Motherhood and More

A Few BoyWonder Gems

2012-02-13T23:03:00.004-06:00

BoyWonder continues to delight, despite his finally entering the 3-year-old tantrum phase. He had his first 45-minute long screaming/crying fit this week, but the poor little guy had an ear infection at the time so I can't feel too frustrated about it.

Lately he's been telling me he wants to snuggle with me because "You're soooo soft, Mama." And he told me I smelled like frosting the other day. After Dolittle telling me I smell like cupcakes, I'm beginning to wonder if I just naturally reek of baked goods.

The other night we were eating dinner, and I was sitting across the table from BoyWonder. Out of the blue, he suddenly announced, "Mommy, I want to KISS you!" Then he got down out of his chair, came around the table to me, grabbed my arm, planted a big ol' kiss on it, then returned to his chair and continued his meal. Can the sweetness get any sweeter?

It hasn't all been sunshine and roses around here, though. I mentioned the ear infection, which followed two days of fever and a bad cough. The ear infection resulted in a HORRIBLE night of sleep one night, and a fairly rough one the next. BoyWonder slept with me while Havarti slept in the other room so that at least one of us would get some sleep.

Then, wouldn't you know, I left for an overnight retreat this weekend with some other moms and BoyWonder slept for 13 HOURS STRAIGHT without waking up ONCE. Perhaps it's my cupcakey smell that was keeping him awake. I leave and he sleeps like a log. I'm not sure whether I'm relieved or bitter about that.

I have the sweetest video of him laughing hysterically at a paper airplane being tossed over and over again. I'll post if I can figure out how to get it off my phone without downloading the other 1384 photos that the kids have taken.

Anyway, just wanted to jot down these few anecdotes so I don't forget them. Everything is adorable when a toddler does it. Even something as simple as him spilling water and then going to get a towel from the drawer to clean it up is just so stinking cute. :)

Catch-up Bullets

2012-02-06T21:44:00.000-06:00

Our rodent-catching neighbor boy caught himself a mouse in our schoolroom. Ew. I hope it was the only one.

Havarti and I had our first overnight date in 3 1/2 years this past weekend. The hotel gave us a complimentary upgrade to a suite. Very nice. Ironically, I was so giddy to get a guaranteed full night's sleep that I wasn't sleepy and stayed up until 12:30 watching "The Wedding Date" on TBS. Slept until 8:15. Exactly the same amount of sleep I usually get. Oh well. We had fun.

We couldn't decide on where to go, and we wanted to try something new within walking distance of our hotel, so we visited the Driehaus Museum. It's this 24,000 sq ft mansion in downtown Chicago that was built in the 1870's. (It took 500-600 people working full-time four years to build it - and you can see why when you go there. My gracious, the fireplaces alone are worth a trip.) If you have any interest in architecture, carpentry, marblework, tilework, artwork, or craftsmanship of any kind, or just want to see something incredibly beautiful and impressive, I highly recommend it. It's a little pricey, but we didn't regret going. Absolutely stunning.

I went to an Andy Grammer concert with P-Diddles on Friday night and learned several things:

I'm too old for concerts where people stand the whole time, even though we managed to snag a couple of tall chairs in the balcony.
I'm too snooty for concerts where Drunk Girl next to you talks to you the whole time - through every single song - like she's your best friend.
The first opening act, Justyn Dow, was awesome. That kid's going places.
The second opening act, Rachel Platten, was very good. She did a slow rendition of Snoop Dogg's "Gin and Juice," which was sort of funny, but since there were a large handful of children in the audience it made me cringe.
I was thrown by the name on the billing and thought that the main opener, Ryan Star, was going to be Ryan Starr of American Idol fame. She's a chick. This was a dude who sounded a little like Neil Diamond and at whom Drunk Girl shouted from from the balcony, "YOU'RE SO CREEPY!" after he made several borderline pedophile-like remarks. Good singer. Icky with the talking.
I'm too much of a mom to accept it gracefully when a show that's advertised as "all ages" turns out to be a decidedly PG-13 experience.
Andy Grammer is adorable, a great musician, and travels with a fabulous band. Bass player with the dreads . . . mmhmm.
While #7 is true, when the show starts at 7:00 and the headliner doesn't start until 9:30 after three opening acts, I start fantasizing about my bed too much to truly enjoy the performance.
When you combine the above statements with the fact that I was bummed that it was too dark to crochet while we were waiting for the concert to start, it's pretty clear that I've become a full-fledged old hag.
I'm OK with that.

In preparation for my hot date with Havarti, I tried on some perfume last week at Target. While tucking the girls in, The Muse mentioned that it smelled kind of like cupcakes, to which Dolittle added, "Mommy, you already smell like cupcakes. Why would you get a perfume that smells like cupcakes?" Aw. I think I'll keep her.

It took our whole family three hours just to clean the upstairs floor of our house the other day. Much of that was backed-up laundry and reorganizing things, but still. Gadzooks.

Dolittle is becoming quite the little reader. She bought this book series about warrior cats with her Christmas money from great-grandma, and she carries one around everywhere. They're above her reading level, but she understands enough to enjoy reading them, so that's fabulous. It's great when they push themselves.

We've started watching Downton Abbey, along with the rest of the free world, apparently. Great show, even though I'd been mentally calling it "Downtown Abbey" right up until watching the first episode. Downton Abbey makes much more sense. :)

Good Rodents vs. Bad Rodents

2012-01-28T22:35:00.000-06:00

A few months ago, I introduced you lovely readers to our pet rats, Cinnamon and Midnight. Cute, right? Pet rats = good rodents.

Below is Cinnamon and Midnight's food container. We keep it in the school room, under the table where we keep their cage.

A week ago, this container was full. The rats eat approximately 6 to 8 blocks a day. Something clearly doesn't work out with that math, but since the girls are the ones that feed them, I didn't notice how quickly the food had disappeared. I also didn't notice that the lid was being left ajar.

So a couple of days ago, I was going about my business, rearranging some furniture in the school room. And as I pulled this bookcase away from the wall - the one 12 feet across the room from the rat cage - guess what I found.

Dude. That is a LOT of rat food. Someone is hoarding. Someone = bad rodents. Mice, I'm guessing. Icky, hoarding, prairie mice. I can't imagine how hard they've been working to build up such a treasure trove. I bet they thought they'd won the little rodent lottery.

And that wasn't their only stash. This cabinet sits along the same wall as the bookcase. See how the door is ajar?

When I cleaned out that cabinet, I found more rat blocks. The bad rodents had chewed through one of my phonics game bags and deposited the blocks inside it. They also nibbled on the foam letter dice. Nice.

The good news is that we just got a flyer from one of the neighbor kids advertising his rodent catching services. So he'll come and rid us of our bad rodents for $2.00 a pop. Then our good rodents won't have their food swiped by the bad rodents anymore.

Not that the rats cared. They're not big fans of the rat blocks anyway, preferring Cheerios over most other foods. Perhaps they were in on it. Conspiring little buggers.

It's weird to think of all that goes on here after we go to bed. Weird and creepy and funny. I wish I had a video camera to watch how it all goes down.

"Well, I'm Glad I'm White."

2012-01-23T21:56:00.001-06:00

For MLK day last week, we watched this simple, kid-friendly Brainpop Jr. video about Dr. Martin Luther King. After it finished, I briefly synopsized it to make sure the kids, especially the younger ones, had a good sense for why we celebrate his birthday. There was a short, weighty pause while everyone let that chunk of history sink in. And then this innocent 4-year-old cherub that I teach took a deep breath and said, "Well . . . I'm glad I'm white."

It's rare that one of the kids leaves me speechless.

The older kids, ages 6, 7, and 11, immediately jumped all over the wee preschooler with all sorts of "It doesn't matter what color your skin is" reprimands. I calmed them down and we discussed it a bit more. But it really got me thinking.

This 4-year-old is being raised in a Baha'i family, where race unity is not only accepted, but is an actively taught belief. Her mother, who is half Iraqi, was raised in West Africa. They have friends of all different races and cultures. From every standpoint, this kid is surrounded by messages of equality.

And it's not as though her response was inappropriate for her age. Not having a real clear sense of time and history, it's understandable that she would simply see that the people who looked like her in the story were not the ones being mistreated, and feel some relief in the idea that she'd have been on the safer end of things if she lived back then.

But it underscored for me the importance of proactive education in overcoming our country's racial history. Because really, this "I'm glad I'm white" notion probably lives deep inside most of us white folk, whether we are conscious of it or not.

What if this little cherub didn't have the upbringing and education to check that automatic response? How easy would it be, even subconsciously, for "I'm glad I'm white" to gradually morph into "It's better that I'm white" and eventually to "I'm better because I'm white" if there wasn't a strong message to counter that?

