Helmets Vs. Doormats

Our friends moved in next door.
Now, I know what you’re thinking, “kiss that friendship goodbye”, but it has actually been fine. There are some things that a person hopefully learns by the time she is wearing big girl panties, and one of them is a lovely thing we all call boundaries.  Tessa's began to show themselves this week.

I would like to explain myself, but that will require a story. 
Go get some popcorn.  I'll wait.

Tessa is getting the idea of how to take care of herself at her sapling age, and I’d like to fool myself into thinking I had something to do with it. I try to explain to my kids that if you lay on the ground, people are bound to wipe their feet on you. If that happens, don’t come crying to me. I have a strict no-doormat policy. If you are standing upright, it’s really hard for someone to swing their feet up there for a good wipe. If some fool manages to swing a foot that high, I am always available for tear wiping.  Now, if for some reason you feel that the view from down there on the ground is one you simply can’t miss, well, that’s your choice, but for heaven’s sake, cover yourself up so you don’t get hurt and muddied.

Our neighborhood is slim-pickins' for playmates, and our other kids don’t get home from school till nearly four. Tessa has taken to playing with the two year old next door. He is rough and tumble, all boy, and all “two”. His favorite toys are balls (he recently berated his mother on the evening of the full moon because she wouldn’t get the big “ball” out of the sky for him to play with) which he throws, along with everything else, with the force of a major-leaguer . When Tessa goes over to play, she often comes home in tears. I comfort her and then explain again that she is choosing to play with him, and she knows he gets rough. Then I let her choose what she will do next. She usually stays home for a while for a snuggle, but eventually goes back.

The other day when Tessa came home, she went straight into the garage. She came back moments later with her bike helmet and asked for help with the buckle.

“Are you going to ride your bike?’

“No, I’m gonna go back to play at Maxie’s with my helmet

cuz’ so Maxie won’t hurt me, cuz’ he’s frowing stuff at my head.”

“Good thinking!” came my reply.

She smiled confidently and marched out the door.

Talk to the hand. 

This child ain't no body's doormat.

("No more pit'chers mom!")

Thought #1

I spent the morning (well the awake parts) laying in bed with my Jonah boy.  The house, save the two of us, is so quiet that you can hear the fridge hum.  A stroke of bad luck manifesting in the form of stomach flu has left me weak and quiet.  I haven't the motivation to deal with the sink full of dishes, nor the mental fortitude to kick myself about it.  It is a nice break from the judgemental chatter that stays at volume 9 in my head most days.  So while the family is at church, I have spent the morning stroking Jonah's face, trading coos and kisses, protecting him from tumbling off of the edge of the bed, and laughing when his face brushed my squishy belly and, assuming it was time for a mid-morning snack, he tried to latch on to my spare tire.  He and I sang to each other, and the minutes and hours blurred into what I may look back on as 'a moment' in my mothering journey.  There was effortlessness in loving him, and simplicity as I gave him the only thing he required; me.  My time, my touch, my milk, my voice, my rhythm, my smiles. 

It is so easy to be his mother.

For now.

I will certainly complicate it later.

****

I picked up a book the other day  by Tom Sturges called "Parking Lot Rules & 75 Other Ideas for Raising Amazing Children" for a screamin' $4.95.  I love it when booksellers clearance diamonds for the price of costume jewelry.  This little book has opened a gentle door in my mind to the room where I keep my Mama Hopes.  This is the room where the fabric for pink flowered curtains I will make for the girls is laid beside the books I will read to my darlings.  It is the room where a soft chair waits for me to hold a crying child and bikes and picnic baskets wait to be taken on adventures.  As you look around this room you will find no dirty dishes or phones, no homework or report cards.  In the corner under a bright window there are five empty frames that wait to hold the pictures of five happy, well adjusted adults with smiling faces.  Their smiles will say, "I had a blessed and happy childhood".

As I read in this book and picture myself being the kind of mother it asks me to be, I swoop and dodge the judgements that my inner Critic hurls at me.  "You have already screwed up too much.  There is no going back."  "You are not consistent enough to be this kind of mom." 

The Critic is not allowed into my room of Mama Hopes.  So I hide out there all morning with Jonah, and revel in the idea, the possibility, that I do have it in me to be that mama.  Not only that, I can add a few to Mr. Sturges 75 fabulous ideas.  I have been a mother for 14 years, and I have picked up a few things along the way.  Out of shame I have tucked them into the bureau drawers in my room of Mama Hopes.  Shame, because I have been under the misconception that I have to be perfect at everything before I can share the fact that I am pretty good at somethings.  What a silly notion!  Who is perfect at anything? If that were the criteria, even the experts would be demoted.

