Fleetly Fleeing

This was maybe three years ago.  Now we don't have any babies, Araceli is ten feet taller, and we only see Golda every few weeks.  In three more years, our oldest two will be off on their own, soon to be followed by the next batch.

It goes way too fast.  Way too fast.  And if you want to see fast, just add an extra four kids to the mix.  We had Nikki and Clint's kids this week, and the time just rocketed by, full of games, classes, carpools and lessons; homework, dinner, breakfast and school.  One night, Tizzy asked me to lie down to sleep with her.  I hesitated because, you know, laundry for 12 people, dishes, mounds of backpacks piled up by the front door, full of things to be signed and probably rotting lunch leftovers.  I had Things To Do.

I said yes, though, because closing my eyes for a minute was an irresistible idea.  Tizzy was so incredibly delighted, I couldn't believe it.  She was happy just to have me there.  She giggled, then laughed loudly.  Then she closed her eyes and went to sleep.  She needed so little, and gave me so much in return, in that little giggle of delight.

Before I can fully appreciate her magnificent little 4-year-old giggle, Tizzy will be pulling a Mustang folder out of her school backpack and asking me to sign her reading log.  She'll be a pudgy pre-teen needing new ballet shoes every three weeks as her feet grow.  She'll be a tempestuous 14-year-old, storming out of the kitchen because nobody noticed that she curled her eyelashes.  She'll be a Davis Dart, car bouncing into the driveway whenever we're lucky enough to have her home from all the things she's passionate about.

Then she'll be gone.  She'll come back, but not often enough.  And instead of snuggling in with her at bedtime, I'll lie down in the very spot in our bed where her warm little figure once hogged the covers, sometimes forcing Scott and me to end up on couches.  I might cry because I miss her, but I'll dry my tears because that's what you do when you're all finished drying theirs.

I love this last picture.  Where did Tizzy go?  Celi and Free were probably fighting over her and she left.  Har har

On Being Derailed

I taught a student who had to be dragged out of his car for his lesson.  Then found out he is switching to trumpet in a month.
Ptolemy was scheduled for general anesthesia at the dentist and woke up with a fever, clenching his tummy. The dentist was cancelled.
While I was practicing with Freestone, Tziporah used the toilet brush to decorate the whole bathroom with poop.
I took Ari and Golda shopping for things they needed, didn't find those items, spent money anyway, and made them feel guilty about it.  Fun mother-daughter bonding time, huh!?
Had to reschedule guitar because of a play practice that I swear was not on the schedule, and moved the guitar lesson so it was during Ruby's ballet class.  Ruby had to call and re-reschedule it.
Took Ruby to the doctor for allergies and sinus problems, leaving all the kids home watching Care Bears, wondering where Mom went.
Had a bawling breakdown at Scott's office, where I wailed in front of his secretary and some clients, "I am the WORST shopper!"  First world problems??
I picked up Tziporah and ended up with a puddle full of pee filtering down my new shirt, my white skirt, and into my right shoe.  "Did you just pee on me??"  Enthusiastically, "Uh-huh!!"
Tried to do a 30-minute errand in 10 minutes, and then felt my blood heat up to boil as the cash register at Neverland Emporium had to be rebooted, making me late for everything that happened the rest of the day.
Had a violin waiting on my table all day long for a repair and never got to it, just like I never got to a hundred other things on my list.
Once the three girls were gathered in from their ballet classes and lessons, fed pizza and delivered to play practice, I took the 4 littles to Cherry Hill.  Once there, I mercilessly lectured Freestone about "just freakin' MINDING ME so we can all have fun, dangit!!"  Then I left him to watch Tizzy while Ptolemy took ten years to go to the bathroom and decide which soap dispenser to use to wash his hands.

At this point, having failed each and every child individually throughout the day, I spotted my friend Michelle, waving me down.  Oh, thank heavens!  A friendly face!  As we talked, my frustration and free-floating anger started to melt away.  Just as I was about to pull Daredevil Tizzy out of the pool for the 5th time, this handsome man appeared in stylish sunglasses, a linen shirt and crisp, navy blue swim trunks.  He scooped Tizzy out of the pool and held her against his clean, unbespotted outfit, while she probably peed.  He took the boys "mini-golthing," as Ptolemy likes to call it.  He gathered kids and supplies from the four corners of Cherry Hill and stuffed them in my car with all the pizza crusts, ballet shoes, underwear and wet towels, while I drove alone in Scott's perfectly clean car, listening to Haydn.  (My man had classical music playing in his car!  Be still my heart!)

When I came out of the shop from my violin lesson (with a student who was earnest and fun), there was this handsome man, having foot races with our kids on the lawn.  Their faces showed remnants of Bowman's half-price donuts, the glazed sugar highlighting the glow of their happiness.  Later that night, Ari called from play practice and said that she was finished, while the other girls weren't.  I picked her up and took her to Dylan's for a Summer Half-Price shake.  (Dopps know the deals)  We sat there and talked, the mother-daughter bonding time Ari had so craved.

Sometimes you can't redeem yourself.  Sometimes it takes a listening friend, a wise, understanding, proactive husband, an enthusiastic student, a forgiving daughter, a Heavenly Father who answers jumbled prayers, to put you back on track.  By the time I had padded around the house at midnight, locking doors and checking kids, I felt not quite so derailed as I had all day, my train careening wildly around the life I was supposed to be in control of.

