QuadrupleLife

BIG NEWS!

2010-03-09T21:42:00.000-08:00

Drum roll please . . . .

Quadruple Life is moving!

Don't be alarmed my dear friends and family, this great blog format I've been using for the last several years, (first with "BabyHautala.blogspot" and now with "QuadrupleLife.blogspot") has simply outgrown its ability to provide the groundwork and format for everything I want to be writing about.

Welcome,please, http://www.lifeontheinside.org

Everything you have enjoyed about QuadrupleLife (and MUCH MORE) can be found at my new site. Even this blog, in the same format, complete with an RSS feed, is there (under MomLife, at the top of the navigation bar).

Please feel free to transision with me as I phase out my use of blogger's template and begin blogging at my new location. Thank you for your faithful readership. I LOVE hearing from you!

—beth

Numbers

2010-02-17T12:33:00.000-08:00

I'm suppose to be doing taxes right now.
But I'm not.
I'm not because I hate, HATE numbers. They have absolutely no personality, always say exactly the same thing, and come in only two colors—red and black.

Quickbooks and I have a love/hate relationship and I am currently swinging more towards the hate side of it. Hence this post, which is actually a form of procrastination. Delightful, wordy procrastination.

Ok. *sighs* I feel a little better. I've typed something besides numbers now for the last several minutes. *flexes brain to check for permanent damages related to number processing* Back to Quickbooks.

Where toes grow . . .

2010-02-16T18:51:00.000-08:00

I'm not a regular visitor to our hometown fleet supply store, mostly because I'm not always in need of the more industrial-natured goods the place carries. But today I was. On the list: chicken feed, numerous light bulbs, and a variety of batteries. As it seemed to make reasonable sense to limit my stops, Fleet Farm was my "one stop shop" for the afternoon.
With Caleb and Ella bundled and buckled in the back seat, I reviewed my list and our destination with my son.

Me: " . . . so we can get all the things we need at Fleet Farm . . ."
Caleb: "Fleet Farm?"
Me: "Yep, Fleet Farm."
Caleb: *Long pause* "Fleet Farm?"
Me: "Adjusting rear-view mirror to look at him* "Yes. Fleet Farm."
Caleb: *In a small uncertain voice* "Are we going to Toes Farm too?"
Me: *Dies laughing.*

An Owl Moon night

2010-02-02T20:24:00.001-08:00

(Illustration Credit)

Caleb could not sleep tonight. 10pm and my three-and-a-half-year-old son was still up bouncing around in his bedroom.

Frustration quickly crept in around my heart.
Ok, I though. Two choices: Let this be one more "bad mommy" moment, or do something cool instead. Deep breath and grace poured in. Something cool.

I took the stairs quietly and flipped on the light in Caleb's room, meeting a wide-eyed, mischievous, red-head's curious gaze.

Caleb: "Hi!"
Me: "Hey."
Caleb: "I'm messing around."
Me: *laughs* "I know." Wanna go for a walk?"
Caleb: "What?"
Me: "Want to go for a walk outside?"
Caleb: "In the dark?"
Me: "Yep."
Caleb: *breathless and flushed* "Yes!"

And so we did. Coats, hats, scarves, mittens, boots pulled over footed pajamas, we bundled up against the February chill and walked out into the darkness. Two kids, eager to see the world in the light of a colder sun.

Growing up, this was pretty common for me. God bless my parents for their broad scope of mind, willingness to let me be a kid, and for allowing me to grow up in the country. I often wandered out under the winter moon. Books like "Owl Moon" by Jane Yolen, which consequently, Caleb and I finished our evening off with, were real-life experiences in my childhood. But for Caleb this was all very new, and just a little scary.

Caleb: "Are we going far?"
Me: "No—just to the park." (Two blocks from our front door).
Caleb. "Ok. Could you carry me? Cuz I'm kinda nervous of the dark."
Me: "Of course."

We tramped across the crusty snow of our neighbors' sidewalks and crossed the street under the warm glow of the streetlights. We paused on the corner and examined the sky for any sign of the moon, which was absent, but found the stars instead.

Me: "Do you see the stars?"
Caleb: "I see them!"
Me: "Guess who made them."
Caleb: "God did."
Me: "Yep! And guess what else."
Caleb: "What?"
Me: "He made all the ones we can see up there shining so bright, and He made the ones that are too far away for us to see, and He gave them all names! Like, your name is Caleb, and my name is Mommy, and God gave all the stars names too!"
Caleb: *Impressed* "He gave them all names." *matter-of-fact* "Bright shining names."

We continued on through the park, talking in whispers ("So we don't wake the animals!") until we arrived in front of the capped and snow-filled fountain, now quiet. There we stood looking at the sky and stars and fountain for quite a while, talking about the what would happen when the snow melted and how fun it was to be out in the snow at night, just the two of us.

Gazing up, Caleb's profile was illuminated by the warm streetlamp, and he caught sight of his breath in the frosty air. So we breathed ice-breath into the sky for awhile, laughing quietly. Before long our eyelashes were frosty and our cheeks were cold. We left the park and headed for home, one big lumpy shadow cast out behind us—me and my boy, piggyback.

After all the winter garb was shed, I tucked Caleb in to bed, his cheeks still rosy. He grabbed my face between his hands and kissed me.

"I love you Mom!" He said emphatically, "And the stars are beautiful."

O, what I almost missed! What I almost missed by a single moment of self-focused frustration because my son would not sleep like clockwork! Instead, God showed me a miracle tonight—the glory of a dark night as seen for the first time through the eyes of my sleepless son. What a precious gift! There may have been no owl, and no moon, yet tonight was undoubtedly one of the most beautiful nights of my life.

O LORD, our Lord,
how majestic is your name in all the earth!
You have set your glory
above the heavens.
From the lips of children and infants
you have ordained praise. . .
When I consider your heavens,
the work of your fingers,
the moon and the stars,
which you have set in place,
what is man that you are mindful of him,
the son of man that you care for him?
You made him a little lower than the heavenly beings
and crowned him with glory and honor." —Psalm 8: 1-5

Special note: My deepest thanks to my sweet and faithful friend Jenn, who dropped everything at 10:30pm and tramped over in the dark to be with my sleeping daughter tonight. You're beautiful.

Leaning In

2010-01-31T20:45:00.000-08:00

I've never been oblivious to the fact that parenting can be a trek—an up-hill-hot-day-black-flies-no-water trek at times. These days come and go, and often with a descent nap or an evening out I am able to settle back in, pull my babies close, kiss them tenderly, and keep on hiking.

But lately I've noticed a shift—not in my children—they remain gloriously obvious to the hike, running on ahead—and this is just as it should be! How terrible would it be for them to have any grasp of my parenting frustrations! No, the shift is in me. The walk seems harder, the hill steeper, my pack heavier than usual, and over the course of the last few weeks I've been wrestling with the reasons.

Am I failing at this thing called parenting? Maybe I'm not really cut out to do this. Are my children more difficult than other people's children? Is my own particular climb a little steeper, perhaps?

No. No, I concluded finally. My children are normal human children and my climb is no more difficult than anyone else's—in fact—it's quite a bit less steep than the climb many others have made, and are making. No, I decided. The shift isn't circumstantial. It's internal.

Fabulous. More heart work.

I've always kind of liked the idea of being good at a lot of things—never getting too hung up on being excellent at only one thing. Hey, love diversity, right?

God: "Not this time."
Me: "but—"
God: "These people, these small sparks of humanity are one of my greatest gifts to you. Are you going to waste my gifts?"
Me: "Um—"
God: "Yes. They are challenging at times. Beautifully so. I planned it that way because I want you to look to Me for parenting guidance. I'm a pretty good Dad, you know."
Me: "Oh ya."
God: "I want you to be excellent. I want you to lean in to this."
Me: "But it's hard! It's a lot easier to focus some—ok—a lot of energy on other gifts you've given me. Gifts that don't try my patience, or push my buttons, or puke on me, or . . ."
God: " . . .Or make you realize your need? Make you depend on Me? Make you realize what responsibility and sacrifice mean in real life? Force you to set yourself aside? Allow you to recognize selfishness when it shackles your heart?"
Me: *silence*
God: "Lean into this. Lean into these gifts because I have something beautiful to show you about Myself through them. Let go of the things you think are best because I have something far better in mind. I want to show you what it means to love, and to be loved. Lean in. I have given you these children—My children—for their benefit, and for yours. And I am not in the habit of making mistakes. I never have been."
Me: *wipes tears away* "Ok Abba."

So, as I type this tonight I've quit climbing. Right now I'm just leaning in. Pressing into the the broad, strong back of my Father God as He carries me and my babies up this hill. And it's beautiful.

"He will tend his flock like a shepherd; he will gather the lambs in his arms; he will carry them in his bosom, and gently lead those that are with young."
—Isaiah 40:11

Expectations

2010-01-19T12:13:00.000-08:00

Caleb: "We don't take things from people, and we don't push our sisters down, and we don't run away from God on our bikes."
—on the expected behavior of himself and toddlers everywhere.

Watch out world.

2010-01-13T19:50:00.000-08:00

During the daily getting-ready-process, (coats, mittens, hat, snacks for the road, etc), Caleb decided to mix things up.

Caleb: "Mom, don't help me." *holds up both hands in a firm expression of independent protest.
Me: "But I thought you needed help zipping your coat."
Caleb: *hands still raised* "Don't help me Mom. I'm dangerous. Dangerous."

I believe it.

A cup of what???

2009-12-06T13:59:00.000-08:00

So . . . I'm going to do a bit of unintentional advertising for Caribou Coffee in this post (despite the fact that I am a DIE-HARD Starbucks fan). Regardless, the story is worth the sacrifice in brand loyalty.

We stopped at Caribou for a cup of coffee on our way out of town earlier this week, and their new campaign for chocolate beverages is front and center on the large display windows. I jump out of the car and leave Aaron in charge of the kiddos while I run in for our beverages.

Mission accomplished, I return with coffee only to find my sweet husband in stitches in the car. I'm talking hysterical laughter. I start laughing simply because it's catchy! Once he finally catches his breath, he points to the large display in the window.

Aaron: "Hey Caleb, tell Mommy what's in that cup."
Caleb: *as strait-faced as they come* : "Mommy, there's a naughty word in that cup."

I must say, I'm a bit turned off to Guittard Chocolate these days. :)

Momentary Panic

2009-11-21T14:09:00.000-08:00

Caleb: "Hey Mom! Look! I got my hair cut!"(Which is true—he got his hair cut this morning . . . but that it would be so fantastic is somehow alarming, especially as I remember that I left my scissors lying on the table . . . all of this didn't dawn on me right away however, as I was distracted with getting graham cracker out of every facial orifice Ella possesses).
Me: "Ya—ya you did bud. You got your hair cut today."
Caleb: *Giggles from under the dining room table.*
Caleb" "Hey Mom, Look! I got my hair cut again!"
Me: *Realization dawns. Drops everything and ever-so-slowly bends to peer beneath the dining room table* "What are you doing?"
Caleb: "Hair cut." *Brandishes scissors with flourish.*
Me: *Races to the scene looking for clumps of red hair or worse.* Nothing.
Caleb: *giggles and grins* "I couldn't make the scissors work."
Me: *hysterical little laugh of relief.* "Hey bud, we only get our hair cut at the hair-cut place, ok?"
Caleb: *with wisdom beyond his years* "But you cut your hair Mommy."
Me: "Ooo. Right." Out of the mouth of babes.

Thankful . . .

2009-10-26T09:57:00.000-07:00

Confession: I am a selfish person. *gulp* And over the course of the last few days I've been quite convicted on how often my own interests are forefront in my mind. Naptime=quiet time for mommy rather than rest time or story time for Caleb. Husband and kids aren't terribly crazy about vegetarian entries for dinner? Oh well, I like them. Mommy is in charge of the radio in the car, even if Caleb doesn't like Sara Bareilles. . . I could keep going, but you get the idea . . .

But lately, every time a complaining thought or selfish vibe springs up in my mind, I hear a whisper in my heart:
"What are you thankful for?"
That will stop a girl in her tracks, let me tell you.

I try to be thankful, really I do. I'm thankful for food to eat, money to pay the bills, clothes to wear, and health—good things. But I forget, and don't like, to be thankful for all things, even things that don't go my way. Sick kids—not the sick part, but the staying-home-and-spending-time with them, part. Piles of laundry—not the vast amount of work, but the fact that my family has so many items to clothe ourselves with, that they end up in dirty mounds in the basement. Dirty dishes—proof that we eat good food on a frequent basis.

Slowly, my perspective is being forced to shift a bit, and I am being called to offer up my thanks regardless of my circumstances. A hard lesson, believe me.

However, how much better to give thanks than to wallow in self-pity and frustration? Even my children are affected. Proof that they really do WATCH YOUR EVERY MOVE and LISTEN TO YOUR EVERY WORD, (Scary).
Last night as I knelt by Caleb's bed and did the night-time routine with him—drink, story, bedtime songs, prayers—he said to me,"We have to say thank you Mom,"
Me: "What should we thank Jesus for, Caleb?"
Caleb: "Everything."

Out of the mouth of babes.

