Swimmy's Death Bed

This is Swimmy Huckleberry Fin Stuart Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious (plus a couple of other names I'll not include for privacy sake)

He's dying (or so I think).



But he's making the best of last hours.



Having one last nightmare.



Resting on the bottom.



Talking to his imaginary friend.

We have loved him dearly and will miss him, even if Morgan has been asking for the past year if she could have a pet hamster when Swimmy died.

Valentines

From Jackie (6) to Henry (3)

Der Henry,
I love you so much that win (when) you ar not here I lmslst (almost) cry.



Anika (12) to Morgan (9)



Anika to Jackie

I think that is a rose Jackie drew on the valentine.

Der Stoort, (Stuart is a 12-year-old boy that Jackie adores.)
I hop yer lisin to this poueme. (I hope you're listening to this poem.)
Rosis ar red, villitse ar blu,
(Morgan I think takes over writing here)
I wish you would know how
I have a crush on you.



Morgan to Matthew:

Dear Dad,
You're the BEST dad ever!
Please be careful with the duck. The duck's name is Snifsy.
Love, Morgan



Jackie to Morgan:
Dear Morgan,
I hope you know hoe much I love you.



To Anika
From Jackie (in Anika's handwriting)

Love Stays With You.



To Anika
From Jackie
Second Page, still in Anika's handwriting

Sugar or Spice?

The kids came to me in the kitchen this morning, as I was madly whipping up some cranberry/raisin oatmeal cookies to give our primary teachers for Valentines Day.

The kids glowed.

"Mom," Anika sweetly said, holding out a jewelry catalog for her school fundraiser. In her other hand, she held a little fabric money pouch, visibly heavy with coins. "We have put all our money together. We have ten dollars and fifty cents. You can pick anything from this catalog."

My heart was like a piece of chocolate in the warm sun--totally and sweetly melted.

I sat down on the couch with the kids crowded around. There were two items in the $10.50 price range--sun earrings, and some hanging loop earrings. I chose the hanging loops.

Big Kid on the Block

Yes, this tooth is anatomically correct.

Complete with an MOD filling on the top.

Dead Mom, the Sequel

If you haven't read my post, Dead Mom, two posts ago, this is the sequel--you might want to read that first.

Today I was driving home from Costco, and I again passed the Hatter Exchange.

"Henry, there's the dead mom," I said, sure that I hadn't won the discussion about the mannequin in front of this consignment store.

"Mom," he said confidently, "That's not a dead mom. That's a piece of plastic."

"Who taught you that?" I asked, incredulous that he really had processed what I told him. I don't even remember using the word plastic.

"Oh, I don't know" was his nonchalant answer.

Go figure.

Fleeting Moments

This beautiful video just made me cry--watch it: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=olSyCLJU3O0&feature=player_embedded

So what are my fleeting moments that sometimes seem hard but I wouldn't trade? Henry trying to remove his backwards shirt, but he's pulled it off backward so that his arms are stuck behind him, and his shirt is tight behind his head. Jackie begging me every night for more books and a cuddle.

All the kids pleading to go everywhere with me--I try never to say no. My friends don't understand this, but I do. I won't have my children wanting to go everywhere with me forever.

Sacrament meeting, at church, with Henry and Jackie fighting over my lap and Morgan squeezing in next to me. Or the kids climbing into bed with me in the morning, when I'm still trying to sleep, and then fighting over who gets to be next to me.

Hand prints on the glass doors. Microwaved fruit. Water dumped out of the tub. "Oops, Mom." All worth it.

Those are just a few to begin. I tell my children often they are not allowed to grow up. But they won't obey this one. So I have begun living in the moment, or trying, as I recognize that moments are fleeting.

Dead Mom

Today Matthew left quickly from church with the three girls, while I took my time visiting, taking Henry to the bathroom, and searching for his lost picture from Sunbeam class. I wasn't in a hurry.

So as we drove home, Henry and I conversed. We passed something that Henry insisted was a broken swimming pool--I suppose because it was surrounded by cheap green fencing with one inch green plastic slats. Three menacing rows of barbed wire surrounded the top, and several brightly colored keep-out signs were posted on the padlocked door. I'm pretty sure it had something to do with the city power.

Either way, it wasn't worth arguing. "Oh yes, Henry, look at the broken swimming pool!"

We drove a little further before Henry piped up, "A dead mom."

"Huh?" I asked.

"A dead mom. I see a dead mom."

"Henry," I said, "my mom is dead." I've always imagined having some special experience where my kids could possible meet my mom in spirit. The thought did cross my mind at this point that maybe this was it. He was seeing my mom . . . um . . . out the window on the road. In the seat next to me . . . This thought didn't last long.

I'm sure I've told Henry at some point that my mom was dead, but I kind of assumed that he was too little to care or remember.

