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.

Is this thing on?

Tap, tap, tap . . . is this thing on? Is anybody still out there? Can you hear me? This must be what it feels like to play a one-woman show to an empty theater. Of course, in my case the theater is empty because I've failed to show up for curtain call. For a month. Again.

So here's what I want you to do: immerse me. I've hit "Mark all as read" so many times in my Google reader it's not even funny, and I know I've missed some stuff. Probably, some pretty good stuff. So link up. Send me to the things I didn't comment on, but should have -- whether you wrote them or not. I've never visited your blog? Now is the time to tell me about it. I want to be here, in this virtual world, and it's time to catch up.

Crickets . . . (Oh, how I wish I could write the sound that they make instead of just saying "crickets". That's lame. But you can still hear them, right?)

And . . . and . . . and

A few months ago, my wonderful husband Craig started making some noise about goals. He's always been active, and we spend a lot of time doing stuff that is likely to wear out our kids, but this was different. Finally, one day, he came right out and said it: "I want to do a triathlon."

Well, okay. Sounds great. But I am the CFO of our family, so of course, my first question was, "How much is this gonna cost?"

"Oh, not much. I already have a mountain bike, so I'll just switch out the knobby tires for some skinny ones, and that should do it."

I was really supportive of this $40 investment (thank you, Craigslist).

Then he told me he needed to improve his swim time. (Since the last time he did anything in the water other than A. toss around children or B. water ski was, like, in high school, I would assert he had a bit more to do than just "improve" his time.) So we joined a local fitness center with a pool, and he started training a la Michael Phelps (minus the weed) immediately.

After that first swim, Craig came home and said, "I need some good goggles. And if I really want to be competitive, I need to get triathlon trunks so I can go from the water to the bike without having to change."

So he ordered his little triathlon suit. Turns out, the triathlon suit is not recommended for use in chlorinated water. So then he had to order a Speedo (feel free to laugh . . . I do every time it puts it on) to wear in the pool.

And then he decided his mountain bike was just not going to cut it. After a long ride one Saturday, Craig came inside and said, "My mountain bike weighs, like, 35 pounds. I could go so much faster on a road bike!"

Okay, I said. See what you can find on Craigslist.

Have you seen my husband? All 6'5" of him? Let's just say there aren't a whole lot of second-hand bikes around made for giants. He gave it his best effort, but to no avail.

So he bought a new one. We call it the White Beast. I need a step ladder to sit on it.

And then he had to have a jersey that wouldn't show his . . . crack while he was riding. And then he had to have zip ties for his running shoes to "improve transition time", plus pedals he can clip into, and the special shoes that go with them. Did I mention the speedometer for the bike, and a new helmet, and the little nasty gel things he eats while he's biking?

Finally, one night we were out to dinner with my sister, Jenny, and her husband Josh (who also competed in the triathlon with Craig). We were talking about all the gear required and suddenly, it dawned on me: I have given the mouse a cookie. As well as some milk to go with it.

When all was said and done, Craig lost 25 pounds and finished his first triathlon with a more than respectable time. He plans to do another one in the spring. And he only has to do 47 more before I'll be satisfied he's gotten his money's worth out of all of that gear.

Help Me, Karma

I went for a run on Monday morning at the park. I just discovered we have a greenway, and while I appreciate the blessing of having both a treadmill and a place to put it, I am SOOOO much happier running on the ground, counting species as I go.

So I was running along, minding my own business, plugged into Muse and Chris Isaac, thanking God for the miracle that is my husband (who used his unexpectedly long lunch break to mind our kids at the playground while I ran) when suddenly, out of nowhere, a huge hornet attached itself to my right index finger. Apparently, I distracted him from something extremely important because he stung with one end and bit with the other until I flicked him off, and then ended his short life with my brand new running shoes. It hurt. I cried out. But I kept going, because, you know, I was running! I was high on life! And I was way far away from the van, and Mason had to be picked up from preschool in a half hour!

