A Journey in Contentment with Churros and Rootbeer

My Dad used to (I think still does?) have this habit of asking us on our birthday "Does it feel different being  ______ (our new age)." I remember countless birthdays of my own, and those of my siblings and the question being asked, "Does it feel different being 6? 8? 11? 15?" I'm pretty sure he even asked me if I felt different turning 38 on my last birthday.

I'm quite certain, at some point I've asked my own children if they feel different on their birthday, although I certainly haven't been nearly as dedicated to the question as my dad is.

This morning I realized, I've started my own birthday habit that may make my children roll their eyes and groan as all of my siblings and I have for years with my dad.

My habit has only started in the last couple of years or so. Up until then, I have always been anxious for my children to turn the next age. Especially Megan, the firstborn. I couldn't wait for her next birthday, the anticipation of parenting a "_____ year old" was always there. Perhaps I thought each new year would mark some new parenting milestone, or some earth-shattering peak that would seem far better than the last. (I admit I've suffered a little from the "grass is always greener" mentality over the years.)

Gradually, I began to realize how many years I have been waiting for my children to be at the ever-elusive age where they'd be able to do this or that alone, or be able to start school, or be able to stay home alone, etc. etc. etc. Not so much any more.

My new habit began about the same time my babies and children all began growing at ever-increasing speeds. Now, in the days preceding a birthday, my children hear me declare everything they do a last for that specific age. "Oh, it should be Megan's turn to pray. She'll never pray again as a 13 year old." or "Luke, that is the last time you'll ever eat breakfast as a 10 year old."

Take today for example. I read book after book to Joshua this morning while the breakfast mess sat patiently on the counter and I, still wearing my bathrobe. Together we settled onto the couch and I honored his continuous requests for "Just one more book?" Even the faint smell of dried pee on his pajamas didn't deter me--all I could think (and say) was, "Why not? This will be the last time we'll read books together when you are FIVE years old."

And so here we go again. Fortunately, Joshua doesn't know exactly what he could get away with today, or what he could be granted if he were to ask, for no other reason than today being the last day of having Joshua be a five year old.

I'm hoping Drew doesn't catch on and tell him about our trip to Costco a couple of weeks ago, two days before Drew's 4th birthday. Just as I finished up a big shop at Costco and walked by the food-court with Drew, I generously stated, "Drew, you were such a good boy while we did lots of shopping. Would you like to choose either a churro or a soda as a treat?"

Drew--with his trademark tilted head--and expressions that I wish I could capture on video every time, wagged his finger and very seriously said, "Well, if I have a churro it will make me thirsty so I need a churro AND a rootbeer."

Laughter and tears sprung from my face simultaneously, laughter at his smart thinking, and tears that he would never have the opportunity to have a churro AND a soda at Costco again while he was three years old.

Clearly you can see that Drew won me over that Thursday afternoon at Costco.

Today, is Joshua's last day of being five years old. The next few weeks are Ellie's last few weeks of being eight, and so on and so forth. It never ends. My children are growing faster than ever before. Each night I tuck them into bed, and each morning they wake up just a little bit older.

Once in a while I wish I could freeze time, mostly I wish I could just slow it down, and then there are those days, I wish it would pass at an ever increasing speed. That is what makes me sad, the wish I wish the least, is the wish I'm granted the most.

Today I will make the most of the last day of whatever.
Then I'll do the same thing tomorrow.
And the next day.
And the next.

Because I KNOW, churros and rootbeers at Costco won't last forever.
And one day it will feel different being ___.

From Whence We Came

"Don't save something for a special occasion. Every day of your life is a special occasion."

~President Thomas S. Monson

Last fall, my grandmother called me one Saturday afternoon and told me she had some china dishes, passed to her from another relative, that she wanted me to have. I immediately went to get the dishes and spent days admiring them as they sat on my dining room table. I loved the dated vinyl cases they were stored in, I loved the faded receipt found with some china bowls and I loved the elegant look of them. Most of all, I loved the feeling I felt as I unzipped each case and wondered about the meals served on these plates. I wondered who my Auntie Dale invited to her luncheons or dinner parties when she used this china. I wondered what they talked about, what they ate, and what they wore.

As I found a home for the prized set of china dishes, I made a mental note to have a luncheon with my grandma using these new dishes. Despite using the dishes with my own family a couple of times since the fall, I still kept meaning to host a luncheon. A few weeks ago, while realizing my spring calendar was quickly filling up, I knew I couldn't put off a luncheon anymore. Life wasn't going to slow down any, so I may as well fit it in where I could.

While trying to figure out the wording for the invitation, a phrase came to my mind. It encompassed all I wanted to honor at the luncheon.

"From Whence We Came."

