Picking Up Where I Left Off...

Okay, I realize I probably shouldn't have left my blog on indefinite "pause" after my last post (the one regarding the bear in our yard).  I got a few emails from concerned readers wondering if the bear had carried me off to the depths of the forest.  Yikes.  Nothing that dramatic, thankfully! 

The past 7 months have been filled with life's little (and not so little) hiccups.  You know the ones.  Setbacks, worries, and other bumps in the road.   It became apparent that documenting our days in this space wasn't nearly as important as trying to navigate the last half year while still cultivating an overriding sense of peace for myself and my family.  And while the waters are not exactly smooth, I felt that if I waited for life to be all roses before picking up the blogging habit again, I would be waiting forever.  Because, really, that's life isn't it?  The good with the bad.  So, here I am!  It feels exciting to be back here, ready to resume putting life in picture/word form.

Putting life's challenges aside for the time being, there really were many positive moments to celebrate since I last checked in here.  One of which was my daughter turning 5 years old.  Five!  That seems like such a big leap into full-fledged childhood.  Leaving any trace of toddlerhood in the dust. 

The lucky birthday girl had an unintended 3 separate parties, and thus, 3 different birthday cakes.  That's what happens sometimes when you live in the mountains and your summer birthday party gets cancelled due to snow.  In late June, no less!!  This cake helped cushion the blow of the first cancelled party:

A Ladyfinger Lemon White Chocolate Mousse!  Oh yes.  The day after her birthday, she asked me, "Do we have any of that deer cake left?"  Deer cake??  After a few conversational volleys back and forth, I finally realized that she was thinking "moose" rather than "mousse."  And moose led to the word deer.  And there you have it.  Ladyfinger Lemon White Chocolate Deer Cake. 

I've been anxiously awaiting the day I could bestow a very special gift upon my daughter: a wooden barn made for me on my 5th birthday, by my grandpa. 

After he made it, he shipped it in pieces, all the way from New Jersey to my childhood home.  He carefully labeled each piece and included a detailed diagram, all so my parents could re-assemble it easily in time for my birthday surprise.  I love how the labeled pieces of masking tape are still attached to each piece (even each individual stall is numbered to its corresponding slot on the barn floor), these many years later.  With my grandpa's, albeit indirect, guiding hand, I put the barn together in less than 10 minutes.

I added all of my childhood play horses as well.  The look on her face was worth the years I waited to have a child to whom I could pass along this heirloom toy.

Speaking of heirlooms, I also gave her the rocking chair which belonged to my sister and me, oh so many years ago.  It's the kind with the music box attached to the rocker arm, which plays as you rock.  My sweet girl was thrilled, and happily rocked the day away:

It was a grand day all around.  A perfect reminder of the pleasure that is being a five year old little girl!

A New Bedtime Ritual is Born

So, my little girl has been sleeping in her own bedroom for 10 days now.  Ten very long, lonely days.  For me, anyway.  She is loving her new found independence and privacy.  I guess I underestimated her need to have a space of her very own, apart from her parents and her (often extremely loud and tantrum-prone) baby brother.  On an almost daily basis, she'll wrap her arms around me and say, "I am still just loving my own room so, so much!" 

I, on the other hand, have been sleeping with one eye and one ear open for the last 10 days.  The first night (okay, and maybe a few additional nights since then), I sat in the hallway outside her bedroom door and just listened to her breathing.  One would presume that I have a difficult time letting go.  One could not be more right.  That sweet little girl has been sleeping right next to me or within arm's reach for five years.  {Unless you count the many months I was pregnant with her, then it's almost six years} 

But because I thought she might have some anxiety about sleeping alone in her big girl room, I made up a little jar of Angel Cream.  I jotted down the idea many years ago, before I had children of my own.  I'm just guessing, but I vaguely recall getting the idea for it from the website A Magical Childhood.  A website, I must add, that has so many good ideas and links it will make your head spin.

The idea is to take some sweet-smelling lotion and add some glitter to it (the original instructions called for sparkly eye shadow, but since it's not 1984 and I don't own sparkly eye shadow in a bright color, I went with extra-fine glitter).  Then add a label with a little poem to recite every night at bedtime:

Night is here, and it's time for bed,

But before you lay down your sleepy head,

On the back of your hand, rub some Angel Cream,

So the angels will watch over you as you dream.

My daughter is thoroughly delighted with this new little ritual.  We haven't skipped a single night's application.  After we read stories and say our prayers, I take the jar from her nightstand drawer (must hide these kind of things from her rascal brother), and she dips her finger into it.  While I recite the poem, she applies the magical cream.  The whole thing takes less than a minute, but the impact has been huge.  It's just an extra measure to ensure secure, happy feelings going into the nighttime hours.  Not that she needs it, as I've said, she's made it clear she was ready for this kind of transition into big girlhood.  Hmmm...maybe I'm the one who should be applying some Angel Cream. ;)

 

This post is part of Steady Mom's 30-Minute Blog Challenge.  Go check out some of the other quick reads!

You At Two...

Happy 2nd Birthday to my sweet love!  My little boy is now fully entrenched in the toddler years. Although I'm quite certain we stepped foot into the challenging toddler years about a year ago!  So much has transpired in what is, really, such a short period of time in the grand scheme of life.  But, for our relationship as mama and son, it has been two years of growing, testing, understanding, learning, coping, and becoming more wrapped up in absolute love for one another.

Here are a few thoughts I have regarding you, living life at two, that I never want to forget:

*Your whole being is encased in a soft, sensitive, compassionate envelope.  I'm not sure if this is a trait that has been nurtured by spending so many hours in the company of your big sister (and best friend), or if this boundless kindheartedness is inborn.  Regardless, here are a few ways this admirable quality plays out in our everyday life:

             -When we are reading a book and the character is having

a rough day or is sad about  something, you ask me to stop reading mid-story so you can kiss and hug the character on the page.  It is a daily occurrence around our house to see you clasping an open book against your chest, eyes closed, and patting it gently.  Only after you have given it some love, can we continue with our story.