And I wonder if a black child watching the same video, or learning about that same chunk of history, might have the opposite gut response. I'm sure there's some pride there in seeing someone like Dr. King doing such courageous and world-changing work. But at the same time, they're seeing that 1) people that look like them were seen as dirty and inferior, and 2) people that stood up for change, though they had support, were doubly mistreated and eventually shot and killed. I always think of civil rights movement education as inspiring. But maybe there's another layer to it that I have - in my white ignorance, perhaps - never considered. If a white child thinks "I'm glad I'm white," could a black child think, "It sucks that I'm black?"

I watched a video interview of Dr. Joy Degruy, author of "Post Traumatic Slave Syndrome," where she explained very clearly how much our country's racial history still affects blacks today. African Americans in general have had to fight not only the white status quo, but their own slavery-era ancestral habits in order to climb toward equality.

For example, let's take education. If you were a child of a slave, and you were caught knowing how to read, you'd be beaten. Or your family would be beaten. Or separated. Or worse. Education had horrible consequences for blacks for a very long time in this country. So parents taught their kids to act dumb in order to keep them safe. The dumber you talked, the safer you were. Those were truths - not assumptions, not ignorant habits, but truths - that got passed down for generations. Fear is a powerful and insidious oppressor.

We've come a long way, I think, but we still have so much vital work to do in this area. The civil rights movement really wasn't that long ago. One generation from me. Two generations from these kids I teach. There's a lot of subconscious junk that is still quite fresh in the larger scheme of things. Maybe it's not enough to teach kids that skin color doesn't matter. Maybe we need to dig deeper than that, uncomfortable as it might be.

The Baha'i teachings call racial equality between blacks and whites America's most challenging issue. And the suggestions for what needs to be done to solve it really boils down to doing our own work, both internally and externally:

(Note: This was written in 1938, so try not to let the term "Negroes" bristle you too much - it was the appropriate term at the time.)

"Let the white make a supreme effort in their resolve to contribute their share to the solution of this problem, to abandon once and for all their usually inherent and at times subconscious sense of superiority, to correct their tendency towards revealing a patronizing attitude towards the members of the other race, to persuade them through their intimate, spontaneous and informal association with them of the genuineness of their friendship and the sincerity of their intentions, and to master their impatience of any lack of responsiveness on the part of a people who have received, for so long a period, such grievous and slow-healing wounds. Let the Negroes, through a corresponding effort on their part, show by every means in their power the warmth of their response, their readiness to forget the past, and their ability to wipe out every trace of suspicion that may still linger in their hearts and minds. Let neither think that the solution of so vast a problem is a matter that exclusively concerns the other. Let neither think that such a problem can either easily or immediately be resolved." - Shoghi Effendi

So much work to do.

I feel like I've barely scratched the surface of my thoughts on this matter, but life calls. Feel free to share your thoughts. These are important conversations to have.

Go Ahead. Call Me SuperMom.

2012-01-16T18:57:00.002-06:00

Perhaps it's because I have three pretty awesome kids that I haven't managed to totally screw up yet. Or perhaps it's because I often look frazzled and harried and desperate for positive reinforcement. Whatever the reason, my kind-hearted friends and family members frequently compliment my various mom-related activities and abilities. And, God love 'em, some even toss around the loaded term "SuperMom."

And my response, always, is to promptly laugh in their faces before spewing out a mile-long list of my weaknesses and failures as a mother, teacher, homemaker, and wife.

It's not false modesty. My house is truly a disaster more often than not, despite my having read every organizational book on the planet. I start too many projects I don't finish. I've paid enough money in overdue library fines to send at least one of my kids to college. I finally just got around to teaching my 7-year-old to tie her shoes. I've not been able to get a single one of my moppets potty trained before the age of three. The only reason I can type this right now is because I put a Shaun the Sheep video on for my toddler, rather than letting him empty yet another one of my tape dispensers.

So . . . No, I always respond. I am anything but a SuperMom.

Then yesterday, as I was cleaning out a closet, I came across this poster my uber-talented friend Geoff drew me for my 17th birthday.

That's me. Annie G. Superheroine! The pre-kids super me. Pretty impressive, right? As I was admiring my friend's artistic abilities, I thought, "Wow, Geoff was rather generous with my . . . uh . . . bosoms. But it's kind of fitting, really. It's like a foreshadowing of my real superpower."

And that's when it hit me. I do have superpowers. Real, honest-to-goodness, mom superpowers. And it's not just my amazing A-cup breastfeeding abilities. Among other things, I make a mean, mean vegetable soup from scratch. I can kiss boo-boos and make owies magically disappear. I've taught my children to read and write, to say please and thank you, and to (usually) follow the Golden Rule. I manage to work from home, educate my kids, clothe and feed my family, keep my marriage in tact, and even throw my musings about motherhood up on the Internet a couple of times a week. Do my faults and weaknesses really negate those things?

No. They do not.

I think it's time I embrace the fact that maybe, perhaps, there's at least a slight chance that I just might be a SuperMom.

Here's how I figure it. Up until yesterday, my definition of a SuperMom would have been a woman who embodied the following qualities: (Take a deep breath - the list is long.)

has more than one child (with the number of children directly proportional to her degree of "superness")
plans meals and cooks them from scratch (preferably with organic ingredients grown in her own garden)
cheerfully cooks and bakes with her kids (again, with organic ingredients from her own garden)
cheerfully helps her kids with their schoolwork
attends all of her kids' sporting, music, and miscellaneous events
keeps a perfectly clean and organized house
never forgets her cloth grocery bags when she goes to the store
brings creative snacks to parties
volunteers at her kids' schools or homeschools her kids (again, cheerfully)
volunteers in her religious community, homeless shelters, animal shelters, food pantries, and/or nursing homes
exercises six days a week
reads quality literature, ideally as part of a cool book club
prescreens all of her kids' viewing and reading material
organizes family game nights
keeps up with her friends
throws fantastic kids' birthday parties
keeps elaborate scrapbooks for each kid
spends special one-on-one time with each child every week
calmly solves all behavioral issues with natural and logical consequences
writes in a gratitude journal
does her hair and make-up every day
wears matching bras and underwear
has regular date nights with her spouse
gets intimate with her spouse at least three times a week
works some kind of paying job, either part or full-time, in or out of the house
somehow manages to find time to follow her passions and nurture her own spirit

I'm sure I'm missing some things. This list may seem over the top, but these are things moms are told time and again that we should strive for. And so the picture of SuperMom is painted. Doing it all and doing it well. Professional, parental, and domestic perfection, with an organic garden thrown in for good measure. That's a SuperMom, right? Or at least something close to it?

That's what I used to think. But then Geoff's drawing and some pondering of iconic superheroes helped me uncover a truth that flipped that silly notion right on its annoying little head.

Ready for it?

Real superheroes aren't perfect. Not a single one of them. To begin with, they all have different powers and strengths. Spiderman uses his spidey senses, superhuman strength, and incredible agility to battle the bad guys. Ironman has super strength as well, but also super speed and self-healing powers. Wolverine has those razor sharp claws (not to mention Hugh Jackman's "superpowers" of his own, thankyouverymuch). Wonder Woman is super strong, super fast, and can rock a bodysuit and boots like no other.

And, of course, there's Superman, the epitome of the superhero, more powerful than all the rest of them combined. Invulnerable, impenetrable, and handsome to boot.

Batman doesn't actually have any superpowers. Did you know that? He protects Gotham with his indomitable will, great athletic and martial arts abilities, and genius-level intelligence. Yet we still consider him a superhero. (Plus, he does have that cool Batmobile swagger.)

We moms have different strengths and superpowers, too. I know a mom who throws birthday parties that would put Martha Stewart to shame, one who volunteers practically full-time at her kids' schools, and another who has a standing Saturday night date with her husband each week. I know moms who work outside the house full-time, moms who stay home full-time, moms who homeschool, and moms who work from home while homeschooling. I know moms whose houses are spotless (though I still can't figure out how). I know moms whom I've begged to tell me their parenting secrets because their kids are so unbelievably stellar.

But no superhero does it all. Even Superman, with all his superpowers, has his weaknesses. His x-ray vision can't penetrate lead. Red solar radiation renders him as normal as you and me. He's somewhat vulnerable to magic. And, of course, Kryptonite cripples him completely.

He's also forced to live a lie, unable to reveal his true identity to anyone. Not exactly living his best life, Oprah-style.

Other superhero weaknesses have familiar human parallels as well. Spiderman has an overactive sense of responsibility. I know some moms with that weakness. Wolverine has a nasty temper. Ironman is an alcoholic. If Batman gets outsmarted, he's as mortal as the rest of us.

