good morning! let's talk about my groin!

It' s fun to think of new ways to describe (what they tell me must be) round ligament pain at the end of a pregnancy. Last time I likened it to being kicked with a cowboy boot repeatedly. All. Day. Long. But don't forget, this boot has a steel tip, and a spike at the toe. Imagine the kicks to be gentle in the morning, relatively soft. Then, but the afternoon they become quicker in succession and more fierce with each strike. Before dinner time I can just imagine that special area where all the weight seems to lay being bruised black and blue, it's so tenderly aching with pain.

I go to bed restless looking for the best way to straddle a pillow sideways (in a very non sexual manner. unfortnuately.) to soften the aches. This routine takes about 30- 45 minutes to accomplish successfully. All the while I hope to get to start fresh tomorrow with the soft kicking and work up to that level of pain without waking up with the bruised feeling. And normally that's how it goes each day, depending on the amount of time I spend on my feet. The beauty of this being my third time is that I can appreciate that for a while, it's not nearly as bad as it's going to get in a number of weeks. With that in perspective, it's totally manageable.

Another way to describe this experience is to imagine a little person following me around all day with a little hammer and a chisel. Again, the pounding is minimal in the early hours and almost unnoticeable as I begin my day. But dammit if that little person isn't breaking the bone in half before the sun starts to go down. I really have to check sometimes to make sure I am not splitting apart at my groin area because each step I take starts to feel like I am cracking in half with that chisel breaking into the bone. And that whole walking like a cowboy that spent a month in the desert on a horse, that side-to-side awkward hobble. It's just so I don't disrupt that person with the hammer. And it might possibly be that it slightly minimizes the impact that feels as though steel nails are being driven into the ligaments that attach my legs to my groin upon the strike of each step. And it ends when I climb into bed, the hammering, although the pulsing pain lingers until I drift away. It helps to imagine that moment when I get to look at her and talk to her precious little baby face. And I will totally be all "Dude! Did hear all that hammering! Wasn't that insane!"

*p.s. Those are cowboy boots Mike inherited from his uncle. It's a sore spot in our marriage. He isn't allowed to wear them when I am with him. You could say I have a thing against western wear fashion. Or perhaps it's all the imagined kicking in the groin by a boot that ruined it for me.

it's always good to have a plan

Dear Little Girl Growing in My Tummy,

Please forgive the manner with which I refer to you, as we have yet to decide upon your name.

I have been thinking lately about how different it will be to teach you the ways of life as a female in this world. Things are going to get really complicated and akward as a pre-teen and you will feel incredibly alone and ugly and confused for a little while. And you will think no one else on the face of this earth is going through puberty, only you. That feeling's pretty much normal. And then you will start to really like boys and want to kiss them and they will want to kiss you. Because, let's face it, your father and I never got a beating from the ugly stick so chances are you are going to be quite a looker.

For this purpose, I plan to lock you inside the house your whole life. And if a boy wants to speak with you he will have to come to the front door, look up, and hope for you to appear briefly through the window in the tower so he can steal a glance at your beautiful smile.

xoxo

love you,

mom (and dad, as I am certain he will agree with this plan)

giving thanks

So the hours between 4pm and 8pm are my least favorite of most days. Pulling together a kid-friendly dinner that is almost never what I feel like eating myself. Playing I-Spy to get one of us to eat (you can only guess the item after taking a bite of food.) Bathing two during a time in the evening I am ready for a martini. Then it's the amazing 'race' to get them into jammies, brush teeth and put toys away. How on earth does all of this require 4 hours of our day?

Sometimes I transform into a Mother Who Knows and I fit something fun into the middle of that time slot to make it more positive. Like a dance party or ice cream or something to look forward to that doesn't feel like I am the family dentist pulling teeth at every corner during this 4 hour block of time.

But in reality, I am really The Mother That's Ready for That Trip to Montana; even if it's winter. My snow white voice got hoarse over the playful encouragement to eat broccoli over an hour ago. So I begin to transform into Cruella DeVille, at least in my head. My body is screaming at me to put my feet up for a few minutes. But my mind is looking at the clock and longing for the process to be over with so I can put my feet up without jumping back onto them and pulling one or the other off the kitchen table. This is not exactly the best article I would choose to submit to The Ensign. But this is just how it goes sometimes.

