Ballet Performance

I forgot to post these pictures of my Ballet Performance in May because I got the pictures later and then it's been hard to get them to download on this computer.  This year we did "The Magic Toy Shop" and all of the dancers were toys. (Pictures by Brooke Romriell of http://romriellphotography.blogspot.com )  This is the third year I've run the program here.

Wild Animals:

Bouncy Balls:

Jack-in-the-Boxes:

Ballerina Dolls:

Toy Soldiers:

My Girls:

Performance Night:

Where they get to have each other.

This is the reason, I want to say.  This right here:

Two girls, in a tennis lesson.  Nervous, because it's the first time.  Awful at smacking the ball, because their mother's never shown them how, because their mother doesn't know herself.  Awkward and unable, but not alone.

Two boys, stuck behind the fences while they wait the hour out.  Rattling the chains, climbing up two leg lengths before falling down again.  Throwing rocks into the flowers.  Playing in the water fountain until both their shirts are wet.

Oh, they fight.  Eighty percent of the time, they fight.  They yell words like "hate" and "mean" and "stupid."  They hit each other, and steal toys - to make the other cry, not to get the toy.  And there are times I want to send them to the four furthest corners of the house and leave them there in lonely isolation until their father comes home with a grain more of sense than I have.  In hopes that he can end the screams.

But these times.  These times right here:

A call for partners, and they already have one.

Mind-boggling boredom, that they navigate together.

When I was small, my brothers and sisters were grown.  I came behind them by ten years, the last car on a train that left the station long ago.  Of course, they dragged me about.  They fed me and watered me.  They yanked me along on hikes, let me try on their wedding veils, brought me books to disappear inside, and picked me up from car crashes where I'd smashed some man's blue truck.  They loved me, and I loved them.  But I wasn't part of the screaming and the fights.  And I wasn't a part of this.

People stop me in the grocery store.  They deliver smart comments, and count the children up and down my cart.  They mark their ages, and they mark mine.  And they pass judgment on my seeming inability to know that 1+1=yet another 1 more.

Well, this is the reason, I want to say.  This right here.

This part where they get to have each other.

Step Into Yourself

I was recently reading a book loosely based on the King Arthur stories.  (It moves the general storyline to a different point in history.)  At one point the main character receives the news that a.) his father and mother or not actually his parents.  b.) he will be going away to fight in the crusades immediately. and c.) an uncle who recently tried to kill him is his actual father.  After relaying all this exciting and mind-blowing news, Arthur's foster father tells him to go to the top of a nearby hill and "Step into Yourself."

I loved the simplicity of those words:  "Step Into Yourself."

How many times when we are overwhelmed do we forget to give ourselves time to step into ourselves?  And if we take that time we are much better prepared to face the future.  So, now I am going to remind myself to take those extra moments to "Step Into Myself" instead of rushing into what would otherwise be a crazy situation.

(Arthur: The Seeing Stone, Kevin Crossley-Holland.)

Eisms

I recently bought replacement eye make-up.  I wear golds and browns so the eye shadow pack I purchased was called "Coffee".  This is better than Ellie's description.  The other day while I got ready she remarked:

"Mom, I just think your eyes look so yummy.  They look like bacon."

Wow.  Exactly the look I was going for....

"The Experts"

Recently I took Spencer for his 1 year old well-check.  When the resident walked in the room - oh the joys of a teaching hospital - even my children sighed.  We love our pediatrician.  Not only does she spend the entire visit tickling my older children, but she never asks me if I'm behaving properly as the experts expect me to do.  Cue the resident.  Cue the sigh.

This time the resident really wasn't too bad, but he did ask me if I was brushing Spencer's teeth.  (Spencer has a grand total of three teeth.)  Since I'm really well-behaved, and all, I stared at him blankly.  Then I said:  "Sometimes I hand him an old toothbrush and he sucks on it."  The resident then delivered his brush teeth regularly speech with the addition - as we all know the "experts" are always changing their huge ginormous way too bossy mind - that instead of using kid toothpaste I should use regular toothpaste so Spencer could get his daily flouride.

