There is Roast...

Morgan, the Menu Maker:
(Translation follows)

There is roast
and there is potatoes
Last but not least there is
corn and beef.

Perspective

It's Monday morning. I am under the delusion that the wonderful man who stayed home with me all weekend and helped with house and children is supposed to stay here.

I forget that there is a mortgage to be paid and, by golly, that I like a warm house.

So he goes to work. I'm thankful, of course, but I'm also fighting against the slump that is called Monday morning.

Come to think of it, I did this pre-children when I worked the nine-to-five. There was an unsaid rule that people should enter into the doors of corporate America on Monday morning with very quiet voices and coffee in tow. Then we'd take a few minutes to start up the computer, arrange the papers on the desk, check voice mail and slowly dip into the week. It was a transition that took the utmost delicacy.

Children do not know about this rule. But that's okay. I have embraced the chaos which I come to expect.

I have already done a stamping craft project with Morgan and given the baby a bath.

As I picked up my grumpy infant this morning, I noted with an "ugh" that she has a cold. She rubbed her fat fist through her runny nose to make her face somewhat glossy and fussed. Poor thing. "No gym for Mommy today," I noted.

In ten minutes, the doorbell will ring and two neighbor girls with bright faces will say good morning and immediately launch into something they did this weekend. While they're telling me about it, Morgan will be scrambling to get her coat on and the baby will be crying as I stuff her in her fleece body suit.

My natural response is to flee from the chaos, but the children are attached to the chaos. I want the children. I love them. I don't want the mess of the art, but I want the adorable drawings. I don't want the mounds of laundry, but I want the curiosity of my infant as she smears cake on her arms.

So I embrace them both. Package deal.

And I guess I'll embrace the Mondays that hold us as well.

As Long as She Thinks So...

Any takers on what "Eve is..."?

Vision

It's Sunday. I can see clearly now.

Okay, maybe not perfectly, but clearly enough.

My family spent this weekend with dear old friends in Michigan. We had hoped to meet some new friends there as well, but the cold season is upon us. That will have to wait for another day.

Point is: I went to Michigan with fuzzy vision and came back with clearer sight.

Here's how I know:
On the road trip back, I sat between the girls in the back seat. I laughed with Morgan. I can't remember the last time I laughed with her with no care for time. We giggled about nonsense words and blew bubbles with our gum. It was effortless fun. Not prepared or contrived or premeditated. Just fun.

On my other side was my bendy baby... she gnawed on her toes and laughed at me as I changed my voice and made overly dramatic faces. My, I'm blessed.

I looked in the front seat at Dan and thanked God for a kind husband. We haven't seen a lot of each other lately. The fog of life keeps me from seeing the blessings right in front of me. My, he's handsome. And funny. How in the world did I land such a gem? God's gift, for sure.

I'm unsure how a beautifully simple weekend with friends could adjust my vision so, but it did. Now I'm an evangelist of joy and fun and "oh-what-the-hey"... Something about living in the moment with 5 spunky children and 4 dedicated parents will revive life in anyone's soul.

We picked apples. Have I seen my husband so giddy? Apple juice dripped from his chin as he sunk his teeth into a very large Jonagold.

We ate food. Very good eats. My friend Sarah speaks "foodie" very well.

We laughed a great deal.

And tonight, when I came home, I saw something amazing: There are people in my house.
I didn't see Cheerios on the floor.
I didn't see laundry or bills or messyness.
I saw Dan and Morgan and Eve.

Thank God for friends and food and weekends.
And brand new eyesight.

Morning Mayhem

It's not an ordinary evening. I'm blasting "Do you want crying" (Katrina and the Waves) and dancing crazily for the benefit of my extremely-fussy, 'oh-my-land cut the tooth already' infant. It's only appropriate. She's smiling. I am, too.

The day didn't start with smiling.

Try as I might to get this precious kindergartener out the door on time, she manages to drop a woozy right before we leave almost every day.

"Mom, I can't find my glasses."

"Mom, I didn't want to wear my ponytail anymore" she tells me as her hair (still in the general shape of a pony tail, mind you) has a large, gentle kink in the middle of it.

My personal favorite:
"Mom, this doesn't fit, this doesn't fit, this doesn't fit..." followed by a child trying to clothe herself while she writhes on the floor. Outrageous.

Serenity, I say to myself.

"SERENITY, " I scream out loud.
That's right.
I scream.
I seem to be the only bloggy mother who struggles with an anger problem.
I scream. Totally frustrated.