-When your sister does something less than kind to you (and, thankfully, this is rare and usually extremely mild, like giving you a light shove or taking a toy from you), and I reprimand her, she usually ends up crying.  {And it's not that I'm yelling or being harsh, she's just extremely sensitive to criticism or having her behavior corrected}  Anyway, even though you are the one who has been wronged in some way, you always stop crying and begin to comfort your sister because now she's the one crying.  I've actually witnessed blood dripping from your lip (after your dear sister pushed you flat onto your face), while you take the time to pat your sister's arm and stroke her face in order to cheer her (the instigator in the event) up.  You never hold a grudge.  You give love no matter what, even if the situation would dictate otherwise.

-If you hear (or even sense) that someone wants something, you go to any length to get it for them.  Often when coloring, your sister will say, "I wish I had a black crayon to color with."  You, holding the black crayon, immediately stop drawing and hand it over to her gladly.

The other day, I was standing in the living room, and I said under my breath, "Now what did I do with that measuring tape??"  You were sitting half a room away, playing with your cars and trucks.  I noticed you get up and walk past me.  You went downstairs.  I could hear you rummaging through the craft room/playroom, talking to yourself.  A couple of minutes later, you appeared at my side, holding the measuring tape in your chubby little hand.  My smile was the only reward you needed.  You LOVE being helpful.  And you have an incredible memory.  How you could remember that you had seen the measuring tape in that crowded, overstuffed craft room/playroom is a mystery to me.

- When we are out on the swing set, every time I give your swing a push, you immediately say, "Sistah, too!  Sistah! Push sistah!" (sistah means "sister").  Meaning, you want me to give your sister a push too.  You can't stand the thought of your sister being left out of anything, so concerned you are for her welfare and happiness!

-Three days ago, when I was couch-ridden with a terrible cold, you squeezed yourself onto the couch next to me and stayed there for the next three hours while I rested.  You only got up a couple of times to get a new toy to hold.  This speaks volumes, as normally you never. stop. moving. Ever. Never. 

-In the middle of the horse quilt that Grandma made for me, there is a quilt square with a puppy dog.  Since you have a soft spot for puppies, you lean over and kiss the puppy's face.  Every day.  Several times per day.  I have pictures of you laying on your tummy, your nose pressed up against the quilt on our bed.

*Speaking of hugging and kissing, when you give anyone a kiss, you use your nose.  Ever so gently, you lean in and touch the other person (of stuffed animal or book) with the tip of your nose.  It's precious.

*When one of your toys is asleep, you go around the house tapping your nose with your index finger, saying, "Shhh...shhh....Seep-een."  Seep-een meaning "sleeping" in this scenario.  Instead of bringing your index finger to your lips as most people do when they want someone to hush, you tap the end of your nose 5 or 6 times.  I'm not sure why.  You seem to like using your nose for what the average person relies on their lips.  You're quirky and cute.  It's one of the many reasons I love you.

*Your voice is so varied.  Sometimes it's high and chipmunk-y.  But usually it's deep and husky.  Almost raspy, like you have a cold, even though you don't.  Your Daddy and I mimic your voice a lot when we talk to each other because it makes us giggle. 

*You wave backward: with your palm facing your face, rather than your palm facing outward from your body.

*Saying sorry (pronounced "Saw-eee") comes very easily for you.  You say it over and over again whenever you make more work for me (as in spilling your milk or tipping over your bowl of food).  Let's hope you're still able to admit it so readily when you are a grown man! ;)

*You are sly and sneaky and clever.  Very often, we should be annoyed or frustrated by your relentless efforts to defy us, but I find myself frequently amused by your resourcefulness and persistence.  Especially when I see that sparkle in your blue eyes and that dimpled smirk spread across your face. 

*You love to get my attention when it's clear I am trying to concentrate on a given task.  When I am leaning over you, trimming your tiny nails, trying to concentrate on not clipping your skin in the process, you lean your head way down next to mine, and nose your face right in front of my line of vision. Instead of having a clear view of your fingernail, I see your goofy smile about 1/4" from my face.  It never fails to send me into gales of laughter.

*And speaking of laughter, we joke that you are our little comedian.  You love to get the laughs from your adoring audience.  I think this is more for our benefit than yours.  I genuinely think that you just love making the people you love happy.  At the tender age of two, you have already learned one of life's greatest secrets: tis better to give than receive. 

Sweet boy, you have given us so very much in such a short period of time.  Thank you!  We love you more than you know.

Cheap, Easy Thrills for the Under-Five Crowd:

I have been wanting to steal some time away in the craft room for weeks now.  But, truth be told, I really need to concentrate when I sew because I have a tendency to make a lot of mistakes if I am even slightly distracted by the general chaos of young children playing nearby.  So, I've been forced to wait until after the littles are in bed before I can attack any sewing projects.  But, then I'm entering my sleepy time too, and often don't have the energy or focus to sew.

The past few days, I've been able to make great strides in sewing curtains for my daughter's new bedroom.  AND, I've been able to accomplish it during the day.  While the children are wide awake. No one was more amazed than I.  How did I do it?  I came up with a few activities (no-mess, no-fuss activities -- as this is a crucial component to making this work) for them to occupy themselves while I sew.

Here are a few examples (just in case any moms out there are looking for easy entertainment for their little babes that doesn't involve plopping them in front of the TV):

By the way, the photo at the top of this post is my son "painting" the wood stove with water.  You could just as easily give your kids a cardboard box or (if the weather is nice and your little me-time project is something you can do outside while they play, like reading, embroidery, knitting, etc.) have them "paint" the outside of the house/garage/driveway/sidewalk with a bucket of water and some brushes and big sponges.