The littlest tucked in by my desired time with even a few extra stories and songs. Then comes The Greatest Challenge of the Evening: the four year old. I take a deep breath and gently remind him for the 4th time what I asked him to do 30 minutes ago. I step away to sit down, which is never a good idea in this process. Because it is a process. Anything this boy is in need of doing requires hand holding and ample reminding whether I like it or not. Extra book time is the only collateral I have at this time of night and most nights it works to get him moving. Not tonight.

I calmly remind him of the consequences of not listening and suggest he kneel with me at the bed for prayers. He screams and shouts and scolds and pouts. I find snow white in my throat and convince him to kneel with me for prayer and through his clenched throat of anger with me he begins his prayer:

Dear Heabenly Father,

Thank you for this ebening, thank you for Jesus.
Jesus, please turn mommy into a pencil.

In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.

****

Looks like this process isn't going well for more than just one of us. So I turn back to my former life and think of how I solved things. Back when it seemed like I knew what I was doing most of the time and had a more level head. I remember the role I had in creating or adjusting processes. And the importance of taking a step back and identifying what can change in the list of things to do from start to finish and what parts must remain the same. I am determined to make this part of each day better so we can all go to bed with the peace and calm I want to instill in my home as often as possible. And I also don't want Jesus to turn me into a pencil.

take this pink ribbon off my eyes

I have a friend who has had the tragic experience of losing a baby at birth in addition to several miscarriages, some very far along in her pregnancy. Upon discussing her experiences, she commented on a relative who cried upon learning the gender of her own baby would be otherwise than her desires. My friend, so very confused, couldn't understand.

I love the perspective she shared and secretly remembered that I truly, truly wished for a boy during my second pregnancy. And felt some shame for how excited I was to find out I got my wish that day in the ultrasound room. Although it might have been wrong of me to have that secret wish, this time around I don't have as strong of a desire for one gender or the other, which surprised me. I've been pretty open over the years about my wish for four boys, as crazy as I hear they are through and through at every age. But I think about it differently now-a-days. I don't wish for a specific gender anymore.

This time around the peaceful feeling of hope for a healthy baby outweighs the gender game in my head. Also, the fear I have for being enough isn't there this time like it was last time. I know the Lord will bless me with the energy and patience I need to be able to care for my family no matter how overwhelming it may seem at times.

That being said, I will admit that if it's a girl, I might feel a little nervous. I have thought about those feelings a lot this week and realized raising a girl feels as though it comes with a whole lot more in the expectations department. Potential expectations of her, I imagine. Which could be entirely wrong, but boys just seem like they would be who they become, yes, derived from what their mother teaches them at home. However, they do draw a lot of experiences from their father as they will one day be a man, too, just like him.

I fear as a mother, as the female role model, I might fall short in the areas that are important for girls to learn from. What if she comes home pissed off one day that she is the only girl who didn't learn piano or quilting from her mother? Or cooking or singing or some other typical girl skill her mom just never had interest in. I can see it now, a teenage break-down right before she slams her bedroom door: DRUMMING and sarcasm?! That's all you've got for me?! Thanks a LOT mom. That's really going to win them over.

Because isn't that what's important to girls- winning them over? Being the most pretty and popular? Knowing how to fix your hair and pull together an outfit and be on the cutting edge of fashion? And what if I have a girl that has interest in all these things and I have to keep sending her to other people in the family/ friend circle to learn them? I'm not very good about being the kind of girl our society and culture tells us we are supposed to be. And while I appreciate that's who I am and have grown comfortable and brave finding myself in that different path of interest that strays from the mold at times, I don't know that it's something a daughter would appreciate.

Or she could turn out to be a tom boy like I was, after all, she would have two brothers follow. But if she doesn't, I want her to be who she wants to be and follow her interests and what if they are all things I suck at?

Overthinking this for a moment? Yes. But it sure feels good to get to the root of my feelings and understand what I am nervous about so I understand myself a little better.

you might be a redneck when.....