Control?  Ha!  There's a chance I'm just along for the ride, and I just don't know yet that I'm not the engineer.

Some Disjointed Thoughts Because It's May and I Have Kids

 I got some good advice from my cousin Laura about Mothers Day.  If you expect it to be all about you, you'll usually end up miserable.  If you make it about others, it's more satisfying.  So I decided to try to make the day all about appreciating my kids and Scott, and let Scott worry about me, instead of trying to orchestrate myself a day of rest.

The thing that made my plan work is that Scott is really good at holidays, gift giving, and treating his wife like a queen.  He and the kids gave me the cutest gift basket, full of orange things for summer.  The orange gift Freestone liked the best was the Kindle cover and new Kindle.  I was the only one in the family who didn't have one, and it concerned Freestone.  My favorite was the bouquet of creamy orange tulips.  Scott told me he wasn't getting me flowers, but...he couldn't help it.  He knows how to make everything just right.  All morning, I enjoyed my gifts and my family, and doted on the kids all I could instead of trying to get some "alone" time.  After all, these kids are the reason I even get to celebrate being a mom.  They are so special and unique.  None of them ever get enough attention, but they are all so much fun.

And speaking of attention, Bruce and Marlene invited us to dinner, where we and Michelle and Jake were the only families there.  It's always fun to be together, and always kindof a letdown when someone is missing, but it was sweet to be such a small group, and to have all the attention. :)  Thanks, Bruce and Marlene!  We love you!  And Michelle prepared an AMAZING meal!

The day before Mothers Day, Scott stayed home with Tziporah so I could take the rest of the kids to the Carl Bloch exhibit at BYU.  The funny thing is that most of the paintings on display are usually on display in Denmark.  We would have seen quite a few of them when we visited the Royal Palace, but they were here in Utah!

Xanthe's reaction to the art exhibit wasn't what I had hoped for.  She asked if we could go see the Lego movie at the Kaysville Theatre.  I said, "No, we're going to an art exhibit."

Freestone asked, "What's the point of that?"  I told him, "So you can look at a piece of art and ask yourself, 'How does this art make me feel?'"

Xanthe immediately retorted, "Sad.  Because I'm not at the Lego movie."  She has had some zingers lately!  In the end, all the kids loved the art exhibit, so there.  That's what I love about being a mom.  The teaching, you could call it.  I got my patriarchal blessing when I already had four children.  As a teenager, I always felt like I wasn't worthy enough yet, or ready, and so I never got it, because remember my detour years?  And then suddenly, I had four children, and I had a question in my heart that I needed answered.  The question was about adoption, and if Scott and I should do it.  I had a burning desire to find this child who I thought was ours, and bring her home.  I wanted my patriarchal blessing to say something like, "You are hereby called to adopt a baby girl from China."

Yeah, that's not how it works.  In fact, I was disappointed in my blessing until much later, when I came to appreciate the fact that it mentioned teaching so many times.  Being a mother is being a teacher, and I love that I get the opportunity to do that.  What I am most grateful for is that I married the right guy:  the guy who has always been able to find it in himself to support all my dreams.  Thanks, Scott.  I could go on, but the kids are home from school now and Freestone needs my help practicing, and Xanthe has homework and Ari needs a costume found, and Ptolemy is doing some math workbook that he is very excited about, and Tziporah...where is she?

Celebrating Motherhood

Here is a wonderful Mothers Day essay for all of you (CLICK).  I agree with it completely, especially the part that includes this:

 Don't tell your children you wish they had school today. Just don't. Even if you think it and feel it. Don't say it. Don't say that thing you feel only 5% of the time, because what you say places that value to motherhood 100% of the time.  Start the praise of motherhood in your own mind and in your own home. If you can only enjoy it 95% of the time, that's ok. But please don't use the challenging and disheartening and even discouraging 5% as a weapon against the greatness of the call. You can still ask for and accept help without complaint, too.  (Granted, the 95/5 percent might be generous.  We all have our moments.)

2) When it's good, say it's good. It's ok to say, "I really loved being a mom today because I helped my teenager make a good decision about something that has been affecting her for weeks." Instead of "Wowee, we might not both survive these teenage years!!!" 

I don't know why blogger is highlighting this next part, because it's not something I copied and pasted.  I wrote it:  When I was a happy, carefree kid, I never once heard my mom or my dad say that parenting was hard.  I mean, I saw that my mom was sometimes exhausted, her "back in spasms," and she sometimes went to lie down, or cried or got mad.  So I got that she was overwhelmed at times, and that what she was doing wasn't easy, and that I could help lighten her load.  But she never explicitly told us that it was hard.  She never made a point of telling us that being our mom was something negative, something grueling that she was trying to get through.  There was never an "I love you even though..."  She never put that on us, and I am so incredibly grateful, because I lived in the perpetual comfort of knowing that my mom - and my dad - loved being our parents.  I can't think of anything else that could provide as much stability, peace of mind and satisfaction for a kid. So thanks, Mom and Dad.