A popular one around our house: popping bubble-wrap by jumping/dancing:

My daughter loves moving my sewing pins from one pin cushion to the other.  Again.  And again. This activity alone usually buys me about 20 uninterrupted minutes (And, no, that band-aid isn't from her sticking herself with a pin.  :)  This is a pretty safe activity for those over age 2):

Playing with buttons is a great tactile experience.  It's even better if you provide tiny containers for them to put the buttons into, close them up, take them out:

My scrapbooking supplies have been sitting idle for ages.  Might as well find some use for them (these are chipboard pieces, so they stand up to a lot of handling and abuse):

Just finding a way for them to play with their regular toys in a new way is a successful tactic.  Here I tied some yarn to a wooden firetruck and a leash to a car.  Now, what used to be strictly push-toys that required them to kneel and scooch their vehicles along, are now pull-toys that can be quickly pulled to follow them around the house.  Believe it or not, this little idea kept them busy for over an hour.  So, either I have children who are easily entertained, or this was a brilliant idea on my part. ;)

And, finally, our last entry for today's "Easy, Cheap Thrills for the Under-Five Crowd":

Sticky notes on a window.  This photo shows them plain. To make this activity last longer, I usually encourage my kids to decorate each individual sticky (with pencil-- no markers or crayons when I'm not right there supervising.  This rule applies only to my son, my daughter is responsible enough to use paints/markers without being directly supervised) before sticking them up on the window:

So, by incorporating a few fun and easy ideas into our day, I was able to finish sewing my daughter's curtains and paint the hallway (and I even had time to take these photos and upload them!).  Good stuff.  I love sneaking a little more productivity into my days.

This post was completed in 29 minutes (even with all of these photos!) as part of Steady Mom's 30 minute Blog Challenge.

Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary...

A couple of weeks ago, determined to make a dent in the looming pile of (still!) unpacked boxes, I asked Roo to entertain herself while I went through the boxes and tried to find a new home for each unpacked item (all the while muttering to myself, "Why did I bother to pack THIS??").

Here's what she came up with (yeah, not at all sure why that picture loaded sideways):

She found a package of pipe cleaners in our art supply and the piece of Styrofoam came in the shipment of dishes that arrived last week.  She created a "flower garden."  Lovingly planting each one and watering them with her mini watering can, she declared it "a happy and very magical garden where the fairies come to play."  And, seeing how we currently have 8 inches of snow on the ground in mid-May, I can safely declare that her pipe cleaner garden is the only garden she'll be watering for awhile.

She admired that garden and planted and re-planted the flowers for a couple of hours.  During the midst of my unpacking, I heard Roo crying and using a harsh tone with her little brother.  Coming upon the scene, I asked what was wrong.  Through tears, and clutching a yellow pipe cleaner in her hand, Roo said, "That little boy planted a tulip in my garden of daisies!!  Doesn't he know that this is a magical daisy garden, not a magical tulip garden??" 

Trying my best to take her little brother's offense seriously, I suggested we scavenger another piece of Styrofoam for him to plant his own garden.  That way he could mix tulips and daisies up together to his heart's content. 

Here's Roo putting her flowers in the sunny window so that they can grow.  {And, yes, she is wearing a fleece pullover underneath her dress.  She insists on wearing a dress everyday, be it over her pajamas, her winter coat, or whatever she happens to be wearing that day.  We get some odd looks from passersby, but we don't mind. :) }

Don't You Think Daisies Are the Friendliest Flower?

I couldn't help but use a line from one of my favorite movies in my post's title today. And I also couldn't agree more: daisies DO look like the friendliest flowers, don't they? Well, they do when they are sprinkled all over a little girl's Easter dress and she's twirling and giggling and dancing with her brother:

They frequently dance together...she calls him her "little prince."

I love the way he's beaming at her in the above photo (and you can't tell, but she's beaming back at him just the same way!)

A bright sunny morning and two siblings that really are best friends...these are the things that warm a mama's soul.

When a moment seems like a lifetime...

We just had one of those moments that will shake a parent to their core. It all started out innocently enough: I was trying to wrangle the children for bed and get their pajamas on. In typical fashion, my son was dodging me like a bullet. Tired of chasing him, I just sat on the bedroom floor and waited for him to come around my way again.

My daughter, being the Little Mommy she is, helped me by taking away the cars he was carrying around and started to lead him back to me. He, of course, didn't like this at all and started to wail. In fact, he threw himself down on the floor and got ready for an all-out fit. And then, suddenly he went silent. Although his face was the picture of a screaming baby, no sound was coming out of his mouth. My husband, Mark, was right there next to him and I could hear him trying to calm him down.

I got up from where I was sitting and went into the hall. I saw my husband and my son coming toward me, when suddenly my son threw himself face-first onto the floor. His body was thrashing about violently. Still emitting no sound from his mouth. {Looking back, I realize that this thrashing was probably the result of panic on my son's behalf, although it looked as if he was seizing} I leaned down to pick him up and he went stiff as a board in my arms. I looked at his face and it was purple. His lips were blue. Really, truly blue. His eyes had a vacant look, and although he was looking at me, it was like he was looking through me. Then, I watched as his eyes rolled into the back of his head. He had stopped breathing.

I asked (well, screamed, is more like it) my husband if our son was having a seizure (we have a history of childhood epilepsy in our family), and my husband replied that he didn't know what was happening. I frantically thrust our son into my husband's arms and fled for the bedroom phone. I vaguely recall brushing past my daughter, tears in her eyes, as she stood watching nearby.

My hands were shaking and my heart was pounding. I picked up the phone and dropped it. I picked it up and dropped it again. When I had finally grasped it (it felt like I was moving in slow-motion) in my hand, I headed back into the hall. My heart sank. My son, drooping and hanging like a limp rag doll, was completely unconscious in my husband's arms. His lips were still blue and he was not breathing. My husband was calling his name. Again and again. "No. This isn't happening," was the only thought running through my mind. I honestly believed that my son was dying.

Panic had already set in, but now it was in full overdrive. "Are you sure he isn't choking on something??" I asked. Without waiting for an answer, I pleaded to Mark, "Do something!" Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him giving several hard blows to the back. I shakily dialed 911 while trying to gather the pertinent information in my head: my baby's age, what's happening, our address, my name. All the while, I was calculating how long since my son's last breath and how many minutes it would take for an ambulance to make its way to our house. My calculations gave me a feeling of despair and hopelessness. It would take too long for them to get here. It's already been too long since he last made a sound.

