my hopes for mother's day

Yesterday we honored my grandma for Mother's Day.  My mom cooked a delicious lunch of pot roast, corn on the cob, sliced fresh tomatoes, cucumbers with onions, watermelon wedges, and fresh baked bread.  She served the meal on my her grandmother's china and decorated the dining room with pictures of our mothers and grandmothers.  As we ate, we all took turns telling a favorite story about each of our mothers and the conversation soon turned into sharing precious happy memories and laughing about good times.

After our meal, my dad and Dave did the dishes and took care of the kids so we could sit in the living room and continue our discussion.  We started talking about what a conflicting holiday Mother's Day is for the actual people it honors.  For one, because every living person has a mother, the honorees of Mother's Day are supposed to simultaneously enjoy their special day while showering their own mothers with praise, gifts, and attention.  And not having to honor your mother is even worse because that means that you are missing her instead.

Secondly, there is the question of how to celebrate your mother.  How do you combine a lifetime of gratitude and unpayable debt into one single arbitrarily assigned day in May?  When you really stop to consider all that a mother does and gives, it makes all the Hallmark cards in the world seem like a drop in the bucket compared to all of the service and care and love mothers give.

So we sat there, three generations of mothers, each with a different perspective on motherhood, pondering this.  I'm sure we each took a moment to consider what we really wanted for Mother's Day.  We concluded that it was impossible to repay your mother but that just wasn't what Mother's Day is about.

And, in the end, that's not really what I want from my children.  I'm not doing this because I expect some grand gesture of gratitude, or because I want them to feel burdened by a debt to me they'll never be able to pay, or even because I'm hoping that someday they'll feel obligated to care for me when I'm too old to care for myself.  I don't want any of those things.  I just want them to be happy.  My mom said that what she really wants is for us to live happy, successful lives and pay it forward.

I hope I'm doing it right, Mom.

I hope you know that I model my motherhood after all that you did.  Whenever I make a decision for my children, I find myself asking, "What would Mom do?"  If I don't know, I call you and ask.  I hope you know that I'm grateful for that.

I hope you know that I make my way through three hours of church with two active children every Sunday because you did.  I know that you wanted to provide us with a stable foundation in a gospel that has brought you so much true happiness and joy throughout your life and has done the same for mine.  When the fear and anxiety go after my testimony, I hope you know that it's your belief that gets me through it.  "Mom knows it's true and that can be enough for me today."

I hope you know that I take the terms "Smother" and "Helicopter Mom" to be compliments.  I know that the original implication of those terms was not meant to be a positive one.  But to me, they are titles of the highest honor.  Also, until I read the book about being a "Tiger Mom," I thought it meant a mother who was like a tiger to those who wronged her children, a woman who ferociously defended her cubs who were not yet ready to be out in the wild.  That's what "Tiger Mom" means to me anyhow.  I learned that from you.  You were our biggest advocate and growing up, I never doubted you would protect us from the people who didn't have our best interests at heart.

I hope you also know that I'm proud to be a homemaker.  I remember being a young girl and watching you drive off to "Homemaking Meeting" each month and being in awe.  Homemaking sounded like such an impressive term and I couldn't wait to be a homemaker as well.  It sounded like the most important job in the world.  Society has tried to tell me otherwise but I still know better.

I hope you know I get it now.  I get why you were so frustrated when we got out of bed because we smelled popcorn.  I get why you sometimes didn't let us go somewhere when you had an ominous feeling and sensed there might be danger.  I get why you couldn't go anywhere on Mondays during Jack's mission because that was P-Day and you needed to stay by the computer waiting for his email.  I thought it seemed silly then but now I have a son of my own and, although it's still sixteen and a half years away, I'm not sure how I will let go of him long enough for him to serve the Lord for two years.  I get it when I was going through the divorce and you said that it felt just as bad for you.  I was frustrated at the time.  I couldn't understand how it could be bad for you when I was the one traveling through my own personal hell.  I understand now that it was worse for you, that my feelings were broadcast through your soul at an amplified volume.  I hope you know that I get some of it now.  In five years when I have children in school, I will get it more.  In ten years when I have teenagers, my eyes will open a bit more yet again.  In twenty-five years when I'm watching Kate and Sam with families of their own, there will be new and more complex things for me to grasp.  But for now, I hope you know I have at least some understanding of what it means to be a mother.

I hope you know that my children adore you.  Their lives are better because you are in it.  They get love and care directly from you but also your support and advice makes me a better mother.  They are lucky to have you in their lives.

Mostly, I hope you know that I'm grateful for you.  I hope you know I wouldn't be who I am today without you in my life.  I hope you know that you did a great job, that your best was more than enough, that your children will love you forever.

And lastly, I hope you got what you wanted for Mother's Day.

never go grocery shopping when your toddler is hungry

Of the list of errands a stay at home mom is confronted with, buying groceries is by far one of my favorites.  It's pretty easy and I've kind of always enjoyed wandering around the grocery store.  Katelyn loves it because she gets to eat a free cookie while riding shotgun in the race car cart.

This afternoon though, I guess the cookie just wasn't cutting it.  Somewhere along the freezer aisle, between the sweet potato fries and the frozen pizzas, I noticed a trail of little pieces of cardboard littered all over the floor.  They looked familiar, I thought, and then I remembered that only an aisle over, Katelyn had climbed out of her race car, walked over to the frozen dinners, opened the door of the freezer, and pulled out a 65 cent chicken pot pie.  I told her she could have it for dinner tonight, meaning that we would pay for it, take it home, and cook it in the oven.  She insisted on holding it so I let her take it with her back into the plastic car attached to the front of the cart.

Then I realized that my child was eating a completely frozen chicken pot pie in the middle of the freezer aisle at Krogers.

