tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79265166497566529972024-03-05T01:41:26.142-05:00Window to Whimsykristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00298604769173994651noreply@blogger.comBlogger507125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7926516649756652997.post-83415253530915492232018-05-14T23:47:00.000-04:002018-05-14T23:55:57.978-04:00Mother's Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF2b3c7iG9DkKnRuchAkL-8g9WPdmrhp03H25J2UfURFZMa2wyQpcH8qBspYSt01JzP0EkwkqcAkw2LJ2XDe51xCNtR7K7ybO_VLYH_jWUkCo8R1-Ct19k7sGCl06-cmaFvxfLUhVt61k/s1600/mom+and+baby+k.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1586" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF2b3c7iG9DkKnRuchAkL-8g9WPdmrhp03H25J2UfURFZMa2wyQpcH8qBspYSt01JzP0EkwkqcAkw2LJ2XDe51xCNtR7K7ybO_VLYH_jWUkCo8R1-Ct19k7sGCl06-cmaFvxfLUhVt61k/s320/mom+and+baby+k.jpeg" width="317" /></a></div>
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The first time I read <i>The Runaway Bunny</i> as an adult, I chuckled as I thought that Margaret Wise Brown must have known my mother. In the story, a bunny wants to run away, but his mother makes it impossible saying that no matter where he goes, she will follow him because he is her little bunny. The bunny thinks of every creative means of escape possible (becoming a trout, a rock, a crocus, etc.) only to find his mother's ingenuity thwarts his plans (she threatens to become a fisherman, a rock climber, a gardener, etc.). The bunny, outsmarted and exhausted, concedes and decides to remain his mother's little bunny. She rewards him with a carrot snack. </div>
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Forget <i>What to Expect When You're Expecting</i>, I'm pretty sure that <i>The Runaway Bunny</i> was my mother's parenting manual. She was going to be there, no matter where I went, no matter what, even if I turned into something much less lovely than a crocus. And she was bringing snacks - lighter on the carrots, heavier on her infamous cowboy cookies. </div>
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Granted, I wasn't as eager as the bunny to run away from my mom. She let me sculpt creations from mud piles and stomp in the nearby creek while she lined the kitchen floor with newspaper so I could be welcomed back inside at the end of the day covered in a second skin of dirt. She also stocked the freezer with popsicles and ice cream. But even the most satisfied of bunnies can be lured by a golden carrot - or in my case, unattained adventure.</div>
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I dreamt of walking myself to school. My elementary was a mere couple of miles from our house, but my parents insisted my sisters and I ride the bus. One afternoon, I dawdled enough to "miss" the bus ride home. Exhilarated, I began the walk. I made it a quarter of a mile before the county extension director who ran the local 4-H program pulled up beside me and rolled down his window. "Get in the car, young lady," he said, "your parents wouldn't want you walking home by yourself."</div>
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He drove me the rest of the way home, and like that little bunny, I decided it was too much trouble to go against my mother's wishes to try to walk home from school again. My mother hadn't even had to turn herself into a rock climber or a gardener or the wind. She had created a much more powerful tool: a village. </div>
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When I think of my mother and the childhood she built for me, I don't just think of my mother. I think of those she befriended who became my village. </div>
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My mother is a superwoman of a mom, a lady who does many things well. Most likely, she could have gotten by without a village. But she gave me one of the greatest gifts she could when she cultivated those relationships and showed me the uplifting power of community. </div>
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I remember being a wisp of a child, standing in the ocean holding onto the arms of my neighbor whose daughter was like a fourth child in our home. The sand shifted beneath my feet and the waves buoyed me up and down. Had she let go, I knew I would be swept away. But I felt safe tethered to this other mother. She was part of my village. She would keep me anchored to the ground, just as all those in my mother's village did. </div>
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My mother could have tried to do it all, but it was such a gift that she didn't so I could learn to go out and become part of something bigger. Yet, thanks to her groundwork, no matter where I went, there she was: in the elderly single neighbor who taught me to make homemade noodles and how to use snapdragons as puppets, in the 4-H leader who taught me to sew, and in the advice written in a blank book by her best friends when it came time for me to become a mother. No matter where I traveled she could follow (as a homemaker, a gardener, a seamstress, a counselor), because she had built a strong, wide village. </div>
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On Mother's Day I find myself thinking of all women: those blessed to spend the day with their mothers and babies, those mourning their mothers and babies, those dreaming of a relationship with their mothers and babies different from the relationships that they've so far known, those who were told they weren't good enough to raise their babies and who falsely believed, those who long for children they fear they will never have, those who chose not to have children and want others to see they are enough just as they are, those who are raising babies they never thought they would be because tragedy struck, those who are raising babies alone and feel overwhelmed with love and fear over the enormous job before them, and those who are raising babies with someone but still feel alone on the job and unseen. I think of all of you on Mother's Day. I wish you a village. A village like the one my mother built for me with open doors and open hearts where the cowboy cookies and hugs are passed out freely - where everyone feels seen and heard and anchored to the ground, even when standing in shifting sand. </div>
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Let's be the village, ladies. Happy Mother's Day. <br />
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P.s. Mom, thanks for following me around everywhere I went. I mean, thanks for the village. I love you. And your cowboy cookies. And that you never kicked me out of the house for being too dirty. Can I walk home from school by myself now?</div>
<br />kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00298604769173994651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7926516649756652997.post-56721734274292055572015-08-22T21:10:00.001-04:002015-08-22T21:10:06.326-04:00Rainbows<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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We started back to school this week. Our house is a flutter with fresh notebooks, pencil shavings, and Handwriting Without Tears'<span style="background-color: white; font-family: AppleSDGothicNeo-Regular, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif, 'Segoe UI Emoji', 'Segoe UI Symbol', NotoColorEmoji, EmojiSymbols, Symbola, Noto, 'Android Emoji', AndroidEmoji, 'Arial Unicode MS', 'Zapf Dingbats', AppleColorEmoji, 'Apple Color Emoji'; font-size: 13px; font-weight: 700; line-height: 20px;">®</span> Mat Men<span style="background-color: white; font-family: AppleSDGothicNeo-Regular, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif, 'Segoe UI Emoji', 'Segoe UI Symbol', NotoColorEmoji, EmojiSymbols, Symbola, Noto, 'Android Emoji', AndroidEmoji, 'Arial Unicode MS', 'Zapf Dingbats', AppleColorEmoji, 'Apple Color Emoji'; font-size: 13px; font-weight: 700; line-height: 20px;">™</span>. Tuesday, the big boys created their own Mat Men<span style="background-color: white; font-family: AppleSDGothicNeo-Regular, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif, 'Segoe UI Emoji', 'Segoe UI Symbol', NotoColorEmoji, EmojiSymbols, Symbola, Noto, 'Android Emoji', AndroidEmoji, 'Arial Unicode MS', 'Zapf Dingbats', AppleColorEmoji, 'Apple Color Emoji'; font-size: 13px; font-weight: 700; line-height: 20px;">™</span> using the wooden pieces and mats that they will typically use to build the letters they're learning to write. This exercise soon translated into drawing their own versions of Mat Men<span style="background-color: white; font-family: AppleSDGothicNeo-Regular, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif, 'Segoe UI Emoji', 'Segoe UI Symbol', NotoColorEmoji, EmojiSymbols, Symbola, Noto, 'Android Emoji', AndroidEmoji, 'Arial Unicode MS', 'Zapf Dingbats', AppleColorEmoji, 'Apple Color Emoji'; font-size: 13px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 20px;">™</span> using crayons and paper.<br />
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The boys began giggling. "Mom, my Mat Man<span style="background-color: white; font-family: AppleSDGothicNeo-Regular, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif, 'Segoe UI Emoji', 'Segoe UI Symbol', NotoColorEmoji, EmojiSymbols, Symbola, Noto, 'Android Emoji', AndroidEmoji, 'Arial Unicode MS', 'Zapf Dingbats', AppleColorEmoji, 'Apple Color Emoji'; font-size: 13px; font-weight: 700; line-height: 20px;">™</span> is peeing a rainbow!"<br />
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Sure enough, Nathan had drawn a picture of a Mat Man<span style="background-color: white; font-family: AppleSDGothicNeo-Regular, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif, 'Segoe UI Emoji', 'Segoe UI Symbol', NotoColorEmoji, EmojiSymbols, Symbola, Noto, 'Android Emoji', AndroidEmoji, 'Arial Unicode MS', 'Zapf Dingbats', AppleColorEmoji, 'Apple Color Emoji'; font-size: 13px; font-weight: 700; line-height: 20px;">™</span> taking a rainbow whiz. I may have briefly imagined my delinquent children being paraded through the neighborhood as other, more sound mothers shook their heads and breathed sighs of relief, while ushering their children onto the school bus and away from my homeschooled flock. Then, I realized that my kindergartner had drawn his stream of colors in the correct order of the color spectrum. I'm calling it a win.<br />
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Life is like this with a bundle of boys and one outnumbered little girl. It's not mornings of French-braiding each others' hair while singing songs about world peace. It's much more colorful. It's peeing rainbows. <br />
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It's also moments like these:<br />
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(8/2/14) <br />
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Jason had returned from a business trip. He told Jack that he had missed him and asked Nathan to tell Jack what "missed" meant. <br />
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Nate: It's the water that comes out of the hose.<br />
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(8/3/14) <br />
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Jason was eating peaches at lunch and talking about how much he would like a peach tree if we had a bigger yard. The kids began talking about wanting trees to climb. <br />
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Audrey: You know I'm a tree girl.<br />
Nathan: I'm a tree boy.<br />
Jack: I'm a ground boy.<br />
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(8/8/14) <br />
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The boys woke up. I heard them shuffle to the bathroom. <br />
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Jack: I don't want to pee at the same time.<br />
Nate: Then, I'm peeing first.<br />
Jack: (muffled whining)<br />
Nate: Fine, you pee first.<br />
Jack: Don't pee on top of mine! I DON'T WANT YOU TO PEE ON TOP OF MINE!<br />
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(8/8/14)<br />
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In the kitchen.<br />
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Nathan: That's my cup. I had it the other day.<br />
Jack: I have it <em>this</em> day.<br />
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(8/26/14) <br />
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At dinner, Jason turned to ask if I wanted to watch a television show we'd been catching up on. <br />
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Jason: "What About a Boy" tonight?<br />
Audrey (terrified): You're having another boy tonight!?<br />
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(8/27/14) <br />
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Nathan was eating a bagel under a blanket in an attempt to hide it from his little brother. Apparently, the blanket looked like a barn to Jack.<br />
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Jack: Nate, we can't eat in a barn. That's the rules.<br />
Nate: We can if we own the barn.<br />
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(10/12/14) <br />
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We were traveling in the car and Jason and I both said, "Just Jack!" mid-conversation (me with jazz hands <span class="Latn mention" lang="fr" style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;" xml:lang="fr">à la</span> Sean Hayes). <br />
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Jack: I'm not a song. I'm a person. <br />
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(10/15/14) <br />
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During Audrey's first drama class, the teacher asked, "What's drama?"<br />
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Audrey answered, "When someone throws a fit."<br />
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(10/26/14) <br />
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Me to Jack: Guess what?<br />
Jack: What?<br />
Me: I love you.<br />
Jack: Guess what?<br />
Me: What?<br />
Jack: I love you. (Pause.) Guess what else?<br />
Me: What?<br />
Jack: I'm hungry.<br />
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(11/18/14)<br />
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Jack saw a diaper box with a picture of a baby on the front. "Is that our baby," he asked. <br />
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"That's not our baby, but it's a baby," I said.<br />
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"His name starts with 'A'?"<br />
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(11/25/14)<br />
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Audrey: Did you know Laura Ingalls liked wolves better than cattle?<br />
Me: I didn't know that. <br />
Audrey: I guess she really didn't like cattle. <br />
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(11/28/14)<br />
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Audrey to Nathan: You don't have to be so bossy like that. You're not Dad.<br />
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(11/30/14)<br />
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Jack was telling me a story about a bear chasing rabbits and planning to eat them. <br />
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Jack: What should the rabbits do?<br />
Me: Run away?<br />
Jack: Yell, "Eat more chicken!"<br />
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(12/2/14)<br />
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Nathan told Audrey that he wants to have ten babies when he's a dad. Audrey told Nathan that this kind of thinking is ridiculous, since even if he was holding five babies, there would still be five that his wife would have to hold. (Somehow, it must have been implied that all ten were babies at the same time.)<br />
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Audrey went on to tell him that all ten babies would cry at the same time. He replied that he would give them pacifiers. She insisted that not all babies will take pacifiers. "Besides," she said," your wife will be worn out. Mom's already had four." (Clearly, I wasn't a bundle of pep after four babies.)<br />
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(12/3/14)<br />
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Nathan woke up and came into my bedroom, followed by Jack.<br />
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Nathan: I want to go downstairs.<br />
Jack: I want all the things Nate wants. <br />
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(12/3/14)<br />
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I had asked Audrey to get dressed while I put Ethan down for a nap. I came downstairs to find a half-changed, half-pajama-clad Audrey. <br />
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Me: I thought you were going to get dressed. <br />
Audrey: Oh yeah. I forgot because I thought of something <em>awesome</em>!<br />
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(12/8/14)<br />
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Audrey brought me a drawing with three rows of straight lines. "This is what I want to do with my closet," she said, pointing at the lines. "Shelves, shelves, shelves, ad nauseam."<br />
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"Did you just say 'ad nauseam'?"<br />
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"Mmm-hmm."<br />
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(12/11/14)<br />
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Nathan asked if he could have a treat after eating breakfast. "No, you're not getting a treat right after breakfast," I said.<br />
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After lunch, Nate again asked if he could have a treat. "Why don't you get dressed first," I said.<br />
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"Why don't I hug mom first?" he said.<br />
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(12/20/14)<br />
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When Audrey began brushing her teeth, I came up with a little toothbrushing song. I set it to the music of "Shake Your Groove Thing" by Peaches and Herb. (I'm not sure why I feel the need to set made-up children's songs to disco. Some things are a sickness that cannot be helped.) This song has been used in an attempt to encourage proper toothbrushing from each subsequent child. On this particular morning, I was singing it to Jack. He stopped me cold. <br />
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"No, mom. I want "Somewhere Over the Rainbow."<br />
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2015<br />
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Jason was off playing a computer game called Civilization. I was looking for him.<br />
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"What is Dad doing?"<br />
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(Boy's voice from another room) "Playing Civil-a-Jason."<br />
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(1/14/15)<br />
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Jack asked me how to spell his name. I told him and he repeated it. Then he yelled proudly to his sister, "Audrey, I spelled myself!"<br />
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(2/13/15)<br />
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The boys pointed out to Audrey that Jason had installed a baby gate in front of the stairs. <br />
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Audrey: You guys don't have to tell me how to climb the gates. I've been through it all. I've been climbing these gates since you were babies.<br />
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(2/14/15)<br />
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Jack: Stop, Ethan! My eyeballs are not toys!<br />
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(2/22/15)<br />
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Jason: You're my favorite Nathan. (As in, his favorite person in the world named Nathan.)<br />
Nathan: You're my favorite dad that I know right now.<br />
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(3/11/15)<br />
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Audrey was singing a made-up song to Ethan.<br />
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Audrey: I love you, my stinky Valentine. You are my brother, so we love each other. I'm glad you'll always be mine.<br />
Jack: Until one of you die.<br />
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(March 2015)<br />
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Jack was misbehaving at the table. He had asked for toast, which I had made him. I told him if he didn't listen, I'd never make him toast again (because, apparently, I believe in threats I can't possibly keep). <br />
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Nathan: Don't worry. I'll make you toast. <br />
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(3/21/15)<br />
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Nathan: Do we go to church today?<br />
Jason: Tomorrow.<br />
Nathan: So the mail comes today. I was wondering that.<br />
Jason: Wonder no more.<br />
Nathan: I can still wonder things!<br />
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(5/3/15)<br />
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Our three big kids had been playing at a neighbor's house. Jack had walked back early. The neighbor walked Nathan home later. As they walked, she asked if he was sure that Jack had already come home. Nate said, "I think he went home, because Dad is working in the backyard and Dad is his favorite, and he's not even the one who gives us the food!"<br />
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(6/9/15)<br />
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We had chicken noodle soup for dinner. Jack didn't want to eat his and asked if he could go out and play. <br />
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Me: You won't get ice cream.<br />
Jack: I know.<br />
Me: You won't get anything else to eat tonight. No more food tonight.<br />
Jack: But I'll get some tomorrow, because if I don't, I'll die.<br />
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(6/12/15)<br />
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Audrey: I just think it would be funny if you got a gift from someone and it wasn't even close to a natural holiday.<br />
