Joy to the World

When Jimmy John and I got married we agreed to an arrangement where we would spend one Christmas in Virginia with his family and the next in Colorado with mine. The arrangement worked well (for a whopping two years) until the kids came along. We hadn't anticipated the fun of traveling with children. Even though his family is only a two hour drive, staying in unfamiliar beds, houses with lots of breakable knick-knacks, is enough to fill Jimmy John with angst. This year was a Virginia Christmas. But, the family called with news of medical emergencies, and rather then descend upon a convalescing 86 year old, we postponed our travel plans. It was a little disappointing not to be with family, but secretly, Jimmy John and I were excited to have a Christmas all to ourselves.

Because we weren't expecting to be "doing Christmas" ourselves, I had several last minute errands to run on Christmas Eve. I had to go to the post office to pick up our held mail and to the grocery store to get a few last-minute ingredients for the Christmas feast. While I was at the grocery, I also wanted to hop next door to the mall to redeem a rebate that would expire that day. The post office was a ghost town, but about half a mile from the mall, the traffic was was at a dead stop. The 2 minute drive took me 15 minutes. After another 15 looking for a parking space at the grocery store, I gave up crossed the street to the mall and parked in the boonies. People were honking and grumbling; it was chaotic.

I went inside the mall first, and almost walked back out forsaking my twenty dollar rebate. The hoards of people were astounding. Garish pop-Christmas tunes blared from the loud speaker. Not my idea of a pleasant Christmas Eve. I looked around at that harried consumers grabbing last minute gifts, deal, whatever and I was struck by the words of the song playing at that moment: "So this is Christmas." The irony touched me and has caused me to ponder how I celebrate Christmas. Do I focus on celebratory rituals such as gifts, food, greeting cards, etc. because I feel they are culturally necessary or are they are an outward expression of joy in the birth of the Savior? And what am I teaching my daughter about Christmas by my actions?

My self-evaluation yielded some less than satisfactory results. I believe I focused on Christ and His birth more than I had in some previous years, but I still didn't make it the center of my celebration. I enjoy all of the Christmas festivities, and I'm in no way decrying the worth of giving gifts or baking cookies, but my thoughts were directed more towards getting things done on time rather than pondering the wonder of the atonement or simply enjoying my family. However, I was happy to realize that spending Christmas as an individual family had increased my focus on the 'true meaning of Christmas'. We weren't having an extravagant Christmas, but it was our Christmas, one we had put together ourselves for the enjoyment of the children and it had brought our family closer together.

I returned home from the mall and played outside with Goose and Little E. We had dinner, read the Christmas story and sang carols. Christmas morning was still mostly about the gifts, but when I put Goose to bed tonight, she clutching her "Little People" holy family singing "Happy Birthday" to baby Jesus, I realized we'd done alright after all. Merry Christmas.

Deck the Halls with Bowls of Popcorn

We put up our Christmas tree last night. It's a sorry little thing that we borrowed from a friend (thanks Denise!) when we decided at the last minute to cancel our travel plans; a four-foot artificial tree that leans noticably to the right. I love it! But more importantly, the kids do too.

Having never put up a tree in the five years we have been married, we had no lights and very few ornaments. I made a special trip to the store for the lights (which were already 50% off! Hooray for last minute shopping.) and had the wonderfully brilliant idea of stringing popcorn as an inexpensive means of adorning our little Christmas twig.

The lights went on the twig the moment I got home. The kids, who were nearing bedtime and therefore already a little squirrely, were hovering around the action excitedly. We turned the lights on and Little E squealed with delight, danced about and clapped his hands. He now gets scolded about every 10 minutes for pulling/touching/wiggling nearby the twig. Goose sat at the base gazing lovingly at the twig for a good 20 minutes. I realized it would be best to put off the
popcorn stringing until the following day; any more excitment and the kiddos would explode.

We aren't popcorn people, so when I unearthed the popcorn popper from the basement and set it up in the kitchen, the kids were curious. Little E, knowing the chances of being picked up for a good view of the countertop were slim, retrieved a chair from the dining room and dragged it into the kitchen. He flopped his body on the seat, grabbed the rungs and hoisted with all his might.

He does this about 50 times a day and each time he does it I think about what the equivalant movement for me would be. I'm sure if I mimicked everything he did in a day I would eat much
more and sleep much longer than he does.