And I tried not to laugh.  I really did.  I made a truly valiant effort to reprimand the two year old with a mouth full of frozen pasty in my best stern and motherly voice.

At the checkout, the cashier took one look at the mangled pot pie box and said, "Ummmmm...  Do you want this?  Someone opened it."  To which I replied, "Yes.  My daughter took a bite out of it."  We had a good laugh.

One of Katelyn's most favorite things about grocery shopping is helping us put the groceries away when we get home.  I hand her the items from off of the counter and she dutifully carries them to Dave who tells her whether they go in the pantry or the fridge.  It has turned what was once a five minute simple procedure into a half hour process that results in another fifteen minutes of me trying to reorganize the food she has thrown into my pantry.

It is double the effort but it is also double the fun.

One little quirk about Kate and her willingness to help with the groceries is that she likes to take a bite out of everything she puts away.  Most of our groceries end up looking like this...

...or this.

Oh well.  Sometimes I wonder if years from now I will be wishing that I could trade the petulant complaining about chores for a few toddler bite marks in my food.

toddler moments

I have determined the absolute worse part of toddler parenting.  It isn't the tantrums.  It's not the late nights.  It's not even the constant flow of diaper changes that gets to you.  At least poop has no ability to fight back.

The worst part of toddler parenting is buckling car seats.

If you are a toddler parent, you know what I mean.

Yesterday, I met a friend for dinner at McDonald's.  We sat and talked while our kids played.   It was nice.  When I got out to the parking lot to leave, I had to wait for a few minutes because I was parked next to a man with two toddler aged children of his own trying to load them into their car seats.  I could sense the panicked quickness in his movements as he hurriedly tried to force eight flailing limbs into a minivan.  I don't know what it is about someone having to wait behind you that suddenly makes you feel like you've entered into the car seat Olympics.  I didn't mind.  Luckily, Kate had exhausted herself and was slumped over my shoulder in a limp mass of sticky hands, dirty feet, and curly hair.

His older daughter got into the car with little fuss.  She even appeared to know how to buckle herself in.  "How nice," I thought to myself.  Then I saw the younger son.  He looked to be about Kate's age, another curly haired toddler who had come dressed to McDonald's in pajamas.  He had climbed from the back of the vehicle into the driver's side and was now making race car noises as he pretended to drive.  The dad was doing everything he could to wrangle his son from behind the wheel but it was to no avail.  The child was oblivious.  Toddlers love pretending to drive.  When the man finally extracted his son from the front of the car, the boy erupted into a tantrum of screams and tears.

He was having a toddler moment.

I couldn't help but chuckle.  I hope the man didn't think I was laughing at him.  I was laughing because I had been there.  If I could only be paid some sort of royalty for every time I have been there.  Whenever Kate manages to crawl up into the driver's seat, she assumes the concentration of a Formula One racer and nothing is going to stop her from finishing the race.

I also laughed because it wasn't me having a toddler moment.

I wasn't laughing today.

Today I went to lunch with my mom and grandma.  I go to lunch with them every week and the novelty still hasn't worn off.  Lunch with mom and grandma is my oasis in the middle of the week long desert.  This afternoon was even more special because we were going to the Olive Garden.  I never go out to eat without the generosity of my mom and grandma and I can never afford something as fancy as the Olive Garden.

(Quick disclaimer: I know that the Olive Garden is not that fancy.)

Suffice it to say, I was really looking forward to this lunch date.  We entered the restaurant and my grandma had secured a booth in the corner with three Diet Cokes and a booster seat with crayons and a coloring page for Kate.

And then a toddler moment happened.

Actually, it was more like a toddler hour.  We sat there trying to enjoy our fancy Olive Garden meal while Katelyn whirled around, ate food from everyone's plate, screamed, knocked things over, and generally acted like some sort of vicious zoo animal.  At one point, she threw a gummy worm at me.

That wasn't even the worst part.  The worst of it was her constant desire to stand up and sit down, over and over and over again.  This was bad because she kept grabbing my sweater sleeve to stabilize herself.  I spent the entire lunch trying to eat my special, special soup with the sleeve of my sweater in the clutches of a constantly moving two year old.  I know it doesn't sound that troubling but, for whatever reason, it had a similar effect to some sort of water torture.

Finally, the meal that I had been looking forward to all week ended and we could leave.

This afternoon I had a toddler moment that shook me to the core of my sanity.

We somehow made it back to my mom's house where Katelyn took a nice long nap and I sat quietly on a chair for a few hours.

And then I had another toddler moment.

Kate woke up from her nap and my mom went in her bedroom to get her up.  I heard the familiar pat pat pat of toddler feet bounding down the hall and looked up to see a smiling face running towards me for one of the sweetest hugs I have ever received.

Next, we went to the pet store to waste some time before picking Dave up from work.  I had another toddler moment as Kate held my hand and dragged my up and down the aisles to look at the fish and the turtles and the reptiles and the rodents.  And she looked at them with this face of wonder and amazement and awe and pure joy.

At the grocery store this evening, I enjoyed another toddler moment when I saw the look of surprise and glee in her face when she realized I had searched the parking lot to find a "race car" cart for her to sit in while we shopped.

Finally, we had a toddler moment tonight when she sat down for scriptures, commanded Dave to fold his arms to pray, and gave me the best goodnight a mama could ask for.

Because, you see, as low as the toddler parenting lows can be, the highs are even higher.  All of the energy they use to pitch fits and throw tantrums they also use to completely adore the world around them and the people who are in it.  They love as intensely as they scream and that makes for some wonderful toddler moments.

In the end, I'm grateful for the toddler moments, good and bad.

a sea shanty

I know what you do with drunken sailor (shave his belly with a rusty razor) but what do you do with a fat sailor?