Needless to say, I pretty much ignored him.  Other than to notice that in my past ignoring of the experts I had been doing the right thing.  See, with the other kids I was always "strongly encouraged" to give my children flouride drops every day.  I didn't.  Instead I let them brush their own teeth with whatever toothpaste they could find.  Pretty much them brushing their own teeth means that they squeeze toothpaste everywhere, wave their toothbrush around their mouths for maybe three seconds, and then spit everywhere.  But see, I knew they were always swallowing some flouride and I figured my inattention to both rules might even out in the end.  Now the experts are recommending my lazy method!!!  (Okay, not really, but kind of.)

The point of this whole riveting story is that this morning I was brushing my teeth while Spencer sucked on his toothbrush and thinking about all the things I don't do that people say I should do.  Generally speaking I don't feel guilty about ignoring the doctor.  I've been raised too much an Andersen to feel guilt on this topic, but the other experts in my life sometimes cause me great stress.

I don't dust daily, weekly, or monthly.  In fact, I don't dust until it becomes downright embarassing or someone is coming over.  I don't vacuum my baseboards every week, or wipe down my refrigerator daily.  I was looking at a list of daily jobs that women are recommended to do in order to keep their houses in tip-top shape and I wanted to gag.  On this list, which was supposed to be the easy cleaning method, it insisted that ceiling fans only needed to be dusted once a week.  I suppose that was supposed to make me feel excited I didn't have to do it every day, but do you know what?  I just dusted my ceiling fan after living here three years and having it drop dust bunnies on visitors during one embarassing visit.  I can't imagine filling my day up with all that stuff.  Because really, WHO CARES????

Of course, the sad thing is that even though I've decided not to do these things I still carry around the guilt that comes from ignoring them, like I'm breaking some hallowed law.  And this irritates me, this makes me really mad.  Recently I was reading a friend's post about how she'd been stressed over getting her baby to sleep.  What bothered me about the post was that my friend had to feel guilt over this thing.  Why should she feel guilty for this?  Why should she feel that she wasn't doing it right?  Why couldn't she just work things out with her baby and herself without "experts" telling her she was doing it wrong?  Of course, my friend's post was about this, about how she was going to go with her baby and how her baby slept and not be upset about it anymore, but it made me mad that she ever had to be upset at all.  How dare they guilt trip her, you know what I mean?

Which brings me - finally - to my point....  Why do we listen to these experts????? Why, oh why???? And why do we let them make us feel guilty for choosing to live our lives in the way that makes us happy.  If I use nap-time to write novels and read books and nap myself instead of dusting my ceiling fan that does not make me a bad housekeeper.  And if don't make my children clean the baseboards with toothbrushes I don't really think it means they'll have a bad work ethic when they get older, because I'm pretty sure I expect them to do their homework and clean up after themselves when they're done playing.  And if I never watch my children brush their teeth, but make them do it on their own and hope they swallow enough flouride in the meantime, then that is my business, and I will not feel guilty about it!

And just in case you're seriously disturbed by my ineptitude, rest assured that while I was writing this post in my head this morning, Spencer did pour an entire container of Vinegar on the bathroom floor. So, at least it is clean, right?  You see, things always work out in the end.  Whether I am crazy, or not.

Blue

I remember it in the bathroom.  The color blue, I mean.

It's not a royal blue.  It's not a navy blue.  It's definitely not a BYU blue.  It's a white-filled blue, a light-filled blue.  To me, it is calm.

I remember going to sit in the bathroom because of it.  Feet against the bathtub.  Back against the wall.  Book in my hand.  Softly washed blue towels hanging about me.  I still do this, despite my own bathroom not being blue, despite my own towels not being quite that soft.  A fact which makes Justin ask at night whether I'm going to the bathroom for five minutes, or for an hour.  Somehow, a piece of the blue, and what it meant to me, seeped into the bathroom as well.  But it's still about that same feeling.  The feeling that comes to me from blue.

This blue moved when my mother moved houses, a signature of hers - a favorite.  It always had a spot.  And when I began my own house, the blue came with me.

My blue is in my bedroom.  (Also in my sister's bedroom, come to think of it, though hers has more purple in it than mine.)  On the bedspread.  Hung from the curtain-rod.  It is one of the only rooms in my graduate-life restrained decorating world that I actually like and plan to keep the same.  Even now, when I walk in my room - especially in the afternoon, when light falls through the windows and brings the blue its glow - I feel myself take a breath.  It makes me say to myself:  "This is my house.  The house I am creating."  No other room ever brings that thought from me.  And I know that it's the blue that does it.

