Every Cloud Has a Silver Lining.

If you had asked me several years ago what the perfect weather looks like, I would have quickly imagined a weather chart with sunny, clear skies, and mild temperatures,  between about 65 and 75.

A perfect day, right?



In fact, I grew up mostly in the western part of the United States, where "the skies are not cloudy all day." When we moved to a more cloudy place, it was almost depressing. I stopped listening to the weather, because EVERY single day was "partly/mostly cloudy with a __% chance of rain." Really. In five years of living there, I can probably count on one hand the number of days that the weather looked like my picture up there.

But then I had an interesting realization of sorts.

As a disclaimer, I would never presume to call myself a photographer. Because I am a mom, however, I often end up as the designated family memory-catcher, so with that in mind, I do occasionally study the photographs and blogs of people who are much more talented than I, trying to figure out what they do to capture the beauty of the things around them.

One day I was reading some comments on a photography blog, and one guy was talking about how he had woken up early for about 3 days in a row (in the winter!) to try to set up a great sunrise picture over the ocean. The weather wasn't cooperating with him, he said. At this point, I was expecting him to say that it was freezing and overcast, making it difficult to take the picture. Instead, he posted three pictures like the one above -- sunny and clear -- three days in a row of sunny and clear.

I was confused. I stared at the post, wondering if he was being sarcastic, or trying to make a joke. Did I miss something here? Maybe it is because in the winter, the clear weather is colder? Maybe his fingers were cold?

But clear and sunny is perfect, and really, doesn't everyone want good weather?

And then my mind started reviewing sunrise/sunset pictures I had seen. I even thought about ones I had personally taken -- like this:

or this:

And I remembered a family vacation, driving across the country, and how I had delighted at the sight of big puffy clouds like these:

or even these storm clouds:

As I reflected on those times, I remembered exclaiming, "Look at those clouds! They're so beautiful!" And suddenly, I realized that this random guy commenting on the blog had already applied what I would have known if I had actually thought about it. 

Cloudy skies are much more interesting than clear ones. He was hoping for clouds in his picture, because those clouds reflect the light and provide the entire picture with depth, shadow, color, and majesty. 

Why had I not realized that before? In a sunrise/sunset picture, every cloud becomes a reflection point for the beauty of the sun. It is because of the clouds that the entire sky can be filled with light and create the stunning masterpiece we hope to see. Plus, with clouds in the picture, every photo of that location is unique and beautiful in its own way. He wanted the clouds there, because they are what makes the sunrise picture more than just a picture of the sun coming up.

Then I thought about it with respect to the lives we lead. So often we think we want our life to be a sunny day, with clear skies, maybe a few puffy clouds here and there, but mostly clear and mild. However, when I think back to the times I have felt closest to God, I must admit that it has been the challenging 'cloudy' days -- when every ray of light that somehow escapes through those clouds reflects off of them and sends a clear message of hope and wonder. It has been the gray days -- when the storms may pound, but when I feel His love through the 'rainbow' of people placed in my path. I thought about how those bad days have helped me appreciate the good ones even more. And I realized what a blessing those clouds are in my life.

The clouds make life interesting. They make it beautiful. They allow us to see the majesty of The Son.

(Disclaimer: If you happen to be a real photographer, please feel free to correct any photography principles I have invented here...)

Sing, Sing, Sing

This is another post that I started more than two years ago. The theme is just as pertinent though. Funny how some things change and some things never do.

I love music. I love to listen to it. I love to sing it, play it, and feel the harmonies and counter-melodies rising and falling, magically transforming simple sounds into a complex and wonderful expression of emotion.

Similarly, I love it when I see my children experience that same joy. I love to see their eyes and whole faces light up when they hear their favorite songs. I love it when they can't even keep themselves from dancing because the music makes them so happy. I love it when they sing at the top of their voices. But I also have to work really hard to keep from laughing at them.

When I started this post, two years ago, it was right after the primary program that year, when my older daughter enthusiastically sang her guts out for every song, easily doubling the volume of the rest of the primary. At first I was a little embarrassed, but then I started thinking about how much I love music myself. And I understood.

A year ago, we had a similar experience, this time with a son whose favorite song in the world was "Praise to the Man" because, really, what other church song has the word "DEATH" so prominent in it? So again, our family was a major volume factor in the primary program.

Which brings us to this year.

 

Today was another primary program. And the saga continued, but with a different daughter. She, too, sang her guts out, but she upped the ante by dancing and twirling in her spot while she sang. It was not limited to one song, but was instead a full dose of energy and enthusiasm gushing from her whole soul for the full length of the program.