{Posed on his own in the $2.99 jammies.

Then Mike taught him The Kid 'n Play}

So as parents, I am sure there are silly ways we go about being a family in the privacy of our own home that might not be the norm. And you don't think much about until such things are brought to light in a public setting. Child flatulence, for instance, never ceases to crack us up. Call it the inner immaturity within us, call it what you will. But it's hilarious to us when our kids rip one. And it's even more hilarious when they come of the age to crack up about it, too. It's not something we have spent a great deal of time thinking about as parents, how to teach our children to manage the natural passing of gas in a public setting. Until now.

So in our church there is a time in the chapel where people are most reverent. It's during both prayers and the passing of the sacrament. It's also a time when parents are sweating bullets to keep their kids quiet, solemn, and peaceful. Thankfully, our kids were doing a pretty good job of this on Sunday. And then Zane ripped one. Not just a little one, a giant one that vibrated deeply through the fabric of the padded pew and ricocheted off the wood and then smacked us across the face on the way back up. It was a man fart. It could have easily been Mike's, but by the look on Zane's proud face it clearly was not.

Mike and I looked at each other with the typical plastered grins we exchange when our kids make loud noises from their bums. And then we froze with words, Zane was giggling and we couldn't pull together a straight face between the two of us to turn the event into a teaching moment. All was lost. And then. It gets better. Zane is even more proud we can't hold back our smiles and lifts a cheek, presses the air out of his stomach with all the might his little body can muster. Sacrament bread is heading our way and out pops a machine-gun load of toots from my four year old's rear end. It was like 13 in a row and his smile got wider as he let them rip; each louder than the last. We had no chance. We never recovered from round one, how on earth were we supposed to pull ourselves together and speak coherently now?

He sits pleased as punch, the most reverent of any other moment in the history of this child sitting through church. Tears are streaming from my eyes as I cover my face with a green hymnal to hide the explosion of laughter building in my red cheeks. I peek over at Mike to see him unable to address the situation either, looking down at his shoes while working hard to lose that smile.

How do you think Jesus would teach the little children to manage their gas?

Once upon a time in Orinda

He did it, he learned to ride a skateboard today.

Was there redirecting? You bet. Was there frustration and trying again? Brilliantly YES. I was rather nervous this morning, worried he would get hurt and not completely certain this was the right year for him to go for it. I am glad I didn't cancel.

A few times he got distracted while Glenn Danzig was trying to show or tell him something. It cracked us both up. Okay probably me a whole lot more, maybe him a couple of times.

"Is that bug nice to kids?"

"Wow I like your back yard!"

"Look at THAT bug!"

"My dad's name is Mike"

"Yeah, this is my dad's skateboard"

"Wow look, a bug!"

"Why are your wheels all dirty?"

"I am getting my OWN skateboard for my birthday. It's on July 10th"

"Where are the kids at? Do you have any kids, Peter?"

My favorite distractions were the times he would blatantly walk away from Glenn Danzig and run up the ramp and slide down on his knee pads. That turned out to be his reward for trying his new *trick* a couple more times.

It was cool to see him try over and over and watch him want it. He wanted to do what he was trying and even though he would fume "I can't do it!" he would get back on the board and try again. He would lose interest after about 10-15 minutes and then take a break (potty or popsicle) before going back out to try it again. It was expected and Glenn Danzig worked well with him that way.

It was nice for me to ask Glenn Danzig questions so I could carry the teaching torch on my own. I feel fully confident in helping Zane learn his balance and just working with him on it whenever he wants. I love that I got to share something with my son that I have interest in and I can offer assistance in. I like that I can use words I know he will understand to help him learn.

He actually skated by himself before we left (see top photo), so he did what we went to do. And we ended the session when he was all done and tired, which happened to be at the 1 hour mark. He worked hard and enjoyed himself and felt super proud.

My only regret is not getting a picture of the guy who had on the Misfits T-shirt at Burger King on the way home. No joke, was it meant to be or what? I came [--this--] close to going into the restaurant to find him just for you people.