This last weekend Ellie informed me that "Grant was the most annoying brother ever, and that all he ever did was BOTHER her."  Then she asked if she could go sit in my room.

"I feel better in there.  The way the light comes in on the bed, and through the windows."

I knew what she was talking about.

She was talking about blue.

Indecision

Lately I've been "undecided."  About lots of things.

Currently, I have written five new beginnings to five different books.  I can't manage to feel committed about any of the projects.  Each of them has parts I like, and none of them has convinced me that I want to spend the next 2-3 years with them.  Does this mean I haven't hit on what I should work on, or that I am insanely unable to make a decision right now?

I also recently read "The Happiness Project."  (Libbi's suggestion)  While I think the author might be even more OCD than me, and I was a little put off by her blog's assertion that she is a "happiness expert" - I couldn't get past the self-promotion there - she has some valid points about being deliberate when making goals for improvement and increased happiness.  After reading the book I felt compelled to make some goals (or resolutions, as she put it).  But what would I make them about?  There are so many different areas of improvement.  Which ones do I want to attack?

I often have this sort of paralysis when it comes to making sweeping decisions about my life.  Topics for FHE?  Areas of improvement in my relationships with each child?  Character traits I want to change/improve in myself?  What should I include?  What should I leave out?  Who am I to say what is important for the here and now?

This last weekend I pulled a Kathleen and moved all my furniture and closets (their insides) around the house.  Justin is getting a new exercise bike to help with his migraines and I told him if he was bringing a new large item into our finite sized house, he had to give me a complete day of help with projecting (moving, throwing away, rearranging.)  When I finished, I felt settled and accomplished.  Everything was in its place - a place more suited to it, and better arranged than before.

But it made me wonder, am I rearranging my furniture because I can't figure out how I want to rearrange my life? Am I creating for myself a false sense of a fresh start?  Not really, because I feel less claustrophobic and constrained when my house is in order. I feel more ready to take on projects.  But I wish I could as easily set in order my mind and goals as I do my home.  I wish I could have the courage to throw stuff out, find new spots for things, introduce drastic change, try crazy configurations.  If only it were so easy to make decisions about my attempts at the future, as it is to start with a fresh look for my house.

(And yes, all the kids are now in the same room.  Spencer made it out of the closet.)

Purchasing Department

When I got married I received a vacuum from my Grandpa.  This was the gift each of my cousins received from Grandpa, and I always knew I would get a vacuum too.  Man, how I loved that vacuum.  Okay, so I didn't really think about the vacuum at all.  But still.  It was a vacuum, and it was mine.  Because this gift was a copycat gift given to each grandchild, I think it is safe to say that the vacuum cost about $100.

When I had been married for eight years, Justin and I decided we would get a real Christmas tree.  It smelled good, it poked me, we decorated it, it poked me, Christmas ended, and it poked me.  Because I'd never had a live tree before, and because I cannot apparently put two and two together, I decided to use my vacuum to clean up all those lovely pine needles my Christmas tree gifted me.

I bet you're surprised that I broke the vacuum.

It's okay, I figured.  I've had this vacuum eight years and it wasn't sucking that great anyway.  Or was sucking.  Whichever way you want to look at it.  Regardless, I went to buy a new vacuum.

Despite the fact that my mother and Justin both mocked my choice, I decided to buy the cheapest vacuum available: $35.  What I really wanted was a good vacuum, but since I didn't feel like spending a bazillion dollars I decided I would get a vacuum that I only intended to last two to three years.  Then when it died, and we possibly had a real job, I would buy a useful vacuum.

I believe the $35 vacuum lasted about two months.  Wow.  My house is really not that big, and I really don't vacuum that much.

Luckily I had - for the first time in my life - bought the warranty offered with the vacuum ($5) so I returned the vacuum and got my money back.  At this point, I decided I would invest a little more than $35 in my purchase.  I also went to Target instead of WalMart.  (As though their vacuums are any different.  At least it made me feel as though I weren't so cheap.)  This time I spent about $70 on a new vacuum.  I even researched online "cheap vacuums that actually work."  I felt confident that I could get two years out of this thing.  And all seemed good.  The vacuum worked moderately well, and months passed.

But last week, my vacuum died again.  This time there were no offending pine needles, and I had even cleaned the filter regularly.  Sure I did run over a ribbon once and pull off the belt in the process - but I'd actually read the instructions (gasp) and fixed that.  How unfair!  I didn't even kill it with my stupidity.