Anyway, the kids were wowed by the air popper. We could have stopped there and it would have been a successful activity. But, no! There was a twig to decorate! And so, in a move that some professionals may classify as certifiable, I set the popcorn bowl on the floor of the living room and handed my 3 year old a needle and thread. As I placed the sharp object in her hands I wondered if I was a stupidly permissive mom, but, Goose has amazing fine motor skills for a 3 year old and was aware of the pain needles were capable of inflicting (from watching me use them), and the stringing proceeding with only one needle stick. My needle. My finger.

I am not so entirely permissive as to give Little E a needle, so he was relagated to eating the popcorn. That soon lost it's appeal, so my resourceful son decided to create an indoor sandbox, dumping the entire bowl of popcorn on the floor. The entertainment kept the children's attention so well, I got bored and irritated with the mess first and despite protests put it away about an our after we began. Our own White Christmas. I think we've found our very first Christmas tradition.

The Write Way

Goose loves to paint. She's always begging me to get the paint out. I'm always resisting; too much added mess in a house that doesn't really need any help being messy. Plus, I'm too cheap to go buy water-based paint when I have a box full of acrylic craft paint (left over from a service project 3 years ago) that needs to be used up. I have to be hyper-vigilant about the paint staying ONLY on the paper so we have no stains. Not an easy task when highly distractible three-year-old starts finger painting. I turned my back on her for 5 minutes last time, in that time she had mixed her paint to create a very beautiful deep purple and adorned herself with it up to her elbows.

Apparently, Goose is also always painting at preschool. The papers that come home are never ending and her teacher constantly jokes with me about her propensity to create art, painting in particular. Even the teacher whose class meets before ours has noticed that there are an unbalanced number of "Goose" labeled projects hanging to dry. I'm happy to let the majority of painting happen at preschool.

Even though I'm not always up for the mess, I'm thrilled that Goose has such a drive to create. I believe that the drive to create is a divine gift. Creation feeds a deep hunger in our souls that lurks almost undetected until we feel the warmth of satiation. Each person fulfills that need in a different way; some create art, others music, some cook, or write computer software.

I used to think it didn't matter how you created, as long as you were doing something. But, I was wrong. I have a friend who loves crafting. She makes everything from hand-felted gloves to baby slings. She's extraordinarily skilled and very imaginative in coming up with projects. It's very obvious that doing this gives her energy. I enjoy sewing and we have collaborated on a few projects. It's been fun to have someone who appreciates a trip to the fabric store as much as I do.

Things escalated when we decided to sell some of our handiwork at a preschool fundraiser. I focussed almost exclusively on my projects for a week. I fussed, I ignored children and eating and in the end I had 4 completed items. My friend had over 40. Happily, I did sell 2 items, but I went home pondering the different degrees of fulfillment the event had given each of us. I found myself fighting waves of jealousy that so often beset me in the presence of talented people. But this jealousy was a little different. I wasn't jealous so much of her talent, but of the satisfaction and energy it gives her. Then I heard a whisper in my ear: You are spending your time doing the wrong thing. You need to write.

I felt like I had awoken from a long, hazy dream. The solution seemed so clear. I've known that I should write from Middle School, but I've never pursued it with vigor. I am paralyzed with a fear of failure. What if I should write something that is not good. What if I try to write that book and never get it done. How embarrassing. If I don't write, I can't say I failed, I can only say I never tried. And of course, I have a million reasons why I was prohibited from trying. But when I do write (and especially when I know what I wrote was quality stuff), I get that high, that energy and that fulfillment I see in the eyes of my crafting friend and my daughter.

With this realization, this transparency to self, I have committed to overcome my fears and take some real steps toward really writing. This blog is part of my therapy. Putting my writing out there for public viewing (and comment! Ack!). It makes me vulnerable to the core. But it is making me a better writer. And a happier person.

Economic Crisis

I have a MS in Chemistry. Some days I am proud of that. Most of those days are laundry days. Like the day I got red Sharpie out of Goosie's shirt by soaking it in isopropyl (rubbing) alcohol . Or the day that I got acrylic paint out of her pants using pine-sol. But today....today I am ashamed of myself.