"Therefore, since we are receiving a Kingdom that cannot be shaken, let us be thankful, and so worship God acceptably with reverence and awe, for our God is a consuming fire."
—Hebrews 12:28-29

Word-wise.

2009-10-23T09:23:00.000-07:00

Vocabulary has always been kind of a big thing to me. I love words, and given the option, I prefer to call things by their proper names: children, not kids; deer, not deers; red honda civic, not Lightning McQueen, etc. And while I am by no means consistent in this, I have apparently been consistent enough for Caleb to catch me in my wordy-ways . . .

Caleb: *quietly musing* "awe-dem."
Me: "What bud? All of them? All of what?"
Caleb: "No Mom. Awe-dem."
Me: *tries again with more articulation* "All. of. them."
Caleb: *sighs exasperatedly* "No Mom. Awe-dem."
Me: "Awe-dem?"
Caleb: *getting frustrated now* "Awe-dem!"
Me: "Autumn. Oh Autumn! Yes Caleb, It's Autumn.
Caleb: "That's what I said, Mom. Awe-dem."

Fall might have been easier to pronounce . . .

Sprinkles

2009-10-16T11:39:00.000-07:00

The other morning as I was helping Caleb get dressed he reached up and smoothed my forehead with both hands.
Caleb: "Mommy, you have stripes on your forehead!"
Me: *Laughs ruefully* "Yes. Yes I do. Those stripes are called wrinkles.
Caleb: "Wrinkles?"
Me: "Yep." *Helps pull on a sock*
Caleb: "Who gave them to you? Did God give you those sprinkles?"
Me: *laughs again* "Wrinkles. And I think maybe you gave them to me."
Caleb: "I did?"
Me: "Maybe."
Caleb: *Pauses thoughtfully* "I like them. Show me your sprinkles again."

Pigtales . . .

2009-10-15T08:31:00.001-07:00

What one has, so must the other.

When Caleb Sleeps . . .

2009-10-13T11:08:00.000-07:00

. . . Ella totally gets into his stuff.
Don't tell him.

Updates

2009-10-13T09:21:00.001-07:00

It has been brought to my attention that my blog posts have been lacking (read non-existent) as of late. And so I decided to remedy that little problem. So. . . for the sake of all interested . . . here's a rundown of our quadruple life over the past couple of weeks!

1. Potty training is going well . . . in fact, I think I'll give it a couple more nights with pull-ups and then we should be diapering only ONE child here at the RedHouse!

2. Aaron and I played Scrabble. This is worth noting only because we are NOT game people. We don't play games. No games. Have I mentioned that we really don't play games? Well, we did. And despite my being a word person, I lost to Aaron, who is a picture person. Go figure. We still had fun, and we might do it again, sometime. Maybe.

3. I went to Seattle for FIVE DAYS and had a wonderful, lovely, beautiful time! I went partly to research galleries (both as a possible venues for my own work—visit exhibitionb for a sample), and to research the setting for a book project I'm working on. Here's me at an outdoor coffee cafe in Pioneer Square, Seattle.

While there, I also had a chance to visit my wonderful and beloved friend Rebekah, who is also an artist (AMAZING) and had a fabulous time catching up and tightening friendship strings. Here's a couple samples of her sculpture work-in-progress.

4. Since I've returned I have simply been enjoying time with my sweet family. And doing my best to keep up to Caleb, and Ella!

Best Friend

2009-09-09T12:38:00.000-07:00

I suggested a Caleb-Mommy date to my son on our way to daycare this morning.

Since Ella arrived in our lives, the three of us are pretty much together non-stop, and I've been wondering lately if Caleb misses having time with me, exclusively to himself.

He is a remarkably patient little fellow, and even if I have to stop whatever I've been doing with him, to tend to Ella, he is always quick to tell me "my sister needs you, Mom." This, even when he knows his own interests will be interrupted.

Our conversation this morning went something like this:

Me: "Hey bud, what do you think about going on a date with me? Just you and Mommy?
Caleb: "Just you and me?"
Me: "Ya."
Caleb: "What about Ella?"
Me: "Well, I thought maybe you and Mommy could have some time together—just us. What do you think of that?"
Caleb: "We can't leave Ella. She has to come too."
Me: "Really?"
Caleb: "Yes. Me and Mommy and Ella. Ella is my best friend."
Me: *melts*

From Tip-Top with Love

2009-09-08T05:53:00.000-07:00

I know I've already written a bit about our recent family vacation to Tip Top resort, but last night, Aaron surprised me and brought home the following video/slideshow of the pictures he took. (Keep in mind that Aaron is the one gifted with the camera—gifted.) Needless to say, I was overjoyed, and the results of his effort is so great that I just have to share it here. Enjoy!

Caption this Photo!

2009-09-06T14:44:00.000-07:00

These days the chickens are doing just great. They lay in vast quantities and I'm not quite sure why . . . do they like my backyard? My son's swimming antics in the kiddy pool? Left-over baby cereal? Who knows! Regardless, I have eggs!

Aaron's caption: "Keeping all her eggs in one basket."

Sunday Morning on the Couch

2009-09-06T11:38:00.003-07:00

This is how we spent our morning.
Pure sweetness.

Rainbow Toes

2009-09-04T13:35:00.000-07:00

Caleb: "Mom! MOOOOOMMMMMMM!!!!"
Me: *Comes tearing up the stairs from the laundry room looking for blood.* "What?! Caleb? Are you ok?"
Caleb: *Utterly astonished* "Mom, There is a rainbow on our floor."
Me: *Sighs with relief and then smiles* "Cool huh? That comes from the glass on our door! See where the sun is shining in through the glass?
Caleb: *Nods*
Me: "The shape of the glass makes a rainbow out of the light."
Caleb: "But God made the rainbow so it won't flood anymore."
Me: "That's right!"
Caleb: "Is it going to rain in our house?"
Me: *Laughs* "No. No rain in the house. The rainbow is to remind us that God won't wreck everything He made with a flood again."
Caleb: *stares at the rainbow on the floor and tentatively puts his foot in it.* "Look Mom, God made a rainbow on my toes."

Ella Bird

2009-09-03T06:09:00.001-07:00

Ella will be 6th months old on the 7th. Unbelievable!

She is currently sitting in her exersaucer talking animatedly to an elephant. Ella is my talker. She goes on and on, intonations rising and falling, explanations sans words, songs—the whole bit.

I can't wait till she has words so she can tell me what she's been saying all this time. Once and awhile she will turn and look at me and mumble something totally unintelligible to which I respond, "Ella, you're brilliant. Say that again." She obliges.

Six months with my daughter has made me so thankful for my Mom—for all that she did for me and gave to me as a daughter— All the conversations she must have had with me before I had words; the nights she continued to drag herself out of bed so that I was not left alone and hungry in my crib at all hours of the night; the thousands of kisses, the millions of hugs, the endless sacrifices of self so that I could truly know what it meant to be loved. Oh that I could pop back in time and utter my first words again.

Instead of "bla, bla, bla" I would say, "I love you Mom. You're amazing. Thank you for loving me as you did—do."

Maybe that's what Ella's saying . . . I guess can hope!

The Smell of Memory

2009-09-01T17:42:00.000-07:00

My Grandma Rita, 1944

What is it about a smell that can spark a nearly forgotten memory, igniting it and bringing it back to life?

My little family just returned from a week's vacation at Tip-Top—a small Mom n' Pop resort—where, for five days, we played absentee from the rest of life and celebrated the final glorious days of summer.

One night, as lay my infant daughter back down to sleep following a midnight feeding, I pulled the sheets up around my neck and caught the gentle whiff of memory.

Without warning the face of my Grandma sprang up before my eyes, and I saw her brushing her fine silver hair with a comb in her bathroom. Brisk, swift strokes. I stood beside her, watching, my three-foot-tall self just visible in the bathroom mirror over the vanity. Whisk, whisk—she brushed, and the smell of her clean hair and clothes, her powder and lotion, laundry soap, and something else, the smell of my grandma, filled the air around me. Even as a child I loved breathing her in.

Smells were very much a part of my grandma's life—or at least my memory of her. She was an Avon Lady—I don't know that she ever sold the products, but she certainly purchased them. I remember the beautiful pressed and loose powder cases, tiny mirrors, various colors of lipstick, and wonderful face creams. These are some of her smells. She was an utterly meticulous woman. Her clothes were always beautifully pressed—even her underwear and her white, flour-sack dish towels. She was so meticulous about absolutely everything, that I can imagine having me underfoot was not always terribly easy for her—though she always seemed delighted to have me around, dirty skinned knees and all . . .

I have one particularly beautiful memory of time spent with her—one among dozens of memories—

I was very small. Probably no more than four or five. My Mom and sister and I were visiting Grandma at the Lake. It was summer time and my sister and I had spent all day playing in the water, until following supper, we were so happily exhausted that even bed seemed like a good idea (and this to a child!). I'd had a bath in Grandma's huge ugly brown tub. I had delightedly propelled my small naked body from one end of the tub to the other, on the slippery bottom once the water drained away. My hair was still wet, and it made the back of my nightgown damp. I was tucked into bed and Grandma had come to kiss me goodnight. As she bent over me and kissed my forehead pulling the sheets up around my neck, the smell of those sheets, and the smell of her washed over me in a glorious aroma of summertime, lake-water, fresh-cut grass, and Avon products in a combination that I am still searching for.

As I pulled the sheets up to my neck in the darkness of our little rented cabin, that smell washed over me—transported me—drawing my heart into my throat and tears to my eyes. My own childhood memories flooded around me in the warm summertime night, brushing against the memories my own children were making.

They will never know her as I did—my Grandma. But the smell of her lingers like a lost perfume in the most unexpected places.

Three-year-old haircut

2009-09-01T13:43:00.000-07:00

So after doing the bare-minimum in regard to hair cuts, (I could not bear to part with the gloriously-soft red baby hair), Caleb had his first real big-boy hair cut today. The kind you can style and everything. He looks seriously handsome. Back off ladies, the boy's mine. For now.

Before:

And After:

Handsome, non?

Roasting Marshmallows

2009-09-01T11:18:00.000-07:00

Caleb and Daddy Roasting Mallows

Ella Roasting Mallows

Sandcastles & Swimming

2009-09-01T08:25:00.000-07:00

We spent a great deal of time on the beach at Tip-Top.
There, we learned several things:
1. Caleb is an awesome digger.
2. Old sunscrean does not work.
3. Ella loves to take naps on the beach.
4. So does Beth
5. August is a great season for swimmers itch
6. There is nothing like a great beach sunrise!

Caleb has, for as long as I can remember, been terribly afraid of swimming in anything larger than the bathtub or back-yard kiddy-pool. In the land of lakes this has been a bit frustrating—for him too, I think. Finally, this week, Caleb and Daddy spent some serious time at the beach. They played in the water constantly until bit by bit, Caleb's fear evaporated. Now, rather than being terrified, he is cautious. Hooray!

Birthday Boy!

2009-09-01T08:00:00.000-07:00

It's Official. My son is Three. THREE!
When did this happen? *Shakes her head and suddenly feels old*

This year we decided to take our first (one of many similiar to come, we have now concluded), family vacations. And for the venture we chose Tip-Top Resort, a little family-owned resort on the Whitefish Chain. Close to home and thus convenient for the inevitable trips home during our week away. (I think we made three trips home, to retrieve forgotten and necessary items).
This week-long stay coincided with Caleb's birthday, and so we celebrated at Tip-Top and had a fabulous time.
Though, Aaron and I have realized that vacations with little ones are much less relaxing than vacations with just the two of us. I know, we're a little slow.

The Birthday: A huge success! We kept it pretty low-key, but Caleb celebrated royally and loved every minute!

Officially Three.

Dancing.

The Long-Awaited and Much-Anticipated "Blue Mackie"

Super Man

2009-08-20T09:36:00.000-07:00

Caleb has uncovered a superpower.
He can fly.
It's marvelous. All that is required to activate this power is a cape. * Fling ordinary brown cozy-blanket around neck, fastens securely with one of mom's binder-clips, raises hand above head and preso! Off like a shot.*

I don't know why I've never made Caleb a cape before today, I feel a little like I need a red check mark on my blackboard of Mommyhood. Two more and you have to see the principal!Regardless of timing, both Caleb and I are relieved that his cape has brought him so far in life so quickly.

I need a cape.
I am still trying to uncover my own superpower —Correction, I am still trying to uncover my SUPER-superpower. Right now I have all the usual superpowers . . . Multitasking, laundry-washing, house-cleaning, child-rearing, meal-making, bottle-washing, grocery-shopping, bill-paying, etc.

My husband and I discussed superpowers one night over dinner.

Me: "If you could have any superpower what would it be?"
Him: "Hmmm, I think shooting lighting-bolts from my fingers."
Me: "Wow. Lightning bolts?"
Him: "Yep."
Me: "I'd want to be able to read peoples' minds."
Him: "Don't you already do that?"
Me: *rolls eyes and smiles thankfully* "No, I mean, like I could walk into a room and know what going on in the minds of everyone around me."
Him: "Why would you want that?"
Me: "So I would always know the right thing to say and do—especially when it comes to parenting."