Now I need a new vacuum.  Tonight we're having company and I had to crawl around the living room floor picking up crumbs, dust balls, and things Spencer has chewed on and spit out again.  Why has it been a week with no new purchase.  (I know Aunt Penny would not be happy.)  Because I have no idea which vacuum to buy.  Sure, I know if I bought a Dyson it would always work.  I even floated the idea of selling back my phone so I could get a decent cleaning machine.  (Justin looked at me like I was insane when I mentioned this.)  But what about those medium-priced vacuums????  Are any of them decent enough to last two years???

And what was so magical about Grandpa's vacuum that it lasted 8 years and was only killed by my idiotic efforts to vacuum up a tree?  They say you don't appreciate a good thing until it's gone.  Man, I wish I had my vacuum back.  'Cause let me tell you, I loved that vacuum.  At least I know I'd love it if I had it now.

Humility vs. Creativity

I used to dance growing up.  Let me make this clear without anyone feeling the need to pat me on my head and tell me I'm all wrong: I was not the best dancer in my class.  I just wasn't.  I am okay with that.  But let me make this also clear: it was very important for me as a dancer to believe that I was the best dancer in my class.

A little more confusion to go with that clarity:

Never at any time was I under the illusion that anyone else - teachers, classmates, small five-year-olds that stood on their tiptoes to watch us dance - never did I believe that any of those individuals thought to themselves that I was the best dancer in my class.  This, you see, was not the point.  After all, I knew I would not be accepted into any New York City ballet program at any time.  And I also knew I would not be cast as the starring role in my studio's upcoming performance.  Reality did not escape me on these points.

But always.  Always. I believed that deep inside me there was a magical core to my dancing that no one else had, and that this set me apart from anyone else on the floor - though more talented or skilled than me they might be.  I believed that - at my best - an outsider might look at me and say:  "Wow.  There is a definitive spark there that no one else has."  Or:  "She brings meaning to this dance in a way only she could."

In effect, there is a reason that this person is doing this - and it would matter if she disappeared and were replaced with another.  Perhaps she is not the best.  But she is necessary.  This moment of beauty would not exist in just this way without her here.  (And, of course, they would be saying that about every other dancer on the floor as well in regard to their own particular spark and meaning.)  And this is what I told myself over and over again, as I plie-ed (and, in the case of Julie's classes, tendu-ed) over and over again.

Okay, I didn't repeat that big long clunky paragraph to myself in the midst of a ballet exercise.  Instead I said:  I am something special.  I can create beautiful things that no one else can.  Because why else does a person push forward with a task if not to be able to say: no one else could have done this like me, and aren't you glad I did it?

In my own experience I have found this to be true of many creative endeavors.  In order to persist in a work a person needs to believe that deep underneath all the guts and errors they produce that they bring something necessary and vital to that field.  That somewhere deep inside them a genius is lurking.  An undiscovered genius whose starry insides could at any moment break out to blind the world with their awesomeness.

Certainly I have found this to be true in parenting.  Come on, everyone has to believe that they were meant to do great things for their children that no one else could quite provide, otherwise we'd all be hitting our heads against the wall for the many things we mess up.  I  have also found it to be true in my writing.  If I am going to write I have to truly believe that my writing is meaningful/beautiful/creative/lovely in a way that no one else's is in exactly that manner.  There must be words for me to speak back when doubt/discouragement/depression slink their way in and begin beating me over the head with a stick.

I must - in a sense - be egotistical and self-assured.  I must be able to say:  I am good at this.  Only I can do this.  I have something special here.  But mostly because I am frightened and unsure, and the only way to keep going is to convince myself that these things are true.

Which brings me to my point: Can creativity exist in a state of humility?
Which brings me to my second point: Creativity MUST be capable of existing in a state of humility.

Because at the end of the road there is always the truth:  The failed audition.  The jumbled feet in an intricate jumping exercise.  The form rejection letter delivered from multiple agents.  There is always that knowledge lurking just underneath that all these grand things you're telling yourself may not be true.

And in that moment of realized humility... when it becomes apparent that flaws exist, and Tolstoy is quite extraordinarily out of reach (not to mention a million other published authors and their achievements)... it becomes important to be able to say:

I am not the best.  No one appreciates my special spark right now.

But I will still keep going.  I will pick myself up.  Dust myself off.  Take a deep breath.
I will try again.