Now, who wants to help me build a ramp like this in my back yard?

errands

So if you ever need to run to Rite Aid or Walgreens for anything, Zane is pretty much the best pal to take with you. I am pretty certain it's his favorite place to visit.

It's always so much more fun with him because he is SUPER thrilled about every single thing in every single aisle. And secretly, I am too. I love spending time there wondering why the hell they would choose to carry bicycle tires, who in their right mind would think to go there for such a need. Or happen upon this tire and remember they need one, oh say, while picking up condoms. Let's see....extra large............ribbed..................oh a tire! Might as well pick one of those up as well. Now......where are the car headlights and garden hoses?

The most random stuff e v e r. But we love it, it's fun to roam around and play with things. We usually spend about 15 minutes trying on sunglasses and sometimes bifocals if we are daring. We take turns picking out the biggest ones and then Zane sings "shake your booty woot woot shake your booty raise the roof" while he looks in the little mirror with his arms in the running position, body bent over and booty wagging side to side. I snicker and enjoy that he is still unaware that people don't really dance in stores. It makes everyone passing by smile widely.

"What's this?" always gets a thorough explanation and sometimes demonstration at Walgreens.

WELL....(as I scan to see 4 people are standing in line for a prescription- as if 15 or 45 would have changed my fun). Go ahead and put it on the ground just like so and sit on it like a chair.

O.K.

Pppppp__pp_ppp_PPPPthhh_th_thhhhhh!
{that would be a fart sound, machine-gun style}

We burst into fits of giggles until we turn pink in the face- he is laying on the floor and I am crossing my legs. Evan peeks around in his stroller totally confused, if he could talk he would say "You two need to pull yourselves together!" Then I think how funny it would be to hear that sound 4 aisles over while looking at hair spray and I start my round of giggling all over again. Zane is amazed such a thing exits and can't learn its name fast enough. Whoopee Cushion is such a hard word for a little one, we call it a toot machine while heading over to the check-out. He is so proud to carry it and can't wait to show his dad.

Oh it was the most family fun once his father got home that night! I think it for sure tops the gnomes, glasses, toy cars, walking canes, heart rate machine and for sure the old school bike horn. Which actually scared him and made him cry once, he didn't know it would be so loud when he innocently squeezed the bulb. I had a hard time not cracking up because he doesn't frighten easily and COME ON it was a bike horn.

If the other two in the family weren't so damn serious in public we would have Family Home Evening at Walgreens every Monday.

Evanezer

I am getting my obsession time in with Evan when I put him to sleep. I always love to study how he is changing, how his feet are getting some sun, the lines on his lips forming in more detail, his hands getting bigger.

He is generally super sweet, although this weekend sick + teething = Evanezer Scrooge.

Although this is detail I normally reserve for their little loveletters on their private blog, I had to be proud of myself for taking a chance and getting some sleep photos of this kiddo. The toes poking out of the blanket TOTALLY made this attempt worth the chance of him waking up. I have countless sleep photos of Zane as a baby and they are some of my favorite, but too few of Evan.

And though the quality of these shots is usually on the weak side, they are samples of the more precious moments I have as a mother. Watching them sleep is normally prime time to reflect on who they are and where they came from and what rich blessings they are in my life.

nine months in, nine months out

notice below the synchronized foot cross:

Today marks the ninth month of this little one of mine and he hasn't been seriously injured by the other. This, my friends, is a miracle.

p.s. he totally reminds me of the baby in the cartoon Family Circus:

wed

My favorite parts of the day:

* family prayer via speaker phone

* watching and hearing Evan laugh on the swing

* hearing Zane laugh on the swing (I was pushing so I couldn't technically see it)

* preschool park day potluck (I sure wish there was a potluck to attend each day somewhere. The curry dish was the best. Pesto salad- not so much).

* seeing Evan gnaw on grown-up food from my hand like a baby bird

* the urgent care doctor telling me I have well-behaved children (funny how illness brings the energy down to regular, if only he saw us on a typical healthy day)

* getting medicine for my kids at 8pm. It's the first pharmacy in my town I have found to be open 24/7.

