Any Guesses?

My mother taught me when I was young to look closely. Really closely. I remember getting down on my hands and knees on a sidewalk to watch ants busy at work in a crack. I don't always trust my memory, but I think I remember her kneeling with me.

Now I'm looking closely with my own children. Above is this week's closeup.

Any guesses what it is?

They look like beautiful flowers to me.

The correct word for the picture above is frass.

And frass is a fancy word for . . .

Yes, you guessed it. Poop. Caterpillar Poop.

Meet the Tomato Hornworm, our newest pet.

The kids are smitten. Anika has already created a habitat for our friend. Hornworms need 3 inches of dirt. After eating for 3-4 months, they bury themselves in the dirt to begin metamorphosis. Some day our pet will transform into a huge moth.

If he survives through our children's curiosity. . . that is . . .

The Forgotten Eldest

I've had a lot of comments this week: What about Anika? Where are her pictures?

Most of the pictures below are from this week, and she's been at girl's camp. But I pulled out a picture from a couple of weeks ago to edit and share with you.

Over the River and Through the Woods

I saw Henry this morning pulling his little red suitcase toward the door. I guess my mind was on other things--I thought nothing of it. He was just playing.

A little while later, Jackie frantically ran into my room: "Mom, Henry got in the car and turned it on!"

Oooh . . . scary. . .

I jumped up, ran down the stairs, through the kitchen, past my purse, the contents of which were strewn around it, and out the door to the car, which was indeed running. Henry was climbing out of the front seat.

"Henry!!!! What are you doing?" I asked.

Henry calmly answered: "Going to Grandma's house." (What do you THINK I am doing?)

Done by da Momma

This is not a funny post. Please forgive me for straying from the objective of my blog, which is to make ya'all feel good about your parenting. But here are some fun pics of my kids.

I am not starting a business, but I heard that you should put your name on pictures on the web. So . . . for now, I am the proud owner of Done by da Momma Photography. Any ideas for a better photographer name?

These pictures are all from the last week or two.

Chemical Reaction

Jackie: "Mom, I made a chemical reaction."

Mom: "Oh . . . hmmm. . . . what's in your chemical reaction?"

Jackie: "Toothpaste and fish bowl stuff."

later . . . .

Mom: "Jackie, can we get rid of your chemical reaction now before it spills?"

Jackie: "But Mom, that's my precious chemical reaction."

It Doesn't Really Matter

We've passed the toddler rough and tumble, throw everything stage.

Maybe.

I hear it might come back in a few years.

But here are the results:

Not bad . . . worth keeping.

Admittedly a little off . . .

Hmmm. . .

Impressive . . .

Lest you thought it was all the fault of a little boy . . . OOPS:

For the record, Morgan did feel bad about this lamp.

She only gave a thumbs up when I told her I was taking a picture for my blog.

I have replaced a couple of the lamps with the glass up light below. The glass is extremely thick, but we haven't tested it much.

I don't care about the lamps.

I still tell my little ones

they're not allowed to grow up.

Bugs

I walked into the bonus room yesterday to find a couple of my kids slapping the floor with their Crocs.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

Jackie answered, "Anika brought us a flea she found on herself, and we're trying to kill it."

My kids like bugs, so it's no surprise that Anika would find a fun little insect and gift it to her younger siblings.

I have experience killing fleas. I remember pulling them off my dog and squeezing off the head with my fingernail. Supermom to the rescue . . .

Nice flea.

It was a tick.

Snips and Snails

Yesterday we attended the elementary school end of year picnic. With rain threatening, we ate inside then went outside to play. When we came back inside, our kids were covered in dirt and sand. Henry stopped at the bathroom to wash his hands. Clearly other kids had also stopped--the floor had a layer of red dirt and sand, and the sink was filled with ice that people had dumped from their cups on their way out.

Distracted by another mother, I was vaguely aware that Henry was washing his hands then playing with the ice, flipping it to and fro in the large, shallow sink. Gross, I thought, but kept chatting, figuring that I could wash his hands when he was done playing with the yucky ice. But then Henry took a couple of ice cubes and threw them on the floor. I turned momentarily and commanded, "Henry, pick up that ice." I turned back, but out of the corner of my eye, I saw Henry take a look at that ice, drop down, and with one fell sweep, scoop that ice off the muddy, sandy floor and into his mouth.

He turned around and happily sauntered out, his cheek bulging with the ice cube.

Ten years ago, I would have squealed, shot over, and pulled out that disgusting ice. But at some point, you realize there's nothing you can do--the dirtiest outer layer of that ice cube had surely already melted in his mouth. So I turned and shared a resigned giggle with the other mother as we left the school.

Morgan's Motto

Morgan sidled up to me this morning and asked in her sugary, I-want-something voice, "Mom, I wish that I could have a big birthday party for my next birthday."

Knowing her birthday is six months away in December, I turned, bewildered and curious what she was concocting. "Morgan, what kind of party are you thinking of? We could have a party now and not make it a birthday party."

