love according to andrew

a conversation

me, nursing the baby while andrew does homework at the kitchen table: "Porter always wants me to kiss the bottoms of his feet while I nurse him."

andrew, without looking up: "well, you love him, so why don't you just do it." and a nonchalant little shrug.

i have the most interesting conversations with a little boy who is just about to turn six.

thoughts i keep coming back to

I keep a private blog of our family life, and was looking through it the other day when I found this post from early 2008. That was when I was in the throes of sleep training and heated sibling rivalry (one-sided, as Andrew had a hard time accepting his first little brother). I feel I have developed as a mother in many ways (though we never made much headway on the sleep issue; now it seems funny to me that i even seriously tried), mainly in that I am less anxious about some of the behaviors because I realize so much is just a stage rather than a personality disorder, but some of the thoughts still resonate with me so much. And some are even sadder now because the chapter has closed a bit on that phase of my parenting with Andrew, to whom these paragraphs were addressed. (Andrew, 11 mo on Middle East trip)

You have been repeating many of the things that i say. One thing I hear echoed back at me is: "Its too late. Too late!" I do say that to you when I give you a chance to comply and you don't until after I have already let that fateful "three!" fall from my lips. But I am also realizing that it applies to a lot more than just whether you get your LIghtnings back.

Soon it will be too late to have these days of a 2 1/2 year old boy who adores me and a tiny little baby back again. Too late to cuddle iwth you on the couch. Too late to have you want to sit in my lap and listen to stories. Too late to teach you gentleness through gentleness. Too late to show you that you are loved, that you are capable. Too late to enjoy our days together.

I realize that all is not lost and that I can (and do, I hope) show you that you are loved and are capable and that we are a happy family. But I also realize that these things will not automatically happen, that I can possibly waste teh days of my probation as a mom, that I can miss out on the chance to bond with you, to help you grow into a happy and productive adult, someone with confidence. It happens all the time, doesn't it? And no one intends for that to happen. We all go into this parenting thing so well-meaning.

You know, I really don't know what I am doing here, in this parenting thing. It is all a big experiment, every day, every struggle. I am guessing at what the correct method of handling a prescribed situation is, and I think you don't realize how lost I sometimes feel, how lucky and grateful I feel when something I have dreamed up seems to work.

It is still an experiment, and now that I have entered the Elementary School Phase of parenthood, I have a whole new curve to navigate. Back to School Night tonight was interesting for many reasons, one of them being the opportunity to see the different types of parents. I don't think I am much of a Tiger Mom, unless becoming grouchy counts. I just want my kids to be interested in the world, and confident in their ability to seek out and pursue the things they love. I am so glad to have the Gospel in our lives to help me in my efforts.

Despite all my mistakes and fumblings, we have had such a happy little time together. Remember?

september i remember babies once new have now grown old

Old enough for school, at least. Well, just Andrew. Will is doing a year of a home preschool co-op with some other moms, and I think it is going to be perfect. Andrew in his uniform, Porter in an outfit Andrew used to wear at that age. I bought it in Salt Lake City and it feels like 2 years ago.There actually was a really sweet moment just after I captured this one where the boys were all embracing one another, but this is what I have.
The water fountain is a big deal among these guys.
I think, despite how much I long to swipe his hair back off his forehead, that this photo really captures how he was feeling: excited and nervous.
We sneeked back to peek in on him. This is the back of his little head at his table.
I was so consumed with taking photos and being on time etc that I didn't feel my goodbye hug and kiss was meaningful enough. After he went in, I wanted to snatch him back for a big long tight squeeze. But it was too late. I cried on the drive home and avoided looking at the baby pictures of him around the basement. Three o'clock came surprisingly fast.

the importance of being andrew

After finishing The Help (it was fine but not a book I will read again), I was inspired by one of the character's childcare tactics and began replicating it in my home. Every night I have the children repeat to me: "I am good. I am kind. I am loved," and so on. Andrew sighs when he does it, but I still think he likes it even if it embarrasses him. The other day I teasingly incorporated it into my instruction that they apply bug spray (to their kind, sweet, important selves). Andrew looked at me and said,

"Mom, I am not important."

My heart drops. I have abused and mistreated my firstborn!

"Yes, Andrew, you are important. You are very important!"

"Yes, ok, I know that I am important *to you,*" (he actually stressed that part) "but it is not like I am . . . in the military or something."

I chose that moment to talk to him about how God has a plan for him (I didn't mention that He has a plan for everyone--that can come in its own time), and that he will learn more about that plan as he grows. He was very excited to hear that we know some of it already from his baby blessing. I wished that we could talk more about people's destinies in light of the brilliance of Harry Potter, but we are only on book 2.

But you know what else you are, Andrew, aside from being important? Pretty darn sophisticated, to objectively see your importance relative to the world. I can think of a few politicians who could benefit from a similar sense of self.

to the dutch-german matron who saved my life, if i had your address i would write you a thank you note which my dad would end up having to mail for me

August seems to know that its time has come. It has felt like early fall all week here in Virginia, and when Porter and I went outside to feel the wind and see the pre-hurricane (Irene) rainfall for ourselves, it was pleasantly chilly. But I am sad to see summer go this year. Its end marks the beginning of Phase 2, the Elementary School Years, in this household, and I am not sure I am ready yet. Emotionally.

Yesterday when I went to the store because we were all out of milk, and also I felt a bit of social pressure to somehow get ready for the hurricane, I saw people in my neighborhood unloading cases of food and supplies. We have a gas stove, a gas grill outside and plenty of canned goods, including Will's formula and supplies. I am just not that worried. The kids are always making off with our flashlights so I had a passing whim in the store to pick up another, or maybe just batteries, but after a brief and futile look-out down the aisles I let it go. We can make it through an evening and figure something out, if it even comes to that. I have such trouble pinning down all the little things in life, but I realize that all those little things add up, and on those little things turn so many of the big, obvious ones that sometimes I wonder how I even ended up where I am, having done any of the things I have managed to get done.