* millions of smiles from Evan from morning until night

* watching Zane eat his cheeseburger

* ending the evening with a long distance smooch

frank edwin wright III I am not.

When Zane began preschool several months ago, I was nervous. Not that he would miss me. But that he would get kicked out. At that time he was a toy thrower and still learning to use his words, so he would yank a toy away from a kid or hit them when he wanted to play with them. He is the one in the group to never sit still, has a hard time following directions unless there is a firm TIME OUT attached as a possible outcome. He thinks he runs the place everywhere he goes. I knew preschool would be no exception.

I was extra friendly with the teacher, discussing the things we were doing at home to teach obedience and wanted to make sure we were on the same page. She was always great about feedback, both positive and constructive. She never tried to sugar- coat it, we both knew openly he was one of the more busy boys in the class. So I knew as his mother it was my duty to offer anything and everything I could to establish a relationship with this woman so we could be a good team.

She was asking parents to sign up for sharing talents or skills the kids could learn from. I saw mothers sign up for gardening, one was a dentist, another making bread and butter from scratch, another painting pots, etc. Surely I couldn't teach them how to do succession planning or performance reviews. And even though I can pull together a thorough severance package, those skills did me no good at preschool. But. BUT. I could show the kids to keep a beat. My pathetic attempt to help out in the class was offering up a day with drums. She excitedly welcomed the idea and that's what we did this morning.

We arrived early, one complete drum kit and two kids in tow. I am still impressed with myself for getting all of it into the car myself (plus the stroller!). I taught them the names of each symbol and drum (snare, toms, base, hi-hat, ride) and had them guess which one they heard with their eyes closed while Zane hit one at a time. Then we practiced counting to four by clapping their hands slowly, then quickly. Now remember children, Tre Cool says all you need to do is count to four and repeat to be a drummer. I busted out some sick beats and then they took turns pounding on my drums. Zane, of course, roamed around like he ran the place just as I suspected. The rest of the class had fun and rocked out.

This is my favorite little dude who actually did very well keeping a steady rhythm and maintained a super serious face the whole time. I guess I should have lowered everything for them (oops).

Zane talks about how nice this little girl is to him all the time and even this morning told me he thinks she is pretty. Can you blame him, the girl has amazing hair! So naturally, I took the opportunity to have a secret photo shoot of her while she was drumming. Should I put her photo in a frame for his dresser so I can teach him to be a young stalker, just like the way his dear old mom was?

It was interesting to see the girls spent a little time on the drum kit, but for the boys to linger the whole time. I recorded this little video below of five of them rocking out together. It's a masterpiece!

happy spot

My happy spot in a day is when I am not doing any work. I am not cleaning or feeding anyone. I am on the floor playing with my kids (or outside hanging out with them). There is no reason I shouldn't make time for this every day at least once. So I came up with a solution.

I wrote down on a sheet of paper all the 15-20 minute activities I could think of. Bubbles, play-doh, dance party, candyland, painting, chase, tag, etc. I cut them out into slips of paper and put them into a box with a lid. We will do one of these things (at least) daily. Either I choose at random or Zane picks one out of the box. I have about 30 activities in there and am aware of its presence in my kitchen each morning, which was the point of the plan. Check.

I also created a posterboard calender just for Zane. He has been rather confused about the new traveling schedule his father has started. We put big yellow stars on the days Mike will be home and also filled in his activites on the other days (preschool, church, play dates, etc). It will be helpful for him to learn yesterday was not 'last year' and keep me on track with talking about communicating our schedule often.

My next move is a quick and dirty list of each kids' developmental targets for this stage of their lives and post them in a place I can view each day so I can make more time available to focus on them. I have a house to pack up and I don't want them to get lost in the mix of change this summer. Although I like to post about how awesome I think I am, this is more in the spirit of keeping myself accountable for all the things I am responsible for and pushing the most important to the top of the list.

grosser than gross

My sister and I were so bored during the summers with nothing to do in the heat of the Arizona desert. School was out, swimming was no longer attractive. Watching soaps in our jammies was pretty much how a great day went. Always preceeded with a healthy dose of The Price is Right while pushing the German Sheppard away. He had a broken tail and was rather pesky, but he had a killer name: Spike.