After I dialed, there was a long pause on the phone line. It wasn't ringing. I waited for what seemed like many minutes, but was probably only seconds. I glanced at my son and noticed him slowly lifting up his head. He gasped. His eyes were still closed but he was moving. I hung up the phone and swooped him up against my body. Hugging my baby, I turned and asked Mark a litany of questions, "Is he still blue? Can you see him breathing? Are his eyes open?" Mark assured me that the worst was over and everything was okay.

I started shaking uncontrollably and sobbing. And I didn't (and couldn't) stop for a long time. Holding him as tightly as I ever have, I buried my head into the crook of my son's tiny neck and stroked his hair. I hugged my tearful daughter and told her that we had quite a scare, but her baby brother was alright. My husband sat next to us on the hall floor and rubbed my knee, softly telling me that all is okay now.

As I laid in bed next to my little boy, waiting for him to fall asleep, I listened intently to his breathing. Was it regular? Was it too fast or too slow? Should I let him fall asleep or should we keep him awake for awhile? Honestly, he was wiped out. I think the whole incident physically and mentally exhausted him. While lying there, I thought a lot about feeling helpless and how awful that was. I have taken a few CPR classes in my time (I even reviewed my CPR handbook on a weekly basis when my daughter was an infant). Why, when it looked like I may need to use it, did my mind fail me? My child was blue and I panicked. I couldn't recall anything life-saving or, at the very least, helpful. I hated that feeling and I don't want to feel that way ever again.

With much mama-guilt, I replayed the moments of our day when I felt annoyed by my son's crying or his outright disobedience. I recalled complaining to my husband how difficult our son could be. Now here I was, overcome with tears, feeling nothing but grateful. And humbled. And I wondered to myself, how can I make gratitude and humility my constant companions without being forced to make their acquaintance through survival of a terrifying event? I don't want to be the kind of person who needs a wake-up call in order to appreciate the goodness surrounding me (even amongst the crying and whining and bickering). I'd like to think of myself as one who treasures life's everyday gifts (after all, I'm the one who annoys my husband by listing all of our blessings when he gets bogged down with negative thoughts and worries). I give thanks in prayer every single day. But, I think I could most definitely learn how to better differentiate between life's "big stuff" vs. life's "small stuff." Because, I have to say, I sweat it all. I make every little annoyance, frustration, and inconvenience a big deal. I do gratitude in a big way. But I also do grievances in a big way too. In fact, I give life's petty little downers too much weight in my life. I suppose that's a pretty human thing to do, isn't it? So, the question is, how does one go about being a little less human? ;)

He's a good sport...

Oh my.  It looks like I just may have to start supplementing our dress-up trunk with some more, um, "manly" props for my son.  He has suddenly shown an interest in costumes and such, as big sis spends a good portion of each day changing back and forth from a princess to a garden fairy.  So, to join in the fun, he really has no choice but to don a tiara or a jeweled necklace (complete with fairy shoes, as shown above).

Perhaps it's time I added some firefighter or pirate attire (I know my daughter would be thrilled with exciting options like those, as well).  Although, he certainly doesn't mind the plethora of pink and girly stuff now, he may voice an objection or two in the near future.  So, I best be ready with some options. 

Still, I can't help but think it's an adorable sight to see my little man dressed in his sister's ballet slippers.  I'm not so sure I want to rush him into being a fearsome pirate just yet.

The Golden Spatula

I've been scrambling my morning eggs with a soup ladle. Why, you ask? Because some cute little fella has claimed my spatula as his very own:




This spatula (he originally referred to it as "Bat-cha!" and then that morphed into the current, "Spata") goes wherever he goes. It accompanies him in the car, on nature walks, during nursing sessions, reading time on the couch, and, as you can see above, he even sleeps with it.

I dropped the children off at my Mom's last week while I went Easter shopping. I noticed the precious spatula sitting next to my son's empty car seat after I arrived at the first store. Oops. I prayed he was too distracted by the "new" toys at Grandma's house to notice his spatula was not by his side. When I went back to my Mom's to pick up the children, my Mom told me that Rascal had spent 10 minutes standing in the kitchen, frantically gesturing toward her counter top. After handing him spoons, salt/pepper shakers, potholders, and anything else she could suspect that he wanted, she finally picked him up and let him show her what he was pointing to. Of course, he reached way in the back of the tool crock and grabbed the lone spatula. She couldn't believe that he had even spied it from his vantage point. But, this boy has some sort of extra-sensory perception when it comes to spatulas.


I've drawn the line at taking his prized spatula out in public places because I do occasionally sneak it back from him in order to cook something where a ladle won't do. Like making pancakes, for instance. The first time I wouldn't let him take it into the grocery store with us, he screamed like I had made him leave a limb behind in the car. So, once in the store, I made a beeline for the cookware aisle and promptly gave him a shiny, new, red spatula to hold onto during the shopping trip. You would have thought I gave him the biggest, sweetest candy on earth. He couldn't stop grinning and showing every passerby his new spatula. Now the cookware section is the first one we hit upon arriving at the store. He and his sister get to pick out new kitchen gadgetry/cooking tools for playing with while we shop. Naturally, I don't actually buy him a new spatula every time we go out -- it's just for holding while we shop. It doesn't actually come home with us. Although, I really should buy a backup spatula, because I hate cooking eggs with a ladle.


This post was the result of Steady Mom's 30-minute Blog Challenge (and was completed, amazingly enough, in 27 minutes. I think that is most definitely a personal record!)

Her Signature Color?

Oh my. We have been sifting through paint chips trying to decide on a final color for my daughter's new bedroom. This is going to be her first "big girl" room (we co-slept until she turned 2, then we put a twin bed a few yards away from our bed and that's where she's been happily snoozing ever since), so it's quite a big deal.