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Me: Do you mean <em>national </em>holiday?<br />
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(6/18/15)<br />
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We were eating picnic-style at Vacation Bible School. Jack looked up at me and said, "Even sitting down, you're bigger."<br />
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"For now. Someday, you'll be bigger."<br />
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"When I'm ninety-two, I'll be bigger. By then, you'll be dead."<br />
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(Summer 2015)<br />
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Jason: I love you.<br />
Jack: No, I love you.<br />
Jason: I love you more.<br />
Jack: I love you more. <br />
Jason: No, I love you more.<br />
Jack: Dad, stop arguing. <br />
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That's life with a bundle of boys and one outnumbered little girl. It's figuring out what the world, and words, mean. It's finding out what you, and possibly your brother, want. It's about squeezing the most out of your days, because, as one four-year-old keeps reminding us, we're all going to die one day. It's about loving, and arguing, and arguing about love. It's about appreciating the rainbows. Where ever you may find them.<br />
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<br />kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00298604769173994651noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7926516649756652997.post-9223560434441717272015-06-20T23:36:00.001-04:002015-06-20T23:36:51.946-04:00Built By Dad<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I might have been eight when the foundation was poured for the property that became the gray house on the perfect-for-pencil-rolls hill. One of my early memories is of "camping out" in sleeping bags on the would-be dining room's subfloor when the house was still raw and open to her bones. That first night she was hard to the touch and smelled of dust. She felt like a mystery: able to splinter or become something else. <br />
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My father and a crew began to fill in her empty spaces while I (and sometimes my sisters) conquered the mud mountain the excavators had left behind in our new backyard. I shaped the mud into the faces of animals (mostly pigs). He shaped the house. Dad covered her bare places with dry wall, tar paper, and shingles. Where she lacked shape, he added rectangles and squares with oak. When he had finished, he turned her over to all of us. <br />
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We grew - a house of three little girls, each amazed at the thought of possessing a room of her own (and her own phone jack). We left hand prints on the windows and smudges on the fresh paint. We scuffed the floors and scattered our shoes among the rooms. As our parents found them, they'd place them on the bottom steps to be carried up to our rooms later. We found spaces, like the handcrafted dollhouse or sandbox (both built by Dad), in which to play together, and other times, we came apart. Sometimes, we abused the wooden steps and slammed our bedroom doors. Dad, steady as the house, taught us that some things can take a few smudges and still come out clean, while other things, if disrespected, will come apart. He rarely raised his voice, but I am sure there were times my father found us to be a mystery: able to splinter or become something else. <br />
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The hand prints on the windows grew larger and the shoes on the bottom steps grew in size. In the summers, rounds of "I Think We're Alone Now" or "olly olly oxen free" rang from the bricked front porch, which doubled as stage and home base. When I craved solitude, I climbed the block shelves of my closet until I reached the top, where a pillow, pile of books, and flashlight were stashed. When I needed solace, I stepped onto my window seat, popped the screen from my window, and climbed out onto the roof. Sitting on the rough shingles, I'd tuck my knees to my chest and hide inside a cloak of darkened hickories and oaks, a thousand chirping crickets, and a million burning stars. One small girl rambling to one big God. <br />
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The roof. The window seat. The porch. The top shelf. My father built them all. They built me. They became the building blocks on which I played and fell and healed and grew. Dad drew the first set of blueprints, outlining what a life should look like - that you should build something for someone else. He sat across from the girl he had built and told her that she could do great things, and the only person who could stop her was her. He played catch with her in the backyard, and ran next to her while cheering, and whispered in her ear on the dance floor at her wedding that she was dazzling and people watched her wherever she went. And, the little girl knew that she would not splinter. She would become something else. <br />
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A man's blueprints and hours of manual labor built a house. The man he was, built a home. <br />
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Thanks for the house, Dad. Thanks for filling her with all the right nooks and crannies. But most of all, thanks for filling her with love and pieces of you. <br />
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Happy Father's Day.<br />
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<br />kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00298604769173994651noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7926516649756652997.post-70791426138598968452015-01-16T16:36:00.000-05:002015-01-16T16:36:48.680-05:00And Then There Were Four: Or, Barnum & Bailey, Family-Style<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I am a researcher by nature. I make decisions slowly (or not at all). I like to have all the facts before I act. So, when I began contemplating a fourth baby, I went to the experts. I asked my mother-of-four-still-small-children friends what to expect. "What is it like?" I asked. "Not taking into account how wonderful your individual children are, or which one you would be getting rid of if you down-sized, would you do it again?" <br />
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Their answers were all similar. <i>It's crazy. You should totally do it.</i><br />
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We did. We're only seven months into this family-of-six venture, but I've realized they were right. I've also realized something else: I should have asked for more specifics. <br />
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So, if you're contemplating the jump from three to four, here are some of our more specific experiences - A Mother's Guide to Bringing Home Your Fourth Baby: The Cliffs Notes version, if you will.<br />
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<b>1. Everyone becomes an expert on (or worrier about) logistics. </b><br />
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We were due to give birth to our fourth during our older two kids' spring soccer season. Nathan was excited to be welcoming another younger brother, just as long as that brother didn't interfere with the game schedule. "Mom, what will happen if you have the baby while driving to soccer?" (The kids began asking their father to drive them to the majority of their practices after this question was posed.)<br />
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Luckily, Ethan arrived on a day that worked with everyone's schedule. Now, the children are worried about a different sort of logistics. They've taken to packing their own bags for events. They no longer trust their mother's brain to remember it all (possibly, because it doesn't). The eight-year-old has taken to packing bags of snacks and tossing in a few extra diapers, just in case. Last Monday, the three-year-old packed himself a bag of toys to take to a two-hour meeting I had at the library. Unfortunately, he forgot to carry the bag into the library once we got there. His mother didn't remember the bag, either. <br />
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<b>2. Suddenly, everyone has a job. You might be given the job of an asparagus. </b><br />
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The more children we have, the more we find ourselves taking the divide-and-conquer approach to events. Most soccer nights, one parent would take Audrey to practice while the other fed the boys and readied them for bed at home. Audrey requested that her father take her to as many practices as possible. One night, en route, she explained, "You know when you go to the grocery store and there's the part where you get the vegetables and the part where you get the treats?"<br />
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"Yeah."<br />
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"Well, mom is like the vegetables, and you're like the treats. You know the vegetables are better for you, but what you really want are the treats."<br />
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<b>3. It's a little exhausting. For everyone. </b><br />
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Children, who claim to have outgrown naps, and adults (who would pay for naps) have been known, post-baby, to conk out suddenly, anywhere. Even standing up. <br />
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<b>4. Chances are, you'll lose your short-term memory. Your children will notice.</b><br />
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Jack: Mommy, by the way, our dad is Jason.<br />
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<b>You will notice, too. Unfortunately, it will be too late to be helpful.</b> <br />
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You know those morning routine charts? Parents make them for their children to check off the boxes of get dressed, eat breakfast, and brush teeth, hoping that with a wing and a prayer and some smiley face stickers, they'll all make it to the bus stop on time. I made one of those. For myself. <br />
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Just kidding. I don't have the brainpower required to remember to make one for myself. But, I need one. Because, some mornings, I know that I've brushed at least three sets of teeth. I just can't remember if any of them were mine. Most mornings, this realization hits en route to an activity, like library class. Luckily, this only happened once. Twice. Okay, three times. It happened three times. If you see me around town, just don't stand too close. <br />
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<b>5. You might feel tempted during those first late night feedings, to watch an episode of the Duggar's <i>19 Kids and Counting</i>, thinking you might glean some pointers on how to handle the demands of a larger household. Don't.</b> <br />
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This will only make you feel more inept than anyone on a two-hour sleep/feeding rotation schedule has the emotional capacity to feel. Michelle Duggar is well on her way to whisper-talking herself into world domination and you can't even remember to brush your teeth. Do yourself a favor and change the channel, maybe to Bravo's reality TV selections, instead. You'll feel better, at least about yourself. <br />
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<b>6. Everyone has an opinion. </b><br />
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Complete strangers will feel compelled to tell you their thoughts about the size of your family (as you try to corral four children and a cart of food down the grocery aisle). I don't take this personally. I understand that the size of my family can momentarily stun innocent bystanders. In fact, grown men have been known to forget everything they've ever learned about sports at the sight of us.<br />
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Innocent male bystander who passed us on the sidewalk in downtown Indianapolis: You almost have enough for a baseball team. <br />
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Um, no. <br />
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But don't worry, with a family of six, there is no reason to consult an outsider for an opinion. There are enough floating around under your roof to keep you occupied. <br />
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Jason (to Audrey): What do you think of Ethan's name?<br />
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Audrey: Well, it's not the sharpest name in the box. (She had told us a few months earlier that she thought Nolan was a nice name, and asked that we please choose something like that. Nathan was hoping for Bob. Jack preferred Sunrise.)<br />
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<b>7. You're not going to please everyone.</b><br />
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There's a chance that not everyone will be happy with the way things come out in the wash. Namely, if you have one daughter with three younger brothers and a houseful of Ninja Turtles and superhero action figures, she might feel a little slighted by the odds. You're going to hear about it. <br />
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This summer while playing at the park, we saw a family with seven boys and one girl. I pointed them out to Audrey and told her that perhaps, having only three brothers wasn't so bad. <br />
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"That would probably be me in another life," she said. <br />
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<b>You might also end up explaining probabilities and what you can remember from high school genetics a lot earlier than you anticipated. </b><br />
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Experiencing a bout of morning sickness during my pregnancy with Ethan, I took the easy way out and turned on the TV to keep the kids busy for a few minutes. I tuned it to the Food Network during a <i>Chopped</i> episode, thinking I'd chosen an option that would bring my day less grief. I was wrong. <br />
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One of the chefs was a transgendered man who began to tell his story of never feeling right in the female body into which he was born. I looked to Audrey. Her face was that of someone putting together the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. "So, there's a chance that my baby brother could turn into a sister?" <br />
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<b>It doesn't matter how many times you go over the rules of statistics and laws of genetics with your child. Second graders have their own ideas about probabilities. </b><br />
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Audrey and I were driving home from a mother/daughter bingo night with her girl scout troop. She was lamenting about her lack of a sister. Again. <br />
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"Mom, surely God wouldn't give you four boys in a row. I think it's time you and Daddy have another baby."<br />
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"Yes, honey, I'm pretty sure He would, and Daddy and I are still getting used to the baby we have."<br />
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"Mom! He's been here a long time!" (Ethan was six-months old.) <br />
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(She still calls Ethan the best baby in the world, even though he's not a sister.)<br />
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<b>8. The best toys are the baby's toys (except to the baby).</b><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">(They told me they were playing zoo animals.)</span></div>
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Having already had three babies, we assumed we already had everything we needed to welcome a fourth. We were wrong. It turns out that baby toys look a whole lot like playground equipment to preschool-aged boys. I pulled the baby bouncer and swing out of storage while still pregnant. I never caught the perpetrator, but the bouncer was broken before Ethan was ever born. I did catch the older boys pushing each other on the swing several times after we brought Ethan home (and no number of timeouts could convince them that there might be a better use of their time). The swing lasted two months before I found it cracked down the side. I'm an <strike>idiot</strike> optimist, so I replaced the bouncer and swing with a secondhand walker I found for fifteen dollars. Finally, I've found a toy that the older boys don't try to get into. They simply stand on the back of it and propel it forward like a scooter - with their baby brother inside. Naturally. I'm signing them up for the San Clemente Fourth of July Office Chair Race this year. With all the practice they're getting, surely the can bring home a prize. <br />
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<b>9. Your nighttime routine might grow exponentially longer.</b><br />
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Our children used to go to bed with a simple routine of prayers, a hug, and a kiss goodnight. Now, each older child has to rub and kiss the top of the baby's head multiple times, as if I've just given birth to a living Blarney Stone. <br />
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<b>10. Things go "bump" in the night. </b><br />
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You work hard all day. Night is a time for rest, at least that's what we keep telling the children. Small noises seem to pervade our nights. A door is opened, a toilet lid clinked, a faucet turned on (a light left on for me to get up and turn off because the kids are afraid of the dark). Bigger noises also pervade our nights, most times in the form of crying. But, Saturday night, at 4 a.m., we were awaken by the sound of steady hammering. Jason got up to investigate. He assumed it was one of the older boys. It wasn't. It was Ethan, wide awake, banging his pacifier against the wooden slats of his crib like an inmate. Jason brought him into our bed, where he played a riveting game of Grope Your Mother, yodeled a few love songs, and finally fell asleep. On my face. Luckily, his slumber only lasted four minutes. Apparently, my nose is very uncomfortable. <br />
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<b>11. Several couples remodel or readjust how they use their living spaces as their family grows. You might, too.</b><br />
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Jason (upon coming home from work): Where's Ethan?<br />
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Me: In the closet. <br />
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Before Ethan was born, we moved the older boys into the same bedroom, so Ethan could have the smallest bedroom to himself as the nursery. It seemed like a foolproof plan. Apparently, we're not your average fools. I tried to let Ethan use his room like any respectable baby would. I rocked him to sleep in the afternoon, gently put him in his crib (holding my breath as to not wake him), tiptoed out of the room, and quietly closed the door behind me. I came downstairs to do the dishes. Twenty minutes later, I would hear crying, find Ethan's door wide open, and the perpetrator in hiding. Threats ("Anyone who wakes up the baby during naptime will not get to hold him when it's their turn.") worked, sometimes. But, something a little more drastic seemed necessary. We enrolled Ethan in the Infant Naptime Protection Program. I would rock him to sleep. I would tuck him into his car seat. I would hide the car seat somewhere his siblings would never suspect, rotating on a sporadic schedule. Ethan took naps hidden to the side of my bed, behind the printer in the office, nestled to the side of the buffet in the dining room, and (most often) hidden behind the closed door of the master bedroom closet.<br />
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The Infant Naptime Protection Program worked while we waited for the novelty of the baby to wear off. It also led to a couple of interesting moments when friends or relatives would come to visit and offer to go get the baby from his nap, instinctively heading toward the nursery as I darted up the stairs ahead of them toward my closed bedroom door yelling, "You could try, but you'd never find him." <br />
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<b>12. They eat. Like Hobbits. </b><br />
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The unfortunate thing about realizing that you're now living with the cast of Lord of the Rings, is that you're delegated to the duties of Craft Services. You may have just fed your cast and crew at eight o' clock. But, they are children. They believe anything is possible. Even second breakfast. At nine o' clock. <br />
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<b>13. Some days, it's a bit like Animal House. </b><br />
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Especially, if there's a big sister on the loose who feels that depantsing her younger brother, sticking a visitor's badge to his underwear, and shoving a stuffed animal up his shirt while he sleeps might tilt the injustice of a male-dominated household a little closer to her favor, even if only until he wakes up. (I actually have a picture of this incident - because I believe in reprimanding my children for their unkind behavior and then confusing them by documenting it with my camera, so I can laugh at it over and over again. I chose not to post it for the sake of the child who fell victim to the prank, just in case he ever decides to run for political office, or tries to find a girlfriend.)<br />
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My little sister called me shortly after I became a mother of four. She asked what I had asked several mothers before me, "What is it like with four?"<br />
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"It's the circus you expect it to be," I said. "Someone is crying or screaming every thirty minutes. The trick, is to make sure the one crying isn't you." <br />
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Our circus is one of many rings. Every day holds a little tightrope walking, some lion taming, and lots of clowning around. Mostly, it holds wonder, magic, and the excitement in knowing that absolutely anything can happen, and probably will. <br />
