Mawwiage. And Wuv.

In the days just before my brother got married, we texted each other a series of lines from The Princess Bride. The minister performing the ceremony talks of, "wuv, twue wuv" and "mawwiage." "Mawwiage," he says, "is what bwings us togethew today." I think the words have more depth than just the congregation that joins for the wedding. Marriage is truly a uniting force, because its foundation is love. It isn't necessary to watch the Princess Bride in order to understand true love (although I would argue that it helps), or to understand that love is quite possibly the greatest force in our lives. Love guides us, molds us, motivates us, and in a way, love creates us. I remember reading a story* when I was a teenager, about a successful businesswoman who told her mother that she and her husband were deciding whether to have a baby. "It will change your life" her mother said, thoughtfully. The daughter began to name off the things that she already knew would change, like no more sleeping in on the weekends or last minute vacations. But her mother was thinking about all of the other changes, the ones you can never anticipate. Like "wishing for more years- not to accomplish [your] own dreams, but to watch [your] child accomplish theirs." When I was younger, I think I understood this force in some way or another. But my understanding has deepened as I have started a family with the wonderful man I married. Love makes you realize that life isn't just about you. Life is about supporting the people you love. Making decisions that might strain you, but that will give the most benefit to the ones you love. Like letting a child "help" you, when it really makes more work for you. Like putting aside all the things you really want to get done in order to color, or cuddle, or make a special treat. Like pulling the toy cars back out, after putting them away for the fourth time, beacuse he really wants to drive them around the rug. Like staying home full-time to raise your children, when working outside the home would be a lot less stress. Like hugging your son when he acts like a brat, because you love him and he is your brat. Like staying up to help your spouse study for a test, or write a paper. Like managing the household chores alone, so it looks nice when they come home. Like forgiving and forgetting and praying and begging Heavenly Father to make up the difference. One thing I have learned, is that there will always be a difference. No matter how good our intentions, no matter how much we want to be the perfect parent, and perfect companion, live the perfect life and have it all figured out, it isn't possible to succeed without help from above. Thankfully, it's always there when we ask.

*http://www.fullcircleparenting.com/dotnetnuke/YouWillNeverRegretIt/tabid/100/Default.aspx

"A snake!" The tale of a brave young boy.

Jonathan came running into the living room this afternoon, shouting that he had seen a snake. His eyes were wide, and he was clearly distraught. I carried him out to the dining room and he pointed to the wall. There was a teeny weeny, 2 or 3 centimeter caterpillar clinging to the wall. The now fearless Jonathan climbed up on the chair to get a closer look, as I picked the little fellow up and put him in my hand. "See, Jonathan?" I held my hand out to show him the cute caterpillar, and he promptly fell out of the chair.

Boys need their mamas.

I was finishing up some laundry (I know, right? How often does that happen?!) and heard Jonathan from the other room, calling for me. I came in and sat on the couch next to him, prompting him to sit on my lap. We watched his truck movie together for a little while, when I suddenly remembered something I needed to do. I heard him calling for me again a few minutes later, this time as he sprawled out on the couch with his head on the pillow. I thought he might be looking for sleepy time cuddles. As I came closer, his cries had turned from "mommy" to "tranket!" Yes, he indeed wanted cuddles, but not from me. What he needed was me to bring in his favorite blanket. At least he still needs me for something.

Resolutions.

I started off my new year making, what I thought, was a very good set of resolutions. Exercise every other day, or at least 3 days a week (that way if I stink all week I can make it up at the very end), do some laundry every other day, or at least 3 days a week (same idea), etc. I think I only had 4 total. Then life came back into the picture, and so far I have failed dismally in all regards. Somewhere in the middle of the month, I decided I would subscribe to "monthly resolutions" instead. For January, my goal was to stop "sucking at life" (sorry if the language is offensive to anyone, I just don't know how else to put it. Stinking does not do the condition justice). For any who may be unfamiliar with this condition, it is multifaceted. Sucking at life may include, but is not limited to: neglecting to plan for dinner before 5:30, forgetting to take the garbage out until you hear the garbage truck, getting at least 3 billing statements from the doctor's office before making your payment (especially if it is less than $10), leaving clothes in your washing machine until they have to be re-washed, repeatedly letting your cell phone battery die, etc. etc.
I couldn't believe how well I was doing with all of this. I even paid my Time Warner Cable bill, even though they are *impossible* to pay online without having all sorts of information, like the middle name of the first son of your neighbor's great grandmother. Danielle was getting the hang of life. Until this morning, when I had to chase the recyclables truck halfway up the road while my eldest was making a spinach and sun-dried tomato salad on the kitchen floor. Oh well, there's always February.