If I could get into my childrens' heads I could be so much better at this incredible, emotional, exhausing, fulfilling job called being a Mom. Was that sass willful disobediance or the result of a missed nap? Is she screaming because she is tired, or hungry, or both? Does he really hate hot dogs or does he just want fruit snacks for dinner?

Caleb just ran past with his cape streaming out behind him. Now he's back and parked at my elbow as I type this.

Caleb: "Hey Mom, whatcha doin?"
Me: "Writing about your cape."
Caleb: "My cape?"
Me: "Yep."
Caleb: "How come?"
Me: "Because I think it's so cool that you can fly, and I wanted to tell my friends."
Caleb: *long pause* "You should tell them about you too." *leaves me, and flies across the room again*
Me: "About me? What should I tell them?"
Caleb: *shouts as he zooms by* "That you taught me to fly!"
Me: *Long pause as the reality of that hits her heart. Stands up, hits 'publish' on blog, flutters cape out behind her and flies across the room*

How Many of You Are There?

2009-08-20T06:19:00.000-07:00

Hello? Are you out there?

This is me, just curious if people actually read the silly stuff I post here at Quadruple Life.

I know I have a few followers (THANK YOU!) and a few who pop in now and then (THANK YOU!), and I just wanted to say that if you like what you read, or if you have suggestions, have an idea of something you want me to write about, or just want to say 'hi," please comment! (It's kind of the thing to do on a blog). And besides, I LOVE hearing from you!

A note on comments: If you have trouble commenting, let me know! I can make a couple of changes on my end to make it easier.

While QuadrupleLife is primarily about my little family (and I know it's not always that engaging), I am considering branching out a little and doing a variety of posts—life outside of the "Quadruple" part and more on the "Life" part . . .

For those of you who read my blog from the notes on Facebook, come on over to blogspot and click "follow."
I would love to know who's out there! :)

Bravo Charlie, signing off!

—b

Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious

2009-08-20T05:48:00.000-07:00

"HEY MOM! THAT'S YOU!"

Let me tell you, I have been personified as a lot of things as Caleb has steadily grasped the concept of language, and his imagination has grown as fast as his verbal skills—

Poop: "Mommy, you can be the big one."
Cereal: "Look Mommy, I ate you up!"
Bugs: "I just squished you!"

This morning, I have to say that I am quite pleased and even flattered by Caleb's fabulous imagination. This morning, as I stood blerry-eyed, coffee in hand, in baggy sweats—stained with spit-up from Ella's night feedings—my sweet son has personified me as the lovely Julia Andrews. No—not personified, identified! ("Hey Mom that's you").

Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious!

Sweet, darling, diluted boy. Love him to death.

I'm A Big Boy Now . . .

2009-08-18T10:36:00.000-07:00

The past couple months have been strenously focused on Caleb's shift from diapers to "unders" and I am proud to say that Caleb has leaped the gap and entered the "big boy" realm! We are SO proud of him!

We used several incentives: stickers, skittles, new "unders," and once a coveted car when he used the toilet for "poo" the first time. It was a big moment. The true and final incentive, however, occurred when we told Caleb that he could not turn three if he still wore diapers. This did it. Every successful time he used the toilet he would clap and say to me,
"Mom, my birthday will be so happy!"

All this to say, besides the success of potty training, that my little boy is no longer so little. *sniffs and looks puzzled at the calendar* Where did the time go? Furthermore, even Caleb knows it is passing!

This afternoon as I tucked him in for a nap, kissed him, and told him to have a good rest, he said to me:

"Hey Mom, guess what."
"What?"
"My birthday's coming—right around the corner!"
"That's right!"
"I'm growing up so fast."

So fast.

Cuts

2009-08-08T06:30:00.001-07:00

Here is evidence that one must be very careful when it comes to writing authentically!

Last night, in a moment of desperation, I cut my hair. Off. Under the influence of my characters’ dialogue!
Two of my protagonists were having a rather heated conversation about things that really matter, and how our perceptions define us.

“Who are you?” MC 1 asked. “Who are you really?”
“I’m just—just me,” MC 2 replies. “At least I try to be real.”

And of course I was forced to think, who am I? Am I being real? I paused for a moment of reflection, and when I sat back down to resume the dialogue, I found neither character had anything left to say to me.

For four hours I battled a severe case of writer’s block and all the while the question rang in the back of my mind . . . Am I being real? Even to me?

Now, a girl’s hair should not have as much to do with all of this as it did. But for the past couple of months, every time I glanced in the mirror I have thought, “blech. I need a change. That doesn’t look or feel like me.” So as I got up to pace the room yet again, pushing my curly hair out of my eyes I decided, ok. I’ve had it. This bird’s nest has got to go.

I dug the sheers out of the kitchen drawer and chopped away.

When I sat back down at my computer thirty minutes later—liberated—I found my characters were finally able to continue their conversation. And I . . . I feel exactly like me.

Using the Pedals

2009-08-06T11:34:00.000-07:00

Last night was monumental at the RedHouse.
Caleb, on his own initiative, pedaled his trike.
This is a big deal. Up until last night, the whole coordination things has been a little tough to grasp and he has preferred to motor along, simply pushing the ground with his feet. But last night he rode his trike.

*does a victory dance*

Potty Training Heroine

2009-08-01T06:11:00.000-07:00

At my house we are well acquainted with the human ability to rid the body of it's own waste.
I am very familiar with my children's ability to do this. One in a diaper and one in the toilet. Sometimes. When I set out on this venture I never realized how nonchalant I would become about the whole matter.

My son just peed on the floor in the grocery store?
"—Clean up on aisle two!"
I am wearing poop?
"—Do you have a wet-one? Oh, never mind, here's a napkin."
My son just pooped his pants, at the library, and it's everywhere?
—"Define everywhere. Can I throw his underpants away and just let him wear his pants? Yep. Good. Story time!"
My daughter is covered in poop?
—"Oh, don't worry, I brought a change of clothes. For everyone."

This sort of thing really, really used to gross me out. This and vomit.
Now I have a toddler and a 6 month old.

I am no longer afraid.

These days, as I walk the halls of potty training adventure I carry the tools of my trade, ready to wield them should the armies of darkness show their ugly heads.

You can do almost anything with a roll of toilet paper, hand soap, and a public hand-blowdryer.

Bring it on.

Wish List

2009-07-28T09:09:00.000-07:00

I'm working on the premise for a new story in which the protagonist, (a ten-year-old boy, who, after having a terrible, rotten, very-bad, no-good day), makes a list of things that would define utter happiness for him. Except that, when they start coming true, he finds perhaps he already had everything he ever wanted—and now he must find a way to stop the fulfillment of his wishes. . .

This idea came out of my own personal musings on what would make me happy. A dangerous game, but there are times when it's a wise practice to list a few wishes and examine them in light of what really matters.

I made two lists.

The first one was a quickly-written silly list of things I think I want. I'll not bore you with the contents of that list here. Chances are, you can come up with a few of the items that were on that list all on your own.

My second list was a little more careful. What if these things were fulfilled, I asked myself. What do I really want?

A few items from the second list . . .

1. To know, with all certainty, that I have accomplished what I was placed on this earth to do, and that I have done it beautifully.
2. To love well.
3. To give my husband and my children the best of me, even on the worst of days.
4. To have wise children, even if they are not always happy.
5. To instill joy in my children.
6. To have faith in the impossible and the improbable, regardless of what life chucks at me.
7. To be creative without being cynical.

Made any wish lists recently?

Tickle Monster

2009-07-28T06:26:00.000-07:00

Sweet Moment

2009-07-19T13:11:00.000-07:00

Me: Caleb, can I have a hug, please? I need a big hug.
Caleb: You sad?
Me: No, but I would love a hug.
Caleb: And a kiss?
Me: Sure!
(hug and kiss ensues).
Me: Thanks bud, that was great.
Caleb: Sure Mom. You the best in the whole world.
Me: *melts*

En-Courage or, My Life as a Writer

2009-07-17T19:23:00.000-07:00

I’ve ben thinking a lot about discouragement this week. Not a great start, I know—but hey, at least I’m real.

As a writer, I think it’s pretty natural to become discouraged every once and a while. The very act of my profession demands that I bare certain elements of myself that I have put in text, for the world to read and alternately love or hate. Of course, that is part of the thrill—getting under someone’s skin just enough to cause a new train of though or spur a new perspective.

But change never happens without struggle, and writers—I among them—are some of the most struggling and “rejected” people on earth. We continually run up against the wall of commercialism, and often our best ideas are sacrificed on that alter so that we can continue living with the luxuries of heat, plumbing, and electricity.

There is nothing so discouraging as having someone say “no thank, your idea sucks,” over and over and over—and conversely, nothing so encouraging as having someone say, “maybe.”

The protagonists in my stories tend to wrestle with discouragement on various levels as well. And yet, I have never written a story where the bravery of said protagonists is not tested, tried, and then revealed. Which makes me wonder if perhaps I don’t think about encouragement in an confused light.

Perhaps I confuse encouragement with support or approval. To encourage is to impart courage—to illuminate the bravery that already exists within someone. How healthy is that? And really, I suppose the last thing I want, is for someone to tell me what my itching ears are wanting to hear, when it may not be the truth.

So there. Tonight, I am going to be encouraged—to allow myself to be imparted with courage—allow the bravery that I already posses to have the upper hand in my battlefield of self-doubt.

Wow. I almost sound like a heroine!

Words to Live by . . . and Chocolate

2009-07-16T11:49:00.000-07:00

How many Dove Promises Chocolates does it take to find a descent quote?
Today: 5
Yesterday: 3
Tomorrow: Who knows.

Writing in the Rain

2009-07-14T16:40:00.001-07:00

What is it about a good thunderstorm/rainstorm that makes me itch to set words on paper? Seriously, am I that melancholy? (Husband nods the affirmative). Maybe it has something to do with my roots that are still deeply planted in the pacific northwest, watered regularly by heavy rainfall. Regardless . . .

Tonight, as a lovely thunderstorm rolled through town and beat back the dust, the humidity, and the length of my mid-July day, I rejoiced. I couldn't wait till I got the kids to bed so I could blog these thoughts.

Caleb, Ella, and I cozied up in the front porch—newly refurbished with windows that actually opened—and flung said windows wide (sans screens), to the wild wind, resolunding thunder, and torrential rain. Glorious.

We are working on reassuring Caleb that thunder is not a thing to be afraid of—that God made it so that the skies could praise Him. ("It's just the sky saying, You are amazing God!!!") Caleb is still a little skeptical, but it got him thinking and with every resounding boom he looked at me with cautious eyes—

"The sky is praising?"

"The sky is praising," I assure him with a nod and he is satisfied until the next boom forces his wide eyes back to mine.

Ella is still too little to be bothered by much of anything, save an empty tummy or dirty pants; still, she too was wide-eyed and attentive tonight as we sat together and admired the chaos outside.

This is what I love most about Minnesota. We have thunderstorms like no one else, and also what I miss the most come winter.

There is something soul-straining . . . stretching . . . about a sky that nearly tears itself apart. And yes, I am well aware of the meteorological reasons behind our storms—cold fronts and warm fronts, rising and falling pressure, the whole works.

Nevertheless, I prefer to raise my wide eyes to heaven with my son and wonder over a God who is so amazing that even the skies would rend themselves for His glory.

Reign on me . . .

My Two Kids

2009-07-14T16:33:00.000-07:00

Fritz Loven

2009-07-07T05:44:00.000-07:00

We subscribe to the Minnesota Conservation Volunteer Magazine—a little publication with a lot of pop when it comes to excellent info on Minnesota's great outdoors. Aaron picked up the most recent issue and latched on to an article about picnicking—something families did regularly prior to the invention of the TV. I have great memories of picnicking with my family growing up, and I actually have a collection of black and white photographs of my Great Grandma, Great Grandpa, and their children (my Great Aunt and Uncle, and Grandfather as children) all picnicking in the woods of MN.

So, all that said, Aaron and I decided to begin a new tradition and take the kids on a picnic at least once a week, making our way around our local state and city parks. We started with Friz Loven last night, and had a great time, though it started out a little rough . . .

We have begun to realize that Caleb often needs convincing when it comes to doing something out of the regular day-to-day routine. So he wasn't too game about going, at first. But once we arrived and he realized he was going to get to run wild in the woods, he was really game. Unfortunately, potty training put a damper on the start of the adventures and we ended up having to pull a diaper out of the car and let Caleb go pant-less due to over-excitement. Once we set up our picnic—fried chicken, ice-cold pickles, cheese, and fruit snacks, we were about to commence when Caleb fell off the picnic table bench and wrenched his shoulder. After the tears subsided and the limb was tested for strength and flexibility ("Raise your hand high over your head—really high—good!" Now, squeeze Mommy's hand really tight—super tight! Good!") and it was ascertained as whole and functioning, we continued with the picnic.

Once the crumbs were swept off the picnic blanket, we went for a little family hike down to the stream that flows through the park, looked for brook trout, and threw a few rocks into the water for good measure. The evening was relatively bug free (a minor miracle), and the evening sun filtering through the trees was absolutely glorious.

Overall—a huge success!

Now . . . where to next week . . .

Farm Fresh

2009-07-06T13:00:00.000-07:00

For those of you who don't know . . . at the Red House, we have chickens.