Mothers complain about not getting enough respect, yet, we also complain about motherhood.  We are whiners!  Like the essay says, our validation has to come from within, and certainly can't come from proving ourselves better than a different style of parent.  Leave out your criticisms of other parents.  Leave out your criticisms of yourself.  And for heaven's sake, leave out your criticisms of the God-given gift of motherhood, especially in front of your precious gifts.

Friday Adventures

 I just love having days free with these kidlets.  That's why I try not to volunteer at the school and all that other stuff that can so quickly fill up the days.  I'm busy!  I have two little kids to hang out with!  It's harder than you would think to escape with them.  I have to make a concerted effort to plan outings with them, and I feel like I'm a big slacker in other areas when I do, but dangit, these are my last babies!

Friday, we ran away early in the morning.  First stop, the Discovery Museum, where, after managing to get away from home, I had a bunch of stuff to address via text, while the kids played in the toddler area.  If anyone asked why my four-year-old was in the baby area, I was prepared to say he was a two-year-old with giantism.  I needed Tizzy contained in there so she didn't bolt while I sold a cello over the phone! :)  I only had the employees bring her back twice, so that's progress.

Next stop, the Planetarium.  It's free, so it makes sense to swing by there whenever we're at the discovery.  Plus, I was hoping that the pendulum would lull them to sleep!  Not the case.  In a flash, Tizzy was in the gift shop trying to buy up all the "You Can Be a Woman Astronomer" kits.

 It was such a nice day to be downtown, I took the kids to the Church History Museum.  This is the building they disappeared into, right next to our secret downtown parking spot, while I was on the phone telling Scott how adorable they are.  Notice how it says "restricted access?"  I have no idea how they punched in the right keypad code.

 The flowers were still spectacular, and so was the museum.  Ptolemy was wary going in.  He asked, "Is it JUST art??"  It wasn't JUST art, and I love how the art is right there with the children area, so that it seems like a normal, accessible, necessary part of life.  This exhibit was about women and their various roles in life.  A couple of the paintings really spoke to me.  I felt inspired, being there with my little ones, seeing them play so happily, surrounded by the spirit that is so present in the museum.

 I love this.

 Isn't it chillingly wonderful that there is a free place to go, that is full of beauty and art, where kids can create and see and be inspired?

 That painting behind Tziporah was my favorite.  It depicts a mother, with an angel reaching down to adjust her halo, while a host of angels looks on with concern and love from the sky.  It is a representation of what I feel must certainly be the case, as each of us needs - and receives - inspiration and divine guidance on a daily basis.

 And then we went home, completely inspired.

Ballet Moms

I found this in my journal from 2008, and I wanted to reprint it here.  

It applies to all parents, not just "ballet moms."

Dear Ballet Moms,

I don't know most of you, but I can tell a lot about you from your daughters.  They come to class with their hair up, leotards and tights on, listening politely and doing their best.  I know you wash ballet clothes several times a week, and you keep track of their shoes and their hair stuff.  Sometimes your girls miss class because of a piano recital of a family vacation, so I know your lives are full.  

I know the girls come to class on days their moms have babies, days when their parents are out of town, days when their basement just got flooded.  One of you lost your husband unexpectedly when you were pregnant with your fifth child.  The whole community was grieving with you.  Two days later, your seven-year-old was at ballet with a note explaining that you were trying to keep her life as normal as possible.

My heart ached that day and long afterward as I watched your daughter grow and shine.  I wiped away many silent tears in class over the next two years, watching your daughter blossom and progress, bereft of her father, one of the very, very few dads who had ever come into the studio to ask me about his daughter's development.  As her mother, your sacrifices to keep her life "normal" were not in vain.  At ballet, she was watched over by me, other teachers, her friends, the other moms who did her hair and brought her in your stead...and her dad.  Yes, he was there.

Ballet moms, I commend you for the work you do - laundry, housekeeping, carpools, homework, scheduling;  it is all reflected in your daughters' drive and determination at the barre.  The time you spend laughing with them, teaching them life's lessons, listening to them and supporting their creativity, it all returns in their countenances when they dance.

Sometimes as they work, I can see the heavy burdens they carry on their young minds.  I admire you moms for giving them dance as a vent for their troubles, and for being for them at the end of class to help solve all the problems that sweat and concentration couldn't purge.  I just want you to know, moms, that the job you are doing is good enough, and it is more.  Your efforts are creating something good, pure and beautiful.  Nothing is more important.  You're getting it right.  And it shows.

Mean Mom

When my children heard about the popcorn incident, they universally agreed that yes, their mother is a self-absorbed, hard-hearted lout.  And they backed up their stance with concrete examples.  Their biggest beef is how I treat "illness and injury."  I put illness and injury in quotes because the illnesses and injuries are usually fake.  Or at the very least, highly exaggerated.

"Mom, my knee has been hurting for, like, a month."
"It sounds like you're not getting enough sleep.  I want you to go to bed right now."

"Mom, I have the worst headache!"
"Well, you're obviously not drinking enough water.  Drink a big glass of water and then go to bed.  Because you're probably not getting enough sleep."

"Mom, I can't go to school.  I've been throwing up!"
"Well, that's probably because you didn't go to bed when I said, and you didn't drink enough water.  If you're staying home from school, you'd better go back to bed.  or no, don't go back to bed yet.  I'll need you to watch the kids while I run to the shop."