Since I never got a chance to decorate a nursery (because of the co-sleeping arrangement), I am really having fun planning this special space for her. I want it to feel cozy and warm. I want it to be filled with peace and tranquility, so as to help give her that gentle nudge toward dreamland each night. I want her to be able to snuggle under her quilt, look around the room, and see reminders everywhere of happy memories, family history, and the little things that reflect her current interests.

She told me long before we moved that she wanted a pink bedroom. So I dutifully gathered a (rather large and overwhelming) sample of pink paint chips. She sifted through them like a pro, clearly preferring some over others. Although that may have had something to do with the fact that I would pick up a sample and say, "Oh, this one is called Tulip Petal pink! Tulips are Mama's favorite flower. Would you like Tulip Petal walls?" Or I'd say, "How about this one? It's called Baby Girl, just like you're my baby girl!" She, like her well-meaning mama, is easily swayed by the name of the paint sample (I confess to refusing to buy a certain paint color, as perfect as the color was for my intended room, based solely on the fact that I didn't like the name Benjamin Moore gave this particular color).

But, in the end, we narrowed it down to Blossom, Sweet Baby's Breath, Candy Hearts, and Fairy Tale Pink. The winner (which was actually the first pink she chose, but I encouraged her to look over all of her options before deciding) is: Fairy Tale Pink. It is indeed a delicate, sweet, perfect pink for this girl of mine. My husband refers to it as Pepto Pink (as in Pepto-bismol), but she and I are in agreement that it is by far the best choice. As we began painting, she said to us, "Didn't I choose the most perfect shade of pink for my new room? I think it's going to look splendid." I couldn't agree more.

Now, when the subject of her new room comes up, she tells people, "It's Fairy Tale Pink, you know." And it seems Fairy Tale Pink is the new buzz word around our house. If she sees pink icing on the doughnuts in the store, she tells me they're decorated Fairy Tale Pink. When I was browsing in the lipstick aisle, she asked, "Are you looking for one that is Fairy Tale Pink?"

Her latest request was for a Fairy Tale Pink fishing pole to use at the lake this summer. She said that she wanted to wear a pink bathing suit, pink sunglasses, pink ribbons in her hair, and pink sandals while fishing ("for only the little fish, because a big fish might pull me right into the water") with a Fairy Tale Pink fishing pole. I guess you could say that pink just might be her signature color.

Waiting to Welcome the Familiar

We are entering our third week of sickness around here. It's unusual for anyone in our family to be sick for three days, let alone three weeks. It's growing old. I'm growing quite weary of washing sheets and dealing with middle-of-the-night coughing fits that wake up everyone in the house. I've almost forgotten what it's like to just get up and go about a normal day.

Now that my daughter and I are ever-so-slowly on the mend, my son is battling the worst of it. Last week he had a temperature of 105 for 5 days. On the sixth day, his temp plummeted to 99.5 and he was suddenly covered in a rash all over his torso and thighs. While I was pleased that his fever broke, the rash was concerning. The next morning, the rash had spread to his face and neck. By then the rash had changed from a pin-prick dotty rash to an angry, red, splotchy disaster. It was, quite frankly, startling. The kind of rash that makes you shudder and force you to put on that brave, confident Mama-face. Can't add to my baby's discomfort by looking unsettled and worried myself.

A call to the on-call doctor (why do these illnesses always happen on the weekend??) confirmed what my internet research had led me to suspect: my baby boy had roseola. Fortunately, the rash comes on the tail-end of the illness. Unfortunately, I think the illness has really weakened his immune system. Because this morning, he seems to have the cold/flu/pink eye yuckiness that the rest of us have been fighting. Poor guy can't seem to catch a break.

I realized this morning as I was tucking him into bed, I really miss seeing my boy as his usual self. Of course there are the typical happy things that I long to see again. But I find myself wanting to catch glimpses of odd things that I never thought I'd miss. I would welcome, in a heartbeat, these things:

Other than a few spoonfuls of plain goat's milk yogurt, he hasn't taken a bite to eat in over a week. Usually he eagerly feeds himself and makes an enormous, sticky mess. I would gladly welcome having to clean up the table, the floor, the chair, and my boy's pleased face.

My son hasn't been upright for more than 10 minutes since this illness began. All he does is sleep or lie down for hours, with a distant and glazed look in his eyes. If I've been carrying him around the house and need to set him down for a minute, he silently collapses into a heap on the floor. Just like a rag doll. Yesterday he tried to walk across the room. He wobbled. First to the left, then to the right, and then he fell down. Since the day he was born, this child has never. stopped. moving. Normally he buzzes around the house like the Energizer bunny. If the Energizer bunny carried sticks and rocks and destroyed everything in his path, that is. I would welcome the chance to follow him around the house, cleaning up the piles of rubble left in his wake.

My little boy has been too weak to muster a cry. He whimpers and moans. If words could be put to his little noises, I think they would say, "Mama, help me please." And no matter what I try to do to make him more comfortable, it never seems like I'm doing enough of the right thing. Over the last 20 months, we've gotten accustomed to hearing him scream and cry and throw Oscar-worthy tantrums on a daily basis. He's never been shy about showing emotions, good or bad or otherwise. I would welcome a hearty, ear-splitting temper tantrum right now.

We've tried offering him some of his favorite toys to cheer him. But they fall out of his hands just seconds after we hand them to him. He's quite content to wrap his entire hand around my index finger, just like he did as a newborn. I've spent every day since we moved to this new house, disciplining my son for unplugging the lamps and Daddy's alarm clock from the wall sockets. Usually he sees me coming toward him to take the plug out of his hand and he takes off running. And laughing. And dragging the alarm clock by its cord. Across the wood floors. It completely exasperates me, and he knows it. I would welcome my mischievous monkey's antics today.

I haven't seen my little boy smile at me in 9 days. When he's healthy, I'm gifted with 9 smiles an hour. Often, they are smiles of mischief. But, most frequently, they are smiles paired with little boy hugs. Hugs so tight around my neck that they make me choke. Or hugs so tight around my legs that I can't walk without stumbling. I'm aching to welcome any kind of smile right now.