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<i>It's crazy. You should totally do it. </i>kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00298604769173994651noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7926516649756652997.post-81213473783713418482015-01-08T20:43:00.000-05:002015-01-08T22:55:39.973-05:00Dear Ethan,<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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You were born in May, with 7 pounds, 12 ounces and 21.25 inches to your name, which we had yet to choose. You were born wearing the wrinkled face of an old man, dimpled at the cheeks, with a tempest of dark hair swirling at your temples. You had sideburns. Had you been sporting a patch of throat-beard hair and a #12 jersey, you might have passed for the love child of Andrew Luck. (You're not. We're sorry.) One of the recovery nurses suggested we name you Gus. We did not. (You're welcome.) <br />
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For twenty-four hours we stared at your face (smitten) and refused to fill out any legal paperwork, because you didn't look like any of the names on our list. Finally, we chose Ethan. We said you'd grow into it (because we believe in giving newborns jobs). In the meantime, you spent your first days mewing like a cat rather than crying, and I found myself comforting you, whispering, "It's alright, Jags," (short for Jaguar.) (Yes, I nicknamed the nickname. It happens around here. Children also tend to get tagged with nicknames twice the size of their actual names around here. Just ask your brother, Jackaroo Roo Roo Ka Choo.) Jags fit your soft wrinkly skin, the zigs and zags of your wild hair, and those deep brown eyes, saturated with secrets. We wondered if your eyes would change. They did, as did you. <br />
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Today, your eyes are blue and your still-wild hair resembles the blond fly-away faux-hawk your father sported in his toddler years, when his family called him Woodstock. You no longer clutch a fistful in your palm, screaming because you can't figure out what's causing the pain, as you refuse to let go (you did this at least once a day as an infant). Today, you like to clutch my neck, instead, trying to pull yourself as close to me (or far away from others) as possible. <br />
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I can't imagine the shock of discovering you're a fourth-born. I like to tell myself that surely all the yelling you heard in utero, or the constant interruptions and prodding from doctors in the recovery wing prepared you for what awaited you at home. But really, what can prepare a baby for the kind of three-fold sibling love that requires daily reminders that they not ride the back of the baby walker like a scooter while you're in it?<br />
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I'm sorry if you were hoping for less: this family and its members come as a packaged deal. I'm sorry if you were hoping for more: these arms, this lap, this love, gets passed around to everyone in turn (and occasionally, all at once). Some days, I envision you in nineteen years, hanging out in your college dorm room and telling your roommates in your best stand-up voice, "One day, I asked my mother about the day I was born, and she said, 'Baby, you were born. Just like everyone else.'"<br />
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And, it's true. You were born, just like everyone else. But, you were born to me, and I will love you - every jagged little part - until long after I cease to be. <br />
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I've never won an award for organization, or preparedness, or stellar packing. I am the girl who decides to head out for one more beach run on her last day of vacation and stumbles, camera-less, upon the sunset of a lifetime. <br />
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Ethan, there will never be enough photos of your childhood, enough keepsakes, enough love letters. Most days, my hands will seem too full and the hours too short. But everyday, I will call you a blessing and happily call you mine. Thank you for being my sunset. <br />
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Love,<br />
Mama<br />
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P.s. Your dad thinks this letter makes it sound like you were an accident. You were not. Not that we're ones to find fault with happy accidents. After all, Daddy and I are just a couple of happy accidents living a life full of intention. kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00298604769173994651noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7926516649756652997.post-68426737790608132062014-11-28T13:53:00.001-05:002014-11-28T13:53:54.736-05:00Thankful<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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"Christmas is here mom, right?" Audrey asked me this afternoon. </div>
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"No. No, it's not." I said, as if I knew what I was talking about, in the midst of tiny snow flurries and avalanches of Black Friday ads. </div>
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I suppose we all have that holiday: the one in which we wish we could linger a little longer, because it feels as if we've only touched our toe into the pond, barely rippling the water before it's time to dry off and tread elsewhere. </div>
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For me, that holiday is Thanksgiving (my husband's favorite). I could drown myself in piles of colored leaf-bedecked magazine and pinterest pages and not come up for air for days. I dream of children's Thanksgiving parties with pilgrim hats and felt Mayflowers adorning a gourd-clad table. </div>
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I dream. However, the reality is, between the Halloween costume-sewing extravaganza, fall/winter birthdays, and the gravity-like pull of Christmas, Thanksgiving gets short-sticked around here. I have one toe in Thanksgiving and body parts flailing everywhere else. </div>
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But, last week, before the yuletide pull became too much, we took a moment to hang some leaves from the fireplace mantle. We found the free leaf printables <a href="http://www.thehandmadehome.net/2011/11/freebie-of-the-month-club-thankful/">here</a>. The kids took turns telling me what they were thankful for, and I printed their answers, name, and the year on the back of the leaves before tying them with cotton string from Command hooks across the fireplace. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4btHja1kA8D_m6vlIHx3HJ2M-0dH8RFPFhV5HcXAQr8Oy5v-lNDFb_pc6yE0xm7bC-QxBB4FRHpAdwXJXoPVDb1Bu1LNs59s0k0FGVgysQy5m1fBOd44QTSDztVGfYTt8jdLlWHKV8QM/s1600/IMG_5039.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4btHja1kA8D_m6vlIHx3HJ2M-0dH8RFPFhV5HcXAQr8Oy5v-lNDFb_pc6yE0xm7bC-QxBB4FRHpAdwXJXoPVDb1Bu1LNs59s0k0FGVgysQy5m1fBOd44QTSDztVGfYTt8jdLlWHKV8QM/s1600/IMG_5039.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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My favorite responses:<br />
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"Sneaking candy out of the pantry without telling." - Jack<br />
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"Our baby. Pumpkins. And drinks." - Nathan<br />
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I feel as if that one could have been written by a couple of thirty-somethings with three kids and a baby. "Our baby. (Our little) Pumpkins. And drinks."<br />
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"Family. Quiet time." - Jason<br />
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Jason is thankful for oxymorons. <br />
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I wrote "laughter" on the back of my leaf. Thankfully, my family never disappoints. kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00298604769173994651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7926516649756652997.post-75149895058375865302014-08-27T08:31:00.000-04:002014-08-27T08:31:18.752-04:00School Daze: A Quick and Hazy Recap of 2013-2014<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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When you're a homeschooler, you choose your start date for the year. Some choose based on a date on the calendar (e.g. after Labor Day). Some begin as swim lessons or family camping expeditions come to an end. Others of us receive signs. </div>
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<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr-gDDdGyfxPfsnDNWIU9miVFiz0fEou8Nxkq4WVdDvgIyKqwVH2n2lUcKX74_zDlPZnMC5sSwgvnxaRQR2DyhkNlu3UXUdVuIsjFu91k4zi1ryA8ar5BahCWcGPmcFjJoIpukEfTElh4/s1600/IMG_3903.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr-gDDdGyfxPfsnDNWIU9miVFiz0fEou8Nxkq4WVdDvgIyKqwVH2n2lUcKX74_zDlPZnMC5sSwgvnxaRQR2DyhkNlu3UXUdVuIsjFu91k4zi1ryA8ar5BahCWcGPmcFjJoIpukEfTElh4/s1600/IMG_3903.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Literally. </i> My daughter handed me a sign. I received the above sign mid-July. As usual, I wasn't prepared. (I had this crazy, sparkly, rose-colored vision of cleaning and organizing the house before the start of school. However, we were still firmly planted in we're-not-sleeping-through-the-night-but-decided-to-paint-two-rooms-and-not-clean-up-our-mess-because-we're-dorks-who-mistook-ourselves-for-superheroes territory.) But, I'm a firm believer in following the enthusiasm, and not getting in my kid's way when she's trying to bring about a good thing. So, the first Monday in August, I gathered my crew around the dining room table. I told them that we were beginning school. I told them that while I had all of our new materials, technically, I wasn't ready. I issued a warning: things would change as I got more organized and figured things out. Then, I handed them each a mug swelling with steam. What I lack in organization, I make up for in hot chocolate. </div>
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Today, we have over a dozen days of school under our belts. The house is still not organized, and with a baby who sleeps three hours one day and only forty minutes the next, neither are we. But we're attacking our days with enthusiasm, and our fair share of chocolate. </div>
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Before we dive into the field trips, projects, and our hopes for this year, here's a brief recap of our 2013-2014 school year. In pictures:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqM1UcV8HckehGitPEjewFeZI3c1aQb80LzpKT7zzj7VbSEAMLa0bpSjrBdVdeAcec2MdlaaYF_jeW66KCJ1WE2nwHcb35QGCZtgGPqEXVJ3gHTNHV0eyWK1HxmzCZos1UP3PPFU-fwrA/s1600/IMG_3361+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqM1UcV8HckehGitPEjewFeZI3c1aQb80LzpKT7zzj7VbSEAMLa0bpSjrBdVdeAcec2MdlaaYF_jeW66KCJ1WE2nwHcb35QGCZtgGPqEXVJ3gHTNHV0eyWK1HxmzCZos1UP3PPFU-fwrA/s1600/IMG_3361+(2).JPG" height="155" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">(School picture day. We met up with friends at a local park for a little photo session. In my typical disorganized rush, I forgot to make a "first day of first grade" sign. Luckily, we had just gone on a field trip hiking through an old quarry where we had picked up fossils and this big rock as a souvenir. I grabbed the rock, some paint, and a brush and constructed Audrey's makeshift sign in the parking lot of the park. I love when a make-do mistake becomes a perfect reminder of time well spent.)</span></div>
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I like to begin and end each year with a special field trip. We began our 2013-2014 school year with a drive out to Conner Prairie (Jason in tow) to the one-room school house to find out how kids got their school on 1836-style. </div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">(Indiana Jim's Reptile Experience)</span></div>
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We ended the year by celebrating with some of Audrey's favorite creatures: snakes (and some other reptiles at a local library hosting Indiana Jim's Reptile Experience). </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRWbJZyjdnWPL2AKp0o00xZveHH_lOJiJg4NlMP1aSZraxojbW3O88P-5MDkHKmcZSBO-fC7x7uNIfzrF3sInvODF_GEXibedhnf-CYNQyjy80031gRxil89CXMe7hLxBUex1b3-Nl9dc/s1600/20140120_165411179_iOS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRWbJZyjdnWPL2AKp0o00xZveHH_lOJiJg4NlMP1aSZraxojbW3O88P-5MDkHKmcZSBO-fC7x7uNIfzrF3sInvODF_GEXibedhnf-CYNQyjy80031gRxil89CXMe7hLxBUex1b3-Nl9dc/s1600/20140120_165411179_iOS.jpg" height="298" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">(Rhythm Discovery Center)</span></div>
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But, in between, we made some noise.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqN-u4_ennWhWCDTo9PyPPlWrsDDhTZ2o5PDenuIGk5Fx7-dF3Tsp9_C0q4gjQMcvuE2YIhgzWShLHpRdPyq_w8bcSwbfACfoyIwMdlIjSiLu_v9iiVvo1mzkOkXKUNT7SIw7qtPT1Hm4/s1600/WP_20131002_016.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqN-u4_ennWhWCDTo9PyPPlWrsDDhTZ2o5PDenuIGk5Fx7-dF3Tsp9_C0q4gjQMcvuE2YIhgzWShLHpRdPyq_w8bcSwbfACfoyIwMdlIjSiLu_v9iiVvo1mzkOkXKUNT7SIw7qtPT1Hm4/s1600/WP_20131002_016.jpg" height="400" width="225" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">(Nathan holding a magnifying glass and piece of rock used for a geology streak test, while wearing his trusty duck-taped rain boots.)</span></div>
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Looked beneath the surface.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfmI2bBN2Cm2DqppkjljqBRKUwbypsEyTYbUShJf-2INvM5ciPg2Uowfxz0VD7eaYaBAKPcXCm3oZgFUTDwVX9BKQtG4Nsut9SIhe_Mtn7AJyLinO4PJu17eOQCDRJGRo0BZ_gos4J9Aw/s1600/20140129_173336515_iOS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfmI2bBN2Cm2DqppkjljqBRKUwbypsEyTYbUShJf-2INvM5ciPg2Uowfxz0VD7eaYaBAKPcXCm3oZgFUTDwVX9BKQtG4Nsut9SIhe_Mtn7AJyLinO4PJu17eOQCDRJGRo0BZ_gos4J9Aw/s1600/20140129_173336515_iOS.jpg" height="400" width="298" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">(A weather experiment in progress. Fill ball jar with hot water and let sit a minute. Pour out water, leaving an inch standing in jar. Place a colander of ice on top. Cool ice meets warm air, and wah-lah: condensation and fog.)</span></div>
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Let things start brewing.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZPwbF1ibBYSPeZGpGyVRpsxbjmTkDDGF8c3UY0WlbK7PwxXjAVvE6Vzrdknndi6G9fRnA0Mf9OimyTc4EAHjCnBVpzNdwJmmZj0ggIXg4wfKsfz9lkVunu4Vfl8bc_qMzfxEnwXJTbXQ/s1600/WP_20140509_016.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZPwbF1ibBYSPeZGpGyVRpsxbjmTkDDGF8c3UY0WlbK7PwxXjAVvE6Vzrdknndi6G9fRnA0Mf9OimyTc4EAHjCnBVpzNdwJmmZj0ggIXg4wfKsfz9lkVunu4Vfl8bc_qMzfxEnwXJTbXQ/s1600/WP_20140509_016.jpg" height="223" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">(Homeschool Program at Indianapolis Museum of Art in honor of Bees and National Public Gardens Day)</span></div>
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Got our neurons buzzing.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCklnyUFZANgry2bT_wjEP89iMWnJyXDzkA9E1O8We_4m7NxeUaOPsuIV9knCf9hSdnI38XuV8w-22_7gI6ppLncg7KMdDrOR1whbROyG0TAXwLgstNUlZJGUsYcjacsTKDyFbdoYbK98/s1600/WP_20131219_012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCklnyUFZANgry2bT_wjEP89iMWnJyXDzkA9E1O8We_4m7NxeUaOPsuIV9knCf9hSdnI38XuV8w-22_7gI6ppLncg7KMdDrOR1whbROyG0TAXwLgstNUlZJGUsYcjacsTKDyFbdoYbK98/s1600/WP_20131219_012.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"> (Gingerbread house contest at Conner Prairie)</span></div>
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Researched.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSWB7v_-piXjET37VLED62j_A63cxKXFAtrIkJ4EH0EseE3YzyS74xzxerMWkGCkUMxuWXHGfacjsSZdmE28uOqtmhpgvLpxT_ZLXcRckES1Ag6t0KCn48CBz8ohcteNFU54M2ff9pwSs/s1600/WP_20131220_043.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSWB7v_-piXjET37VLED62j_A63cxKXFAtrIkJ4EH0EseE3YzyS74xzxerMWkGCkUMxuWXHGfacjsSZdmE28uOqtmhpgvLpxT_ZLXcRckES1Ag6t0KCn48CBz8ohcteNFU54M2ff9pwSs/s1600/WP_20131220_043.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"> (Gingerbread homeschool Christmas party with friends. This is Audrey's creation.)</span></div>
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Applied what we learned.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKJ0DLOMWpSZRHu9vX3WwiOZgVWUIurwN4b9yorYvBEl8CFnLA5pVzvOZE29Tm-BKrnGipJApCG0_psJFYylwlDj8fR3ao1TxPXBPrPKYxdl26noX4GZSO44jBxj2Iax_6VZDmjqfket4/s1600/IMG_3369.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKJ0DLOMWpSZRHu9vX3WwiOZgVWUIurwN4b9yorYvBEl8CFnLA5pVzvOZE29Tm-BKrnGipJApCG0_psJFYylwlDj8fR3ao1TxPXBPrPKYxdl26noX4GZSO44jBxj2Iax_6VZDmjqfket4/s1600/IMG_3369.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"> (Another picture from school picture day. 2013-2014 was the year of dresses with boots.)</span></div>
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Created our own style.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigM97To1165MHxJX8XEYt_DCeiGRavdtAc8sMRhR0BgC56WC4dQqd4f2MbOxJvYwCOJcanBVnusLwljr8spqq7qaaHNRpemUaR6TN7K4hjRuPRtDEZnImMldw8_ivAtu_Vj8MxJ3-yXRQ/s1600/IMG_3423.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigM97To1165MHxJX8XEYt_DCeiGRavdtAc8sMRhR0BgC56WC4dQqd4f2MbOxJvYwCOJcanBVnusLwljr8spqq7qaaHNRpemUaR6TN7K4hjRuPRtDEZnImMldw8_ivAtu_Vj8MxJ3-yXRQ/s1600/IMG_3423.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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(A butterfly we watched metamorphosis from a caterpillar. You can see the chrysalis at the bottom of the picture.) </div>
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Transformed.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnj9GEKLKqt0nOd_TnYMcdTIr6Znd8dbuJgafF91siG6z4lTb3PpI0w322xzfoUmaRikpf19MTN-DnxwyY7q9Kw8eLRVWYKwuZAyl_wJ4EHjbEeHoDrLCxGXoL3irkjEi9wXpSY9umRwI/s1600/WP_20140509_003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnj9GEKLKqt0nOd_TnYMcdTIr6Znd8dbuJgafF91siG6z4lTb3PpI0w322xzfoUmaRikpf19MTN-DnxwyY7q9Kw8eLRVWYKwuZAyl_wJ4EHjbEeHoDrLCxGXoL3irkjEi9wXpSY9umRwI/s1600/WP_20140509_003.jpg" height="223" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">(Planting azaleas at IMA National Public Gardens Day.)</span></div>
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And grew. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisMKBxTwlnSI09H4C1l7-f4I61x3vYErvWjBcd-3d7uYsoC6W4A8lyCJU-eiZfQEP28CPRJeZE7J-XKm93i6OOno0bVvjTVeGjfCWrQ4Vm09sCO-xU1s_hcLQBeGtSOEbVLTPrpMrPrxc/s1600/IMG_3836.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisMKBxTwlnSI09H4C1l7-f4I61x3vYErvWjBcd-3d7uYsoC6W4A8lyCJU-eiZfQEP28CPRJeZE7J-XKm93i6OOno0bVvjTVeGjfCWrQ4Vm09sCO-xU1s_hcLQBeGtSOEbVLTPrpMrPrxc/s1600/IMG_3836.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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Jason spent last week working in the United Kingdom. We had been blessed with a really long stint of no travel on his part, and frankly, we were both out of practice. He forgot his razor and cell phone with the international calling plan. I forgot how to put older children to bed on my own while nursing an infant, and thus, faced a child rebellion (prisoner of war: me) his first two nights away. <br />
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What I did remember was the penchant for tears that dropping Jason off at the departures gates elicits from my children. I was prepared. I had a container of ice cream in the freezer and sugar cones in the pantry that I planned to serve - <i>for dinner</i>. I had a movie and popcorn planned for dessert. A fun getaway was set up for Monday. I was prepared to dull their pain with distraction. <br />
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I forgot about the Daddy's Traveling Addendum to Murphy's Law. It goes a little like this: If Jason is traveling (especially to a location where it would be impossible to travel back the same day), something will go wrong to interfere with my well-laid plans. A car battery will die in a parking lot with an infant tow (London), we'll end up in the ER (twice: once for Nathan - San Francisco; once for me - Germany?), I will end up digging a three-foot deep trench in January when a pipe breaks (Japan), or one to three of us will end up vomiting (too many occurrences to remember all of Jason's locations). I should know better than to make plans. I should really know better than to tell the children I've made them. Someone in this family isn't very smart. She might be writing this blog. <br />
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The night before our getaway, Jack got sick. We had to postpone our plans. Suddenly, the kids (especially the one who knows how long a week-long business trip is) had new pains needing dulled. Naturally, the worst thing about your little brother being sick (and canceling your plans), is that your mother won't allow you to invite friends over to your house. Not even for a tea party. Not even if you dress up like Pippi Longstocking in preparation for a tea party. <br />
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Luckily, she'll let you have your own. She'll lend you a tablecloth and a cinnamon shaker to use as a vase. (She'll have flash forwards of rehearsal dinners yet to come as she watches her sons set up the picnic table in the backyard.) She'll trick you into eating your apples and slices of turkey by arranging them as parts of a butterfly on a plate. (And, by telling you that you can't have the blueberry muffins you just made if you don't eat your butterfly.) She'll give you full reign over the muffins. When you tell your little brother that he's too sick to add some sugar on top, he'll say, "I'm not sick. I'm amazing!" <br />
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He'll be right. kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00298604769173994651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7926516649756652997.post-11063721647130045652014-08-01T17:40:00.003-04:002014-08-01T17:40:56.628-04:00The Perfect, The Good, and The China Fairy: A Week (or Several) in Review, of Sorts <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Percolating?</span></div>
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A few Saturdays ago, Audrey and I had a tearful (hers) discussion as I combed her hair following her bath. Her friend, China Fairy, had been in an accident while running and no longer had two legs. Audrey worried about her value and kept mentioning things her friend could no longer do. <i> Accidents happen</i>, I told her. <i>Sometimes, limbs are lost. Someone doesn't lose their beauty with the loss of a limb. You don't lose your value just because you lose something. You're still a child of God no matter the sum of your parts. </i></div>