To add insult to injury, as I danced a tarantella (hornetella?) down the trail, trying, I suppose, to shake the venom out of my finger, I realized that if I didn't find a way to empty my bladder pronto, I'd be jogging back to civilization in need of a diaper change. (Curse you, stress incontinence -- you are my least favorite side effect of childbirth ever.) So I waited until there were no other people in sight on the trail, and ducked into the cornfield where I actually considered peeing on my throbbing finger, a method that according to both Survivor and Friends (my favorite sources for first aid advice) works on a jellyfish sting. I put myself back together and finished my run, and by the time I met my family at the playground, my finger was really beginning to swell.

By the next day, I looked like I had hijacked the entire right arm of a much larger woman -- one with sausage fingers and a killer case of pitting edema. I couldn't hold a pen. I couldn't open a bottle. I couldn't take Benadryl because, well, I have four children and must remain awake and standing for most of the activities required by their care. It took a solid week for the itching and swelling to subside.

Lately, it seems like every time I make an effort towards better physical fitness, something goes wrong: iPod battery dead as a doornail. Baby nap over before I can even get through the first mile on the treadmill. Rain when I plan to run out doors, kids too sick for the gym when I'm ready for a class. I just can't seem to get into the groove. I'm trying, but I think the groove hates me.

I'm ready for some karma. I need a tailwind the next time I hit the trail for a race -- Saturday, maybe? How about an unexpectedly warm 8AM temperature so my fingers aren't frostbitten at the finish line? A little bit of instant gratification would go a long way towards motivating more hard work: a faster time, a pound or two lost, a second wind, an improvement . . . help me, karma.

Unless, of course, it involves hornets.

Let the Sun Shine In

It's been so long since I've posted that I'm not sure I remember how to do it . . . good gracious! Has it really been over a month?!? Yes, it has, and I have nothing to offer by way of explanation. Did you miss me? Did you even notice my absence? Please don't say no. (You can think it. But please don't say it in a comment.) I've randomly commented here and there, but good friends in the blogosphere have dealt with major life events and weathered the aftermath without so much as a how-do-yo-do from my corner. I hope you don't hate me.

I'd like to be able to tell you that I have been furiously participating in NaNoWriMo, and the publishing of my masterpiece, the fabled Great American Novel, is forthcoming . . . but I can't, because I haven't been. I'd like to be able to say that I've been so caught up in cleaning and organizing my cluttered and messy house that I just haven't found the time to blog. That, too, would be a lie. I have also not been on a long trip, secretly pregnant and delivering another baby, spending all of my time volunteering at a homeless shelter, meeting with Hollywood producers regarding a made-for-TV movie about my fabulously interesting life, or engaging in a principled internet-fast. I have, quite simply, been lazy. And maybe I've been wallowing a little.

The other day I was cleaning Garrett and Connor's room. I am baffled by boy smells. Even if they go to bed squeaky-clean and Burt's Bees-scented, I am still overwhelmed by a mysterious odor not unlike scrambled eggs whenever I check on them at night. This prompts me, on a regular basis, to fling open the windows and let the breeze blow through, in a futile attempt to air out the latent smell of burgeoning testosterone.

I pushed the windows as high as I could, and then, as I tucked the quilt and fluffed the pillow and arranged the stuffed animals on Garrett's bed, I noticed the play of light through the open blinds. I watched windblown leaf-shadows dance across Laney Kate's dimpled fingers as she patted the bedding, an ardent and surprisingly productive mimic of my own tidy efforts.

I had a brief moment of clarity as I watched her golden-red hair glint in the bright light: the sun, I realized, keeps on shining. All I have to do is let it in -- throw open my windows, pull back the curtains, raise the blinds, let myself be illuminated by the light that cannot stop itself from filling up an empty space -- my empty space. The sun keeps on shining. The grass keeps growing, the world keeps spinning, the birds keep singing, even if I'm not watching.

This is the greatest tragedy of blocking out the sunlight: What did I miss? What did I not see because I was closed off from the possibility? I'll never know.

But now I'm watching, and these windows are open for good.

Elena No!