Sometimes we would get crazy and cook something daring. Something besides nachos with cheese piled to the ceiling. Sometimes I would make blueberry muffins from the box. Once or twice my sister would make giant omelets with everything you could imagine folded into the spongy egg. It always smelled so good, but after two bites I would remember how much the texture of spongy cooked egg made my throat want to close up forever. In order to not offend, I took a break from my 15 egg omelet, hoping I might suddenly like that texture at the next commercial break.

I went back for more with my sister proudly trailing behind to hear about how delicious her masterpiece would be by now. We both stopped dead in our tracks when we saw the plate completely empty. It took us both a few minutes to realize the dog was dry heaving below the kitchen table.

I don't know what went through her mind, but in mine I was racing to remember what was in the omelet and if we needed to call the vet. Then I was thinking about how much I disliked that spongy egg and now it was going to be all over the floor and I didn't know if I could clean it up without tossing my own cookies. But I knew it was my fault for leaving the food on the table for the dog to get, I was secretly hoping my sister would save me from the clean up, even though I should be the one to do it. And then I realize I would never be able to eat eggs again.

As we stood speechless watching the dog finally spew forth the goods, one of us went to get paper towels. Before one sheet could be torn, we heard the sound of lapping up. The dog was happily eating its vomit. You will never know the relief in my heart to see the puker cleaning its own puke. I was so happy to not have to clean it that I wasn't even grossed out. Good dog, Spike. We left him to his (second) brunch and returned to our soaps without even discussing it.

*

I scrub the baby's bile (orange, green, white) from the carpet as often as I did when I was potty training Zane. So when I hear the brewing of a good spit-up I naturally think of another interruption to get down and scrub or another opportunity to change my colorfully drenched clothing.

So when I hear little slurping and the smacking of lips after the baby eats his own spit-up in his mouth I can't even be grossed out about it. Cos it's one less thing I have to clean up. Good boy, Evan.

evan at seven

i love the gap between your top teeth. i love how i could park a bus between them. and how they will never be this far apart again.

i love this new squealing (really!) that probably drives anyone that isn't your mother or father insane. especially when i am on the phone. oh that sound, yeah everything is alright. it's just this pterodactyl we have flying around the house. no big deal- keep talking.

i love that you rip juicy ones all the time, but don't know that it's funny yet.

i love how your arms and legs are in constant motion. as if you are treading water during every waking moment. and then when it's diaper changing time you act like you are drowning. you love these arms and legs of yours and can't get enough practice using them.

i love the way you look at your brother and move your whole body the best way you know how to try and get closer to him.

i love that baby spoons are no longer so shallow. and that you (ultimatley) eat the food i repeatedly scrape off of your face.

i love how you are a silent partner on the go. in stores, in the car, at church, in the jogger. you are so portable and easy going in public.

i love that your poo is no longer yellow seeds. or liquid.

i love that you think your brother is the most hilarious in your world.

i love it when you rest your head on my shoulder for a few seconds even when you are wide awake.

i love how the morning sunlight makes your eyes explode with sparkling blue.

i love it that you have my nose.

i love that you sleep like a log.

i love the way you will peek around something to see me and then grin.

i love the way you smile at strangers, how happy you make people feel just by being there.

i love that your goopy eye is finally all better.

i love your laugh most of all.

i hope your seventh month birthday (tomorrow)

fulfills your wildest dreams.

in between days

I am not sure exactly when it happened, the exact week and day are not clear to me. But somewhere between month five and month six, having two children s l o w l y started to feel normal.

I stopped agonizing about all the things I can no longer accomplish in a regular day like I used to. I stopped missing my less-interrupted flow of doing and going and fell into somewhat of a routine. My days began to take shape of something predictable, to a certain extent, and I stopped warning Mike about this idea of being all done with kids RIGHT NOW. Although both in a doctor's office after a long wait might always merit such warnings. I also think One realized the Other wasn't going back into my belly and has done some admirable adjusting, getting used to a new routine.

