Lift up your head and be of good cheer....

First, I inform you all that I'm a genius and just passed the CBEST, so I can teach. I won't teach just yet, and who knows how or when I will, but I just wanted you all to know that I can. And also that anyone can. You'd have to be pretty seriously incompetent to fail that test. There are three sections, and I got 100% correct on one of them. I was a little disappointed. No photo.

Secondly, Raelynn has been baptismified. She is holy. She was nervous and thought the whole thing was a little weird. She was uncomfortable with the attention. She tried to stop Mike after the baptismal prayer just before the dunking, because she realized her hair clips were going to get wet, all of which embarrassed her. On the whole, she enjoyed it. Cody got baptized, too, and that made it fun for her. Grandma Debbie gave a great talk which consisted of a story about a race and taught the principal of making good choices, rather than just OK ones. It was perfect. See picture:








Next up: Christmas Eve Eve. Miles describes it as a magical day, and it was. Seven of the eight siblings in Mike's family were here, and everyone was getting ready to gather at Carrie's for a fun-filled sushi night (I know--gross--but apparently, many people actually eat it.) Up walks our neighbor Ahmed who has just come from the mountains and offers us a truck of snow. I bundle up the kids and out they dash--all the cousins come around the corner, and it was magical indeed. For my kids who rarely see snow, it was a Christmas miracle (also Miles' phrase). Again, photos:


Ahmed with his shovel:

Making snowmen in miniature:

Miles moves too fast to get many photos. Here's one that's semi-in focus.

Paige's signature pose:

Paigie Pants: a Wonnacott face, but a Fitwater mouth.

Christmas Eve was typical, expect for the surprise of Mike's parents flying in. I didn't think they'd be able to stay away with so many of their offspring in one place, and they couldn't. We meet every year at Todd and Abby's for appetizers (I make mom's won tons), and the kids perform carols and we play a game or two. We came home and did our Christmas Eve which looks a lot like the ones we grew up with (except it seems like we listened better and were less greedy about getting to the part where we open a present), and then to bed. Four hours later, Mike and I get to bed, and then six hours later, the magic of Christmas morning begins.

Miles found golden marbles in his stocking!!

Raelynn and Paige played together, a little to Raelynn's dismay, but not too much because Santa gave her a safe with a code to keep her precious things protected.

And Paige got her precious, a giant stuffed "P" made by yours truly.

I really want to tell you about the Christmas night dinner and dance-off, but I just can't do it justice without photos, which I hope to get soon. Just picture Brady and Schuyler doing a contemporary routine in skin tight sequined dresses and you'll see why photos are a must. I missed my family in Vegas and Texas a lot, but I wore my spectacular hat a lot, and I got through it. Merry Christmas, all.

The Trickle Down Effect

Ok, Ok, I'm blogging.

Dad and Linda came out for Thanksgiving, and the two short days were two of the best I've spent in a long time. Linda spent hours counting bottlecaps with Paige, who has asked for her Grandma Linda at regular intervals since they left. Both the big kids spent time pelting Linda with their best football passes, and though she protested that she's not athletic, the kids found her more than sporting.

It was like being a kid again to see Dad doing magic tricks after dinner, teaching Raelynn to play double solitaire, harrassing Miles as he dropped a dollar for him to catch, teaching Raelynn to throw a wicked football pass--you get the idea. I can't tell you how clear it is to me (but I'm trying to) that Dad is something special. I think the things we do wrong as parents and the things we do right are often completely unrelated and disconnected. This weekend, I got a reminder of how many things Dad did right. When he was around when I was a kid, he was really engaged. He was really present with my kids, and so much fun.

I was just so glad to have the effects of dad trickle down to my kids. I love our family.

Here are some photos.

You're Hecka Mean!

Dad, you know how we grew up using the word, "like," about every third word of each sentence? I always thought you were a little obsessive about that, and a bit out of touch with the language and it's evolution. I'm sorry about that.