So here is one of my ideas, or thoughts, rather.  We will call it Thought #1.

One of my saddest moments as a mother was the day I overheard Adam telling Ethan, "Hey, Ethan, do you remember the time we almost got to take Karate lessons?  That was cool, huh?"  By almost, he was remembering the time his mother was sucked in to one of those "Free Lessons" offered by a Karate studio.  It ended up being an hour long commercial that dangled the carrot of a free uniform and earning your first belt by the end of the first week.  The kicker came when they said it was $100 a month.  Per child.  The boys left excited, and I left devastated.  There are some things that I cannot offer my children, despite my marvelous intentions.

But on another day, as the boys sat at the table munching on small watermelon chunks, I heard this: "Hey Ethan, do you remember the time that mom was cutting watermelon, and she cut those big giant slices and let us each eat the whole thing?!  That was awesome."  I had given them each a Norman Rockwell looking slice, bigger than their chests, two-fisters, if you know what I mean.  I don't even know why I had done it, accept maybe I thought they would think it was funny.  Or maybe I was being sadly-practical and thinking that they would each eat four or five slices anyway, why not get it over with with fewer servings (Oh, Practical Mom.  She means well, doesn't she?).

So here it is, Thought #1:  When you are serving watermelon, every once in a while (or maybe twice in a while), serve 'em the giant slices.  Why not every time?  Well, because then it's not special anymore.  It's not outrageous and unexpected.  Kids love it when mama seems wild and unpredictable, but they don't want unpredictable all of the time (wouldn't that be predictable?).  Deep in their hearts they prefer dependable and secure, and when they get plenty of that, it keeps 'wild and unpredictable' in the fun zone and prevents it from stepping over the guardrail into Mommy-Dearest territory.  The Watermelon Principle works for other things too, like letting them chose loud paint colors for their rooms, serving donuts for dinner, or suddenly joining them on the trampoline. 

Give Practical Mom the night off.  It's hard work being that uptight.  She looks exhausted.




Watermelon Photo by Adam

and two more... and one more...

Kathy comes to my house almost every morning.  We get out weights, turn on crazy-frog music, and pop in the 30 Day Shred DVD.  Jillian is a task master, but just when I am about to die, the work out is over and I am contentedly sweating and sipping water in a lovely static position (on my butt).  We have been doing this for about two months now, and

 I am seeing changes here and there. 

It hurts here and its sore there.

And though my body is changing, somehow it feels like only my clothes are (clothes shrink and expand, you know), because my mind hasn't figured it all out yet. 

First off, there is the matter of chocolate. 

In my opinion, there will never be enough of the stuff, and like a good tan, the darker the better.  Then there is that small matter of the mind-body connection; when ever my mind stumbles into hurt feelings or sad and lonely thoughts, my body walks into the kitchen and finds the previously mentioned chocolate. 

All my life, I thought I would be able to eat whatever as long as I was exercising.  Well, since I have never gotten past the first few days of pain in exercising, I have never tested my theory.  It turns out I have been given some bad intel, because the only thing this regimine has done for me is to place a fabulous layer of muscle under my fluffy outer layer.  I have a six pack under my padded suit.  If you punch me in the stomach you can feel my phenomenal rock hard abs, but you won't hurt your hand.  Bonus.

Who would have thought that regular exercise would turn out to be the easy part?  Oh, but wait...

It is and it isn't.  As long as I have Kathy by my side, I am fine, but on the days that she can't come, suddenly the messy house looms and the tender muscles cry out and, um, well, I don't end up getting around to it.

So I am trying to go brain dead. 

Thinking is just getting me into trouble. 

When I am helping a mama in labor and she starts to give away her strength by thinking about the contractions that lay in wait, I call her back. 

Be.  Here.  Now.

You are doing this.  This is all you have to do for now.  This moment.  Right now.

So I am turning off my brain.

I get up.

Kathy comes.

We work out.

That's all for now.

(except that every once in a while, I poke my finger into my squishy belly

and feel my really cool muscles there, and smile)

You can't see it yet, but things are starting to change.

Patty-cake, patty-cake, Baker's Man

Guy went to the store today to buy the fixings for fudge.  The clerk, he tells me, eyed his purchases and then asked what he was making.  I could buy two-by-fours, nails and a how-to book and never get asked what I am making.  Chicks think a man who cooks is hot. 

Well, he is, dimples and all, but that's not my point.

What is my point?

I don't remember.

Oh, yes, baking.  I have been baking lately.  It doesn't make me hot, but it has made an impression on the small humans that inhabit this place. 