 

I must confess, however, that a part of me really wanted to stand up and join her. Just like in the previous programs, there was a music-loving part of me that was just as excited to sing and hear those songs as my kids were. There is a part of me that will always and forever love music and love everything that comes with it, especially when it is combined with the privilege of watching my children love it that way too!

Thank goodness for music. Thank goodness for those who write it. Thank goodness for the patient music leaders who listen to my children project it. And thank goodness that I get to be there to hear it.

Goldfish in my Bed

This is a post I started nearly two years ago. Amazingly, the subject is just as applicable now as it was then, so I decided it is worth finishing. Hopefully, the fact that my husband and I share a bed is not a revelation to anyone, but if that makes you uncomfortable, you might want to stop reading now.

Perhaps you've heard the adage about how a goldfish will grow to a size that is proportional to the size of tank you give it. I can't say I've ever had goldfish, so I can't actually tell you if this is true or not, but I assume that there is at least some factual basis to it.

Related to this, I'm convinced that people are similar to goldfish in that way. If you give people a bigger house, they will eventually fill it with stuff, and they will NEED that much space.

I'm not here to talk about stuff filling up my house though. I'm here to talk about how a 2-year old can take up a king-size bed, all by herself.

My husband and I have not always had a king-size bed, mind you. When we were first married, and we were living in a tiny student apartment, we only had a full-size bed. An interesting fact about full-size beds is that if you put two people in a full-size bed, then each one has less bed width than if they were sleeping on a crib mattress. But you know, we were married, after all, so we really didn't mind sleeping next to each other.

Then we had kids.

When our first child was a toddler and would wander into our bed in the middle of the night, my evil strategy was to comfort him for a few minutes, put him in the middle, and then just scoot closer and closer to him until he had no room left to move. Then I'd explain that there just wasn't room in the bed for him, and eventually he realized that sleeping by yourself was totally worth it, if it meant you could choose to roll over occasionally.

Our second child was another story, but for the sake of brevity, I'll just say that there really wasn't room for him in our bed either. After a far-too-long transition period that involved boundaries like "you can be in my room on the floor, but NOT in my bed," he also figured out eventually that his own bed wasn't too bad compared to a blanket on the floor.

Our third child had fewer issues, possibly because we were still in a 2-bedroom apartment and she was sharing a room with two other people. But really, she has always liked her bed. Sometimes if she was sad, she would just tell me, "I think I need to go take a nap," and she would go snuggle under her blankets in her bed. No problem.

Then we moved. We bought a house. Hooray! And the former owners LEFT their king-size bed in the house rather than move it across the country. Hooray for a free bed! And because of the association of king-size beds with luxury and comfort, we again said, "Hooray!"

We are realizing, though, that a king-size bed isn't necessarily all that we dreamed it would be. The worst side effect is that the two of us can be sound asleep, together taking up less than half of the bed, and if a certain child walks in quietly enough, she can tiptoe in, quietly slip into the bed on my husband's side (since he sleeps like a rock) and stay there relatively unnoticed for most of the night. 

Until she starts moving.

And then it is like a goldfish has moved in, because she can turn sideways and flip and rotate until her tiny little body is taking up the whole bed -- the same whole bed that hours earlier was only half-full with two adults. 

So, yeah, sometimes in my delirium, the only thought I have is that maybe we should go back to a smaller bed. Maybe then the goldfish would stay away.

Friends, Buddies, and Kiwi

I've always been fascinated by the social interactions that culminate in friendship. It is particularly interesting to watch the process happen among children, who are so fearless and unguarded, but who still make obvious decisions about who their friends will be. In my opinion, one of the funniest indicators of friendship among really young children is the inevitable declaration about whether one child will be invited to another's birthday party.

They'll be on the playground, and things are going well, so one child will tell their friend in a super-secret whisper, "I'm going to invite you to my birthday party!" And then five minutes later, someone's feelings get hurt, so they shout out, "I'm not going to invite you to my birthday party!!" It's like they have this running list of their birthday party invitees, even 6-8 months in advance. In addition, each child also has a running list in their head of the parties they're attending. They'll come home from school, heartbroken because "Johnny said he's not inviting me to his birthday party."

So how do they decide? What is it that holds these delicate friendships together? Two situations this past week have helped me understand this phenomenon a little better.

First, my 9-year-old attended Cub Scout Day Camp. There were ten boys in the group, and for the entire week, the boys were required to have a "buddy." I was only there for two days, but it was completely intriguing to watch how the pairs kept migrating. Two boys were buddies for awhile, then one would approach another pair and ask if they wanted to switch. So they'd switch and hang out with their new buddy for awhile. At the pool, everything changed again based on swimming ability, but sometimes a good swimmer would choose to be buddies with a non-swimmer, just for the social impact.