Prepare yourselves for a nautical post.

I feel like I am stuck in the doldrums.  I hate the word doldrums.  I remember the first time I heard it and wondering to myself, "What is the meaning of that terribly ugly sounding word?"

Well, in case you were wondering, the doldrums were originally areas of the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans which are affected by a low pressure zone near the equator.  The range of low pressure causes the prevailing wind to be calm.  Exceptionally calm winds seems like it would very pleasant for a sailor but they were not.  Sail powered ships could get stuck in the doldrums for days, weeks, or even months at a time.  Mostly this was a problem during the eighteenth century before modern communication and when westward exploration was at an all time high.

Okay, sorry.  History lesson over.

Seriously though.  Could you imagine being stuck on a rickety wooden ship full of stinky sailors and limited provisions for weeks?!?

Anyway, the actual doldrums aren't really a problem anymore for sailors.  At least I don't think they are.  But figuratively they can stop me in my tracks sometimes.

I don't know how to explain the past week.  It's like some sort of weird misty fog of tiredness has settled over me like a big blanket of exhaustion.  I know why.  I've stopped eating carbs again and my mind and body are staging an all out revolt.

The past week I have just felt lazy and unmotivated at the same time.  I wake up in the morning and want to do nothing but sit on the couch with Katelyn and watch Thomas and Friends, Dinosaur Train, Super Why, and those krazy Kratt brothers talk about animals.  Don't get me wrong.  I have actually been thoroughly enjoying myself.  On weekday mornings, PBS has a pretty exciting lineup.  I'm loving the quiet time Katelyn and I have spent relaxing on the couch with a blanket spread over our legs sharing a bowl of cottage cheese.  Sometimes we discuss the fascinating plot lines of the progrms we are watching and everyday we agree that we are both annoyed by that Sid the Science Kid.  It's okay because he's pretend, right?

Anyway, the problem is that I feel guilty about all the laziness.  I'm not trying to teach Kate that it's okay to spend the hours of ten to noon sitting on the couch eating cottage cheese out of the container.  I mean, at least not every day, I guess.

Also, I feel badly that I have been enjoying the laziness.  I get to spend my days shut into my apartment dressed in an oversized nightgown from Walmart all while in the company of a delightfully entertaining toddler who wants nothing more than to sit on the floor with me while we play with her toys and she intermittently gets up to give me a hug.  I just feel guilty for not getting out more and accomplishing things, I guess.

I mean, we have been getting out every day but I don't think it counts if it's only to beg my mom to pick us up and let me follow her around for the afternoon.

It's just that this diet is draining me of my will to move.  I feel like feet have been firmly planted in a vat of molasses and, because I have been deprived of all of the foods that are good and benevolent, I am just too tired to fight the exhaustion.

I've been trying to remind myself that this has been, as my mom called it today, one of those "go with the flow" weeks of motherhood.  I can already feel myself breaking free.  Today, we ventured out to Walmart where I circled the same two aisles about fifteen times forgetting what I was trying to find.  Don't worry though.  I eventually found it.  It was a Genie Bra because nothing says glamor like a bra that comes out of a box.

Seriously though, it is the most comfort I think I have ever felt in my life and at night, I change into those giant cotton nightgowns so that's saying a lot.

Anyway, I've already decided that tomorrow will be great.  Tomorrow I am going to wake up and accomplish all of those tasks that have been patiently awaiting my attention for the last week.  I am taking Kate to play group at the church.  I'm deep cleaning my apartment.  I might even think of cleaning the car.  (Just kidding.  No I won't.)  I will finally return those books to the library.

So I bid farewell to the doldrums because this sailor is ready to move.  I'm gathering all the energy I can muster so I can get out there and start moving again.  And if all else fails, I'll just forget about this diet thing and buy myself a big piece of Target cake (fuel).

Just kidding.

wake up and smell the diet coke

 
I had a wake up call last week.

As in, wake up and pee on a stick because I thought I might be pregnant.

I'll suspend the suspense by telling you now.  I am not pregnant.

But for a weekend, there was that doubt and I was faced with facing the possibility of adding another human to our brood.

I thought and thought and thought.

I went through all of the "BUT WE'RE NOT READY!" exclamations that were signaling like flaming giant flares in my mind.  All but one were quickly answered.

Katelyn is still a baby!  Well, not really.  I mean, last Sunday she went to nursery (albeit three months early) and everyday she acts more like a grown child than a squirming infant.  Her latest act of adorableness is to carry around a baby doll and feed it and kiss it and then insist that I kiss it as well. (Does this make me a grandmother?) I have no doubt that Kate will make an excellent big sister.

We don't have enough money!  This is true but we also don't have enough money for one baby and we seem to be surviving.  Things work out, the chips fall into place, and somehow, at the end of the month, the bills are paid and there is food on the table.  Also, we have a solid support system that extends like branches on a huge family tree. (Who said money doesn't grow on trees?) Really, for the first several months, we don't even need to pay to feed it.  I'm a walking, talking, mooing milk dispenser.

Babies are a lot of work!  True again but that ship sailed two years ago when Katelyn announced she was on her way and, truth be told, I wouldn't have it any other way.

There was only one drawback that I just couldn't mentally maneuver.  I am too fat to be having a baby.

Let me be clear.  I was not that newly pregnant woman who had a meltdown over my expanding belly and the stretch marks that were creeping across it.  I got my first stretch marks in middle school.  I figured the new ones would just blend in with the mosaic of old stuff.  I didn't once lament that I would never get my body back.  That was another battle that had already been lost.  If I wanted to get my body back, I would have to hop into a time machine set for the early 2000s.  Once again, I figured this newly created fetus could do her worst and I would still pretty much look the same.