Wonder Woman's biggest weakness? Having her hands bound by a man. I'll leave that one right there.

Just like no superhero does it all, no mom does it all, either. The perfect birthday party mom doesn't always have the energy at the end of her work day to be "on" for her kids. The volunteer mom worries about how staying home will affect her retirement someday. The mom who dates her husband grabs fast food more than she'd like because her kids' schedules are so hectic. The working moms sometimes feel guilty. The stay-at-home moms miss getting a paycheck. The homeschoolers can't keep their houses clean for longer than 30 seconds.

We all have our weaknesses. But just as Superman's vulnerability to Kryptonite and magic doesn't make him any less of a superhero, my inability to maintain a cleaning schedule or convince my kid to poo on the toilet doesn't make me any less of a SuperMom.

Now, some may feel it's unfair to compare real moms with the fictitious powers of these iconic superheroes. But I choose to see it the opposite way. The things moms do are actually way more impressive than the contrived feats of our comic book heroes. There's no comparison, really. If anyone's going to be called a superhero, it's got to be the mom who somehow finds the fortitude to work day after day to raise healthy, well-adjusted kids in the face of hectic schedules, behavioral challenges, financial hardships, familial dysfunction, sleep deprivation, lack of support, health issues, dietary limitations, societal pressures, media influence, and every other challenge you can throw at her.

Oh yes. SuperMom beats Superman, every time, hands down.

So when I finally get around to making BoyWonder a superhero cape, I think I'll make one for myself as well. Because I AM a SuperMom. And so is every other mom I know. We don't do it all. And we may not do the things we do as well as we'd like to. But we do a lot. A whole lot. And some of it we do pretty darn well.

Being a SuperMom doesn't mean perfection. It means finding your superpowers and recognizing your weaknesses. It means accepting the enormous responsibility inherent in the job, but cutting yourself a little slack sometimes. It means enjoying the feel of the breeze through your hair while you're leaping tall buildings in a single bound, but acknowledging that you'll eventually stumble into a phone booth and be painfully human again, at least for a while.

So the next time someone tells me I'm a SuperMom, I won't deny it. Instead, I'll smile, toss my cape behind my shoulder, and say, Why, thank you, kind citizen.

I encourage all my fellow SuperMoms to do the same.

Facing the Unfathomable

2012-01-13T16:59:00.001-06:00

Right now, I'm listening to my three healthy children as they sit around the dining table, eating their soup and discussing their favorite movies.

At the same time, 1700 miles away, a girl I went to high school with is manually cutting back a tumor that has pushed its way through her son's head, blinded him in both eyes, and is now growing out of his nose.

I can't wrap my mind around it.

I consider myself a very strong person. Fiercely independent. Practical when it comes to life's difficulties. Sensitive, but not easy to rattle. But I can't fathom what this mom is going through. I'm quite sure it would break me in places I didn't know I could break.

Her name is Jo Lynn. Her son, Brandon, was first diagnosed with cancer at the age of 3. That's how old BoyWonder is now. They fought the cancer then and beat it, temporarily. Then at the age of 7 - my Dolittle's age - the cancer returned. And once again, they fought it, this time using double the doses they'd normally use for a kid his age. He wasn't really expected to survive the treatment, but they won that battle, too.

But now, at age 11 - same age as The Muse - Brandon is losing the cancer war for good.

And it's awful. There's no way to pretty this up. There are no treatment options at this point. Only measures to make him as comfortable as possible, which is hard to imagine when you see how much pressure that tumor is putting on his sweet face.

How do you watch your child go through that kind of suffering for even one day, much less several years? There's a YouTube video of Brandon's story on the news from when he was first diagnosed, in which Jo Lynn said that she'd break down in the shower every morning - that's when she'd let the tears flow - and then she'd pull herself together to be strong for him the rest of the day.

That was seven years and two remissions ago.

It's too much to fathom.

I have some friends whose son was diagnosed with cancer when he was a toddler. Thankfully, they beat it, and made it through the eight prayerful, finger-crossing years of remission required to be considered 100% cancer free. Their cancer story had a wonderful, celebratory ending.

But not all cancer stories do. I've heard stories like Jo Lynn's before, though I can't say I've ever seen anything so physically dramatic. Brandon's tumor is not the silent internal killer I usually think of with cancer. It's brutal and obvious and painful to look at. The photo below is just the beginning. She's posted photos on Facebook in the past two days that are almost unbearable. Your heart just breaks to see this little boy's suffering literally written all over his face.

I've never personally known someone going through something like this. And I don't even really know Jo Lynn now, to be honest. Haven't spoken to her since high school. But I knew her. I knew her as a teenager, before motherhood and cancer became her life. I knew her as part of a group of girls who talked about homecoming dances and drill team and history homework, not brain tumors and chemotherapy and hospice.

It could have been any one of us.

I guess that's why I'm writing about this today. The empathy is so overwhelming. While I say I can't imagine it, I can imagine it. It's just too painful to think about, to put my own child in Brandon's place, to see all of this happening through Jo Lynn's eyes.

Her courage and fortitude are beyond me. God bless them both.

A friend set up a website where you can follow Brandon's story, and where you can leave a message or make a donation if you feel compelled. Sometimes it helps to feel like you're doing something. I'm sure Jo Lynn could use any and all support people can throw at her.

A good reminder that every moment is precious. Hug your kids.

www.brandonscancerwars.com

Don't Worry, Honey. It's Perfectly Normal.

2012-01-12T22:03:00.000-06:00

This is what happens when you're the younger brother of two older sisters and your mom is too busy/lazy/cheap to get you your own dress-up clothes:

Good golly, he's adorable.

As a fairy or a football player.

(This Seahawks jersey is the one and only piece of traditionally boy dress-up clothing in our entire household. I don't think we even have anything that would traditionally be considered gender neutral, other than maybe a bandana or two.)

Maybe it's time to go costume shopping, if only to let the boy know that not all dress-up clothes have sequins or skirts. And that they do come in something other than pink.

My Superpower: An Ode to My Amazing A-Cups

2012-01-09T16:44:00.000-06:00

When I was in the seventh grade, I asked my mom to buy me a bra. I didn't need one, technically. But all the other girls were wearing them, and I was beginning to feel a bit awkward when we had to change for gym class. I'd watched the breast fairy visit all of my friends and acquaintances, endowing them with varying degrees of curves and cleavage, and was still waiting for her to bring me mine.

Much to my chagrin, she never came.

Actually, I think that she may have flitted by my house at some point and inadvertently dropped a tiny sprinkling of breast dust at my door. Not enough to actually fill a bra or anything, but enough to make me slightly more endowed than my two brothers. Slightly.

At any rate, I've never really had anything in the bosom department to speak of. The push-up bra was invented just for me, I think. I once saw a bra size that said "Barely A." That was invented for me, too. Yes, they're really that small. Tiny. Infinitesimal, even.

Over the years, I tried to think of all of the advantages of having itty-bitty boobies. I can run up and down stairs in my pajamas. They don't get in the way of any activity, ever. Men always look me in the eye. They'll never sag.

But truthfully, my lack of buxomness always made me feel somewhat . . . unwomanly. Perhaps it was the lifetime of advertisements and media emphasizing breasts. Or maybe it was biological. (Physiologically speaking, breasts are one of the hallmark signs of being a woman, after all.) My husband has always made me feel exceptionally beautiful, and has never had so much as one complaint about my washboard-like decolletage. But if I didn't have the hips I have, I'd feel very man-like in my build.

I never considered surgical enhancement or anything like that. I figured this was how my breasts were made, so that's how they're supposed to be. But that understanding didn't take away the fact that I was flat. That I couldn't fill a bathing suit without padding. That I'd never put on lipstick with my cleavage like Molly Ringwald in "The Breakfast Club."

I didn't have enough breasts to think of them as special in any way. They were just there, as inconsequential as my elbows.

But then I got pregnant. And as my belly grew rounder, my breasts did, too. I went from "Barely A" to "Solid A" to "Almost B" to "Woohoo! Definitely B!" I actually had boobs! For the first time, ever. And I felt as womanly as I always thought I would feel. I loved their curves, their fullness. If I put my elbows together, they would actually touch. My bras finally had a purpose.

And then I had a baby. And when my milk came in I went from "Definitely B" to "Holy crap, is that a D??" I would stare at them in the mirror in awe. They were sore and uncomfortable, and I kept bonking them every time I'd open the refrigerator door, but they were amazing to witness. Seriously. I know all women go through this change with pregnancy and nursing, but it's especially pronounced when you start off with nothing.

As the weeks of nursing went on and the hormones evened out, the girls settled in at a solid B+. It was a perfect size for me. I reveled in my newfound womanhood.