One day, when my son came home, I asked him about who his buddies had been for the day, and he replied that a particular boy had been his buddy all day. I asked why, and he explained that he'd gone to the Trading Post, bought some candy, and then he'd shared the candy with this boy. I'm guessing that the conversation was something like "Hey, if you share that with me, I'll be your buddy for the whole day," but either way, everything in that particular relationship revolved around the possession of a tiny container of soda pop candy.

Then on a separate day, we were babysitting. The boy was a somewhat new acquaintance for my children, so there was a lot of personality experimentation happening. At lunchtime, though, it all became clear.

Sometimes friendship simply comes down to the food.

I was cutting a kiwi, asking the kids if anyone wanted a kiwi. I knew that my own children would never want anything so adultishly decadent as a kiwi, so I suspected I'd be eating the whole thing myself, but I wasn't sure about the other child. Sometimes other parents are more successful in exposing their children to the fabulous foods that are out there, so I just didn't know. Not surprisingly, though, he gave a wrinkled-nosed "No thanks" to the suggestion of eating weird green food.

My daughter, at that point, nearly jumped out of her seat. "You don't like the same things that I don't like!!!" Now, really, this is not a difficult feat. She likes very few foods, so as long as you DON'T like food, you're going to have something in common with her. But she was excited, nonetheless.

She started asking him about other foods -- "Do you like green apples? ME NEITHER! How about zucchini? Peppers? ME NEITHER! We're the SAME!!! You should invite me to your birthday party!"

OK, wait a second. When in the world has anyone gotten a birthday party invitation solely because they didn't like kiwi and green apples? And when do you decide to stick with a friend indefinitely, simply because they're willing to share a soda pop candy with you?

Maybe I need to reevaluate my friendships. Anyone out there hate Macaroni and Cheese? Because after 12 years of having kids, I've decided that I can't stand the stuff. And hey, if you hate it too, then you can come to my birthday party next summer. Let me know, because I'm making the list now. I'll even share my kiwi with you.

Don't Try This at Your Home

Situation: It was afternoon. Everyone was calm. Everyone was playing contentedly. I had an hour and a half until I had to leave to pick up the school kids.

And then I made a mistake. I pulled out a project.

I had been working on a blanket for my daughter and was almost finished with the edges, so I thought I could work on it while the younger kids played. I would be in the same room, but I would be productive. Not a bad deal, right?

Wrong.

As soon as I got the blanket upstairs, it had kids climbing on it, trying to roll up in it, climbing under it, and playing peek-a-boo, all while I tried to keep it still so I could WORK on it. My plan was definitely not working. I almost got really upset, and then I took a minute to "observe" the situation from a distance.

I had a toddler who was content but definitely starting to get tired -- who was quickly approaching nap time and who loves to snuggle blankets when he's tired. Here was a really comfortable blanket, completely spread out on the floor, as if calling to him. Put those things together, and it doesn't matter what mom's objective is. The blanket gets used for nap time.

I actually laughed at the absurdity of my thinking I could actually work on the blanket while this particular child was tired. What was I thinking!?!

Lesson learned. DUH.

The Punch Line, Continued

A couple of fun things, thanks to the punch line:

My brothers were visiting us and one came down with his high school wrestling sweatshirt on. "Punch Line" was eating breakfast, looked at him, and commented that it looked like he was ready to wrestle.

"Yep, I'm wearing my wrestling shirt. I guess I'm ready to wrestle."

"I have boxer shorts, but I don't have a boxer shirt." (That's it. Then he went back to eating.)

***********

Later, my oldest was commenting that he was so tired his back was sort of hurting then said that we needed to go visit my other brother. I asked why, and he said, "He gives massages."

"Punch line" seemed shocked and confused, then blurted, "WHAT?!? He gives us sausage?!? Is that supposed to help your back?!?"

Um, no. But that might be a fun advertising gimmick -- free sausages with your massages.

Olfactory Disorientation

Do you ever think you are smelling one thing, and it turns out to be something completely different? This has been somewhat of a theme in our house for the past couple of days.

Yesterday, my son got in the car and was insistent that he was smelling mint. This was meant as a declaration that he WANTED some of whatever minty thing he was smelling. Actually, this particular child normally has an extremely acute sense of smell when it comes to anything that might be sweet. He finds candy in my house by smelling it. He can find candy that is still individually wrapped and sealed in its bag. So when he says he smells mint, there is probably mint somewhere in the quarter-mile radius.