No.  I worried about things like gestational diabetes and the baby not having enough room in there because of all the preexisting fat.  I worried that my health would suffer because of my weight, or worse, that hers would.  Obesity is a frightening word. (Say it to yourself a few times in a menacing tone.  Obesity.  OBESITY!!!)  It's not a good thing to hear in conjunction with anyone's health, let alone a one ounce fetus.  I worried that there would be complications in the delivery.  I worried about the delivery in general but it seemed like carrying around an extra hundred pounds wouldn't make things any easier.

I worried about more emotional fears as well.  What if I never lose the weight and she learns my evil fat ways and becomes like one of those kids on Maury that eats an entire pizza for lunch and washes it down with a liter of Dr. Pepper?  What if she's a runner (she is) and I can't find the energy to keep up (I can't)?  What if I can't fit in with the other moms because they think I'm fat and lazy?  What if I never lose the weight?

As I spent the weekend pondering another pregnancy, the same familiar fears swirled around my brain.  When I found out I wasn't pregnant I was relieved and sad at the same time.  I was relieved because I really am too fat to be pregnant and I was sad because I was relieved and, to be honest, the thought of a brand new sweet smelling squirming infant sounded kind of, well, sweet.

I don't want this to be an issue forever.  I don't want it to be an issue right now.  I'm not saying I'm planning on adding to my sector the population quite yet but I don't want to be freaked out if I happen to be surprised with a wonderful gift.  It was kind of a sad realization but definitely a wake up call.

#tbt in the dark of the night

I am a serious anglophile.  I really, really, really love England and all other British paraphernalia.  I soak up any information on the British Empire and the Royal Family.  I learn about daily life in England from my British pen pals and I stayed home from work to watch the Royal wedding live.  It was three in the morning but I was up glued to the TV.

I'm not really sure where this obsession started.  I know that I have always loved maps and wondering about how other people live.  I think the paradox of the people of the British Isles for me has to do with the fact that we lead such parallel lives.  It's intriguing to me how different and yet the same our lifestyles seem to be.  Like actual parallel lines, we are similar in direction but don't quite intersect.  The time difference also holds some strange allure for me.  I love imagining a world coming to life in the light of day while mine is asleep in the dark of the night.

It seemed natural, then, that my program of choice during late night feedings with Katelyn was BBC News.  I spent the three AM hour in the armchair of my parents' office, bathed in the glow of a nearly silent TV, with a hungrily nursing baby in my arms.  I always fixed myself a cold drink before settling into that familiar chair and Kate and I both enjoyed a beverage while serenaded by the soothing sounds of a British accent while the world around us slept.  I've said it many times but I never fully appreciated the peace and serenity of those quiet moments I was privileged to enjoy every night.

Tonight we spent some time at my parents' house.  My mom and Dave had a show recorded that they were excited to start watching and yesterday I discovered hours of documentaries about Queen Elizabeth that my mom had recorded for me.  We kissed Kate goodnight and put her to bed so that we could all watch our respective programs.

And she cried and she cried and she cried.

At first I thought she was staging a revolt.  We were at Grandma's house after all and she was missing a party.  I let her cry for a while as I settled into that familiar armchair in the office with a drink.  Soon, however, the crying shifted from anger to terror and I started to worry that she was scared alone in that dark room.

So I caved.

I went in and picked her up and she fell asleep slumped on my shoulder with her soft baby hair tickling my face.  I sat still for a while trying to perceive the evidence of a heavy sleep so I could put her down.  When I noticed her breathing becoming heavy and even, I tried gently putting her down in her crib.

And she woke up.

And I figured that we were at Grandma's and if you can't bend the rules at Grandma's house, where can you?

So I fixed her a big giant cup of soft pebbled ice and sat her on my lap in that fluffy office chair and for an hour we watched home videos courtesy of the Royal Family and Her Majesty The Queen.

And sitting there with a content baby in my lap, two cold beverages in my hands, the glow of a TV screen in a darkened office, and the soft sounds of a British accent, I was transported to the vivid memories of those dark precious nights last year.

#tbt - better to give

If there's one thing my family has always excelled at, it's a good celebration.  Birthdays often became birthweeks and presents multiplied like bunnies underneath the Christmas tree.  One year there was an actual bunny rabbit.

I remember one Christmas sitting behind the gift wrapped fort I had constructed and peering over at the small piles of presents my parents had at their feet.  Compared to our mounds of gifts, my parents always seemed to have maybe five to six or seven on a big gift year.

At first I assumed it was because their gifts were more expensive.  I figured that the Barbie dolls I was opening were just worth less than the presents they got from Santa.  Eventually, I learned more about budgets and the prices of things and I realized that just wasn't the case.  They were getting more expensive surprises but it's not like they were receiving trips to the Bahamas or anything.  Year after year they opened books and CDs and workshirts and ties and the occasional gift certificate for a massage or tickets to a concert.  If there were dollar signs hovering over our gift piles theirs would be much smaller.

I always felt really bad for them and worried that it was the future waiting for me.  I would recount my shiny wrapped presents and gather them in a little closer.  I had heard that it was better to give than to receive but I wasn't completely convinced.

Our family vacations were spent traveling in the loaded up minivan with child friendly destinations like water parks and Disney World while my parents had to forgo the less family friendly cruises and beach trips to Hawaii.

I was less appreciative for their sacrifices than I should have been and more worried that it would someday happen to me.  I felt sorry for all the people who had whiny sniveling kids who required their parents to give up so much.  I thought spending a Saturday at the pool with a bunch of children seemed like a less fun option than sitting poolside with a magazine and a Diet Coke.  I spent a lot of time watching the time on the clock of my life that counted down to the days when I would be the sorry person stuck in the kiddie pool.