I hate when I scream. I do everything in my power to not let the awful volcano rising up the back of my spine explode into my daughter's face. But I did. I screamed. "Where are your glasses? Why don't you have your glasses?" I ask her a bevy of questions to which I already know the answer: "I don't know," she cries.

So the morning started badly.

And then I went to the mechanic expecting to dread every minute in the dirty waiting area but... I didn't. I had a very nice conversation for a half hour with a real down-to-earth lady. My, that was nice. So nice. She was a mother of three (now grown).

Feeling really impressed with this woman, I asked her, "So how did you raise three young children and maintain your sanity? Did you have any little luxuries?" I expected some real age-old advice. A little nugget of truth.

Here's the essence of what she said, "I didn't know what I was doing. Just get up every day and do what you need to do."

That's it? She could be an ad for Nike.

She added, "I read the kids a lot of books. There would be days where one would be sick and fussy and another would be crying. We just read books."

I sat there on that rainy day and thought, "You know, she may not have said anything special, but she did acknowledge that being a stay-at-homie is a crap shoot. You just do what you need to do each day whether you feel like it or not, hope you're doing the right thing in God's eyes and one day they grow up."

I'm home again now. The world isn't more sparkly like they show in the Dis*ney movies after someone has a revelation. But it's doable.

There are "do-overs" on the horizon.

There's always Katrina and the Waves.

And for today's mistakes, there's forgiveness.

Tis the Season

I'd like to dedicate this blog to the pharmaceuticals.

I have a cold. I did too much yesterday and my body is saying, "Whoa, baby, slow down."

Thankfully, there is cold medicine. (Hallelujah chorus.)

I love cold medicine because first it hits me straight between the eyes and makes me sleep. (Zzzzz)

And then it takes the aches and pains away. (Ahhhhh)

And then... then it makes me think in s-l-o-w m-o-t-i-o-n.

Today as I was driving the car on an errand I was thinking the following... very slowly:

"Hmmm, I wonder if I should be driving.

Was there a warning about 'operating a motor vehicle' while on these meds?

Who says 'motor vehicle' anyway? Just say 'wheels'.

Tra la la la la la.

Look at that bird! I like birds.

Is a baby crying? Why is there a baby in my car? Am I a mother?

Stress is such a fun word to say... Stresssssssss.

I think we'll have cereal for dinner. I like cereal dinners.

What gender am I?

Am I married?

I'm glad the lines on the road are yellow. So pretty."

Thank you, peace-in-a-box. How I owe thee.

Birthday Journal

Morgan's teacher has students whose birthday it is go home with (drumroll, please) the coveted birthday journal.
It's a big deal to these little kids. They write what they did on their big day.

Here's what I've found in this journal:

William
"...We opned presents. My favorite was the vehicle playset."

Jill
"I got my ears pierced! They are sparkly!..."

Daniel
"...I will have a party at Brunzwick on Saturday..."

and then, there is my daughter who began her entry thusly:
"I am going to hav lefdovr pink cake..."

Serenity.

Soup Days

This morning started with a bang. A rush. A 6am "quick-open-this-present" because your father has to leave for work.

Breakfast.

A crying baby. Teething, naturally.

A doorbell rings. Three different times.

The phone rings.

The morning is full of life and vim and vigor. I wouldn't want it any other way.

But then, I wouldn't mind a little slowness once in a while. A little quiet. Restoration.

Hush, busy morning.

After this morning's busyness, I had a hankering for some soup.

Roasted veggie soup.

Now if you're the "5 minute dinner" kind of person, may I gently suggest to you that you need this soup. Because this soup tastes like time and love and joy.

First, I cut up some veggies. Root veggies work great, but so do others.

Parsnips.

Carrots.

Celery.

Onion.

I know you're used to hearing amounts of things for recipes, but I'm resisting it. Fill up your cookie tray with veggie goodness. Keep it in a single layer. Like this:

Drizzle some olive oil on it and season it with a little salt. Not too much now.

Now, put it in the oven at 400 degrees for about a half hour.

When the veggies start to tenderize and turn brown, pull them out.

Use your nose and your eyes and a piercing fork as your guide.

Here, smell:

Now, put them in a generous stock pot and pour a half cup or so of white wine on them.

And then add some chicken stock to cover. Maybe a dash more.

Now taste it. Not quite right? Add a little oregano.

Put the soup on medium for a little while, say 20 minutes.