However, on this occasion, I was 99% certain that he was smelling the orange that my older son had peeled in the car. It took about five minutes to get him to accept that he might NOT be smelling mint, but eventually we succeeded in steering the conversation away from the candy he was potentially missing. But it does pose the question, why does an orange smell like mint?

This morning, it was my turn.

I was in the kitchen, giving my toddler some cereal, and I kept smelling tuna. I was walking around the kitchen trying to figure out why the kitchen smelled like tuna. Did my older son make a tuna sandwich for his lunch and not clean it up very well? I was smelling the countertops, examining the three bowls in the sink, and I just couldn't figure it out. Then I realized. I was NOT smelling tuna. I was smelling Crunch Berries.

Why in the world do Crunch Berries smell like tuna? Maybe we have some weird psychological sensory disorder that makes us think we're smelling things we're not? Aliens? What's your theory?

Don't Forget the Punch Line

I wish I could record every single funny things my kids say, but it requires an unnatural combination of :

* my being at the computer ready to record it
* at a time when my brain is actually engaged.

Unfortunately, the older I get, and the older my kids get, the less that either of those things happens, and the less frequently their intersection actually occurs.

This morning is an exception. It is a Saturday morning, and yes, we were ALL awake by 7:15 a.m., thanks to the aforementioned children.

At one point my husband off-handedly asked if I'd noticed that our car doors don't squeak anymore. (We have automatically engaging shoulder-belts, and when they moved along their track they were pretty noisy.) I had definitely noticed."YES! Thank you! It's amazing!"

Somehow, that made my 8-year-old start thinking about our car, and he commented that we need a new car. Why, we ask? He says that if we have a new baby boy or girl, then "she" won't have anywhere to sit!!!

(And for all ye suddenly curious folks, this is NOT an announcement, just the weird musings of an 8-year-old.)

He says we need to get a 12-passenger van so that we can have 12 kids and two adults. I explained that 12-passengers means 10 kids and two adults. "OK, he said, let's do that. We'll get a van like that and have 10 kids in our family."

Then I told him that they do MAKE 15-passenger vans, which would mean 13 kids and two adults. He got pretty excited and said, "Oh, yeah! Let's do THAT instead!" My husband commented that it sounded like a lot of work (DOESN'T it sound like a lot of work? Yikes!)

But the innocent child replied with, "Really? How much would it cost?" We laughed a little as we realized he was thinking only of the cost of the van and not the labor-cost of having 13 kids.

We jokingly pointed out that if we did have a car that big (assuming of course that we don't have a family that big) then we could be the eternally-designated pick-up-everyone-who-needs-rides family, and the take-all-the-scouts-to-camp family. It would be great!

Well, the way we said it reminded him of a line in Night at the Museum 2, so he immediately answered our comment with, "This is the National Museum of don't-touch-that-thing-in-front-of-you." I laughed at the randomness of the conversational transition, and then he started performing for us -- spinning, contorting, and throwing himself around the room in a wonderful exhibition of what he thought was breakdancing. I laughed some more (a lot more) and told him that I can't wait for my twin brothers to get reacquainted with him.

When everything had died down a little, he suggested that it would be fun to make a movie of our family. We could do lots of funny things, and (excitedly) "I could be the punch line."

And as I thought about it, I realized that EVERY DAY he says things or does things that make me laugh. Maybe part of the reason this particular child was sent to my family was to ensure that I WOULD laugh every day.

So I laughed hysterically and agreed with him. "Yes, you COULD be the punch line. You could definitely BE the punch line."

Maybe every family needs a punch line or two or more. But you might want to consider a 15-passenger van to transport all of them.

Snowflakes, Coloring, and the Folding of Notes

There are two kinds of people in this world -- people who like to color, and people who don't. As a child, I totally fell into the latter category. In fact, I failed just about every coloring assignment I received. Yes, failed. (Luckily, teachers don't assign coloring after elementary school, so my academic career was spared.) For awhile, though, I was particularly sensitive to my lack of artistic skills. I'd heard many times about my great-grandfather who had an art gallery named after him, and I appreciated art and knew about some different artists, but I just didn't feel I had the skillz. I could never stay in the lines, and I hated that it took SO LONG.

I also hated (still hate) choosing colors. People would ask me my favorite color, and I just got all tongue tied. What do you mean? Favorite color? I don't know? But for some people, this is really important. One girl spent half of a day going through my crayon box, coloring with every crayon, inventing some sort of elimination scheme in order to help me find my favorite color (and to figure out if her own favorite color had changed from the previous week.) I still don't know what my favorite color is. I'd rather figure out my taxes than choose paint colors.