But then another shift began to occur as I realized my breasts were not just a substantial size, but in function, they were nothing short of miraculous. I watched my baby's cheeks and arms and legs plump up, purely from my breastmilk. I was literally building a human being with my breasts. Building a human being. With my breasts. That's freaking AMAZING.

I grew up around nursing. My mom was a La Leche League leader, and I knew on an intellectual level how the whole breastfeeding thing worked. But I had never connected that knowledge on a personal level to my own itty-bitty boobies. The fact that my inconsequential breasts could not only nourish a baby, but transform her into a roly-poly chunk-a-lunk, with full-on rubber band wrists and Michelin thighs, blew my mind.

One day, when my first daughter was about five months old, we were visiting my in-laws. A woman there remarked how plump my baby was. My sister-in-law pointed out that she was exclusively breastfed, and this tell-it-like-it-is woman looked at me, looked down at my breasts, raised her eyebrows, and said, "With those?" Yup, with those. Those tiny breasts (which were not nearly as tiny as they were pre-baby) created all those impressively squishy rolls.

A few months after I had my second baby, my husband's brother and his wife adopted a baby boy. They really wanted him to breastfeed, but my sister-in-law had troubles relactating. So they started buying breastmilk from a milk bank. And then we worked out a deal for me to pump for them. Not only did I nurse my own baby, but I pumped for another. It was a lot of work, but it was also an amazing testament to what my breasts could do. I was building not one, but two human beings with my wee little breasts.

I felt like I had finally found my superpower. I could feed an army with these things.

I fantasized about how I could use this power for the common good. Visions of traveling to third world countries and nursing malnourished babies all day filled my head. I was blown away with the amazing things my breasts could do. These teeny, powerful breasts I had always considered lacking.

Now that I've breastfed three children and pumped for another, I realize that my breasts can never ever be considered inconsequential again, no matter what their size. Even after I'm done nursing for good and they go back to their "Barely A" flatness, their status will forever be akin to that of a hall-of-famer, an immortalized rock star, a legendary hero. They've manufactured a miraculous, living superfood full of nutrients, essential fats, and antibodies. They have comforted my babies through sickness, pain, and the inexplicable gritchiness of the 5:00 witching hour. They've given me increased protection against a host of female cancers. Most basically, but most impressively, they've helped build four human beings.

These amazing things my breasts can do have had a significant impact in my life. They've enhanced the well-being of my children. They've protected my health. They've proved that these wee little bosoms have an incredible, life-giving purpose.

And they've made me feel more womanly than any bra size ever could.

First World Problems

2012-01-05T22:13:00.002-06:00

“Be content with what you have; rejoice in the way things are. When you realize there is nothing lacking, the whole world belongs to you.” Lao Tzu

Twice in the past week I've come across the term "first world problem," which is a little odd, because it's something I've been thinking about myself lately. (It's fairly self-explanatory, but if you haven't had your coffee yet, a "first world problem" is something the average middle or upper-class American would complain about, which would probably sound ridiculous to someone who struggles to eat or has limited or no access to things we take for granted.)

P-Diddles and I have sometimes talked about the idea of "real" problems when it comes to our kids. We are both sensitive to our children's needs and emotions, and we try hard to be compassionate listeners and to honor our kids' feelings. But there are some things that our kids complain about that are just not real problems, not when compared to things the majority of kids around the world are challenged with on a daily basis.

For example, my daughter pouting and stomping because, despite the fact that we have a refrigerator and pantry full of food, she can't find something she likes to eat for breakfast. Not a real problem. Or the kids whining because they want to play longer, despite the fact that they get more playtime than 95% of the kids we know. Again, not a real problem. I've even said to my kids before, when it's something that's clearly a first-world-child's issue, "Look, this is not a real problem. We are not going to throw a fit about not liking your soup when there are millions of kids in the world who are sleeping hungry tonight."

Our kids are generally grateful. But when those kinds of complaints pop up I think, clearly, we need to expose our children to more hardship.

I think about this sometimes when it comes to things we adults whine about, too. Havarti and I once caught ourselves complaining about how slow our water dispenser was on our refrigerator. Yes, the water dispenser in the door of our plugged-in, well-stocked refrigerator, which spews out cold, fresh drinking water that we didn't have to hike three miles to get. We felt really embarrassed and ashamed. A first world problem, for sure.

There are so many things we can find to complain about, aren't there? Our dishwasher is too loud, we don't have enough room in our cabinets, our vacation budget is too small, we have overdue library fines, we're not passionate about our jobs, we're getting gray hair, etc. etc. etc. First world problems. What is it with the need to complain? Do we subconsciously worry that if we are actually satisfied with everything that there will be nothing to shoot for? Is it purely a materialistic instinct?

Maybe we really do need problems and challenges. And maybe in the absence of the external and environmental difficulties that many in the world face, we find them where we can. Not to insinuate that none of our problems are real. That's totally subjective, for the most part. Just philosophizing. I don't have an answer.

The Lao Tzu quote above popped into my life this week as well, and it went right along with all of these thoughts. When I read it, I felt it was lovely, and very true, and very hard to accomplish for longer than a day. And perhaps the striving for more is a good thing, as long as it's not solely directed at material pursuits. We're supposed to try to improve ourselves, right? Gain knowledge, polish our character, grow spiritually, spread goodness, serve others . . . nothing wrong with striving for more of those things. But even at that, complaining about lacking in those areas is pretty pointless, since it rests on our own heads and hearts to do those things.

So is there even room for complaint in our lives? Is there any real point to complaining about anything at all? Does it really make us feel any better or help us accomplish anything? Are there truly things worth complaining about?

Maybe things that are truly sucky, and that we really have no control over. Like cancer. Or famine. Or greedy pharmaceutical companies. Or chin hairs.

I'm going to bed before I ramble any further. In my cozy bed, in my warm house, with my sweet, doting husband. No complaints here.

To BoyWonder on His Third Birthday

2011-12-31T19:32:00.000-06:00

Dear BoyWonder,

Today is your third birthday. Three! That can't be right. You're my baby. I'm beginning to understand how youngest kids get spoiled and such. I'm enjoying watching you grow, but I'm not ready for you to be a full-fledged big boy yet. Let's just slow things down a bit, mmkay?

I have to admit, when you popped up on the ultrasound screen and unknowingly announced your manhood 3 1/2 years ago, I was . . . shall we say . . . less than thrilled? Of course, I was overjoyed to see you, even the blurry, barely discernible, black-and-white version of you on the ultrasound screen. But the boy parts - well, they had me worried. Scared. Petrified.

You see, I'm a girl. And I was already comfortably raising two girls when you came along. I liked my girls. Still do. And while I have your wonderful father for a husband and two brothers who were in no way horrible examples of boyhood growing up, I really couldn't see myself raising a boy. Girls, I got. Or at least I got them more than boys.

Ironically, I didn't really have a prejudice against boys until I became a mother. Raising children is wonderful but exhausting, even under the best of circumstances. And I'd seen one too many little boys with perfectly lovely parents who seemed to me to be absolute terrors. And that scared the crap out of me. Admittedly, I've known some absolute terrors who have grown into sweet, amazing men, but they were terrors as kids nonetheless. I couldn't imagine what it must've been like to be those boys' mothers. Still can't.

I knew, because I'd already had two kids and saw how the parental love thing works, that I was going to love you as my child. But I was desperately afraid that I wasn't going to like you. What if I didn't like my child? How was I going to handle that?

But then you were born. And from the moment I met you, all of that fear washed away. You charmed your way into my affections in a matter of seconds, and you didn't even have control of any of your faculties yet. Your entire being was wrapped in sweetness and delight.

I did love you. I also liked you, immediately. Still do. Your sweet, crooked smile. Your sincere love and affection. Your unbridled enthusiasm for everything you deem the least bit exciting, from birthday cake to breakfast cereal. Your goofy silliness. And yes, even your clear moments of testosterone-filled boy energy.

Granted, you're not a terror. At least not yet. But you've also made me question what I was seeing when I looked at those boys I saw as terrors. You've definitely helped me understand what their mothers were seeing. People told me when I was pregnant with you that there's a special bond between mothers and sons. I get that now.

You have so much life ahead of you, and I know we're just beginning to see what's in store for you. But so much of you is so clear already. You are loved for all that you are. You've brought more joy and growth to our family than I ever could have hoped for. I know we're entering the tougher ages (why people call the twos terrible is beyond me), but I don't fear raising you anymore. While there are parts of your boyness I will probably never fully understand, I do fully appreciate them, warts and all. Because you are exactly who you are supposed to be. And you've made my life infinitely richer by being a part of it.

Happy birthday, my sweet boy.