Last week we went to the splash pad at City Creek Mall.  We loaded up in a van that had no air conditioning and drove to downtown Salt Lake City in the heat of the day as I felt the first shocks of an oncoming migraine headache.  By the time we stepped into the oven roasted parking garage I thought to myself, "Well at least if I throw up everywhere it's on pavement and not in the car."

Getting out of the parking garage seemed like it would help but the beating sun on my aching head was worse and I felt trapped in a Catch 22 of bad options.  I couldn't get back into that stale hot car but I couldn't stay sitting in the hot sun either.  I looked down at Katelyn and caught sight of that innocent chubby face and precious toothy grin and realized the only option that motherhood allowed.

I had to get over myself for the sake of my baby.

I got up and changed Kate into her swimsuit and watched as Dave led her to the splash pad.  Soon I found myself standing at the edge of the spray watching her intently at first for safety's sake but eventually out of sheer amusement.

I watched as her stocky little legs carried a tubby little tummy and short little arms joltingly around the fountains.  She squealed with delight when the water shot upward and clapped when it rained back down.  With a scientific precision she studied the mechanics of the fountains around her.  She got down on the ground to get a better view and when the water sprayed in her face she reacted by simply blinking the water out of her eyes.  She had decided that further inspection was required so she got even closer and I watched the fearless daredevil spirit she was born with in action.  She spent the hour toddling around and watching the older children with a toddler's awed curiosity.

She was just having so much fun and within a few minutes I realized I was having fun too.  I almost couldn't believe it but if offered a cozy seat in an air conditioned room with a cold Diet Coke and a pedicure I would have turned it down.  (Well if I'm going to be one hundred percent honest and because I really love pedicures I will say that at the very least I would be really conflicted.)

I realized that I was finding a true sense of satisfaction from providing an environment where my baby could sense the contrast of the warm sunshine on her cheeks and the cold spray of water on her legs, where she could smell the unique scent of highly chlorinated water that is so characteristic of happy summer days, where she could feel the squish of wet shoes between her toes and the surprise of a spray of blue water.

I stood there the whole time with sweat running down the inside of my shirt and plastering my hair to my neck having a motherhood epiphany.  This is living, I thought.  This is the living my parents had been enjoying for years and I had pitied them for.  This was the kind of sacrifice that parents everywhere were enjoying everyday and this was why my parents never seemed to dread a Christmas morning where their piles of gifts were so insignificant compared to ours.  This was the exchange of comfort and fun for pure joy and happiness that you make the day that you leave the hospital with a squirming bundle of love and this was the trade that stretches you, pushes you, and ultimately changes you into a stronger, wiser, and better person with a larger capacity to love and care and feel for others.

Suddenly I wished that the hands of the clock could just take a break for a bit and that my senses could be heightened so that I could smell stronger, hear louder, and feel more distinctly this moment.  I wanted to stay standing at the rim of those fountains for another forever with the sun beating on my face and the sweat running down my back and the water streaking my makeup.  I wanted just another hour, another minute, another second to watch someone I love with an intensity I have only known about for the last fifteen months purely enjoying herself.  But that same sun was beating on her back and face and I worried about her sensitive porcelain skin getting burned so I knew that the moment was ending despite my internal pleading.  Once again, I had to sacrifice my wants.

But when I scooped her up and wrapped her in a soft towel to see two big beautiful eyes and a huge joyful smile I knew it was all totally worth it.

a vacation pictorial part seven

Well I guess this isn't really much of a pictorial as this is the only picture I have to commemorate yesterday's events.

This picture was taken at the baby blessing of Jon and Tina's little one Max.  It is a fitting photo as I am holding a massive cup of ice and Katelyn is refusing to cooperate.  I guess it was a sign of things to come.

Yesterday was a travel day.  We boarded a flight to Denver at 5:15 and made it home and into bed by 2:30.

No one takes the luxury of economy class flying more for granted than people traveling without children.  I remember the days when my biggest concern when boarding a plane was whether I had a pen for my crossword puzzle.  Yesterday I boarded by plane apologizing as Kate kicked nearly every passenger we passed on our way to the back of the plane.

Our flight from Salt Lake City to Denver had been delayed due to poor weather conditions in Colorado and we had to run almost a mile in under fifteen minutes to catch our connections.  A mile doesn't seem like it would be that difficult but when you are overweight and carrying a 25 pound child, trust me, it is.

Our saving grace on the flight to Salt Lake City had been Slim Jims.  We had an entire bag full of those nasty foul smelling processed beef sticks and Kate reclined across my lap and propped her feet up on Dave's shoulder eating one after another. We had the process down to a science.  One beef stick in Kate's little hand with another unwrapped at the ready and another in line after that.  It occupied her for nearly an hour.

On the flight to Denver it had been those tiny Mamba candies.  To make them last, I bit each little candy into six or seven pieces while Dave tried to keep Kate from flinging sticky little candies all over the place.

Because of the non existent layover, however, I didn't have time to buy more treats.  We had a bottle of apple juice but the real secret of toddler air travel I have learned is tiny foods.  As long as we had some sort of appealing snack that took Katelyn a million years to eat, we were fine.

One of Kate's most favorite things in the whole world is ice.  She loves to crunch ice and we have never seen her turn it down.  Airline ice, unfortunately, comes in giant pieces and is about as hard as I would imagine Arctic icicles to be.  This meant that I was on ice crunching duty.  I started by biting a piece of ice and then handing Katelyn one little bit at a time.  However, this is inefficient and the second rule of toddler air travel is efficiency so I started crunching entire cup fulls of ice at once and spitting the ice back into the cup.