Recently, our bathtub has been succumbing to a thickening layer of nasty mildew. My current favorite bathroom cleaner wasn't touching it. Well, it would with scrubbing, but who has the time for scrubbing? So, when Jimmy John suggested Tilex, I ran out to our local Target and mindlessly grabbed the mildew and mold variety. When I sprayed it on our grimy tile, I thought, "This isn't what I remember Tilex smelling like, this smells like bleach." Active Ingredients of Mold and Mildew Tilex? 2.40% Sodium hypochlorite. Bleach. Diluted bleach for $3.11. ARGH! Well, at least I got a nice spray bottle out of it.

Almost as bad as the time I bought "laptop screen cleaning wipes", which were lint-free wipes soaked in rubbing alcohol. I think I paid $3 or $4 for about 10 wipes. Double ARGH!

I have found that bleach and rubbing alcohol are marketed again and again as different cool products. Be on the watch. For example: Clorox Anywhere Sanitizing Spray is duh-duh-duh-da! diluted bleach! So read the labels. (this is more advice for me, than you) Sodium Hypochlorite = bleach. Isopropyl Alcohol=Rubbing alcohol. Save yourself a little dough and dilute it yourself.

(FYI Regular bleach is 6% sodium hypoclorite, so a 3:1 dilution would be perfect for your bathroom needs. Sanitizing spray needs much less - 0.0095%, so a 500:1 dilution.)

Turning Blue

I grew up in a red house. Well, not literally. Our house was tan. Maybe camel. Or mocha. No, no, no - we're a good Mormon family, we would never live in a mocha-colored house. Speaking of which, I accidentally drank coffee last week. But that's a story for another day; one that involves pumpkin spice and a barista. But, politically, my family bleeds red.

This has been a pretty indisputable fact until recently. It's always been pretty safe to "discuss religion and politics" at family reunions and expect a civil and polite, if not well rounded, discussion. Until lately.

It's happened gradually. First there was the Clinton scandal. No, I'm not talking about Monica or impeachment. I'm referring to the day my father found out that his then one and only beloved son-in-law voted for Clinton. Twice. "The first time could be forgiven," he said only half-jokingly, "But TWICE?" Joe-Joe was lucky he was still allowed at the adult table at Christmas. I have to admit I was pretty shocked to be standing so close to a real-live democrat.

Then I married one.

Technically, Jimmy John is a registered Republican. When we moved to Maryland he had an infuriating experience at the DMV. After hours of waiting and three different lines, he was asked to register to vote. In some mix of exasperation and misplaced retribution against the bureaucracy of the blue state he registered for the opposing party. "I see what you've been telling me, " he said to me. "Smaller government." Then the people around us started rubbing off on him. At dinner parties I found him taking the side of all the liberal-talking wackos, erstwhile I remained the lone bastion of reason. I could tell I was losing him to the dark side. I guess he and Joe-Joe could sit together at Thanksgiving.

Of course, Rosie would be there to. My sister has been the most outspoken, and only blood related, liberal in the family. The artist. Every family's got one. Her support of Obama came as a surprised to no one.

What I didn't realize, until just recently, was how everyone in my family now viewed ME as a liberal. Tainted by association I guess (i.e. Barak Obama and William Ayers). I was shocked when my eldest sister casually referred to me as part of the familial liberal contingency. ME? The lone Dole supporter in my ninth grade Civics class! A straight ticket voter since 18. My goodness, I even supported Alan Keyes in the 2000 republican primary. I did briefly consider voting for John Kerry in 2004 in protest of treatment of prisoners at Guantanamo Bay, but in the end my conservative leanings on other social issues won out.

I didn't start noticing the liberal drift in my life until a family reunion a year ago. I joined an in-progress "debate" between two blood-red family members (a sister and brother-in-law) on global warming. I use the term in its loosest sense as there were absolutely no conflicting points of view until I arrived. I thought since I have a MS in a scientific field, I might be able to add to the discussion. I disagreed with the Glenn Beck doctrine they were relating and suggested some evidence to the contrary. I thought the discussion was interesting and invigorating, although I might have said "PUH-LEEEZ, Glenn Beck is not a scientific expert (and an idiot)." or something like it. Oops, blew my cover. When I left my brother-in-law asked my sister, "Who else in your family is a democrat?!"