Notice how all of these little gems of wisdom center around getting more sleep.  That's so that I can enjoy more awake hours without injured and sickly children, while I'm staying up until midnight, getting up in the night with babies and waking up at 6.  I don't need sleep.  It's just other people who need sleep.  I function on grit and snarkiness.

I'm also not very good at nurturing children through food.  I noticed this morning that someone had tried to eat a bowl of cereal using a bamboo shishkabob skewer.  Not only did I not make breakfast, I didn't even provide any clean silverware.  I though if the children had to make their own breakfast, they would learn skills.  Obviously not, if they're trying to harpoon their Honey Bunches of Oats.  They're just turning into wild animals who probably have rabies because I don't take their maladies seriously.  ("Mom, I'm foaming at the mouth."  "Well, you probably brushed your teeth for too long.  Here's a washcloth.  You'll feel less rabid after a good night's sleep.")

If there is one thing I am good at as a parent, it's getting my kids to their lessons.

"Mom, I think I'm going to throw up."
"Great.  Grab a bucket and get your leotard on.  Let's go."

"Mom, my eyes are swollen shut,  I think I have pink eye."
"Good thing you have the music memorized.  Get your violin and for heaven's sake, don't say the words "pink eye" to anyone.  Take these sunglasses and get in the car."

In a whisper, "Mom, my throat is killing and I can't breathe."
"Wow, it's a good thing you play the cello and not the flute!  Get a glass of water and let's go.  You can rest when we get home.  After jazz, tonight, I mean."
"But my throat hurts!"
"So don't dance on it.  Use your legs.  Your legs don't hurt, do they?"

Last week, Freestone was coughing on the way to violin.  I said, "Don't be coughing during your violin lesson."  He answered, "Mom, you're not in charge of the laws of physics."  I'm not sure what he meant by that, but I'm pretty sure I AM in charge of the laws of physics, at least as far as they apply to my children.  He didn't cough during the lesson, which just proves that he was being over-dramatic by coughing in the car.

It's sad, the legacy I'm leaving my kids.  Last night, Ari complained that her thigh muscles were sore.  All the other kids, in unison, heaved a weary sigh and said, "Eat a banana."

She did.  On a bamboo skewer.

Life With Tizzy

8:58 AM, Tizzy is in the kitchen with me, helping me unload the dishwasher.  (Actually, I'm loading, she's unloading, but the point is, we're together.)

8:59 AM, Tizzy is gone.  I notice the door ajar and race outside to find she has gone down the steps, across the yard, and has climbed to the top rung of the swingset ladder.  Now she's out of rungs, so both hands and both feet are perched on the top rung.  She looks like a plump, uncoordinated bird against the backdrop of the open sky.  She is chirping uncertainly, as if even she questions her decision-making skills.  I bound down the steps three at a time and pry her off the ladder.  I carry her back upstairs and inside, where I set her down next to some race cars.  She turns around and goes directly back to the door.

And a variation of this happens approximately every three minutes.  In fact, I am setting down the laptop right now to get her off the back of the couch.  Did you know we had to get rid of her high chair?  Yeah, that's right.  I would strap her in, turn around to grab her food, and she would be standing on the tray, swinging her arms like, "Got outta my high chair.  NBD."  I feel a stab of guilt every time I set a bowl of food on the ground for Tizzy to eat, as if she were a furry little cocker spaniel.  Every time I see her squatting down by her bowl of grub, I think, "Fido."  Most mommy guilt is completely unjustified.  No, this is real. 

(Tizzy is on the kitchen counter now, FYI.  With a knife.  30 seconds ago, I put her on the floor next to me with some blocks.)

Anyway, this morning, I strapped the babes in the car with a movie and invented an hour's worth of errands to run, just to give me a mental and physical break from the catch-and-release program Tizzy has consigned me to.  Waiting in the car for Papa Murphy's Pizza to make our dinner, I tried to capture Tizzy's new skill, saying Mommy!, on video.  I at least wanted to get a good shot of her vampire teeth, the side ones that came in before the still-missing front ones.

Tizzy wouldn't perform, of course, but I did capture the grittiest, most raw, unglamorous parts of being a mother with pre and pre-pre-schoolers, complete with a filthy carseat and yesterday's chicken nuggets. (I just had to go downstairs to get Tizzy off Ari's top bunkbed.  I'm not kidding.  I should pay more attention, but you would think the ice cube trays I got out would provide more than 10 seconds of entertainment.  Oops, there she goes again...down the stairs.)

You know what?  Just watch the video. The ending is my favorite. I have to go run some more errands!

Fictional Satire for Fun

Oh. My. Gosh.  I have totally been meaning to blog about how awesome my mom is, since, like, it was Mothers Day and everything.  It's just that I got so busy!  Saturday night, I completely spaced it, I was got so caught up in eating all the macadamia nuts I originally bought for my mom in Hawaii.  Have you tried those?  They're so good!  My mom loves them.  I'll totally have to get some for her next time I'm on Maui.

Sunday, I didn't have time because I had to go to my mom's house so she could give me presents for Mothers Day.  Exhausting!  It's so hard being a mom.  It just helps when my mom tells me what a great job I'm doing, and gives me gifts, too.  I for sure should have said something to her about how great she is, too, or at least told her about the macadamia nuts.  I'll have to text her.