So, for now, I wish. And pray. And wait to welcome.

Doing versus Being

Just before midnight Monday night, my daughter woke up crying. She was clammy and very hot. She had a temperature of 105 degrees and complaining of stomach pains. Naturally, my mind jumped to thoughts of appendicitis. Since we just moved here, we had yet to find an urgent care center near us. There are veterinary clinics aplenty, but nary a clinic to be found for the human patient. Mama-panic set in and I found myself feeling as sick as my sweet girl. What were we to do? I gave her some homeopathics and tried to make her as comfortable as possible.

Here we are 3 days later, and while it turned out not to be appendicitis, my daughter is still feeling miserable. All she wants to do is be held by me and cuddle. It got me to thinking about how I tend to operate when one of my children is sick. It seems I throw myself head-long into "doing" for my child: administer medicine, encourage fluids, wash germy bed linens, scour the internet and my alternative health books for advice, make meals and soups (for which my daughter has no appetite for anyway). Do. Do. Do.

Yet what seems to be the best medicine for my daughter has nothing to do with what I do. No matter what the illness, my children seem to benefit most from my just "be"-ing. Be there to cuddle and read on the couch. Be there to nod sympathetically when my daughter cries that she just doesn't know what she needs or wants. Be silent and stop barraging her with questions like, "How do you feel? Where does it hurt? What do you feel like eating?" Be still. Be patient. Be gentle. Be. Be. Be.

It's so hard to see the ones we love suffering. I think we feel compelled to take action. The sooner we attack the problem, the sooner we'll see results. While there is certainly some truth to this (obviously, I'm not saying we should forgo administering medicine or avoid consulting a doctor if needed), I think the benefits of undivided attention and unlimited doses of hugs and kisses are underrated. I wrote about this very thing last year. I guess in my anxiety and panic, I forgot to apply my own advice and insight. So, I've spent the majority of the last few days holding my four-year-old baby in my arms. I'm ignoring the impulse to get up and "do" more. For now, we're going to revel in just "be"ing together.

Too Busy Making Merry, I Guess...

Wow. Did you hear that thud? That was the sound of me dropping the proverbial ball. I promised posts filled with Christmas craft ideas, recipes, and other holiday snippets. What I failed to consider was that my hopes and plans for the holidays almost always involve me biting off more than I can chew. I apologize for my absence from this space for the last few weeks. Geez, has it really been that long? I do sincerely hope that your holiday moments were joyful ones and that you are eagerly anticipating an exciting and fulfilling 2010!

Our holidays were lovely. As a Christmas enthusiast, I always feel somewhat sad after Christmas has passed. I find myself grasping to catch the last few holiday memories before they slip through my fingers. Lingering, I attempt to bask in the Christmas afterglow: slowly packing away the tree ornaments, admiring the new ones from this year and remembering what fun we had making them; folding freshly washed Christmas dish towels, thinking about putting them to use again next year for holiday baking; and taking down the Advent stockings, being thankful that my children were too young this year to care if I forgot to fill them each and every day of Advent.

As always, I have my predictions as to what gifts will garner the most oohs, aahs, and smiles from my beloved recipients. And, as always, the children generally prove me wrong. Except on a few particular gifts. So, I thought I'd share a few of the "hits" (and let's not discuss the "misses" for now, as I am still holding out hope that they will come around and become big fans of the other gifts I painstakingly chose).

I had grandiose plans of raiding my mom's closet for some dress-up clothes and getting my hands on a vintage suitcase that I was going to decorate to personalize it for my daughter. In the end, I ran out of time and purchased various dress-up outfits instead. Many of these purchases were done online, so I was surprised to see the items in person, as they were very...pink. Not soft, baby-pink, but sort of a loud, in-your-face pink. Regardless, I knew Roo would love them and she did Although, she is still afraid to wear the Elton John-like glasses and the clip-on earrings. I'm not sure why, but at least her little brother is finding them fun. :)

These heels were a bit high for my liking (again, hard to know the specs on things like this when buying online), but she insisted on wearing them even though they elicited tears every time she turned her ankle while walking in them.

And below, we have the flapper dress stylishly paired with owl pajamas and a super-pink boa (or furry jump rope, in this case).

My other hit was this Sprig dump truck for Rascal. He enjoyed gathering bits of wrapping paper and bows for "trash" and tooling around the living room. I think he has perfected his dump truck sound effects at this point. Is that a boy thing? My daughter rarely makes "car sounds" when she plays with cars and trucks. Instead, she makes the cars chatter and sing songs. Granted, my son has very few words at this point (he's 18 months), but even when my daughter was his age, she was never into "doing" sound effects. Perhaps it's yet another example of what everyone told me when Rascal was born: "Boys are different from girls. You just wait and see." And they weren't kidding. My son and daughter have already shown this Mama a myriad of differences: some delightful and cute, and some frustrating and challenging. But, I digress.

I took this picture tonight of the flannel board I made. Roo was playing with it before dinner. On it right now you can see the felt pieces to go along with the Eric Carle story, "A House for Hermit Crab." You'll also see some random bunnies and cats on the right side there, because no ocean is complete without its fair share of domestic pets.

I also began work on felt pieces to use with some other stories: Cat in the Hat, Very Hungry Caterpillar, If You Give a Mouse a Cookie, and a few others. Reading the story while the children put the pieces on the board makes reading more interactive, which is nice for really little ones like mine (increases their comprehension and memory of the story line, plus it's just fun to make things stick without having to use tape or glue!) Added into the book props are some basic shapes like rectangles, squares, and circles so they can create buildings, cities, and cars. Some trees, grass, mud puddles, clouds, raindrops, and other felt objects make it possible for them to make up their own stories. It was a fun project to work on those last couple of weeks before Christmas. Cutting out the characters free-hand was time-consuming (I wasted a lot of felt and didn't finish up half the pieces I had in mind when I started), but I think it will be a nice (quiet!) activity for them to play with during the coming winter days.