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It's not a conversation I thought I'd be having with my seven-year-old - about a "Barbie". I don't even like Barbies. But, this one was special. Jason had brought it home from China, which made her irreplaceable. So, like any mother who doesn't know when to quit, we had a talk about amputees and the fact that when unexpected things happen, you just have to continue doing the things you want to do, whether you think you can or not.</div>
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Luckily, the rest of us are faring better than China Fairy, the only things we've lost being sleep (the adults), attention (the children), and teeth (Audrey). But, I've found myself lingering on that bath time conversation and the point of doing those things you want to do, whether you think you can or not. Writing blog posts is one of those things I want to do, but often feel that I can't. It's low on the priority list. At the end of each day, I think <i>the computer will still be there tomorrow, and if not, I won't feel sad about having missed out on this phase of its life because I chose to prioritize five someone elses.</i> I also have a habit of (as my husband phrases it) "letting the perfect get in the way of the good." I want to post chronologically. I have a hard time writing a blog post introducing the not-so-new-baby when I've yet to write the end-of-the-school-year wrap up or a summary of Jack's third birthday. Blog posts are passing me by. I'm beginning to feel like a candidate for <i>Hoarders</i> if they had a<i> Hoarders of the Mind</i> edition: too many thoughts, too little organization and letting go of said thoughts. </div>
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But then, China Fairy lost her leg and I began giving pep talks that I'm not living up to. And folks, I can't continue to be plagued by thoughts of a Barbie, even if the broad did come from China. So, here's my blog post: the imperfect, discombobulated good that I'm capable of today (take that, Barbie). </div>
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(For those of you not in the habit of keeping up, a couple of side notes:</div>
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1. Audrey is 7 1/2, Nathan is 4 1/2, and Jack is 3.</div>
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2. You will notice references to a child named Ethan. He is our third son, born in May. I had planned on introducing him to you properly with a blog post all his own. Someday, he'll tell his therapist that his brothers were introduced with their own posts, while he was introduced as a mere footnote. I will attempt to defend myself by telling him that<i> he was <u>not</u> introduced in a footnote, he was introduced in a parenthesis. Footnotes are stodgy: parentheses are mysterious. Chicks will dig it. </i>He will mail me his therapy bill. His counselor will use us as a case study for her latest book. It will be chock-full of footnotes. I digress.)</div>
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<b>Audrey:</b></div>
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3/21</div>
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I don't remember where we were walking, but it had just rained. Audrey had on a pair of pink, everyday, slip on shoes. "Mom, this is the first time you've permitted me to walk through water in my church shoes." </div>
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At seven, she's figured out the proper use of the word <i>permitted</i>. She has yet to figure out which shoes are "church shoes" and which ones are shoes of desperation when her mother can't find any other pairs. <br />
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4/17<br />
"Nate, if you're going to live with me and run a farm, you're going to have to stop eating bananas." (Upon discussing their future plans to open an, apparently, banana-free farm together. Audrey used to love bananas. She no longer does.)<br />
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5/19<br />
Audrey couldn't find her shoes. I had told her to put them in the closet. She hadn't. I told her she couldn't ride her bike until she found them. She still hadn't found them when I told her I had to go to the post office. "Look in the post office for my shoes!"<br />
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6/17<br />
A morning conversation:<br />
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Audrey: Did they still use wagons to get around when you were little?<br />
Me: No.<br />
Audrey: They had cars?<br />
Me: Yes.<br />
Audrey: Had airplanes been invented?<br />
Me: Yes.<br />
Audrey: What hadn't been invented?<br />
Me: The Internet.<br />
Audrey: What's the Internet? <br />
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6/25<br />
Audrey asked if I had ever tried to get a book published. I told her about a <i>Glimmer Train</i> writing contest that I had submitted a story for that won third place, garnering a few lines of print in their Fall 2005 edition. She got very excited. "Everyone on the world reads magazines, so I bet everyone on the world has read your story," she said. <br />
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I explained that this was most likely not the case. (I also began contemplating why we say "in the world" instead of "on the world".) A few moments later she said, "I want to publish a book. There's just one problem: I don't want to do the work." <br />
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7/7<br />
Audrey lost a tooth on July 7th. While getting ready for bed and stashing it beneath her pillow, she told Jason she had something to tell him about what she had read about the Tooth Fairy in a book. "It's not really a Tooth Fairy," Audrey said. Jason braced himself. "It's a Tooth Witch."<br />
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The next morning, she told me that she sometimes wonders if the Tooth Fairy is parents. She said, "No one believes in fairies, but suddenly, it's the Tooth Fairy and they believe. But I don't know what the parents would do with the teeth. Throw them in the trash?" <br />
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Then, she told me that sometimes she can hear us talking at night and we talk louder as it gets later. <br />
"What do we say?" I asked.<br />
"It just sounds like mumbling."<br />
"What do you think we talk about?"<br />
"Taxes." <br />
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She lost another tooth July 10th during a slumber party with her brothers. She came downstairs all smiles, holding up the tooth. "I'm so lucky. Nate boxed me in the mouth!"<br />
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7/24<br />
We were having a side of edamame at dinner.<br />
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Jason: (looking at me) Are soybeans good for you?<br />
Me: It depends on who you talk to.<br />
Audrey: Well, we're talking to you. <br />
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7/30<br />
We had a little slumber party at my parents' house with one of my nephews in attendance. The boys had been playing with foam swords, running through the backyard, between the pine trees, around the garden, and into the woods. A favorite play area had been the wood pile. I didn't think much of this until Audrey came running in to tell me that the boys had dismantled my dad's neatly piled stacks of wood. The kids came in for the evening and my mom began giving them baths. When it was Audrey's turn, she asked about the wood pile. She asked if Audrey had participated moving the logs. Audrey hesitated. "If you did, we need to make sure we get you washed off, because there was poison oak on some of those logs," my mom told her. <br />
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"Well," Audrey began, "I was a <i>volunteer</i>. When I saw them, they looked like they were having so much fun, so I <i>volunteered</i> to help them." (But no, she was absolutely not a participant, just a volunteer.) <br />
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<b>Nathan</b><br />
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4/23<br />
Excruciatingly long backstory: On January 24th, the kids began building a castle in the kitchen. I didn't think much of it, because projects of this sort crop up in just about every room of our house, everyday. The castle, on the very sturdy footing of our hardwood floors, grew quickly. Jack, wanting to to be in the thick of building as much as anyone, ran for the bathroom step stool. He placed it next to the castle. He climbed up. He leaned to add something to the castle. He slipped. He screamed. And he didn't stop. He didn't stop screaming when I ran to check on him. He didn't stop screaming when I told him that the elbow he landed on would stop hurting soon. He didn't stop screaming when I scooped him up and laid him down on the couch, and when I covered him with a blanket, he kept his arm underneath it and refused to move it. Jason was on his way home from work, so I waited with Jack, thinking that having spent a childhood playing football Jason would be able to tell if something was dislocated (the worst case scenario that popped in my mind). By the time Jason got home, thirty minutes later, I had given up hope that Jack would stop screaming. Jason scooped Jack up, settled him in his car seat, and drove him to the hospital. He called me a few hours later to tell me they were being transported by ambulance to the local children's hospital, where Jack would undergo surgery for a broken elbow. Jack spent several weeks in a cast and was afraid to move his elbow for several more after the cast was removed. <br />
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Current story:<br />
Nate: (at lunch) Remember that time we built a castle with boxes and Jack fell off the stool and broke his arm?<br />
Audrey: Yes.<br />
Nate: Let's do that again. (Turns to Jack) But this time, Jack, we don't need your help. <br />
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5/7<br />
The kids had been up late, so I was surprised to see Nathan up at 7 a.m. "Why are you up, honey?" I asked.<br />
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"I just wanted to see you."<br />
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6/20<br />
Nathan: When are we going to have pot pie?<br />
Me: I'll have to get the stuff this weekend and we can have it next week. Do you want pot pie?<br />
Nathan: Yeah. I want pot pie for Halloween.<br />
Me: Halloween is far away. Do you know that?<br />
Nathan: I know. It will give us a long time to get the stuff. (Bless him.)<br />
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6/24<br />
I have a habit of trying to get the kids ready for events without telling them about said event in case we have to bail at the last second due to an inconsolable baby, or a broken elbow, or a lost shoe, or a diaper blow out, or a dead battery, or a sudden fever, or a tornado warning, or a lost key - you get the idea. I was taking the kids to an event at a local park, but I hadn't told them about it. What I told them was that they needed to get sunscreen on. They wanted to know why. "Because you're going outside," I said.<br />
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"Are we being too crazy? " Nathan asked.<br />
"No."<br />
"Do you need to feed Ethan and pump?"<br />
"No."<br />
"Do you need some time by yourself?"<br />
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7/15<br />
Jason is trying to cut back on his soda intake (one 24-oz. bottle a day). The last time he went shopping, he brought home 12-ounce bottles instead of his usual 24-ounce ones. Nathan found one in the refrigerator. "Soda for kids!"<br />
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7/18<br />
We were having tacos for dinner. Each child likes to top his/hers with different fixings. Nathan was preparing his. "Just give me a handpile of tomatoes."<br />
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7/20<br />
Audrey was telling Jason about a book she had been reading, in the excited state she reserves for literature (and soccer, and minecraft, and parties). "I love you, Audrey," he said.<br />
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"Audrey, I love butter," Nathan said. <br />
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7/24<br />
Nate was the first, and only kid up. He toasted us a bagel to share, spread it with cream cheese, set it on the table, and pushed two chairs close together. He asked me to get him a vitamin. I did. He asked where my vitamins were. I explained that I take my vitamins at night. Then, I snuck into the pantry to grab a dark chocolate chip. I sat back down at the table. "You smell like chocolate," he said. "Is that your vitamin?"<br />
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Yes. Yes, son, and I take them all the live-long day. <br />
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7/26<br />
I had just wrapped Nate in a towel following his bath. <br />
Me: Do you want me to put lotion on you?<br />
Nathan: Yes, but not on my wee-wee.<br />
Me: I wasn't going to put it on your wee-wee.<br />
Nathan: Do people usually put it on their wee-wees?<br />
Me: I don't think so.<br />
Nathan: Yeah, it probably wouldn't be appropriate.<br />
Me: Probably not.<br />
Nathan: Yeah, I've been thinking that for years.<br />
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7/30<br />
Nate and I had the rare opportunity of going by ourselves to get his haircut. We were taking advantage by catching up with one another in the car. "Mom, what do you want to be when you grow up?"<br />
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<b>Jack </b><br />
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5/28<br />
"I accidentally like all of you guys." (Announced to the room at large.)<br />
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Date unknown<br />
Other than water guns, we don't have toy guns in the house (Technically, Jason has a Nerf gun hidden in the closet so he doesn't have to share or have the foam bullets ripped apart. It used to be kept at the office, back when they had cubicles, for all of his gun fighting needs. At work). The boys have remedied their lack of toy guns by creating guns out of any materials they can find, namely Legos and K'nex blocks. Jack had made such a gun one afternoon. He sauntered over to Jason with the gun and pointed it at him. "I will not kill you," he said. "My gun will kill you." <br />
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7/20<br />
"I want to be a superhero when I grow up. I want to be Batman!"<br />
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7/25<br />
Jason offered to run by the store and asked for my grocery list. I told him to get fruit, but I wasn't sure what kind. I explained that I needed "Audrey fruit." I also explained that I have no idea what that means anymore. Audrey used to love bananas. Now, she refuses to be in the same room with a naked banana. Once that puppy is peeled, sitting next to her on her brother's plate, she takes off with her plate to the dining room table - destination: party of one. She used to love grapes, apples, and oranges. She would eat pineapple, cherries that didn't come in a jar, and try blackberries. But lately, we're down to three options, the Audrey trifecta: raspberries, blueberries, and strawberries (with dried cranberries tossed in when those options aren't available). <br />
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Typically, she's forced to eat a few bites of a fruit she'd rather not have before moving on to something else she'd rather eat. But there's something about a mama surviving on five hours or less of sleep a night that causes her to simplify (and by simplify, I mean eliminate as much whining and table hopping as possible). She starts to buy just the foods she knows won't repulse the children. So when Jason asked what fruit to buy, I said, "I don't know, maybe try peaches? Maybe Audrey will like those." <br />
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The kids were in the kitchen with us. Jason turned to Audrey. He explained that the fruit fuss was going to stop. The glory days of mama making one snack to satisfy her and one to satisfy the boys was over. We were returning to our normal policy. If I served something she didn't like, she didn't have to eat it, but she just wasn't eating. "I don't know what game you think you're playing, but we're not going to play that game," he said.<br />
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"We're playing hide 'n seek," said Jack. <br />
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***</div>
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Luckily for China Fairy, the man-in-residence here is a good Barbie surgeon and popped her wayward leg back into place. She's good for several more miles. As for the rest of us, we're good, too. We're not perfect, and neither is this blog. It took me a week (with interruptions like dropping Jason off at the airport, a sick kid, a get-away to the grandparents, lots of boo-boos to kiss and tears over missing Daddy to wipe away, and a field trip to the Indianapolis Children's Museum) just to get it typed up. But it's here, and it feels good, especially the part where I get to put Barbie out of my mind. That part is just perfect. </div>
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kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00298604769173994651noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7926516649756652997.post-3159877628402796452014-05-11T14:54:00.000-04:002014-05-11T14:54:31.997-04:00We Can Do It! (Documentation, that is.)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(36 weeks - 4.27.14)</span></div>
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"The last pregnancy should be documented," my husband said shortly after we discovered we were going to be blessed with our fourth baby. Okay, I agreed. Then, in true Kristin-form, I did nothing. Neither did he. Apparently, neither one of us are too big on the actual work of documentation. </div>
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I would pause on friends' Facebook posts of their baby bumps, comment on their cute bellies, and think, "Oh yeah, I told Jason I'd document this pregnancy." Then, I'd go back to living my day and never get around to hitting the "pause" button, or the shutter release. </div>
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But, then I saw <a href="http://www.rosietheriveter.net/">Rosie</a> - or someone's interpretation of Rosie, taken as a part of a pregnancy photo shoot. I paused. I laughed. I messaged my talented photographer friend, Hilary, and asked for a favor. She happily obliged.</div>
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A couple Sundays later, I got all "riveted up" in what Audrey called my costume (Jason's blue button-down shirt and a red bandana). Hilary came over. She laughed. I paused in front of my yellow wall. She hit the shutter release. My crew came in to critique the shoot. </div>
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I looked like this. Jason told me I needed to work on my mean face, as in, I needed to <i>learn to grow a mean face because, apparently, I missed the day of school where they taught you to keep a straight, fierce face while letting your bicep bulge and your belly hang out</i>. <br />
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Some things take coaching. It's hard to take oneself too seriously. After all, I'm no rocket scientist. I'm only growing a human. <br />
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(Documentation - done!)<br />
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Happy Mother's Day!kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00298604769173994651noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7926516649756652997.post-6943278874265491842014-04-16T14:09:00.000-04:002014-04-16T14:09:54.285-04:00Do You Want to Build a Snowman?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Me, neither. </div>
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We were enjoying the squish of mud beneath our soccer cleats and the pop of crocus buds appearing in our yard. </div>
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Rain boots were at the ready and the zoo circled by three kids in a red wagon. </div>
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I bought potting soil. Lettuce seeds. Violets. </div>
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The neighborhood kids had emerged from hibernation and ventured into our yard toting soccer balls and thoughts of made-up games. </div>
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Rainbow-colored kites raced clouds against a pale blue track. </div>
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Spring had sprung like an old rusted lock - creaky and slow - but finally ready to reveal its treasure. </div>
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But, then: </div>
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The kids got invited to a birthday party for one of their favorite turning-four-year-old friends. </div>
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I racked my brain for ways to spend the evenings curled up, stitching on the couch while watching <em>The Voice</em> and <em>Big Bang Theory</em> with the hubs, rather than sneaking off to peruse toy aisles at Target.</div>
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A certain little snowman's carrot nose and twiggy limbs curled themselves around my mind. I pulled out dinner plates, tracing paper, and felt. I never looked back. Perhaps, I should have. </div>
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Really, someone should have warned me to just let it go.</div>
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Yesterday, I walked through sleet on my way to an ultrasound appointment. </div>
