A Cryptic Message

This was left for me on the fridge, regarding last night's dinner menu...

Clay Pot Nativities

Gabba and Lucy are both in the Activity Days program, now. Lucy came in in May. I was secretly worried, as Gabba tends to be very territorial, especially about her friends. But so far, so good. They do very well together, and no one has eviscerated anybody. Most recently, they made Clay Pot Nativities...so cute!

Here is Lucy's:

...and here is Gabriella's

They had a lot of fun. And when they got home with them, we put a tablecloth on, and used them as center pieces. I should tell you that these girls are all about Christmas. The Sunday after Thanksgiving, Mark and I were both sick. We stayed home from church, and slept as much as the parents of seven children possibly can. Gabba and Lucy were determined to begin decorating for Christmas. I was determined to get them to leave me in peace. So, I gave them my blessing to decorate all they wanted, as long as they left me alone to sleep.

With that blessing, they hauled the Christmas tree up from the basement - by themselves - and set it up. They dug out the decorations and decorated the tree - by themselves. They found the strings of lights and used packing tape to put them up in the living room windows - by themselves. Then, they cleaned the living room. The only thing they asked of us was for their daddy to hook the different tree sections together so the lights would work. He staggered out of bed long enough to do just that. Eliza and Yvette were their willing accomplices, but the bulk of the motivation and organization and follow-through came from Lucy and Gabriella. Bless them.

When Mark and I were finally able to drag ourselves out of bed, the girls excitedly led us into the living room, which they had single-handedly transformed into Christmas Wonderland. They were so proud of themselves. And then, they begged to be allowed to sleep under the Christmas tree that night. Of course we said yes. And all of the girls worked together for the next two days to keep the living room spanking clean, and spent all their time playing in the Christmas ambiance.

Here are Gabba and Lucy (stupid auto-focus!) with their clay pot nativities. I never did blog about their haircuts...they both donated their hair (Gabba for the second time) back in October. Gabba loves her cut, even though Hyrum teases her about looking like Justin Bieber. Lucy misses having long hair to play with, but certainly does not miss the upkeep.

And here is George, who -of course!- climbed up on the table to investigate what all the fuss was about. I took a picture of him to distract him from trying to kick the clay pots like so many breakable soccer balls. We eventually had to move the nativities to save them from George's, uhm, enthusiasm.

Squirrel!

Did you hear the one about the squirrel? No? Well, then, I shall regale you with the superfluous details of our Secret Squirrel.

We live in an old brick house. I love it. I mean, it's not what we want it to be yet, we have lots of dreams and plans for it. But it is sufficient the way it is, and if we never get to finish it off the way we are dreaming, we will still be happy.

But.

It IS old. And there are some cracks in the foundation...nothing to make me fear my house will collapse on me in the middle of the night, mind you. But apparently enough for sly little rodents to move in without a rental contract. Pretty sure that is how the squirrel got in. Sneaky little squirrel, squirreling away in our basement.

I heard it first, but I wasn't sure that what I heard was, uh, what I heard, so I just put it in the back of my mind. It was only in retrospect that I was able to connect the squirrel to what I heard.

Hyrum actually saw it. But he only got a quick glimpse in a dark corner. It was a Sunday afternoon, and I had sent him to the basement to fetch some canned goods from the pantry shelves. He came back to report that there was some type of animal in the basement. He wasn't sure, but it might even have been a raccoon! or an opossum! Yuck.

Mark was snoozing - and I'm pretty protective of his Sunday afternoon nap, because having him well-rested is in my best interests - so we decided to just leave it alone until he got up. Because this woman certainly wasn't going into the basement to mess with a ferocious, free-loading, fur-bearing critter.

When Mark was vertical again, Hyrum shared his observations, and the two of them headed to the basement, ready to do battle. I stayed right where I was. It was not a rat, Mark called up the stairs, as he had initially thought. It was a squirrel, and it was giving them quite the chase. Finally, it tucked itself into a corner behind the water storage bottles, and Mark just sat down, trying to think what to do next. He sat there long enough, the tricky little thing poked it's head up and started inching out of its nook. Somehow, Mark moved fast enough and managed to grab it by it's tail. We heard the terrified squeaking all the way upstairs. Then we heard the cellar doors open, as Mark tossed the squirrel unfeelingly out into the dark, cold winter night. Bye-bye, Secret Squirrel!

Hyrum and Mark came up to report on the incident. It was the most exciting, quirky thing that had happened in a while. Also, they mentioned that the squirrel was so scared when Mark grabbed it's tail, it peed on the floor. {snicker} Gabba loves to add this detail to the story when she tells the neighbor kids ("It was so scared, it peed it's fur!").

Is it silly that I feel like I should have gotten pictures? Or that I should apologize for not doing so? Mark assures me that I will be able to recognize the Squirrel in Question when I see it in the yard, because he thinks there might be some fur missing from said tail. I will probably NOT get close enough (with or without a camera) to tell it from the other six squirrels that muscle the birds out of the bird feeders.

Let that be a lesson to all potential rodent squatters. The House of Phogles doesn't take kindly to your kind. Just keep moving.

This photo doesn't actually have anything to do with squirrels, but it made me chuckle...

George as Jean Valjean

It has been a long ol' time since I watched/sang/read Les Miserables. I was mildly obsessed with it in high school (weren't you?). All the same, Jean Valjean and Bishop Myriel's silverware are the first things that pop into my head with this George Moment. Here's the story...