It is in these moments of realized humility that you become the person who keeps on going, or the person who gives up.  Creativity in the face of humility is creativity with strength.  Creativity that has been doused in a bucket up water and insists on continuing to exist as a flame is creativity that will eventually produce.  Dare I say that without humility creativity can never really come in to its full self?

I always knew I wasn't the best dancer in the world, but I also knew - deep inside - that I was.
They were/are both true.

Humble/Proud.
Sure/Unsure.
Brilliant/Ordinary
Me

On Writing.

For some reason, it makes me uncomfortable to talk about my writing with others.  Perhaps this is because it doesn't seem like writing is "official" if it only exists on a home computer.  Perhaps this is because it's important to me, and I can't quite bear the scrutiny of outside evaluation on its somewhat nebulous existence. In explanation, I've compared my writing to quilts.  For a quilt-maker, regardless of skill level, the finished product of your efforts will be appreciated by others.  Quilts are warm.  Quilts are useful.  Unless they're itchy, you can always find a person willing to take a quilt off your hands.  This does not prove true for pages of stories stored away on a hard-drive.  All that creativity, effort, and thought - and if it's not ready for the real world - then it's only ready to be stored away as "practice."  And so, despite the fact that I do write, and that I do write regularly, I don't really talk about it.  I keep it away inside myself.  (Which is - you know - kind of the opposite of the point of writing.)

Recently I read a blog post from a published author that really made a difference in my writing outlook.

Link here: http://kristincashore.blogspot.com/2012/12/pictures-of-book-being-made.html

After reading it, one of the things I realized was that I needed to write about my writing experiences.  Not only will it help me remember them, and crystallize the things I learn along the way, but it might also be meaningful to others.

And most of all, I need to admit out loud that I am a writer.  Especially if I ever want to actually be one.

Justin's Secret Life

The other day I called Justin.  Usually when I call him he says something like:

"Hello love."

or

"Hello lovebug."

and he says it in a cutesy voice because we are mushy like this.

Anyway, when I called him he answered me in his mushy voice but he said:

"Hello research."

Yup.  Research.  I knew it!

This was taken on my birthday.  All my treasures.

This was taken at Young Women's.  No, I do not know how to tie a tie.  Yes, I am the shortest leader.  Yes, I am sure if the girls were standing, I would still be the shortest. It takes talent.

Lost

On the last day before school, we went to the pool.  E often holds my rings while I put sunscreen on all the kids, but this time our carefully laid plans went awry - and my wedding ring ended up in the grated gutter of the pool.

While we are working on getting it back (highschool and college swim employees require lots of talking to, I'll tell you what!) we have to wait until they drain the pool.  Hopefully my ring does not head out to the duck pond.

Meanwhile, I am wearing the following:

this is an actual gumball ring I obtained in college and used to wear then because I liked it.  I guess it's good I kept it around all these years.

Of course, if the ring is lost forever I plan on picking a different fake ring. 

All because JCPenney did not send me a text...

Two years ago we moved to Iowa, and after getting everyone settled, I did this:

That is, I cut E and M's hair.  Let's just say that no one was very pleased with me.  E actually cried when I was finished.  Justin was horrified I'd cut off M's curls.  I was told to give back the scissors and contain myself from there on out.

Then, showing lots of self-control, I did this the following year:

Not so very terrible.  And E did request it this time.  I stayed away from M's hair, and did not get in trouble.

This year I never intended to cut the girl's hair.  But E kept bringing up that she might like layers or bangs.  And M kept insisting she wanted her hair cut to her chin.  Justin even agreed that M's hair was getting a little out of hand.  So, being reasonable, I decided to make hair appointments.  A friend here let us know that JCPenney would be offering free haircuts to school-aged children through-out August.  I decided to take E and M, and pay half for each cut.

I made Justin call and make the appointment.  (Because the phone is an evil device that I don't enjoy very much.  Those of you who have tried to call me know my feelings on the matter.)

JCPenney informed me they would text me with the time for the hair appointment.  But - insert sinister music - they never did.

Which is how this:

and this:

resulted in this:

Again. 

Please, someone take my scissors away!!!  This time around, E cried once more.  I had cut it much shorter than she had wanted.  M was overjoyed, but hinted she might like it shorter.  And Justin tried not to say anything, but was more than ready to take the girls to Great Clips to get it all sorted out.  He also told some story about how his mother had nicely told his father that maybe when the car was broken he should just take it to a mechanic, implying - I suppose - that I should never, ever, ever, ever cut the girls' hair again.