At first I tried to be discreet, you know, wait until no one was looking to deposit a mouthful of masticated ice chunks into a little plastic cup.  Eventually though, I was mentally daring people to stare at me.

"Yeah, you're welcome for protecting your sanity by keeping her quiet."

By the time the plane landed I had crunched through five full cups of ice.  Finally, we landed, deplaned, drove home, walked up the stairs, showered and bathed, and crawled into bed.  I slept until noon because Dave is amazing like that.

Eventually she fell asleep for the last half hour of the flight.  She was stretched out across both of our laps on her stomach with a stuffed dog for a pillow and a blanket keeping her warm.  Dave and I both were frozen into contorted painful positions not daring to move for fear that she would wake up.  Dave tickled her back and I rubbed her feet.  We couldn't help but silently laugh to each other over our spoiled little princess.  Where we once lamented about the fact that the flight attendants rarely gave us the entire can of soda during the beverage service we were now incredibly relieved that for one short moment we could sit and enjoy our flight without wrangling toddler feet.

Despite a crazy day in the air, we had such a fun time in Utah with family.  We made some great memories and it is so sad to think about going back to the real world tomorrow.  Why can't summer vacation last forever?

my little motivation

When Katelyn was a brand new tiny fresh little baby, she nursed all the time.  For several weeks my life consisted of sitting around nursing, trying to decide if she had nursed enough, or wondering when Kate would need to nurse next.  Eventually I came up with a good system for constantly feeding my constantly hungry little girl.  I would park myself in one of the black leather chairs of my parents' living room with a nice fresh beverage next to me and little Kate in arms.  She would nurse for an hour, sleep for an hour, and stare at me for an hour.  And I would watch TV and relax.

At the time I didn't fully appreciate it but looking back on the experience I realize how truly blissful it was.  A comfortable chair, a cold drink, and a warm happy baby in my arms.

One time my mom and I were watching an episode of Freaky Eaters on TLC.  Usually the eats are truly freaky: laundry detergent, plastic cocktail swords.  One woman was eating Comet cleaner.

Isn't there a song about that?

This one happened to be less freaky.  The only food this woman could stand was french fries.  She couldn't even fathom having any other foods.  The mere thought of something other that potatoes was revolting and gag worthy.

And get this.  She was thin!

Anyway, these two food therapists (strange to me that this job even exists) came to her house to try and help her learn to eat more foods.  First they tried scaring her straight by showing big giant piles of potatoes.  I guess it was to explain how much starch she was actually consuming.  Next they tried serving her french fries that had been dyed with food coloring to show her that even strange looking foods are edible.  She could not even eat the colorful tubers.  She took one bite of an indigo tinted fry and vomited.

She fought their advice, their words of wisdom, and their help.  Her addiction was just too strong.  Meanwhile, her young daughter was by her side supporting her and desperate to help her overcome such destructive behavior.  The girl was no more than ten and it was obvious that her mother's eating habits were distressing.

I was horrified and thought to myself, "How dare she?!?  For the sake of her daughter she simply must get over it!  She will eat herself into an early grave," I thought.  And then, "Well at least I am a better mother than that."

And then the hypocrisy set in.

A few years ago my mom traveled on her own weight loss journey.  I left for college and found her again with much of her missing, worked off pound by pound at the gym.  What was even more impressive is what she had gained.  She had an entirely new perspective on life.  Her weight loss had turned into more than just numbers and pounds.  It had become about living well and feeling free.  She was different in many ways from the mother I remembered.  She had become a better version of herself with all of the wonderful qualities that I remembered and some upgraded new attributes that I hope to someday gain myself.

She told me that this was the first picture she had seen of herself after her weight loss and she felt like she was sixteen again when she saw it. :)

We were talking the other day about what had sparked that fire in her.  She said that it had started with us.  She helplessly watched my sister and I struggle with the same demons that had attacked her and felt a sense of panic and desperation.  She prayed and pleaded with Heavenly Father that it just wouldn't happen to us.  The pain is so real and so sharp.

Her answer was to deal with her own burden.

The real lesson she learned, however, was that this was her journey and not mine and not Lauren's.  She needed this for herself.  This was her mountain to climb.

Right now I'm doing this for Kate.  I'm fighting tooth and nail for her.

But I hope my mom is right.  I hope someday soon it will be my journey just for me.  It just sounds so liberating.

a pinteresting experience

I love staying at home with Katelyn every day but sometimes I wonder if she gets bored waking every morning to my familiar face and our daily routine.

breakfast, chores, play time, reading, naps, lunch, hanging out with Grandma, dinner, rinse, repeat...

We have a good routine and I crave a schedule so I absolutely love it.  My day starts and ends the same way and usually has a certain number of ordered steps to follow.  It makes me happy.
But sometimes I feel like I should be exposing Kate to a wider variety of activities and educational experiences.  I blame Pinterest for this because the rational side of me says that reading book after book after book, taking walks and going on outings, and talking to her all day long is plenty of education for a toddler.  But then I see Pinterest and I think, "She should probably be speaking a foreign language by now..."

One of the activities Pinterest recommended was painting with pudding.  "Fine," I thought, "We can paint like Picasso."  Only I didn't have pudding so yogurt would have to do.  I dumped out a container of Yoplait onto Kate's high chair tray and she just looked at me perplexed.  "Here," I said, "Paint a picture."

The day before I had made salt dough for her to play with and when I put it on her tray, she gave me that same stare.  When I pressed her little hand into the dough, she looked up at me horrified and yanked her arm back.  Finally, she licked it so I took it away and dumped it into the trash.

I thought to myself, "Great.  There goes my last strawberry flavor."