I don't normally make this kind of a public confession as it tends to generate raised eyebrows and strange looks. But today I am feeling particularly brave.

I grew up in the country and kept chickens, and honestly, while town life provides the welcome convenience of a grocery, the movie-rental store, and the local coffee shop, all in close proximity, my heart still resides in more wide-open spaces.

Last spring, when Caleb was still wrestling with his ongoing eating/health issues (another story, another day), we found that eggs were the only form of protein he would/could consume without negative effect. We were going through about a dozen or more eggs every couple days, and so in a desire to provide my son with the best possible form of this food source, and because I have always had the secret desire to keep chickens again, Caleb and I drove to the small hatchery south of town and brought home a few downy chicks.

After the long process of community involvement/petitions/dealings with local government that resulted in a change of city ordinances, the RedHouse Chickens rose from their "grandfathered-in" status of legality to "fully-welcome" citizens, as north Brainerd city residents. They weathered the sinfully-frigid temps common of Minnesota winters, and now are providing us with about four eggs a day.

A few benefits, aside from the constant and continual supply of eggs: plenty of garden fertilizer, excellent composting, a relatively bug-free yard and immediate neighborhood, a "farm" experience for myself and my children, and the infinite delight of watching my son not only collect his breakfast, but eat it too—the incredible, edible egg.

Which came first? Definitely the chicken.

"Swimming"

2009-07-06T09:28:00.000-07:00

I just had to share this picture of Caleb.

We spent the 4th with Aaron's family up north, and following a fabulous time spent participating in small-town old-style community games, (balloon toss, potato sack race, shoe kick, relay races, etc.), Caleb was pretty hot and sweaty. So, into the kiddy pool he went.

The look on his face clearly says it all:

"Can you believe I'm getting away with this much fun?!"

New House continued . . .

2009-07-06T09:11:00.000-07:00

Well . . .

The new siding/painting project is almost complete!
I posted earlier on this process of reclamation, I am SO THRILLED with how the little red house has turned out. Beautiful!

I am posting a couple of pictures for the sake of comparison. What you can't see very well in the first photo is how the paint is actually being blown off the siding due to the wood rot. Lovely.
1. Before
2. During
3. Almost done! (the white/blue parts are not yet painted).

Doll Baby—4 months old

2009-07-01T13:01:00.000-07:00

She looks like her daddy, no?

Dog Days of Summer

2009-06-29T19:25:00.000-07:00

I adore this weather. For some, it's been a little cool, but for me the ideal temps are between 68 and 72 degrees, sunshine, cool nights . . . oh man. Heaven.

Last weekend, we had that scenario (for one day at least, the other was considerably warmer), and we spent the weekend at my parents' cabin. What a blast! Caleb was totally undone by all the sunshine, fresh air, time with both Mommy and Daddy, and we, likewise, had a great time—rested, played hard, and came home happy.

In my mind, my childhood was idillic. I grew up in the country, had a horse, and lived by a lake. Everyday was spent in the woods or in the water, and nothing can compete with the memories I have of my childhood summers. Last weekend was like reliving those days. What a blessing.

To the Dog Days of Summer. May they never end.

Bedtime Blues . . .

2009-06-29T18:23:00.000-07:00

So, rather than writing a synopsis for my most recent project (really overwhelming), I am blogging . . . and procrastinating. :)

Oh my word. Where to start. You know when you hear horror stories from your mom about that one particular thing you did over and over (generally something naughty), and that thing categorized you as a tough—(fill in the blank: eater, sleeper, etc.) Well, I was not an easy to-bed-we-go child. Seriously. I wrote the book on things-you-can-do-to-extend-the-bedtime-process.

Woh. See, I've always been a procrastinator!

Anyway, that gift I gave my parents has now been returned to me. Tenfold. My son, my sweet-natured, easy-to-bed, will-sleep-anywhere child has become a changeling. Some sinister creature has replaced him and now the bedtime routine has become AT LEAST an hour-and-a-half long process.

Right now, Caleb's bedroom is FINALLY quiet, and I am exhausted from trying to get him to sleep.

The scenario goes something like this:

Me: "Hey Caleb, time for bed in five minutes, Ok bud?": (like it's an option. *drips sarcasm*)
Caleb: (*totally continues whatever he's doing like he didn't hear*).
Me: (*Repeat self several times until response from red-headed boy is evoked*).
Caleb: "NOOOOooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" (*heart-wrenching wail*)
Me: "Yep. Five minutes."
Caleb: (*Back to playing and ignoring*).
Me: (*begin the mental countdown*).
Me: "Ok Bud, bedtime!" (*cheerful loving mother voice*)
Caleb: "NOOOOooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" (*another heart-wrenching wail*)
Me: "Yep."
Caleb: "Two mintues."
Me: "Nope. Bedtime!" (*cheerful loving mother voice, again*)
Caleb: "I need a snack for the road."
Me: "No Caleb, you had dinner and we already brushed teeth. It's bedtime."
Caleb: (Much wailing about denied snack).
Me: "Up the stairs, Caleb. It's bedtime."
Caleb: "I need a . . .(fill in the blank et. infinite).
Me: (*Not so loving mother voice*). "Caleb, up the stairs. Now." (Sometimes he complies at this point, but more often than not he insists on picking up his toys, which never happens otherwise, or some other equally helpful task. Often, I end up carrying screaming, fighting boy up the stairs to his room. Once we have arrived in the room the process begins all over again).
Caleb: "I need a drink. . . . I need my animals (stuffed), . . . I need my cars . . . I need . . . need . . . " (et. infinite)
Me: "Bed. Now."
Caleb: "NOOOOooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" (* heart-wrenching wail, throws himself from bed to floor*)
Me: "In bed now or Mommy will have to spank you."
Caleb: "Hard?"
Me: "Hard."
Caleb: (*considers options*) "Spank me."
Me: "Ok." (*spanking ensues* back to the bedroom with semi-remorseful child).
Caleb: "Sing to me Mommy?" (This is another procrastination technique, but I can't resist this one, which he knows. I comply.)
Me: "I love you Caleb. Goodnight."
Caleb: "I need a drink."
Me: (*sigh*) "No Bud, you already had a drink." (*cue wailing*)
Caleb: "I need to go Potty."
Me: (*Deep breath*) "Do you really have to go potty?" (This is last-resort material on Caleb's part).
Caleb: "Yes."
Me: "Go."
Caleb: (*bright smile*) "I go quick!" (*goes potty and dawdles severely on the way back until I am forced to carry him*)
Me: "Now Caleb. Bedtime. I love you."
Caleb: "NOOOOooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" (*another heart-wrenching wail*)
Me: "Do you need another spank?"
Caleb (*considers options*) "No." (sometimes he says 'yes' and we have to do that routine again.)
Me: "Bedtime."
Caleb: (*FINALLY climbs under covers*) "I have a question . . ."
Me: "No questions. Goodnight." (*makes way to door way*)
Caleb: "Mommy! Mommy!" (*very urgent*)
Me: (*sigh*) "Yes Caleb?"
Caleb: "You my best girl in the whole world."
Me: (*melts in a big puddle on the floor*) "I love you Buddy."
Caleb: "Love you Mommy."
Me: "Goodnight." (*exits door and steps out closing it behind me.*)
Caleb: "MOMMMMYYYYYYYYY! I NEED A DRINKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!"
Me: (*sigh*)

At least I know where he gets his procrastination tendencies.

Caleb and Ice Cream

2009-06-19T11:19:00.000-07:00

Have I ever mentioned how much Caleb loves ice cream? He really loves it, I'm talking serious devotion. He can spot a DQ logo from miles away and obtained this skill very early on in life. Now that summer has arrived, my son is back in his ice-cream-element. A few pictures to demonstrate.

And because I can't resist her cuteness . . . there are a couple photos of Ella from this afternoon as well. 3.5 months old already!

June

2009-06-11T06:49:00.001-07:00

My babies are growing!
Yesterday Ella started actually playing with her little jungle-gym toys—pulling and batting at them, grabbing them and putting them in her mouth. Wow. I am astonished at how fast the past three months have gone!
Caleb graduated from "friendly-frogs" to "busy-bears" at school (daycare), which means: he can go potty on his own, can communicate reasonably and follow complex instructions, use scissors, and focus his attention for a significant amount of time. What a man! We are still working on potty training, but he is doing great and we are so proud of him!
Here's a few pics from this week . . . enjoy!

The Importance of Reading

2009-06-04T13:35:00.000-07:00

Obviously, words are pretty important around the RedHouse—what with RedHouseMedia (www.redhousemedia.com) being a pretty important part of our lives, me being a writer, and our overall appreciation of the power of language, rhetoric, and words. That said, we, as do many parents of little people, depend on books!
I am so thankful that Caleb enjoys being read to—I love sharing story, especially aloud to a captive audience . . . if he didn't like listening, I'd probably have to sit in the bathroom and read aloud to myself or something, just to get my regular fix.
Last weekend, we spent the day at the Cabin with Grandma and Grandpa. Story time that evening as the Caleb and his cousin Joshua settled down, was a highlight. As the pictures demonstrate.
Seriously, the look on those boys' faces! They are into it!
The power of the written word—read on . . . and on . . . and on.

Typical Morning

2009-06-04T13:20:00.000-07:00

So, I realize that I've been rather negligent in my blogging this week—and last— and figured it was time for some updates.
As you can imagine, things around the RedHouse are still abiding in the typical realm of chaos, and we love it. Most days.

Morning dawns at 6 am, with Caleb passionately crying our names—"I'M AWAKE NOW!" Seriously, who needs an alarm?

Ella still greets me several times a night, so though she does not sleep as consistently as I would like—she keeps getting cuter, which helps me weather the morning hours . . . that, and coffee. Copious amounts of coffee.

This morning, before I pulled Caleb out of bed, I stumbled into his room and curled up next to him, thinking, maybe maybe, he would settle back down and go to sleep. (ha). Instead he patted my cheek with his chubby little boy hand:

Caleb: "you tired Mommy?"
Me: "Mmmm."
Caleb" "Ok. I'll go downstairs."
Me: "No bud, you have to wait for Mommy."
Caleb: "Ok Mommy. Get up. You need Coffee."

Ah, he knows me well.

Kite-Flying, Memorial Day Weekend

2009-05-24T19:25:00.000-07:00

What an absolutely glorious weekend! Not only was the weather as beautiful as I can remember it ever being on a Memorial Day Weekend, but Caleb, Ella, and I had the delight of spending a good portion of it with my sweet family at the cabin.

Caleb especially enjoyed himself as he played outside in the sun, got throughly filthly, fell off the dock into the lake (with life-vest on), and best of all, flew a kite for the first time.

I am not sure who enjoyed the experience more—he, or his Grandma and Grandpa.

Caleb James—teaching me to live everyday like none of it has ever happened before. . .

Updates on Ella . . .

2009-05-20T10:29:00.001-07:00

Ella is two-and-a-half months old already! —Thought it was time to post a couple of updates from over the course of the past couple of weeks, as well as a few pictures from this morning.

• 11 lbs already!

• First smile, and yesterday, first laugh.

• Sleeps through the night (though not consistently)

• Utterly adores her brother and will smile for him faster than for me or Daddy (though Daddy comes in a close 2nd to Caleb).

• "Talks" constantly—considerably more vocal than Caleb was (which is a little scary considering the word count that comes out of that little boy these days)

• Happiest child I have ever met . . . which of course makes the rest of her family pretty happy too!

Caleb and Daddy

2009-05-20T10:27:00.001-07:00

Have I mentioned how much this little boy loves his Daddy?

New House in progress . . .

2009-05-20T10:13:00.000-07:00

Since we purchased The Red House in 2005, Aaron and I have know that the beloved piece of North Brainerd History was eventually going to need some serious loving. We put it of, we procrastinated, we patched, and finally we stood back with critical gazes and realized it was time.

And so, three weeks ago, our contracting hero, Christoper Lynch of Lynch Construction, began the arduous task of pulling down rotting siding, replacing damaged structural boards, tacking up tar paper, installing new woodwork and trim as well as several new windows, constructing a new back stoop, putting up new siding, and returning the whole shebang to her original glorious state. To say the least this is an ongoing project of massive proportions and the continual pounding of hammers and wine of saws has Caleb nearly beside himself with excitement.

While our "new house"is still very much in progress, I thought I would post a picture of what she looks like now, naked. And for those who are concerned, don't worry, when all is said and done, she will be red once more.

(Check back for a post on the finished product!)

Muffins

2009-05-16T06:47:00.000-07:00

Last night was, as Caleb would say, "a doozy."
Caleb came down with some more sick bugs yesterday afternoon and ran a temp most of the night, which meant he needed lots of drinks of water and cuddles (I was happy to comply). But come 2:30am as Ella decided the day had dawned, the whole night began to feel a bit long.

All that said, my darling husband rose at dawn with Caleb who was feeling much better, and allowed me to sleep in. (A HUGE treat!) Even better . . . my two best men decided to make "breakfast" in bed for Mamma. Blueberry muffins.

About 7:30am I hear little feet padding up the stairs . . .