However, when I was five, someone (my mother) made the mistake of teaching me how to cut snowflakes. No choosing colors, no gluing, and so, in my newfound confetti-creating delight, I made about a hundred of them. Now, to give myself some credit, I wasn't really making them just to make them. Yes, there was the consoling repetition beautifully masking its monotony by the creativity of the varying designs -- but despite the nearly autistic nature of cutting a hundred snowflakes, I had a plan. I was going to give them to my bus driver to decorate our bus for Christmas.

But, um, yeah. That part never happened. In truth, I cannot remember why my precious masterpieces never graced the yellow behemoth I called a bus. I kind of suspect that my mom talked me out of it so that I wouldn't get my feelings hurt when the bus driver laughed in my face. But somehow, the snowflakes garnished our own house and tree instead.

The strange thing is that as an adult, I am slowly discovering that I don't mind coloring so much. In 9th grade, I took an art class at school, and didn't even fail it. I even framed a few of the things I did because I liked them so much. A few years later, as a freshman in college, one of my first non-required purchases was a coloring book and crayons. And later, as my children have discovered painting and gluing, I have to admit that it isn't nearly as revolting as it once was. (All praise the inventor of the glue stick!)

So, why bring that up now?

Well, my 5 year old daughter has a new hobby. She colors. A lot. She makes "beautiful" pictures, carefully folds them, places them in envelopes, and delivers them to, well, everyone. If you have been to my house in the past month, you've probably received one. If you live anywhere on my end of the street, you've probably received one. If you're lucky, you even got one with money in it because she has decided that if she gives all of her money away then she'll be rich. ( The "rich" girl was bewildered, though, when one neighbor tried to give the money back, telling her she should save it for college.)

Anyway, I don't even bother putting the markers and paper away anymore. Coloring just makes her so happy. And I can almost say that I understand that pure joy. I look at her letters, and my memory sees snowflakes. I watch her excitement, and my heart remembers the glory of creating something beautiful, giving it away, and seeing how happy it makes someone else.
(One day when I gave her permission to deliver her letters to the neighbors, I even got the "you're the best mom ever" compliment. Wow! Is that all it takes?)

Last night I had a profound idea. What would she think if she woke up and found a letter addressed to her. So I decided to make one. I had a lot of fun making a letter for her, telling her all the things I love about her. Even the coloring wasn't so bad as I thought about how happy it would make her. In fact, my creativity went wild, drawing flowers, ladybugs, butterflies, and rainbows for my girly girl. The culmination, though, was that I decided to fold it. You know, fold it, like a note, like the hundreds of notes that get passed in middle school. A self-contained package of mystery, folded to conceal its very beauty.

And I couldn't remember how to do it. Guess I didn't pass enough notes. My sweet husband had to remind me (with some help from the internet -- do you realize how amazing it is to be able to look up something as petty as how to fold a note? What did our ancestors ever do when they couldn't remember how to fold a note? Now there is art -- computers!) Actually, origami in general, is really quite amazing. Did you know you can fold a note into the shape of a heart?

So, how do you feel about coloring, cutting, gluing, woodworking, computers, paper-folding, embellishing, jewelry-making, drawing comics, machining, writing with funky colors of ink, or using bubble letters? What kind of art makes you smile? Is it the art itself? or the thought of what you will do with it? Is traditional art more amazing to you? Or is it the beauty of well-organized mathematical proof?

A Wordy Post

We like words at our house. Long words are particularly fun. When I was a kid, I loved participating in the spelling bee, and the longest, weirdest words were my favorite ones. One of the first words I remember loving was antidisestablishmentarianism. It was just beautiful in all of its prefix-suffix glory.

Well, my son has inherited my passion, and we've been talking about long words for the past day or two. It all started when my in-laws called after their visit to Hawaii. They happened to mention that the name of the state fish in Hawaii is the humuhumunukunukuapua'a, which essentially means "triggerfish with a snout like a pig." (also called the Reef Triggerfish) Upon hearing this, he immediately said, "Hey, that's like the song in High School Musical 2!" Yep, he's ten years old.

So then he was saying humuhumunukunukuapua'a over and over again, just because, well, he could. It's an amazing thing when you can say a word that has more letters than the number of years you've been alive.

For those of you over age 21, though, that one isn't quite as impressive. Here's one you can try though. It is the name of a lake in Connecticut, about halfway between Boston and Hartford. Lake Chargoggagoggmanchauggagoggchaubunagungamaugg. There was actually a dispute a few years back that the signage for the lake was spelled wrong. I'm not sure who it was that noticed or who claims to be the official speller of the 45-letter lake name, but there you have it.