Then today, I thought of mentioning it when my mom came over to watch my kids, but then I might have been late for my mani-pedi.  And when I got home, I was about to say thanks to my mom for all the stuff she does for me, but she had the house so clean, I just had to take a picture and Instagram it. (Totally lied and said I cleaned all day. Lol.)  By the time I was done kicking my feet up, drinking a Diet Coke in my nice, quiet house, my mom was gone, and so were my kids.

I seriously might have to remember to thank her when I text her to send the little darlings home, either tonight or definitely tomorrow.  I know she has that bad cold and everything, so I shouldn't let her babysit for too long.  Seriously, if she doesn't get better, who is going to drive my girls to tiny tot cheer when I'm out to dinner with my girlfriends?  I hate colds.  So inconvenient!  I tell my mom to take it easy, but she completely ran herself ragged with the kids while we were in Hawaii.  So in a way, it's her own fault.

You know what?  I think I'll just have my dad give Mom the message when he swings by to bring us the orange juice and kale I ordered.  (Don't want to get that nasty cold!)  Better yet, here, I'll just put it on the blog:

Mom, ur the best.  Thx!!

Phew, glad that's done.  I'm, like, so busy!  Gratitude:  Check!  Lol.  I think the large text is a nice touch.  One more thing off the list before I go meet with my personal trainer.  It's not like I can afford to be all flabby when we're on our cruise next week.  Dang, I hope my mom gets better before we leave.  If she gives my kids her cold, it's going to be, like, so stressful leaving them.   At least I know my mom can deal with it.  I mean, she raised me and I turned out pretty darn amazing.

Scott Dopp!

You wouldn't have known it from my post yesterday, but I actually did have a wonderful Mothers Day.  It's not my favorite holiday, probably because of all of my over-analyzing regarding motherhood.  Am I worth of all this adoration?  Why do I still have to do dishes on Mothers Day?  Is breakfast in bed more about me or the kids?  What about all the women who don't have children, especially those who desperately want them?  Why did I eat all the chocolate-covered pecans I bought for my mom?  I'm a bad daughter.   It's just an intense day.

All that aside, Scott, unencumbered by the thought process, as the guys would say on Car Talk,  went ahead and lavished me with all the perfect gifts.  Maybe the reason he's so good at thinking up the best gifts to give is that his brain isn't filled with charts and graphs of complex emotional issues and all their potential outcomes and repercussions.  He has a lot more clarity.  His brain works like this:  "Circe likes chocolate-covered nuts.  I will buy some."  My brain works like this:  "Scott likes electronics.  But I don't know what to buy.  I could ask someone, but then how would I find a good deal on it?  And what if I give it to Scott and he could have found it cheaper somewhere else?  It might be the wrong brand, and what color?  He likes green, but maybe just for golf courses.  He likes pink, but maybe just for dress shirts.  He likes orange, but maybe just for socks, and only if they have blue and green stripes on them.  I could just give him money, except he already has some.  Clothes?  Where do you buy those?  What size?  Too expensive!  And he has so many.  I'll invite him out to dinner.  But we were going to do that anyway.  I'll give him a card.  Lame!  A book.  No, he has a Kindle..."

In short, Scott is a winner and I'm a loser.  It's really not fair for me to brag about Scott.  It's insensitive to everyone who's not married to him, which should be all of you, unless everything I'm saying turns out to be a big lie.  But hey, I worked hard to trick him into marrying me, so I guess I can brag about him.  And thank him, too.  Scott, thanks for the blog book (!!!), candle, almonds, flowers, soap, phone cover, phone, dinner, and the seven children.  Thanks for turning my flaws into positives, saying I'm thin, hating all the right people, reigning me in, giving me my freedom, laughing at my delusions of grandeur, sending me off on trips with no hesitation, and most importantly, being a father.  A good one.  The best.

Hanging out with you these past few decades has allowed me to become exactly who I always wanted to be, but better.  I really hit the jackpot.  Hey, do you want a trip to Singapore for Fathers Day?  If so, what color?  Oh, never mind.

Being a Mom

My Little Cutie Pies,

I love you.  I love your dad.  It's because of you that my life is so rich, fun, beautiful and exciting.  I love being your mom.  If I had to describe being a mom in one word, it would be a simple word:  "Fun."  I love it all.  I love it at 2 am, I love it after 10 hours in the car, I love it when it's bedtime and there's homework to do, I love it when I shuttle kids for two solid hours after school and far into the night, I love it when there are two kids in diapers, I love it when I can help you solve problems, I love it when you make me proud, which is all the time.  You're great kids.  Dad and I got lucky.  I wonder if you chose us as your parents?  If you did, thanks a million!  Now we get to keep you forever, you precious little things.

Happiness is not what happens when conditions are perfect.  It's what you choose even though life is messy.  I can't afford to wait for perfection to love motherhood, or to appreciate each of you for exactly who you are both right now and intrinsically.  This is it, guys!  Let's love it!

I Am Growing Up!