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I blame Olaf. kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00298604769173994651noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7926516649756652997.post-6375899388760521662014-04-08T00:43:00.001-04:002014-04-08T00:43:18.068-04:00Homeschooling: Our Beginning<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Recently, a sweet friend asked me how I homeschool a first grader <em>and</em> preschoolers. I gave her a disclaimer summarizing the top reasons why my example might not be the best to follow before giving her Kristin's Flying-by-the-Seat-of-Your-Pants-While-Homeschooling Methods. She asked if I had a blog. I said yes, but not a homeschooling blog. <br />
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I started this blog before we made the decision to homeschool. I began blogging because I don't make baby books. Remember those postage stamp-sized ziplock bags that the stylist hands you after she's finished your baby's (or for us procrastinators, three-year old's) first haircut? I took that golden-curl-filled bag and threw it away. (I know. I don't know why God keeps blessing me with babies. He must really like my husband.) In other words, I fall a little short. The blog was my way of showing the kids that even though there are no pictures hanging on our walls and all the developed photos have never made it out of picture boxes into albums, they have filled me up. They have mattered enough to take note of, to scribble a few lines on a scrap of paper so I don't forget. They have made my footsteps more solid while lightening my days. <br />
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But now we homeschool. It's what we do. Everyday. Even on the days we don't mean to. It seems fitting to include some of these moments on the blog as a reminder of this time, even if it's just a once-in-a-while recap of our favorite projects and biggest blunders. <br />
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<strong>But, first: Why?</strong><br />
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To be honest, when people find out that I homeschool, they rarely ask me why. They ask, "Are you crazy?" Probably. <br />
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Homeschooling was never my intention. I had the hours of my children's future school days earmarked. I was going to attempt writing fiction again. I was going to get back into mini-marathon running shape. I was going to go really wild and hang some pictures on the walls. <br />
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Then, before Audrey was even preschool-age, I passed by the New Book shelf at the library. I stopped when I saw the cover of Homeschooling: A Family's Journey by Gregory and Martine Millman. I picked it up. I have no idea why. I had only known one homeschooler growing up. One day he was at my high school, and the next day he was not. He seemed quiet and wasn't in any of my classes. I think one of my friends wanted to date him. She may have. The end.<br />
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The book intrigued me. I was impressed by the creative education this couple was building for their family. I returned the book. I enrolled Audrey in preschool. She loved it. We loved her teachers and the program. The school day interfered with Nathan's nap schedule, but he was easy-going and Audrey's class met once a week. <br />
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The next year, we enrolled her on Tuesdays and Thursdays. My husband's international travel picked up. I gave birth to Jack. Suddenly, I had two boys missing naps for the sake of drop-off and pick-up schedules. Preschool mornings, I found myself yelling things like, "Stop playing with your brother and get ready for school!" I'd silently shake my head at myself and follow it up with forcing my daughter to gulp down her breakfast while chanting at her to hurry. I loved my daughter's preschool teachers. I loved their methods for teaching the students. I hated the mother I was on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I knew I could be better. I just didn't know how to be better and send my kid to preschool. <br />
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But, I told myself that school was the norm. Everyone else could figure out how to get their kid to school two days (some of them even <em>five</em> days) a week. The other parents even looked sane. Meanwhile, we trudged through school weeks as best we could. I pulled the kids from their beds and took them, pajama-clad, to the grocery store one night when Jason was out of the country because I realized at 9:30 that it was our turn to provide the class snack, which needed to be packaged, made in a peanut-free facility, and accompanied by four-ounce cups, napkins, and a drink. I had none of those things in my pantry.<br />
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Each morning, Taiyo's mother and I took turns being the last to drop our child off at the classroom door, smiling at each other as if we shared a kinship. I still don't know that woman's name, but I thanked God for her. Everyday. I tried to build myself up for preschool days. Friends told me that preschool wore their kids out so much that they began napping in the afternoons again. Mine did not. She came home wired, acting like a zoo creature. <br />
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I told myself that if I could just get my boys to nap at the same time, at the right time, I could get two free hours to myself on preschool days. But most days, they finally fell asleep twenty minutes before we had to leave for pick-up or on the fifteen-minute drive to school, had to be woken up to go inside and retrieve their sister, and refused to nap for the rest of the day. I shook my head in silence. Again.<br />
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<strong>The Moment that Broke Me:</strong><br />
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Some areas my husband would travel to were easy for our family to navigate. The plane ride was a quick six hours. The time zone differed from ours by only three to six hours. The kids could talk to him at times that worked with our schedule. They could talk as long as they wanted, filling their dad in on their day's events or plans. <br />
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Other areas - like China - were more difficult. With a twelve-hour time difference, our days and nights were flipped. When we had time to talk, Jason was sleeping or getting ready for his day. When he had time to talk, we were trying to get to school on time. He called the Tuesday morning of his first trip to China. We were in the midst of our scarf-breakfast-pull-on-coats-and-load-everyone-in-the-car routine. I turned my phone over and saw Jason's number. I wanted to hand the phone to Audrey. I wanted her to tell her dad her hopes for her brand new day. I wanted him to tell her about the sights he had seen, the foods he had eaten, and the people he had met. But I didn't hand her the phone. Instead, I turned it off. I got her to school on time. She didn't speak to her father that day. The decision settled in my stomach like a stone. Indigestible. <br />
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<strong>The Excuse:</strong><br />
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I would love to tell you that I made the decision to homeschool right there: that I'm one of those decisive, devil-may-care, this-is-my-family-and-I'll-lead-them-as-I-please sort of parents. But I didn't, and I wasn't. Not yet. I had to let the idea ferment, read more books, take some soul-searching walks, and pray for a sign, or (more accurately) an excuse. After all, it's hard to imagine confiding in your neighbor that you pulled your kid out of a preschool with rave reviews and a wait list because you hate Tuesdays and Thursdays. <br />
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Then, one day, Jason asked, "How would you feel about moving to England?" <br />
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I loved the idea of moving to England. I loved the adventure it would allow our family and the opportunity to spend more time together while Jason completed his work in Europe. We moved ahead with plans to see if Jason's company would support the temporary move. They would. I left a message at Audrey's preschool and told them we wouldn't be using her spot in the fall: we might be moving to Europe. I read books on teaching methodologies and bought curricula. When friends asked, I told them that due to a possible temporary move, I'd be teaching Audrey in the fall. <br />
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In the end, we didn't move. By the time the logistics got figured out and approved, Jason's work visa would arrive just in time for his projects to be finished in Europe and new ones begun in Brazil. Moving to England so Jason could hop flights to Brazil didn't make much sense. But, I never thought about enrolling Audrey in preschool again. <br />
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<strong>The Aftermath:</strong><br />
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Ironically, morning is now my favorite time of day. Mornings begin with little boys coming to snuggle in my bed and tell me what they want for breakfast. Breakfasts are eaten slowly, often over discussions of the novel Audrey stayed up reading in bed the night before. Unless there's a music class or field trip to attend, pajamas often don't get shed until midmorning, or sometimes after lunch, which seems to fit this life of ours. Dreaming is no longer sequestered for the night. It seeps into our mornings as the kids tell me their hopes for each day. Anything can happen, and it began like this: I hated Tuesdays and Thursdays (and we almost moved to England, but we didn't).<br />
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<strong>Other Reasons We Began/Continue to Homeschool (because, children, I promise, I did have some good ones):</strong><br />
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1. It allows us more family time.<br />
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2. It allows us to choose curricula that best fits our kids' learning styles. <br />
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3. It allows us time to educate the kids about our faith and other atypical school subjects.<br />
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4. They get to go on more field trips, do more hands-on activities, and take fewer tests. <br />
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5. It forces us to really know what our kids' problem areas are and be responsible for coming up with ways to help them excel. <br />
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6. We can make time for art, music, and play.<br />
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7. We can take our work outside.<br />
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8. We have more opportunities to learn from everyday experiences: grocery store trips, trips to Daddy's office, historical events happening during school days, etc. <br />
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9. We have a flexible schedule to see out-of-town relatives more often. <br />
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10. We have a very small teacher-to-student ratio. <br />
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11. It's really brought our focus home, and we kind of love it, even more than we thought we would.<br />
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<strong>The Disclaimer:</strong> <br />
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Having said all of this, I'm asked frequently how long I plan to homeschool. I'm not sure. I'm not someone who draws lines in the sand and pretends they'll stand firm against the tide. I believe in reevaluating family dynamics on a yearly basis (and I find that our kids are still at the ages where things tend to change on a six-month basis). We began homeschooling as a solution to a problem that cropped up three years ago. It solved that problem. I can't tell you what problems will come next year, or the year after, and what our solutions will be for those issues. But, today, we homeschool. And, just in case the kids ever wonder how it began, now they know. kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00298604769173994651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7926516649756652997.post-77887620310684790042014-03-19T20:21:00.000-04:002014-03-19T20:21:09.112-04:00It's Beginning to Look a lot Like Spring<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
3.7.14</div>
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3.10.14</div>
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(I'm starting to recognize a pattern.)</div>
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3.12.14</div>
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(Nate has an interesting technique for getting out of a snowsuit.)</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">(3.13.14-3.15.14: short break from outside adventures for family to catch and recover from stomach bug.)</span></div>
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3.19.14</div>
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(This time it's paint on his coat, not mud. Variety, it's the spice of life.)</div>
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Just in case you've been wondering where I've been the last several days: doing laundry. Lots and lots of laundry. I think I'm caught up. Until tomorrow. It's official: spring has sprung. Bring on the detergent. </div>
<br />kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00298604769173994651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7926516649756652997.post-58339434634442105522014-03-14T04:09:00.001-04:002014-03-14T04:09:52.165-04:00Brothers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Someday, they'll kill me for this photo. But not today. Of course, they're brothers - the kind who know which stuffed animal will bring the most comfort, and how to torture said animal to elicit instant screams. They might kill each other first. <br />
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Jason and I didn't walk the short road to parenthood. Ours was three years long and dimly lit. Some days, the only things linking us to parenthood were the words we spoke: about hurdles, possible solutions, hope. Most days, our words dried up: browned leaves, crumpled and blown away. <br />
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Then, on a bright day after Halloween, Audrey was born. Healthy and vibrant, she passed out her personality like free treats for the taking. We were a couple of kids eager to fill our bags. Soon, they were stuffed, full in places we didn't realize had been empty. <br />
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Cheeks coated in sugar, we were hesitant to talk siblings, the taste of dehydrated leaves still fresh on our tongues. We liked living in the land of Counting Our Blessings rather than the Badlands. We almost decided to call it a family. But we didn't. <br />
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Had I known the who(s) that awaited us at the end of that big, dark question mark, I would have plunged from that cliff head-first. But I couldn't see the bare-bummed brothers bath time photo from the precipice, only the harrowing distance of the fall down. <br />
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Today, the boys are four and weeks-from three. Their accumulated years are small, but their impact large. After all, without them we wouldn't have these moments, scribbled and saved on scraps in the kitchen drawer waiting for a blog:<br />
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Nathan (legs under his covers preparing for bedtime, a puzzle piece held up to his ear): Audrey! Audrey! Why can't she hear me? <br />
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In the past year, the kids have been enjoying nursery rhymes. Audrey checked a book of nursery rhymes out from the library and read them to Nathan. They decided to write their own. A game ensued during lunch in which each would take a turn creating and reciting his or her own rhyme. If the other liked the rhyme, he or she would yell "Nice!" If not, the listener would yell "Trash can!" (As in, I'm throwing your rhyme away. Apparently, we're also into tossing out one another's artwork.) <br />
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Over the summer, Audrey would conduct "school" with Nathan. One afternoon, I heard her yell that it was time for school. Nathan, next to me and intrigued in his own project, yelled back, "I'll be there in two minutes. No, five minutes, Auds. Auds, I'll be there in eight minutes!" <br />
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Nathan had a paper shark that he folded in half and gave to Jack. Jack put it in his pocket. Later, Nathan tried to get it out of Jack's pocket and said, "It's broken."<br />
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"It's not broken, it's folded in half," I said.<br />
"Well, it can't swim when it's in half." <br />
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Jack was singing one afternoon while standing next to Nathan. The song contained two words, "Ella Bella," repeated over and over. <br />
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Nathan (looking at Jack, bewildered): My name is Nathan. Jack, did you forget my name?<br />
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One September afternoon, Nathan and I were reviewing an alphabet movie. "The 'a' says what?" I asked.<br />
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Nathan: ă. <br />
Me: Right. The 'a' says ă.<br />
Jack : A dog says 'ruff.' <br />
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Wednesday morning, Jack and I were making banana bread. He mumbled something about being dangerous. <br />
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Me: Dangerous? What's dangerous?<br />
Jack: I'm dangerous.<br />
Me: You're dangerous? Why are you dangerous?<br />
Jack: I'm a boy.<br />
Me: Boys aren't dangerous. Boys are nice. Just because you're a boy doesn't mean you have to act dangerous. Who told you boys are dangerous?<br />
Jack: Nathan.<br />
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And, finally, some bathtub humor to bring us back to the photo at the top. <br />
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Jack (pointing to Nathan's nipple in the bathtub): Is that your belly button?<br />
Nathan: No. Those are my dots.<br />
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On a separate occasion, Nathan came out of the bathroom grabbing his testicles and asked, "Mom, what's in here? My lungs?"<br />
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<br />Maybe those boys are a little dangerous, at least to unaccustomed funny bones - especially when those boys travel in pairs. <br />
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<br />kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00298604769173994651noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7926516649756652997.post-13775362212021726092014-03-01T07:51:00.000-05:002014-03-01T07:51:56.109-05:00Our Fearless Leader<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Sometimes, being a fearless leader is more about donning a fuzzy horse's hat and planting yourself in the snow. Or maybe that's just us.<br />
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Jason is our provider. He provides the calm steady voice in a crisis, the biggest lap, and the strongest set of arms. He also provides our daily humor, or at the very least, provokes it. <br />
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A few notes I ran across recently:<br />
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(Last Father's Day - <span style="font-size: xx-small;">let's not even talk about how long I've been hanging onto this scrap of paper<span style="font-size: small;">)</span> </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Jason was resting on the family room floor. "I better go lay some grass seed. But I don't want to get up."</span><br />
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"Well, it's your day. You can do whatever you want," Audrey said.<br />
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"Can I lie here all day?"<br />
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Audrey snickered. "If you trust me to do the grass seed."<br />
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(August 13, 2013)<br />
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Jason was making lunch while talking to Nathan. "You're a turkey."<br />
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"I'm not a turkey," Nathan said.<br />
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"You're a turkey, and guess what I'm having for lunch?" Jason asked, moved toward Nathan with his fingers curved into claws.<br />
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"Not turkey." <br />
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(Friday the 11th, month and year apparently not important enough to write down, but 2013)<br />
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Audrey: It's so nice out, too bad it's too wet.<br />
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Jason: Well, Mom might have a plan.<br />
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Nathan: Nope.<br />
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(On a day Jason was preparing for an overseas trip, presumably after Friday the 11th)<br />
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Jason: Too bad I don't have another one of those (pointing to the new Surface he had bought me to replace my old computer) to take with me. <br />
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Audrey: Too bad you don't have another one of those (pointing to me) to take with you.<br />
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(A day in 2014. I was cleaning out the pantry and overheard the following go down in the kitchen from my work <span style="font-size: xx-small;">- hiding - </span><span style="font-size: small;">place.)</span><br />
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Jason (to Audrey): If you do [garbled muffled garble]* again, I'm going to throw it off a high building.<br />
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Audrey: Where are you going to find this high building?<br />
