Built By Dad

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.    

A man's blueprints and hours of manual labor built a house.  The man he was, built a home.  

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.

Happy Father's Day.

And Then There Were Four: Or, Barnum & Bailey, Family-Style

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?"

Their answers were all similar.  It's crazy.  You should totally do it.

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.

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.

1.  Everyone becomes an expert on (or worrier about) logistics.

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.)

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.  

2. Suddenly, everyone has a job.  You might be given the job of an asparagus.  

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?"

"Yeah."

"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."

3. It's a little exhausting.  For everyone. 

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.

4. Chances are, you'll lose your short-term memory.  Your children will notice.

Jack: Mommy, by the way, our dad is Jason.

You will notice, too.  Unfortunately, it will be too late to be helpful.

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.

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.

5. You might feel tempted during those first late night feedings, to watch an episode of the Duggar's 19 Kids and Counting, thinking you might glean some pointers on how to handle the demands of a larger household.  Don't.

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.

6. Everyone has an opinion. 

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.

Innocent male bystander who passed us on the sidewalk in downtown Indianapolis: You almost have enough for a baseball team.

Um, no.

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.

Jason (to Audrey): What do you think of Ethan's name?

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.)

7.  You're not going to please everyone.

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.

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.

"That would probably be me in another life," she said.

You might also end up explaining probabilities and what you can remember from high school genetics a lot earlier than you anticipated.

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 Chopped episode, thinking I'd chosen an option that would bring my day less grief.  I was wrong.

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?"

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.

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.

"Mom, surely God wouldn't give you four boys in a row.  I think it's time you and Daddy have another baby."

"Yes, honey, I'm pretty sure He would, and Daddy and I are still getting used to the baby we have."

"Mom!  He's been here a long time!"  (Ethan was six-months old.)

(She still calls Ethan the best baby in the world, even though he's not a sister.)

8. The best toys are the baby's toys (except to the baby).

(They told me they were playing zoo animals.)

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 idiot 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.

9. Your nighttime routine might grow exponentially longer.

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.

10.  Things go "bump" in the night.

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.

11. Several couples remodel or readjust how they use their living spaces as their family grows.  You might, too.

Jason (upon coming home from work):  Where's Ethan?

Me: In the closet.

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.

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."  

12. They eat.  Like Hobbits.

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.

13.  Some days, it's a bit like Animal House.  

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.)


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?"

"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."

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.

It's crazy.  You should totally do it. 

Dear Ethan,

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.)

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.

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.

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?

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.'"

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.

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.

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.

Love,
Mama


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.

Thankful

"Christmas is here mom, right?" Audrey asked me this afternoon.  

"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.  

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.  

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.      

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.  

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 here.  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.  

My favorite responses:

"Sneaking candy out of the pantry without telling." - Jack

"Our baby.  Pumpkins.  And drinks." - Nathan

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."

"Family.  Quiet time." - Jason

Jason is thankful for oxymorons.

I wrote "laughter" on the back of my leaf.  Thankfully, my family never disappoints.

School Daze: A Quick and Hazy Recap of 2013-2014

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.  

Literally.  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.  

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.  

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:

(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.)

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. 

(Indiana Jim's Reptile Experience)

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).  

(Rhythm Discovery Center)

But, in between, we made some noise.

(Nathan holding a magnifying glass and piece of rock used for a geology streak test, while wearing his trusty duck-taped rain boots.)

Looked beneath the surface.

(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.)

Let things start brewing.

(Homeschool Program at Indianapolis Museum of Art in honor of Bees and National Public Gardens Day)

Got our neurons buzzing.

 (Gingerbread house contest at Conner Prairie)

Researched.

 (Gingerbread homeschool Christmas party with  friends.  This is Audrey's creation.)

Applied what we learned.

 (Another picture from school picture day. 2013-2014 was the year of dresses with boots.)

Created our own style.

(A butterfly we watched metamorphosis from a caterpillar.  You can see the chrysalis at the bottom of the picture.) 

Transformed.

(Planting azaleas at IMA National Public Gardens Day.)

And grew.  

I'm Not Sick...

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.

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 - for dinner.  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.

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.

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.
 

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!"

He'll be right.

The Perfect, The Good, and The China Fairy: A Week (or Several) in Review, of Sorts

Percolating?

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.  Accidents happen, I told her.  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. 

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.

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 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 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 Hoarders if they had a Hoarders of the Mind edition: too many thoughts, too little organization and letting go of said thoughts.   

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).  

(For those of you not in the habit of keeping up, a couple of side notes:

1.  Audrey is 7 1/2, Nathan is 4 1/2, and Jack is 3.

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 he was not introduced in a footnote, he was introduced in a parenthesis.  Footnotes are stodgy: parentheses are mysterious.  Chicks will dig it.  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.)

Audrey:

3/21

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."  

At seven, she's figured out the proper use of the word permitted.  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.

4/17
"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.)

5/19
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!"

6/17
A morning conversation:

Audrey: Did they still use wagons to get around when you were little?
Me: No.
Audrey: They had cars?
Me: Yes.
Audrey: Had airplanes been invented?
Me: Yes.
Audrey: What hadn't been invented?
Me: The Internet.
Audrey: What's the Internet?

6/25
Audrey asked if I had ever tried to get a book published.  I told her about a Glimmer Train 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.

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."

7/7
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."

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?"

Then, she told me that sometimes she can hear us talking at night and we talk louder as it gets later.
"What do we say?" I asked.
"It just sounds like mumbling."
"What do you think we talk about?"
"Taxes."

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!"

7/24
We were having a side of edamame at dinner.

Jason: (looking at me) Are soybeans good for you?
Me: It depends on who you talk to.
Audrey: Well, we're talking to you.

7/30
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.

"Well," Audrey began, "I was a volunteer.  When I saw them, they looked like they were having so much fun, so I volunteered to help them."  (But no, she was absolutely not a participant, just a volunteer.)

Nathan

4/23
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.

Current story:
Nate: (at lunch) Remember that time we built a castle with boxes and Jack fell off the stool and broke his arm?
Audrey: Yes.
Nate: Let's do that again.  (Turns to Jack) But this time, Jack, we don't need your help.

5/7
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.

"I just wanted to see you."

6/20
Nathan: When are we going to have pot pie?
Me: I'll have to get the stuff this weekend and we can have it next week.  Do you want pot pie?
Nathan: Yeah.  I want pot pie for Halloween.
Me: Halloween is far away.  Do you know that?
Nathan: I know.  It will give us a long time to get the stuff.  (Bless him.)

6/24
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.

"Are we being too crazy? " Nathan asked.
"No."
"Do you need to feed Ethan and pump?"
"No."
"Do you need some time by yourself?"

7/15
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!"

7/18
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."

7/20
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.

"Audrey, I love butter," Nathan said.

7/24
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?"

Yes.  Yes, son, and I take them all the live-long day.

7/26
I had just wrapped Nate in a towel following his bath.
Me: Do you want me to put lotion on you?
Nathan: Yes, but not on my wee-wee.
Me: I wasn't going to put it on your wee-wee.
Nathan: Do people usually put it on their wee-wees?
Me: I don't think so.
Nathan: Yeah, it probably wouldn't be appropriate.
Me: Probably not.
Nathan: Yeah, I've been thinking that for years.

7/30
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?"

Jack 

5/28
"I accidentally like all of you guys."  (Announced to the room at large.)

Date unknown
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."

7/20
"I want to be a superhero when I grow up.  I want to be Batman!"

7/25
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).

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."

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.

"We're playing hide 'n seek," said Jack.

***

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.