College to do list:

Go to class
Go to gigs
Study
Practice violin
Think existential thoughts
Then do whatever I want 

Mom To Do List:

Check out a book on penguins
Buy posterboard
Get 200 pictures printed of Ruby for art class project
Clean the kitchen
Pay second semester fees online, print a receipt
Print a picture of a penguin
Go to Cache County
Study 5 spelling lists with 3 kids
Read Gafi online
Clean the kitchen
Make a poodle skirt
Schedule 4 SEP's
Have fifth graders over to practice their lip synch
Laundry in
Help Free do 4 hours of community service that benefits Utah
Buy a birthday present for a 12yo boy
Clean the kitchen
Register for baseball
Practice with 3 kids
Laundry out
Arrange ride for scouts
Put food in a crock pot
Clean the kitchen
Change a diaper
Drop off Ruby's binder
Rehair a bow
Set up a violin
Laundry in
Pick up Ruby from school
Feed a baby
Drop off Golda at ballet
Take Ari to cello
Laundry out
Pick up Ari from cello
Drop off Ari and Xanthe at ballet
Pick up Golda from ballet
Take Ruby to guitar
Find lost library book
teach ballet
Change a diaper
Clean the kitchen
Think about putting on mascara
Buy valentine treats for 100 kids
Listen to first world complaints
Lecture kids on gratitude
Invite people to CNY party
Clean the kitchen
Figure out new carseat
Buy bobby pins
Dislodge bobby pins from vacuum
Go to the store
Pay for donuts Ptolemy stole
Bank
McDonald's
library
post office
visit Nana
vacuum car
Clean up french fries
Take girls to the church
Pick up girls from the church, drop off at dance
teach a lesson
Clean the kitchen
Return a call
Answer an email
Clean up yogurt baby spilled while I answered an email
Laundry in
Take Free to hip hop
Take Ruby to ballet
Pick up Free
Laundry out
Pick up Ruby
Buy tights
Schedule doctor appointment
Clean up box of granola baby spilled while I was on the phone
Listen to kid read
Think about making banana bread
Gather family for dinner
Clean kitchen
Throw out brown bananas
Make appetizer for a potluck
Clean the kitchen
Force kid into shower
Laundry in
Force kid out of shower
Laundry out
Buy AP study guide
Order music online for Federation
Mull over report cards
Schedule baptism and Lion House party
Wonder how we acquired so many stuffed animals
Call garage door guy
Locate a copy of O Pioneers
Get in pajamas, look at calendar
Get out of pajamas, take Golda to flute



Notice, certain things aren't an the list. Like sleeping and reading the three books I've started that are really, really good.  I love this time, though.  I wouldn't trade it for my bereft and directionless college existence, although I am glad I went through those heady, exhilarating, lonely, selfish, searching years.  (Spending weeks at a time alone on a beach in Spain has its advantages.)  I know who I am now, and the only searching I do is for a lost shoe.

When I was in second grade, I drew a fabulous picture of me, arms sticking out of my ears, Hair like two brown twigs protruding from my forehead and a cute floral, triangular-shaped dress.  The caption was, "This is me.  I am growing up!"

I often think of that title in regards to my life.  I feel so at home in my skin, in my life.  This is me.  I am growing up!

Why My Kids Hate It When I Read Books Set in the Slums of Phnom Penh

Ari:  This is the worst day ever!

Me:  Oh really?  Why?  Did you have to dig through garbage to find enough metal to sell so that you could buy food?  Were you not able to get anything to eat?  Did you have to watch your baby suffer because you couldn't afford medicine?  Were you cold and wet from the dirty rain with no way to get dry?  Did a bulldozer destroy your house?  Did anyone you know die?  Do you have a mom and a dad?  Did you sleep on a piece of cardboard at a dump because that's where you LIVE?!

Ari:  No.

Me:  OK then, don't ever let me hear you use the term "worst day ever," ever again, my little upper-middle-class American girl with a warm home and plenty of food to eat.  You don't even have the right to say that.  Any problem you might have is completely solvable.
...So, did anything bad happen today?

Ari:  No.

Me:  Good.

No Regrets

Here I am on a sunny winter afternoon with all the ingredients for making Christmas Cheer: sugar, flour, ginger, and a three-year-old son.  I could clean my house or run to the store, but when you have the ingredients for Christmas Cheer, you don't make a big batch of Just a Minute.  Cause in a minute, this little boy will be all grown up.

Catch him HERE at age three, before he gets any bigger!

Windows

There are always moments during Nutcracker week.  Some hilarious, some poignant.  When you combine fatigue and excitement, you're bound to get intense feelings.  Late Tuesday night, Ruby was laughing hysterically over another maid pretending to burn her finger on a fake candle.  She could hardly breathe.  But our first "Nutcracker Moment" happened right away, in the car on the way to the first dress rehearsal.  I had been thinking up this poem in my head all day, and I wanted Golda and Ruby to read it.  Their hair was all up, they were dressed in their leos, tights and new Nutcracker sweats and we were excited about staging our dances.  Ruby read the poem out loud, and when she got to the last few lines, about the dancers growing up and moving on, her voice started to quaver. Soon we all had tears ruining our make-up.  Golda only has two more years of Nutcracker, and she is acutely aware of how finite her remaining opportunities are.  She wants to dance every part, and there's not enough time!  It's a tragic reflection of life; one day we'll wake up and we'll simply be out of time.  All the more reason to live our lives exactly how we will wish we had when it's all over.