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*I have no idea what garbled muffled garble she was doing. I do know that sometimes it's good to be the one snickering behind the closed door of the pantry, instead of the strong-armed one. Or the one wearing the horse's hat. And that we don't know what we'd do without our equine-wearing leader, except laugh less. <br />
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kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00298604769173994651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7926516649756652997.post-74740411374939134002014-02-28T16:58:00.002-05:002014-02-28T16:58:29.515-05:00Moving Forward<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Last night, I found my little artist asleep in his bed with the etch 'n sketch on top of him. I moved the etch 'n sketch to his desk. This morning, I overheard him telling his brother about his latest drawing. "This is a picture of Daddy as a kid. See, he has hair." (He apparently also resembled Johnny Depp characters from the 80's as a child.) </div>
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I just returned from spending a weekend with my little sister's family in California (a Christmas present from the guy captured in the drawing above - Jason, not Johnny Depp). As I spend this week playing catch-up with housework and schoolwork, Nate's words resonate. Some of us don't have as much hair as we used to. (In Jason's defense: he has hair - shaved very short.) Time marches on. Except for on this blog, where apparently, time has stood still since December 14th. I've recorded moments on my camera. I've recorded a few moments in texts and on paper. I have recorded nothing here, each time thinking that first I would get to the Christmas blogs, the December birthday blogs, the winter snow scene blogs. I haven't gotten to any of those blogs. Instead, I have backlogs.</div>
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So in the spirit of moving forward, I'm pulling out the notes on scrap paper and scanning through old texts in hopes of writing down a few captured moments here in the days to come that I don't want to forget. But first (in full disclosure, lest some of these moments not make sense), I should mention this: </div>
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We've been counting down the days in weeks around here. Twenty-eight to be exact. We spent the days before Christmas sharing our news with family and close friends. Our children spent those days telling anyone in sight. <br />
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One afternoon, I took the kids to a homeschool Christmas party. The hostess held a nativity before the kids and began retelling the Christmas story. She reached the part where Gabriel visits Mary to give her the news that she'll soon have a child. "<em>My</em> mom is getting a baby!" Audrey piped up. A few of the mothers sitting next to me turned with upraised eyebrows. Nothing like upstaging Jesus at Christmas. <br />
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Each snowy winter, the kids get out and make snowmen. Families of snowmen. This year was no exception. After the first big snow, the scene out our window looked very much like the ornament above, with the snowmen spaced a bit farther apart. Audrey was the architect and general contractor of the operation. "Did you make the baby?" Jason asked as she came inside.<br />
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"Oh, I made mama's belly extra big."<br />
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That's how it goes as we ease slowly out of winter into the days of coming sun. Time marches on: and what we're lacking in hair, we're making up for in baby weight. kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00298604769173994651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7926516649756652997.post-84116180246915646902013-12-14T15:07:00.000-05:002013-12-14T15:07:38.535-05:00Reindeer Games<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Yesterday, Audrey and I finished the school day with a rousing game of Conquer Mesopotamia, a "board game" in which the person who reaches the finish line (moving squares by rolling a die and doing whatever action is on the square) first, wins. Some of the squares contain questions that, if answered correctly, allow the player to advance more squares. Audrey, always looking for an angle to position herself for a win, asked for extra questions any time she fell behind. I was happy to comply, asking questions such as: "Nebuchadnezzar's beautiful wife wants to return home to Persia. What does he build for her?"<br />
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Answer: According to Audrey, it's the Hovering Gardens of Babylon. I let her move ahead two squares. After all, you know at least one of the poor sods forced to build that wonder felt like those gardens would never stop hovering over him. <br />
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Audrey won by three squares - not that any seven-year-olds were counting.<br />
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After school, we moved onto a little culinary project - chocolate-covered reindeer for Audrey's Girl Scout Christmas party. I stole the idea from the December issue of EveryDay with Rachael Ray. Ours didn't turn out as shiny bright as Rachael's reindeer. Ours looked a little like distant cousins of hers - the offspring of those that wed illegally. (Pay attention to that one in the rainbow sunglasses, he'll be important later.) <br />
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I set up the project "pieces" (pretzels, red hots, marshmallows, sucker sticks, and sunglasses that Audrey had traced and colored - found online at <a href="http://www.peepseyewear.com/">www.peepseyewear.com</a> on princess paper dolls) and melted the chocolate. Then I got out of the way. (If a hovering mother were that great, they would have made her the eighth wonder of the world.) We ran into one little hiccup: how to store the marshmallows while they were setting. Florist friends would have probably had something awesome on hand to solve the problem. We had a teacup, dental floss, and scotch tape. It wasn't perfect, but neither was Rudolph. <br />
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Audrey got down to business, humming "Deck the Halls" and decking marshmallows with antlers and sunglasses. Remember that guy in the rainbow shades? That's her Sistine Chapel. Let's call him Liberace, shall we? She became very particular when it came to Mr. Rainbow Shades. She found out which plastic bag Liberace had been assigned and scrawled her name across it (you can just make out the last few letters of her middle name in the picture above, just in case her first name wasn't sufficient). She may have made the reindeer to share with her Girl Scout friends, but no one was getting their hands on Rainbow Shades but her. After all, that's what Girl Scouts is all about: leaving the world a better place, and marking your territory (we might be a little shaky on the pledge).<br />
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As for me, I had a little love affair with this guy. Oh, those upside-down antlers. Sigh. <br />
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Audrey reunited with Liberace at the Girl Scout party and all was bliss. I accidentally took my scissors to one of the bags while trying to curl the green ribbons. Which just goes to show you ladies: don't get too fancy with your packaging, or you just might lose your bag. Or patch it with scotch tape. Your choice. kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00298604769173994651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7926516649756652997.post-80524091650139149372013-12-13T09:19:00.000-05:002013-12-13T09:19:08.589-05:00He Told Me He's The Elf on The Shelf<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHqaKs2K81G5uQyFWqek9OQaqapmV8EHvUmWetLtk4_LghstALUj-xerysaUHvnJWJ7Sl5rkljQag8VfYORoEzOQYBZdmpqUe7rwfVSksEmXsblSJ4I0WN3Ca7549r-LmFK2-GLI2dmyg/s1600/WP_20131211_001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHqaKs2K81G5uQyFWqek9OQaqapmV8EHvUmWetLtk4_LghstALUj-xerysaUHvnJWJ7Sl5rkljQag8VfYORoEzOQYBZdmpqUe7rwfVSksEmXsblSJ4I0WN3Ca7549r-LmFK2-GLI2dmyg/s400/WP_20131211_001.jpg" width="225" /></a></div>
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He may also need a haircut.<br />
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And now, an excerpt from the boys' bath time last week:<br />
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The boys practice swimming while taking their baths, switching from "floating" on their backs to sliding the length of the tub on their stomachs. They had flipped over onto their backs. Jack looked at Nathan's nipple and pointed. "Is that your belly button?"<br />
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"No. I only have one of those. These are my dots."<br />
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And now, a few stories found scribbled on a pink sheet of computer paper stashed in a kitchen drawer. I can't tell you when these stories actually occurred, but the paper I found them on has a note scrawled across the top instructing me to "figure out a plan" before October 8th (with an exclamation point, two to be precise). So without further ado, stories presumably from September (but more likely from the first week of October scribbled by a frantic mama without a plan):<br />
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Jason went to check on Nathan one night before heading to bed. He put his hand on Nathan's back. A drowsy voice issued from the pillow, "Is that God?"<br />
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"No, just Daddy."<br />
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"Just Daddy," said Nathan, eyes still closed. <br />
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An explanation by Nathan to Jack regarding rabbits:<br />
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"And they eat carrots, which are so easy to make because they're already made."<br />
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An explanation by Audrey to Nathan* as we passed a cemetery in the car:<br />
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"See those stones? There are dead people under there."<br />
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*An now an explanation from Mama about the use of the name Nathan. The really observant among you who had their morning coffee, an early morning jog, and the blessing of all synapses firing rapidly may have noticed that Nathan was not referred to as Nate in this post. Not a single time. Some of you with slow Fridays and twiddling fingers might even be asking yourselves why. Do not fear: I will tell you. In October, Nathan informed us that he doesn't like the name Nate. He only wants to be called Nathan. I asked how he felt about Bear, a nickname his father has used since Nathan was crawling. <br />
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"I like Bear. But bears are a little dangerous. Bears hunt, so if a bear is coming after you, he's probably going to kill you." <br />
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Which is a little Friday wisdom we could all use. Do not refer to Nathan as Nate, and if you see a bear coming towards you, you might want to high-tail it out of the way. He's probably going to kill you. You're welcome. <br />
<br />kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00298604769173994651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7926516649756652997.post-45379028331774280332013-12-12T13:49:00.000-05:002013-12-12T13:49:40.279-05:00While Daddy's Away<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW96Zi8hqNbdNfBwDCFwbRH3tAsDgV7UqDi4KEg58O-BLsjsOztKBb7BQzo-wPUjGp22zmnMLwPEmVYYTdmxhv13K0Xo6vrUH8rb3moESReDVDzAUPeTY2vqAkS_HfXmWRKiyoDDtVhBs/s1600/WP_20131130_002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW96Zi8hqNbdNfBwDCFwbRH3tAsDgV7UqDi4KEg58O-BLsjsOztKBb7BQzo-wPUjGp22zmnMLwPEmVYYTdmxhv13K0Xo6vrUH8rb3moESReDVDzAUPeTY2vqAkS_HfXmWRKiyoDDtVhBs/s400/WP_20131130_002.jpg" width="225" /></a></div>
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Sometimes, you have an inkling that you might be loved. Love follows you like a shadow too shy to tap you on the shoulder, but you can feel the warm fog against your neck. Other times, you know you're loved. You know, because while you travel to the UK, your children create "Fake Jason" and carry him around. Everywhere. For FOUR days. Until, Fake Jason's head mysteriously becomes severed from his body and is mourned (before being replaced by a much freakishly-smaller head). Fake Jason eats dinner with the family (where he gets fed and asked questions about his day), later he is moved to the desk by the computer or spread out across the couch to enjoy some television. Finally, I find Fake Jason camped out on my bed. "Don't forget to cover him with a sheet!" my daughter yells on her way to her room. <br />
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I dash off a text to Basingstoke with a picture of Fake Jason attached, "You better make it home in one piece. I don't think I can take 12 years of this." Sometimes, love smothers those left behind.<br />
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Luckily, for us, the time away is never long and each time we find a way to mingle our respective time zones and fit in a daily phone call or two, even if only for five minutes. But we've found the easiest way to slip ourselves into each others' days is through texts. This time, Audrey wanted in on the action. Since she doesn't have a cell phone of her own, I got to eavesdrop. A little sampling (typed as written):<br />
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Audrey:<br />
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How are you I miss you I move the man I made.to look like you. When I was writing to you the fake man was sitting at the table after lunch.some times he is playing the race game.i put him to sleep.how is UK warm or cold. From Audrey with love hope hoping you are happy.<br />
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Jason:<br />
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UK is cold like home. Did mommy like today's surprise?<br />
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(A brief interlude to explain: before he left, Audrey asked Jason to take her and Nathan on a shopping spree to buy me some gifts that would make my week go a little more smoothly. The gifts included things like bagels for breakfast, a gift card to eat out one night, and - on this particular day - a couple magazines for my reading enjoyment. I'm not in on the joke below, unless Rachel Ray and the makers of Family Circle are my heroes.)<br />
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Audrey:<br />
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Mom said she likes her gifts the hero magazines Ha ha.she thinks the other presents are heroes to though maybe she would say it a different way.we put up the lights out side the boys found interest in zanes little play house I'd some times join them while I rote the phone rang I think it was for moms dentist appointment I had to run the phone to mom.i lost the fake mans face what good is a man with no face.we made a decoration out of cranberries love love love you love Audrey with. Love.love love love.<br />
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Jason:<br />
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Thanks Audrey that was a great summary! I agree that fake men are less useful without faces. <br />
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We're glad Jason is home and closer than a text away this week. Maybe, just maybe, I'm equally glad that Fake Jason's first (relocated) and second heads have been properly recycled and are no longer resting on a pillow beside yours truly. <br />
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kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00298604769173994651noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7926516649756652997.post-1344909426809576542013-06-24T19:14:00.001-04:002013-06-25T09:15:21.576-04:00Snippets<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-SPlzAaHzI8aEw41KkLdPvuBFFaGXa1-WA2eG1NfYj4ysHd0We9QK-FWNuxXJLHx_CNa_8DiJRgUbBIYtVhje5bRPu-wiJk0KsEFGuNW_vp0EKBKayRypi9iWS4mdUwfx8vaOGaLVG5I/s1600/WP_20130519_047.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-SPlzAaHzI8aEw41KkLdPvuBFFaGXa1-WA2eG1NfYj4ysHd0We9QK-FWNuxXJLHx_CNa_8DiJRgUbBIYtVhje5bRPu-wiJk0KsEFGuNW_vp0EKBKayRypi9iWS4mdUwfx8vaOGaLVG5I/s320/WP_20130519_047.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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It's 4 o' clock and I'm curling my fork into a mess of tomato-spiked spaghetti, onions, and basil leftovers straight from the stainless-steel pot I heated it up in. I'm not sure whether to call it or the teacup of yogurt tossed with blueberries and granola I had at eleven my lunch, and which one to deem as a snack. It's summer and anything goes. I'm finishing the spaghetti off with a handful of bittersweet chocolate chips. Label them what you will, I'll just call them a little peek at heaven. </div>
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Summer is full of those little peeks. I'm talking actual peeks here (although, my summer and palms have seen their fair share of chocolate chips this season). Peeks at growth as your oldest tries to squeeze into a swimsuit from a year ago. Peeks at adventure as your kids head off to the retention pond to try their hand at fishing for the first time. And sometimes, peeks at the things you let slip during a busy school year as you crack open a "junk" drawer and find a mass of handwritten anecdotes meant for a future blog that never found its way. </div>
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My youngest is up to his elbows in the crisper drawer of the refrigerator. I have precisely six minutes before he moves to lining my kitchen counters with every condiment within his grasp. It's not a "write a full-blown blog" kind of day. But as I read through the chicken scratch of notes I began compiling in March, I'm picking up on some patterns. One major theme appears to be Nathan and food, or more precisely, Nathan's thoughts about me and food:</div>
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Nathan went through a phase in which he made requests by referring to his body. For weeks, I was awaken by requests like, "Mom, my body wants celery and jelly." Nathan's body had a penchant to the peculiar in the early morning hours. (I gave him celery and peanut butter that morning. Just in case you're wondering.) </div>
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One evening, I overheard him inform Jason, "My body wants apples, but Mommy's body forgot to buy apples." (Mama's body is very unreliable.)</div>
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And now, a series of quotes from one week in March:</div>
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On Sunday: "Mom, when you eat ice cream, you want to keep your eyes open to look for cherries."</div>
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On Thursday: Jason was working from home. Nathan, the only child awake, was occupied. I decided to take advantage and grab a quick shower. When I came out, Nathan informed me that while I was busy, he found the chocolate chips and ate a bunch. </div>
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"Where is the bag now?" I asked.</div>
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"I'm not telling you. I don't want you to take them and eat them all."</div>
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On Friday: Nathan saw the big bag of chocolate chips (rescued from his hiding spot) back in the pantry. "You didn't eat them all!"</div>
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May 15th: Nathan was eating breakfast by himself as his siblings slept. He heard Jack rattling the baby gate blocking his doorway. He offered to go let him out and left the table. Halfway out of the kitchen he turned back, "Don't eat my breakfast while I'm gone."</div>
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Clearly, a couple of months didn't do anything to change his perception of his mother as an eating-force to be reckoned with (or at least not trusted). However, as much as he worries that I will eat the contents of the kitchen and leave him nothing but scraps, there is one morsel he's always willing to send my way: his bread crusts. My children used to eat their bread crusts. They didn't know that not eating them was an option. Then, they went to grandma's house. Grandma made them sandwiches. She asked if they wanted their crusts cut off. They thought this was a fantastic idea. They never ate their crusts again. (This has happened as mothers send their kids off to grandma's house the world over. Frazzled mamas complain to said mothers about the good thing they had going. Grandmas, seasoned problem-solvers that they are, buy those plastic do-hickeys that cut sandwiches into perfect butterflies or dinosaurs and stuff them in the grandkids' Easter baskets.* The mama who created the do-hickey sends Facebook messages to all her grandma friends telling them that children of this millennia do not eat crust. They believe her. She is a millionaire.**) Jason and I find ourselves floating in whole wheat crusts come lunch time. We've switched to guerrilla warfare tactics. He's begun to tell the kids that the crusts are magic, that to grow big and strong you need to eat the magic. </div>
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May 21st: "I don't want to eat the magic."</div>
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But he does want to eat everything else.*** Before I get my hands on it. </div>
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* We love you, Mom, and the plastic dinosaur do-hickey. Nate tells me he'll eat his crusts when he's eight.</div>
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**This story is completely fabricated. But it sounds true.</div>
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***Except tomatoes.</div>