The girls are happy now, but I am hoping, hoping, hoping that I will manage to never do this again.

Lately...

I completely forgot I had these awesome photos that Emily took of E and her Dad on Lake Cascade:

Obviously she is braver than me.  Yay for E!

This is the first time Justin had been water-skiing since a work trip when we were at Sports and Dance Camps (9 years ago!).  Apparently he was excited to get to meet me outside of the office, but very surprised to find out that I did not attend.  Ha!  Me and water-skiing??? Not so much.  

*****

This weekend GQ decided he wanted to try the whole "potty" thing.  So, off we went to purchase underwear.  Now, I have always said I think boy clothes are pretty lame-o compared to girl clothes, but let me tell you... boy underwear is much cuter than girl underwear.  We stocked up on Buzz Lightyear and Thomas the Train underwear and then waited, waited, waited for Monday. 

Then we began.

Then we stopped.

Says GQ:  "Mom, I want to be a baby like S.  I want my diaper back. I do not like going potty."

I considered forcing the issue since he is 3, but then I considered what forcing the issue would mean: yup, me cleaning up potties all over the house.  No, thank you! 

So, I folded up the cute underwear and put it away.  I am sure he will be potty-trained by the time he's 12.  Never fear!

*****

Since getting married, I have never lived anywhere longer than two years.  So, pretty much the idea that we are staying here is driving me insane.  I like so much to go through everything we own and try to THROW IT ALL AWAY.

This - by the way - drives Justin insane.

I told him that when we "really" move - after school - I am renting a dumpster to put outside our home so I can get rid of everything I want.

He said that is renting a Pod so he can put all of his stuff in it before I start.

(Like I wouldn't find the keys to the Pod.)

So, anyway, this summer I decided I would go through every room in my house and get rid of anything I possibly could.  Since swimming lessons are over, I began that this week.  I have currently de-garbaged the kitchen and the living room.  It is so nice.

Justin is concerned, and is hiding all his headphones. (Don't even ask how many that is.  And don't EVEN ask about the new pair he is saving up for.)

*****

I want a yard.

*****

Baby S has decided that whenever I lay him down and walk away I am doing a great injustice to the world.  Whenever he hollers, the image that comes to mind is from the A&E Pride and Prejudice when Darcy's lovely Aunt says something like:

"Is this to be borne? Are the shades of Pemberly to be thus polluted?????"

While the content is obviously different, the indignation is about the same.

Eisms

(Baby S has a bouncer with toys that he enjoys.  One of the toys is a gecko in a see-through ball.  The ball turns and the Gecko gets pelted with small plastic balls.)

E: Mom, that lizard looks like a poisonous lizard I saw in a library book.

Mom:  Then it's a good thing it's in a bubble or it might hurt Baby S.

E: For someone who isn't usually funny that was a pretty good joke.

Mental Problems

After I picked up E at school today, I was feeling a little guilty.  Like I had not accomplished anything.  So, I thought about it.  Today I had: scheduled summer swimming lessons, deposited some checks, gone to the library, read my scriptures, fed my children repeatedly (oh, if only they didn't have to eat!), cleaned up the house, orchestrated naps, did M's reading lesson, written my "one page a day", changed several diapers, and delivered and picked up from school.  And, honestly, that's a pretty good list.

So, why did I feel guilty?

Because of what I had not done, which included: catch-up on laundry, emptying the dishwasher, cleaning any bathrooms, cleaning the kitchen, thinking about dinner, bathing the children (a task I undertake a little less than often), catching up on the blog, writing "thank you" notes for gifts for S, and any other hundreds of myriad tasks which I promptly remember and forget at all times of the day. Sometimes I wonder about these forgotten tasks... what happens to them? where do they go? does something horrible happen that I either don't know about or don't connect to them?

This, to me, is one of the most difficult things about motherhood.  This constant battle of "What should I do today?"  This constant question of which tasks are going to make it to the top of my list.  The measuring of repeated tasks like laundry and cooking, with timeless tasks like reading to your children, and tasks that others require of you for callings, work, service, or friendships. 

What is supposed to get done each day?
And who decides?