I was at the pool recently and suddenly remembered an event from last summer that I had intended to record because it meant so much to me at the time, but of course last summer was so awful and overwhelming at the time, though now I associate it mostly with losing my reality in endless episodes of Veronica Mars, baking multiple peach cobblers and spending as much times as I could devote to nursing Porter that it has taken on a warm and comforting haze that my nostalgia-itis (probably foruntately) glazes over everything once it gets a few miles behind me. It is funny how I am now okay with admitting how hard last summer was, when at the time I was pretty ashamed that I couldn't manage my life barely at all. Yesterday, my dad was carrying groceries into my house over my objections that his leg, which has been really troubling him lately, should not take such strain. "I am not the kind of person who can sit by and watch others work," was his reply, and I really admire people like that and want to be that person myself, and that remark is the best way I can think at this moment (and I only have this moment0 to explain how embarrassing it was to me to be the farthest from that person I could possibly have been last summer.

So last summer I took the kids to a pool in Fairfax so I could do a monthly visit with some women from my church. I was slightly worried about Will's continence in the pool because, though he had been solidly potty-trained some months previous, he was just in bad shape health-wise and I never knew what might happen. You might think that I would have put a swim diaper on him, and I would have if I had one, but of course I didn't and obviously I couldn't ask to borrow one since that would inconvenience someone almost as much as it would inconvenience a whole bunch of people if he pooped in the pool. Which he did. Still, if I could change one thing about that day it would not be the diaper situation (for that would have meant I would not have met St. German Lady), but the fact that I stupidly admitted that it was my kid who caused the damage, rather than just identify some anonymous poop in the water.

Somehow I get Will into the ladies' bathroom to wash up, but I have a 2 month old who is screaming and squirming and I have nowhere to put him. I am struggling to get Will's disgusting and soiled suit off of him and the poop is spilling out the side and I wish I just had someone to hold the baby, when this Woman comes over to me. She is everything you imagine when you think of a 60 year young, strong, tall German matron. I think she was even topless. I had caught her mid-some act of practicality and purpose, but when she saw something else needed to be done she wasted no time on the extraneous. She took Will's suit off, picked up--bare-handed-- the poop that had fallen onto the floor and disposed of it, then washed Will out (again, with her bare hand and soap from a dispenser). Then she took his suit and washed it out in the sink with soap until it dripped with fresh-and-cleanness. She did it all in about 3 minutes. She was wonderful and I wanted to cry with gratitude. I wish she was a character in my life, but I just got her for those few minutes and then she was gone.

We went back to the pool where I pretended that Will's swim diaper had simply leaked rather than admit it had not existed. The rest of the day was unremarkable, and all I could think about was that wonderful lady. I am bogged down in my own life, with my own issues and my kids' various needs, but I am going to find a way to be that lady. Except for the bare-handed poop disposal, part. I mean, getting a paper towel wouldn't have been too extraneous to the effort. Though, I admit, she would have lost points for style.

St. German Matron, wherever you are, our paths crossed so briefly, but I will never forget you.

happy father's day

To the only man who will still love you even after you step all over him. Dads are the best.

We had a low-key father's day this year. As much as I really believe in celebrating each occasion with as much fan fare possible, I am just so tired these days. When Porter stops waking up every few hours I will stop making excuses. I tried to make a little photo/video montage, but my lack of knowledge impeded my intentions. Because Brigham is the nicest husband and dad, or because he is used to me, he didn't mind. A mushroom and onion omlette for breakfast and some hand-made cards summed up our celebration of the most important man in our lives. Dinner at my parents' house (speaking of Father's day and another man of huge importance in our lives) followed by flashlight hide and seek in the house

As for the photo above, that picture was taken today, in fact. I had wanted to get a shot of all the boys in a pile with their dad on Father's day, but by the time we got the flash working (ie Brigham got it working for me), Will had found a new perch. Brigham took it lying down.

365 days of porter

I may say this every year for the rest of my life, but this was the fastest year ever. I worry that I failed to capture all the moments and milestones photographically, and I fear that Porter did not receive all the attention that his older brothers both enjoyed at the same age. In fact, when I look back over last summer I am surprised to realize that Porter was alive at that time. Isn't that terrible? I was so caught up in Will's issues that I think both Andrew and Porter were shifted a bit to the side. They can discuss it in-depth one day from the comfort of the therapist's couch; be it known that I did my unmedicated best.

Now for the details only his mother will care about.

At a year, you had four-going-on-six teeth. Two top front and bottom, and the two canines growing in. You were 19 lbs 9 oz, 10th % for weight and 75% for height. (This despite my obsession with calories and access to milk. I just have small kids!).

You began walking at 11 months, one week. You first walked in your bedroom, to Andrew. We do have that on tape.

You clap, kiss, hug and wave, spontaneously and on command. You say "dada" and "Bah!" (for bye). You point every time you see something interesting (in your world this usually consists of dogs, cats, birds or the bunny family that shares our yard) and exclaim either "dah! or "cah!" (exclusive to cats, whereas everything else is a Dah!).

You love to dance, and do so whenever any music plays, when someone sings, or if you speak or rhyme in a certain way. You've got rhythm. You are the only child in the household who can play the recorder without damaging our eardrums, too. I am very proud of our little rendition of Mary Had A Little Lamb. You provide the wind and I provide the fingers, and together we can play most anything.