"I want it to be a hot dog party to go along with my motto," Morgan answered.

Hmmm. I gave it half a thought and moved on.

But later I found this sign on her door:


"I heart hot dogs cause I'm a flying chicken."

I wasn't aware that flying chickens ate hot dogs. Good thing we buy all beef hot dogs.

Shoe Mystery Solved

Our ward choir practice is held in the basement of a member's home. In order to preserve her light-colored carpet, she requests that we remove our shoes at the door, which creates a large pile.

As I left choir practice today, I was shocked to find that someone had accidentally taken one of my shoes and left her mismatching shoe. With a couple of other choir member witnesses, I laughed and then created a list of possible perpetrators from the members who had already left. We easily exonerated Danuta with her tiny feet and Alana with her oversized Crocs. Barbara was out of town, so that left only our choir director, Koko, as a taller person who might possibly have size 10 feet like mine. She became my principal suspect.

But Koko has been cleared and the true perpetrator found. . . .









Me.

Do you think anyone in church today noticed that my shoes didn't match?

(The shoe on the left is my old favorite retired to dark regions of my closet. I seem to have forgotten what it looks like but some how managed to grab it this morning. The shoe on the right is my new favorite black shoe.)

All About Words

We walked around the block today and purchased some cups of lemonade from a little girl down the street.

I just heard the following from outside the door:

Dad: "Henry, come throw your cup away."

(Klonk, klonk--the sound of the cup hitting the concrete.)

Dad: "I mean, Henry, come throw your cup away in the garbage."

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?"

The Adventures of Henry

They never stop--the adventures. In a way, I hope they don't, anyway.

Have you ever tried shaking a can of cocoa powder, with the top off. It's pretty exciting. Henry can tell you all about it.

As Henry gets older, he gets more and more helpful. He likes to cook and vacuum especially. Last week he decided to wash the kitchen window behind the sink . . . with the sink sprayer. Our counter in the corner to the right of the sink slopes just enough that it will hold about 3/4 inch of water. By the time Anika noticed and came to get me, we already had a little swimming pool going. We could have given Morgan's fish, Swimmy Huckleberry Fin Stuart Petty Willis, a great time. Or he could have swum in the water that had pooled in the oven. Or in the water that had pooled in the cupboard. Or on the floor. Too bad I didn't think of it at the time.

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."

I Girl, I Boy

In case you remember an early post about our toddler gender confusion. The saga continues and ends here and now. I have abbreviated a word, mostly so that it doesn't mess up everyone's filtering. Hopefully this story doesn't offend anyone, but I think it's kind of cute.

I have continued to try to explain to Henry that he was a boy, but with three sisters, this concept has been a difficult one.

One morning, I am dressing to Henry, and once again explaining that he was a boy because he had a p----.

"Mom," he insists, "Jackie has a p----."

"No she doesn't," I reply.

Henry stands up and starts toward Jackie, who is listening to the conversation. "Jackie, do you have a p----?"

Jackie immediately and unabashedly pulls down her pants and shows him. It's like a light turns on--Henry's face brightens up, the darkness of confusion dissipates. "Oh, I boy." And that's that.

Late to Church . . . Two Weeks!

Generally, I'm on time.

But not always.

Last Sunday:

After finishing my preparations for sharing time, I methodically bathed and dressed the two younger children while the older children responsibly prepared themselves. That, with additional minutes here and there reminding children to make beds and put dirty clothes in the hamper instead of on the floor, left me with about 20 minutes to shower and dress myself. It was a race. I won the race, or so I thought.

Triumphant, I grabbed my coat, checked once more to make sure the iron was off, flicked off a few lights, and rushed downstairs to find that the three older kids had obediently already gone to the car. But there was Henry. Hiding under the table. With a spoonful of chocolate ice cream, probably his second, since a first seemed to be all over his face, light blue tie, and crisply pressed white shirt.

Henry was serious about that spoonful of ice cream. But I guess I was serious about leaving. A wash rag and a few screams (from Henry, that is,) and we were out the door . . . late.

This Sunday:

I decided to make a roller box for sharing time this week.

We rolled pictures that the children drew last week in primary--pictures of how they know Heavenly Father and Jesus love them. (This, by the way, was a hugely popular activity.)

I finished cutting creating the roller box Saturday night. It took a lot longer than I expected because I did it while we watched a movie. So Sunday morning I taped around 70 pictures together so they were ready to roll. After this took me at least 30 minutes longer than I expected, I was left with only 20 minutes to shower and dress.

When I rushed down, again triumphantly on time, the girls had again gone to the car. But there was Henry, completely naked, on the kitchen table wiping it with a paper towel. Yikes. I had forgotten to dress him after his bath. (And no, our children are generally not allowed on the table.) The worst of it, though, is that he had forgotten that I hadn't dressed him and had accidentally urinated on the kitchen table. "Sorry mom," he sweetly said.

So I was late because I then disinfected the table and dressed Henry. Funny--I could care less about a little urine on the table or being 10 minutes late to church when I think about that angelic apologetic face.