Caleb: "For Mommy?"
Daddy: "Yep, bud, for Mommy."
Caleb: "I bring it to her?"
Daddy: "Yep."
Caleb: "MOMMY! . . . MOMMY! I BRING IT FOR YOU!"
Daddy: "SShhhhhh,Caleb. Not so loud,you'll wake Ella."
Caleb: "I'll wake Ella?"
Daddy: "Yep."

My bedroom door cracks open . . .
Caleb: "You sleepin Mamma?"
Me: "Nope, I'm awake."
Caleb: "I bring you muffin!!!"
Me: "OHHHH CALEB, You are the best boy!"
Caleb: (wide grin) "I snuggle you?"
Me: "Absolutely! Come on up."

And so we did, and all the hours I didn't sleep were quickly forgotten as my little red head cuddled next to me and made sure I ate every bite of my Blueberry Muffin. (Caleb: "but not the wrapper Mommy. Take the wrapper off.")

Ella,2 Months Old!

2009-05-11T10:06:00.000-07:00

Mother's Day

2009-05-11T09:12:00.000-07:00

I have been a Mommy for three years.
There has never been a more fantastic job.

So Cool

2009-05-11T08:56:00.000-07:00

Caleb idolizes Aaron.
When it comes to doing "Manly" things, Aaron is the epitome of perfection in Caleb's mind: raking the yard ("gakein da ard"), helping Mommy, taking out the trash, eating, you name it—Daddy does it best, and Caleb wants to help. Case in point: Aaron recently acquired a fabulous pair of red high-top Converse Sneakers. As a result, Caleb now has a matching set—his "Chuck Taylors." And so, now that we are seeing some nice sun here in central MN, the sunglasses have become a regular part of Aaron's attire. Thus, Caleb too, was seriously deficit until he had a pair of "sunnies" like Daddy. Was there every a greater hero? Rock on.

Relationships

2009-05-11T05:29:00.000-07:00

Caleb is just beginning to sort out the various relationships in his life—making sense of his connections to people and the significance of that. He definitely understands Mommy and Daddy . . . but finds the fact that his Mommy has a Mommy, who is also his Grandma, a little tough. That his Aunties are his Mommy's sisters make sense ("Just like Ella is my sister?" "Yes, just like Ella is your sister.") But Uncles are harder, as he has no brothers. He does however, clearly understand the difference in the importance of his relationships, and has even gone so far as to "rank."
• Mommy and Daddy and Ella fall in the "You are my honeys" category.
• Grammie and Grandpa, and Grandma and Papa fall in the "Can we go to Grandma's house today?" *everyday* category.
• Joshua and Annie (and Aaron's nieces and nephews) fall in the "They are NOT my buddies, they are my COUSINS!" category.
• The immense amount of people he knows and I don't (the kid can remember everyone's name!) fall in the "buddies" category.
• Everyone else: "HELLO PEOPLE!" category . . . as we enter Target, the grocery store, church, etc . . .

Caleb has an unbelievable memory. We can introduce him to someone only once and he will remember who they are upon sight the next time we meet. His ability with people (regardless of the relationship) continually reminds me that God has placed so many wonderful relationships in my life to both bless me and allow me the opportunity to bless . . . that we could all remember to shout "Hello People" in such a delighted voice every time we enter a public place! (Though somehow I think Caleb's greeting would always be better recieved.)

My Everything

2009-05-03T10:12:00.000-07:00

Caleb and I have a regular tradition: dancing in the kitchen. If I will remember anything in the coming years, when my son towers over me, and I can no longer coerce him into holding me tight around the neck, or listening to me read aloud to him, it will be moments like this. Twirling with Caleb across the sun-drenched kitchen with nothing in the world more important to do.

Ella Marie, Seven Weeks

2009-04-27T08:44:00.001-07:00

Making Faces

2009-04-27T07:59:00.000-07:00

Our weekends generally begin much the same way. . . Daddy and Caleb rise for breakfast and early morning cartoons, followed by Mamma and Ella who like to lay-a-bed a bit longer as they usually spend some quality time together during the night. Once all are up, breakfast follows and Caleb often joins me in the chair as I feed Ella. Sometimes we spend most of Ella's breakfast just being silly. Daddy caught a few examples on film for the benefit of all.

Give me Jesus

2009-04-20T05:56:00.000-07:00

Last night found me bouncing from one baby to the next until the wee hours of the morning . . . Ella because she is just a ravenous little thing, and Caleb because he caught a terrible cold over the weekend and was still feeling pretty lousy last night. I am feeling a little worn this morning, but also remarkably blessed . . . I know that sounds a little strange, considering I only got about three hours of sleep last night, but my time with my children last night was remarkably sweet . . .

Ella is growing. Fast. Yesterday she tried rolling over and she nearly laughed at her Daddy. I am continually surprised at how fast time flies when I measure it against the changes my children are experiencing. Most days I find that I am so busy with Caleb, that Ella, because she is so content to simply sit in her swing, does just that, and I don't get to hold her or play with her, save when I am feeding her . . . So despite being tired, it is often a pleasure to pull my smiling and hungry daughter from her crib in the middle of the night, cuddle her close to my heart, and feed her as we rock in her nursery until she falls back asleep.

Night time rendezvous with Caleb are a little more rare as he is a marvelous night-time sleeper and rarely wakes unless he has a bad dream, or feels yucky—as was the case last night. But usually he is delirious and emotionally distraught, and it takes quite a bit of time and energy to calm him down and get him back to sleep . . . Not so last night. Last night my son was lucid and utterly delightful. At 1am he called my name (Mommy), and when I stumbled into his room, he sat up in bed and said, "Mommy, I need a dwink. I am wiw-we firsty!" And when I obliged, he wrapped his arms around my neck and thanked me, planted a sweet kiss on my lips and laid back down. But before closing his eyes he reached for me. As I leaned over him he placed his little hands on the sides of my face and said, "Jesus? Pwease?" He wanted me to sing Jesus Loves Me to him. And so I did—of course. We repeated this exact scenario three more times throughout the night, and at 4am he asked if I would snuggle with him when I finished singing . . . I immediately complied. (For those of you who know Caleb, he NEVER cuddles; never has. He is a very "hands-off" sort of fellow, and I have learned that when he asks for a little physical affection, to make the most of the opportunity because it might be a while before he asks again!)

As I lay cuddled up with my little boy, his sweet breath on my neck and his arms wrapped around me, it dawned on me how sweet this gift truly was . . . and how delightful it was to hear him ask for Jesus when he was in need of comfort. While Caleb does not know Jesus as his savior (yet), he does understand that Jesus is his "rescuer" and a source of help. How good it was for me to be reminded by my son in the dark of the night that the name of my Savior is such a source of comfort—for both of us.

Caleb and Ella

2009-04-16T06:01:00.000-07:00

I realize I have posted a couple of pictures of Caleb holding Ella, and that they are remarkably similar to this one, but this image is becomming such a regular sight in our home that i feel inclined to share it here. I keep thinking, Ella's novelty to Caleb is going to wear off any minute. And yet almost every morning he asks, "I hold my sister? I hold her? I'm the brother." This is such a gift to me! And while I know Caleb will eventually get "bugged" by his sister, (like when she is into his stuff), for now I will keep taking this picture, and posting it, so I can remind myself and my son when he is particularly irritated and frustrated by Ella, that he is "the brother" and that he loves that role!

All By Myself

2009-04-16T05:42:00.000-07:00

While I knew this would be a necessary part of Caleb's adjustment, I never realized how much independence would be necessary on his part with the arrival of his baby sister. It concerned me a bit the first couple of weeks, as Caleb tends to be a bit needy and is continually asking for help . . .even with things he is capable of accomplishing himself (he is a smart little guy and quickly learned, "why do it yourself when someone bigger and stronger can do it for you!?")

With Ella's entrance into our family, Caleb's monopoly on our time and attention has had to be divided, and while that has been the most difficult battle we have faced in this adjustment, it has resulted in new found self-sufficiency on Caleb's part, as well as a few new skills he has quickly picked up—undressing himself (a good thing at home, not-so-much in public), "reading" stories to himself and to us, and most recently, putting a rather-complex puzzle together all by himself. (I am quite proud of this one!) As the puzzle is geared for ages 3 and up, and Caleb is only two and a half, I think I have reason to be pretty proud of my little guy. Regardless of what I think, he is pretty proud of himself as the look on his face in this picture clearly shows! One more sign of independence.

Easter Babies

2009-04-12T13:11:00.000-07:00

Caleb and Ella
Easter Sunday
April 12, 2009

Sculpture

2009-04-12T12:50:00.000-07:00

Daddy and Caleb spent part of the afternoon on Sunday really delving into the business of construction with the new play dough that Caleb received in his Easter basket. Between a variety of cookie-cutter shapes, rolled dough creatures, and hand prints, I am fairly convinced they both missed their calling, (though Caleb still has time), in the art of sculpture.

Men at Work

2009-04-12T12:26:00.000-07:00

Saturday marked the first day here in central Minnesota that the sun actually accomplished something, and the temps hit forty-eight degrees! It was miraculous! Neighbors emerged from their long state of dormancy to reveal significant physical changes—longer hair, taller children, etc. We too emerged, took a long walk, soaked up some desperately needed vitamin D, and my two handsome men immediately set to work unearthing the back yard from last autumn's leaves that somehow never got raked, bagged, and disposed of. This is the first year that Caleb has been big enough, mobile enough, and able to follow instructions (ie, "no running in the street") to be outside and not only thoroughly enjoy the experience himself, but allow us to as well. In my mind, I have yet to experience a longer winter than the one we just lived through . . . something about being bound within four walls, pregnant, and with a red-headed toddler . . .

Anyway, spring is upon us, and despite my husband's realistic perspective, ("Only one more good April snowstorm, and then spring will be here!") I am celebrating the warmth.
Bring the sun!

Terms of Endearment

2009-04-09T05:39:00.000-07:00

The more vocal Caleb becomes and the more extensive his vocabulary grows, the more surprised I am at the things that come out of his mouth. I forget that phrases and ideas—thoughts that come out of my mouth—will inevitably come out of his. Fortunately, at least at this point, I can say that Aaron and I have been very careful and have yet to hear very many detrimental words or phrases (of ours) come out of Caleb . . . which is a relief! (Though I am sure this will come at some point); even so, Caleb has a remarkable way of transforming our speech, and it is quite amusing to hear a two-year-old talking as we do.
Case in point: As we were grocery shopping early this week, Ella began fussing in her car-seat carrier, and before I could voice my usual soothing endeavors, Caleb turned around in the front of his grocery cart seat and laid his chubby little hand against her head:

"Don't cry Honey," he said, "It's ok. I love you."
My mouth dropped open and I promptly kissed him and told him what an amazing brother he was. He beamed appropriately.

And again later in the week: As we drove about town, both babies in the back seat, firmly strapped into their car seats and traveling as we usually do—Ella asleep and Caleb chattering on about everything from the color of the stoplights (he tells me how to drive these days), to the height of various buildings—when he suddenly paused and pointed out a new construction site as we drove past. "What's that, Honey?" He asked me. I laughed out loud and looked back at him.
"Did you just call me Honey?" I asked him.
"Honey." he said, nodding and echoing his Daddy perfectly. I laughed again.
"I'm the Mommy." I said
"You the Mommy." He repeated with a grin. "I'm the Caleb."
"You're the Caleb." I laughed again, "The one and only." Again the grin and he returned to commenting on his surroundings as we drove past them.

Aaron told me later that night that Caleb had called him "Honey" as well, which seemed especially amusing to both of us . . . but it caused us to be thankful too . . . that it was this name, this term of endearment, that had apparently fallen so frequently from our lips . . . that he felt compelled to use it as he heard us doing. What a relief, and a fabulous reminder of how fully we influence our son—for the bad and the good!

Four Weeks

2009-04-04T09:57:00.003-07:00

Saturday, April 4. Ella Marie is four weeks old today!

Daughter

2009-04-01T16:20:00.000-07:00

I was convinced Ella was a boy. In fact, I hoped she was. I can look back at my conviction now with a smile and know that it was founded out of fear—my reasoning following along these lines: "I only know how to do boys!" Apparently God thought differently.

You would think, that being a girl would alleviate some of my intrepidation . . . quite the contrary. It terrified me (prior to Ella's arrival that is). My first thought at the revealing ultrasound, after recovering from shock, was 'Oh God, what are you thinking? I am going to ruin her! Look at me . . . I'm a mess!' And I am, in all honesty . . . but fortunately, my Heavenly Father seems to specialize in messes—certainly in the daily redemption of them.

And so at twenty-two weeks pregnant, my thinking shifted from blue to pink. I was on shaky ground, let me assure you. For those of you who know me, I am not a fan of pink . . . never have been. (God must have found this very amusing). I saw myself as the ideal person to wrangle an armload of boys. And had that been the case, I am sure I would have been fine. However, God looked at me in all of my attempted self assurance, and saw the reality of my broken need to be loved more than needed . . . to be held, (something my son had never really done). And so he gave me a daughter. He gave me Ella.

She came out reaching for me, and when she settled on my chest for the first time, she literal pulled into me and instantly quit crying. I, of course, instantly began, and realized for the first time just what I would have missed had God given me what I thought I wanted. . .