My dear friend Jen (of Just Imajen, the best blog you're not reading -- go check her out) was thrilled when we named our baby Elena -- and spelled it the Italian way. Jen, you see, served a mission in Rome, and as a side effect, became an expert, connoisseur even, of all things Italian. Of course, there's the food -- a fine, deeply flavored simple red sauce is worth its weight in rubies -- but more importantly, there's the music.

Long before this baby was named (or even conceived), Jen made me a CD full of her Italian favorites. I don't understand any of the words, but I know they're having a good time, and, while it lacks a certain . . . sophistication, a little bit of joie de vivre (which I wish I could say in Italian) goes a long way.

Right after my Elena was born, Jen sent me a link to a fantastic little pop gem entitled, "Elena No." (Please go listen. It's so worth the effort.) It's a catchy little ditty, which, according to Jen's translation, tells all about a controlling manipulative diva named Elena who has her man so wrapped around her finger, so trained, that he caters to her every unreasonable whim. "Elena no, Elena no," Lucio croons. "If I'm a man any more I don't know."

 My Elena Kate.

I just might have to call it prophetic.

Last week, Craig came home from work and, in a rare unoccupied moment, got out his iPhone and sat down on the couch to check his e-mail, some scores, whatever. Elena immediately toddled over to him (yep, she's walking and I am so not a fan of precocious mobility) and grunted in the general direction of his phone. In a moment of what I can only describe as acute idiocy and inability to withstand extreme cuteness, Craig acquiesced, turning his attention to something that must have been really important.

Elena shortly returned to him -- without the phone held in her hands. Her cold, wet, pee-smelling hands. Oh, yes she did. It took her a mere thirty seconds to waddle on down to the bathroom and baptize Craig's most trusted companion in a toilet full of yellowed water. Yeah, the boys should know better than to leave an unflushed toilet with the seat up and the door open -- we've been working on toilet etiquette for quite some time now, but it's hard to argue with logic that says there's no need to wash hands that haven't touched anything. But Craig made that bed, and there but by the grace of iPhone insurance goeth he. It took about a week for his new (refurbished) phone to arrive -- long enough that we were without the instantly-gratifying informational itch-scratcher for our entire vacation to the beach. So I had to sacrifice almost as much as he did.

I told Craig this does not bode well for the future. How can he possibly expect to say no to a whiny teenager when he can't even say no to the non-specific shrieks of an eleven-month old? Yes, dear, she's cute. Yes, she's your only daughter. But, um, that was also your only iPhone. Elena, no, indeed. Someone in this household needs to practice saying that about 45 times a day for the next 17 years, lest we end up with a houseful of kittens, dollies, little stray puppies, and, knowing this kid, race cars.

This little girl has spunk in spades. She chases after her older cousin to steal his pacifier -- which he then can't seem to steal back. When her brothers take a toy away from her, she lets out a holler, her meaning clearer than words could possibly be, and chases them down until they give her back what she wants. She turns the charm off and on with a level of skill I still haven't developed. But she holds her own with these rough and tumble boys of mine -- she's still alive almost a year in, and darn if she's not ending up on top!

I tell all of this to my mom, and she just shakes her head and smiles. She won't meet my eyes -- if she did, I know she would break down laughing at the similarities. Laney Kate has the red hair of her father, and the set of her eyes is all him, but that spunk? I'm claiming that all as my own.

Things Change . . . but Not Really

Thanks to all of you for your awesome book recommendations . . . we're headed to the library, and I am armed with a fantastic list of books, and I can't wait to sink my teeth into some really intelligent reads.

My boys are on break from school right now -- oh, how I love this year round schedule! Just when we all started to tire of the daily school routine, the first grading period finished and we were given the gift of three weeks off.

I have some good post ideas, but find myself with little time to develop them, so for today, I'm digging into the archives. This was one of my first posts ever -- it garnered all of two comments and I think may have been read by a grand total of seven people (if I'm being generous). As I read it last night, I thought, wow, how things have changed. We have come so far from those three-kids-in-nursery days . . . but it's still the same kinds of things that stress me out, and I still see the same idiosyncratic behaviors in my kids, just a little more grown up. Here goes, from November 2008. (This one's for you, Megan.)