My little leftward slide has been interpreted by my family as a total conversion. But, it's two days before the election and I still don't know who I'm voting for. I flip-flop daily. I believe in smaller government, but I think that everyone should have real access to health care (McCain's plan would 1) never pass and 2) would make things worse). I believe in free enterprise, but I see too much corruption in big businesses. I don't think we should abandon our post in Iraq without finishing fixing the mess, but I never agreed with going in there to begin with. I hate the idea of higher taxes, but I can't see a way out of a $10.5 trillion debt without raising the government's revenue.

Maybe I will go with Banana and write-in Cheesecake (see previous post) after all. No, no, no, I know! I'll just pick the candidate with the better performance on a pop-comedy show (Obama McCain)

Cheesecake for President

Disaster was brewing. My temper had been tested all day and was as thin as a pancake. Goose oozed with a rebellious spirit from the moment she woke up. I had yelled at her once already, driving her to tears, after she had (accidentally) ripped the upholstery of our nicer car.

Last minute guests were coming. Our house was in its normal state: post-Katrina-like. I was desperate to have the children entertain themselves as I cleaned. So when they started making an indoor sandbox in my kitchen, I looked the other way. Sometimes you have to make a mess to clean another mess up. Brown lentils, which had previously been dumped on the floor (thanks Little E), were being transferred between metal bowls. I listened for the contended clanging from the other room as an indication of the children's well being. Goose had been instructed more than once not to dump any more "sand" onto the floor, so when I came in to find the floor covered with flour, oatmeal, pasta, and barley, in addition to the lentils, I started yelling again.

I ranted about the loss of food (50 cents worth of pasta), I rambled about the severe lack of obedience my two year old possessed, and with my body pulsing with anger, I firmly planted her butt in time out.

"You stay there until I come and get you."

Ha.

I could see from the defiant gleam in her eye that this would not end so pleasantly. One step. Two. Three. Four. I was obliged to respond to each test of my will with increased intensity. I was really losing control. Of myself, of her, of any hope of a teaching moment. My rage had fractured reality into two distinct but parallel thought paths. One drove my anger into a froth, the other pleaded with me for more patience and composure.

"Goose," I said as I squeezed her little shoulders, "do you want me to hurt you?" She blinked blankly at me. She doesn't even know what a spanking is. Inside I gasped. Had I really said that? I was losing it fast. This would not end well.

My idle threat had not made a dent in the young, unbendable will before me. One more exodus from time out broke my fragile grip on self-control. I scooped her up, stomped upstairs to her bedroom and, screaming, told her she had better not come out anytime soon. To drive my message home, I locked her door on the way out. Goose did not take this action quietly. For good measure, I put Little E into his crib.

Both children screaming injustice upstairs did little to help me calm down. And although I was now technically free to clean for the guests, I sat paralyzed on the kitchen floor. That is until I remembered the cheesecake in the fridge.

Little E had fallen asleep, but Goose was awake and still wailing: "Mommy, I can't get out. I don't want my door locked.". My heart softened. The only way to win this tug-of-war was to let go of my end of the rope.

"Goosie," I called, already knowing the answer. "Would you like to share some cheesecake?"

Instantly, silence engulfed the house. Then a quiet "yes." I unlocked the door, apologized, and handed her a fork. We sat on kitchen floor, among the lentils and pasta, and laughed as we plunged our two forks into the same cheesecake. Who knew the true unifying power of cheesecake? Perhaps I'll send a slice and a few forks on over to the Senate floor.

Home Invaders

I hate doing dishes. I would rather scrub my toilet than spend an hour hovering over a hot sink scrubbing dried scrambled egg off of what is supposed to be a nonstick pan. Unfortunately, we do not have a dishwasher in the house we currently live in. Therefore, the dishes are a constant thorn in my side. Either one side of the sink is piled high with dirty dishes, or the other is drowning in clean, but drying dishes.

When we moved into the house, I thought I was trading up; I was losing a dishwasher, but gaining an in-house, and not coin operated, washer and dryer. How naive I am sometimes . I underestimated the number of dishes Goose could produce each meal:

"I need a new spoon for my cheerios."
"Use the one you have for your oatmeal."
"No, it's yucky!"
"Lick it clean."
"I dropped it."
"Can I have some milk?"
"Did you finish your juice?"
"No"
"Finish your juice."
"But I just want milk in the green sippy cup."
et cetera. ad nauseum.