Another closing door is fresh on my mind.  I had been in the dressing room taking pictures of Golda and her friends in their Snow costumes.  I was in the way and I knew Golda wished her mom had less access behind the scenes.  The dancers went to wait backstage and I thought I would go home.  As I was leaving, I saw the backstage door open, a group of Snow dancers illuminated by the blue lights of the wings.  Golda was closest to me, rubbing her toes in the rosin box, her sparkling crown atop her head.  She looked so beautiful!  And then the door closed, slowly.  It was just me in the cold, still hallway.

You know that hokey saying about God closing a door, but opening a window?  I bet he does that because, at some point when a door has closed and a mom is climbing through a metaphorical open window, not willing to let her child go, her hips will get stuck.  If she's lucky, she will have enough sense to wiggle back out and close the window.  Looking through the glass, she will see the child she always hoped her baby would become, and know that the journey on the other side of that window is not hers to travel.  At the same time, though, she is part of it.  That's why windows are clear, after all, and why they open.

The Green-Eyed Monster

Ptolemy is a jealous little beast, and he has a dozen ways to show it.  Spitting, screaming, waking up Tizzy, talking loudly, barking, coloring on things, throwing things, having accidents...

The other day I sighed and said, "My friends are the best!"
Ptolemy immediately reacted.  "No, I'M the best.  Your friends are not the best.  I"M the best."

I quickly reassured him that he is, indeed, the best, and that he is my favorite Ptolemy in the whole world.   Just don't tell him that I have a favorite Tziporah, too.  And a favorite Golda, Ruby, Araceli, Freestone, Xanthe, Scott...

Ptolemy is a glorious age, but a hard one.  Yesterday I was chagrined because Tolly and Abe didn't want to play outside and let me do my projects.  Why would they want to hang out with me?  I'm boring!  I have a bunch of chores to do!  Go have fun!  But they wanted to be right next to me, shrieking with delight, fighting over who has the cutest baby sister and begging for more chocolate chips.

So I sprawled out on the carpet in the sun and told stories about baby kitties named Abe and Tolly, baby cheetahs named Abe and Tolly, baby puppies named Abe and Tolly...you get the idea.  When I ran out of baby animals to tell stories about, the boys scattered.  And I missed them as I did my dumb chores.  I love that Ptolemy wants to be the center of my universe, my North Star, my muse, the apple of my eye.  For ten minutes today, we played a game where Tolly closes his eyes and asks me if I can see the inside of his eyes.  Then he opens them and says, "Now can you?"

Ten minutes of
"Now can you?"
Yes.
Now can you?
No.
Now can you?
Yes.
Now can you?
No.
Now can you?
Yes.
Now can you? 
silence
Mom?  Mom!!!  Don't leave me!  Now can you?

I'm going to miss him so much when he doesn't wonder whether I can see the inside of his eyes.  For now, he's going to make sure I don't have any opportunities to miss him.  I might not be able to see the inside of his eyelids, but I can sure see him...right there, in my face.  All the time.  Truly, I wouldn't have it any other way.  He says he's not my little snugglebug, but he is.  My little green-eyed snugglebug.

Clothing

I was a huge dork in an Izod sweater for most of my tenure at KJH, until ninth grade when I became a huge dork in a fluorescent pink Guess sweatshirt.  I thought that sweatshirt was the coolest thing ever.  I also had a very cool pair of pegleg Guess jeans that my mom bought for me when I didn't make a ballet production that all my friends made.  I'm sure you've heard the story.  I had heard about an audition for The Monkey King.  I told all my ballet friends about the audition and my mom drove us all to Salt Lake to try out.  In one of the sections, we had to act like monkeys.  I was convinced that my monkey movements were highly creative, even cutting-edge.  I thought I was in.  Indeed, I made all three cuts!  I started envisioning rehearsals, costume fittings, opening night...And then the judges called just two girls' numbers.  I still remember the moment the judge called the two numbers of the condemned girls.  I thought they wanted to see me do the combination again, since my monkey choreography had been so avant-garde, so inspiring.  I gracefully trotted to the front of the studio and stood in fifth position, ready for the judges to cue the music.  One judge said, "Thank you."  I didn't move anything but my eyeballs, still ready to dance.  I didn't get it.  The judge said, "Thank you.  You are excused."  I finally, slowly hung my head in shame and walked out, humiliated.  The ride home in the car with my friends, all of whom made it, was excruciating.

Now I realize that it was probably even more painful for my mom.  She was so sad for me, she would have done anything to make me feel better.  Her love language was shopping for clothes, so we went to Nordstrom and I chose the very coolest tan Guess jeans with zippers at the bottom.  For as long as I had those pants, they reminded me that my mom felt my pain, mourned my failures, shared my triumph and celebrated my joy.  She was enthusiastic about every stage of my development, from my pink-and-green plaid pantsuit in first grade to the 1984 fluorescent craze to the day we went together to choose my wedding dress.  Granted, she disapproves of some of my wardrobe choices, but the disapproval comes in the form of a new, better thing to wear.  How can I complain about that?

Mom, thanks for clothing me with not only fashionable duds, but layer upon layer of love.  Happy birthday!