Dishes. {insert sound of repressed frustration}. We don't have a dish-washing machine. But we do have children...lots of them. Children to whom we are attempting to teach responsibility and work ethic and cooperation. Gabriella has been on dishes for quite a while now, and it was my intent to just leave her there until she demonstrated a little self-mastery. I'll spare you all the motherly admonitions and parental whining, but the end of the saga is that I am now on dishes, and Gabba has been relegated to maintaining the dining room and all its tables.

So, I was doing the dishes. And since I do dishes every day (see, Gabba, that's how you stay on top of things, by doing them every day), I have a fairly accurate idea of how my household inventory stands. On the day in question, I took the extra precaution of gathering up all the dishes from around the house, so as to avoid the got-the-dishes-done-but-not-really-look-what-I-found-under-my-bed-Mom syndrome. So, when I drained the sink and wiped down the counters, I was confident that I had washed everything. It was as I was putting away the silverware and the utensils that I noticed it: the table knives...there weren't any. Not in the drawer, not in the clean dishes. How could that be? I had rounded up every dish in sight. Where do 12 table knives just up and disappear to? I mentioned it to Mark that night as we were going to bed. We both agreed that the culprit was most likely George (who is always guilty until proven innocent), and I mused that all our knives might possible reside in various heater vents around the house by now.

That next evening, I was on the computer when George wandered by. He stopped, opened the little door on the storage cupboard built into the computer desk, and reached in to grab the entire stack of table knives he had stashed in there. I laughed when I saw his choice of cache locations (table knives can be construed as office supplies, right?), and called to Mark that I knew where all the knives had gone. He came in time to see George lifting his utensil booty out and closing the cupboard. Mark admonished our toddler, and told him to put the knives back where they belong. "Kay," said George. Here is George, putting the knives back in the silverware drawer.

He put them all back without complaint or fanfare (except a couple of camera flashes). He took his time and did it very neatly, one knife at a time.

Why did George run off with all the knives and stash them in the first place? Was he actually listening during all those Preparedness family home evening lessons? Who knows. But the Mystery of the Disappearing Knives was solved. Nancy Drew would be so proud of me.

All done, Daddy. (Good job, George.)

It is noteworthy that I did NOT play my roll as Bishop Myriel very well: I did not hand my two-year-old any candlesticks. They're brass, you see, and he has been known to use them as mallets. You know, with "mallets and forethought." So, no...no candlesticks for this little Jean Valjean.

Update on Princess A-Wee-Wuh

Here is a picture of our little Princess A-Wee-Wuh at one month. Isn't she just a doll? Her first real public outing (Thanksgiving with family notwithstanding) was to our Branch Christmas party. I have to tell you, Gabba was asked to be an angel, and the little girls were invited to be animals. Lucy rebelled and went as an angel anyway (she wanted to be like the big girls in Senior Primary). Eliza went as a sheep, and Yvette went as a butterfly. Because they must have butterflies in Bethlehem, right? It was either let her go as a butterfly, or let her go as Mary's cat. Gabba and her Primary pals begged for me to let Aurora be the baby in the manger during the Primary nativity program, and so she got the honor of standing in for Baby Jesus. It was so sweet, and the girl who was Mary was very gentle and attentive to her, but I don't have a picture.

"A-Wee-Wuh," by the way, is Mark's pet name for her. George has only said her name once thus far, and it came out sounding like "uh-wee-wuh." Mark uses that name for her more than any other. It just might end up being permanent. And yes, she is still wearing blue things, as most of our pink newborn wardrobe is too summery for December. For Christmas, Rorie will be getting mostly clothing.

Also, Aurora's Christmas stocking arrived in the mail yesterday. Hooray! We finally have all of our stockings hanging up together on our mantel. Grandma Cindy knitted a lot of stockings this year. George's also arrived in that same package. I had knitted it (finally!) and Grandma did the stitching for me...still haven't learned that part.

When you get your stocking from Grandma - and you are a baby, not a newlywed - it is quasi-traditional to take a picture...not that we did that for George or Yvy, because they were both two before they got their stockings! But Aurora is still small enough to fit (although all those fat rolls made it a tight fit), so we did:

Gabba and Rorie posing pleasingly...

Look at this sweet baby! Aurora is currently six weeks old, and working valiantly on her chubby cheeks and the fat rolls on her thighs. She is still very easy and mellow, although she currently has somewhat of a cold (maybe from all the adoration at the Branch Christmas party...). It makes nursing a bit of a challenge, and she hateshatesHATES me messing with her wee little nose to clean it out. This too shall pass. At this point, she practically lives in her baby swing, where she just happily naps and naps and naps. I'm enjoying this arrangement while it lasts, because I know there is an expiration date to it!

Art by Yvy

Yvette drew these pictures, and then BEGGED me to post them on my blog. I love Yvette, so here they are.

First, here is a "guy" she drew, complete with belly button. She drew it first in pencil, and then carefully and meticulously colored each line. She was very proud of it. I don't remember what she named him.
Next up is the most elaborate rainbow I've seen in a long time. Pretty sure it's got the full light spectrum, and possibly a couple of spectrums that Yvy invented as she was drawing. Good job, Yvette!

