Do You Want to Deconstruct a Snowman?

 Today is Tziporah's birthday party!  Like kids all over the known world, my children have been listening to/googling/dancing to/singing/obsessing over the music to Frozen.  We have it in the car, in the house, on You Tube and emanating from every Kindle we own.  Tziporah is less enamored than the others, given that she is in her own little Tizzy-centric world, but that was no reason not to have a Frozen-themed birthday party, even though all the big kids would be at school.

I loved the party:  three babies in three completely different worlds, completely disinterested in anything related to the party.  Coco, Nikki and I just laughed at them the whole time.

As usual, the party was just a flimsy excuse to expound on a theme.

 Here is our deconstructed snowman.  Snow, carrots and twigs.  The 2-year-old were tickled to death with the cleverness of this little idea.  Ha ha.  They did enjoy spilling the water, though!

 Tziporah was not impressed with taking pictures or dancing to Frozen music with balloons.  Fed up with it all, she dropped her balloon, sighed and went to get some cleaner and a rag.  One must clean the windows when one has a party.  Next time, we'll do Cinderella Pre-Fairy Godmother, and all the kids can clean for me.  Or perhaps a Hard Knock Life party.  Hand out buckets and scrub brushes?  Thank you for at least choosing a cleaning product and rag that went with the color scheme, Tziporah.

One of our party activities was me making scarves for the girls.  Jersey and Tziporah refused to wear their scarves, but Rolayne complied and I must say, she looks very fashionable.

 Jersey

 Rolayne

 The deconstructed Olaf, plus marshmallows because they maybe made more sense than water.  Except that we only had gingerbread man marshmallows because they were on clearance.  But like I said, the party guest were oblivious.  Incidentally, they didn't like the gingerbread marshmallows and spit them out in piles on their plates.  Melted snowman + dog poop.  I didn't get a picture of that.

With the windows clean and a pretty, glowing cake in front of her, Tziporah became delighted with the idea of a birthday.  She still didn't notice that other children were there, beyond maybe being aware that she was the center of attention, and that attention must have been coming from somewhere.  At any rate, there was clapping when she blew out the candles, so it was a good day.

Two Already?

 It's heartbreaking, but Tziporah is turning two tomorrow.  At the big Dopp party, we had a slide show going of the day she was born.  She was about as big as Scott's hand, dripping with awareness and exuding celestial light.

How times have/haven't changed.  Tziporah is still an angel.  It's hard to believe that our family once was Tizzy-less, and for quite a long time, too!  Almost every day, I think about how afraid I was of losing her throughout the pregnancy, from the second I found out I was expecting to the moment she was born.  I guess I just knew that there would be no second chances to get her here.

Ryan and Jennie were shaken today when Lexie and Jackson were in a car accident.  Fortunately, it could have been a lot worse...and wasn't.  How many angels are watching over this batch of Dopp kids?  Hopefully, enough to keep them all safe.  So far, so good.

 Jennie's salad:  crave-able and pretty.

 Michelle's drinks were a big hit.

 When it came time to open her presents, someone handed her one and said, "This one is from Jake."  Tziporah immediately countered with, "Not this one!  Don't need Jake present!"  She went to the pile of gifts and chose the biggest one, saying, "Need this one!  This Tizzy present!"

 I'm convinced her favorite part of it all was pulling out the tissue paper piece by piece and tossing it over her shoulder, the same thing she does with Coco's box of puppets.  With each gift, she demonstrated a fleeting, yet wholehearted expression of joy before tossing the gift on the floor and moving on to the next one.  Man, she has this Cute Baby act down pat!

 Cousins!  Notice the Christmas tree, forlorn on the back porch?  We don't have any desire or impetus for taking it down.  It's not bothering anyone out there!

 After the party was over and the kids had straightened up the kitchen, we had our little family council/family prayer, then off to bed.  Except Tziporah had no intention of letting her big day end.  She was in her crib singing, "Hey-O!  Hey-O!  Hey-o bop bop a hey-o!"  When I finally fell for her song and dance, she patiently walked me through what she wanted to have happen.  "Hold you, Mommy!...I go a kitchen, look at fictures."  Scott let her see all the pictures again of when she was born.  She looked at her five-pound newborn self and scolded, "No crying, baby!  OK?"