I used my very best china, I used silver platters, bowls and trays. (Mike bless his heart, polished silver for days. Days! He is far more detail focused than I am. )

My mother and I carefully chose a menu, and decided to give a personal favor to each attendee,thanks to my Great-Grandmother Hill who years ago owned (costume) jewelry that was handed down to my mother. It has sat in a case in my mother's closet for years not worn or used. My mother and I made magnets out of brooches, pins and ear-rings that will now adorn fridges of Alta Hill's descendants.

Do you LOVE the gold "silverware"? I DO!!!

A few of us loved ones, joined together by blood and marriage, sat around the table talking, laughing, and crying as we shared memories of special times, and beloved items.

There was a special feeling in my dining room that Saturday afternoon, as a few of us gathered around a table remembering loved ones no longer with us. In fact, instead of trying to put the afternoon into any more words, I'll borrow them from my grandmother. In a card she wrote to me after the occasion, she stated,

"How delighted our loved ones would have been; to see, hear and feel of the influence they had on our lives."

Without a doubt, I believe my loved ones were delighted to see a few of their posterity honor them.

Our Simple Easter

Our Easter was simple, except we didn't get the traditional photo of the five children wearing a new pair of flip-flops courtesy of the Easter Bunny. Not that I'm too bothered about the forgotten photo, but Ellie is. I guess permanent records of 10 flip-flopped feet are a big deal to her. Maybe I'll still get around to the photo one of these days.

The Easter baskets were considered a big hit. Although by bedtime on Sunday night the older three children were one-by-one announcing missing pieces of candy. When the accused thieves were confronted, they were pretty remorseful. I take that back. One denied it, the other hid in his closet crying.

The Easter outfits were incomplete this year. Only the girls were treated to new dresses. Oh well-can't do it all now can I?

I couldn't resist having my children sit in the same spot for their Easter photo as they did 4 years ago. I think I still had some residual, "I can't believe my baby is 4" issues from Drew's birthday the day before.

Our Easter dinner was FABULOUS. A few weeks ago, Megan announced she wanted to do Easter dinner all by herself. She even wanted to buy the groceries!!!!

It was pretty awesome that after church I sat outside enjoying the warm sun, while Megan stayed inside fixing dinner.

Ham (Mike and I assisted with that part), roasted red potatoes, roasted asparagus, tossed green salad with homemade ranch, and a DELICIOUS strawberry torte for dessert.

(Oops, I think I told her I did get a photo of the fully set table filled with the pretty food. Guess I didn't.)

Lest you be thinking that Megan is nothing but a fabulous 14 year old who fixes great Easter dinners, mere hours after accompanying the church congregation on the organ...

remember, she is still 14...
This was the reaction I got earlier when I was trying to take nice Easter sibling photos.

Happy Easter!

My Baby's Birthday

On Saturday my baby turned four years old. FOUR YEARS OLD! Saturday night I held Drew on my lap and told him I will always be thankful to Heavenly Father for sending me Drew as my baby. Drew quickly quipped, "I'm not a baby. I'm FOUR."

There's something about Drew that is different than all the rest. I'm not sure if it is his personality, or his last place position in the family birth order, that has endeared him to each of us. It isn't that we love Drew anymore than the other children, but Mike and I did lay in bed on Saturday night trying hard to put into words what it is about Drew that seems so different than the rest. I think this is why: 

A mother's body remembers her babies--the folds of soft flesh, the softly furred scalp against her nose. Each child has its own entreaties to body and soul. It's the last one, though, that overtakes you. I can't dare say I loved the others less, but my first three were all babies at once, and motherhood dismayed me entirely...

But the last one: the baby who trails her scent like a flag of surrender through your life when there will be no more coming after--oh, that's love by a different name. She is the babe you hold in your arms for an hour after she's gone to sleep. If you put her down in the crib, she might wake up changed and fly away. So instead you rock by the window, drinking the light from her skin, breathing her exhaled dreams. Your heart bays to the double crescent moons of closed lashes on her cheeks. She's the one you can't put down."

~Barbara Kingsolver

The quote is from the book, The Poisonwood Bible. (Which incidentally happens to be among the most boring books I've ever read.)

Drew had a simple birthday. I threw out all the motherhood guilt of him being my only 4 year old that wasn't having a friend/themed party, and the fact I wasn't making him an actual "Curious George" cake as he initially requested.

Drew gets to fall asleep in our bed each night (so he and Joshua don't get too wild together), and each night Mike and I gaze at him a little longer than we ever would have done with babies one through four. And when it is my turn to carry Drew down the hall to his bed, I hold him longer than I ever would have held any of the others. There are definite trade-offs to getting themed parties as the other children did.

Instead of a party, we went to the zoo. Drew was convinced the over-active animals at the zoo (a roaring tiger,  swinging monkeys and even an elephant that did balancing tricks!) were celebrating his birthday with him, and was frequently heard to say such things as, "I think the tiger is saying 'Happy Birthday' to me."

The anticipation of his non-birthday party was high, and resulted in an emergency text sent to the two party attendees (Nana and Grandpa) stating to come sooner than the previously arranged time, as Drew couldn't really wait any longer.