Battery Powered

I have it all figured out.  There is a battery pack hidden somewhere inside my body that powers all my kids.  It's the only explanation for why homework, chores and practicing grind to a halt when I leave the room.  It's the strangest phenomenon.  The kids will be doing worksheets, reading, practicing.  But if I leave the room, the music stops.  The pencils stop.  The books close.  It's like all the energy follows me.  Yesterday, I set the kids up with their jobs and left to pick up Golda.  When I came back, Freestone had spent the whole time "looking for a pencil."  Too bad there wasn't a pencil on the TV screen, because that was where he was looking.  And may I remind you, (in a much nicer way than I reminded my kids yesterday) that this was a school day, and there is NO TV on school days!  Hellooooo!!!!!  How are we going to get through long division and French spelling lists if we can't remember whether it's OK to turn on the TV?  That's a question that only has one right answer, and the answer is NO!  How hard is that?  I have given you the answer ahead of time!  How are these kids going to deal with multiple choice?

Later, I tested my battery pack theory on Freestone again when he was copying his French spelling words.  If I stood next to him, he would write.  If I got more than ten feet away, he would stop.  His pencil would hover over the paper like it was lost in time until I got back into range.  If he did happen to have some reserve energy left and wrote down a word when I wasn't looking, it was always wrong.  His argument was, "It doesn't matter how we spell it!"  My counterargument was "It's a spelling list."  Does my argument seem as absurd to anyone else as it does to Freestone?

This morning, Scott came home just in time to see the process of trying to get the kids to leave for school.  It's like they don't want to leave the Mother Ship because they're afraid of what will happen if they aren't telepathically connected to me and my commands.  I found Freestone wandering aimlessly in the kitchen after I thought he had gone.  He must have gotten too far from my sphere of influence while I was outside waving to Ari, and he started to shut down.  I snapped him out of his trance, hung his backpack on him, put his lunch in his hand and tried to get him out the door, but he wouldn't go.  The only way I could get all three of them out of here was to put them in Scott's car so he could drive them to the corner.  They were all too happy to glom onto him.  Maybe he has a battery pack too.  I'll have to ask him if he was able to get them out of his car and into the school.  Once they leave, they must be able to access another power source.  I'm sure one of their teachers would have mentioned it if my child regularly spent the whole day with his eyes glazed over and a dormant pencil in his hand.  Then again, that's pretty much what I did all through algebra.  What can I say?  My mommy wasn't there!

Tierra del Fuego?

I found myself in the car alone, after dropping off Golda and Ruby at dance.  I was chewing gum but, seeing my window for completing a thought, I spit the gum out.  I didn't want anything to distract me in case I had a moment of clarity.  See, I'm having trouble distinguishing between "not procrastinating anymore" and "making rash decisions."

This time of year is made for changes.  In the fall, everything is new and bright and exciting.  So naturally, I want to quit everything and start some new projects.  I'm giving my kids away and getting a whole new batch, a group of them who are eager to try jujitsu and bagpipes.  You know, things I haven't done yet.  Does that seem rash?  Can you see why I'm having issues with decision-making?  Because I am just lucid enough to realize I am a loose cannon.  It's due partly to being on the receiving end of conversations that start out "If I could have any Skylander in the world..." and end, well, never.  These conversations don't end.  Everyone just keeps rambling indefinitely, making my brain feel like it belongs to a crack-addicted espresso junkie.

What happens when I spit out my gum and try to think is:  "I just want to jump in the car and go to Mexico.  No, drive to Tierra del Fuego.  Take four or five months.  I could totally home school.  I'll text myself a note to look into kidnapping insurance.  Scott would have to stay here and earn money, but that's OK.  It's not like it's a big deal to drive seven kids the length of South America while teaching six different curriculums, by myself, compared to all the carpools I'm about to set up.  Oh, but then we would miss ballet.  A lot.  And Nutcracker!  Hoo boy.  We can't miss that.   And Mr. Marsden is such a good teacher, I can't lose Ari's spot with him, and she loves Marisa so much so we can't quit her!  And Freestone is doing so well on violin!  And Mr. Johnson is so perfect for Ruby.  OK, so we'll keep all the dance classes and all the music classes and I'll keep teaching and what did I decide about Xanthe and tumbling?  I'm going to sign her up.  And I'll have to ask her about swim team.  And find an art class for Ari.  She is so gifted.  Aaggh!  I just want to gather up the family and leave.  Drive to Tierra del Fuego.  Ooh, deja vu."

OK, new plan.  I'll surround myself with all seven of my original kids, 24 hours a day until I'm just semi-coherent, which shouldn't take long.  In fact, that part of the plan might already be in place.  Then Scott can put us all on a plane and fly us to Argentina, where we can run barefoot on the beach, growing dreadlocks and talking about Skylanders.  That way, I won't need to think.  I love these beautiful children until my heart aches.  It's just trying to do seven kids AND reality at the same time, that's absurd.  Can't be done.  I think we'd have a better shot at success living in a tropical hut and scrapping the whole public school thing.  I'm going to call Delta.

my perfect day

drop off at band practice
violin and piano lessons
French lessons and dance camp
rock Tziporah
violin shop work
help kids practice
sushi
drop off kids at orchestra camp
guitar lesson
flute lesson
pick up from orchestra camp, kids had fun
Mandarin
get in bed with a book an hour and a half before bedtime
don't even mind that kids are having a Superman marathon and still have two more movies to watch

the only thing that could have made my day better would have been two extra hours to spend at the pool.  we'll get to that tomorrow...