You love to climb. It is pretty horrible. You have been "death climbing" (Andrew's term) on the steps since well before me moved into our new house in March. You have moved on to climbing up ladders and even on top of our 24 inch backless counter stool. I looked over in the kitchen and there you were, standing straight up on that slippery smooth stool, ready for a concussion.

Why no, he is not yet sleeping through the night, thanks for asking. But he is down to one nap a day. He is usually a great little table companion, feeding himself from the food dumped on his tray. He prefers to use a fork of his own. He likes black beans, blueberries, melons, noodles, cheese (shredded or stick) and peas. He will eat meat that is shredded. He prefers sippy cups with built-in straws (which is what I use exclusively with Will). Porter loves to blow bubbles with his milk and then dump a bunch out through the pin hole on the lid. I know he will do this, but I let him have the cups anyway. A combination of maternal exhaustion and my eternally springing hope that this time will be different.

Porter, you just love to be tenderly rubbed. If someone strokes your face or neck, you will immediately freeze to soak up the sensation.

Your favorite things to do are play catch (though in your version you hand-deliver the ball to me), bite the ends off of your brother's nerf darts, and direct toy cars around in the floor. You love to go outside and crawl around. You insist on getting rides on Will's scooter and have tried to insist on riding Andrew's bike but I draw my line at physical impossibility.

You love ice-cream and it seemed only right (and delicious and easy) for your birthday cake to be a BR ice cream cake.

You also love the tub and will go wild in it every single night. If I were prone to worrying about anything besides kidnapping, I would worry that you would injure yourself with your stunts. You once tried to climb up the far corner, fell and became completely submerged. Before I could do anything, you flipped over under the water and pushed yourself to the surface. You didn't even cry. If I mention the tub or bath, you will immediately begin miming splashing and then will begin chirping away. I cannot characterize the sounds you make as really anything other than chirps.

Having witnessed countless wrestling matches btwn his brothers and dad, Porter is ever-ready for a fight. When the mood strikes him, he will lumber over to one of his brothers and launch and attack. He even does it with a little baby roar.

Since Will won't be reading this post, it is safe to admit here that Porter has a preference for his oldest brother. Port, you just love Andrew and always wants to play with him.

Port-Pie, in a year that was otherwise the most difficult and stressful of my life (and I am counting high school in that), you were a ray of sunshine. A ray that would not stop shining, right in my sleepless eyes even at 3 am, but a ray none the less. I love you and I know I am so blessed to get to be your mom. I make a lot of mistakes, but I think you might be tough enough to survive anyway.

Love always,

Mom

my new (quick, easy, delish) pizza pie

not my pizza. but in case you needed a visual.
Friday Night Movie Nights usually means ordering Dominos, but tonight I made the best homemade pizza I have ever had. I have terrible luck with homemade pizza crust. It is usually tasteless and not a great texture. And it usually involves hours of rising. I found a recipe that looked like it would fit my time constraints, kept my expectations low and made a few easy modifications. Here is the original recipe with my modifications parenthetically:

1 package active dry yeast or 2-ish teaspoons
1 teaspoon white sugar (I put 2 1/2 tsp sugar)
1 cup warm water (not hot)
2 1/2 cups flour (I added 1 tsp gluten and mixed well. I think this was the biggest improvement to the recipe)
2 tablespoons olive oil (I added an extra T olive oil)
1 teaspoon salt
optional - herbs, fresh or dried, olives etc (didn't have any, but I did shake some oregano on the cheese before baking)

Preheat oven to 450 degrees F (230 degrees C).
In a medium bowl, dissolve yeast and sugar in warm water. Let stand until creamy, about 10 minutes.
If adding any dried or fresh herbs etc add to the oil to ensure a good dispersion through the crust.
Stir in flour, salt and oil to yeast mix. Stir until combined. Let rest for 5 minutes.
Turn dough out onto a lightly floured surface and pat or roll into a round.
Transfer crust to a lightly greased pizza pan or oven tray dusted with cornmeal or flour.
Spread with desired toppings and bake in preheated oven for 15 to 20 minutes, or until golden brown.
**I sometimes make with half plain flour and half wholemeal.
**Dough can be left (post mixing) for half an hour to ensure a thinner crust (I cut and pasted this line from the original page, but I don't understand why leaving it post-mixing would yield a thinner crust. I did not let it rise at all (beyond the 5 min in the bowl) and it was a nice fluffy crust with a crisp bottom.)

I also discovered that we had no sauce, so I modified a homemade pasta sauce. Here is the original link: http://smittenkitchen.com/2010/01/tomato-sauce-with-butter-and-onions/
To that I added a small can of tomato paste, discovered that made it bitter so then added a tsp or two of sugar, some parm shake cheese and a bit of dried Italian herbs until it tasted right. I cooked the sauce for like 15 minutes on a fast little boil.

Covered everything in mozz and cheddar (and added the onions from the pasta sauce). I baked it on a pizza stone, which is an absolute must if you want to enjoy homemade pizza.

Will informed me that the smell of the pizza made him sick, and Andrew rejected it after a bite, but I maintain that this is good pizza. Brigham admitted that he was sad when he saw the remains on the stone, believing himself to be in for a night of soggy cardboard tastelessness but changed his tune. During my interrogation of him re the pizza, he said that it was the best homemade pizza he has had and if it were served at a restaurant people would like it. Admittedly, Brigham is no gourmand (his primary goal in eating is "to get full"), but I liked it, and at the end of the day, that is all that matters.

pearls

I had a friend in college whose high school English teacher nicknamed Pearl because every time my friend opened his mouth, the teacher explained, a pearl of wisdom dropped out. That story would not have charmed me the same way if 1) my friend were not a guy and 2) not a total socialist/anarchist/misanthrope who was also very funny but in a quiet and overlooked kind of way. But even after all those years (and it has been far too many) I cannot help but think of that little anecdote every time I feel I have stumbled upon my own pearl of wisdom. Most of my pearls are really obvious ones that others consider simply common sense parts of their ways and days, but I am alas laboring at the base of my organizational/parenting/acting like an adult pyramid and treasure other people's basic essentials.