You can see the beaver, the yellow chick next to the beaver, who can't fly so he is riding a bicycle. Also, observe the mouse just in front of the house. And the two birds flying overhead are twins, apparently, one just "had a stem on it when it got out," whatever that means...

Meet Tweep

This is Tweep. Yvette introduced her to me, saying "Mommy, this is my imagination friend. HEr name is Tweep. See? She has blue eyes and a beak, and these are her arms, and these are her feet." At that moment, one of Tweep's feet fell off. This didn't faze Yvy. "See, Mommy? Tweep likes to take off her feet sometimes. I mean, they're not her feet, they are really her shoes. She likes taking off her shoes."

With seven children in the house, I try to keep a lid on the number of toys we have, because it gets out of control so fast. I don't buy many actual toys for my kids, unless I think they will earn their place with really high play value. So, my girls make up for what I lack. Yvy and Eliza and Lucy have been building little animals out of the Legos, and calling them their "Legomon" - because they like Pokemon. Eliza also built a very convincing Lego Christmas tree, complete with ornaments and a star (sorry, no picture of that one, but it was clever). At one time, Gabba really wanted one of those My Meebas toys, where you play the game on the canister, and then it will unlock and there is a little stuffed animal inside for you to love and adore. Of course, I wouldn't spring for it (because, yeah, we don't need ANY more stuffed animals), so she made her own. She took an empty jam jar, painted it pink, and then hot-glued some plastic gems on the outside for the game controls. Then she took a small, striped sock from the friendless sock basket (after confirming with me that it was indeed, permanently friendless). She stuffed it with batting, sewed the top shut, and stitched on button eyes and a pink smile. The sock fit nicely in the jam jar, and presto! instant homemade My Meeba.

So, I'm thinking I don't need to buy many actual toys for Christmas. Maybe another set of Legos, to augment our current supply. You know, so there are enough for everyone to make a Legomon at the same time. And probably more buttons and embroidery floss and hot glue sticks. Seriously, Gabba and Lucy would be so happy if I gave them each their own glue gun for Christmas. And a whole stocking of craft supplies. Brace yourself for an invasion of Tweeps and homemade Meebas!

Mark's Novem-Beard

Last month, before we had our baby and all, Mark was contacted by a group on campus and invited to participate in a No Shave November charity fundraiser. Mark can grow a very nice beard. For a number of years there, he started a beard some time in September, and wore it all winter - a la Pa Ingalls:

OK, it never got THAT long and scary - he always shaved it off by March, and kept it nice and trimmed all winter long, but you get the idea (yes, that really is a picture of Charles Ingalls)

A beard adds about ten years and two college degrees to Mark's appearance. It was fun, and we would tease him how his goatee was mostly white. During the Christmas break one of those times, Shiloh begged to be allowed to style his beard. She did a rather fabulous job, I thought:

I think it was that same winter that Eliza was the baby. He had his beard all that winter, and she loved to play with it, and laughed so hard when he tickled her neck with his whiskers. (Was she not the cutest little munchkin?)

Mark shaved in the Spring, as usual. And then Eliza wouldn't let him hold her for two days after that.

Anyway, it's been about five years since he's had a beard. He's had a string of callings in the Church that lend themselves to a more, uh, shall we say "clean-shaven" appearance? Mark still hates shaving, and drags it out as long as possible, but he always shows up for meetings on Sunday morning all clean cut and hairless. Needless to say, this Novem-Beard thing was right up his alley. Of course he said yes. And promptly quit shaving.

The deal with the fundraiser was this: take a "before" photo and submit it. Then take a "beard progress" photo every Thursday. The photos would all be posted, and the students could vote for their favorite beard-in-progress by dropping a donation in that particular box (or something like that).

So, here is Mark's "before" photo:

We didn't actually take one on purpose, he just cropped it out of the family photos from that weekend with his family. And here is the photo from No-Shave No-Vember, Week One:

Personally, I think he looked a little untrustworthy in that one, maybe like a seedy car salesman. But his beard comes in pretty fast, and it was more respectable by the second update:

We were all having fun with the Return of Facial Hair, as it had been such a long time. I'm not sure what's up with the facial expressions, though...

OK, that last one - Week Three - makes him look a little like a lumberjack. Notice the bags under his eyes: this photo was taken when Baby Aurora was two weeks old. And holy cow! If we thought his goatee had been white before, it's darned near snowy now. Of course, The Beard went along as part of Thanksgiving weekend. My brother, Wilson, was rather jealous. He said he has always wanted to do the No-Shave No-Vember thing, but couldn't because of work or other concerns...although, at 18, I'm not sure if it would be a beard or an embarrassment. We were all talking about the concept, and one of the ladies said she wanted to be part of No-Shave No-Vember. There was an awkward moment, while we all tried to visualize feminine participation, and then decided that was precisely why it was specified as "Novem-Beard".

Mark was joking that the white in his beard was just showing his "goodness level", and how much it has gone up in the last several years. Pretty soon, you see, his goodness level will be up to his ears...and beyond (if he doesn't go all the way bald, first!). But if he shaves it off, how will we know where his goodness level is?

And here is the final beard shot, taken on Tuesday, Novem-Beard 30th.

Who won the contest? I have no idea. If they are judging for classy looks or if there is a category for multicolored beards, Mark surely has a chance.

Bees!