Last week's rainy day met them at the door with the warm aromas of homemade chocolate cranberry cookies.  One (child, not cookie) asked, "Are these for somebody else?"

"No, these are for my children."  I smiled.

The smile bounced back like one of the 15 bouncy balls that is stuck under my fridge.  I guess I have been baking and cleaning and doing for other people's small humans more than my own.  Sad times indeed when your kids have to hold up a cardboard sign on a street corner to get noticed.

"Will work for cookies

intended for someone else's kids".

So I have made cookies for my children four times in the past two weeks, which may very well be more than in the past year, all told.  I burned out my mixer a while back, so I pulled out my big antique wooden spoon, and as I stirred, I imagined the pioneer woman it might have belonged to, and she helped me stir with her strong arms and pioneer fortitude.  She told me that people need for us to feed them.  She explained that the first thing our babes ever had in their mouths was our honey-sweet milk, and that if God hadn't meant us to make snickerdoodles, he wouldn't have invented cinnamon.  And when I said, but there isn't time to bake all the time, what with laundry and homework-helping and diapers, she said

 Don't give me that pig slop, you make time!

and I knew she was right.

While we waited for the cookies to come out of the oven she explained that when a soul is weary, food can bring comfort when not much else will, and when there is something warm waiting when a person walks through the door, it tells them you were thinking of 'em before they even got home.  She said memories are rolled and pressed and baked at 350, and that there's no better way to patch up a hurtin' heart than to let a little person lick the spoon.

I am lucky to have a husband who cooks, and bakes and makes fudge (particularly that last one).  It is hot, actually, and I can't blame women for flirting with him a bit.  But with a little help from a pioneer woman and her sturdy spoon, I am working on becoming a little more of the family baker.

That would make me the Baker and my hubby the Baker's Man.

Fudge

1 1/2 bags chocolate chips (we use dark)

1 can sweetened condensed milk

1 cup marshmallows

1 tsp vanilla (or orange flavoring or some other flavoring)

nuts

other yummy add-ins

Melt chips, milk and mallows in a pot on the stove, then add what ever flavorings and tid-bits you enjoy.  It's like making a pizza, add what you like: peppermint, crushed candies, cinnamon, lemon zest... you get the idea.  Dump it into a plastic wrap lined pan and chill till firm.  Cut and serve.  Yum and yum.

Dude

Ethan, Age 7

Last night, as I kissed the kids goodnight, I eyed the clock.  "I had been in labor with you for seventeen hours by now," I announced to Ethan as he pecked my cheek (we are no longer permitted a smootch on the lips.  Apparently, that is "just wrong".).  He didn't seem impressed by my long-labor update.  For emphasis, I told him that he hadn't been born until the next morning. 

"Dude."  He replied, low and long, as though he somehow understood what that day meant to me. 

It was the day I became a mother.  It was the day that a part of my identity disappeared, and a new one emerged, tender and raw, from that pregnant cocoon.  It was the day that, without even saying goodbye, that naiive young woman I once was slipped out of the door, and walked down the hospital corridor, never to return.  That day opened a chapter of one of the most trying times in my life, punctuated with breastfeeding challenges, a year and a half of severe post partum depression, and the early hints that our first born son would face a life of difficulties because of his complicated nervous system. 

That was fourteen years ago for me (though it seems like oh-so-much less); for him it was a lifetime ago.  When I was fourteen I thought of myself as fully formed.  And in a lot of ways I was.  My heart and temperament have not changed much since then.  I look at Ethan now and can see both the little boy he once was and the man he will someday become, all crammed into a swiftly sprouting 14 year old frame. 

Ethan is so smart and talented.  So impulsive.  So emotional.  So complex. 

I only have a few years left with this young man before he steps out into the world on his own.  There is not much time to teach him all that he needs to know.  I guess instead of not wanting him to make any mistakes, I should pray for them - the kind of simple, not-too-scary mistakes that teach fabulous grown-up life lessons at a kid price.  But I am sure they will come all on their own, so I am not praying for them.  Growing up is plenty hard enough, thank you.  And we are just at the beginning of doing teenagers.

Dude.

Crawling

Jonah crawled today.  He suddenly just did it, and when we saw we all cheered and whooped and hollered.  It was tentative; just little creeping movements forward to get to his goal, but it looked like he somehow knew what he was supposed to do.

***

Guy was asked to serve as the second counselor to our congregation's bishop at church.  In a church where all of the work is done on a volunteer basis, it is a blessing and a sacrifice to take on a task like this one.  He will be asked to help with many things that will take him away from home.  He will be helping other families, spending evenings doing visits and going to meetings.  As he stood today to walk to the front of the chapel and take his place next to our good and kind bishop, I felt a little pang knowing he would not be sitting next to me and holding my hand on Sundays anymore, for a while anyway.  Some weeks are a little less than a cake-walk with five kids on one church pew, even for two of us.