I agree.  No crying, baby!  Let's all remember that at 2 in the morning when you're exercising your lungs for no reason other than to entertain yourself, you crazy little thing!  Then again, cry all you want to.  Baby tears are the easiest to wipe away.  I should know.  I have teenagers.

Golda Week

 It was Golda week at our house this week, meaning that all her activities freakishly intensified at the same time, resulting in All-Golda, All-The-Time Week.  I'm kidding.  All the other kids were still their wild and crazy selves with their wild and crazy schedules, but it was all overlayed with this Golda verneer, and as exhausted as she probably is right now, it was a fun week.

 Tuesday night, Dance Company performed at the basketball game half-time.  They did a hip-hop routine which was a lot of fun to watch because it's rare we get to see Golda dance that style.  It was awesome!

 Every day after school, Dance Company had workshops with dancers from Ririe-Woodbury.  Golda loved it.  But then there was practicing at midnight and homework at 6 am.  That's the price you pay for having a dozen dance classes a week!

Wednesday night was the Wind Ensemble concert where we got to hear the program they had prepared for a performance in St. George Friday.  It was a fabulous concert, and I got to sit through almost the whole thing alone, no kids, admiring my little "flautist."

 Thursday night, I got to take all these dancers to the dress rehearsal of Ballet West Sleeping Beauty.  As magical as it was, you can see Golda's impatience in this picture.  She still had tons of homework, and we were leaving for St. George at 6 the next morning.

 When  Mr. Hendricks announced that the wind ensemble had gotten this gig to play at the Utah Music Educators convention, back in October, I went to write it on my calendar and there was "Dance Company State Festival."  Of course they were at the same time!  Fortunately, it worked out perfectly so that I could drive Golda down and back for the wind ensemble Friday and she would still be home for the 5:30 am departure Saturday for the Dance Company thing.  She missed band clinics and a hike in Zion's Saturday, but our plan worked on a number of levels:  she didn't have to take a hit to either of her grades by missing a performance and I got to not only see the band performance, but have an excuse for a little road trip.  I'm more selfish than I look. :)  (Another band kid flew home after the performance for a robotics tournament!)

This is me waiting for Golda in the driveway at 6, after staying at book club until after midnight and then being woken up every hour by Tziporah, who suddenly wanted to check to make sure I wasn't in "New Nork!"

 Ptolemy forgot his Kindle, so he spent two hours in the car making different shapes with this toy and taking pictures of them.  Have I mentioned that he is the easiest kid ever?  Golda would add to that, "Except when he doesn't get what he wants."  To which I would counter, "How would we know what that would be like!?"

 We left at 6 am with Ptolemy smuggled into the back seat.  The kid loves "twips" and I love him, so I couldn't leave him behind.  We whizzed past the band busses somewhere along the interstate and got to St. George by 11, in time to tour the temple visitors' center and Brigham Young's summer home before dropping off Golda at the band's hotel to head to their rehearsal.

 Meanwhile, my little sidekick and I strolled along St. George Boulevard, collecting rocks and stopping for treats.

After polishing off his fro-yo, Ptolemy sighed and said, "Well.  This is a fun twip!"  It totally was.

 Next stop:  the convention.  Lots of booths were set up and Ptolemy was given a key chain and a pen.  WOW!!!!  He was so excited, he later said that getting the "Chey kain and pen" was the highlight of the trip.  And that's why we don't need to go to Disneyland!  LOL!  (Catherine, pretend I didn't say that.  Ha ha!)

 I always gush about the band performances, so I'm not even going to do that.  But it was extremely gush-worthy.

 Flute section solo...

 ...during a big show piece where Mr. Hendricks started the band and then walked away, showing off how tight they were, even without a conductor.  I'm such a huge nerd, I actually got choked up.  Mr. Hendricks is just amazing.  (This is me not gushing.)

 Standing ovation from the music educators.

 Golda's friend Alyssa said seeing me on the front row was like having "one of her moms" there.  I almost cried again!  What a baby!  But I do love my kids' friends like "my kids."

 Golda's flute teacher was there representing Weber State, and came over to congratulate her students.  We are so lucky to have Cindy Henderson.  Golda has had two amazing flute teachers, worth every penny and more.