Like all things I once judged you for, your dismay at the slaughter of your mother's English is something I have grown to understand. And to hear a really grating bit of slang fly out of the mouth of my two year old is what helped me get there.

Paige is (like my other two) entirely too fond of argument, and responds to everything with a tart little "Yeah" or a sing-song "noooooo", depending on which one directly opposes me. She's also taken to yelling, "Yeh mean!" with a nice little drawl any time we attempt to stop her from, I don't know, rolling around in mayonnaise on the floor. It's hard to find that funny, what with all the mayonnaise (substitute white-out, glue, nail polish, or any other substance you can imagine) we've been cleaning up.

So the other day we were all in the car enjoying a quiet ride home. It had been a quiet ride for about five full minutes before Paige burst out with an intense shout of "Yeh Hecka Mean!!" Now that's funny. Nothing to clean up-- just good, clean toddler angst. Plus, Raelynn and Miles laughed cheerily for the rest of the ride home.

The part that nags me is that my baby used the word--and I use the term loosely here--hecka. I've been working overtime trying to eradicate the rampant California slang that seems to be invading my children's vocabularies, and "hecka" is my prime target. So Paige busting out with it disturbs me. Deeply. It's, like, totally unacceptable.

But here's the flip side of Paige the Bull. After a week of Mike and I cheerily shouting out, "I'm MEAN!" with big smiles and as much enthusiasm as we could muster, she has informed me that I'm NICE. And I'm not just nice--I'm her most precious, nice mommy. I'm a pretty close runner up to her most precious goat friends, and her most precious baby rock. It's better than being hecka mean, ain't it?

My babiest of brothers, and the birthday boy

When I was in college, I took a course in teaching creative writing. Naturally, we had to do a lot of creative writing ourselves, and I found that almost every piece I did centered around Schuyler. Turns out it's easy to create a sense of character when the character is Schuyler. And if you know him, you know why. Schuyler is a whole lot of what anyone who knows him wants to be. But Schuyler has always been a pretty terrific kid. It isn't always those things that I think of most--it's the random stuff. So here's a little list of a few of the things which make me feel warm inside when I think about growing up with Schuyler.

1. He used to tell me that I was the only one who could really make good macaroni and cheese. I'd come back from a semester of college, and he'd beg me to make him a box. It was ridiculous, and it made me feel good.

2. He tolerated a lot of years of me trying to force education on him. I can remember making him listen to me read every night, everything from the Book of Mormon to Huckleberry Finn. I'm pretty sure it was torture for him, but I felt compelled.

3. His knock knock jokes were endless, and never very good. His best was the one about the grilled cheese sandwich, and if you remember, that wasn't even a little funny. It was so endearing. "No wait, wait no wait no wait no wait wait wait. Let me start again."

4. He once learned that a gas station clerk was working on her birthday, and he bought her a flower. He was, what, nine? A kinder soul you won't find.

5. When he was very small, he used to follow me around when he talked, which was a lot. I can remember hearing him roll on outside the bathroom, oblivious to the door I just shut in front of him.

6. He dumped the girl, but he kept the popcorn, dumped the girl, but he kept the drink.

7. I cherish the quiet moments I used to have with Schuyler; he felt like my own little one. I used to sit with him in the big blue rocking chair and sing to him at night.

8. When Schuyler got hit by the car, I slept on the floor downstairs with him because he couldn't be moved upstairs. He would wake up throughout the night and cry out, and I'd say, "I'm here, Schuyler. It's OK. I'm right here." He'd quiet right down and go back to sleep.

Schuyler's such a dynamic and worthwhile person, and I feel just plain fortunate to have been born in the same family. He's ever the entertainer, but so much more. Nobody gets me thinking like he does, and nobody leaves me laughing harder. I never could put into words all the reasons I love Schuyler, or all the things he adds to my life by being who he is. I just want to say--I appreciate you. And don't ever forget, kiddo, that I'm here when you need me. I'm here. Happy Birthday, bud.