Every year I intend to keep the holidays simple. Especially where gifts are concerned. But, every year I talk myself out of it because I love choosing gifts and imagining how the gift will delight someone and how it will be put to good use. Plus, that Amazon cart is just so easy to fill -- even at 2 am! Gifts for the children are my weak point. My husband and I keep it simple when it comes to presents for each other and adults in general (parents, in-laws, friends, etc.). But, as children, my husband and I both recall coming down Christmas morning to a tree completed swallowed up by mounds of sparkling wrapped presents. We rationalize that Christmas only comes once a year and so it's okay to go overboard. We generally avoid excessive material consumption the rest of the year and we make sure the children observe and take part in giving to charity year-round. So, I suppose we feel justified in piling on the goods at Christmastime. Well, I think what I observed this Christmas is going to push me headlong into gift restrictions next Christmas. This is what I saw:

My normally cheery 4 year old daughter was mopey and teary and quite obviously overstimulated by the gift opening. After she opened the first gift of Christmas morning she wanted to play with it immediately. But, since we were on a bit of a time crunch (we had plans to drive to my parents' house later that morning, we still had to eat the special Christmas Day breakfast, and we had more presents to follow), we told her to put the gift aside and continue opening gifts. Reluctantly, she did so. I noticed that she was becoming progressively less excited with the opening of each subsequent gift. The thrill had worn off.

Later on, she was opening a gift that my family had purchased as a group (as it was a tad pricey, but it was something my daughter had been asking for repeatedly). But, instead of being happy to see the long-awaited present, she was apparently in gift-opening mode, because no sooner had the paper been ripped off the box when she asked, "What else can I open?" *Gulp* Talk about embarrassing. I reminded myself that 4 year old children are allowed (and maybe even expected) to forget their manners once in awhile. But, the message had finally hit home (heck, I think the message was hit clear out of the ballpark): it was all Too Much. Too much rushing, too much unwrapping, too much hub-bub.

We've always been vigilant about talking about the true meaning of Christmas with our daughter. We've given lip service to the idea that it is not about the presents. But, our words and our actions don't always match up. We think that by buying presents, we're doing it "for them," when we're really doing it for us. To make ourselves feel like we are providing enough: enough fun, enough excitement, enough education, enough experiences. Enough love? Maybe on some subconscious level I believe tokens of affection are exactly that: proof of how much someone loves someone else. Hmmm...Well, now I say enough with the gifts.

I will admit that, as an adult, I love shopping. I get swept away by the whole consumerism thing way too easily. Buyer's remorse is a feeling I am familiar with, unfortunately. I don't want to pass that love of "things" on to my children. And I'm certainly not blaming my parents for planting some shopaholic syndrome seed in me, due to excessive Christmas presents during my formative years or anything like that. But, I know there is something to be said (and possibly a great many somethings to be said) for scaling back the "stuff," and focusing more on the sacredness of the holiday. I had a friend long ago tell me that she and her husband give their children three gifts on Christmas. She said that if it was good enough for Jesus, it was good enough for her own kids. That's an interesting perspective, I think. And it's something I will continue to think about over the coming year. Replacing some of the store-bought tangibles with the real gifts of the holiday: peace, togetherness, time, gratitude, love. Oh yes, a whole lotta love. That's certainly one gift that's impossible to give in excess!

Things that go beep in the night...

God is smiling right now. I know that He has a sense of humor because of what happened last night. I had the choice to either laugh or cry, so I chose to see the humor in it. Here it goes (Oh! And it's important to set the stage with this little tidbit: we have a vaulted ceiling in our bedroom. It's easily 15-17 feet high. I know you don't yet know why this fact is important, but you will soon):

My youngest child finds The Sandman to be his biggest foe. When the gentle Sandman cometh each and every night for every other child in the world, my son sees it has his chance to rebel and show off his freakish resilience to sleep. He fights it like it's the plague.

It is not at all uncommon for my son to sleep from 7 pm until 8 pm. One hour. One glorious, fleeting hour. Then, from 8 pm until midnight or 2 am, my husband and I take turns trying to coax our son back to sleep. (Oh how I wish I was exaggerating or embellishing here, but I'm not. Sadly, I am not). He often proceeds to wake again at 3 am, 4 am, and then he is usually up for the day around 5 am. There is lots of tossing and turning, flip-flopping around on the bed, screaming, crying, kicking, hair-pulling, and pushing. And let's not even discuss the antics on my son's behalf. {Just kidding. We don't kick or pull his hair. All the aggression is coming from him toward us during these nightly bouts. The poor little guy just hates to go to sleep. We practice peaceful parenting as much as humanly possible, but we do struggle to remain calm and patient come the 4 or 5 hour mark}.

Last night I had to do the whole bedtime routine solo. My husband had some important documents to print up, scan, and fax. So, he drove back to work to do those things. That left me to get both kiddos off to sleep. It's not a huge deal, but if Rascal puts up a fight, I'm on my own to deal with it.

Poor Roo, she waited patiently in her bed while I tried to get her brother to sleep. I told her I'd rub her back and belly once her brother was asleep. She fell asleep while waiting for me. :(

After one and a half hours of me nursing, singing, and patting Rascal in our bed, his eyes began to flutter closed. I waited another few minutes before I dared move my arm away from him, as he was curled up against it. I was almost ready to start celebrating my swift and successful sleep induction. Almost.

Then, approximately 11 seconds after he had officially nodded off (but while he was still in that easy-to-wake stage of early sleep), guess what happened? Go on, guess. I'm telling you that you will never guess because even I can't believe what happened and I was right there to witness it.

Wait for it...

The smoke detector began to chirp. You know that high-pitched chirp the detectors make every 30 seconds or so to warn you that the battery is low? It's an unbelievably loud and disturbing chirp when you are in a dark and quiet room listening to it. And I thought to myself, "Have we ever changed the battery in that thing?? Many a night I've laid awake in this bed for the last several years, looking up at that smoke detector. I've seen it's light blinking in the dark and often wondered just how long one battery could possibly last."