Drew is definitely a quirky child. He thinks the tiger at the zoo wished him a happy birthday and he's convinced the monkeys on his cake sang to him. But like I told Drew on Saturday night, I'm so happy to be his mother. I love him.

(Well worth 32 seconds of your time.)

Being Friendly Has a Price

Years ago I lived in a neighborhood where a particular neighbor turned the other way whenever I drove by. I tried to be friendly and wave, but more often than not, I waved to a back-side. It bugged me.

Another neighbor I have had always waved. Didn't matter if they were bent over a car trunk unloading groceries, or if they were carrying a baby on a hip AND rolling in a garbage can, they found a way to wave whenever I passed by. You'd think after the years I spent waving to another neighbor's back-side, I would enjoy the friendly waves of this over-zealous waving neighbor. I didn't. It still bugged me.

(Maybe I have waving issues? Actually, we won't go there. Mike on more than one occasion has accused me of "pretending not to see people." His accusations may or may not be accurate.)

For the most part though, I wave.

Apparently, I need to teach Luke that sometimes it is okay NOT to wave. Especially while riding a motor scooter. Next time he is on his motor scooter (which won't be for a while), a courteous smile, perhaps with a slight nod of his head for some added politeness will be sufficient to greet passer-bys.

I'm a little disheartened to think, that me, a "may or may not selectively see and wave at people type gal", has a son who politely and courteously waved at a passing neighbor, and now has a broken wrist as a result.

Waving and motor scooters obviously don't mix.

(Third cast on his left arm, second red one, all in the month of March of different years, different bones, different reasons.)

For the record, I am paying a "royalty" to Luke for disclosing the real cause of his injury. He told me if I blogged about it, I needed to "Make up a better story like, I hit a rock on the sidewalk or something. Otherwise you should pay me per sentence."

Apparently when you are 11 years old, it is less embarrassing to crash if you hit a rock, than to crash for waving to a middle-aged woman.

Poor Luke.

My Poor Head

(blurry-but so cute--photo courtesy of Joshua?)

Last week I had a killer headache, it was awful. I could barely walk or function, and spent the majority of the day on the couch. A couple of people asked me what I thought caused it, I think I know the answer.

I read this statistic recently, "A preschool-age child requires a mother's attention once every four minutes, or 210 times per day."

That statistic alone tells me why I am repeatedly telling Mike that I think the older I've gotten the more attention deficit I have become. It's my children's fault!

I have had (at least) one pre-schooler home with me for 14 1/2 years. Which broken down means, I have been interrupted about 210 times a day for 14 1/2 years. Which further broken down means, I have been interrupted 1,111,425 times in the last 14 + years of my life.

And people actually wondered why I had a headache?

A Glorified Fork

I AM not a fan of school projects. Remember the days of Megan and her Science Fair projects? I can't stand projects that require more involvement from the parent than the student.

For the last couple of weeks, I have heard Megan talk about a particular project. Every time it seemed it went in one ear, out the other. At the same time, I was vaguely aware of the neighbor girl and a friend spending hours and days working on a project together. (The dad even coming to borrow a saw from Mike.) See? That is my point. If a project requires a POWER TOOL is it probably a little beyond a "student project."

Regardless. Last Thursday night, I finally began to process what exactly Megan had been talking about for days almost 3 weeks.

"Science class"
"Big project"
"Grape smasher"
"7 different machines or systems"
"Due on Monday"

Wait! What?

"It's due on Monday and today is 8pm on a Thursday night?" I ask, with a less than kind tone.
"Ummmm yes. I have been talking about it for weeks, " came Megan's quiet reply.

"Talking about it, isn't the same as doing it. Call Grandpa," came my reply in the same less than kind tone.

While I picked up fresh fruit in the produce section of the grocery store late on Thursday evening. Megan was on the phone requesting my dad's help for her project for 2 hours on Saturday afternoon.

It became much longer than a 2 hour project, and ended up with my dad saying, "It was actually really fun." (After the part where he asked a somewhat rhetorical question, which echoed my sentiments of STUDENT INVOLVED PROJECTS vs PARENT INVOLVED projects. To preserve his innocence, I'll refrain from putting the exact question he asked on here.)

My dad is an engineer, and very smart. So Megan and Grandpa's "Grape Smasher" ended up being pretty top-notch.

Yes, you read that right. The assignment was to make a grape smasher.
I personally would have told her to take a fork. Last time I checked it smashes grapes perfectly fine.

Hours later, with a concerned Drew that his truck was never going to be returned to him, and children gathering to watch, grapes were smashed on the sidewalk.

I must add, that while Megan was gone for hours and I was worrying about my dad spending all his Saturday on a silly school project, Mike asked more than once, "I could have helped her, but nobody asked me."

But then when Mike watched a grape smash before his eyes, he confirmed with 100% clarity that I had been absolutely correct in saying, "Call Grandpa."