Eventually, she licked the yogurt and decided it was good so she started using her little fingers to scoop blobs of pink to her mouth.  Then she started playing in it.  She was entertained and I was amused.  It was great until she trying slapping the tray and sent yogurt splattering all over the wall.  But even then, it was funny and the walls wipe off so we both just laughed and laughed and laughed.

happy mother's day!

 

Today was my second official Mother's Day and it was great!  Katelyn slept in until it was time to wake her up to get ready for church and then she took a HUGE nap when we got home.  A huge nap for Kate means a huge nap for me.  It was blissful.

Kate and Dave went crazy with Mother's Day gifts this year.  They gave me these beautiful flowers and some kitchen utensils I have been asking for.  (They are not just utensils.  They are bright neon colored utensils and I told Dave that I must have one of everything.)  I also got a card that is good for one pedicure (always a good gift idea) and one Schleich animal (also always a good gift idea).

We went over to my parents' house for dinner where Lauren cooked delicious Hawaiian haystacks (yum!) and my dad and Dave did the dishes.  We had Bluebell Lemon Bliss for dessert.

I made my mom and grandma a cupcake bouquet.  I saw it on Pinterest a few months ago and thought, "I want that."  I watched a few Youtube videos on how to make one and they all showed bouquets with piped roses.  I considered it for a while and then went with the safe option of dunking cupcakes into icing and then covering them with pink sprinkles.  I think they turned out well.  I won't be filing out applications at any bakeries but for a novice, I think they are pretty.

I am so lucky to have such a wonderful mother.  I have always been grateful for her but I don't think I understood quite how much until the past year.  Being a mom is hard work and my mom is still mothering me.  She still answers three AM calls when Kate has a fever and I don't know what to do and I can't even count the number of times she has picked me up and helped with Katelyn so I could just rest for a second.  Seriously, it is like everyday.

I am also grateful for a great mother in law who raised such a wonderful husband for me.  He is such a good man and an amazing father and I suspect it has a lot to do with great parenting and a stellar mom. :)

I'm so thankful for the opportunity to be a mother and thankful for my mother who helps me to be an even better mother.

sleepless is the night

When Katelyn was first born and I was swimming in a sea of post partum hormones, I remember tearfully asking my mom when it gets easier.  I adored by brand new baby fresh baby but those first sleepless nights were hard.

And when I say first sleepless nights, I mean after my mom went home and the celebratory confetti settled.  I had copious amounts of help for the first three weeks.

The days were wonderful.  I spent my time blissfully holding my precious newborn and either watching her squishy sleeping face or staring into her dark grey eyes.  (Her eyes are a beautiful blue green but when she was first born, they were black like two little halved olives.)  She really didn't cry much.  She just slept and ate and slept.

I had started to really get the hang of nursing and when she ate, I could sit on a recliner and watch TV.  (TV is much better in the day, by the way.)  Dave and I took her in the stroller for walks every day.  She loved the stroller.  It bought us an hour or so outside in the fresh air with the part of the population that showered and combed their hair.  Dave would walk a few laps around a playground while I would swing, alone in my thoughts.  That was truly wonderful.

We were living with Dave's parents so during the day, there was never a shortage of blessed helpers.  Grandparents and aunts and uncles who eagerly held little Kitty Kate while I did the dishes, washed some clothes, or sometimes just sat there enjoying a moment.

The day time was great.

But at night, the sun went down.  I would see it out the window begin to make its initial descent, the sky shifting from a bright blue canvas of puffy white clouds to a pink and orange backdrop for the purple mountains.  This sight filled me with dread.

Nighttime was so quiet and lonely.  The world started to shut down and everyone went to bed.  It felt colder and stiller and time seemed to stop.  All that was on TV was Seinfeld and I began to resent the fictional characters for having a life outside of my darkened living room.  I would watch their stupid little antics with contempt as I held my perfectly sleeping baby while fighting to stay awake for fear that she would disappear if I closed my eyes.

Dave was my rock.  He willingly woke up each morning for the 5 AM shift so that I could sleep.  And oh, he let me sleep.  I just had to make it until 5 and at the other end of that dark sleepless night was a warm bed in a silent room only to be interrupted by a quick feeding session and a Diet Coke.  I doubt many wives can brag that their husbands took such a lion's share of the nighttime care.  He was and still is a very devoted father.

But because of that, he got to sleep at night.  And with sleep came his horrifyingly loud snoring.  And with that snoring came my pure seething jealousy.  I would sit there, green with envy, staring at him while I held my baby that wouldn't sleep in a crib.  And then I would remember that he was getting up soon to watch me sleep and listen to me snore and then I would feel guilty.  And then I would cry and drip big salty tears on Katelyn's face and feel bad for that too.

So I asked my mom once at the onset of yet another dark and lonely night, "When does it get easier?"

And she said never.

And I panicked.

"But," she said, "You get used to it and it becomes wonderful.  You will be like a horse that has been bridled.  Right now, you are kicking and bucking under your saddle.  But soon, you will grow accustomed to it and learn to love it.  And, if you need a milestone, three, six, and nine months are pretty big.  Nine months is the best."

I swallowed back tears and tried hard to believe her.

Now, I'm one month past the nine month mark and she was right.  It is the best.  Katelyn is doing new things every day.  She has a little personality that I am absolutely and irreversibly in love with.  I wonder what I did before she was born.  She is my constant companion, my daily entertainment, and my world.  I don't know what I did without my "saddle."

And oddly enough, I miss the quiet nights.  Because what seemed like blackened lonely silence was actually calm and peaceful stillness.