Did you know that Mark and his brother, Seth, used to keep bees? Yeah, back when they were teenagers. They had a hive and the smoker and the funky clothes, all that jazz. I don't know for how long, two years maybe? One day, the bees swarmed and left. And that was the end of that. Except that Mark has been fascinated with bees ever since. And fearless. I guess it's easy to be fearless when you hardly ever get stung. Bees fly into my house just for the privilege of stinging me. Mark can stand in the middle of a swarm, and all they do is tickle his face.

And I mean that. It happened for real. This adventure actually happened in May, but it is so singular I just have to share it. One beautiful Friday afternoon, I was out in the yard with the kids. We were playing and enjoying the lovely weather, and visiting with a friend who had stopped by. Mark pulled in from work - he had taken the afternoon off to be ready for the Fathers/Sons camp-out that night. When he got out of the car, he was on the phone, finishing up some last-minute business. For whatever reason, he looked up. And that is when he spotted the swarm of bees flying overhead and congregating on an outer limb in our huge, old maple tree.

Now, interestingly enough, we know three families here in town who keep bees - it's a happening hobby, apparently - so Mark's first impulse was to call one of them up and ask them if they wanted to pop on over to our place and harvest a bee swarm. Yes, they were interested! A bee swarm - complete with Mrs. Queenie Bee - from the bee supply place is worth almost $100, so if you are a frugal beekeeper, adopting a swarm in need of a hive is an appealing idea. I personally just can't relate. After that, he casually wandered over to where my friend and I were chatting in the front yard, and pointed out the swarm to us...as a matter of interest, mind you. I tell you, Mark doesn't respond to bees like the rest of us.

Well, my friend said a quick good-bye, got into her car and left promptly. If it weren't for all those little phoglets in need of supervision and dinner, I would have left with her. I went through the door on the other side of the house - AWAY from the tree with the bees - and shut the kitchen door and any window that might have a hole big enough to let our new "neighbors" in without permission. And in the house I stayed. With all my kids gathered around me. Even the ones who wanted to go out and look at the ball of bees.

This is the Bee Ball. Can you see it?

Seriously. It was a ball of bees. Like, the size of a basketball. Hanging there at the outside edge of the tree's canopy. Next to the driveway. Right above my van.

Our friends showed up with bee gear. Mark met them out by the driveway - without bee gear - and they looked at the bees and talked about how to get the swarm. It was about twenty feet off the ground, and none of us had a tall enough ladder. Now, I know little-or-nothing about all this bee business. But apparently the Queen is at the center of that ball. The reason they were swarming is they were looking for a new home. And if somehow these bee people could get Her Majesty into a hive box and feeling comfy and cozy in there, the whole swarm would follow her in and set up house, erm, hive.

But what to do, what to do? They tried putting the hive boxes right under the Bee Ball, hoping the Scout Bees would find them and report favorably on such prime real estate. Mark and Darren even baited it with sugar water. And honey, of course! (In my head, the Mother of Small Children quotes Winnie the Pooh: honey!...rhymes with bunny; and bunny rhymes with rabbit. And I like Rabbit, because he used small words like, "How about lunch?" and "Help yourself, Pooh!") My darling Mark just stood there on the lawn. Unadorned with bee gear. Holding a quart bottle of honey in his hands. Totally unconcerned.

But neither the Bee Scouts nor the swarm were in any particular hurry. So something else would need to happen. I don't remember who came up with the idea to shake the tree limb to see if they could wiggle the Bee Ball loose and have them go into the boxes. But out comes the rope.

First, Darren and Mark and Daryl tried lassoing the branch by putting a brick on one end of the rope. That didn't pan out. So Mark shimmied up the tree and out on that limb to hook the rope over it and toss the end down. Remember, folks, he still has nothing except his good looks and inherent charm between him and the bees. Shaking the branch sure stirred up the bees. In fact, the first good yank caused quite the stir. But the bulk of the Bee Ball remained un-budged. Her Majesty the Queen of Bees was secure and unmoved.

I don't remember all the details of the sequence of events, mind you. I was either in the house watching from a window and keeping the kids from going outside to Certain Death by Bee Sting, standing across the street with my camera, watching from my neighbor's driveway, or sitting in the cab of our friends' truck, chewing my nails. But somehow, another bee enthusiast showed up with his gear and his truck, to assist and advise.

My view from my neighbor's driveway - across the street - camera zoomed all the way in.

A big ol' ladder was procured, as you can see, but it didn't have anything to lean against. That idea was abandoned. Eventually, after all the rope wiggling and yanking, that little branch snapped, and fell to the ground.

Down came the bees. They splashed like a dark, thick liquid. And they went everywhere. But they landed on/near the hive boxes, which was good. Someone with beekeeping gear wiped the bees of the branch and into/onto the boxes. Everyone felt pretty confident that they got the Queen. Adventure over. Now we just waited for the rest of the bees to climb on in and make themselves at home.


Here are Darren and Cynthia (sensibly in their bee gear) using the special bee brush to, uhm, brush the bees into the hives.

I did NOT take these pictures. Mark did. I don't remember if he put the honey down before he grabbed the camera.

It was important to get the bees all moved in and comfy, because it looked like it was going to rain. Bees know all about Nature and Weather, of course, and they were going to find a nice dry place before rain. I was eying the louver vents that lead into my attic, not so far from the maple tree. I was really hoping the hives were more attractive to the little bugs.