Well, it failed to last about 8 hours longer than I needed it to.

WHY couldn't it have waited until morning? Why couldn't it have started the warning chirps during the daytime, when the children were not using the room for nocturnal sleep? Why did it have to start now -- while my husband is gone and unable to fix it for me (vaulted ceiling, remember? Otherwise I would have fixed it myself).

Just for the record, to demonstrate how ridiculously uncanny the whole situation was, my husband has NEVER gone back to work late at night. He does not hold the kind of job that requires him to do any additional work once he gets home for the day. I remember once when he left his wallet at work, he didn't even drive back to work to get it. He just called and asked the guy that sits nearby to put the wallet in his desk until my husband could get it the next morning. My beloved never leaves me stranded at home in order to run back to work. Until last night.

So, having it MY way, I would have preferred for the chirping to start sometime over the long holiday weekend. When my husband was home for 4. straight. days. Looking for something to do. That would have been a good time to go out to the shed and get our rickety old ladder, maneuver it up our long, narrow staircase, move our queen-size bed out of the way, climb to the tippity top, perch himself precariously on the uppermost step, stretch his long arms up and still barely reach the smoke detector. But, instead, he had to do all of those things late at night. In the dark. After a super-exhausting day of work.

Oh, yes. I think God got a good little chuckle watching that scene play out in our bedroom last night.

And as for Rascal, he fell right back to sleep just as the sun was rising and his sister was waking and it was time for this tired Mama to get up and start her day. Does it count as "starting" a day when you never went to bed the night before?

Snow Day

With another snowy day comes another opportunity to get in the kitchen and bake. Fall and winter are really the only times I feel a pull toward baking. While I do enjoy cooking for the most part, I don't really get into the baking swing until the weather demands it. Cookies, cobblers/crisps, muffins, apple cider doughnuts --- these don't generally make an appearance until days like today.

So, I thought it was the perfect time to make the sugar cookie recipe that appears at the end of this book we've been reading quite frequently:

It's such a cute story: all about a girl and her animal friends speculating what the moon is made of: cat thinks it's milk, butterfly thinks it's sugar, mouse thinks it is made of billowy clouds of flour. And if you add all the ideas together in a bowl (which they do at the end of the story), the end result is a warm sugar cookie.

So, while I added each ingredient, we thought back on the story and I asked Roo, "Now who thought the moon was made of a pat of butter?" etc. as I went along. She remembered every single one (not that I would have known the difference, unless I really gave it some thought -- my memory seems to be disappearing faster than these sugar cookies have today!). I love it when a story can be tied into an activity like this one. It's a great chance for my girl to flex her skills of comprehension and recollection. Plus, it's just fun to turn a story into a real life experience. Especially an edible experience!

Here are the "moon" sugar cookies which we turned into Halloween cookies. The shapes are somewhat ambiguous, so I'll tell you what we have: a cat, pumpkin, ghost, and bat.
The icing turned out a subtle orange, which I prefer as opposed to that garish neon-orange frosting you see on some store-bought goodies this time of year.
Sadly, it's after baking cookies like these, that I realize we don't have cookie decorations on hand. Thus explaining the Christmas tree and red/white sprinkles on the center cookie. The others have a dusting of unsweetened cocoa powder which gives them a nice flavor since the cookie itself and the powdered sugar icing are sooo sweet. My daughter didn't even question the use of Christmas cookie sprinkles, she was just happy to decorate them (and eat one, of course!).

To balance out the sugar, I served a carrot and apple salad for lunch alongside some cashews and almonds. Then I made this yummy pasta salad for a light dinner:

It's very heavy on the veggies (here I used cucumber, carrot, tomato, green bell pepper, and roasted red bell peppers from a jar), which is one of the only ways we can get the amount we should in a day. I like to think of the pasta noodles as more of a "condiment," rather than the main ingredient in a salad like this.

As I usually do, I had some way overcooked, grilled chicken. I had sprinkled some chicken breasts with Montreal steak seasoning and left them to cook in a skillet. Then I went off to play with the kids, fold laundry, sort through some winter gear, etc. In other words, I totally forgot about the chicken and it was dry, dry, dry. Which, I have to say, normally I prefer dry chicken because then I know it's fully cooked. My family jokes because I am the only person they know who complains when chicken or turkey is too moist!

So, I've found that the perfect use for overcooked chicken is a pasta salad. The Italian dressing manages to seep into even the driest cuts of meat and make it moist again. Of course it's best when you have a few hours to let it chill and the flavors meld together. Not exactly a warming or comforting dinner for such a cold day, but I think the cookies fill that void nicely.

Could I BE wearing any more clothes??

Just a side note: Does anyone out there recall the "Friends" episode when Joey puts on all of Chandler's clothes at one time?? This totally reminded me of that one. Classic.

They say that laughter is the best medicine, and I must say that stumbling upon Roo playing dress up with the clothes in the laundry basket made me forget every ill moment from the last few weeks (heck, maybe even the last few years). I laughed until I cried.

Apparently, digging through the clothes basket (at least they were clean) for outfit assembly has become a popular activity for her lately. Too much time to kill while Mama napped, me thinks.

I love that she's getting to that oh-so-fun dress-up age. I was the Queen of dress-up when I was young. I recall asking permission from my Mom to play in her closet every day for a huge segment of my growing-up years. The shoes, scarves, gauzy blouses, hats, gloves, jewelry -- oh, it was pure heaven to me as I created and paraded around in my mini masterpieces! And when my Mom indulged me in taking a few photos of the ensembles of which I was most proud? Well, it made me feel so important that my Mom would "waste" actual film (as it was in those days) to capture my creations.

So when I saw Roo all dolled up in underwear, tube socks (as leg warmers and elegant elbow-length gloves), pants as hats, and long-sleeve shirts turned into tights, I just had to snap a few. And then a few more.

Oh my. I think I may have created a monster: I didn't even ask her for a pose! Looks like a dress up box filled with treasures is on the agenda for Christmas this year.