Today Andrew refused, once again, to get out of bed. We were so late to school that we were almost also late to Will's first day of soccer practice which started an hour after Andrew's school did (and which I wanted to skip because it is outside and way too cold but that cursed little thing is so smart and remembered that I had told him the other day that he would start soccer on Wed and he got dressed in a track suit that would be "the perfect outfit to wear!" to his event. So we went. And the practice ended with bubble blowing, just saying.) I get so frustrated with Andrew over his inability to just get up and get dressed in a reasonable amount of time. Suddenly it came to me like a bolt of lighting that he just needed to go to bed way earlier (see paragraph above, final sentence). I put him in bed by 8 most nights but there are plenty of nights in there where I let him stay up to see Brigham or to cram in a reading lesson or extra reading time, because those things are important. But not, I realized this morning, as important as him getting enough rest to awake by 8 without the terrible trouble we experience most mornings.

So I decided this morning that he would go to bed very early tonight. Yes, it started out as a punishment, but then I saw the real wisdom in it. Simply by making his bedtime a rigid point on the clock, regardless of other circumstances, we could start out our days on the right foot for everyone. How easy, and yet it took me so long to figure out this simple solution to a chronic (really, daily) problem. At 7:30 tonight both boys were in bed and the baby was on his way. And an image of Mel Gibson with blue face paint and long hair immediately flooded my mind.

Another pearl I discovered this week was how to take a big step forward with Will's eating troubles. My friend was talking with me about it and she caused me to have a real breakthrough. Again, it should have been so obvious to me already, but I think I was sort of lost in a forest of too much medical information. No doctors have really thought, at this point, that Will had a medical condition causing him to refuse to eat. "If I have to give a name, I call it: Sensitive Boy Syndrome," my Thai pediatric GI concluded happily. But my friend had witnessed little Will vomit twice in as many days after willingly eating a very minimal amount of food and some of her remarks and observations led to me reexamine the conclusion that there is nothing medically wrong with Will. I knew that Will suffered from chronic stomach irritation caused by excessive acid in his stomach, but that was the only physical symptom ever found, and it was sort of ignored by the doctors. But the fact was that Will told me his stomach hurt when he eats and that his tummy tells him to stop. There is just no way to train a kid to eat when it hurts his body to do so. He is not some 16 year old cheerleader trying to lose weight; he is a little boy who has struggled since he was a baby. All the clues seemed to point to GERD. I began feeding him a special GERD diet (unfortunately it is a low-fat diet in addition to being low-acid) and he has gone from vomiting every other day and refusing food at all meals to eating mostly normal sized meals and drinking all his milk (6 oz). I will see what the doctor thinks on Friday.

One big failure of mine is that I have not been faithfully keeping a food journal for Will. I have a lot of excuses (we moved, I have a baby to care for, meal times are hectic and overwhelming etc) but the bottom line is that none of them are good enough to pardon it. I just need to do it.

It made me think about how my dad said that in the Marine Corps there are no justifiable reasons for failing to accomplish a task. You were either too lazy or too stupid and you were forced to admit to which. He has basically lived his life according to that principle, and once taught a Priesthood lesson on home-teaching using the too lazy-too stupid concept. The men tried to come up with a circumstance in which their home teaching neglect could be something other than their being too lazy or dumb, but at the end of the day the only justifiable reason was coma or death. What a great lesson, and my dad is a great guy to teach it since he happens to be a very nice person who everyone likes. They probably felt shocked that he told them they were too lazy or stupid to do their hometeaching, but I guess it was okay because he just made them see it (and say it) for themselves. Pearl. It still makes me laugh to think of some of the exchanges that went down in that lesson (my dad wrote me about it on my mission) and how my dad would ask, after being told that the failed home teacher explained that he was in the hospital, whether he didn't pick up the phone and call because he was too stupid to think of it or too lazy to do it. Double pearl!

I count it also as a pearl to realize that for me most of the time my stupidity and laziness are rivers that flow from the same ocean. Or into the same ocean. Or something like that. You know, symbiotic etc etc etc.

I am reading a parenting book that is going to change our lives and my children's future therapy needs. Brigham says that these books I read are just common sense, which is true. But common sense so easily flies out the window when everyone is naked, the house is a wreck and I am late. Basically, the bottom line is that as the parent you need to remain in control of your kids, in control of the situation and in control of yourself. If you lose self-control, you have lost the battle already. This is not new to me, but I need constant refreshers. This week, week the first after reading From Chaos to Calm, has been a really good one. It has been good to just look at each problem and trouble shoot it without letting the significance of why or what it will lead to spin out of control. Andrew is a pain in the morning, so put him to bed earlier and move on. No need to yell or get angry, just need to get him more time to sleep. Also, I need more time to sleep.

Well, it is nine o'clock which means I better go grocery shopping! Seriously. "But that's okay!" (Will's signature line circa 2009). It occurred to me today that Andrew's "I have a nice idea!" bit has fallen out of his phraseology. Sad. On the bright side, does that mean he will soon forget that unfortunate word I used in front of him that one time(s)?

happy birthday, john updike

I suppose it is strange to miss someone you have never met and to actually feel a little sweep of loneliness at the thought that this unmet person is not experiencing this weather, hearing these current events, just existing as part of this world with you, but that is how I feel about John Updike. I don't love all his books (I have actually only read a small handful), but his poetry and short stories are among my favorite.

