quiet and arrest them mid-crime. You can't say that about the soft stuff.

This week, we are in Florida with CPod's entire extended family. There are 15 of us all together, including 6 children aged 4 and under. Baby wipes have fallen into the "community property" category and I have discovered that they are not all created equal.

Give me rough and tough baby wipes that get the job done over those slimy, sensitive-skin wimpy ones that rip in half when faced with a really heinous crime against the schnoz.

Maybe John Wayne ain't so bad after all.