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<br />kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00298604769173994651noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7926516649756652997.post-44001147975523309162013-06-19T13:26:00.000-04:002013-06-19T13:26:41.681-04:00School Days: Kindergarten<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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We finished kindergarten on a Sunday this year with one last field trip: a celebratory family outing to the zoo, complete with a commemorative smashed penny. The machine we visited offered a selection of four pictures for your penny-smashing pleasure. Audrey chose a dolphin. Jason set the levers to point to "dolphin" and Audrey wound the gears. Her flattened penny clanked into the dispenser. She pulled it out to admire the machine's handiwork and found herself face-to-face with a walrus. I found a new penny. Jason put it, with fifty cents, into the dispenser. He set the dials. Audrey cranked the machine. Her penny clanked. It was a walrus. It just goes to show you: sometimes, you think you're going after a dolphin, but you end up in possession of a walrus. Kindergarten: it's not all about reading and arithmetic. </div>
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Here are a few other things kindergarten was about this year (or at least, a few of our most memorable moments):</div>
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When I asked Audrey what her favorite thing about homeschool was this year, she said, "I like trying to impress you with my handwriting. I like trying to make you proud." She succeeded in her endeavor, but when I look back to what she enjoyed most about school I'm reminded of introducing her to archaeology. We studied Ancient History this year and began the year with a discussion of why we know what we do about history. We attended a homeschool class led by an archaeologist at The Children's Museum. Then, we conducted a little "archaeological dig" of our own - in our backyard. </div>
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We spent the first half of the year studying animals for Science. One of our favorite weeks was spent studying bats (including experiments on sonar, a toothpick-and-construction paper diagram of a bat, and bat crafts). The picture above shows Audrey building a bat box at a local Parks and Rec event that week. </div>
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The picture above was taken at Ruby Falls. Two things: 1) This field trip really didn't have much to do with what we studied in kindergarten, since we'll cover Earth Science next year. 2) It's highly likely that this field trip will stay fresher in my mind than Audrey's, as I will always remember it as the day Jason grabbed Nathan before he finished scaling the railings of a lookout point atop a cliff. When I look at that picture, I see a lightening bolt and my heart begins those tap dancing palpitations that signal cardiac arrest could be in my future. 3) Not all the things you learn in kindergarten are fun facts, such as bats can eat up to 600 mosquitoes an hour. Some are more terrifying and practical in nature, like learning first-hand why Eddie Bauer makes monkey-themed leashes for children. 4) Sometimes, your teacher tells you she's going to teach you two things. Then she sneaks in two extras. (P.s. Audrey loved the field trip. She spent the tour at the front of the line, holding hands with the geologist and asking her questions. The rest of us heard several laughs from up front waft to the middle of the pack where we walked. Later, our tour guide informed us that Audrey was assisting her in keeping things light by adding helpful comments like, "I'm glad I'm not as big as some of the people down here" when we had to squeeze through a section of the cave dubbed "Weight Watcher's Pass.") </div>
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We happened to be visiting dear friends in Jacksonville a week after studying alligators and crocodiles, so our families loaded all the kids into two cars and headed to St. Augustine Alligator Farm. We watched the largest alligator at the farm get its afternoon snack of rats. It was a lesson in the food chain, and that high jumpers can come in unlikely packages. </div>
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We're technically in our third week of summer. We've settled on a rare day of summer in which our first event on the family calendar takes place at 6 pm. Audrey has spent her morning in the center of a pool of library books, wearing a pair of flowered pajama pants that look like capri pants. The legs hung to her ankles last year. She's stretching out - in every possible way. I don't know what she'll take with her from our kindergarten year. She learned to read and perform simple addition and subtraction. She read about Sumerians and Egyptians and Phoenicians. We attended Parks and Rec programs on Squirrels, Beavers, and Foxes. We performed experiments in the bathtub. We caught a children's opera and a performance of The Nutcracker. We forgot what a clean house looks like and remembered what it felt like to take our history book out to the hammock and spend a day lost at the library. We stretched. We grew. We forgot our manners sometimes. She helped me, and I helped her, get a little closer to who we were intended to be. Kindergarten: 2012-2013.</div>
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<br />kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00298604769173994651noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7926516649756652997.post-36972851916816901602013-01-10T22:45:00.000-05:002013-01-11T11:17:48.997-05:00For Posterity's Sake: "Week" in Review 125, or Boys Without Pants<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Sunday, the boys found me making muffins in the kitchen. Nathan grabbed the footstool and soon the boys were jockeying for toe space and swats at the mixing bowl with the big silver spoon. The floor caught a dusting of flour and cornmeal. <br />
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Muffins in the oven, I relieved the boys of their footstool and <strike>swords</strike> spoons and began piling dishes in the sink. I looked to my right. Jack sat, pantless, in the pile of flour wiping it up with his discarded pants. <br />
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I understand the inclination to multipurpose. I'm not surprised my little ones find it so easy to turn one thing into another, being such shape-shifters themselves: lion to lion tamer, student to teacher, serious professional to comedians. Actually, always comedians.<br />
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Some of our other moments from the weeks past:<br />
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Audrey was quite the <strike>character</strike> angel in the children's Christmas program at church. Back at home, she asked Jason who was the prettiest in the program. He said that all the kids were pretty. Audrey repeated the question. Jason repeated his answer. This continued for several minutes as Jason insisted that all the kids in the program were pretty. Then he walked downstairs. <br />
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"He doesn't seem to understand what 'prettiest' means," she said. <br />
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Audrey put on a Christmas puppet show one night using clothespins for the Wise Men and baby Jesus, a cardboard house she'd crafted for the stable, and a star taped to a straw, illuminated by a flashlight. She reenacted the story of the Wise Men traveling to bring gifts to the Christ child. Jason asked if she remembered what the Wise Men gave Jesus.<br />
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"Sure," she said, "gold, myrrh, and Frankenstein."<br />
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Jack has a tendency to push his food away at dinner, or give it away by tossing it to the dog. He was up to his normal tricks one Tuesday at dinner. (Jack, that is, not the dog.)<br />
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"He's steadfast," I said.<br />
"That's a good word," Jason said.<br />
"From now on, I'm not stubborn. I'm steadfast."<br />
"I'm going to use that on my next PM (Performance Management) review."<br />
"When I stub my toe, I'm going to be stub-fast," said Audrey.<br />
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The week of Christmas, I found Audrey scrounging around for scotch tape, an empty toilet paper tube in her hand. "It's going to be his (Nathan's) birthday present, so be still about it."<br />
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One Sunday, we were preparing lunch after church. Jason turned on the television to catch the beginning of the Colts game. <br />
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"Oh, today is that boring day where we watch football," Audrey said.<br />
"Tell me how you really feel," said Jason.<br />
"I really don't like it."<br />
"Yeah, I got that."<br />
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On Monday, Audrey shooed the boys out of the kitchen, instructing Nathan to take Jack to the playroom. Nate obeyed. <br />
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"Now that they're gone, we can talk," she said.<br />
"What do you want to talk about?" I asked.<br />
"How about fish. Tell me everything you know that other people don't know about fish."<br />
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We had a rowdy crew on our hands at dinner one night. Jason asked them to settle down and eat so he wouldn't have to raise his voice and "get mad at them." <br />
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"I don't like to get mad at you," he said.<br />
"Do you like getting mad at me?" Audrey asked.<br />
"I don't like getting mad at you at all."<br />
"You don't like me at all?" Nathan asked.<br />
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Over Christmas break, I spent a day working at a book sale. When I came home, Nathan greeted me. "I love you. I want to go bye-bye with you, because I love you. I will ride a white horse. Biggest in the world. You will ride with me because it's the biggest in the world. And I can fly."<br />
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Jason to Nathan: Do you know that sometimes I have no idea what you're saying?<br />
Nate: Uh-huh.<br />
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Nate helped me make crepes one afternoon. The milk had to be poured into the batter a little at a time. Nathan wanted to dump it in all at once, so I explained that we couldn't. "Wait while I read the directions," I said.<br />
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Two minutes later, I saw him peek at the recipe, grab the bowl of milk, and pour it in. "Don't worry," he said, "I read the directions." <br />
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One afternoon, Nathan came to me, eyes the size of craters, with Audrey following sheepishly behind. "You put me in the trashcan?" he asked. <br />
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I put a hand on each of his arms and looked him in the eyes. "Would I put my sweet bear in the trash can?" I asked. <br />
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"You put me in trashcan?" he asked again. (Read: Yes, Mom. I absolutely believe you'd put your sweet bear in the trashcan.)<br />
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I assured him that I would not toss him in the garbage. He looked back at his sister, an alligator smile slung across her face. He realized he'd been had. <br />
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A while later, Audrey and I were parked on the couch reading. She asked Nate if he would bring her some Kleenex so she could blow her nose. Nate returned a few minutes later holding the stiff paper that had been shoved inside his father's new tennis shoes. He laughed as he handed it over. Audrey laughed, too. "That was much funnier than the trashcan," she said. <br />
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Lately, Nate has been scared of going to sleep in his room. He won't leave his bed (because his father told him not to one night), but we will hear him sobbing against his pillow ten minutes after we put him to bed. One of us will check on him and get a report of what is frightening him that night: dragons or dinosaurs or bears. One night this week, it was my turn. I asked why he was crying. He admitted a fear of cows (attacking him under the cloak of darkness, I assume). <br />
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"Honey, cows are good. You get your milk from cows. You get ice cream from cows. Nate, you <em>want</em> a cow in your room." He went right to bed. I credit the cows. <br />
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Tuesday morning, Nate woke up and came into our master bedroom. <br />
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"Where is Daddy?" he asked.<br />
"Daddy is working," I said.<br />
"He went to work?"<br />
"He's working downstairs today," I said.<br />
"Is he wearing pants?"<br />
"Yes."<br />
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Never knowing Jason to mill around not wearing pants, I was a little confused. "Pants like these?" he asked, pointing to the yoga pants I was wearing. (Technically, they double as my pajama pants, but that's a story for another time.*) <br />
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"He probably is wearing pajama pants."<br />
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The next morning, Nate woke up and ran downstairs right as Jason was leaving the house. Jason poked his head back into the kitchen to tell him goodbye.<br />
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"Are you wearing Mama's pants?" Nathan asked.<br />
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No son, we don't multipurpose quite that far.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">The boys displaying their ability to multipurpose: </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">family heirloom/mode of transportation (Jack lies on </span></div>
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* Another time: The Tale of the Multipurposed Pants</div>
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I used to wear pajama pants to bed: regular, run-of-the-mill black, cotton-jersey pajama pants. They were comfortable. They were old. Very, very old. One morning, Nathan "Houdinied" his way out of the house and I had to chase him down in said pants. A few weeks later, Jason walked up behind me while I was wearing the pants. </div>
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"You do know the butt of those are bare, right?"</div>
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As he described my underwear, I immediately thought back to my dash down the sidewalk, as I assured him that no, I don't willingly and knowingly walk around in threadbare pants. Then, I threw them out. Santa tucked a new pair of "pajama" pants into my stocking this Christmas. They are yoga pants: thick and holeless and perfect for chasing runaways down the street. Like I said, multipurposing: I understand the inclination. </div>
kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00298604769173994651noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7926516649756652997.post-33934269923386528122012-11-25T15:55:00.001-05:002012-11-25T15:55:16.069-05:00Audrey: An Update<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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She's a teense on stilts. Her legs parade around as a 5T, but her waist is holding steady at a 2. You might say, she's only growing up. But, in spite of what her waist might lead you to believe, part of her is ever-expanding. This one has a brain that just won't quit. </div>
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Her creativity: it's stretching. Her stories may not be long. They may not follow a pattern. They might not make much sense. But, they are always, always entertaining. A short sampling:</div>
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"That was the story of the beautiful butterfly who had lots of kids, but one died. But, she had many more and then the one came back to life. Created by Audrey Paige. She is five."</div>
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(Describing a Lego creation) "It's a bird: a toucan who lives in the jungle. In Alaska!"</div>
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She might not always get the words right:</div>
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(Singing) "I rebeat (repeat) the sounding joy."</div>
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(Attempting to "rebeat" her father's singing) "G.I. Joe, great American in the road!" (For the record, Jason's version ended with "hero".)</div>
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She hasn't learned the nuance of every word:</div>
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"Can we have a movie night?" she asked.</div>
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"I don't know. I'm going to have to run out," I said.</div>
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"Run out of what?"</div>
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Other words, she knows all too well:</div>
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"You can play with your princesses during quiet time," I said.</div>
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"You can't call it 'princesses' when there's only one," she corrected.</div>
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She's grown to see the world through a unique lens:</div>
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"It's our last day for Peter Pan," she said. "We read two chapters on football day."</div>
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"On football day?"</div>
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"Yeah. Dad watched football all day after church."</div>
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Audrey recognized a neighbor, but couldn't remember her name. I told her the girl's name. Audrey asked how I knew. "I know her mom," I said.</div>
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"Is her mom your friend?"</div>
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"Well, she just moved here, but we're becoming friends."</div>
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"Is she becoming your best friend?" she asked. </div>
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"I don't think my best friend, but a friend."</div>
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"You never know what can happen, Mom!" she said, running outside to play with her brothers. </div>
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One Friday, Audrey asked when Emmy (our dog) will die. She then described her burial plans for our sweet Em, which included putting the dog in a box and surrounding her with "things", before decorating the box and writing Emmy's name on it so we'd know it was her. (This leads me to wonder how many things she plans to bury in our backyard.)</div>
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Audrey made huge strides in her swimming abilities this summer with the help of her teacher, Valerie. "It's some kids' worse thing when she lets go of them to have them try by themselves," she said after a lesson. "It's my happiest thing."</div>
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Jason holds the title of family jokester and magician. Audrey is still trying to figure out how he was able to make a (murphy) bed appear and disappear while on vacation a couple years ago. One afternoon, I handed her a duck-shaped peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Failing to see the avian cookie cutter hiding on the counter, she asked me how I had made it. "Mama magic," I said. Later, upon finding the cookie cutter, she asked if I had "joked" her. </div>
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"Mom, I didn't know you joke sometimes. You decided to try it today?"</div>
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Jason and Audrey seem to be developing a comedy routine all their own:</div>
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Jason brought a set of chopsticks home from Japan for each member of our family. He took them out of the bag, spread them across the center of the table and asked, "What are these for?"</div>
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"Knitting," said Audrey.</div>
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Some typical Audrey/Jason dinner banter:</div>
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"Audrey, you're doing such a good job reading, next year you'll be reading Harry Potter," Jason said.</div>
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"What are you meaning?" she asked.</div>
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"Audrey, is the answer A, B, C, or D?"</div>
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"A."</div>
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"No, C. The answer is always C."</div>
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"What is the riddle?"</div>
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"What did angels wear?" Jason asked.</div>
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"White shirts and skirts," said Audrey.</div>
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"Were there boy angels?"</div>
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"Well, Gabriel was a boy, so I imagine there are boy angels, Daddy." </div>
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One day, I read Audrey a library book about an octopus who searches for the perfect crag in a rock to hide and lay her eggs. The book accurately portrayed the life of a mother octopus, who dies shortly after her eggs hatch. "I know another whose lives are like octopuses," she told her father at dinner. "We are."</div>
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"That's right," he agreed. "You guys hatched and mama's life was over," he laughed. </div>
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One afternoon, Jason brought up the idea of cleaning out the garage while the kids rode bikes in the driveway and cul de sac. "We could kill two birds with one stone," he said.</div>
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"I want to kill a bird," said Audrey.</div>
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Audrey crawled into our bed early one morning. When Jason roused himself for the day, he found Audrey between us. "I thought you were Nate," he said. "I thought you were bigger than that."</div>