I remember for the first several months I had a pit in my stomach every day for two reasons:

1) Zane was missing so much of my time that we enjoyed spending together. Not necessarily a scheduled class at a place and a thing we did, just hang out time doing random things like getting cookies at the bakery on a Tuesday afternoon or playing play-doh to fun music and marching around the kitchen together. There just used to be a lot more extra time to fill. Blank spaces in the day to use any way we wanted to.

2) Evan was missing out on SO MUCH of me Zane got to have as a baby. This baby was literally placed on hold while I would assist with a bathroom emergency with his brother or catch Super Zane from kitchen counters. It didn't seem fair; I was feeling so distant from my baby.

I felt they were both getting shavings of me that couldn't possibly be enough for them to develop normally. Their basic needs and safety were intact and that seemed like all I could offer and that bothered me. I wanted to be two of me so they could both get 100% of what I have to offer. But that's not reality and a stubborn girl doesn't want to accept that. At least not for a number of months, anyway.

A day is a day. My mom would tell me that every time I would call her to cry over feelings of inadequacy or vent about a frustrating day spinning out of control. I finally let it make sense to me. Some days Evan gets snuggled a lot more and talked, plus songs from his mommy. And it's alright if I don't match that attention equally or even by fifty percent with his brother. And it's alright if Evan sits happily to watch Zane and I play Candyland as he is the one to get more cuddles another day. It's also alright if too many cartoons are watched one day so I can accomplish necessary household chores and administrative duties. By the end of the week, it seems to feel balanced and I am finally content with how this must have to work. So I can laugh again, smoothed out the worry crinkle on my forehead and enjoy these awesome people in my life. They know I love them even if they are all getting much smaller pieces of the pie than I would like to offer.

talking dirty

...So if you don't know much about 3 year olds, let me tell you words like POO and POOP are all the rage. Turns them into fits of hilarious giggles. It spreads like fire and they could say these words to each other, laugh, and repeat the cycle for hours and never tire.

We tried to put a stop to it, but it just got even worse. So now we ignore it, but try to suggest limited times when we don't say such words. At church. At the table. In front of Grandma. But really, how much effort am I really supposed to give into this process of enforcement? I have started to just ignore it and hope it will go away. Like the way dammit left his vocabulary. But once in a while he says it out of the blue by sneaking it into the middle of a normal sentance and we can't help but crack up. It's his first personal joke. And he knows how to use his potty mouth correctly. So then our snickers give him props and it flares once again. And then I wish I had initially started with the term DUKE instead so people just think we talk a lot about preparing him for college.

*

This week I was cleaning out the fridge while Zane was eating lunch. We had tostadas one evening and I was scooping the cold, clumped refried beans out of the container with a spoon into the trash. Zane asked in a totally honest and sincere voice: "mom, is that poop?"

Yeah, we store poo in containers and keep it in the fridge sometimes.

I bet he can't wait to tell his friends.

see kai run

If i could design shoes for children, this is pretty much what it would look like. For the first time, I felt a GIANT urge to purchase girl shoes for no good reason at all. Many, many perfect options for boys as well. I can't wait for the boys to outgrow their current shoe size so I can pick their own!

Not only do I love the color and fabric and design, but the plethora of shoe options using velcro. I believe I may be doing velco for life with my kids, I love it so.

They also have another company called eleven for bigger shoe sizes.

my heart is crammed in my cranium

I remember a fellow snowboard enthusiast telling me about the process for teaching children to board. How it's important for their tiny little bodies and muscles to learn to ski for a while, first. Just having my first newborn at the time, this information freaked me out, and not just because many ski outfits are lame. But because I don't know how to ski, how could I possibly send him out into the hands of someone else that will hopefully train him properly to avoid trees, cliffs, and people. My knee-jerk reaction was that he would simply not ski and wait until he is old enough to board so I could teach him.

Then, of course, seconds later I came to my senses and realized I could suck it up and put on a puffy teal coat and learn myself. That gave me some relief, although led me into a list of millions of things I might need to learn in life before allowing him the opportunity to explore. What an exhausting thing that would be and limiting to his life- for him to only learn and explore from my experiences and knowledge.

While me learning to ski and helping teach him along with a professional instructor isn't a bad idea, it's not the only time this thought process and panic attack will happen.