I Found My Thrill...

There's a beautiful place about an hour from Sacramento up into the mountains where you'll find dozens of apple orchards, pumpkin patches, and Christmas tree farms. It's aptly called "Apple Hill", and we've made it tradition for the last five years to head up during apple season. It's a delightful way to spend a Saturday, so if anyone ever comes out in the fall, this is where we'll be taking you.





Some highlights from the trip: Paige went on her first train ride.


Raelynn opted to skip the train ride and take the three dollars. She recognizes a rip-off when she sees one, and was more than a little dazzled by the stalls on the way in full of all the knick-knackery you could wish for. Unfortunately, the stalls were as overpriced as the train ride, and she ended up throwing a dollar at a scented votive just so she wouldn't have to come home empty-handed. Live and learn.



The kids got to eat plenty of apples and pick a few, too.




Haystacks, pumkins and scarecrows abounded.




The farm animals are there to pet, but Miles has always been overly affectionate.



Raelynn loved watching a guy carve bears with a chainsaw. I narrowly avoided bringing one home (Mike wanted several).

There was even a bluegrass band, which smacked of Fruit of the Loom (only much younger). The kids enjoyed it, and it made me homesick. Aren't you supposed to be over that by the time you get to your thirties?

By the end of the day, the kids were pretty tired.

But everyone was revived by the real reason we return year after year: the donuts. You eat just one of the apple donuts from High Hill Ranch, and tell me it isn't worth the drive.

Mostly, though, Apple Hill gives Mike and I a relaxing day in the mountains, and it gives the kids a little more running room than they're afforded at home. Sometimes an open lane down the side of an apple orchard is just the freedom you've been needing.

Photos for No Reason

I've had some complaints (Tiffany) that I don't post enough pictures. That's because I don't take enough pictures. I'm a busy lady. But here's what I've got.

Miles just had his birthday party, and I almost posted a photo of the blowing out of candles on his awesome lego cake, or a picture of the kids playing. But I thought you'd like to see Miles practicing his acting skills. The gratitude is real, just not the shock and awe.

Noelle and Paige are kind of like sisters because they live so close to each other. This leads to a lot of girl fights, but also some really good moments.

Here are my two big kids on their first day of kindergarten and third grade respectively. I miss them all day (until they come home, at which time I sometime wish it were boarding school. Oh, come on. I'm just kidding. Mostly.)

I know this one's a little blurry, but I just love the way these two look at each other. I can't imagine two luckier people, and I watch their relationship with pure joy.

Magnifcent Reading!

I tend to read like I eat Twinkies: entirely too fast to really appreciate it. But I still love reading (even more than Twinkies, if you can believe it), and have just had an unusually beautiful reading experience.

The book is called Crossing to Safety by Wallace Stegner. It's not a gripping story, though it is interesting enough to hold attention. I think this is just what made it so enjoyable. The writing was really beautiful, and I was able to take the time to fully appreciate it. I didn't want to rush through it; I wanted to savor it. It also really appealed to me because it centers around a writer and English professor, and contains the kind of insights that lend themselves to that kind of introspective life, and I found myself reading with that feeling of YES!

I suppose the book has the same kind of tragedy and trouble that any other book has--there are life-altering job losses and diseases and marital strife. But the struggles are like benediction. It's taken and lived with, but more than that--it was turned into privilege and blessing. There was something really peaceful about it, and I highly suggest it to any of the three of you who read my blog. Enjoy. And if you don't enjoy, keep it to yourself, would you? I hate to cast my pearls before swine. (Do you like that, how I set that up so that if you don't enjoy this book, you're swine? Well that's right. Swine.)