My daughter is asleep in her chair next to me as I write this, and every once in awhile she grunts contentedly . . . I've not the slightest inkling of her dreams, but I can't help but sigh over her in wonder. She is dressed almost entirely in pink (I know, I know, laugh). I simply can't get enough of her.

At times, I am still afraid of her . . . afraid of the perceptive girl she will be, the way she will look at me and know if I am telling the truth. I am afraid of the emotional and creative young woman she will become; how she will hate me passionately at times, and then love me with equal passion. I am afraid of pushing her too hard, of not pushing her hard enough; of not letting her make her own mistakes, and of watching her repeat mine. I am afraid for her . . . of the pain she will experience that I cannot shield her from; for the dreams that will never be realized; of the love she will undoubtedly be denied, and of the love that will be reciprocated and make her another's.

But tonight . . . tonight I am going to take a deep breath and just be thankful. I'll put the future on hold a little bit longer and hold my baby. This I know for certain: God knew exactly what he was doing with my heart when He gave me a girl . . . and I am irrevocably altered . . . for the best.

Adventure

2009-04-01T06:08:00.000-07:00

"An adventure is only an inconvenience rightly considered. An inconvenience is only an adventure wrongly considered."
-G. K. Chesterton

I've been dwelling on inconveniences a bit lately: the stomach flu that rages through my home . . . a new baby who sleeps in very small measures . . . a winter blizzard in April . . . a body that still has yet to fit into her pre-pregnancy clothes . . . a toddler who cannot and will not show any sign of self-control . . . I could go on and on. But not today.

Being a writer forces me to look at life in story format. This blog is a perfect case-in-point. But one of the greatest sources of frustration for me, is that as of late, my life does not offer the sort of adventure I crave. Almost all the activities, the pleasures, even the vices I once enjoyed are a bit out of reach—simply because my time, my energy, and my creativity are invested elsewhere at the moment . . . and for the next gazillion-moments to come . . . or at least until my children are potty trained, can dress themselves, and manage to scrounge the kitchen on their own for adequate sustenance.

Yet, as I drove home from the grocery store last week, dwelling too heavily on some of this, it struck me quite suddenly how fleeting these days actually are; how brief the inconveniences. Glancing in the backseat at my children, I wondered with a fierce stab of guilt if I was approaching this from the wrong angle. How many times have I heard women around me tell me to slow down and enjoy the time I have with my babies, because it is over so fast? While I have tried to appreciate and follow the words of advice, they generally barely filter through my sleep, food, and strength-deprived consciousness, and so I struggle to grasp their weight.

But looking at these babies of mine today, these tiny people filled with infinite possibility and mystery, I am gripped by the knowledge that these two are the greatest gift I have been given (cliche', I know). Perhaps even more, they are they greatest gift I have to give. They will remain when I cease. Their stories will continue where mine ends. And anything of value I wish to say will be said through them.

So, as Chesterton would assert, however inconvenienced I may or may not feel in these chaotic, exhausting days, I am living in the midst of the most amazing adventure I may ever be allowed to experience. And that's something worth writing about.

Buoyed Up . . .

2009-03-31T09:24:00.000-07:00

I know this isn't a traditional post, but rather than trying to respond to the wonderful comments you have all offered in support of me and my crazy life, I just thought it would be easier to thank you here . . . I find myself "thriving and surviving" off of many of your kind words—and when the days are especially long, the tears come a little too quickly, and life seems a little more difficult than I'd like, you all buoy me up and keep me afloat. . .
Here's to you, and sailing on high seas!

Lessons Learned from Winnie-the-Poo

2009-03-31T06:16:00.000-07:00

All of the recent sick days with Caleb have caused us to look for "tools" to keep our very active, but very sick little guy in a state of semi-rest. This can be quite the trick as Caleb is rarely still, even when running a temp of 102. . . and so we have called upon our close friends, Diego, Blue's Clues, and Winnie-the-Poo to aid us in this endeavor.

I, for one, have been quite reticent to use TV or movies as tools, and in fact, prided myself in the past on never doing so. I have since caved, and Caleb's new little portable DVD player is a dear friend of mine. (I use this handy little tool on my "bad mommy" days when I am simply too tired from being up all night with Ella to come up with stimulating and creative activities to entertain my toddler, much less the energy to assist him with them).

That confessed, I have found quite a bit of merit in Caleb's programming. Blue's Clues is so sweet and educational, Go Diego Go, while being overly-enthusiastic and a bit irritating at times, has taught Caleb several words in Spanish (he greeted Daddy with an "Hola Daddy! as he came home from work the other day), and Winnie-the-Poo is, well, Winnie-the-Poo, and has a special place in my own childhood memories and thus a permanent place in my heart.

And so this morning, with Christopher Robin and the gang singing happily in the background, and Caleb resting and working on a glass or orange juice, I am inclined to allow my mood to a improve a bit while falling in love with Poo all over again, for a few of the following reasons:

1) Poo is the sort of bear that doesn't allow a little extra girth around his middle taint his perspective on life, nor detour him from the things he loves best—namely honey.

2) Poo doesn't think twice about asking his friends for help.

3) Poo is quite creative and persistent, and even if ninety-nine of his ideas fail, he will still attempt a hundredth.

4) Poo never allows life to get the best of him, nor does he raise his fist to the sky. A simple "oh bother," generally does the trick and he is able to move on to more positive things without dwelling on past failures.

This is hardly an extensive list, and I would welcome other insight . . .

There is something remarkably comforting in the knowledge that a bear "of very little brain" can weather the winds of life with a smile. It just goes to show you there are very few problems that a pot of honey can not solve.

Daddy's Pictures

2009-03-30T14:25:00.001-07:00

There is something utterly delightful about being married to a photographer. I am continually forced to examine my children outside the light of ordinary circumstances—from the perspective of an artist. And when life can be so very crazy and overwhelming, it is so healthy for me to be allowed a step back and a glimpse of my children as my husband is allowed to see them—terribly alive, and fresh, and beautiful in all of their humanity.

My Beautiful Children . . .

2009-03-30T14:17:00.000-07:00

Working

2009-03-30T10:25:00.000-07:00

There was a time, not so long ago, when my work required my utmost and undivided attention. As a writer, processing story and setting it in a readable and entertaining format, is the best part of the process—the research and multiple drafts that prelude a finished piece of work are necessary, but not quite as much fun. . . regardless, all parts of the process have required quite a bit of focused attention from me in the past. No background music or excess noise, clean and orderly working conditions, etc. (I'm a bit compulsive in this area . . . or I used to be). In fact, many, if not most writers will speak on some level to the necessity of a focused place, space, and time to work . . . it's just part of the nature of the whole process.

Today I opened up a document that I have not looked at, much less worked on, in over a year. In the course of that time, my life has shifted slightly, as has my ability to maintain the quiet and the order of my working conditions . . .

So, to my surprise and delight, today I find myself actually working a bit—something I've not given myself the permission to do in a very long time. But this time, my working conditions are considerably different. Gone is the quite and the order.

In the background, Go Diego Go! is exuberantly entertaining my son, who is fighting the stomach flu (so throw a bit of vomit in there for good measure); a load of laundry is running downstairs; my "work space" (otherwise known as my dining room table) is littered with bills-just-paid, tax paperwork and files, a half-filled bottle of breast milk, a quickly-cooling cup of coffee, a bottle of children's Tylenol, and a box of Kleenex. In the crook of my left arm my three-week old daughter is hiccuping violently, and I think she just soiled her pants . . . yet, in spite of all the distractions, I am actually enjoying a bit of accomplishment in the writing department! Something I never could have imagined just a few long months ago.

So, to all of the multi-taskers out there, I raise my cup of now-cold coffee in a toast. We are stronger than we think.

Now, back to work.

Weekends

2009-03-28T08:16:00.001-07:00

The old adage, "having a baby changes everything . . ." has not only become a bit over-used and over-heard in our lives, but it is more than anything, an understatement. Personally, I would get a little more specific and say, "having a baby changes everything; having two changes everything, and you no longer have weekends."

With Caleb, we could still kind of manage a semblance of relaxation, though even the small bit that occurred had to be carefully planned. For example, a Saturday afternoon coffee break corresponded with nap time, and a Sunday afternoon nap corresponded with, well . . . lots of prayer??? Anyway, even the above is no longer the case now that there are two wee ones. (For those of you with more than two, I bow in homage).

Before we had kids Aaron and I often looked in amazement and with sympathy on our friends who did. "How do they do it?" We asked ourselves. "They must be utterly exhausted!" They were. We are. And now Aaron and I look back on those days with an odd mixture of longing and regret—longing to return to them and regret that we did not truly appreciate what we had—not, however, that we would trade our children for a free weekend. . . although . . .

This weekend was/is pretty typical, and for those of you reading this with children gathered around your knees, then you can laugh along with me as I relate (with a bit of sarcastic humor) the events, thus far, in our weekend. It is currently 7:45pm Saturday evening. For those of you still without children, take a deep breath and read this with a grain of salt knowing that the author is running on (and writing on) less than five hours of sleep in the last twenty-four, and thus her perspective might be a bit off. (Nevertheless, enjoy your child-free weekends while you have them!)

1:30am Up to feed Ella.
5:00am Up to feed Ella.
5:15am Drink a gallon of coffee.
5:30am Back to sleep for a bit as Aaron gets up with Caleb.
7:00am Up to feed Ella and drink more coffee.
8:00am Join Caleb and Daddy for an episode of Blue's Clues.
9:30am Feed Ella.
10:00am Help daddy get Caleb dressed and ready for breakfast at McDonald's.
10:15am Help daddy clean up the car, the car seat, and son, after Caleb projectile vomits.
11:00am Feed Ella.
11:30am Send daddy and recovered Caleb (maybe it was a fluke?) off to McDonald's and local Trade Show.
12:00pm Feed Ella.
12:30pm Welcome home Daddy and Caleb (who appears fine).
1:00pm Clean up living room, couch, and son after another round of vomit. (Please God, not the flu again).
1:30pm Lay sick son down for a nap.
1:35pm Feed Ella and breathe a sigh.
3:00pm Get sick son up from nap.
3:10pm Feed Ella.
4:00pm Take a walk to clear head.
4:30pm Return home and clean up more vomit. We are cursed.
5:00pm Run to grocery store for Gatorade to help with dehydration.
5:30pm Feed Ella.
6:00pm Send tired Daddy off to a photography event for the evening.
6:10pm Feed Ella and bathe Caleb.
6:30pm Get sick boy into bed for the night and sigh again.
7:00pm Rock sick boy, change bedding, and clean up more vomit.
7:30pm Feed Ella.
7:40pm Blog.

As for the rest of my evening, I think I will take a bath, say some prayers for health, maybe burn some incense or light some candles to help clear the smell of bleach from the air, and get ready for the round of nighttime feedings! I know, I know, you all wish you could join in the fun . . .
Just wait . . . we still have tomorrow!

Angel of Mercy

2009-03-25T09:54:00.000-07:00

I had a hard day yesterday.

While I am enjoying the reality of two vs one, the change of going from the singular to the plural in children continues to cause me a bit of emotional setback—especially on the days when the routine that I so love to maintain is thrown to the wind and I attempt to simply survive . . . Yesterday was a perfect example of this. By 3pm I had made two pots of coffee—both of which simmered and burned before I enjoyed even a single cup. Down the drain I poured them. Such is the new chaos that rules in my home. While I tried to keep a stiff upper lip, I confess to failure in this regard and as Ella finally napped in her car seat on top of the kitchen table and Caleb absorbed himself in"Blue's Clues," I allowed myself a little wallow in tears of self-pity.

But I am heard, and I am not alone. This Truth, God reminded me of today. Up to my knees in laundry that, while clean, had grown to a monstrous pile of unfolded chaos; and jumping from said pile to fussy daughter in an attempt to both sooth her and actually accomplish something; a knock sounded at my door. I sighed, brushed my hair out of my face, and hoping that whoever it was forgave my appearance, I ran to answer. . .

Opening the door, I found an Angel. Truly. She came in the form of a friend of mine (who's name I'll leave unsaid as I have not asked her permission to relate this story), and in her hand she carried a venti cup of coffee from Starbucks. "To make up for the burned pots yesterday," she said with a smile. Hugging me tightly, she whirled, and was gone. And I was left standing on my doorstep, coffee in hand, and tears streaming down my face—given the gift of a renewed, refreshed faith.

Bathtime: A Study in the Progression of Emotion

2009-03-25T09:44:00.001-07:00

Ella had her first "real" bath Sunday night.
The final connection to her life inside me—her umbilical cord—fell off Saturday night, and so Aaron and I pulled out the camera, and filled the tub. Ella has not been a fan of nakedness—who can blame the girl!?—and so I fully expected waterworks when her clothes came off. She surprised both of us and grinned delightedly for the camera. Waterworks commenced as her naked little self settled into the warm tub water. Not quite what she had expected I think. However, we finished the event with a cheerful demeanor once again. The result: a clean, and ever-so-delicious-smelling baby.

Under Brother's Watchful Eye

2009-03-25T09:28:00.000-07:00

Caleb approves. Ella can stay.