:) Your loving Mommy

Dolittle's Rules of Courtesy

2011-12-29T13:51:00.000-06:00

When the kids go spend the night at friends' houses, I always like to give them a brief reminder about basic houseguest courtesy. Please, thank you, offering to be helpful, etc.

So today, Dolittle was getting ready to spend the night at a friend's house. Here's how the first part of that conversation went:

Me: Please remember to be a courteous houseguest while you're at Ellie's house. Now, what do I mean by that?

Dolittle: Umm . . . be polite?

Me: Yes, which means always say . . .

Dolittle: Please and thank you.

Me: Right. And . . . what else?

Dolittle: Fart in the other room.

Good to know we've got those basics down. :)

Our Gluten-Free Dairy-Free Holidays

2011-12-28T18:08:00.000-06:00

From an outside view, feeding our extended family looks fairly complicated. More than half of the family can't eat gluten, and only slightly fewer can't eat dairy, either. Add in a vegetarian, a vegan, and several folks who loosely follow the blood-type diet, and it starts to seem like the list of things we can't eat is longer than the list of things we can.

Fortunately, we've had many years to figure out how to meet everyone's needs, and I can say confidently that we do a smashing job of feeding everyone very very well, particularly on holidays. The vegetarians take care of their own meat replacement dishes, but everything else is designed to meet everyone's needs.

Here's a picture of my Thanksgiving plate. 100% gluten-free and dairy free. Super yummy.

Our Christmas dinner was pretty much the same. Not a single droplet of taste sacrificed. We really have the gluten-free dairy-free thing down.

For Thanksgiving, my friend P-Diddles made a gluten-free vegan chocolate peanut butter pie that I dare anyone to challenge. You'd never know it was anything other than traditionally decadent. It was so rich and creamy, I told her she should enter it in some kind of contest. Havarti is a bit of a dessert connoisseur, and he can't get enough of this pie. You can find the recipe here.

My nieces are in a culinary institute in San Francisco studying pastry making. This week, they've been taking what they've learned and altering recipes to make them gluten-free. Last night, they made these eclairs. Gluten-free, dairy-free eclairs! ECLAIRS, PEOPLE! (Sorry for the enthusiasm, but if you're familiar with GF/DF fare, eclairs are generally found in the "Ha! You wish!" category.)

Seriously to DIE FOR. You'd never guess in a million years that they were gluten-free and dairy-free. Someday my nieces are going to open their own gluten-free bakery and make a bajillion dollars. Just you wait.

For me, personally, gluten-free baking has become second nature. I don't even keep regular flour in the house anymore (The Muse and Havarti are both gluten-free, and it's become easier to just make everything at home gluten-free). At first, we used the gluten-free baking mixes from the store, but a couple of years ago we got the book "Gluten-Free Baking Classics" by Annalise Roberts, and it quickly became our go-to book for baking.

This recipe book is FANTASTIC. She gives you a basic mix of rice flour, tapioca starch, and potato starch that you use as a flour mix, and everything we've made in this book has turned out wonderfully. The eclairs above came from this recipe book. If you or your loved ones are gluten-free, I can't recommend it highly enough. (And no, I'm not getting paid to endorse it in any way, shape, or form.)

The one thing I think is hardest about going gluten-free (other than the cost - yeesh) is trying to find a good substitute for french or italian bread. Those rustic loaves are hard to replicate gluten-free. But just in the past two years, gluten-free breads have come a LONG way, so I'm still holding out hope.

Feel free to share any favorite gluten-free cooking or baking resources. Always on the lookout for great recipes.

And speaking of great recipes, I'm off to eat another eclair. You only live once. :)

The Christmas Question

2011-12-23T20:06:00.004-06:00

Naturally, at this festive time of year, people like to ask whether or not Baha'is celebrate Christmas. And the simple answer is: No. Yes. Sort of. Sometimes. It depends.

How's that for definitive?

The confusion here, I think, lies more in the question itself than in the answer. My befuddled answer is appropriate to the question, "Do Baha'is celebrate Christmas?" because that particular question is really an umbrella for several related-but-different questions.

To clear things up a bit, I thought I'd try to break it down to the best of my ability (with the caveat that these answers are based on my own understanding, which is hardly infallible). So here are some questions that are usually wrapped up in the more general question of whether or not Baha'is celebrate Christmas, and my undoubtedly imperfect answers to those questions.

Do Baha'is believe in Christ?

Yes, we do.

Here's one of the beautiful things Baha'u'llah wrote about Jesus:

Know thou that when the Son of Man yielded up His breath to God, the whole creation wept with a great weeping. By sacrificing Himself, however, a fresh capacity was infused into all created things. Its evidences, as witnessed in all the peoples of the earth, are now manifest before thee. The deepest wisdom which the sages have uttered, the profoundest learning which any mind hath unfolded, the arts which the ablest hands have produced, the influence exerted by the most potent of rulers, are but manifestations of the quickening power released by His transcendent, His all-pervasive, and resplendent Spirit.

We testify that when He came into the world, He shed the splendor of His glory upon all created things. Through Him the leper recovered from the leprosy of perversity and ignorance. Through Him, the unchaste and wayward were healed. Through His power, born of Almighty God, the eyes of the blind were opened, and the soul of the sinner sanctified . . . Blessed is the man who, with a face beaming with light, hath turned towards Him.

So yes, we revere and adore Christ, and believe in Him as a Divine Messenger of God.

Do Baha'is celebrate Christmas as a religious community?

No, we don't. We accept Christ wholeheartedly, and therefore honor the idea of celebrating His birth, but we do not celebrate Christmas as a community. We accept and honor Moses, Buddha, Krishna, Zoroaster, Muhammad, and other Divine Messengers as well, and if we celebrated all of their births and other holy days associated with each of them . . . well, we'd be partying all year long. And as fun as that sounds, it doesn't really make sense logistically. And it wouldn't make sense to only celebrate some and not the others. So as a community, we only celebrate the holy days and holidays associated with the Baha'i calendar.

But CAN Baha'is celebrate Christmas?

Yes, and many of us do joyfully celebrate Christmas with our families and friends who do so. As individuals, we are free to partake in any religious activities that don't directly interfere with the Baha'i teachings. In fact, sharing one another's spiritual traditions is one of the best ways to form bonds of fellowship and unity among people of all faiths, which is one of the central teachings of Baha'u'llah to "Consort with the followers of all religions in a spirit of friendliness and fellowship."

So do Baha'is have Christmas trees, bake Christmas cookies, put up Christmas lights, exchange Christmas gifts, etc.?

Maybe. Sort of. Sometimes. It depends. Part of what gets confusing is that Christmas has really become a cultural holiday for many people. Every atheist and agnostic I know still puts up a Christmas tree, sings Christmas songs, and gives Christmas gifts. For most Christians, it's a very holy holiday. For non-religious folk, it's a time for family and tradition. For Baha'is, it's sort of both and sort of neither, depending on what angle you're looking from.

I know some Baha'i families who put up Christmas trees, but I would say most do not. I personally LOVE a good cookie exchange. Some Baha'is exchange gifts with their families and circles of friends, especially those whose extended families are not Baha'is. We have a major gift-giving holiday called Ayyam-i-Ha at the end of February, so we usually save the big gift-giving until then.

How about Santa?

You know, I have to admit something. As an adult and a parent, I kind of hate Santa. (This is not official Baha'i teaching, here, just so we're clear.) I think Saint Nicholas (the real one) was a wonderful inspiration, giving generously to the poor and saving young girls from having to prostitute themselves.

But the Santa that we've traditionalized doesn't, in my eyes, hold up so well under much scrutiny. First, he supposedly only gives gifts to kids who are good. Well, there goes the teaching of generosity to all. Second, he breaks into your house at night. Just a wee bit creepy. Third, in any other context, an old man asking children he doesn't know to come sit on his lap and offering them candy would be . . . well, creepy. Fourth, the lying to the children thing gives me pause. Fifth, when cultural traditions take hold and then get mixed up with commercial pursuits and nostalgic sentimentality, it's far too easy for them to morph into something that only vaguely resembles the original idea, so that we end up calling something an important long-standing tradition without questioning it. To me, Santa fits that bill.

I have a few more beefs with the big guy, but I'll leave it at that for now. I know, I know. It's a harmless tradition and I'm a big old Scrooge. Bah Humbug.

Actually, though, I love Santa movies. I must have watched Miracle on 34th Street a dozen times as a kid. And I really like the Tim Allen Santa Clause movies. It's just since I became an overly analytical parent that the jolly old fella has gotten under my skin.