Darren and Cynthia's son - who had just returned from his mission in Canada - was a little apprehensive about the whole deal. This was a hobby they picked up while he was gone. And their daughter, Amber, was even more unhappy about the bees than I was. I was in their truck with her when the branch broke and the bees hit the ground, and it wasn't 60 seconds before they were everywhere. Including all over the truck. Yes, we had the windows up. But when Cynthia climbed in to check on her Amber and chat with this one, there was a little hitchhiker that followed her in. Both Ambers bailed rapidly and headed for the front door and the safety of the house.

In the end, our friends had to get on with their day. So they propped the hives open, weighed the tops down with bricks, and asked us to call them when all the bees were snug as a bug on the inside.

The afternoon had been spent with the bees, and the activities of the evening (like dinner) needed attention. I don't remember if it rained that night. I don't think so. But the next morning was Sunday. And we all had to walk right under the tree and past the hives to get into the van for the whole Going to Church routine. Yippee.

So, we are all buckled in, and I back out of the driveway, and we are about five blocks from the house when Eliza pipes up that she thinks she just got stung by a bee.

"No, are you sure? Did you see the bee? Where were you when it happened?" She didn't know. she wasn't sure. But it felt like a bee sting, and it looked like a bee sting. For the life of me, I couldn't figure out where she how she could have gotten stung. When we got to Church, I inspected it (yes, I was responsible and did not try to identify it whilst driving) and confirmed it as indeed a bee sting. Some little bee had found a crack or crevice that allowed it to climb into our van, and had spent the night there. Poor Eliza. Cynthia was there in the hall, and she felt so bad for her. We got her into the kitchen, grabbed a wash cloth and some ice, and Eliza iced her arm all through Sacrament Meeting. By Primary, she was fine. Thank Heaven. She handled the whole thing like a trooper. I think she was enjoying the attention, because by Second Hour most of the branch (it's a small branch) had heard about her bee sting, and she kept getting stopped in by concerned members who inquired lovingly about her well-bee-ing.

The End.

No, not really. That afternoon, I was working in the kitchen, when I happened to look out the west window - opposite side of the house from the bees - and saw a huge, long "cloud" of bugs flying past the window, over and around my neighbors yard...just as my neighbor opened his garage and started up the lawn mower. It took a second to register what I was seeing: the bees were swarming again. Apparently Mrs. Queenie-Poo was unhappy about the hives. That, or she never actually moved in. Whichever it was, the bees were moving on.

I had a sudden moment of panic where I envisioned my poor, unsuspecting neighbor being attacked by bees who were offended by his lawn mower, and dying a horrid death. And I felt very responsible. He had no idea about the bees, and we were the ones who had been messing around with the swarm. Could we be held liable in a wrongful death suit? I ran out the door, and over across the alley. I must have looked kind of funny, in my Sunday clothes and "cooking" apron and bare feet. I self-consciously explained what had been happening on the east side of my house, and about the once-again-mobile swarm I had just seen, and suddenly he seemed like it wasn't such an urgent thing for him to mow the lawn anymore.

Having done my neighborly duty, assuaged my conscience, and avoided a lengthy lawsuit and court battle (OK, now I'm just being cheeky and dramatic), I went back to my kitchen and resumed my puttering. I did notice that he closed the garage, and presumably found something more pressing inside, too. And that was it. After all that drama and effort and time spent and bee stings suffered... not to mentioned the amputations suffered by my tree, no one had a hive to show for it.

The End.

Really.

Give Thanks

I was really, thoroughly sick on my birthday. A couple of my dear friends, Les and Kristin, caught wind of that, and made a special effort to stop by my house and cheer me up. They brought chocolate (which I had to stash for later) and hugs and well wishes. It meant a great deal to me. Also, Les gave me a little spiral notebook that she had dolled up in her wonderful, scrappy, multi-media artsy way. That woman. She is forever sharing her creativity and her 10,000 watt smile with everyone around her. I am so blessed to have the wonderful friends God has placed in my life.

That spiral notebook. I set it by my bedside, so I could decide how I wanted to use it. It sat there, and slowly, an idea wedged itself into my little brain:

Here comes Thanksgiving. And Christmas. I have felt compelled to do more for my family in the way of giving us opportunities to be more grateful for our blessings, more thoughtful and mindful of those around us. Mark and I have tried many different approaches to the whole holiday season, trying to find worthy, sustainable traditions that resonate with our children and what we know to be true. Some have worked, many have not. This year, it is on my mind again. So, too, was the inescapable knowledge that we are amazingly and abundantly blessed, and that we aren't the best stewards of those blessings sometimes, nor are we particularly vocal or bold in our gratitude.

Les' little notebook inspired me. I went to the store, bought enough for each person in my family, plus some stickers, and spent the entire afternoon of Monday, November 1st decorating them up for Family Home Evening. They aren't nearly as fabulous and eye-catching as the one I was given, but they were cutesy enough for my girls to ooh and aahh over them:

(of course, after all the effort, I had to take a picture, because I know these little books will be luck to last the month!)

That evening, after the opening prayer and Eliza picking our opening song, I had everyone pull out their scriptures. We looked up Doctrine & Covenants 59:21, which reads

And in nothing doth man offend God, or against none is his wrath kindled, save those who confess not his hand in all things, and obey not his commandments.