Now you can eat the soup just the way it is and it will be perfectly yummy.

But we want it to be masterful.

So add a little cream. The olive oil will float in little bubbles on the top. The veggies will look more vibrant, the stock will appear deeper.

If your windows are open, you may hear the doorbell ring because a neighbor just wanted to "drop by".

It's up to you if you answer it.

Party

This is what a six year old looks like.
Happy. Confident. Wearing purple.

And this is what decor from that six year old's party looks like:
Orange. Pink. Purple. Balloons, too.
With a My Little Pony theme.

And this?
This is the most decorated cake you've probably ever seen.
Morgan loved it. We put her mini Little Pony figures on them.

There were purple tutus.
And dancing.
And hats. She insisted on hats.

This is little sister, Eve. She's never seen a balloon before.

Here's some fun decor pompoms I found (on super sale!) but didn't know how to decorate with.
But then I put my thinking cap on...

The top of the cake had a Twizzler rainbow, pink marshmallow clouds and candles. Oh my.

The friends had fun making a craft!

And Morgan was delighted.
That's all we wanted, really.

We had a game to see which of two teams could make the tallest marshmallow tower using only marshmallows and glue, er, frosting.

The craziest, most wonderful six-year-old birthday cake ever.

Make a wish!

And take time to smell the craft flowers. (No, not really.)
The guests made these beautiful felt bouquets.

My, what fun we had.

And now, this Momma needs some sleep.

Gift Giving

This morning as I was putting on my earrings, I smiled to myself.

Last December before I gave birth to hope-made-flesh, I told my husband that I wanted him to come to the hospital with roses. What's more, I gave him specific instructions:

Me: "Dan, don't forget to bring me roses to the hospital, okay?"

Dan: "Okay, hon."

Me: "Red ones."

Dan: "Gotcha. Red ones."

Me: "Oh, and make sure they are in a vase, not that tissue stuff."

Dan: "Roses. Red. In a vase."

Me: "Arranged, not dumped in the vase."

Dan: (Laughing) "Anything else?"

Me: "Dan, this is important to me. This is how I want you to give me the gift, okay?"

Dan: "Okay... Red roses. In a vase. Arranged nicely."

And so in the days before the great hope child arrived, I reminded Dan frequently of his gift to me. Truthfully, it became a chore. For both of us.

The day arrived. I gave birth to a loud, squishy full-of-life daughter and Dan arrived on cue with a large vase of long stemmed red roses arranged by a professional.

It was just what I wanted.

He set them on the table and did something like watch TV. I don't know. I remember thinking that it was totally anti-climatic.

See, back in January of that year when I pumped liquid hope (IVF drugs) into my abdomen, I thought that if this awful stuff could produce a child, then we were going all out in the celebration department. We weren't going to chince on things that mattered.
Like a really nice nursing chair.
Or really pretty decor.
Or red roses. Arranged. In a vase. Given to me after the baby was born.

After looking at the roses I determined that at the very least we could get a really pretty picture of us all (even Morgan) as we left the hospital. Something memorable.

It was memorable all right.

Dan had a seizure right there in the hospital. He was unable to drive home.

So we left the hospital, both Dan and me in wheelchairs, accepting help from very nice strangers. I put the baby on my lap and the red-roses-arranged-in-a-vase on the wheely hotel-looking cart.

When the time came for us to get a family picture in the lobby, I declined.
Due to a severe blizzard and subzero temps, Morgan couldn't be at the hospital with us.
Dan hadn't showered and was still fuzzy from the seizure.
I had just had a baby (Duh) and felt very, very frustrated that my fairy tale picture of the hospital stay had been quite different.

Fast forward a week.

It's Christmas Day. Dan can hardly wait to give me my gift. We agreed on a budget and I could tell from the small box he was about to give me that he probably spent the entirely of his budget on this item.

He must have.

Real pearl earrings. With small diamonds on the side.

He was beside himself with excitement. He told me about how he researched for the best pearls and then researched for the best price. He was absolutely elated.

Despite my athletic wear garb, I put on the pearl earrings and felt very special. And very happy.

My, so that's what it feels like to receive a gift. A true gift.

This morning as I put on my earrings, I smiled at this story.
At my neurotic-control-freak-hormonal tendencies.
And at my husband's bursting-with-excitement gift.

He could have given me dryer lint and it would have been a hundred times better than the gift I forced him to give me.

But even better was the gift of himself.