So all night last night, he was practicing saying Chargoggagoggmanchauggagoggchaubunagungamaugg. He did finally get it down, but was having a hard time remembering that the lake was in Connecticut instead of Kentucky.

Also, you've probably heard of synonyms and antonyms, but have you heard of contronyms? It's a whole classification for words that are their own antonyms -- like
* cleave (which means to hold to, or to cut apart), or
* strike (which means to miss, or to hit) or
* dust (which means to remove dust from, or to apply a light layer to). Fascinating.

What are YOUR favorite words? Queue? Parallelepiped? Xanthosis?

More Stupid Math

Same second grader. Same type of homework. Standardized test. Multiple choice question.

***************
Which one of the following numbers does not belong with the others?

24, 28, 30, 32, 36, 38?
***************

OK, people. I have an advanced degree in a math/science field, and I have no idea what they are looking for on this question. Am I over-analyzing it?

In fact, it reminds me that when I was in high school, I had a math teacher who would throw a chalked-up eraser at you if you ever said the words dumb or stupid. Maybe he never saw this question, though, because either this is one stupid question, or this is one stupid typo, or I am feeling pretty stupid.

You might say that 24 does not belong, assuming they are counting by twos, but then why does it skip from 32 to 36?

You might say that 30 does not belong, assuming they are counting by fours, but then why is 38 there?

You might say that we should be marking both 30 and 38, but the question asks for ONE answer.

I am so confused! Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Lipstick?

Last night we had a minor tragedy at our house. My favorite vase got chipped.

This morning my husband lovingly retrieved the superglue and carefully repaired the chip. (Too bad he also superglued his fingers together.)

As he left the house for work, I turned to examine the repair job. Not bad. Then I looked down at my toddler who was now holding the tube of superglue.

You know how sometimes your life happens in slow motion? Well, in that one moment, my morning brain processed about a billion things at once.

"He's trying to tell me something. He's trying to show me something. Oh, he's holding superglue. The lid is off. Wait, he's not happy about something. He's starting to cry. Oh, the way he's holding that superglue, it reminds me of something. It reminds me of him holding my tube of lip balm. Hoooolllddd on. He thinks it's lipstick or vaseline or something. Did he just put that on his lips? Yikes, his lips are going to get stuck together like my husband's fingers! Oh, thank goodness, his lips are open. I need to make sure he keeps his mouth open. How do you get superglue off of lips? How much did he put on anyway? Whew. I think he didn't get much on there. Maybe I can get it off. Oh, yes. If I scratch it a little it comes off. Whew! Whew!"

So anyway, did you know that a tube of superglue looks a lot like a tube of lip balm? Gives whole new meaning to the word "lipstick."

Why Kids Today are Failing Math

My 2nd grader just asked me for help on his math homework. This was somewhat shocking to me since he never asks for help on his math homework. I am sure there was a slightly raised eyebrow on my expression as I walked over to his seat at the table.

What I saw surprised me even more. This is not the kind of problem he should need help with. "Which record is the fourth from the guitar?" And there was a picture of a guitar on the left with five records in a row next to it.

I start to explain, "Well, it looks like you're supposed to mark the fourth record. Start at the guitar and count, first, second, until you get to the fourth one." He was still confused. Did I not explain it well enough? Why doesn't he understand this?

Then a metaphoric light bulb went off over my head, so I asked, "Do you know what a record is?" No mom. That's the problem. "Oh, see those circles. Those are records. Find the fourth circle."

Yeah. Kind of helps to write questions that are pertinent to kids in the 21st century.

A Perfect Day

Do you ever have days where you wake up and everything just goes smoothly, and you feel like you are on top of it all? And you go to bed thinking, "wow, what a perfect day!"

Me neither.

On Thursday I thought I was having one of those days, though.

I woke up, got everyone off to school, with prayers said, lunches packed, papers signed, shoes on, and time to spare. I was showered, dressed, make-up on, nice hair, earrings in. The weather was nice, the kids were happy. I even felt brave enough to go grocery shopping.

In the grocery store, the kids were well-behaved, despite all the comments about how full my hands were (seriously, at least six separate people on that one trip, and two of the kids were at school...) I remembered to bring my list with me to the store, and I actually got everything on the list. There was only one moment of seething anger (when I noticed that yet another food item had reduced the weight in their standard package while keeping the price the same. rrraaarrrgh!)

I successfully comforted my daughter when she found her 'pet' worm dead in the hot car, and I successfully convinced my kids to eat a yummy lunch that did NOT include peanut butter and jelly for once. We even had good bonding time, reading books after lunch, and my barely-verbal toddler tried to repeat some of the words with me.