I know Guy is up to the task.  Already, though he started out with great hesitation, his movements by the end of the day seemed more sure.  He is nervous, because he wants to do what is right but he knows he will sometimes make mistakes.  I feel a little nervous, too.  I know Guy will be fine, but I feel a little unsure.  I am kind of a goof ball, with a slightly off sense of humor and one too many opinions.  I am bound to stick my foot in my mouth and wiggle my toes around in there from time to time.  It didn't seem to matter as much before as it does now.

I guess we will figure it out as we go along.  I will get used to flying without my wing-man.  Guy and I will each gain confidence as we move ahead.

Jonah's timid and jittery crawl will be strong and sure in no time, and so will ours.

Talents and First Kisses

I have some very talented friends.

Robin is one of them. 

Robin is a busy homeschool mama who knows the staff at the local ER on a first name basis because of the health challenges of one of her children, but she still finds time for little ol' me and my bubba.

I have, since my first babe, had a baby portrait done of each child at about 6 months old with the baby blanket that my mother gave to Ethan when he was born.  Mom is gone, but her gift keeps giving, and the warmth of her blanket comforts babies she never got to hold.

Life is busy with five kiddos, what with all the nose wiping and trip-slip-form signing.  Six months came and went, and tomorrow Jonah boy will be 9 months old.  When it dawned on me that I had not had his portrait done, I panicked.  I could see us in therapy with him at age 16 as he told his therapist, "I wore hand-me-downs from the 90's and I didn't even get a baby picture!"

The thought of dragging all of the kids to the photo studio at the mall to attempt to get one remotely decent picture of this boy was overwhelming.  So I contacted Robin and well, the rest is magical history. 

So, thank you, Robin.  The pictures are amazing and we love them.  You are so talented, giving, loving and kind.  You pack a lot of love into an hour or two.  I don't know how I got to be blessed with friends that are not only warm and generous, but also so very talented. 

Cute baby.  Awesome friend.

What can I say?  I am blessed!

My boy gave me a real kiss yesterday.  As he bounced on my lap and played, I turned him to me and said "Kisses?" He froze, smiled, and gently leaned in and placed his mouth on my lips with a yummy "ahhhh".  Then he pulled back and began bouncing again.  He did it 3 more times, and then once for papa.  Oh, I wish I could share with the world the feeling of that first baby kiss.  Wars would cease, road rage would stop and  all the mean people at Walmart would suddenly start acting nice.  

The love of the universe is contained in just one baby kiss.   



The day I waited for

"I have waited for today!"  I cheered and clapped, when, as my heart had predicted he would (though at the time I didn't even know he was a "he"), Jonah scootched (yes, that is a word.  Don't look it up, just trust me) over to the antique wooden bowl that sits on the floor in my living room and reached inside to pull out the woollen balls that I made for him when I was pregnant with him (I don't know if that was one whole sentence, or a flock of baby ones, but you get the idea!).  As I worked on them, I was trying to picture him here, in our lives, safe and sound, rolling on his yummy fat little belly. (that post here) 

And now, here he is. 

Playing with his balls (are you smiling, Steph?).

 Today I dozed on the couch and when I opened my eyes, he had put the balls into the bowl and would tip the bowl to make the balls roll around inside.  He would watch them roll in circles until they stopped, and then do it again.  It was wonderful. 

He is wonderful.

He is more wonderful than my finite flea-sized imagination could have conjured. I love his slobbery mouth, and the funny pucker-face he makes when he eats cold food.  I love the way he bellows in rhythm to the rocking chair
 as we rock when he is tired.  Oh, I-love-'im I-love-'im I-love-'im!

What a joy to be a mother!  What a gift to welcome giant spirits in tiny bodies, to share our bodies and our lives and our hearts with.  What miracle is this, that we are trusted with wee-human souls to teach and love, comfort and inspire? 

In the past, I have ached as each baby-day of my children's babyhoods sped by.  But I find myself, of late, far too overjoyed with him to feel the sting of the passing of days.  As I write this, he is gleefully slapping his reflection in the mirror
and laying big wet-ones on the baby face he sees there. 

And when I look beyond his reflection in the mirror,

I see my own

and I am smiling.

All things being equal...

I have never understood that saying, because they never are. 