Yesterday my dad helped me transfer a lovely dresser that my mom's dad had built for my uncle probably 50 years ago. Because it was hand-made and therefore the drawers could not be interchanged, each drawer had someone's (Papa's, probably) handwritten instruction as to which chest the drawer belonged (he had built three identical) and in which order it belonged. "Philip #2."

I liked that Papa could speak to me across time, though he never meant it like that and I am imbuing a sentimentality entirely inappropriate both for my relationship with him (there was not much of one) and the actual sentiment expressed. It was only telling me which drawer went where, after all, not some life guidance from the grave ("Marry for love!").

I hate that word (grave.) I don't like to think about things like that, probably because I do it way too much. I combat these thoughts with hobbies and frivolties about decorating or crafting, and I realize even as I write this that I don't really believe that those things are totally frivolous. Despite the fairly communist aesthetic I maintained for most of my life (that anything decorative was a waste of money and time), I have come to feel the opposite. Beauty isn't wasteful and materialistic (well, I guess it can be in extremes); it uplifts people's spirits and imbues the ordinary with a sense of . . . . well, happiness, I guess. It is just the way we humans respond. And now that I have children of my own and carry around this heavy sense that I am responsible for creating their little universe of childhood, I want all of that weather to be perfect. I want to make each event special, each day happy and light, so these color choices and flowers and meals and special little birthday signs or plates, they all matter. Maybe too much, I will one day look back and see. But I am working in my here and now and this is what my sense of things tells me to do.

But regardless of the fact that the dresser was made by a man I didn't know all that well and whose handwritten numerical ordering splashes me with a dose of sentimentality that is silly, I take a sense of happiness in knowing that little Porter has a dresser that was made by his great-grandfather and that people can be connected and remembered in these small ways far beyond what they ever would have imagined for things done for an entirely different purpose. Just like my flowers or birthday plate or whatever.

Which, I totally realize, is all the more reason for me to eliminate yelling and anger from the sounds of this little world I am trying to create for the boys. Yes, I suppose cutting out the yelling should take precedence, but we do what we can, right?

I often have compared my sentiments about Updike with those for Papa. I think that in the end, and for different reasons entirely, I miss them in rather the same way.

Missy asked us all to choose our favorite Updike poem to share and though I only read it for the first time today, I do think it is my favorite. It is one of those that heightens my sense of loss that his heartbeat isn't part of the massive throng down here. Sometimes I read things and think that writing is within my grasp, with enough work and time and effort. But every time I read Updike, I see that real writing is impossibly beyond me.

One size fits all. The shape or coloration
of the god or high heaven matters less
than that there is one, somehow, somewhere, hearing
the hasty prayer and chalking up the mite
the widow brings tot eh temple, A child
alone with horrid verities cries out
for there to be a limit, a warm wall
whose stones give back an answer, however faint.

Strange, the extravagance of it--who needs
those eighteen-armed black Kalis, those musty saints
whose bones and bleeding wounds appall good taste,
those joss sticks, houris, gilded Buddhas, books
Moroni etched in tedious detail?
We do; we need more worlds. This one will fail.

lucky seven

upon the occassion of our seventh anniversary

I met Brigham a few months after explicitly committing myself to a fairly formulaic dating regime. Essentially, I decided to quit dating men that were not, in my dad's word, "marriageable." Nice and funny were not enough any more; I needed someone who was serious about a real career, someone who could be a spiritual leader to me without being off-putting or judgmental of the little things like that I had to stop reading the Book of Mormon every day because the thought of a lifetime of perpetual rounds of reading the same thing that was not Harry Potter was just too much at one point, someone who was steady in mood, reliable and responsible. As someone whose favorite movie is Clear and Present Danger, I consulted my feelings for Jack Ryan and knew the truth: I need a man to whose back I could strap myself to be lifelessly carried through all of life's travails (and I am a feminist)
Our first date was to see the Mormon Short-Film Festival at the Provo Library. (During which we saw a clip of Napoleon Dynamite, a movie to which our reaction was identical in a way that is bizarrely important to me--we loved it the first time, wondered what we liked so much about it the second time, and back to love the third. Very bonding.) I barely knew the guy, but the activity selection gave me a positive impression. He may not remember this part, but even the conversation we had at my carell about the prospect of the Film Festival was perfect. He just got me, and I got him, and that was all there was to it.

The date was great and was followed by a series of other very impressive dates to such places as midnight runs to the Provo Hospital cafeteria (best milkshake in town!) and breakfast for dinner at Cracker Barrel (still a favorite, and I thought I hated the place). He was everything on my list, and, though I tried to not place too much emphasis on it, he was funny, too.

Brigham, meanwhile, didn't have a list. But he made one about me. After dropping me off at the conclusion of that first date, he enthusiastically punched the ceiling of the car in which we would later take our first born son home from the hospital for finally finding the type of girl he was looking for. (This still gets him a lot of credit from me). He wrote down in his notebook two things that he liked about me. Neither of us can remember the first (I think it was that I was an easy laugh) and the second was some observation I made about one of the film shorts. I liked that he was thinking like that.

As helpful as my list was to eliminating prospects that were not going to be right for me, in the end it just came down to a gut-check. After all, there are lots of guys who are serious and fun and kind and spiritual and smart. I knew and cared for a few. It got quite confusing, truly. The list could only take me so far. My heart took me to Brigham. I'm so glad I listened.

a blog post about today in 5 minutes or less

After grilling me on my failure to provide proper materials with which he could build a real, working computer, Andrew declared his intention to build a computer for himself and for his wife when he grows up. "Will you build one for me, too, Andrew?"