Today, there were 18 kids in the nursery at church. 18! It felt like Utah or something. At the beginning of Relief Society, Primary asked for volunteers to augment their staffing issues, and since my offspring account for fully one-sixth of all kids in the nursery, I felt obligated to comply. So my friend Mary Kay and I gathered up our belongings and hoofed it on down to little kid land.

Now, my children are not known for being great examples of reverence . . . or anything else spiritually commendable, but at 3, 3, and 2, what can you expect? I don't know what I expected. I thought they might be at least as good as they are at home. Apparently that was a little too much to ask.

The twins are the oldest kids in there, so for snack time, they sat at the head of the table, kings perusing their subjects with pseudo-benevolence and the bipolar kindness/cruelty of preschoolers. They fought -- loudly -- over who got to say the blessing on the snack, even after their teacher said repeatedly that the one who was the most reverent would earn the privilege. (I guess fighting over praying privileges could maybe qualify as spiritually commendable, right?) Garrett flipped out because they had to stand at the table to color instead of sitting in chairs. Connor melted because I didn't finish coloring his picture the right way. Garrett stole crayons from other kids, and berated them for coloring on the wrong side of the paper, and policed everyone who wasn't doing what he thought they should be doing, including me. Too bad introspection isn't on the 3-year-old to-do list -- he might have had a couple personal problems of his own to police!

I'm sure I didn't help matters -- I mean, I'm not the authority figure in nursery. Who am I to tell them not to dip pretzels in their neighbor's water, especially if the nursery leader doesn't care (or chooses not to battle over little things like that because of the sheer number of kids and the ease of cleaning up the inevitable spilled water)? Who do they listen to? I don't want to undermine her authority, nor do I want to hold them to a higher standard than the rest of the kids . . . I have a lot to learn before I can be the room mother of a kindergarten class!

Mason wasn't so bad, but I did have to change his stinky diaper. When we returned to the nursery after de-pooping, he jumped through the door, threw his arms up, and said, "Ta-da!" The twins think they're the kings of the room, but Mason's got comedic timing all over his brothers.

So, in a fit of frustration, I asked the nursery leader if my kids were this awful every Sunday. She smiled and said, "Actually, today's a good day." Ha-ha, that's a funny joke, I know, they're great kids, aren't they? Oh, wait . . . what's that? Ah . . . you're not kidding. Guess we've got some work ahead of us before these little monsters are ready for Primary, or maybe it's the other way around.

Does my tithing money go towards abstinence education? Because I'd totally be willing to volunteer my children for parental-readiness reality checks. I think these services could be valuable to other demographics as well. Grandchildren coming to visit? Let my kids show you how child-proof your home isn't. Can't afford to pay a demolition crew for your remodel? Just tell my kids you need them to make sure not to destroy anything, and they'll do it for free -- plus PB&J for lunch, of course.

Well, I guess you just keep trying. I wish I could pre-experience for my kids -- that I could just, for example, tell Garrett that no one wants to play with a bully without him having to experience that rejection for himself as an impetus to change his behavior; that I could convince Connor that if he doesn't stand up for himself, other kids will always push him around, and avoid the other kids actually pushing him around. But without that first-person perspective, they won't ever learn anything . . . and neither will I.

So what did I learn today? That I'm not ever going back to the nursery again. Ever. Or at least not so long as I have kids in there. I'm much too happy being blissfully ignorant of double-trouble shenanigans to voluntarily deprive myself of the adult conversation and spiritual uplift of Relief Society.

And that we have to just keep doing the things that we're doing -- family prayer, FHE, reading scriptures with our kids (all three verses) -- because, like Nephi, " . . . we talk of Christ, we rejoice in Christ, we preach of Christ, we prophesy of Christ, and we write according to our prophecies, that our children may know to what source they may look for a remission of their sins (2 Nephi 25:26)." And maybe, if we're consistent, and truly humbled by the magnitude of the spiritual potential inherent in each one of our children, we will see a little glimmer of hope, baby steps of spiritual progress, imperceptible day by day, but still moving us all forward in pursuit of our eternal goal.