This week, after long deliberation, we have decided to move Ethan out of the room he shares with Adam.  We happen to have a play room, more like an enclosed patio, that is 10 feet wide and 28 feet long, that hasn't gotten much play over the past couple of years.  The boys have out grown little toys and opt for bikes and skateboards most of the time, while the girls would rather play (read here: make messes) in their room.  So we are turning half of the space into a room for Ethan. 

I always thought that I would want my children to share rooms until they left our home.  I don't know if it is the fact that as kids we always did, and I used to think that a kid with his or her own room was a spoiled rich kid, or if it is because of my fundamental belief that people need each other and should be together.  What ever the reason, it seemed strange to consider the separation, but I am learning to see my children as individuals, and as such, it is becoming clear that Adam needs some peace.  Ethan's exuberance and down-right noisiness had been stealing sleep from Adam (among other things), and his mess has enveloped the entire room.  Adam is not tidy but not a slob, and definitely a morning person.  Ethan on the other hand is usually up until midnight or later, listening to music and "doing stuff" that makes it hard for Adam to sleep.  There are other reasons, but if I boil them all down, this is what I come to:  All things are not equal.  Adam and Ethan have different needs.  Those different needs are not being met by them being in a room together. 

This is going to be tricky.  We have to build a temporary wall.  We will have to make needed repairs to the leaky ceiling and adjust to being able to see his room through our living room window.  I am hoping it will help Ethan to work on being tidier.  I know Adam is going to love getting more sleep, and having his space and possessions respected more.  I imagine they will still spend time together in each other's spaces, but it will be interesting to watch the adjustment as it unfolds.

This week is phase one, move Ethan.  Next week will be phase two; move the girls to the big bedroom and move Adam to their smaller one.  And after we finally got the boys room painted!

Someday

When Heidi was pregnant with Eli, I was pregnant, but not with Jonah.  Then, when the baby I carried was miscarried, I watched her continue to grow.  Her belly got bigger, and mine got smaller.  I got pregnant again after a while, and though I didn't know it at the time, the little one I carried would stay, and grow, and become the fat little baby that I love so much.  But I didn't know it then.  Then, the grief seemed interminable.

Not long ago, I went to Heidi's house, and we visited while Eli and Jonah played on the floor.  Though there are several months between them, Jonah has caught up with Eli size-wise.  I thought of the first time Heidi and I stood side by side at a church dinner, babes in arms, and I realized that even though my pain had seemed to go on forever when Guy and I were in our season of losses, there I stood, peace in my heart, and joy incarnate bundled in my arms.  I rejoiced and marveled that Heidi and I now stood side by side, bouncing fussy, sleepy babies in our arms.  In that moment, I thought of Ruth.

Ruth has a whole chamber of my heart that belongs just to her.  She is a fixture in my prayers, and when I love on my Jonah-boy, I think of her Rhys.  I know her empty arms still long for a little one to fill them.  I know her heart aches.  There are days that sneak up on her and ambush her with no warning.  The days and weeks and months blur together behind eyes misty with tears, while she smiles them away so that she can focus her sight on her children who need her.  She is brave and humble and patient in her trial.

Standing there beside Heidi, our babies drifting to sleep in our arms, I imagined someday.  Someday, when Ruth and I would stand, rocking side-to-side with our children in our arms.  I don't know exactly when that day will be, but I know it will come sooner than we can imagine.  Someday her pain will fade a little, and joy will light up the corners of her heart that have been darkened for a time.

I look forward to someday.

Hummmmmm

A few weeks ago the sisters did a getting to know you game at the church.  We were put in two concentric circles and in pairs.  Like a roulette wheel, we moved and stopped, and then told the woman facing us what our name was and one household chore we "didn't mind doing".  At one point I stood across from a woman who flatly stated "I like doing dishes."  "Oh," I replied with a smile, "Then you should come to my house, my dish washer has been broken since October."  She raised one eyebrow and with more than a hint of disgust said, "I have never owned a dishwasher."

Well, I am not pioneer stock!  I MIND doing dishes.  Trust me when I say that the mighty pioneer women didn't like doing dishes either.  They simply had no choice!  If I weren't such a tree hugger we would eat on paper plates 6 nights a week.  I don't like being chained to the kitchen sink, knuckles dry and chapped, dropping and chipping plates constantly.  Did I mention I am not so great at going dishes by hand?  The ones that survive the process are clean, but we have lost more glassware in the last six months than in the last six years combined.

So this week when our tax return came through, I was giddy when Guy walked through the door and announced he had bought me a dishwasher.  He got a screamin' deal by combining a $50-off coupon and a 35%-off sale at the outlet store.  I got a dishwasher.  I am in heaven.