I asked Caleb earlier this week what he thought about the idea of Ella's permanence in our lives, and he said: "She's my sister?" I nodded the affirmative. "I'm her brother," he concluded. And that settled it.

Caleb has taken to calling Ella "my baby" whenever asked about her, and if she happens to be within reach, laying an ever-so-gentle hand on her head.

I had feared, prior to Ella's arrival that Caleb would be jealous, and perhaps lash out at the new baby in frustration. Once again I underestimated him, for instead, he has embraced his role as big brother with far greater ease than I ever could have hoped. And while we will still muddle our way through sibling rivalry as the two of them grow, I can say with utter confidence that these two children of mine were meant to love, and grow, and experience life together—big brother and little sister. And what a gift that I get to be their mother . . .

Parking Lot Prayer

2009-03-23T06:43:00.000-07:00

I remember thinking this when Caleb was a new baby, and now that I have added Ella to the armload, I am even more convinced that some serious alterations must be made to America's parking situation. . .

Would someone please explain to me, why there are ever-so-convenient parking places designated for those with physical disabilities, but none designated for mothers with young children?

Let me be the first to raise my hand and admit to my own severely-limiting and humbling disabilities. And talk to any new or experienced mom and you will learn the following: We are sleep-deprived to the point of delirium, and should probably not be driving in the first place; medicated with a variety of drugs (my personal list includes one to help the inner/southern workings of my digestive system continue functioning); we are leaking a variety of fluids from a variety of orifices; nearly deaf from the combination of high pitched wails from hungry newborns and the emotional screeching of a nap-needing toddlers; not to mention the simple physical limitations induced by an infant car-seat slung over one arm, and a toddler dragging his feet on the other.

Don't tell me I, nor others like me, are not handicapped and sorely in need of a little kind convenience!

And so, I confess that in place of The Serenity Prayer, I have occasionally whispered words somewhere along the following:

Dear God,
Grant me the grace and humility to give up this premiere parking place to that exhausted and similarly-handicapped mother and her van-load of children; and may the size-nothing, overly-blond, child-free teen who just took the last parking place in a three-block radius, trip over her ever-so-cute stiletto boots.
Amen.

Rocking . . .

2009-03-21T06:45:00.000-07:00

Last night/ early this morning as I sat in Ella's nursery, rocking and rocking, and desperately hoping that the action would be sufficient enough to lull my daughter into slumber, it struck me that perhaps the action was more for my benefit than her's. And then of course my mind wandered and I started to wonder why the act of rocking was so elemental—so satisfying and comforting at a soul level.

How many times, and for how many different reasons have I rocked? In anguish I have rocked, my body swaying on its own accord when tears are not enough . . . to comfort my babies when they were tired, sad, hurt, or simply in need of moment with Mommy . . . I have rocked, dancing in the kitchen with my husband as our favorite song echoed in the floor boards beneath our feet . . . I have rocked in mirth as my body shook in laughter so hard that it was silent . . .

Did God rock on the day His children fell, and does He still? Did Eve rock, holding herself together as she looked back on the closed Garden Gate? Did she rock her babies on the other side of it? Did her daughters learn from her. . . and I from them? Do we sway out of habit or out of necessity? My husband rocks too, his body swaying as either Caleb or Ella are comforted in his arms, and so I know it is not strictly a thing of the feminine heart. Even now as I type this, (one-handed), I am swaying in my chair as Ella watches me from the crook of my left arm, nearly asleep. I know she too will rock.

Regardless of the purpose or the origins, the very act, this sway, makes me very human, and connects me tightly to those around me—in sorrow, to comfort, or in mirth. And that's kind of a nice thing to know—especially at 1am, when my daughter won't sleep—that someone else, somewhere, is rocking too. . .

Dust

2009-03-19T15:23:00.000-07:00

I haven't really cleaned my house in weeks. Seriously. It's a sad state of affairs. Besides wiping down the bathroom with bleach on occasion, managing a few loads of laundry, and trying to keep the clutter from taking over, I have pretty much let the house return to it's original state of glorious abandonment. . . I think it likes it.

I am a bit obsessive compulsive at times—most of those times existed before my children—and one of my tendencies was to keep everything clean. Very clean. For some reason it makes/made me feel a bit more in charge of my world (a fallacy, I know.)
Regardless, my point, is that try as I might, I cannot keep everything in my life in a manageable state, and keep the house clean. Fortunately, those who love me best and live with me, (Aaron, Caleb, and Ella), don't seem to mind the current state of things too much. In fact, Caleb seems to rather enjoy it.

Case in point: I was in the process of cleaning up this afternoon when Caleb began leaping around our sun-lit kitchen. Watching him laugh and dance, totally unaware of the sink full of dirty dishes, the pile of unwashed laundry, and the nasty food-etched floors, made me take a deep breath and cease my striving. Leaping into stray sunbeams, Caleb extended his hands into the light . . . catching dust. And nothing was more beautiful than all that gloriously-lit dirt.

The Mathmatics of Nursing

2009-03-18T06:36:00.000-07:00

The average week . . .

10 feedings/24hrs @ 3oz/feeding = 30oz/24hrs

30oz x 7 = 210oz in a week

128oz in a gallon.

1.641 gallons/week.

Holy. I'm a cow.

Beautiful Adjustments

2009-03-14T08:30:00.000-07:00

One of the reasons I started this blog, was to keep my mind fresh-full of memories.

Yesterday, we (our little family of four) experienced a beautiful moment between Caleb and Ella—a first true "big brother" moment. He climbed up in my lap after I finished feeding Ella, and asked to hold her. More naturally than anything, he proceeded to wrap his little arms around her, kiss her, and whisper to her things that only he and Ella understood. Aaron, the hero behind the camera, caught it all in living color . . . and so I share it with you . . .

I am aware that this new role Caleb will be filling in Ella's life, will take a bit of time to adjust to. And yet, as a boy and eventually as a man, Caleb is so perfectly suited for the job. Even now, as just a little guy, I see evidence of the man God created him to be: caretaker, gentle but stronger companion, protector. What a gift that we are allowed to see just a few of these character traits develop as our son practices his role of manhood with his sister.

Again, we are blessed!

Daddy's Pictures

2009-03-13T14:08:00.000-07:00

When it comes to photography, Aaron is a professional. (Seriously—it's what he does. . . www.redhousemedia.com)
That said, I am simply going to let these pictures speak for themselves. These are from the first day at the hospital.

I too am breathless.

Boogger

2009-03-12T08:08:00.000-07:00

Scene: Auntie Amber stops by for a quick minute. Caleb is still running around the house in his jammies, sans pants.

Auntie: "Good morning Caleb! How are you this morning?"
Caleb: "Hi!"

We all chat for a few minutes until interrupted by a very persistent Caleb.

Caleb: "Auntie! Auntie! Auntie! Auntie!"
Auntie: "Yes Caleb?"
Caleb: "Look!"
Auntie: "What do you have?"

Caleb holds up one small pointer finger for examination.

Caleb: "Look, Auntie. I have booger!"

Caleb proceeds to evade all attempts at booger removal and takes his small prize to the back recesses of his play tent for examination. Definitely a toddler moment.

The Blogging Hour

2009-03-11T22:42:00.000-07:00

The girls are awake. One of us more than the other . . .

Ella has taken to sleeping during the day and spending her nights quite wakeful—gazing around with wide eyes at her brand new world and entertaining her delirious mother with her antics. Fortunately, she is not crying. In fact, she is most content here with me, at 12:44am Thursday morning. She is lying across my lap staring at my face as I type this. Every once in a while she will look at me through half-lowered lids like she knows exactly the sway she holds over me.

She's right. I am won over.

Good grief, its a godless hour of the day and I have just redeemed it as my new blogging hour.

We can all thank Ella.

Big Brother . . .

2009-03-11T12:48:00.000-07:00

Of all the anticipated and unanticipated adjustments that Aaron and I looked forward to upon Ella's entrance into our family, none has had quite the impact on our hearts as Caleb's transformation as the big brother—and his subsequent lack of desire to take on the role.

We knew this little girl would change all of our lives . . . but I guess there was a part of both Aaron and myself that failed to remember we were the only two people in this little family anticipating the change with great joy. Our son was, despite our best efforts to prepare him, rather unprepared for Ella's entrance into his world—and I am afraid he is finding said world rather rocked at the moment.

Caleb did marvelous at the hospital when he and Ella first met. He was so excited to see her! He had no qualms about climbing up in the hospital bed with me and cozying right in. He was even perceptive enough to speak only in whispered tones (for at least the first 8 minutes).

Fast forward to yesterday—our first full day home as a family of four. Caleb's good humor over Ella's presence in his life has gone the way of the birds, and mommy is no longer his favorite person.

This has been perhaps the hardest change for me—granted Ella has not been with us for more than a handful of days, but watching my little boy—my heart walking around in the world—struggle with his place in my heart nearly breaks me in two, and I confess that I have shed more tears on his behalf during the last couple days than I have for any other reason. And yet, as I told Aaron, rather than finding myself dividedly in love with my two children, I think I have instead expanded—something I did not know was possible.

And it is this knowledge, this new understanding of an expanded heart that gives me such hope and peace in Caleb's regard. He is two-and-a-half. Up to this point his entire world has been entirely about himself—and because he is such a perfect specimen of humanity in all it's fallenness and glory, it is no wonder that this "dethronement" has come as a bit of a shock. But remarkably, this change has only brought him one step closer to being prepared to meet his Heavenly Father. This is Caleb's first experience being removed from the center of the world—a shift that is necessary not only in physical life, but also in the spiritual. And I am confident that there will come a time (probably not too far off) when Caleb can no longer remember when Ella was not a part of his world. And for that, I have a feeling he will be a far better boy, and eventually a stronger man.

Ella Marie . . . Birth Story

2009-03-10T17:50:00.000-07:00

Ella Marie Hautala
7lbs 6.7oz
19.5 inches
Born Saturday, March 7, 10:53pm

At long last . . . my daughter is finally in my arms!

What a tremendous journey this has been. Nine months of pregnancy culminated in the arrival of such a tiny person—but with her comes such joy!

While I truly believe I have been laboring for the past several months (preterm labor, bed rest, weeks of contractions) the true and actual event began abruptly on Saturday afternoon, March 7th, at about 5pm. Saturday began as every other prior to it had, save that I had the delightful treat of my Mom's company for the day. We played with Caleb, caught up, and ended the afternoon with a nice long walk. The temps were fairly decent, and so with Caleb bundled up in the stroller, we walked to town, stopped at the post office, and on our way home stopped for coffee and a cookie at the local coffee shop.

Mom gifted Aaron and I with a night sans Caleb, and she took the little man back to the cabin with her, saying as she kissed me goodbye, "Well, now you are free to have this baby. I am here, Caleb is comfortable, and you and Aaron have the whole weekend."
She was right.

After she left, I took another walk, wistfully hoping it would get things going for real. I'd been having contractions pretty consistently for most of the day, but that wasn't really anything new . . . and I fully expected them to taper off shortly after I finished my walk. But this time, I was delightedly wrong. As I rounded my last lap around the park, the twinges I had been feeling were very quickly progressing to real pain, and while I was quite uncomfortable, the thought of real labor didn't actually register until I got home and began timing contractions—Aaron hovering nearby in the kitchen as I announced astonished through clenched teeth, "I'm in labor, praise the Lord!"

After calling my family and a few close friends who had long been praying for me, Aaron and I packed up the car and headed to the hospital. It wasn't until we were nearly ready to go, that I realized how painful and how close together my contractions were coming. "We need to go." I said to my already-rushing husband."We need to go now." And we did, making good time.

Labor with Caleb had been a marathon. Long, intensive, strenuous—23+ hours. Labor with this child was a sprint. Very intense, and pretty quick. By the time I was dressed in my hospital issued attire, hooked up to an iv, and not-so-patiently awaiting the arrival of the anesthesiologist to administer an epidural, I was dilated to a 7—only three centimeters left to go! My room seemed full of nurses . . . every one was rushing about and all the standard baby-welcoming equipment quickly filled up my room.

Once my epidural was in place, I was finally able to relax and breathe at a normal rate—feeling came back into my hands and feet that were suffering from lack of oxygen, and both Aaron and I looked at one another in amazement. "This is going really fast!" I said astonished. He agreed.

By 10:15pm Saturday evening, I was ready and my doctor told me I could push at any time. I was shocked. "Really?" I asked. She nodded and so I got to work. Thirty minutes later, my beautiful, perfect daughter made her way into this world—and changed mine forever.

It only took one look at her and I was utterly in love. My doctor placed her on my chest and immediately her wails ceased and she looked up at me with wide eyes, listening as I crooned over her.

Everyone told me when I was pregnant with Caleb that having a baby changes everything. Of course. And Caleb's presence in my life has been the sweetest gift. His brilliant and intense personality daily lights up my world. And now, having a daughter has changed everything yet again. A dear friend of mine told me—somewhat prophetically I believe, looking back—that having this child would be healing for me. And now, even though she has been in my life only a mere three days, I can testify to that reality. Her mellow nature, her desire to be near me, the way she is drawn to the sound of my voice, that she has her Daddy utterly wrapped around her finger . . . for all of these reasons and the thousands more to come . . . this daughter, this child, is a gift beyond measure, and my heart is overwhelmed with thankfulness.