"Sure. If you are still alive."

Brigham called to say goodnight to the boys and thought Will was Andrew. He is getting so big.

Porter looks downright fat these days. I feel an acute sense of personal accomplishment. I wish I could get a second chance with Will. That was what I thought about when I nursed Porter this morning.

I still haven't purchased a satisfactory gift for Brigham. The guy is hard to shop for.

Andrew told me and Will this morning that he loved Will with all his heart and that Will was his best friend. It makes Will feel so good.

Will loves his Uncle Agustine and has somehow picked up his uncle's habit of misusing the prhase "I promise." They both seem to think that it denotes a passionate emotion about something. For example, they both will promise you that they would like to go out to dinner (well, Will probably won't be making promises about that, yet). Will was making lots of promises today about wanting to read a book, play in the basement and take a bath. Will, this phrase you keep using, I do not think it means what you think it means. I promise you.

At bedtime tonight, Andrew told me that he didn't want any "songs and rubs" (we rub his feet while singing a medley of the same 3-5 songs). He said it was because he is trying to get out of that habit and get used to going straight to bed. I thought I was waiting all my life to hear that come out of his mouth, but I insisted on songs and rubs, anyway. It was just yesterday that we were locking him in his little two-year old room at bedtime while he sobbed on the other side of the door and said things like, "I just want to hold you so much!" What he wanted, really, was for us to lay in his bed with him all night, or at least until he fell asleep.

Will, on the other hand, told me, after I pulled his finger from his nose, that he "{is} trying to get out of that habit." It was such a cute thing to say that I don't mind a little more nosepicking if he will talk about it like that.

I got Pillars of the Earth from the library over a week ago and have read only one sentence. What is my problem? And I still think about These Is My Words. I wish it had a different title.

a dust of snow

the way a crow
shook down on me
a dust of snow from a lilac tree
has given my heart a change of mood
and save some part
of a day i rued.

r. frost
(i may have misquoted here or there but am too lazy to double check).

We had an unexpected (for me) little dusting of snow. It stuck to the streets and sidewalks, but not so much on the grass. I was a little bit worried about road conditions for picking them up from school (now that I call Will's Joy School a "playdate" he is happy to attend. Wish I figured that out a few months ago.). But not worried enough to actually pick them up early.

The boys have gone out in the snow twice. It is nice that they are old enough to do that without requiring my presence. I hate the cold and luckily Porter provides me with a good excuse for ushering them out alone.

Will was desperate to wear boots like Andrew, but had outgrown last year's (which were also the year before that year's boots, too). So he settled for one rain boot (I couldn't find the other) and one too large light up sneaker. Andrew wore a ginormous snowsuit that I couldn't believe I had ever purchased. I don't think it is featured here, though, since he wore it during round 2 only.

They were so happy. It has been a nice, cozy day.

I burned lunch taking these not-so-great photos. They are headed out once again right now while I finish up ordering all our Christmas gifts off the internet and bumble around with a tiny bumble bee.

I think we did it right this year for the boys. On the advice of my friend, whose advice I unflinchingly and unfailingly follow (except on political issues) told me that this was the best item she has ever purchased for her kids. She bought it last Christmas and leaves it out in the open in the basement almost all the time. While some of the novelty has worn off, they use it almost every day. Even Andrew can operate it (Will is close), so I think it is going to be a hit with all of us.

another reason to love shutterfly

So I have yet to even make our Christmas cards this year. Shocking, I know. I also only shower sporadically and have taken to employing my old college trick of washing the top of my head and bangs area so as to appear clean(er). (I was very popular with the boys!)

But I digress.

The point is that shutterfly has a promotion where you can receive 50 free cards if you advertise for them on your blog, which provides a subject matter rather more interesting than any I write about these days, so here it is. Though I am writing this to get the promotion, I am only saying it like it really is.
Honestly, I think that the site has a ton of really cute designs. The hardest part about using the site was to simply choose which card among many I liked. Although I sometimes want to throw in the towel on Christmas cards, I do love the tradition of sending greetings out to friends far and long. I always keep a copy for myself and it has been sweet collecting our yearly cards and seeing how our lives have changed each year. It will be nice to have one that I didn't make at costco.

I am getting started on a photo book for our family and a calendar for extended family. I also have a goal to finally create the collage of Andrew's joy school photos for him and the other kids from his class. I saw that shutterfly is offering a sale on their photoshow dvd. I wanted to make a photo book for my parents this Christmas but had given up the cause as lost to incovenience and lack of time, but I saw that I can instead make a much simpler little flip book. In fact, there are a ton of photo-themed gifts on sale. My Christmas gifting just got a lot easier.

Thank you, Shutterfly, for the free cards. I love the internet.

By the way, which of these do you like best for us? Honestly, it is really down to the first two. The third wouldn't allow me to edit out my gut and the bottom one does not have enough photo slots.

my druthers

"I can't even enjoy a blade of grass unless I know there's a subway handy, or a record store or some other sign that people do not totally regret life. It's more important to confirm the least sincere. The clouds get enough attention as it is..."
— Frank O'Hara
I have been haunting the mls for 5 years now, and the time has come that it is really my turn to really get serious. And now that it is here, I am a little bit afraid to act. It is just my way.

The housing market here is rather depressing to those of us who are beggars that cannot be choosers, but if I could choose, these are my druthers:

1) I love a kitchen with white and glass-doored cabinents and dark granite counter tops. I'd love an island with shelves. Subway tile on the walls and stainless, too, please.
Here is the "after" of the kitchen we remodeled ourselves (Brigham was the laborer) in our little bungalow in Salt Lake.