I was able to start chopping dinner vegetables before kids got home from school -- while tutoring my friend's daughter in math. Then my baby went down for a nap just in time for me to finish dinner preparations, and I let it finish cooking while I gave my son his practice spelling test. I was all ready to put our (healthy!) dinner on the table, take twenty minutes to eat, and shuttle kids off to baseball practice. Perfect!

That's when it happened. The phone rang.

I was on the phone for less than five minutes, and to be fair, the destructive behavior probably started while I was giving the spelling test. Either way, by the time I got off the phone, my 8-year-old was on his way downstairs, soaked and screaming. My daughter and toddler had been gleefully dumping water all over each other and the bedroom carpet. The carpet was soaked; they were soaked; there was water all over the bathroom. Wet, wet, wet.

SO... I let out a blood-curdling scream... then we got out lots of towels for the floors, changed clothes, opened the windows, went to baseball practice, and came home to our now-cold dinner.

And that's what I get for thinking I could have a perfect day. Thank goodness for microwaves.

Rice Cereal on the Menu? Or Not

The recommended age to begin feeding your baby solid food is 4 to 6 months.

My own baby just passed her 6 month mark, so today I finally conceded and made the trek to the store to buy rice cereal.

We arrived home, just in time for lunch. I mixed her up a little bit of the cereal, with freshly pumped momma-milk, put on the bib, and started to feed her.

Three bites later, she reached out and dumped the whole bowl -- all over both of us.

And I suddenly remembered why I had waited so long to start feeding her solid food. I wonder how long it will be before I venture a second try. Maybe I'll wait till she can feed herself?

Lights. Camera. Shoot!!!

Anyone want to know how a typical photo session goes at my house? I'll share today as a somewhat typical example...

First, I'm in a good mood, the baby's in a good mood, no snot all over her face, the light coming in through the window is good, and she just turned six months old, so it is appropriate to snap some photos.

I decide I'll try to take some pictures.

I look for the camera.

I find the camera.

I turn on the camera.

Memory card is full. Aargh. That means the kids found it first and have been playing with it again, taking pictures until the camera doesn't let them take any more.

I don't want to wipe the card because some of the pictures are ones that I took.

Maybe I'll just download the pictures onto the computer.

Can't find the card reader.

While I was looking for the card reader, toddler tortured baby, so now she's crying and I'm not in a good mood anymore.

While comforting baby, I go back and manually delete several pictures from the camera, mostly pictures of my carpet.

Baby is stable, so I put her down and start taking some pictures. She starts crying.

I cheer her up, get her laughing, but toddler heard me and wants to be part of the action. He starts climbing on me, making it impossible to take a clear picture because I'm being jostled every second.

I get him off of me, and then he starts walking all around the baby, casting shadows and getting random body parts in the pictures.

Just as I succeed in distracting him, the camera shuts off, saying that I need to replace the battery.

That would be fine except that my husband left the extra battery in his pants pocket a few months ago, and it went through the wash. (Sound familiar?)

Photo session over. Shoot!

Clickable Magic

Last night I was walking up the stairs and heard my son reading a book to his brother. The lights were supposed to have been off ten minutes before, but maybe I was in a good mood or something, because at that moment, it was just amazing to hear them reading together, sharing something they both like in total brotherly love.

At times like that, I find myself doing what I call a "Cam Jansen click." Cam Jansen is a fictitious kid with a photographic memory, and when she wants to remember a particular scene, she closes her eyes and says "click." This helps imprint the scene so she can recall the details of it later. She calls it her mental camera.

I don't really claim to have a photographic memory. But there are many moments in my life that make my heart flutter, when I just wish there was a way to capture the emotion of that moment. Sometimes a real camera helps with that, and sometimes a journal or blog helps, but usually I find that I have to simply live the moment, flutters and all, then I mentally "click" and hope that I can remember it.

Here are a few that came rushing back to me tonight:

* This might sound insane, but some of my favorite 'click' moments are from the quiet hours of the night, when I am taking care of one child or another after they've had a bad dream, or when they can't quite fall asleep and we're reading stories or singing songs.

* I love singing hymns as lullabies, while I look into the eyes of my baby and we're just staring at each other, feeling, listening, and it seems as though the words of the song carry my testimony into their little heart. And their eyes tell me that they know too.

* My oldest isn't super talkative, except at night. When it's late at night, and he's supposed to be going to bed, this kid will sit and talk about everything. Sometimes I tell him that's how I know he's tired, but I love when I occasionally 'break the rules' and take the time to listen instead of ushering him off to bed.