Bubbles and Other Supposed Non-Indoor Activities

2009-03-06T11:38:00.000-08:00

I am ready for spring. Seriously.

The temps soared yesterday to 43 degrees, and are promising to do the same again today, and I now have the itch to be out-of-doors . . . even stronger is the itch to get my son out-of-doors.

We are very quickly running out of activities/preoccupations/distractions. Minnesota winters are crazy-long without the addition of a red-headed toddler cooped up inside the walls of my home. He is beginning to bounce against said walls.

And so I have an ongoing list of outside-brought-inside activities that are keeping us busy. At least for the next two-maybe-three days . . . or until he tires of them . . . whichever happens first.

1. Bubbles.
Lots and lots of bubbles. I got short-winded and light-headed from blowing the bubbles from a wand and finally caved, picking up a "bubble gun" complete with 2 AA batteries guarenteed to last, um, maybe an hour or so, in Caleb's persistant hands. I think my kitchen floor has never been cleaner—nor more slippery. It's great incentive to wash the floors . . . just add water.

2. Trike.
Yes, our house is small, but the layout is a solid stream—one room to the next, front of the house all the way to the back. (Google "shotgun house" and you will get the picture). The setup is ideal for small boys to perfect their three-wheeled riding techniques.

3. Lawn Mower.
Fake. Small toy. Not too loud. The carpets have never been more nicely trimmed.

4. Tent.
Ikea is a godsend. Caleb now "camps" periodically in his little red Ikea tent, pitched in the corner of his playroom and gazes at the stars (from inside the tent). Daddy often accompanies him—long legs stretching out and beyond the tent's capacity to contain him. It's perfect.

Ideas considered and dismissed:
1. Swimming Pool
(for obvious reasons) I don't think the homeowner's insurance covers this sort of water damage.
2. Sidewalk chalk
Caleb is an amazing artist, but I am trying to teach him to respect his medium. Paper, not the table; paper, not the floor; paper, not your body, clothes, hair, mouth, or up your nose . . . I would hate to confuse him at this point.
3. Sand box
While we have almost enough dirt in the corners of the house to suffice for this, I am still a little rediscent to encourage the accumulation of any additional dirt.

Until the ice and snow melts . . . play on.

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

2009-03-04T07:23:00.000-08:00

I am firmly convinced that life with a toddler sometimes resembles life with a schizophrenic. (Please do not mistake the reference to make light of mental health disorders—I am personally familiar enough with mental health issues to know that it's no laughing matter!) None the less, there are moments these days, as I wander the halls of the Terrible Twos, when I am truly amazed at my young son's ability to shift so quickly from one dramatic emotion to the next.

Case in point: Yesterday afternoon Caleb and I went from happily driving cars around the couch ottoman (otherwise known as our own local Radiator Springs), to utter meltdown and violence as cars were hurled about when one particular car ("Lightning McQueen" I believe), did not follow Caleb's instructions as explicitly as was expected. It's a pretty serious game—cars.

And yet, despite it all—the dramatic emotional shifts that rival my own pregnant hormones and cause me to wonder about the estrogen/testosterone levels in my son—despite it all, I am so quickly swept away by a single sincere smile, a tender hug, and even forced to stifle laughter over the terrible frustration that twists my little boy's face into a grimace of utter consternation (as seen above.)

And here I thought I was the emotional one!

This remains: I continue to thank my Heavenly Father for the variety Caleb brings to my daily life!

Kisses

2009-03-02T07:58:00.000-08:00

Mommy and Caleb,
February, 2008

I was browsing babycenter.com earlier this week, and I ran across a poll where a mom queried, "Do you kiss your children on the lips?" The question struck me as a little odd, only because I had never really thought there was another option. Of course I kiss Caleb on the lips, and his cheeks, and the dimples at his elbows—his knees when they are scraped or bruised, and almost anywhere else on his little person that needs to be mended or loved.

I grew up being kissed, and while now I pretty much reserve my lips for my husband and my son, kissing in general has always been a warm and welcome part of my life.

And so this morning, when I picked up a cup of Starbucks following another induction attempt at the gym, I read the quote on side of the cup, first thing, as I always do. And it resonated so clearly in my heart that I came home immediately to post it . . . So I would not forget.

"Do not kiss your children
so they will kiss you back
but so they will kiss their children,
and their children's children."
—Noah benShea

Amen Noah. Lips, knees, elbows, whatever. Kiss your children.

Sunday Cupcakes

2009-03-01T17:17:00.000-08:00

As much as I would like to, I really can't take credit for the inspiration behind this afternoon's baking excursion—all due credit goes to my sister: master baker, wonder woman, amazing mom—who sent me pictures this week of a similar excursion with her two little ones, my nephew and niece.

That said, Caleb found the kitchen to be his own source of inspiration in and of itself . . . and while cupcakes were the main priority, he also found time to "re-organize" my Tupperware cupboard, "wash" all the dirty dishes in the sink, and "sweep" the floor with the stuffed head of his hobby horse. Yes, he is multi-talented.

Perhaps most interestingly, I, in all of my 40-week pregnant glory was identified as the Pillsbury Dough Boy. Flattered, I'm sure. Caleb paid me the kindness of pointing out said dough boy on the frosting packaging and remarking, "Mommy!" with a delighted expression. Imagine, finding mommy on a frosting package! (I am trying not to let it go to my head.)

Here's a sample of this afternoon's adventure—and a couple closing shots of the satisfied customer himself.

With Baited Breath . . .

2009-02-27T22:28:00.000-08:00

My sweet husband calls this "The Holding Pattern." "Circling the runway."
Fairly accurate, I believe. After all, I am beginning to feel rather like a passenger jet.

I am still waiting for my daughter.

I remember feeling similar to this with Caleb . . . though, not quite so, "enough already . . ."

Where as with Caleb, even at 42 weeks (yes, my son was two weeks overdue) I still was able to maintain that giddy-excited feeling, this time I am simply done. Not that I am not excited—I am! I can't wait to meet this child, to hold her, to kiss her tiny rosebud lips, smell her skin and her hair, to hold her tiny but substantial weight against my chest . . . I can't wait for this . . . but tonight—at 12:34am as I sit here at my computer, unable to sleep once again due to the contractions that never get any closer than eight minutes apart—tonight, I am simply tired.

I know it has a lot to do with the bed rest experience . . . believing that after I ceased taking the required meds that kept this baby inside when she tried to come far too early, after I resumed normal activity following a month of bed rest, she would come—perhaps immediately! Obviously, such was not to be the case. And so I feel as though I've been in labor for the past eight weeks . . . which may actually be the case!

I shoveled the driveway this morning . . . after going to the gym . . . and doing three loads of laundry (carrying each basket up and down two flights of stairs for good measure). Surely this would have an affect, I told myself. And it should have, save for one thing: it is not time.

I ran into a dear friend of mine at the grocery store tonight and after the sympathetic greeting and the "Yes, I'm still pregnant" acknowledgement, she reminded me that my Heavenly Father has already ordained the day and time of this child's birth—even as He ordained my own. "She will come at exactly the right time," said my friend. And she is right.

No amount of gym sweat, snow shoveling, laundry, repetitive floor scrubbing, or spicy food will make this child come any more quickly. She will come at exactly the right time—the time ordained.

And until then, I will continue to wait with baited breath, to count contractions, and to anticipate that first kiss, that first sweet breath— my first look at my daughter.

Saving My Memory

2009-02-24T13:12:00.001-08:00

*Lest anyone jump to conclusions, this photo is of Caleb and I, our first day home from the hospital nearly two years ago now*

I woke up this morning with the most bizarre, panicked feeling rising in my chest, just before I opened my eyes to face my day. The thought suddenly occurred to me that I have hundreds of photos of Caleb (seriously, hundreds) in digital format saved on both my computer and a separate hard drive, and almost none in a format I can readily access—much less share with my son.

Why this made me panic is still a little fuzzy, but I think it has something to do with the realization that my memories are fading. And in light of welcoming a new baby into our lives, the specific and clear memories I have of Caleb's baby-hood will become less and less sharp against the backdrop of all the newness. The last thing I want to do is find myself wondering . . . Did Caleb do that too? What did Caleb look like at this age? Was Caleb eating this . . . playing with that . . .talking this way . . .? I already struggle remembering some of those details as my son progressed through life that first year, and some of the second for that matter. Fortunately, I kept a little notebook where I wrote down such details as:
• First Smile: Three weeks
• Rolling over: Four weeks (front to back)
• Reaching for toys: Five weeks
• Sleeping through the night: Six weeks
• 7-9 Months: Says "bla-bla-bla" "pa-pa" and "Mmmmm" (in relation to food he enjoys).
• 8 Months: Sits up independently
• Began crawling on 7/17/07 (ten months of age)
Such details are really only important to me, and I know that part of the reason I wrote the above (and much more) down, was because I am so very aware of how slippery my mind can be.

But what to do with that information . . . and all those pictures? Especially now that I will be adding hundreds more of this new baby to the already massive collection? (These were my early-morning pre-coffee thoughts).
At least Caleb's photos were organized my month . . .

So I started searching this afternoon for a solution.
I wanted to create something that I could share with Caleb—which meant it had to be physical (not virtual, as in this blog). It had to accommodate pictures and text, as I wanted to put all my notes in one place (other than a quickly-decaying little notebook).

And so now I have started creating a photo book—an upgraded photo album. Nothing fancy, nothing crazy or overly-involved. . . But a great project none-the-less. And when finished, I will have a book that contains all the important stuff—the pictures and the notes . . . my memories—so my overly full and tired brain will have one less thing to try and contain.

What fun I have had this afternoon journeying back through time . . . re-living Caleb's birth, those first few days at home as a new mom, and the following weeks and months that turned me into the person I am still desperately trying to become:
A good mother . . . patient, kind, attentive, consistent, and desperately in love with her children. . .

Listening For Spring

2009-02-23T12:24:00.000-08:00

I'm a country girl in the spring. (The rest of the year I really appreciate being only a short jog from the grocery store, Home Depot, and the local movie-rental place).

There is something about opening your back door (when you live in the country, as I no longer do), and hearing nothing. No car horns, no passing traffic, no intense train noises, no fighting neighbors . . . just quiet. And in the spring (and by spring I mean February through May), the quiet is amazing because it is so full.

I grew up in the country and as much as I despise the length of Minnesota winters, come February, I fall in love with this bitter north country all over again. February marks the official beginning of spring. Not by the calender—spring equinox doesn't arrive until the third week in March. But in February, things start happening.

I used to stand just outside the back door in the quiet of February nights when I lived outside city limits, and hold my breath, listening. The quiet absorbed the sound of my heart beating and the wind catching the naked trees, rattling them against each other. Finally the sound I was waiting for would boom across the wide stretch of open field behind my childhood home . . . "Hoooooo. Hooo, hoo, hoo- hooooooo . . ." A Great Horned owl. And then another answering back. It was only then that I would release my held breath in a single stream and grin. It was official. Spring was here. The owls were nesting.

Here in town, I can't hear them. Good grief, I can barely hear myself! There is just too much noise, outside my house, inside my house, inside my head . . . But the other night, Caleb and I came home after dark, and tipping his little head back, he gazed up at the night sky and the few bright stars that managed to glimmer through the light pollution.

"Mommy," he said in wonder, "stars!" And I watched him staring up at them for a long time—knowing that this was the first time he had seen them, really seen them. And I tried to recall the last, first time I had noticed, really noticed anything for the first time.

I can't stand out my back door and hold my breath waiting for owls this spring, and I have not done so in quite some time now. But maybe someday I will be able to share that with my son . . . until that day I am doing my best to pay attention to even quieter sounds of life arriving . . . my unborn daughter's heartbeat, my son's quiet breathing as he sleeps, my husband's whistle as he shovels the driveway.

It's February, and here in town things are kind of ugly and cold . . . but spring is coming. I can hear it.

Breakfast With The King

2009-02-20T10:08:00.000-08:00

For those who are not well-acquainted with our family, or if you've not hung around us much, in say, the last three months, then the impact of "Cars" upon Caleb, and subsequently, all of us, might not be fully understood.

We live Cars.

They begin the day with us, coming out of the "garage" in Caleb's room (also known as the bookshelf), and accompanying us to breakfast where they share in whatever it is Caleb might be partaking. They accompany us to the grocery store, to Target, and everywhere in-between (except Church where they are restricted to the confines of the SUV until we return).

The collection began shortly after Caleb and Daddy watched Disney's "Cars," one Saturday morning, several months ago. Had we known the impact this small event would play on our son's life, we might have thought twice . . . Caleb and Daddy have now made "Cars" (the movie), and shopping for Cars (the di-cast models of all the movie characters) a regular part of their Saturday morning routine. (The above activities are preceded by breakfast at McDonald's.)

Mommy currently knows more about Cars than she does about almost anything . . .and yet, somehow I cannot bring myself to curb the obsession I see in Caleb. Partly because Daddy is enjoying it as much as his son, and partly because I know Caleb's derives his obsessive compulsive nature from me.

Drive on.