Last night, I looked into Katelyn's room to check on her before I went to bed.  To my delight, she was sitting up in her crib.  It startled me at first so I quickly shut the door.  But then I opened it again and for a minute we just stared at each other.  Finally, she spoke up, "Eh!"  I called Dave over and we both stared at the beautiful creature we can't get enough of.  Finally, she whined to be picked up so we brought her to our bed for a while and enjoyed a family snuggle before we all went to sleep.

 It reminded me of the silent nights I got to spend holding her close and kissing her forehead and I didn't even know how lucky I was.

morning naps

When I was pregnant with Baby Kate, I was tired.  So very, very tired.  I taught school until my due date and classes started early.  This did not mix well with being so painfully tired.  My way of coping with the exhaustion was with morning naps.

The only way I could even entertain the thought of getting up and dressed was the promise of going back to sleep later.  And by later, I mean in fifteen minutes and not at the end of the day.  So I set my alarm clock an hour earlier than necessary, showered and did my hair the night before, streamlined my morning routine to a mere fifteen minutes, and crawled back into bed until D woke me up to leave.  There were a few days that I had to forgo my precious morning nap and, let me tell you, they were bad.

Fast forward one year and I am still taking my morning nap.

All the parenting books tell you not to let your baby grow accustomed to sleeping in your arms.  Babies need to learn to rest in their cribs and it is your responsibility to teach them.  And at night, I was 99% on board.  Katelyn was effectively "sleep trained" months ago and it has been wonderful.

So when it came time to "nap train," I was prepared.  I knew that she would need to cry a little to learn to nap in her crib.  I think I tried it once.  I sat out in the living room and listened to my baby cry for me.  It was impossible to sit there when I knew that if I just picked her up, wrapped her into a blanket burrito, and snuggled her, she would peacefully drift off to baby slumber land.  And my peacefully sleeping baby would be nestled comfortably in my arms while I smelled her baby fresh hair and kissed her baby soft forehead.  So I caved.

And I have caved everyday since.  My spoiled little princess gets to nap in the comfort of Mama's arms.  Every day at ten AM, I bundle little Kate, rock her to sleep, wedge her between the backrest of the couch and my side, and we both enjoy some morning zzz's.

Some days I think I will put my foot down and insist that Katelyn will sleep in her crib.  I could get so much done during that napping hour.  But I don't care because I know that someday my baby won't be a baby anymore and she won't let me swaddle her in her lovey and cuddle her to sleep.  And not too soon after that, all of my babies will be grown and they won't let me cradle them while I sniff their hair or kiss their cheeks and I won't get to sleep with a happy little infant in my arms until they have babies of their own.

So for now, and for the first time in my life, I am enjoying my morning naps, living in the moment, and loving it.

home sweet home

Last night a cold front rolled into town and brought Christmas decorations with it!

I am in love with my cute little candy cane tree!!!

I forgot to mention that our little family moved into a place of our own last weekend.  I meant to take pictures of the whole move in process.  I really did.  But we quickly moved in on a Friday night after D and my dad got home from work and it felt like we were moving in the dead of night and everyone just wanted to hurry up and get it done.  The next morning, we woke up to find that poor Kate had vomited in her crib and she ran a fever for the rest of the day.  While cleaning up a pool of vomit felt like a milestone moment in the glamors of motherhood, I chose not to immortalize it with a photo.  I'm sure you can appreciate that.

So anyway, now that I am done with the excuses and sob story, here are some pictures of our brand new apartment, complete with decked halls and everything!

 

This is our living room and dining area.  It looks small from this angle but for the three of us, it feels like the perfect space.

 

 This is the table my family sat around when I was growing up.  It was handed down to my family from my grandparents.  It's the same table my mom ate at!

Here is a view of our kitchen.  We had granite counter tops and all brand new appliances.  They make me feel so fancy.

I have always wanted a kitchen island.  One of my wildest dreams has come true.

The singing and dancing pig is on loan from my mom.  My mom and grandma both have extensive collections of animatronic Christmas decorations and Katelyn loves them!  Whenever she wants them to sing for her, she yells at them and we turn them on.  Now she thinks that any stuffed animal that has a face will sing and dance for her.

Katelyn's Korner.  I know that tiny little picture frame looks ridiculous but it's a work in progress.  That picture isn't even Katelyn; it just came with the frame.

 Here is our little desk area and until I get some different pictures developed, memorial of our wedding day.  You can also see our diplomas proudly on display, next to D's new textbook, Battlefield.

And finally, here is the new bedspread I got for my birthday.  D would argue that we have too many pillows but I love them.  More pillows is more better.

We love our new apartment.  It is starting to feel like home.  It is perfect for our little family and we can't wait to start making memories here.

Of course, this post wouldn't be complete without a huge thanks to both D's parents and mine who opened their homes to us for the past year, free of rent.  We have loved the time spent with family, especially with baby Katelyn and moving out has been bittersweet.  We are so blessed to have such supportive families.

pacifier noob

When my brother Jack came home from a mission to Guatemala, he had much better handwriting, a slight accent, and apparently diminished computer game skills.  He was playing a game that he had been good at before he served his mission and he wasn't doing well.  After a while, one of the players said to another, "boot this noob."  And just like that, he was booted out of the game.  LOL!

That has now become a catch phrase in our family.  Whenever someone is not very good at something or makes a stupid mistake they are referred to as a noob.

Well, I am a pacifier noob.  I was trying to clean up after my messy whirlwind of a daughter and picked up one of her rubber pacifiers.  For reasons unknown even to me, I put the pacifier up to my chin and stuck it to my face like a suction cup.  I walked around the house like that for a few minutes and then put the pacifier away.

Later when D came home, he asked me what happened to my chin.  I, of course, had no idea what he was talking about.  When we figured out what had happened, he laughed and yelled, "You have a chin hickey!"

Unfortunately, I don't think it will be going away soon.