 As we left "Utah's Dixie," the sun was coming out and we were able to soak up some of it at a place Emily recommended, "Swig."  Then we had to drive back to winter.  Boo hoo!  Ptolemy, ever the perfect traveler, downed a to-go box of honey walnut shrimp and fell asleep for the duration of the ride.

 When we got home, we watched the Olympics opening ceremony, blinked, and then it was time for Golda's 5:00 am departure for the Dance Company State festival.  We didn't get to go to this one; it's not a spectator thing.  We'll just wait up tonight to find out how all the clinics and the adjudicating went.  That is, if Golda has any energy left to tell us about it!  I was going to say, "I wish every week was this exciting!"  But every week kindof IS this exciting.  Whose turn is it next??

Another Road

 Xanthe has always been an enigma.  Of course she has;  from the outset, there was nothing we knew about her.  The first piece of information we had about Xanthe was that she had a sly, secret smile that she would only reveal to Scott.  We entered her life in her greatest moment of trauma, and it showed.  She was sick with bronchial, nasal and ear infections, and she was terrified.  Her little 13-month-old body was flaccid and weak, and she gulped each bottle of milk as if she were literally starving to death.  It was an experience so different than giving birth to a newborn that there is no comparison at all.  And if it was surreal to us, for Xanthe it was an abrupt break in everything she had come to know as life.

Just like our kids have little sense of who Scott and I were before they were born, we have almost no sense of what Xanthe's experience was before we met, so there is a whole key chapter we're missing, not to mention a vast trove of genetic and ancestral history that most people have, that is a huge blank for our little daughter.

So, when something is "off," it's hard to know just what frame of reference to use to determine what it is.  For example, it took us a couple of years to even find out that Xanthe had retinopathy of prematurity in her left eye.  We didn't know she was premature.  We didn't understand that lack of depth perception played into her extreme fear of being off the ground.  I'm not saying a biological child would be any different.  I'm just saying that medicine is one big guessing game.  Sometimes there are educated guesses, but sometimes parents and even doctors are just shooting in the dark.

And that's why we have three years of doctor visits and testing under our belts, and still haven't been able to pinpoint exactly what is behind Xanthe's stumbling blocks.  She is a wonderful, happy, normal child who has something standing in the way of learning, processing and understanding, and we don't know what that is.  This week, we had an appointment with a developmental pediatrician at the University Hospital to discuss and try to cobble together a diagnosis from all the info we have accumulated.  As it turned out, the doctor was a Chinese-American woman who came to the U. S. at age 8.  Right off the bat, she had Xanthe's confidence.  She was soft-spoken and gentle with Xanthe, and asked us both a zillion questions.

For some reason, Xanthe was a whole different person than she normally is.  She was calm and articulate, and also turned into a database of information on dates and how many days it was until our beach trip and her birthday, and how many days it had been since Chinese New Year.  And there I was trying to explain how Xanthe can't interpret the difference between "up" and "down."  I was afraid the doctor would think I was lying.  I don't know where this new Xanthe came from, but I would like her to stay!

Even with all of Xanthe's eloquence, Dr. Song consulted with some of her colleagues and came back with salve for a mother's heart.  She said, "We are worried."  She didn't even sugar-coat it with "concerned" or "We would like to see you back."  She said, "We are worried..."  I was so relieved!  The last thing I wanted to hear was another variation of "My kid does that too.  It's normal."  Yeah, if it were normal, we wouldn't be having this conversation.  If there is a problem, there could be a solution.  If I had had time, I would have completely fallen down and had a breakdown out of sheer thankfulness, but Xanthe and I both had to get to ballet, so we didn't have time for the relief to fully sink in.  In fact, I still haven't had time to sit down and feel really grateful that we are on a road to somewhere and not in another dead end.