And then talked about what it might mean to confess His hand in all things, and how that relates to gratitude and giving thanks. I got out the little notebooks, and introduced everyone to their Give Thanks Journal. Hyrum handed out pens, and then we spent the next several minutes writing down (or drawing pictures of) as many things as we could think of that we are grateful for. Except George, who just used his pencil to stab holes in his notebook repeatedly. And then tried to steal everyone else's pen.

After that, we each took turns reading our list out loud. I asked that everyone keep track of their Give Thanks Journal, and make notes in it every day of things they think of to be thankful for. Every evening, before family prayers, we will each take a turn saying two or three things we are grateful for that day. And then we will remember them in our prayers. It was very fortunate that November started on a Monday, I think, because it meant we could do this all month long. We ended the Family Home Evening with Mark saying our family prayer, and giving thanks in that prayer for as many of the blessings mentioned as he could remember.

It was a great FHE. And, I am thrilled to say that, 14 days into the month, we've only missed one night of "confessing His hand" in our lives. Sure, there have been some grumpy nights when people said they were thankful for things like bedtime and children who were asleep...pointed remarks like that. But there have been some very sweet and poignant evenings, such as the one two days later, the day Aurora was born, when everyone was so grateful to have her and couldn't stop thinking of things to thank Heavenly Father for. The Spirit in our home that evening was beautiful and palpable.

So, here is the master plan: we spend the whole month of November cataloging and recording our blessings and the evidence of the Lord's hands in our lives. Then, the first Monday in December, Mark and I are going to unveil our plan for Christmas this year. We are giving each of our children a small amount of money - say, $25 - to donate to the charity of their choice. I have researched a few that I think will really interest them, such as Heifer International or Rising Star Outreach or even the LDS Church's Humanitarian Aid fund or our county's Backpack Buddies program. Mark and I will do one meaningful gift for each child, and we will still do our little family name draw, where each of the children and Mark and I draw names, and then do a gift for that person. And then we will spend our Christmas season seeking opportunities to serve each other, and spend time together as a family, and serving those around us where we can.

We are hoping that, by spending a month counting our blessings, and then another month serving and giving, that this holiday season will be about much more than stuffing our faces or amassing more stuff to fill our house. We are hoping to fill our house with love and a true spirit of gratitude and sincere appreciation for all that we already have. I know we live such a charmed, blessed life. I want to show my children how to see this for themselves.

Handling George

This is my George. I just love him. He is too lovable to be real, sometimes. And sometimes he is totally awful. I have been watching him closely since Aurora got here, trying to see how he is taking it. So far, there hasn't been any change in his behavior, except the over-the-top adorable way he loves his baby sister.

He kisses her gently every time he walks into the room. He is forever taking the socks off her feet and hands so he can hold them. He apparently cares deeply about her choice of baby hats, because he swaps them out (or rather, insists that I swap them out) whenever she is sporting one he doesn't approve of.

Once, they both needed a bum change at the same time, so I laid them down on my bed, side by side, and changed them both in short order. He held her hand the whole time. He hovers nearby during many of our nursing sessions, looking for a chance to hold her and cuddle with us both.

The past several afternoons, he has sought Aurora and me out in my bed as we convalesce, and crawled into bed next to us, snuggled up and put himself down for a nap.

I love this boy. He is so fun and sweet and loving. His laugh is contagious, and he charms the socks right off me on a regular basis. He will hug and kiss any one of us randomly, and says "thank you much!" when we do even the simplest thing for him. He sings, and dances and reads books to himself as often as he asks us to read them to him. He is helpful and funny, and laughs at our jokes. He tells his own jokes, but we don't understand 80% of what he says.

George is also a super kinetic adrenaline junkie and high-octane aggressive, frequently crossing the line into downright violent. This is not a recent development. He was like that waaaay before the arrival of Baby No. Seven.

It is not uncommon for him to walk up to any one of his loving siblings and just whack them upside the head. Any item he happens to be holding - a table knife, a basketball, a shoe - is liable to be used as a weapon without any advance notice. He will bite, hit, kick, punch, pull hair, and head-butt with little or no provocation.

During the last three months of pregnancy, I relied so heavily on Hyrum and Mark to occupy and care for George's needs. I couldn't chase him down, I couldn't hold him while he kicked, and I wasn't very effective at defending myself from his aggression, let alone pulling him off of Eliza or Yvette when he tackled them out of the blue and started pummeling them. I am so very grateful for how much they worked with him to keep him occupied and happy, and to meet his insatiable need for roughhousing. I'm telling you, this kid...you could be darned near abusive in your play with him, and he will laugh his head off and come back begging for more!

I was honestly worried about the safety of my baby, because George does not discriminate... whether he is kissing or kicking. I am so glad he loves her so much, and is careful around her. We've had a few misses, mind you, when George has been roughhousing with his daddy, or throwing something without warning, and it whizzed just past or landed near Aurora. He is always sorry, and rushes over to kiss her, just in case. But it's small comfort to me that he doesn't think of it until after the fact.