* I am realizing that all of my kids will eventually grow out of being small enough for me to just hold them. So sometimes I just hold them and hold them, hoping that if I do it enough we'll both remember it when they hit their annoying stages.

I guess that the ironic thing about these examples is that the very things I love the most can also infuriate me -- when kids are supposed to be sleeping and they want more stories or songs, when they're supposed to be sleeping and want to talk, or when they're supposed to be in their own bed and are instead flopping all over me in mine.

When I do it wrong, the moment is caustic, and when I do it right, it's pure clickable magic.

My Mother of the Year

My literary energy has recently been focused elsewhere. My mom was named "Mother of the Year" in her state, and one of the requirements for the national competition is that each of her children write a 200-word recommendation letter.

YIKES. (As in, ONLY 200 words -- YIKES.)

Just so you can all get a taste (a very SHORT taste) of how amazing my mom is, here it is:

As the oldest of (my mother's) nine children, I am thrilled to recommend her to represent American Mothers, Inc. as Mother of the Year. A woman devoted to God and family, her example and friendship sustain me daily with my own five children.

When I was six years old, my family was overwhelmed by my baby sister’s untimely death. Despite her own grieving, my mother gently soothed my pain by reminding me of God’s love for us. Her steady conviction and tender words transformed my devastating loss into a lifelong source of comfort, motivation and hope.

She has a contagious passion for learning and a firm belief that, “with God, nothing is impossible.” With this confidence, she guided me to significant academic accomplishment including spelling bee victories, valedictorian recognition, prestigious full-tuition scholarships, and a four-year National Elks Foundation award.

She sacrificed time, money, sleep and personal pursuits for her children. She helped us weed together, hike together, sing together and laugh together. Even with our large family, she individually trained me in charity as we served together through spontaneous flower arrangements for neighbors, violin performances in nursing homes, and volunteer church assignments and ministries.

She truly personifies the word, “mother.”

Congratulations mom!

All Primary Teachers Go To Heaven

OK, maybe not all of them, but all of the ones who end up teaching MY kids will certainly get a free ticket.

My daughter, this morning, was giddily happy about the fact that it was Sunday. First of all, she was excited to be able to pay her tithing on the money the tooth fairy left (for her first TWO teeth, lost on the same day) but more importantly, she was elated about the fact that she would be able to attend Primary.

That's when I should have been suspicious.

I asked her why she liked primary so much. I am not sure what kind of answer I was expecting. I guess that somewhere in the back of my head, I pictured this angelic girl, reverently listening while her teacher told stories of selfless children and integrous adults. Maybe I thought she'd break out into a childlike testimony of how wonderful this gospel is and how good it makes her feel to do the right things.

Nope.

"Ooh. Ooh. Ooh. It's Sunday, mom! I am so happy! I get to go to my class! I love going to my class! My teacher is so fun! Every week we hide from her, and then it's so funny when she comes in and she can't find us. I love it! I love it! I love it!"

And my bubble gets popped.

Seriously, if I have any say, that teacher will be exalted on the spot. Maybe even translated. Soon enough that she doesn't have to teach primary next week.

In The Beginning -- Intro to a New Blog

There's a verse in the Book of Mormon that I have read more times than I care to count. It's the first one -- the one I find myself reading every time I feel motivated enough to start a new study of the Book of Mormon.

It says, "I, Nephi, having been born of goodly parents..."

And yes, I wrote that without having to look it up. I think we all know that part by heart.

But it just so happened that one time when I was reading this verse, I stopped there. And I wondered -- what is a goodly parent? It's the kind of parent I would like to be, whatever it is. Of course, this happened at a time when I had already been pondering deeply about what I should be doing as a parent -- what things I should be teaching my children so that they can reach their divine potential.

I thought about what a good father Lehi was, and then my mind flashed forward to other good parents in the Book of Mormon -- Jacob, Alma, Helaman, Mormon, etc.. And then an idea was born. In all of my starting-the-Book-of-Mormon momentum, I made a decision -- that I would study the lives of these people, looking for what it was that made them such good parents. What did THEY teach their children? What did THEY do as parents that can help me in my own plight?

I didn't get very far, but I showed it to my mom. Like any good mom, she told me it was brilliant, and then she read from it in her Stake Conference talk and passed out copies to her friends. My dad was similarly encouraging and told me that I should send it in to the Ensign (like any good dad, right?). But considering that it isn't finished, and considering that it is long, boring, and somewhat repetitive, I decided I'd just blog about it instead. Because that's what blogs are all about.

Now we'll have to see if I can ever finish typing it all...