"Henry, how did you know my mom was dead? Did you talk about that in church today?"

Henry at this point, began whining, flustered. "Dead mom. Mom! Turn around!"

I wasn't in a hurry to get home and face my motherhood responsitilbities, so I made a u-turn at the next. Then I drove a mile or so back down the road while Henry asserted over and over, "Not there, not there."

After a few minutes, he began bouncing in his seat: "There! There! Dead mom."

So I flipped another u-turn, and drove slowly up the road, trying to see where the dead mom is.

"There it is mom!! There is the dead Mom!"

If you look really closely, you'll see a white mannequin with a dress and a hat leaned leaned up at the top of the stairs on the right side of the house. She's always there advertising Hatter Exchange, a seldomly frequented clothing consignment shop that resides in the little house.

"Henry," I tried to explain, "It's not real. It's kind of like when you make things out of play dough, only someone made a big mom and put a hat and dress on it."

"No," He insisted, "It's a dead mom."

"O.K. Henry. Thanks for showing me the dead mom."

As we pulled into our driveway, Henry mused, "Hmmm . . . I didn't hear the dead mom."

Anikaism

At the dinner table:

Morgan (3rd grade) : "Jackie, your homework is really just easy and fun."

Jackie (kindergarten) : Not listening, continues to eat her macaroni and cheese.

Anika: "Yah, Morgan, the real homework starts in third grade. That's when you really start doing hard stuff."

Metaphors

I confess . . . those words seem to pop up every so often on my blog. But as part of my purpose is inject some reality into parental writing, my confessions seem appropriate. .

So here we go: I confess that my kids are picky eaters. There you have it. More about that on another day. This really is only a tiny bit related to my story, but nonetheless I feel much better having confessed.

But for today, here's the story. After a healthy but delicious dinner out with friends, I was really looking for a a few extra carbs--you know, a cookie, a cinnamon roll, or a loaf of warm homemade bread. I had to settle for a bag of pistachios.

As I stand at the counter savoring my pistachios, Henry wanders up and peers at my pistachios with one eye squinted. The look on his face reminds me of my childhood, when my mother would point out a beetle on the ground and we would all kneel on our hands and knees and scrutinize the beetle with fascination. Intense.

I say, "Mmmmmm . . . these are so good. Would you like to try one?"

Henry with a what-are-you-thinking-mom laugh says, despite having never tried pistachios, "No, no. I don't like them."

"No problem," I reply, feigning absolute joyous indifference. "More for me. Mmmmmmm."

I ignore Henry, knowing that nothing I can say will get him to try those delectable pistachios.

Slowly I notice his face closing in on them, his eyes still scrunched and focused on the pistachios.

"Look," I say, "they're green."

"Ooh yah," he observes,"like watermelons."

I guess so, crosses my mind.

"Mom, you're eating little watermelons."

If only that were true.

Imperfection Reigns

I bet you thought you had the best birthday decorations. . .

I bet you thought you made the cutest cake . . .

Of course, there is indeed a story behind this cake. I confess that unlike my mother, I do NOT make my own frosting. I don't feel bad about that, I admit. And after as many flops as I have had, the cakes I see in the grocery store are starting to look pretty darn pretty . . .

But enough of my guilty excuses. Back to the story. We had a busy day that day. At some point, Anika snuck into the vanilla Betty Crocker frosting container and savored a few spoonfuls.

We laughed. I told her she deserved to have the ugliest cake ever.

I Big

Henry: I big.
Morgan: No Henry, you are big when you are four.
Henry: Oh.

Boy Fascination . . . . Still

Henry: I not a big boy.
Daddy: Yes you are.
Henry: I not as big as you.
Daddy: I'm not a boy, I'm a man.
Henry: Where's your p_____?

Love at Home

It's cold. Dreadful or exhilarating, I haven't decided yet. Probably both.

In North Carolina, we use heat pumps to warm our homes. Though I just spent a few seconds skimming over a wikipedia article, I haven't bothered to really understand how they work. But Matthew tells me they're quite inefficient when the temperature drops.

After a $500 heating bill last month, we purchased a couple of electric blankets and a space heater and turned the temperature down to 60 degrees. The beauty of this is that I was cold before the electric blanket, even with the house temp at 70 degrees. But now I'm toasty warm all night. It's wonderful.

The electric blanket is popular in our house. I'm not sure a box of chocolate would attract the children as much. Unfortunately our queen size bed fits myself and about three children, tightly. Matthew is the one who "rolls over" and out of bed.

So there I was this morning with three children all cuddled up in the cozy electric blanket bed. And our conversation went like this:

Henry: "I big. I [am] like Morgan."
Morgan: "Do you want to be like Daddy? Do you want to have kids?"
Henry, wrapping his arms around Morgan: "Oh yes. When I big, you my best friend."
Jackie, musing: "Mom, can people marry brothers and sisters?"