Not long after we moved in, I found if I wasn't drudging through the clanking pile of dishes, which seemed to multiply spontaneously, I was dreading the task and planning ways to avoid doing it. I realized that the state of my sink is a litmus test for how the rest I feel about life in general. Sadly, my sink was almost never shiny, until they came.

One by one and two by two those nasty little sugar ants started taking over my kitchen. If I left the dinner dishes piled in the sink overnight and the next morning thousands of ants (ok, maybe twenty) would be devouring dried blueberry smears off of Little E's highchair tray or nibbling on a crumb of toast. I was angry at the ants; not because they were disgusting, but because they were a visible manifestation to the world of my poor housekeeping skills. I imagined that next the cockroaches would descend, then rodents and finally child protective services. My pride smarted at the ants appearance - surely no self-respecting SAHM would ever live in a manner that would invite ants.

My resolve to shine my sink each day hardened. I washed each dish almost before it touched the stainless steel. The ants multiplied. This was war. Ants traps, poison, and the cleanest sink this side of the Potomac (ok, probably not. but cleaner than my sink has been in a long, long time.)

Dishes became my number one cleaning priority. And as they did an amazing thing started happening. The dishes took up less and less of my time. I cannot explain this. In fact, the more I think about it, the more it has a twilight zone-like eeriness about it.

The ant traps have been out for 15 days. Supposedly, after 10 days the entire colony dies from lethal doses of candy-coated borax. Our ants keep coming in droves. But, my sink is still shiny and my knees are more raw from the time I spend on the floor playing with my kids than my hands are chapped from the dish water. Sugar ants: blessing or blight?

Where's the Beef?

Our local Safeway just reopened this month. A year ago it was a ghetto store that was predictably empty. The old store was torn down and completely rebuilt with a new upscale feel. It's now packed. I wish they had left the damned thing alone.

There have been a few improvements I suppose; my favorite part of the store is its new underground parking. Most people park above ground, so it makes me feel like I've discovered some secret passageway into the store. Goose likes pushing the buttons on the elevator, so that's also a plus.

I went shopping today. I wasn't planning on going back to the store so soon; I try to limit my outings lately (see previous post). But I was beguiled by the lure of $1 boxes of Kix. Goose could live on Kix. What am I saying? Goose does live on Kix (with a side of yogurt).

Goose talked me into getting one of those new giant carts with a toddler car in front. This was taking a big risk. Last time I swore I would never let her talk me into one again (astounding resolve on my part, I know). Goose never has the patience to stay seated the entire time and I end up weaving a semi-truck through the produce trying to catch a wandering toddler without hitting any unsuspecting bystanders.

These carts seem to have been designed by childless and/or male engineers. They fit four children: two in the car/firetruck/police cruiser and two in the double-wide basket. If any poor soul is forced to shop with four children small enough to need a ride, they are going to need much more help than little steering wheels can provide. Also, the firetruck must have a certain amount of weight in the seat in order for the cart to drive "appropriately". Not having that weight (i.e. toddler jumping out) is like going from a cart with one bad wheel to one with only one good wheel.

I decided to experiment. If Goose (26 lbs) weighs enough to bring the front wheels down, perhaps putting Little E (21 lbs) - who is not capable of jumping out - in the car with her would be a good insurance policy. That is if they didn't poke one another's eyes out. After seeing Little E get buckled in, Goose was even more excited for the ride. I smiled - this just might work!

They were giggling by the time we reached the cereal aisle.

The Kix on sale was, of course, the smallest variety available. The thing is the big box of Kix isn't that big. I could probably eat the small box in one sitting. But then, I am nursing. I can't complain; heck they were a buck. But, it strikes me odd that as the grocery carts reach gargantuan proportions, the cereal boxes shrink.

I don't mind companies offering smaller package options. Perhaps some people prefer only having a small box of Kix on hand. That's their prerogative. What bothers me is that the boxes shrink while the prices stay they same. It's like a sneaky way to raise the price of a product. Girl Scout Cookies have been doing this for years. I'm just waiting for the year when I get a box of three Samoas.