2) A back deck off the kitchen or dining area.
This one is almost a must. We looked at a house that was way too small for us (and the $$), but I could have been foolishly talked into it because of that tiered back deck and fenced, level yard. I want (need) to be able to look out the kitchen window and see the boys playing outside in the back.

3) A front porch.
This one is silly, I know, especially in this part of the country, but my heart is mightily tugged when I see a front porch on a property. Were it not for my more level-headed husband, I would trade a 4th bedroom or a 3rd bath or physical safety for a front porch in just about a second. There was a house in 16th street heights (DC) whose front porch sang a siren song to my soul; Brigham noted that the front porch could fit almost an entire gang of neighborhood thugs.

4) A neighborhood with treelined streets, a bike trail and lots of children for the boys to play with. I am willing to negotiate on the bike trail, if I must.

5) Big windows. Many of them. My mother in law disagrees, pointing out that she does not like "the sun beating down upon [her]" (I loved that conversation!), but I welcome as much abuse as that sun can dish out (in?) through my windows. The better to look at my large, fenced and level backyard where I have locked my children until they get in better moods/get their energy out/are ready to not act like wild animals.

These are my druthers. I will give up a garage (I have never had one in my entire life, anyway); I could do 3 bedrooms if at least one was big enough for the boys to share; I can buy a house that needs to be remodelled (but not added onto); the basement doesn't HAVE to walk out. I don't need a formal dining room, either. Just let me eat in my kitchen, let the light pour in, give me a master bath of my own, keep us on the same level while we sleep, a working fireplace (as many as you can spare), and a garden where I can grow veggies, herbs and flowers and fit a trampoline.

But I try not to dwell upon these prefences too much, though, since at the end of the day the best I can realistically hope for (and which will bring me joy) is a clean, well-lighted place we can call home. Though that means a cleaning service.

it was a red letter day

October 22, 2010: Porter could sit up in the grocery cart seat. Also, I can't wait to tease Andrew about the photographic evidence that he was interested in a barbie doll.

"a small, good thing"

Short stories, in my opinion, are sort of the perfect form for mothers of young kids who want to fit some lit into their lives. The short story for which this post is named (by Raymond Carver) is particularly wonderful (if heartbreaking).

Another thing that I, at least, find very helpful as a mom of very young kids is to record some of the small, good things that happen each day. Probably too overwhelming to be realistic to accomplish, but I need to at least record a few, because there are a few things that keep coming back to my mind. They were so small, but they meant so much, even months and weeks later.

So thank you, Tuckahoe Man, for approaching me in the baby pool just to tell me that you saw me bolusing Will and thought that I had a great, casual attitude about it towards little Will. I know I was awkward, but I really did appreciate you sharing the experience of your friend, whose son also had an ng tube. Thank you for telling me I was doing a great job. I needed to hear that, especially that day.

And thank you, education specialist at Kluge Children's Rehab. Will loved the time he had with you, and it was the time I most looked forward to every day we were there, but what I really want to record is how moved I was that you could finish my sentence about why I had felt so stressed out over the summer with trying to get Will to eat that I became too forceful about it. "You wanted to avoid surgery." That was exactly it. I realize that it must seem so obvious to anyone reading this, but I think it often isn't obvious, especially to all the medical professionals we meet with. You had such a gentle, loving way. You made me feel like I had done well with Will. I wished that I could go over to your house for tea and book club and holidays. Your children, if you have them, are lucky. I must send you a card.

Thank you, Brighten, who was so aptly named, for calling me to keep up with how Will and I were doing. Thank you for praying for him. I know it must seem so small, but it wasn't to me.

Thank you, Brant, for dropping off that wonderful little Batman thank you note to Will. He reads it every night. I am glad you found the truck he gave you to be "beautiful." Likewise to your card.

Boys, try to remember that even in the most stressful times (maybe especially during them?) there are always some small, good things to be found out there.

weekend review in 5 minutes or less

Friday we took down the Halloween decorations (yep) and went in search of our Christmas tree. My instinct to do Whatever Is Most Memorable last year led us to a Christmas Tree Farm in Great Falls where Brigham was supposed to chop down a lovely fir while the boys cheered and watched on enthusiastically. The only part of that that actually took place was that we went to that location. We only found paltry, sickly trees (maybe it was sort of late in the season or something) totally unacceptable to my very tree-discriminating husband. The kids were cold and wanted to go. Still, this is a great photo, no? And the memory is sweeter in its rearview rosy glow.

Friday we ended up at the same Christmas tree stand by Costco where we found last year's tree (whose needles I discovered still persisting in my front door frame. Someone reach out to me!). It was here where the first effects of K&E kicked in, as Brigham chose out a Noble instead of our cheaper stand-by Douglas. The boys could not have been less interested in the tree selection and saw the thicket of chopped trees as a mere backdrop to their game of super secret spies. Brigham tried to get me to relax while they darted around hidden from my view. I tried to track them, hoping I was a better tracker than the predators that constantly surround me, waiting for the least opportunity to snatch my kids and disappear with them forever. I got no photos.

Saturday we took the kids to Cub Run Rec Center. It was a great time and at the end of the night Andrew was profuse in his gratitude. It was "the best night ever!" And he hopes that "we can do that every night!" Brigham's day-long quest to find a ginormous tv that is on sale at costco but sold out, even the floor models, ended in a Chantilly costco where he (thankfully) bought the smaller sale tv. It is still ginormous. He warned me months ago that if he got this new job his first order of business was a new tv (our other has barely survived the 45 moves it has endured since we married). Then we sped home to drop the kids with my super-kind mom who watched them while we went to a packed theatre to see Harry Potter. Katie was in the crowd with us somewhere. (The movie was great, btw!). We came home to discover that my mom had allowed Porter to snort lines of cocaine. He was awake and bumbling around until 2.