Bittersweet

A few weeks ago I watched from some silly chore as James played on the dining room floor with the boys. It's something he actually does quite often. I remember him looking over at me, calling my name, and suggesting that I put down the dishes in order to come sit with them. I wish I had his knack for knowing when to set aside my adult stresses, sit down with the boys, and just be a playmate. One day I came home from work, and the entire basket of laundry I had folded that morning was back to rumpled glory. He told me that by the time he saw the boys, they had already destroyed every bit of neatness that basket once held, and he had dismissed his first reaction in order to sit down with them and start a clothes fight. He told me they sat in the dining room for over an hour, laughing hysterically as they hurled socks and shirts to each other. They had a blast. This morning I went into the dining room after looking up a recipe for chocolate waffles, and found that the boys had taken their entire drawer of sippy cups and thrown them in a scattered mess on the floor. I got on my meanest mommy face and demanded that they put the cups all back in the drawer. Ethan toddled over and threw a cup in, Jonathan followed suit. I praised them for a tiny second, and went back to being drill sergeant. James, hearing the commotion, fueled by 4 hours of sleep, and faced with an 8-hour church day, came into the dining room and made the whole thing into a game. Before I knew it, the boys were laughing their heads off, dumping whole armfuls back in the drawer. I was amazed at what he can accomplish (and persuade them to accomplish) without so much as making a sour face. My husband is the one who excels at quickly cleaning a room, or a house or a child. He is the one that can figure out a quick lunch when there is nothing in the fridge or the cupboards. He is the one who knows when it's time for a treat, and when it's time to scold. He knows when it's naptime, and when it's time for a story. I remember one day when I was getting Ethan lunch, and James warned me about putting more than a mouthful in front of him at a time. If you put more than that, he throws the excess on the floor. He thought I was being sarcastic when I said, "I'm glad you're home, you know the best way to feed them." I wasn't.
One of my favorite jokes as a young mother (which can be easily found with a Google search of "I didn't do it!") casts a very humorous light on the truly taxing work a SAHM does every day. I always thought it was the mothers who were blessed with the gift of keeping a house in order, and the little ones tended to. I thought it was the mothers who always knew best. Turns out things are just a bit different in my house... but then again, when you are raising a Monkey and a Pickle, I guess it's to be expected that things won't always go according to plan.

Sunday Snacks

I nearly laughed myself to tears one day in the LDS bookstore. I had picked up some book written by another mother, who, like myself, felt some disconnect between actual motherhood and preconceived ideals. In comparison, she had 7x more children than I do (well, approximately; it might have been 8x), but I still felt a sense of camaraderie. She wrote of a Sunday morning where she scoured the cupboards for a snack. In desperation she grabbed a loaf of bread.
My mind revisited a time where my only church snack was banana chips. The boys hate banana chips. I knew that when I threw them in there, and so I spent the car trip developing some elaborate facial gesture to show my shock that the boys no longer loved their favorite banana chips. Another day I left the diaper bag home. We've had some fun ones for sure. Occasionally Jonathan will mooch snacks off surrounding mothers (he looks half-starved, so I think people feel they are doing a public service by feeding him), and Ethan mooches off his brother.
I've learned to spend time preparing snacks on Saturday. Last week, for example, Jonathan found some sort of treat in the ethnic aisle at Wegmans (some Japanese package with strawberry covered pretzel sticks-- Yan Yan?). I felt like such an attentive, prepared mother as I tucked it in the diaper bag with homemade rolls and the little organic veggie sticks Jonathan calls "snakes."
We were sitting in the pew when I saw all of my good intentions begin to unravel. Jonathan tired of eating the veggie snakes, and lunged from his seat in a mad dash for the hallway. I lured him back with the strawberry cracker things. I silently groaned as I opened the package, realizing that Yan Yan's have a strawberry dip, almost reminiscent of Handi-snacks. Before long, I was brushing up roll crumbs from the floor while Jonathan painted his shirt, hair, and seat with strawberry sugar.
I think I will be bringing banana chips next Sunday.

Sharpie!

Jonathan is definitely going through a phase where he enjoys sporting black ink (or any color, really), and matching surrounding decor to his semi-permanent skin designs. Several months ago, I ran out of Mr. Clean Magic Erasers (I know, something a good parent should never do) and spent 15 minutes Googling before I discovered a testimonial involving some hairspray trick someone else blogged about. I figured I had nothing to lose, except perhaps some momentos of my son's childhood, and I practiced being an invisible "graffiti artist" in my own hallway. When I was finished, I had a very sticky wall with dark gray squiggles, and a very confused husband. "But James," I explained, "they said it worked even better than a Magic Eraser." He looked from me to the wall and sadly shook his head.

Several weeks later, Jonathan wandered into the living room, where I had briefly drifted to nap-ville. I woke up to Jonathan attempting to recreate a black and white TV picture. I told him how naughty he was and sent him to time out, moments before discovering that every appliance or piece of furniture in the living room and dining room had also caught the Black plague.

Practically the only thing Jonathan hasn't artistically re-touched is his brother. Probably because he knows Ethan will scream.