The one I was most dismayed about today though was my Double-Stuffed Oreos. I bought two bags of Oreos today - one regular, one double-stuffed. I remember when the double-stuffed first came out, the cookies were enormous - the shortening and sugar filling never ended. The double-stuffed definitely contains more filling than the regular Oreos, but I swear that both have decreased in filling. Perhaps more appropriate names would be regular-stuffed and half-stuffed.

I guess I really should be too concerned -the box is the same size less filling means more cookies with which to bribe Goose to stay in that cart's firetruck.

Serenity Now; Insanity Later

I've been looking for a place of peace. Being nearly always surrounded by people, especially little demanding people, is incredibly draining for me. Don't get me wrong - I love my kids. I just can't stand them. 24 hours a day. 7 days a week. With little or no reprieve.

My house lately has not been a haven of peace for me. Funny thing for a homebody to say. I keep a mental list of all the doing that needs doing and lately that list has been a little out of control. Sitting down and relaxing has been a source of anxiety lately as my mind starts reeling through the unending list of things I should be doing, unleashing a river of guilt. It's much easier to occupy myself, and kids, outside of the house, thereby at once being too busy to think about the undone stuff at home and avoiding the unpleasantness of smelly laundry and dishes.

The only problem is that dang car seat. Goose h-a-t-e-s her car seat. Well, that's not exactly true. She doesn't mind her car seat once she is in it. She hates getting into her car seat. Or maybe she just loves driving me crazy. That's probably a more accurate description of what is going on. In any case, it's a fight every time we get into the car. I've tried cajoling, I've tried bribing, I've tried forcing. (Bribing is the most effective, by the way. I now keep a box of cookies in the car.) Any parent of a two-year-old who has stood shivering in the rain with a screaming infant in the other car seat trying to wait out the display of control knows what I am talking about. The only thing that prevents the struggle at the buckle is staying in the house. I hate the process so much, I've started planning my outings by how many times we need to get in and out of the car. I have found I can handle no more than 3 "in"s.

Today I made a series of major mistakes. I was headed to a play date at a local Nature Center and I parked at the wrong building. Tactical error number 1. I had the kids out of the car for 15 minutes before I realized my error. We had to trek back through the parking lot (hold my hand or the cars will EAT you!), and waste a perfectly good "in". Only one more left.

The play date was enjoyable, but not what I would really call "in"-worthy. A mother at the nature center mentioned the nearby conservatory was worth a visit. Although I knew the kids were tired (can you say 5:30 am? Yes, I gave birth to roosters.), I decided to go visit rather than initiate another car ride on a subsequent date and by extension using additional "in"s. Tactical error number 2.

It was a short walk, and once I got Goose headed in the right direction, it was fairly painless. The flowers were well worth the visit. I felt like I had walked into heaven. It was a beautiful English garden so very artfully done. The greenhouse windows seemed to magnify the sunshine and kept out what little bite there was left in the early Spring air. The smell of all the blooms was intoxicating. I imagined myself sitting on the bench with a notebook writing an inspired novel. If it hadn't been for the baby in my arms furiously sucking his thumb in an effort to soothe himself to sleep and the two-year old who was obviously winding up, I could have stayed for hours. As it was, we made two laps, a couple of stops at the drinking fountain for Goose, and then I announced our departure. This is when all hell broke loose.

"NO! You don't want to go," (My Goosey talks about herself in second person), "You just want to stay here with flowers."

"It's time to go, Goose. We need to go get some lunch. And you need a nap. And Little E needs a nap."

I made for her hand. Tactical Error number 3. You know, for having little legs, kids are fast. Granted I was carrying a 20 lb infant, but you would think that having twice to three times the stride of my daughter, I might be able to keep up with her a little better. Round and round we went.

"Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!"

Tears? I was surprised by the emotion she was exuding. I knew she wasn't as enamored with the scene as I was. I should be the one screaming about going home, right? After all, she was the one who was going to get a nap. My nap was still questionable.

I caught her, she pulled the civil disobedience limp body trick. I love that move. It's especially effective when I've got Little E in arms. After a few more incidents - a couple of asphalt face plants, an attempt to run the other way, and other parking lot hand-holding refusal, we made it to the car. Thanks to that box of cookies "in" number 3 wasn't as terrible as I was expecting. And I can still smell those flowers.