I swooned as my hubby installed the new machine.  He read the directions first, something I try to avoid until I have made a total debauchery of things.  A man with an instruction book in his hands is so sexy.  I ran my first load, and we all gathered round to listen to it hum.  Even the kids were impressed and grateful.

Then yesterday I was chatting with a friend who recently returned from a mission in Uruguay.  He talked about how every where they went they always saw women out scrubbing clothes by hand.  We live in a time and place where we have been so blessed by modern appliances.  I thought back to my own mission, and having to buy my perishable food one day at a time because we didn't have refrigeration.  Going without a dishwasher for six months was less an inconvenience and more of a little reality check.  It has reminded me to be grateful for the time saving devices that fill my life, allowing me to decide what I want to do with my days.  I can read to my children, garden, exercise with friends and create art (or even ugly Easter eggs!). 

I hope I really learned my lesson so that I don't have to suffer the loss of another one of my appliances.  It's true that dishes take a long time by hand, but laundry takes longer!

Trying too hard

Ah, Spring is in the air.  It is the time of year when all good crafters have so many creative juices flowing that if you poked 'em with a pin they would leak Alizarin Crimson Acrylic (that's red paint, for all you craft virgins out there).  I guess that would make us craft-floozies.  Yup, me and the bishop's wife, we are craft floozies.

Actually, I have only recently allowed the word craft into my vocabulary.  You see, I am a child of the 80's, a time when every good housewife had a grapevine wreath bedecked with giant silk flowers and pastel plaid ribbon, hung in the living room.  Some of them still hang there, all faded and under a 20 year old layer of dust and kitchen grease.  Nasty.

I actually refused to own a glue gun for the first 10 years of my marriage.  Find a woman completely devoid of skill or talent, give her a glue gun, and suddenly she thinks she is Coco Chanel.  Well, then I had a cub scout and, let's just say, I now own a glue gun - and the boy's patches never fall off anymore. 

 I also found that if I didn't want to do crafts, I didn't get invited to many social events that centered around them.  Add to that my disdain for any household item that can be acquired through a "party", and I was nearly a recluse.  Now, I am no scrapbooker, but I have learned that I can still make handmade cards for a card trade once in a while.  They are painted, not stamped, but no one seems to mind. 

So Floozie Kathy and I decided to get all jiggy with Easter eggs this year.  She came packin' heat (a totally different kind of gun, but alas, a gun nevertheless) for embossing, and we attempted to re-create the beautiful eggs featured in Martha Stewart's April issue of Living. 

Stupid Martha.

Did she, or any one of her craft-minions mention that the stamps slide all over the eggs when you try to stamp the embossing adhesive onto them?  Um, no.  They did not.  Probably because they paid some grad student minimum wage to make, like, 500 eggs that they chose from to get the 4 that turned out nice enough to put on the cover of the magazine.  Somewhere in East Hampton there is a grad student in the fetal position in her closet, rocking and mumbling something about a student loan and scrambled eggs.

Next, we tried our hand at onion-skins and old-silk-necktie wrapped eggs.  It turns out that rubber bands melt and break in boiling water, effectively allowing the cloth to fall off of the eggs.  Who knew?  We succeeded in producing a lovely pot of brown eggs.

Last, we moved on to Ukrainian Egg dying.  This is an ancient art form that began centuries ago when the good people of the Ukraine realized it would be a few hundred more years before they invented TV and the snow plow.  After making our eggs, I began to understand why these folks invented Vodka.  The eggs are dyed in a series of intense colors between being drawn on by a stylus tool filled with wax called a Kiska, that is heated over a candle every few seconds. 

Yes.  Every.  Few.  Seconds. 

After about 4 or 5 layers and a hand full of hours,

the wax is removed to show you that you totally did it wrong. 

 It is awesome. 

Or rather, великий.

Seven hours after smiling arrival, Kathy staggered out of my house with a tiny clutch of colored eggs and slight eye twitch.  I set about tidying up the table for round two... we had yet to dye eggs with the kids.

The kids sat down and, as kids do, made a dozen gorgeous eggs in about 15 minutes.  I was awestruck at the pure simplicity and beauty in them.  My favorite was one that Ethan did by "trying to see how ugly I can make it" by putting it in all of the colors.  It looks like an amazing ancient stone.  Adam made one that looked like the sea by a beach, Tess made one that looked like rosy granite, and Ellie produced one that looked like a sunset.

When they were done, my eggs looked so contrived and naive next to their spontaneous and rich ones. 

I need to try harder not to try so hard. 

Just getting started.  She looks so happy, doesn't she?  If only she knew...

You are supposed to be able to transfer the pattern from a silk tie onto an egg. It worked a little, but that darn rubber band had to go and act all...ya know, rubbery and melty and all. 