I can tell you this much... it is good that newborns cry, or I might forget that nursing thing.  It is good that E runs out of underwear, or I might forget that laundry thing.  And it is good that M and GQ start fighting like banshees when they are hungry, or I might forget to feed them too.

Speaking of nursing... S is not so happy with my current prioritizing of tasks.  So, off I go.

Meanwhile, downstairs the other children are drawing swords with blood on them and discussing how if you stab someone in the heart they will die.  This is because I made the decision to read "Treasure Island" to them at night.

Obviously I have several mental problems.

For Your Amusement

Last Friday, I went to WalMart. Luckily, I only needed a few things and I was soon in line. While we waited, another patron commented on M's red hair. Since GQ was near me - in the cart - I played with his hair. It is a little red, and I am always wondering what color it will eventually be.

It was then that I noticed it.

At first, I did not know what it was, but after a few attempts to brush it out of GQ's hair - I realized...

This was a tick. And it was attached.

I would like to tell you that as a calm and collected mother of four, I went and bought some tweezers (I was at WalMart) and removed the tick with competence and finesse. This, however, is not what happened. Because:

THERE WAS A LIVING, WIGGLING, BUG ATTACHED TO MY TWO YEAR OLD'S HEAD!!!!! AND IT WAS SUCKING HIS BLOOD!!!!!

I do throw up. I do poop. I do lip gloss, and fingernail polish, and fuschia crayons in dryers. I do not do bugs attached to heads.

I am not a social butterfly, but I quickly began polling my fellow-shoppers on tick removal. I think I hoped that one would magically whip out his personal tick-removing tweezers and take care of this for me.

I have exactly 4 people programmed into my phone on speed dial.
I called them all. Only one of them answered.

Meanwhile, I tried not to look at GQ's head. Then, I felt guilty for being scared to look at GQ's head. Then, I called and made an appointment at the pediatrician to have the tick removed.

This may seem pathetic, but I don't care. I just wanted the tick out. And I never wanted to look at it again.

Unfortunately they did not have an appointment available for another hour and a half at the pediatrician. I was already grossed out that GQ had slept and napped with what he now happily called "my tick." This was unacceptable.

So, I called Justin again and told him he would have to leave work, come buy tweezers, and remove the tick himself.

Because frankly, I was pretty much flipping out.

And this is what he did. Because he is nice and loves me like that. And because I was hysterical, you know?

I did manage to watch him take the tick out since I knew I couldn't make him leave work all summer. Which is good, since E had one yesterday morning that I did manage to remove on my own.

I don't know. Between the mice and the ticks, I may be leaving Iowa tomorrow.

One Month Old Update

New pictures for grandparents:

Baby S is starting to actually look at us now.  Whenever he does focus in our faces he gets this surprised and somewhat troubled look on his face as though he is wondering where exactly he was sent.

Justin jokes that he thought he was going to come to Earth as a horse, because those are seriously the noises he makes all the time.  E sounded like a bumblebee when she was born.  S sounds like a horse.  I wish we could get it on video, but we never know when it is coming.  We will try.

I had Justin take some pictures of the baby with me so that when we all grow up the children will actually believe I was around during their childhoods.

But we can see who the star of the photos really is.  S is getting fatter cheeks, and his hair is lightening.  It has a significant metallic tinge to it.  That redhead gene is a strong one, I tell you what.  His eyes look like they are going to be blue (despite what the pictures look like up top.) 

This morning...

... E informed me she felt sick.

E often does this. E's version of an anxiety attack is to either feel like she is going to throw up or to have extremely itchy feet.

I told E that I could not tell if she was really sick and that she had to decide "which kind it was". She decided she was just nervous, and went to school.

I got home.

I got three children out of their carseats.

I fed S.

I luckily did not get M and GQ in the tub as quickly as I had planned.

The phone rang.

E had thrown up at school.

So.... I put on jeans and a sweatshirt, wiped off my eyes, made M put on a sweater to hide her pajamas, made GQ put boots over his sleeper jammies even though they squished his toes, and put S back in his carseat (can't be more constrictive than a womb... can it?) and off we went.

When we got home and I got everyone out again, I debated trying to accomplish all those things on my list or sitting on the heater vent and reading a book. Can't the day just be a lost cause at 9:00?

In furtherance of this theory I decided to finally eat my breakfast.

So what if it was a pint of Ben and Jerry's Phish food Justin gave me for Valentine's Day?

I bet it makes good milk.