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"Surprise!" she said.</div>
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I sneezed. Jason said, in a sing-song way, "God bless you!" </div>
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Audrey responded, "God messed you up!"</div>
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One afternoon, Jason prepared to go till the garden (having not done much physical activity in the months prior). "I hope I don't have a heart attack," he joked on his way out.</div>
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"What's a heart attack?" Audrey asked.</div>
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Jason explained how the heart works and what happens when someone experiences a heart attack. He then explained that he was joking and would be fine. Then, he walked out the door. "There's something crazy about him," Audrey said, heading to the closet and grabbing her shoes. "I better go check on him."</div>
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Of course, if the comedy routine falls through with her father, Nathan's becoming quite a good stand-in:</div>
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Audrey: (as Nate refused to help her pick up) You're mean.</div>
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Nathan: No, I Nate.</div>
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Audrey: You're Nate, but you're being mean. </div>
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Audrey: You're a mammal.</div>
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Nathan: No, I Nate. </div>
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Audrey: You are called Nate. Mom is a mammal and we were born from her, so we are mammals.</div>
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Nathan: No. I Nate. </div>
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One night at dinner, the kids wanted yogurt. I told them they needed to eat the rest of their meal first. Nate motioned to the plate he was diligently emptying forkful by forkful, and reiterated my rule. </div>
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"Nate is very sensible," Audrey said.</div>
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"Yeah, and I have all my hair," he said. </div>
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Close to bedtime one night, I asked Audrey to run outside to find a stray container. Nathan ran to the back door. "I'll get it!"</div>
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Audrey tore after him. "No, I'll get it!"</div>
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A few minutes later, I heard her yell again. "I win!"</div>
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"I lose!" Nate yelled, just as loud and proud. (Ironically, no one brought in the container.)</div>
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Audrey asked if she could ride the penny-a-ride horse at Meijer, following a successful shopping spree. I agreed. She mounted the plastic steed, put her penny in the slot, and waited. The horse sputtered, but never left the gate. </div>
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"I'll help!" Nate said. He walked to the front of the horse and gave the animal's front hooves a good yank. It sprang to life, suddenly moving up and down.</div>
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"Impressive!" Audrey yelled from her perch atop the saddle.</div>
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Of course, what's a growing five (six, now that I'm typing this all out)-year-old without a growing attitude?</div>
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An original song:</div>
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"I've always been a little bit right. Yes, I've always been a little right."</div>
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Another original song:</div>
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"Okay, okay, okay, okay, let's go because it's a nice day (repeat). </div>
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Okay, okay, just leave the dishes in the sink and come on over. </div>
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Okay, okay, okay, okay, leave the dishes in the sink until it gets deep.</div>
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Just jump on the stage. Just jump on the stage.</div>
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Come on over.</div>
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(Nathan followed her instructions and jumped on the stage. He was promptly pushed off.)</div>
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One night, after patiently waiting for me to finish a story, Audrey glanced over and said, "Now can you zip your mouth, please, so I can tell you something?"</div>
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One afternoon as Audrey was hanging "decorations" through the house for a make-believe party, she asked, "Will friends come for Nathan's birthday?" </div>
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I explained that since Nate was little, we'd probably just celebrate as a family. "I want people to come admire it," she said. "Did friends come admire me after I was born?"</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">(Audrey got temporary tattoos at a pirate-themed birthday party. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"> She asked if she could put one on. I agreed, as long as she didn't put it on </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"> her face. She listened. She came out of the bathroom with that skull and </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">crossbones slapped perfectly-centered across her windpipe.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">One afternoon</span>, after pulling off a feat of kindergarten-genius in front of Nathan, Audrey threw her hands up and said, "Yes, I know. I'm a rocket star!"</div>
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And she is. She's our "rocket" star, ready to launch whether we're ready or not. She is knows-no-bounds energy, with a hunger for discovery. She is effervescent, and moving at the speed of light. We are just the launch pad, left to watch, praying that she stays in orbit. </div>
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I would not mind stalling the journey, collecting the moments to lock them - frozen - in an Audrey-at-five time capsule. But five does not stand still:</div>
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"Prince Eric is my favorite prince," she said after watching <i>The Little Mermaid</i>.</div>
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"Why?" I asked.</div>
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"I like the look of him."</div>
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"You have a make-up lesson today," I told her one evening after we had just gotten out of the car from a day-long visit with relatives from out-of-town. "Do you want to go?"</div>
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Audrey's eyes widened. "Yes! What am I going to learn?"</div>
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"You'll probably work on the same things you've been doing: bobbing up an down, backstroke, scissor kicks, frog kicks."</div>
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Suddenly, she seemed a little crest-fallen as she realized that I was talking about a make-up swim lesson and not a tutorial on mascara application. </div>
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And, just like that, five became six. </div>
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No, this is one launch for which we're completely unprepared. But it's coming, ready or not. After all, she's only growing up. </div>
<br />kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00298604769173994651noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7926516649756652997.post-48487512108388729022012-03-21T17:37:00.008-04:002012-03-21T21:19:31.895-04:00Stuck in the Middle, and Two<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWhK2aHAY8sWLDds5CiM2EHpNQwouJuPiZUBktoHQlBZQjsrmtItCB0oC1Egi0aqe5P5wxfKh80uzFlFAM8wKCxAknNG6GQaiOBMfNcFhj_TrBkl9CXFGMF9s1x1SaYaV32K85zGlOOIo/s1600/Natebday.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 355px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWhK2aHAY8sWLDds5CiM2EHpNQwouJuPiZUBktoHQlBZQjsrmtItCB0oC1Egi0aqe5P5wxfKh80uzFlFAM8wKCxAknNG6GQaiOBMfNcFhj_TrBkl9CXFGMF9s1x1SaYaV32K85zGlOOIo/s400/Natebday.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722469212833599154" border="0" /></a><br />I have been lax in my posting. So, rather than attempt a typical Week in Review, I thought I'd do a little update on each child and who he/she is right now - beginning with Nathan. Because, sometimes, you just have to begin in the middle.<br /><br />Nathan rang in the end of 2011 by turning two, landing him squarely in the phase I refer to as "Game On!" (No. No, I do not really say this out loud in the presence of others. I say it in my head, which makes me appear much saner.) If Nate joined an Indian tribe, his name would be Boy With Many Hands Who Moves Silent like the Night. If he were a movie title, it would be <span style="font-style: italic;">Chaos Unleashed</span>. If he were in prison, he'd be kept in "the hole" to keep the other inmates from getting any ideas. If he were in the circus, he'd be a star. <br /><br />You see, the boy knows tricks. But, more importantly, he knows how to set a scene. It's dramatic to break down the baby gate guarding one's bedroom door. But, it's much more dramatic (and devious and beneficial to further schemes) to break down one's baby gate while one's father (and baby gate ninja-master) is in Japan, leaving your baby gate-handicapped mother at a disadvantage. Said gate-challenged mother might attempt to fix the disassembled gate before deciding to rectify the <span style="font-style: italic;">Babies Gone Wild</span> situation by other means, namely, a filing cabinet and night stand pushed flush with the door. This will work. For one night, after which, the smarter-than-his-mother two-year-old will teach himself to climb over the makeshift baby gate. His mother will discover this the next morning when she is awaken by a thud downstairs - where no one sleeps and, therefore, no one should be. Luckily, God will give her the good sense to recognize the sound as thump of milk jug against hardwood before she scrambles under the bed for the mammoth walking stick (a.k.a. club) her husband purchased from a Jamaican artisan on their honeymoon, and tries to get her jiu jitsu on. <br /><br />That's how my little man likes to begin his days, with a nice dose of dairy: two-percent, minus a crazy stick-toting mama. <br /><br />Other things he enjoys right now:<br /><br />Rearranging the contents of the refrigerator. Particularly the condiments.<br /><br />Taunting his mother by running through the kitchen with raw eggs (collected during food stuffs reorganization sprees). And, on one occasion, biting into the Nate-napped egg in a last ditch effort to keep it from his mother's hands. (The egg carton has been permanently relocated to the refrigerator's top shelf.)<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheVI7FVOnKeuTDrMSRra5iRrI3HVnGjK0qIaCf66IOA8SLzaBDf0l5mT46ZK6Pk-wz5Y0fu1AWFXgRiyznn6tWB5l54yx9Sn7dGKY6QNT5TfHj5IBKJ-wRspSHgKVs3rbSPoGNmtcUH3E/s1600/IMG_1709.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheVI7FVOnKeuTDrMSRra5iRrI3HVnGjK0qIaCf66IOA8SLzaBDf0l5mT46ZK6Pk-wz5Y0fu1AWFXgRiyznn6tWB5l54yx9Sn7dGKY6QNT5TfHj5IBKJ-wRspSHgKVs3rbSPoGNmtcUH3E/s400/IMG_1709.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722469006474937314" border="0" /></a><br />Creating artwork (on the walls, the chairs, the tub and tile) with the fallen wax soldiers his big sister leaves behind. (The crayons have also been moved to a high shelf, and all but the dry-erase ones replaced with more just-in-case-Jack-eats-one friendlier soy ones.)<br /><br />Climbing into Jack's exersaucer and bouncing joyously up and down, until he realizes he can't get himself out.<br /><br />Unrolling the entire roll of toilet paper in an attempt to stuff the porcelain bowl before being interrupted by his mother. <br /><br />Using clean dish towels and shoving the dirty ones back into the drawer.<br /><br />Houdining his way beyond the baby gates and deadbolt and out into the neighborhood, preferably to any yard with a swing set. (The front door is now equipped with the mother-of-all childproof locks. Now, no one can get out. Or in.)<br /><br />Climbing the grape trellis and flinging himself over the five-foot fence to escape to the neighborhood common area. (We no longer have a trellis. Or a grapevine.)<br /><br />Building Lego towers with his sister and knocking them down before she's ready, affording him an eighty-percent chance of getting beaten up before noon. (Audrey has been reminded - again - of the rule that she may not hit her brother. No matter how misguided his taste in architecture may be.)<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxqVgnEu4BRz6QiDTtue9WawS_AR91huIia_gcK02lVy7C7zvN0_6a5BX4dHIufRoINanF_m3Xo9vIsyVAmYkr4slOmVFJohCVutTEvMppGWLi6bfj0x7CZW0rSmIitv4TGknUBQBeN_k/s1600/IMG_1950.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxqVgnEu4BRz6QiDTtue9WawS_AR91huIia_gcK02lVy7C7zvN0_6a5BX4dHIufRoINanF_m3Xo9vIsyVAmYkr4slOmVFJohCVutTEvMppGWLi6bfj0x7CZW0rSmIitv4TGknUBQBeN_k/s400/IMG_1950.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722468778153722050" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(photo by Audrey)<br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span>Creating his<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span></span></span></span>own take on the English language. Nate has dubbed mandarin oranges "Nemos", and seems to have no problem devouring them, despite his passion for a certain short-finned fish. His father, displaying the power of a Transformer to shift his persona, is now "Babby" (Buddy + Daddy). <br /><br />The power of a "magic" kiss. This one believes, I tell you. Down deep. I have woken to a wailing boy passing an injured index finger through the bars of his baby gate (how he injured a finger in his sleep he has yet to reveal) at 4 a.m., begging a kiss. One kiss and the boy turned around and put himself back to sleep. <span style="font-style: italic;">Really</span>. What about those instances when a parent can't be reached quickly enough for a magic kiss? Nate's not above kissing his own knee or foot. I've seen it. He's self-sufficient, this one. And flexible. <br /><br />Covered arms. Nate has a casual style that matches his easy-going attitude, with the exception of one thing: his sleeves, which must remain down at all times (while washing his hands, while eating spaghetti, while painting). <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></div></div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRmqibaZy8wb4Q9N-D47ZMby3brsA8OkR6hLzqbCjke_YZgw5_qErq6J6ghBSNFANf7FMdtvbfA-rP8gZyNsQ3HolSUOtKGYzII1QEbUq4oz3gMbLODxmVd_Kfv2RuRFzDxbk14jNky58/s1600/IMG_1961.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRmqibaZy8wb4Q9N-D47ZMby3brsA8OkR6hLzqbCjke_YZgw5_qErq6J6ghBSNFANf7FMdtvbfA-rP8gZyNsQ3HolSUOtKGYzII1QEbUq4oz3gMbLODxmVd_Kfv2RuRFzDxbk14jNky58/s400/IMG_1961.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722468384262233586" border="0" /></a><br />Sleeping in his closet. Nathan has developed a fear of what may be just outside his window. We had a few stormy nights, and the wind played against his walls like a battering ram. He began to panic at bedtime. We would find him wearing his sheets tight against his head like a shroud, always pointing to the window when we unwound him. Jason covered his blinds with a dark sheet, hoping to blot out the monster behind the pane. But minutes later, I found him crouched on top of the windowsill, nose against the glass, sobbing. We tried to let him sleep in Audrey's room - to the detriment of her bathroom (and the waterlogged baseboards). We tried to move Jack into the same room as Nate - to the detriment of Jack (who did not expect a crib hijacking midway through the night). We hoped the return of nice weather would ease his mind. But when we checked on him, we couldn't find him - until we opened the closet. We moved him back to his bed. We found him back in the closet. The closet is now outfitted with pillows and blankets. He prefers to sleep there with the door closed. Lights out. I can't say I blame him. I tried it out once. It's cozy. And has great acoustics. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgptKrVnkAUMfynWy4FIEYWH6odHNRZQlEX9WqR4pAjU4s91Cqj765Yd4riOliqLrzbLit-kVqHdIB8Bgb_eskG3ZGuUUxh1Es7wAl4tWUoi_eexttggZ6_SRYrUsyEIQgOU_5clqxtcjY/s1600/IMG_1967.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgptKrVnkAUMfynWy4FIEYWH6odHNRZQlEX9WqR4pAjU4s91Cqj765Yd4riOliqLrzbLit-kVqHdIB8Bgb_eskG3ZGuUUxh1Es7wAl4tWUoi_eexttggZ6_SRYrUsyEIQgOU_5clqxtcjY/s400/IMG_1967.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722467986716789218" border="0" /></a><br />Two is a little like that. It's about cozying-up to your new-found abilities and trying them on for size. It's finding your place and leaving a dent (or red crayon mark). It's noise and devious silence. It's two hands (refusing to roll up their sleeves) introducing themselves to the dirt and showing him they've come out to play. Game on.kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00298604769173994651noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7926516649756652997.post-67169113843666976602012-02-02T10:39:00.008-05:002012-03-21T17:37:26.599-04:00Thirty-five (and Ten)<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd8tQ3evit1VL2k5Re-a_sgSTSXjmUQ-bmTn0fv8VGgMMZEQXRbWaDeICRPP1ILLgA3EI5x2VXmz0mupBtmjjWt8j6X1-Q4QVji0jN6cRq5n8arWleCFvty2ybiyontyRadUvYJQBkL18/s1600/IMG_9642.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd8tQ3evit1VL2k5Re-a_sgSTSXjmUQ-bmTn0fv8VGgMMZEQXRbWaDeICRPP1ILLgA3EI5x2VXmz0mupBtmjjWt8j6X1-Q4QVji0jN6cRq5n8arWleCFvty2ybiyontyRadUvYJQBkL18/s400/IMG_9642.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704565678278472226" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(picture by Jason, taken in front of the Colosseum<br />during a 10-year-anniversary trip to Rome)<br /></span></div><br /><br /><br />We have been teaching Audrey to count: by ones, by fives, by tens. We count by fingers, by seashells, by stacks of pennies, by chocolate chips. Our methods teach the concrete - items absolute. What we haven't taught Audrey about numbers is that the those little devils are tricky, sliding right through your fingers if you don't keep a tight grip and careful count.<br /><br />Jason made up a hand-clap game as an easy way to give Audrey practice counting by fives and tens. He calls out a number. She has to give him enough "high tens" and high fives to add up to the number. Last week, he turned three high tens and a high five. I still remember him two high tens and a couple of fingers ago, when Madonna was queen and Hammer pants were king (Although, I don't remember ever seeing Jason in a pair. As for myself, I'm pleading The Fifth). Back then, the numbers came in pre-assembled equations with some of the variables missing. We were expected to fill in the blanks. But, we were just learning the answers.<br /><br />Math class does not teach you how a boy can appear one day and magically begin multiplying his way into your life. None of the geometry theorems I puzzled through warned that someone could happen across me at ten, introduce himself at eleven, and make it his business to study my face, my moods, and the way I take my turkey sandwich. And, while math wasn't the most adept subject at holding my attention, I'm pretty sure that none of the postulates I studied warned that this sort of multiplication could extend beyond my life and right into the faces and tendencies of my children (in one's irises, and one's smile, and one's dogged persistence). But, regardless of what the textbooks tell you, this math exists. Granted, it doesn't always follow the rules. Somehow, over the span of 24 years, you might just find that one plus one has found a way to equal five. And that boy, the one who used to smuggle packs of gum into middle school, selling the individual pieces for twenty-five cents a piece in an attempt to earn enough extra cash by lunchtime for an extra Little Debbie? As of last count, he adds up to a whole lot of high fives.<br /><br />So, how did the birthday boy celebrate his latest hand jive?<br /><br />With a few of these:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3PHpqhw_zALRqq7FaZq5Drw0Xy66JulRyKKvtspWRfYIF4IhjEZCBRgN6tgL7mSTU0jkvtfkPMh98CUc62gx0CCtbGhh3tvTraBoue0gWAfzzuoazy03HYg6unhdeEzjAZbsGZhZiZpE/s1600/IMG_1491.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3PHpqhw_zALRqq7FaZq5Drw0Xy66JulRyKKvtspWRfYIF4IhjEZCBRgN6tgL7mSTU0jkvtfkPMh98CUc62gx0CCtbGhh3tvTraBoue0gWAfzzuoazy03HYg6unhdeEzjAZbsGZhZiZpE/s400/IMG_1491.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704564542915960002" border="0" /></a><br />An afternoon of this:<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLpbkI7qB_7Ilo8Pk4Rf14z-BQIRiTc2W3ej0IFIPLsvYka_KyqHLg6G1HjS7b54JGTQfpIA3ztzVVIL2INHZSDvwXZcChFlA0H3ffmP51hNsi0o8cHlGTj22LT14Q8sr52jggFdmKqUE/s1600/IMG_1493.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLpbkI7qB_7Ilo8Pk4Rf14z-BQIRiTc2W3ej0IFIPLsvYka_KyqHLg6G1HjS7b54JGTQfpIA3ztzVVIL2INHZSDvwXZcChFlA0H3ffmP51hNsi0o8cHlGTj22LT14Q8sr52jggFdmKqUE/s400/IMG_1493.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704564160606384178" border="0" /></a><br />And a really big one of <a href="http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/frozen-banana-ice-cream-sandwiches-recipe2/index.html">these</a>:<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4uZqHzrN1ZabeUnyYUNusKvVPLp-9BgD7HnUVC6hSfxBKRKeW8RPvefu8sIl5CVZttXAQ9zkSBJWvfq89CFxeqntGuWx-pdlbbJlVL9m8Y44kr7aP7WwlPgHWKU5-Of3_by3V9PSQUac/s1600/IMG_1499.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4uZqHzrN1ZabeUnyYUNusKvVPLp-9BgD7HnUVC6hSfxBKRKeW8RPvefu8sIl5CVZttXAQ9zkSBJWvfq89CFxeqntGuWx-pdlbbJlVL9m8Y44kr7aP7WwlPgHWKU5-Of3_by3V9PSQUac/s400/IMG_1499.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704563860783478994" border="0" /></a><br /><br />That adds up to one sweet day, no matter how you count it.kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00298604769173994651noreply@blogger.com4