Are they eggs, or are they a science fair project?

 Doesn't she have healthy cuticles?

Masters at work...

Which came first, the stained fingers or the eggs?

Let's go to the movies!

Family Fun Alert!!!

Where can you go to a movie and:

bring your own goodies without sneaking

 (who would do that?  Not me!)

talk really loud

wear your PJs

walk around

see a double feature

????

The Drive-In, that's where.  I thought it was going to be miserable.  I thought it would be cold, and hard to hear, and that our kid noise would bother nearby movie-goers, but if was AWESOME!  We went with Kathy and Bishop and their assorted offspring.  I popped a grocery bag full of cinnamon kettle corn, and brought cereal bowls to fill with candy for the kids (Alright, I admit it!  It was for ME!).  The admission was reasonable for the adults, and one sweet buck per kidlet.  With only 12 cars in the lot, we had so much space we were able to spread out on camp chairs without disturbing a soul.  If Jonah cried, I didn't have to go stand out side in some hallway staring at movie posters.  We bundled the kids in blankets and watched Hop and Rango back to back.  The only bummer of the whole night was Guy having to hike all the way to the restrooms to take Tessa for a potty break, but it was his bummer, not mine!  (I swear I do not abuse the nursing situation, but every once in a while it works to my advantage when a kid needs to be wiped and I happen to be feeding Jonah-boy).

If you are in the mood to go vintage-Hollywood, here is a link to all of the drive in theaters in the good ol' U.S. of A.  This is the perfect time of year, because the films don't start too late for munchkins like they will after sundown later in the summer .

Jackie's Story Corner

A lifetime ago, when I was at college, I was given an amazing blessing.  Her name is Jackie.

Jackie and I were plunked into an apartment together at random like two drops of rain that fall into the same puddle.   Or flower pot, maybe.  No, definitely a puddle, one of those oily puddles that makes beautiful marbled rainbows that float on the surface.  Jackie got me, and I got her.  She could make me laugh on days when it was the last thing I wanted to do.  She was humble and faithful and magical.  

Jackie barked on occasion when someone suddenly knocked on the door.  She made up marvelous words that I still use today, like "boi-yoingy" (the feeling when you hit a little rubbery bit of ground beef in your food).  She would end random sentances with the word "probably".  I loved it when she made up dances.  There were dances like the "The Mail Came Early and There Is A Letter For Me!" dance, the "It's Snowing and My Socks Are Soggy" dance, or the "It's Thursday, So There!" dance.  She would transform into a prima ballerina in a bounce house, and with unabashed freedom would dance about.  I quickly learned life was much happier when I joined her, and I somehow magically knew all of the steps.

Jackie gave me a book all those years ago.  It was a children's book called Chicka-Chicka Boom-Boom, and in it she wrote a message to my children, who didn't even exist yet.  Each time I read them the book, I start by reading her inscription:

"This is a great book, and when you are done reading it give your mom some kisses, and a hug, sing her a lullabye and put her down for a nice nap!  Don't forget she is really the very beautiful fairy princess and needs to be treated with gentle love, of course!  From the rather bedraggled Fairy Princess of the Kingdom Slightly to the East, Jackie (Daughter of Terry Lou Punkfrog, Fairy Princess Gorkle!)

Chicka Chicka Boom Boom, Have you cleaned your own room?"

Over the miles we have sent books with messages in them for each other and our children.  If a book makes me laugh out loud in a store, I have been known to buy two, one for me, and one for Princess Jackie.

It is in honor of Jackie and her kiddos that I am creating "Jackie's Story Corner" where once a week or so I will read a story to her children, and maybe to yours too, if you don't mind!  I have always intended to record tapes of some of my favorite books for Jackie's girls.  Well, since "tapes" went out with legwarmers and Aqua Net, I am resigned to this here new fangled tek-nall-oh-jee.

I am starting with a dear little book called Sleepy People by M.B. Goffstein. If you would like to purchase it, go take out a small bank loan or promise your firstborn to a troll and you may get a very tattered copy.  Mine came when, after a maddening day of reshelving, a public librarian got crazy drunk with all of her peeps in the children's section and accidentally put it in the discard pile.  I always knew the Dewey decimal system would work to my advantage someday. 

Enjoy.

*

(Technical problems... of course!  I hope to get the video to upload soon!)

 

****

As I wrote the above post, Tessa woke from her Post Easter-candy-binge barf-session nap, and this is what she said, with glazed eyes and a grin:

"I prayed to God in a quiet place that he would not make me frow up, and it worked cuz he heard me.  I frew up on my shirt, and it got colorful like that colorful crayon.  I prayed "please do what I say or I will cry, amen".  I did it in quiet places."