++

This Sunday my son will transition from a nursery class at church into a primary program that will require him to sit and listen and interact instead of playing with toys. This is one of many transitions he will make while growing up as my Mormon son. Transitions and experiences I had not participated in as a child, myself. It's like he is going skiing this Sunday and I haven't even strapped on boots to see how they feel or purchased that snazzy puffy jacket.

While I am feeling relatively short in the preparedness end of it and slightly inadequate, I know I can learn next to him and help him to have a positive and successful learning experience each week. But there will also be weeks he might need to take a walk in the hall with mom again and be removed from the group due to his high energy and stubborn will.

And while I have not gone through the church primary programs as a child learning these gospel principles I know are true from an adult perspective, there are ways to teach it in creative little chunks and bits that I will need to be figuring out from the sidelines to reinforce at home.

The older he gets the more I realize there is much for me to learn. But, also, that I cannot always be there to lay my body down over the puddle for him to avoid getting wet. Some puddles he will figure out how to avoid on his own, from another examples, or even fall into. It's really such a naked feeling to know he would not be better off being the boy in a bubble, despite my urge to go that route.

zaney

For some reason I bought paper with a holiday border thinking it would be a good idea to write a letter to send with Christmas cards this year. I cannot write creatively under pressure, much less anything interesting that most of the people don't already know from reading here or there or that other site. Sure, the great-grandparents are not on-line so they might like to read a little something instead of the usual cold photo with nothing personalized or signed. But all I can think of writing about are lists of favorite moments this year. In which case the best Zane quote would be the time my mom was visiting and assisting with the dreaded potty training. We were all sitting at the kitchen table wondering how he was doing on his own in the restroom. All of a sudden we heard him giggle from the other room, then his feet came stomping through the kitchen and he shouted:

"Everybody! Take out your peenus!" with his business pulled through the leg hole of his underpants.

in which writing while mad happens

They will say what happened to her? She used to be a nice mommy, one with relative patience and kindness towards her son! What happened?

I will tell you what- potty training a boy.

You know how mothers tell their older children 'you will do this because I GAVE BIRTH TO YOU!' Potty training this boy is so far beyond the experience of birth. Birth to this boy was cake, painless compared to this. I honestly sat down one fine afternoon after the 9th scrubbing session from the carpet and wondered how bad it would really be to skip the potty training. If there was a way for me to be all done with this and do diapers for life I would find it. No one would know, I thought, oh I guess until the Junior High locker room.

I will spare the pages and pages of stages we have been through and even the hoops I have jumped through with potty parties, chocolate treats, toy cars, and candies getting this to work. And the elation I felt watching it stick, seeing the little toes dangle for a #2 success melted my heart more than anything else in the world. Hearing the mad rush to the bathroom of little feet getting the bare bottom onto the potty and the beautiful tinkles into the water. That had been my life for two weeks straight: zero accidents. I even steam cleaned the carpet over the weekend, thinking we were moving on. SO GLAD the scrubbing was behind me. I even smirked as I crawled on my hands and knees several times a week cleaning the bathroom floor (and oh how I ever though I would need to put so much thought into how to clean every nook and cranny of the entire bathroom so often). I get an A+ for janitorial work this month.

All that to turn and find a basket of his books saturated in urine one morning in the middle of the common play area. Another day long, dry drips eight feet high crusted on my floor-length mirror, as if he tried to spell his name. Another day I felt wetness opening his drawer to get his clothing for the day, finding the entire face of the dresser drawers saturated. Today I heard splashing and caught him standing in the middle of his room with a stream sailing across the floor, landing mostly into the Little People Farm. Some into the Little People Boat. Some on the carpet (which btw is incredibly hard to find when lightly distributed by spray motion). The rest landing into a cute wicker toy box now spackled with urine along with many toys inside.

What other contaminated surfaces have I not yet discovered?
I used to think the moms who did a cold shower for accidents were sort of cruel. Now I know, they are wise. They are experienced. They are my heros.

Sorry Zane, Mommy's kid gloves are off with this one. The carpet and I mean business.