 Xanthe suddenly became a really good reader at Dr. Song's office.  There are still few answers, but we are going to visit a pediatric neuropsychologist for some pretty extensive testing.  We feel like there is something going on with sensory processing that is creating all of these stressful situations, holding Xanthe back from enjoying her full range of capabilities.  At the end of our visit, the doctor decided to test Xanthe's iron level because Xanthe cited "her legs being tired" as a reason she couldn't enjoy things like other kids.  Xanthe freaked out when she heard about the finger prick.  The nurse and I had to pry her off my leg and then pry her fist open.  All the way home, the picked at the band-aid and wanted to talk about the finger prick.  I remember hiding under a table when I went to get my kindergarten shots, so I related.  The iron was normal, but the doc surprised me by ordering a lead test.  Just another reminder that we don't know anything about Xanthe's first year of life in a possibly lead-coated environment.

All in all, the closer we get to figuring out this darling little puzzle, the happier we all are.  Whatever happens, we know for sure that Xanthe is perfect, in her unique, individual way.  She is a daughter of God, and even if we don't have all the answers, He does.  And He isn't worried.

Play Time

 Well, it was a momentous day for Freestone, who had his Suzuki Book 2 graduation recital.  You could tell how vitally important it was to him by the comments he kept making:  "Why didn't you tell me this was today?"..."What is this?"..."Where are we going?"..."What recital?  What am I playing?"  Yep, he could hardly contain his enthusiasm.  Nonetheless, when it was time to go, he dutifully set down his book and his dog and pulled on a sweater and some penny loafers.  He even brought his fiddle.

 These Suzuki things are always a mixture of pride and humiliation.  It's cool to see your kid up there and know all the practicing is paying off.  But it's demoralizing when he's standing next to that inevitable three-year-old in the bowtie graduating from Book 5.  You SO can't compare yourself to other parents, or your kids to other kids.  So what if I have one of the tall kids and not the child prodigy with a binkie in her mouth, playing the Tchaikovsky Concerto.

Contrary to what Freestone would tell you, he HAS been working hard on the Boccherini, playing it all the way through with repeats, with me, 2 to 4 times a day.  It's been fun.  Well, fun...I don't know if I'll go that far.  Freestone likes to take his time practicing, and I like to zip through it.  So my choices are:  let him practice alone slowly, or be really, really patient and practice with him.  I want to practice with Freestone because I love it, but patience isn't a luxury I can afford when Tziporah sees my being occupied as an opportunity to empty out my wallet and throw all the contents in the sink.  Add to that the fact that, while I'm practicing with Freestone, I can also hear that Ari is playing flat on her cello in her room, and in the basement, Xanthe is playing her piece at the speed of light, and Ruby's students are ringing the doorbell because even though I tell them week after week to just walk in, they won't, and Golda is calling for a ride home from Dance Company and Don Carlos just might need to go out and Ptolemy wants me to turn on his computer game and I'm not entirely sure that I'm not supposed to be meeting someone at the violin shop at that very moment and something is boiling on the stove.  There is a level of tension with 7 kids that never really goes away.  It's like living under those massive power lines that buzz, and you just hope and pray that they're not giving you radiation poisoning.  Lucky for me, I like having a buzz.  Who knew my drug of choice would be raising a big family?

But with all that noise, nothing about our life is conducive to musical success, other than the fact that we're not quitting.  The quote I live by, from Shinichi Suzuki, is:  "It was a result of circumstance that he learned to play the violin.  Whether he liked it or disliked it is not the question."

In other words, in our family, you play an instrument.  You just do.  Quitting it isn't a thing.  I wish we all played better, I wish we all practiced longer and more effectively, but at least it's there.  This goes back to the lesson I learned at the Baptist church in Harlem.  At that church, music wasn't some laborious task the kids had to learn.  It was just part of the fabric of life.  Nobody held up posters with cues about the lyrics.  Everybody just sang because that's what you did.  There was really no notion of "not knowing the song" or "not being a good singer."  Dr. Suzuki would have fit right in at that church in Harlem with his mantra, "Every child can."  Of course they can.  Nobody told them otherwise.  It's about loving the music.

Even if I can't create the perfect hothouse in which to grow child prodigies, at least I can insist that every day, there is some sort of crazy cacophony, out of which may come, one fine Saturday, a concert where I sit on the front row and beam.  And cringe.  But mostly beam.  And it's enough.

And, icing on the cake, we got to visit Grandma after the recital, proving that Freestone looks miserable in pictures even when he's happy, and that Marlene looks beautiful even when she's recovering from surgery!