In the mind of a 4 year old

When the kids go down for the night, I try to spend some time with each one talking about their day. Of course, with the girls' this works beautifully and for some reason they like to spill their guts during this time. I really do enjoy my nightly visits with them. Somehow the darkness makes it easier to confess any wrongdoing. It's been very enlightening! With the boys' however, it's a different type of spending time. I usually will cradle Zak for a few moments and then give him hugs and kisses and put him down. The great thing with Zak is when he hugs you, it's full body contact. You not only get the arms around the neck but the legs as well. And all gets squeezed. It's quite the experience. As for Andon, we've started to talk. It's no longer just laying by him and holding him. We now have begun discussions- of sort. Last night was one such discussion.
He starts talking to me about Papa, and I am really rather pleased that he still remembers. Earlier that day he had been looking at the funeral pictures we have on the computer. He says to me, "mommy, Papa in heaven?" To which I replied, "Yes." He then says, "Papa with Jesus." I said, "Yes, Papa is with Jesus." "Oh...Papa is in Jesus trunk." (Not a question, a statement. ) I didn't think I heard right, so I repeated what he said. He says, "Yes. Papa is in Jesus trunk." I was truly perplexed and then for some reason the pictures of the funeral that he'd been looking at that day came to mind. He was thinking of the hearse that drove the body to the funeral home after the service as being Jesus car, since Papa was with him in heaven! I tried not to laugh, and explained to him that Jesus didn't have a car and really there are no uses for cars in heaven. (Maybe I'm stretching here.) He seemed satisfied with that answer.
I told Doug afterward and we both had a good laugh, albeit somewhat a bittersweet one. I think Niels would have enjoyed that comment though. Who knows, maybe he's up on my blogging.

Mi Vida Loca

Blogging (is that a word?) seems to be the easiest way to tell everyone what's going on in one showing, vs many phone calls or e-mails. So I'm going to try my hand at this whole 'blog' thing and try to reaquaint myself with technology. I don't want to be one of "THOSE" people who don't know anything about computers, though I fear that I may already be. No more I say!

So here's to technology and the fun that I'm already having as I type this. Who knows, this may even see the light of day. I've entitled this 'my crazy life.' MY crazy life since I'm the one going in a million different directions. Granted Doug 'helps' (did you get that hon?) out but he's at work all day and I suppose deals with a different kind of craziness. I must in his defense say that he is an amazing husband and truly does 'help' out around the house. For those of you wondering why I keep 'help' in quotations I'll explain in a minute. But it really is MY craziness to deal with. I'm even making Doug's lunch in the morning, right along with the girls' school lunch. Love really is shown in the smallest things, and I have to say that Doug really appreciates it. Except on those days he has to eat salad for lunch. To his credit, he never complains, just smiles and says thanks. Big hugs and kisses follow and he's off to work. Then the loca begins!

You mothers know what I'm talking about. Recently I discovered a book I bought years ago titled "All Moms Go to Heaven." So I started reading it. It's hilarious! Dean Hughes wrote it. If you're familiar with literature you'll know his name as he's written many series. Yes, he's an LDS author. I found myself laughing out loud and exclaiming 'yes!' I know exactly how that feels! I'm not the only one who's done this. (Though you know you can't be the only one, it still feels like you are). He's talking about his daughter who is relatting this story to him. So here it is:

".....as she is preparing dinner, she realizes that she doesn't have any cumin, or whatever, and her recipe calls for that whatever she doesn't have. (This is so my cooking experience!!) Well, there's a store not far away. No problem. But the oldest of this mom's kids are not old enough to look after the younger ones for a few minutes, and that means everyone has to go.
That means getting four kids out of the house- finding the shoes, getting them on, strapping the baby into his car seat, and then getting all four buckled up. The boys can do their own seat belts, and Michael can help Katie, and sometimes it works that way- but more often than not, the kids aren't too happy about this little trip, since they just got pulled away from a favorite TV show or video game, and sometimes, little ones get cross with each other, and sometimes a mother tells them to stop it or she'll destroy every electronic device they own. Along with all that, sometimes buckles don't want to work, and sometimes the baby starts to cry.
Just getting children into a car is a major task, and when the mom gets to the store, she has to get everyone out of all those buckles again. Then she hurries into the store, watching all the kids and keeping an eye on the parking lot traffic. She finally makes it inside and now she has to get the baby into a cart and decide how many more of the kids she wants to pile into the thing. By now the older ones are taking off to look at something they want, and Mom is saying, "No, not today. I just need a couple of things and then we're leaving." (I have said that exact very thing!)
About then Mom takes a good look at the kids and realizes they look like those trashy children she used to see in stores- the ones that made her wonder what kind of mothers were raising them. Stuff is smeared on their clothes and faces. Their hair is disheveled. Shoes are untied. Wait! One of them has no shoes. (I wrote Brittnee's name in the margin) When Mom asks him about that, he says, "You didn't tell me to put my shoes on."
These are the moments that kids have a feel for. They have great instincts, and they know that mom is never so vulnerable as when she's in public, or when she's in a hurry and doesn't want a fuss. So they attack....Each child has a technique. At three, a tantrum is a wonderful method. (I wrote Andon's name here.) At seven, a better approach is begging incessantly while whining and accusing ones mother of never buying any of this or that. (Again, Brittnee's name got jotted down.) At nine, it's a negotiation: (guess who's name went here.) "if you'll get this or that, we won't eat it until after dinner." (I experienced this at Target the other day with Teaghan. She won.)
Kids sense the nerve-wracking and embarrassing power of a tantrum; the wearing-down process of incessant begging; the guilt in the argument "you don't bake...." And babies seem to sense that this can be their moment, too- an excellent time to cry. Many a mom has bought Ding Dongs after vowing not to; Gummi Worms, which she hates; or sugar-coated, chocolate-filled cereal, which she believes was created by Satan.
...So anyway, the cumin or the Cocoa Puffs or the powdered sugar donuts or the Match Box race car- and whatever else- gets purchased, and then Mom heads back to the car and the buckling starts over. By the time she gets home, an hour has passed. By then Dad has come home and is wondering what the strange mix is, sitting in a bowl on the kitchen counter- without cumin."

Dean Hughes has just summed up exactly what happens to me on an ongoing basis. Thank you Mr. Hughes!! It feels good to laugh.

Okay, so anyway, I'll put pictures of the kids on as well; maybe even with dirty faces and shoeless feet. Or most true to our life, the boys without pants. Andon and Zak prefer to just wear shirts and undies, or in Zak's case: shirt, diaper, and THEN undies. Quite the cute combo. My baby's growing up! (Is it possible to shout Hallelujah too loudly?) One of my piano student's parents have this thing where they ask each other if my boys had pants on that day when they came to pick up their daughter. It's sort of a joke between the two of them and I think she slipped one day in confessing this to me. Oh well..so my cherubs aren't perfect. But that's just part of my crazy life! And really, who wants to wage a "put your pants on or die" war. I have a feeling I would lose.

Oh, in case you were wondering, the little joke between me and Doug about the word 'help' is simply this: Isn't it interesting that when a woman does housework, it's "cleaning" or whatever; when a man does housework, he's "helping." Thanks Dean for the 10 minute debate that ensued after I quoted you.

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