As I said before, he has not changed in the days since Aurora arrived. Well, I take that back. He has less supervision than usual, so he has managed considerable more mischief. Yesterday was rough. He started the morning by gutting seventeen chapters out of Mark's copy of the Book of Mormon while I was in the shower, shredding the pages or crumpling them up and throwing them like ping pong balls. Later, he pulled some pictures off the wall, and broke one of the frames. The evening before, he dipped Mark's flashlight in the fish tank...not long after he conked Yvette in the head with a ratchet Hyrum left lying around. When he picked up the pipe wrench, I panicked. (Mark! Hyrum! WHY are there tools left out where George can get them!?!?) Even as I type, he is climbing on the computer desk, picking up disks, examining them carefully, and then chucking them out into the room as Frisbees.

Today, Mark and Hyrum went to a roofing service project, and the girls were all at a Primary activity. George and Aurora and I were home alone. George did not know how to handle that at all. He wandered around the house, opening doors, looking for everyone. He called, "Huhn! Huhn?" as he looked for his Hyrum (that's as close as he can get to saying his brother's name). "Guys! Guys?" He shouted out the back door, just in case someone was in the yard. When, finally, the back door opened to let the girls in from being dropped off, he looked at me with pure joy and said, "Home!!" and greeted his sisters with open arms and ardent hugs. Three hours later, when Mark and Hyrum got home, George was incapable of existing unless he was in physical contact with one of them.

I promise I am not whining. I am merely observing and assessing, and maybe venting a little. We're going to be OK. I love my George. And a lot of who he is right now is just age-appropriate. He is really lucky to have Hyrum for an older brother. No one is more patient with George than Hyrum is. Even when George punches him directly in the eye, Hyrum calmly counts to 10, picks the kid up, and takes him to go play catch, or to get a fruit snack, or to put on a movie for George to watch. And in turn, George worships Hyrum. Even as he attacks him with the stick he brought in from the yard.

Hail to the Princess Aurora

I noticed a few weeks back that I have been composing blog posts in my head whenever anything of note takes place. That was when I knew I needed to give myself over to the push and check back in to Blogger Island. But of all the anecdotes and incidences that were rattling around my head, looking to be posted, Aurora and her arrival are the most momentous, so she gets first place.

This is my sweet little daughter, Aurora, when she was three days old. She came into our lives last Wednesday, at 2:44 in the morning. In a way, she was super-late. In a way, she was completely unexpected. Aurora is our first home birth in eleven years. It was a wonderful experience, as far as labor can be wonderful. The delivery part was even more so. But she is not the person we were expecting. Not at all.

Early in this pregnancy, I got feeling like this little person was a boy. I kept that to myself, because I'm not hugely reliable in that department...I have been wrong before! But then Mark expressed a similar feeling. I took that into consideration, although he isn't any better at baby predictions than I am.

This is Aurora on her first day of Life. You may notice she is in non-pink, non-girlie clothing. That's because, by August, we really believed another boy was on the way. Even our children had begun to use masculine pronouns - without prompting from me! - to refer to the baby. I stuck to the chosen womb name, Tootles, but felt very confident that Tootles was actually Peter. All of our daughters have been Peter until the ultrasound. George was Peter until four days before he was born. I was SO confident, in fact, that I spent money on blue clothing, and turned down more than one offer for hand-me-down pink things. After all, I reasoned, I have four daughters, and a huge tote full of baby clothes from their collective infancies. My baby girl clothes were on loan to my sister, but I had repeatedly told her I was not in a hurry for her to return them. After all, we were expecting a boy.

Overconfidence is not in short supply at the House of Phogles. Just in case you didn't know. We never had an ultrasound, since this was a home birth. But we were still super confident. We got out the baby boy clothes, washed and sorted them for size and season. George had moved in with Hyrum months ago, so it was a simple matter to move his clothes upstairs, and organize a drawer full of blue cuteness in their place for Tootles. There was not a scrap of pink in the house smaller than size 3T.

So, after three and a half hours of active labor, when the midwife handed the baby to me, and I turned the baby around to see the new face, my very first words to my child were, "......you're a girl!?"

We didn't even have a girl name chosen. Mark and I had half-heartedly bandied around a few here and there, but nothing appealed to us both. And we didn't particularly care, since we were sure we were having a boy. Aurora was a full twenty minutes old before we addressed the issue. I asked if we could name her "something" Marguerite, since I've been wanting to use my grandma's middle name on a daughter since before I was married. Mark was fine with that.

And then I asked, "What about Aurora?" Mark gave me a deer-in-the-headlights look, as that name had never, ever come up before. At all. Ever. Until four hours before she was born. As Mark was intently watching the election results, I was in the bedroom, watching the clock and wondering if these contractions were legit, and if I should call the midwife. While I was focusing on my belly and the clock and all that, the name Aurora kept popping into my head. I didnt' really acknowledge it, except I remember thinking, "That really is a lovely name" and "Mark doesn't want another -uh- name...Eliz-uh, Gabriell-uh..." and "Why am I thinking about girl names? We're having a boy!"

Anyway, while I was struggling to recover from my surprise, I remembered that name, and threw it out there. And, in spite of Mark's reaction, he accepted it, and so Aurora Marguerite she is. It really is a lovely name. I still am not used to it, though. I never realized how much I relied on the weeks and months of pregnancy to roll a name around on my tongue and be acclimated to it.

Here is Gabriella with the newest member of the Sisters Club. Gabriella attended the birth, and she is the one who got to cut the umbilical cord. Mark and I thought that one over thoroughly. I consider it part of her education and preparation for young-womanhood and the rest of her life. I extended the invitation to her months ago, and told her to take her time deciding. After a lot of thought, she decided she wanted the experience. She did marvelously, by the way. She was very helpful, and so sweet. Later, she told me that she thought she would be scared, but that she wasn't. "You were right, it was kind of intense, but it was cool, Mom," she said.