Does God take threats from queasy five year-olds as long as they do it in quiet places?

Savior of the World

For the past four months, every Saturday morning Ellie and I have been at rehearsal.  For the past two weeks, we have rehearsed, polished and fine tuned until we were singing our songs in our sleep.  And this weekend, we performed in a musical called Savior of the World to commemorate the Resurrection of Jesus Christ as is accounted in the New Testament. 

This has been such an amazing thing to be a part of.  I have been in many casts in my life, but this one was so special, and I hope to be able to somehow capture here in words what I have experienced over the past several days. 

As the curtain was ready to open on the first of our three performances, there was a strange and heavy silence over the whole stage.  We had just come from the green room where we had shared in testimony, scripture and song to prepare our hearts for opening night.  The jitters of wanting to do well coupled with the intensity of the opening scenes created a solemn stillness in us.  As the first few scenes unfolded, which depicted events as they might have been as the family and friends of Jesus departed from the tomb and went to their homes grieving the shocking loss of their spiritual leader, we found ourselves weeping both onstage and off.  I worried I would not be able to hold myself together.

Then, as in the scriptures, when to news of the risen Christ was spread, a cheer came to the cast members and an energy filled the stage that was palpable.  But with that cheer and energy there was an amazing reverence.  At one point I stepped into the green room and was amazed.  Two dozen people in costumes sat in silence, some reading from the bible or from the book Jesus the Christ, others just listening to the strains of music that came through the wall.  But it wasn't just the silence and reverence there that was notable, there was a spiritual presence that felt like being in the temple.

By our second performance for the Saturday matinee, the sweet and happy feeling we had been left with from our first show was there from the start.  There was such a feeling of joy as we performed, and it carried us through a long day to the last performance that night.  At one point as the angel choir sang, those of us in the cast stood in the wings singing too, adding our voices to the chorus.  I wished then, that every person in the audience could be up there with us, feeling what we were.  "John", a man named Jacob who I shared a very tender scene on stage with, smiled and reached over and squeezed my hand.  There were many such moments.  "Solome", the sister of Mary, had over these weeks and months become like a sister to me, and she stood near by, a gentle hand on my back.  Often as members of the cast passed through the curtains exiting the stage, they were immediately received with a hug or a gentle touch to let them know how well they were doing.  Sometimes as I stood there in the dark, a whisper of "good job, Mary" would come from close behind me.  Other times the glow of the stage lights would illuminate the face of another cast member as we stood silently in the wings, and as our eyes met we would exchange smiles. 

The shows went as shows do.  There were the expected mistakes, a dropped line or a stammer here and there.  But for a cast of amateurs, it was amazing. More than that, I had the opportunity to imagine what it might have been like to witness events that I have only read about my whole life.  Seeing the relationships that grew over the course of our rehearsals helped me to imagine the personalities and relationships that exsisted between the followers of the Lord.  They were his friends.  They ate with him and laughed with him and loved him as friends and family do. 

As this Easter Season is upon us, I am grateful for the sweet reminder of the gift that has been given us by our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.  He is our friend.  He loves us.  He provided us an example and a path back to our first home.  Just like the members of a cast in a play, we have stepped out onto a stage for the span of this life, and we will be here for a time, but all too soon the curtain will close on what we know here.  We will return to the company of dear ones who have left us, and to a loving Lord who knows us so well.  I imagine when we look back at this life from the context of eternity, this life will seem so short, our pains so brief, the reasons for our struggles and trials so clear.

It will be like a small play on a small stage.

 Just before opening curtain

(Sweet Sharlene- "Solome", Milti-talented Erin -"Mary,
Mother of James" and Amazing Tara -"Mary Magdalene")

 Gathering after the Sabbath

Mary Magdalene at the tomb

Dawn ("Joanna") researched all about our parts for us and helped us to understand the relationships our characters had as sisters-in -law.  She also researched Jewish custom and helped us to have all the correct items to use as our props.  We even had real spices and oils.

 Did you know that angels use aps?



Two of the Marys

 Most of our scenes were together, so Mary

and I enjoyed lots of little jokes about all of our hand holding.

 In the upper room

Some of the Twelve

 Teaching the multitudes

 Little Angel Ellie gets so involved in the action below,

she almost comes down out of heaven to join the scene.

 "Joshua" (Gordy) and "Rebecca" (Emma) made this scene so fun.

In the green room, all smiles dispite the heat of the costumes.

I just want to know what the angels are talking about...

The End

*

Happy Easter!