It may also be because I'm a wee bit tired of perfect strangers asking my kids what they got from Santa every time we venture out of the house after Christmas. Why do people make the assumption that 1) we do celebrate Christmas, and 2) if we do, we must do Santa? Is it because we're middle-class white folk? I know people mean well, but it puts the kids in an awkward position of first wondering why Santa doesn't bring them toys, and then, when they're old enough to understand, of trying to explain to perfect strangers why Santa doesn't bring them toys.

People get all up in arms over the "Merry Christmas" vs. "Happy Holidays" word choice. I'm not in the least bit offended if you want to wish me a Merry or Happy anything, and I'll happily return the sentiment. Please just don't ask my kids what Santa brought them, for crying out loud.

OK, sorry. Rant over. Back to the questions.

So now that you've explained how Baha'is kinda/sorta/maybe/sometimes/don't really celebrate Christmas, as well as completely vilified the beloved institution of Santa Clause, what does your family do for Christmas?

We enjoy the festivity and warmth of the holiday season, and ooh and ahh over all the pretty light displays and our friends' Christmas trees. Havarti's a big LEGO fanatic, and we have a LEGO winter village that we put up on the mantle. I've also always loved nutcrackers, so we have a small collection of nutcrackers we put out during the winter months. I also like to decorate with snowmen, which I think helps the kids not feel like such oddballs not having some sort of holiday decorations during December. We teach the kids the stories of Hanukkah and the Nativity and Kwanzaa, partake in any festivities we are invited to, and talk about the importance of honoring everyone's celebrations. We also have a big family dinner, since everyone's off of work and school at this time.

Oh, and we make rockin' awesome gingerbread houses with the kids' cousins. Super fun.

I hope that clears things up a little. Wrapping this up, I feel an overwhelming urge to write Santa an apology letter. My mind works in goofy ways.

May you all have a Merry Christmas, a Happy Hanukkah, a Joyous Kwanzaa, and a warm and festive holiday season, whatever you celebrate. Peace and love to all!

Dolittle and The Cuz

2011-12-19T09:27:00.000-06:00

We spent last weekend at Havarti's parents' house, visiting with the second wave of family to come into town.

My nephew (whom I shall refer to as "The Cuz") was among them. The Cuz is 7, just a few months younger than Dolittle. Since toddlerhood, these two loving cousins have had a relationship that flips from ardent adoration to absolute agitation with mind-boggling frequency. The Cuz can pester Dolittle into fits of frustration faster than anyone. Turning the lights off on her in the basement, not sharing toys, telling her that her imaginary dinosaur isn't as powerful as his imaginary dinosaur, that sort of thing. And Dolittle plays right into it, squealing and screaming and wailing about over the horrible injustices The Cuz has inflicted upon her. It's like a 7-yr-old soap opera every time they're together.

But since The Cuz moved to California last year, Dolittle's been missing him. And he's been missing her. My brother-in-law said The Cuz couldn't sleep the two nights before their arrival this weekend. And Dolittle kept asking every twenty minutes when The Cuz was coming.

So Havarti's parents took Dolittle to the airport with them to pick up The Cuz and my nieces. I wish I could have been there. Havarti's mom said it was like no one else in the airport existed, The Cuz and Dolittle were so overjoyed in their reunion.

Then apparently, on the way home in the car, Dolittle gave The Cuz a sweet little preemptive speech (as overheard by my niece):

"Cuz, I really love that you're my cousin. And I'm really really happy and excited that you're visiting. But this year, do you think you could please try not to annoy me so much?"

To which The Cuz shrugged and replied, "Okay."

And that was that. If only all relationships were so simple. :)

Dolittle and The Cuz getting their Halloween on last year.

Enjoying the Ride

2011-12-18T11:38:00.000-06:00

I'm trying very hard not to beat myself up about my blogging slack. I guess "slack" isn't really the right word. Is there a word that means "really wanting to do something, but priorities and unexpected life disruptions mean that something's gotta give, and that something appears to be blogging"? And I'm not really beating myself up. I'm just frustrated that I can't do everything I want to do.

I'm very aware that this is a privileged person's woe.

So rather than complain, I'm choosing to just accept it for what it is and bask in the chaotic hilarity of it all. Life is funny, most of the time. And life with children is even funnier. The drama, the big life lessons, the annoying habits, the goofy silliness, the sweet moments, the intense love, the ridiculous balancing act of trying to do it all - it all comes together in a big, crazy, wonderful, hilarious endeavor.

I'm truly starting to believe that the joy of having children is as much about the craziness as it is about the coos and cuddles. Having kids is like hopping on a roller coaster ride. You know it's going to be wild and thrilling and slightly terrifying, but that it's also going to be over in a matter of minutes. You can freak out, grip the safety bars in vain, squeeze your eyes shut, and miss the awesome view from the top. Or you can just let go, throw your hands up, scream 'til you're hoarse, and have the time of your life.

Your legs are going to wobble and you might toss your cookies at the end either way, so you might as well enjoy it while it lasts, right? :)

Save a Pretzel for the Gas Jets

2011-12-11T21:55:00.001-06:00

I wanted to post some pictures tonight, but my computer is acting all funky, so I'll try again another day.

In the meantime, here's a little something I think is hilarious. I normally steer clear of anything political, but this is too funny. It's really not meant as anything specifically against Rick Perry - they made one for all of the potential candidates, including Obama. The Rick Perry one is just the first one I saw, and I've watched it like a dozen times. The Mitt Romney one is pretty funny, too.

I'd like to borrow your Kwanzaa cd's, Mr. Perry. I really would. :)

Cocoa Confessions

2011-12-03T20:34:00.001-06:00

A few months back, I mentioned my commitment to buying fair trade chocolate.

Trader Joe's sells these awesome dark chocolate bars, and though they are a bit pricey compared to, say, a Hershey bar, they're cheap from a fair trade standpoint ($1.99 a bar, in case you're wondering - they're bigger than a Hershey bar by probably 30%-40%, so it's really not that outrageous, especially since $4.00/bar is a pretty standard price for fair trade chocolate bars).

So I've been sustaining my chocolate bloodstream with these babies for a while now. I do eat other chocolate if it's given to me, but as far as actually purchasing it myself, I've stuck to fair trade only.

Or at least I had until the Cella's arrived at Target.

Some temptations are too overpowering to fight.

My mom and I have been eating Cella's chocolate-covered cherries ever since I can remember. I've only ever found the dark chocolate ones at Christmas time. Man, are they heavenly. They don't have that white goopy stuff that most chocolate-covered cherries have. Not a big fan of the white goopy stuff. Too sugary sweet and it coats your throat in an all-consuming sort of way.

So I've broken my fair trade pledge for this one treat. Hypocritical, I fully admit. Maybe to make myself feel better I should at least write a letter to the Tootsie company expressing my concern about the cocoa industry.

Then again, fair trade Cella's might be too beautiful and perfect a thing to be allowed.

Speaking of holiday indulgences, my sister-in-law who lives in Australia and insists on making at least two desserts a day when she visits (including Rocky Road fudge, which I can pretty much inhale by the pound) will be staying with us for two weeks starting on Monday. And after that we'll be spending a week at Havarti's folks' with my baking goddess mother-in-law and twin 20-year-old nieces who are in culinary school. I repeat: CULINARY SCHOOL.

There's no hope for these hips in the next month.

A Moment's Peace

2011-11-26T13:13:00.001-06:00

I'm not much of a bath person, in general. Showers are faster and use less water, (appeasing two of my favorite personal buzzkills, Efficiency and Frugality). Plus, I shower before I bathe anyway (so as not to sit in a pool of my own dirtiness), so baths are truly a wasteful indulgence for me.

But every once in a while, when I'm feeling a bit creaky or beat up by the constant business of life, a hot bath sounds too good to pass up.

So the other night, I took a nice, long bath. When I do bathe, I like to read. Right now I'm slowly making my way through "Eat, Pray, Love." On this bath night, I started the part of the book where the author goes to an ashram in India to pray and meditate. Elizabeth Gilbert (the author) has a very eloquent way of describing her experiences, and a gift for helping the reader feel what she's feeling. Reading about her meditation experiences had me wishing that I could hole up in some spiritual spot halfway around the world and do nothing but hone my prayer and meditation practices for a few months.

So-o-o clearly not going to happen, probably ever.

But I decided there in the bathtub to take a few moments to just be still and try to quiet my mind. I usually try to meditate on something specific, but this night I wanted to just be, to feel the presence of tranquility and sit with it for a bit in sweet silence.

My body was already feeling quite peaceful in the warm water, the family was otherwise occupied, and for once I didn't feel anything pressing that needed my attention. So I floated. I let my body totally relax, put my head far enough into the water to cover my ears, and breathed. In. Out. In. Out.