Of course, because of all this, she has claimed Aurora as "her baby". Gabriella was at the birth, Gabriella cut the cord, Gabriella was the first of the children to hold the baby, Gabriella has a birthday in November, too. So that means Aurora is hers.

This is Amber, our midwife. She is awesome. She and I had a great time, talking and sharing stories and whatnot. During the prenatal visits, that is. On the night I went into labor, she brought another midwife, Anita, and they arrived less than thirty minutes before Aurora did (and two contractions before transition). Even so, the moment they walked in the door, they seamlessly moved into the situation. They knew exactly what was going on and where we were at and what to do, and their arrival was hardly a blip in my focus.

Aside from Gabriella, all the rest of our children slept through everything. Yvette, however, woke up after Aurora was here, but while I was still in the birthing pool with her (Yes, we did a water birth, and it was splendid and wonderful and grand). I told Mark to let her come and see. Yvy was enthralled, and not weirded out at all. She has been fascinated by the whole Baby process, anyway, and I have been as open and informative with her as I can. When the midwife came back for the Three Day Checkup, Yvy stayed in my room and watched the entire procedure. That afternoon, she came in with a shoelace and a marker lid, and used them as her stethescope. "I'm going to listen to your uterus, Mommy. Hmmmm. (moved the marker lid) Hmmmmm. (moved the marker lid) Yup, the good germs are still there!" Then she wanted to listen to my heart, and to the baby...I finally had to shoe her away before she tried to examine us head to toe.

George also woke up, but not until later, when Aurora and I were both cleaned up and tucked in bed. Mark was making us comfortable, and the midwives were bustling and tidying everything up. I told Mark to let George come and see. He was sweet, but mostly he wanted something to eat. Mark got him a fruit snack and a slice of cheese, and then tucked him back in to bed.

George adores this baby. The first time he saw her feet, he cupped them in his chubby hands, and cooed and sang to them, and kissed them over and over. It was just sweet.

Anyhow, the midwives turned off the lights in the living room and the kitchen. It was so nice to just have Mark with me, and snuggle and acquaint ourselves with Aurora, while Amber and Anita took care of everything else. When it was time for them to go, we thanked them and wished them a safe drive home, and then we went to bed, too.

In the morning, Gabba was up by eight o'clock. I have no idea why. But she brought Lucy downstairs with her, saying, "I just want to show you something..." I heard them talking, and when Gabba led Lucy into my room, I folded back the blankets and said, "Lucy, look what we did last night..." She saw the baby bundled up next to me, and her face light up with the most priceless look. "You had the baby!" she gasped. Of course, as soon as she was in on the secret, she and Gabba went back upstairs, and we repeated the thing with Eliza. It was fun. Hyrum was the very last one to know, as he was the very last one to haul himself out of bed.

Mark called our moms, and texted everyone else. You could almost hear the whoop of happiness and relief coming from his office, where his coworkers have been waiting for the baby's arrival almost as eagerly as we have. He called my visiting teacher, Zanna, who came through in a big way with a yummy, yummy dinner of Hawaiian haystacks and fruit salad. Plus, she sat on my bed and visited with me, which makes it so much easier for me to stay put and rest like I am supposed to. She also brought a blanket she had made (that bright pink butterfly one you see in so many of the photos). I thanked her profusely, telling her about my baby clothing folly, and how it was nice to have something pink to wrap Aurora in until Liz could get my baby girl clothes to me. Zanna chuckled, and said, "Well, I made two of them: one for a boy and one for a girl, since you didn't know for sure what you were having." Ah, the wisdom! How come I didn't think like that? In the meantime, we are dressing her in the least manly clothing we have. Not that Aurora cares. But I care.

Anyway, I'm so grateful for this little princess from Heaven. I would have never willingly named a daughter the same name as a Disney princess, but this is our Aurora. The girls call her Rorie sometimes, or 'Rora. I keep saying Aurora, because I'm still getting used to it. She is sweet and mellow and - as Mary Poppins liked to put it - practically perfect in every way. Official stats:

• 8 pounds, 9 ounces (exact same as Eliza),
• 22 inches long,
• 14 inch head (yup, she's one of ours! same Rubic's Cube head as all the rest...),
• soft, blond fuzz that is just long enough for bed-head,
• eyes that look like they just might end up brown, which pleases Hyrum and Eliza to no end,
• no crooked Pipkin pinkies, but long gorgeous fingers and leamur-toes,
• cute, floppy Galbraith ears the plop out at the top in the most adorable and fetching way

Mark has gone to extaordinary lengths to allow me to just laze about in bed for a week (he wants it to be two weeks, ultimately). He has been taking half days at the office, and cooking and cleaning and doing the Kid Taxi deed, all along side his regularly-scheduled Provider, Daddy, Husband, and Young Men's President duties. While enduring new-born-induced sleep deprevation. With one hand tied behind his back. He is amazing.

We are so smitten with this little bundle. Today is her ninth day. She is not who we were expecting, but she is not hard to keep, not at all. To quote a certain CGI donkey: "You're a girl!...uh, of COURSE you're a girl! You're just reeking of feminine beauty!"