Sunday we went to an hour of church and an open house before heading to Old Town to attend my elementary school friend's baby's christening in a gorgeous church. Insert all my typical gushing about the passage of time and not being able to imagine 28 years ago that I would be attending little Ashley Lowery's baby's baptism. Old Town in gorgeous. No photos.

The tree is decorated only to the extent that Andrew "flung" some lights onto the lower left quadrant. The room is filled with boxes of stuff to be put up. I have only managed to arrange the Christmas village, which I recently bought at the local thrift.

my new go-to meal

In the five minutes left to me between finishing my dinner (the inspiration for this post) and Porter waking up and yelling at me again, I thought the meal that gave me such bliss deserved to be shared and celebrated.

I was suspicious of it at first. The ingredients looked wrong. But I trusted the source--another mom from my son's preschool who is unfailingly classy in every single aspect of her life. She is so nice you can't even feel resentful of her perfection. Here it is.

Because of food allergies, she subbed sunflower seed spread for the peanut butter, but I stuck with the original recipe. She told me that she mixes the rice into the sauce and then places the chicken on top. The first time I made this, I added the rice a couple of hours after the cooking process began. The second time, I added it just before it ended and found myself having to add water to ensure the rice didn't end up crunchy. I am hesitant to add the rice at the beginning as directed because my crock pot cooks this meal up really quickly and I am afraid it will burn the rice. I am not home during the day to moniter it.

I followed her advice and Brigham and I ate it over mixed greens with this dressing. I left out the egg (yuck!) and would advise you go easy on the salt if you don't have kosher. (Maybe cut in half and add more at the end after you taste it.)

This meal takes literally fewer than 10 minutes of hands-on prep and is so delicious. My crock pot, at its lowest temp and using frozen chicken, cooks this up in about 3-4 hours. Also, I think that when making more than 2 breasts I would just double the sauce recipe. But these are just small tweaks; I think the recipe is pretty no-fail no matter what.

Andrew ate so much the first time there was barely any left for Brigham and even Will ate a normal-sized meal such that I didn't even have to bolus him afterwards. It is probably breaking all the parenting rules, but I give the rice to Porter and he loves it. This meal leaves me so satisfied that I am not even going to yell at Andrew when he reaches the bottom of the stairs in about 5 seconds. And here he is.

Thanksgiving 2010

If life were fair, I would be gathering water from a contaminated source to lug back to my shack in a developing country. It is so easy to just take for granted so many of the things that fill our lives with joy or ease. Brigham, who has obviously lived with me too long, had the same horrific vision that I did about having a car accident on the way over to my parents' house. I had carefully prepared a bunch of items, the most choice of which were two pecan pies (I have a secret recipe). He envisioned those pies splattered all over the place, but that it didn't even make the cut of things to be concerned about. It was so weird because I had had the very thought go through my head, complete with the pie scenario. There was an accident on 66 and we were happy to see that no one was hurt.

This year has been a dificult one, but it has been a very blessed one, too. When we had to choose just one blessing to focus on, here were our results.

Alexandra: Porter was born, and despite the 25% risk of CF, he is totally healthy and happy. (The truth is that I almnst never even think about this blessing, but if he had been born sick I would trade basically any other blessing to obtain that one.)

Brigham: Will no longer throws up several times a day.

Andrew: Having a new brother, Porter.

Will: "I am grateful that I just have my button instead of my tummy tube." (His accident proved ultimately to be a blessing since he got the little mickey button a month early and no longer has to tuck that giant tube into his jeans. His relief at this change has been obvious since the day we got the button (tuesday).

Other things to be thankful for this year:

1) Will is in the 30% for weight, the first time since he was a few months old that he even made it onto the growth charts.

2) Will got in to a feeding program that we thought he would have to wait another 6 months to get into.

3) Andrew has been a wonderful and helpful child who has really risen to the occassion during this time in which I have needed so much assistance.

4) Brigham got a new job that we never counted on or planned for. He starts at Kirkland & Ellis in January and every day that I look on the mls for a house I can't believe that these are houses we could actually purchase.

5) My sister-in-law Abby was able to come out for two weeks and make it possible for us to attend Will's feeding camp. I cannot imagine having been able to do it without her. She was Porter's nanny all day, every day and she was just such a reassurance to me in every way.

6) The Brown family of Charlottesville took us into their home for the entire week (and would have put us up for two) of Will's program. They were wonderful and generous and kind and I cannot say enough good of them.

7) Alisha Lacey did an entire photo shoot of our family with her two tiny kids in tow (her husband was out of town) free of charge. She spent a lot of time editing the shots, too. I keep meaning to bring over a card or otherwise thank her, but have managed only a lame email. But I am so so grateful to have such gorgeous photos of my little family. I am still plotting a thank you.

Today's Thanksgiving was pretty low-key: a Sunday dinner, the variating being that we all contributed something for once and sang a hymn before the meal. After we scarfed down the food in 1/8th the amount of time spent preparing it, the kids went wild for a while and the rest of us relaxed in front of the fire or the football game. Eventually the kids and moms watched Harry Potter 1. I teased Will a bit about his love of Wendy on Peter Pan (worthy of its own post. I really should videotape it, too.) And we made it out to the car. Andrew only escaped and dashed back inside my parents' house once.

So ends our Thanksgiving night. It was one of those Thanksgivings whose details might vanish from my mind in not too much time but for having written them down, but it was a year during which I have learned to be truly thankful for many things I had taken for granted in the past. I hope I don't have to relearn this lesson. (Did You hear that?)