A common meditation practice is to sit comfortably and focus on your breathing. My problem is I can never get into a truly comfortable sitting position. I'm always distracted by my back aching or my ankle bone pressing into the floor or some such discomfort. My best meditative moments have been lying down. But then there's always the risk of falling asleep. There in the bath, though, I was uber-comfortable, and not in any danger of drifting off. Putting my ears under the water muffled all other sounds except my breathing, which was actually amplified. So ignoring everything else and focusing on my breathing was SO easy.

Perhaps that's meditative cheating. I'm OK with that. It worked.

After a few minutes, for the first time in . . . well, a while, I felt a moment of utter and total peace. No worry, no tension, no thinking about what I needed to do after my bath, no thinking about anything at all. Pure, heavenly nothingness. Physical, mental, and spiritual weightlessness. All the words, thoughts, and voices that constantly stream through my mind were quiet. It was wonderful.

Of course, it only lasted a few minutes before I started thinking about how my breathing underwater sounded like Darth Vader and I came drifting back to Earth. But lightly, like a feather gently and gracefully giving in to gravity. And that was okay. It was good to know that I could get to that peaceful place fairly easily.

Bathtub meditation. I might have to do this more often. :)

"Meditation is the key for opening the doors of mysteries. In that state man abstracts himself: in that state man withdraws himself from all outside objects; in that subjective mood he is immersed in the ocean of spiritual life and can unfold the secrets of things-in-themselves." - 'Abdu'l-Baha

My "Not To Do" List

2011-11-20T17:54:00.001-06:00

I was thinking about making a To-Do list for this week, but I haven't been very good about getting through those lately. So I thought perhaps I'd be better off making a list of things I DON'T want to do. You know, reverse psychology and whatnot.

So, here are some things I plan NOT to do this week:

1. Make To-Do lists I won't be able to complete. Check! (See? I knew this was a good idea.)

2. Polish off the two new boxes of Cellas chocolate-covered cherries that I bought this afternoon before the end of the day tomorrow.

3. Peruse every last one of the Black Friday ads, knowing that I will have no desire to even leave my pajamas, much less the house, on Black Friday.

4. Leave loads of laundry in the washer overnight.

5. Pull laundry out of the dryer and then leave it sitting unfolded in the laundry basket.

6. Fold the laundry and then leave it sitting folded in the laundry basket.

7. Wait until the morning we leave for Havarti's parents' house to start packing.

8. Make yet another schedule for housekeeping, homeschooling, exercise, and work, only to abandon it immediately upon printing.

9. Forget to drink water all morning and try to make up for it in the evening.

10. Remember for the 154th time that I need to print pictures of BoyWonder to put in our wall frames before he starts to wonder if he's really a part of the family, but then still not actually send them to be printed.

11. Use the Internet as a procrastination tool.

12. Click on news stories with disturbing headlines, knowing I'm going to wish I hadn't read them.

13. Find a great, insightful article online and then stupidly read through the comments, which are always filled with bitter, spiteful, rude people who have nothing better to do than spout ignorant vitriol and ruin my perfectly good mood.

14. Put food in the microwave to reheat and then totally forget about it until the next time I go to put food in the microwave to reheat.

15. Leave the Sharpies within reach of the two-year-old.

16. Start fifteen projects and not finish a single one.

17. Let the moppets con me into giving them one more piece of Halloween candy, which we are saving to use on gingerbread houses.

18. Reach into the chocolate cabinet every 45 minutes just because it's there.

19. Expect my kids to develop habits I can't keep myself.

20. Let another week go by between blog posts. That's just no fun.

There. Good to shake things up a bit. Now I think I'm ready to tackle my week. And if I fail with this list, I can just change it into a To-Do list and feel like I've accomplished something. There's a creative solution to every problem, I tell you. :)

Cinnamon, Midnight, and Weird Al the Rat Guy

2011-11-14T17:37:00.001-06:00

We have rats. Pets, not pests. Two little female rats that our girls named Cinnamon and Midnight.

When we told people we were thinking of getting pet rats, we got two very distinct responses: 1) Oh, pet rats are the best! They're sweet and personable and intelligent and clean. You'll love them. And 2) Rats? Are you serious? Disgusting. We may never visit your house again.

People who have had experience with pet rats can attest to their awesomeness. Those who haven't had them or haven't known people who've had them are predictably freaked out by the idea.

Poor rats have really gotten a bad rap. Yes, in the wild, and in New York City, they're pests. But pet rats are really quite adorable, especially when you get them as babies.

This is Cinnamon. You can't tell from this picture, but she's the adventurous one.

This is Midnight. She might look adventurous in this picture, but she's really shaking in her wee little boots. Midnight's a bit of a scaredy cat. And she tends to poo when she's nervous, so our neighbor girl here in her white coat was lucky she didn't get a little present to take home.

Speaking of poo, the best part of these rats so far is that they litter box trained in exactly one day. So spot cleaning the cage is a breeze.

Here are a few more pics of their adorableness, and then I'll tell you all about Weird Al the Rat Guy who sold them to us.

This last one is my favorite. I love the way they hold their food to nibble it. It almost looks like they have opposable thumbs.

OK, so Weird Al the Rat Guy. We looked all around for a breeder because we'd been told by people in-the-know not to get rats from the pet store. We found Weird Al down near Havarti's parents, so we went to check out his rats one weekend when we were visiting them.

Al takes his rats very seriously. Before we made the appointment, he made me fill out a questionnaire and send him URL's of websites I was looking at for what to feed the rats, etc. I appreciate his care, I really do. I just wasn't expecting such a vigorous background check for procuring pet rats.

So we arrived at Al's place, and we see this guy who couldn't have been more than 4' 10" tall maneuvering the biggest, most beautiful white dog I've ever seen. The dog surely weighed as much as, if not more than, the guy. We approached him in the driveway, he introduced himself as Al, and let us pet the dog. Then he had us go in the house while he held the dog back so that the dog wouldn't follow us inside.

We entered the house and went straight to the basement. He had probably ten or twelve big aquariums where he kept his rats, and a "play table" where he lets the rats run around for an hour or so a day. He also had an egg incubator down there. I didn't ask.

I have to admit it didn't smell the greatest. But we had learned in our research that male rats tend to be a little smellier, and having a couple dozen rats in one room is bound to be a little smelly.

Al met us in the basement, and I got a better look at him. Sweet smiley guy, with a bit of a mad scientist look about him. Actually, more of an evil genius look without the evil part. His curly hair sort of shot out of his head and then straight up, like he'd recently been struck by lightning. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, and his slight physical build made my 5' 5" and 120-something pounds look tall and formidable. But he was kind, and clearly loved his animals. He really deserves to be in a movie as the quirky neighbor.

He had six or seven female babies for us to choose from, and good gracious, were they adorable. We almost ended up getting three because I held one that nuzzled right into the crook of my arm and didn't want to leave. But I wanted the girls to each be able to pick one, and we figured two was really enough.

As we left the house, Al showed us his backyard. Let me preface this by saying that Al lives in a normal neighborhood, not out in the country somewhere. In his little suburban fenced yard Al had three sheep, about six chickens, and an enormous - I mean, seriously huge - turkey, all wandering about freely. It was awesome. Technically, the neighborhood is in an unincorporated part of the city so it's okay, apparently, to have a mini-petting zoo in your backyard. Who knew?

I just loved everything about Weird Al the Rat Guy, from his crazy hair to his farmyard in the suburbs. (Note to self: Always bring the camera.) I'd highly recommend him and his rats.

An Honest Veterans Day Tribute

2011-11-11T10:52:00.001-06:00

Today I will explain to my children what it means to honor our veterans. I will teach them the importance of respecting the ranks of soldiers charged with protecting their country and the people in it. I will teach them to honor commitment, loyalty, and duty. I will let my children know what great sacrifices soldiers make with their time, energy, families, and lives. I will, according to their capacity to hear it, inform my children of the nightmarish experiences many of them have had to endure. Together we will remember the courage and fortitude of our veterans and active duty soldiers, and pay our respects with prayer, gratitude, and humility.

I will not, however, teach my children that there is any honor in sending young men and women into warzones to be irreparably broken inside and out. I will not glorify the many wars that have been fought under the false premise of protecting our freedoms. I will not dishonor the sacrifices of those who have lost their physical or emotional lives in politically or economically-driven conflicts by falsely claiming that their losses were necessary. I will, according to their capacity to hear it, explain to my children the true horrors and atrocities of war, so they will see more than patriotic sentimentality in the events of today. I will convey the importance of supporting those who have taken on the duty to serve and protect, but I will make it clear to my children that supporting soldiers as individuals does not mean supporting war. Together we will pray for peace—both inner peace for our soldiers and veterans, and global peace so that we don’t keep adding names to the list of fallen souls we honor today.

The original intent of Armistice Day, which evolved into our current Veterans Day, was to remind Americans of the tragedies of war. Our veterans deserve to be honored. They also deserve to have their experiences genuinely recognized for the tragedies they are, not glorified and prettied up for the sake of pride or patriotism. We must not, in our desire to raise up and honor our veterans, ignore the reason they exist, which is that humanity has not learned from its bloodied history that war is almost never the answer.

Today I honor our veterans both by thanking them for their sacrifices, and by making a commitment to work for peace. Happy Veterans Day.

Wanderlust Daydreams

2011-11-07T21:27:00.000-06:00

I keep getting these e-mails from Living Social and Groupon for vacation "getaways." Tropical resort destinations. Gorgeous, white sandy beaches. Clear blue-green waters. Spa packages. People whose only job is to bring you icy drinks at your beachside lounge chair.

It's just mean, really.

I've also been reading "Eat, Pray, Love," and just finished the section where the author spent four months eating her way through the best restaurants in Italy and learning Italian just because she wanted to. Granted, she went through a brutal divorce and battled terrible depression before that, so I can't totally envy her. But still. I could eat my way through Italy for a few months.

Also, Havarti just went on a four-day business trip to Portland, which he does every year at this time. We decided that next year I should go with him and leave the moppets with the grandparents for the weekend. I could get my fill of my much-beloved alone time while he works, and then we can hang out and enjoy the lovely Northwest during his off time. Sounds perfectly heavenly.

So as I swept under the dining table for the umpteenth time today (five kids and three adults produce an alarming amount of crumbs), I started thinking about where I would go if I really could go anywhere - just me - for a week or two. There's no shortage of options, since I pretty much want to go everywhere. The problem is that I'm always torn between going somewhere totally self-indulgent where I could literally do nothing but stare at the ocean and read a book, somewhere cozy and earthy where I could jump from coffee shop to coffee shop and write, somewhere historical and cultural where I could learn and experience a ton, and somewhere that has needs where I could serve and do some good.

Oh, and Scotland. For the accents as much as the greenery and castles. Lord have mercy, that brogue does things to me.

Is it a little pathetic that I feel torn in a bunch of different directions even in my daydream vacations?

It's all for naught anyway. We're saving up for a big family Disneyworld vacation next fall. That's going to be awesome. I love Disneyworld. And Epcot has all those different countries, so it's almost like traveling the world, right? ;)

Honestly, I can't even make a list of the places I want to go. The phrase "anywhere but here" keeps going through my head. "Here" is actually great - I like where we live and have very little to complain about. But I've got a Wanderlust Self that my Practical Self keeps pinned down in a chokehold most of the time. She squeaks out her desperate pleas every once in a while, just to be let go - not to anywhere specific, just "anywhere but here."

I think it's time for a little family getaway again. We've been so busy I haven't really noticed that it's been a while since we've gotten away. It's so good for all of us - the kids always come back from travel with some new leap in cognitive development. Maybe we'll go to Springfield and finally see the Lincoln museum. Or up to Door County, which I've always heard is beautiful. Or maybe we'll go see our friends in Michigan, or toss a pebble into a 4-hour radius of Chicago and see where it lands.

I'll have to check with my Wanderlust Self to see what will suffice. :)

In the meantime, I'll be traipsing around the world in my mind . . .

Happy Halloween!

2011-10-31T18:39:00.001-06:00

Seeing as it falls during my favorite time of the year, and there's a great deal of chocolate involved, I'm a fan of Halloween.

Here's a brief photographic tour of our home decor:

Of course, we did some Halloween-themed educational stuff today.

And yes, candy counts as "decor." (I only ate ~~five~~ ~~six~~ seven pieces of Halloween candy this ENTIRE Halloween season, and they were all today. We'll have to see how well I fare with the post-trick-or-treating haul.)

And now for the big costume reveal . . .

Dolittle went as a cowgirl, naturally. Yee-haw!

The Muse was a pirate. Arrrr, me hearties.

And BoyWonder was ready for some football.

(In case you're wondering, my costume consisted of a black sweatshirt and black yoga pants, cuz that's how I roll.)

Trick-or-treating was fun. Poor little BoyWonder kept having to run to keep up.

And there was apparently some "tricking" happening along with the treating. What the?

The older girls had quite the trick-or-treating stamina.

BoyWonder, not so much. He ended up on Daddy's shoulders the last 1/3 or so.

One of the last houses we visited had warm cookies for the parents. What a lovely gesture.

Happy Halloween!

What We're Reading

2011-10-25T21:29:00.000-06:00

For being a writer and and English major, I've never been as much of a reader as I'd like to be. I enjoy reading, but I tend to let a lot of time slip by in between books-for-pleasure. Part of the reason is because when I DO get into a book, I get so wrapped up in it that other things slip. Therefore, once I finish the book, I feel the need to take a break so that I don't totally neglect my family, household, and other responsibilities.

In other words, I'm an all-or-nothing reader when it comes to leisure reading. It's a habit I'd like to change.

Havarti and I have been in the habit of watching a show or two just before bed every night. We aren't big TV watchers, really. The only show we watch that's on right now is Parenthood (LOVE that show). But we do like the convenience and commercial-free nature of watching Scrubs on Netflix. We also own almost every season of Frasier and Gilmore Girls on DVD. So we've had this episode-before-bed habit for years. We've talked about wanting to read instead, but you know how those habits become routine, and it's tricky to change.

Thankfully, Havarti just went on a business trip and I sent him on the plane with The Hunger Games. Ha ha. He's totally hooked. And I just happened to have picked up the first two books of the City of Ember series at a yard sale not long ago and decided to pre-read them for The Muse. Very good books. So with us both in the middle of good book series (is series really the plural of series?), we've made the leisure reading before bed thing a priority.

Oh, we'll still watch our shows, I'm sure. But we're trying to get in the sack a little earlier so we have time for both. And I'm not sure that I've solved my all-or-nothing reading problem. I let BoyWonder fall asleep on me on the couch this afternoon, even though I knew it would make bedtime tonight a nightmare, because I didn't want to put down my book. I might have to work on that one.

So Havarti's 3/4 of the way through The Hunger Games. I finished The People of Sparks today (the second book in the Ember series) and I don't have the next one yet. I did, however, go to the public library book sale on Sunday and picked up a grocery bag full of books for $5. His Excellency, George Washington is on top of my stack, along with The Art of Time, Three Cups of Tea, and The Old Man and the Sea. I've never read anything by Hemingway. It feels like I should.

Oh, and my sis-in-law informs me that I MUST get and read the Mistborn series soon so we can discuss. So many books, so little time!

The Muse is reading the Warriors series about some warrior cats. She also just finished one of the Dear America books about the Alamo for her historical fiction book club, as well as The City of Ember, so now I'm passing The People of Sparks to her. It's nice to see her going straight from one book to another. She's always had a high reading ability, but she often chooses to draw or write instead of read. (Hmmm . . . wonder where she gets that from.)

Dolittle is still learning to read fluently, but she's comfortable with most of the Dr. Seuss genre now. She doesn't read much on her own, though. She's much more interested in playing outside and morphing into various animals. I imagine the reading bug will catch her at some point. She does love to be read to, I think she just needs that fluency thing to hit to really want to read independently.

BoyWonder loves to "read" books, and I love to watch him. Toddler reading is just the best. He makes up all kinds of stories to go along with the pictures, or quotes parts of the books we've read repeatedly in his sweet little 2-year-old voice.

So I'm up for recommendations, for any of us. Any "must reads" out there?

Simple Truths

2011-10-19T20:35:00.000-06:00

You can walk around cleaning up after a 2-year-old all freaking day long and call it a legit full-time job.

If you have a preschooler, you can field their nonstop questions all day long and call it a legit full-time job.

If you have a toddler, a nature-loving 7-year-old, and a germaphobic 11-year-old, you can do laundry all day long. Also a legit full-time job.

If you want your house to look like the ones in Better Homes and Gardens, forget about it, unless you're prepared to make that your full-time job.

Babies will have their worst diaper blow-outs on the days you forget to pack them a change of clothes.

A large percentage of behavioral issues are caused by kids being hungry, thirsty, tired, or having to go to the bathroom. But they'll usually make you guess which it is.

Kids are hungry every twenty minutes. Unless it's time for an actual meal.

Some toddlers have a time-warping superpower where they can make a ten-minute nap in the car equate to a two-hour delay in bedtime.

Stuffed animals reproduce like rabbits.

Carrying babies gives you a great arm workout.

It's sad when your kids get too big to comfortably snuggle on your lap.

Kids are insanely precious when they're asleep.

The days are long, but the years are short. Parenthood goes way too fast.