The Way We Were, and Other Random Musings

So the other night when Mike was out late and I had nothing better to do, I pulled out my wedding video. It's been 10 years, and I thought the video would be short and fairly boring--but I was so wrong. Everyone looks so very different on the tape, from Schuyler at 14, with his orange-ish hair and teenage swagger, to dad, who looks thin and who was also apparently still using the flo-be on his not-yet white hair. I was expecting to see a gloriously young and beautiful me, and a younger and better version of everyone else, too. The truth was immediately clear, though. I look only a little worse for the wear (and never was that glorious to begin with), and everyone else is exactly the way I love them right now. I just felt an overwhelming love for my family, and wanted to tell you (in case you're watching time fly and thinking you're going downhill) that in every case I find you richer, wiser, and more beautiful than you were back then. Carry on.

This is a photo of my kids on the first "cold" day of the fall season. It's about 70 degrees outside, and they see clouds and go crazy with the winter gear. California kids. I never would have thought I'd have them.

This is Paige in the bathroom she flooded. She can just reach the sink if she stands on her tippy toes, and also she has all the destructive force of a hearty mix of Miles and Ava. She's a bull and a half. And she looks here like she's eaten a bull and a half. It's ok--we have a wet vac. She also recently pulled about half of the keys off the computer. While we spent forever painstakingly putting them back together, she spent her time in "time-out" yelling "DON'T YOU COME OVER HERE!!"

And speaking of Paige, here's my favorite of her most recent pastimes (although peeing on the floor and coloring on everything she can get her paws were close runners-up). And I know how my family members feel about cats, but you can't help feeling an appreciation of Leo when you see the kind of punishment he takes from Paige in the form of love. It goes like this: "I'm gonna hold my kitty," Paige will say. Leo will look up from his sunny spot by the sliding door and consider running. He decides to allow it, apparently, because Paige will thump over to him and drop on him like a UFC pro. She'll haul him around until I make her sit, and when she does this, his little back paws scuttle around on the ground in a vain attempt to keep his airways open. Once she sits, he is submitted to a battery of kisses, hugs and squeezes and he maintains a look of bored tolerance like a good cat should. Paige insists he sits like a person. He allows this for a really commendably long time before I force Paige to release the cat. She really loves her kitty. He's earned it.

And one last thing--my feelings about video games are just one part of a larger feeling about technology in general. It may be just because I lack the understanding to feel the magic of it, but I mostly feel that what we gain from technology is far outweighed by what we lose. Mike disagrees, which is why I have a picture of Paige frozen watching a cartoon on Mike's ipod. Once plugged in, she's like a doll with pliable little limbs you can pose. She won't even sit--you have to bend her legs for her. It's so disheartening. Fight, I say to you all! Fight! You don't have a shot in hell, but fight to the death anyway. For the love of the children!

The Cheese Stands Alone

Mike's no farmer, and I'm no match for mice, carving knife in hand or no. Which is unfortunate, really, considering the recently revealed fact that we have mice. We keep a cat, and our garage is notoriously mouse-free, so I was sure it was nothing when Leo jumped off my lap and stalked into the kitchen with the determination of a lion and the cunning of, well, a cat. But I followed him and sure enough, I heard a little scratch scratch scratching under the sink. So I opened the door and watched my cat go into wild mode. He stalked for a while, and finally caught the little rodent.

Did I mention that my cat is an idiot? It's really not his fault. He's tame, you see, and really only knows mice as fluffy little toys he likes to bat around, so he couldn't have understood my dismay when he dropped the mouse in order to play with it. The mouse isn't half as dumb as my cat, though, and he beat it like a regular Speedy Gonzales. Leo pouted a lot and spent the rest of the day stalking various objects, some that move, some that don't. Idiot.

We set a trap and caught one (now by "we", I mean Mike. He used peanut butter, and frankly I may throw the jar away. I am, apparently, a pansy when it comes to mice, as you will soon see.) This is good. But that night, Mike went on a scout camp out and left me alone with the mice. And the girls, but they really don't help with the mouse situation. So we were all settled in bed, but I kept hearing so much noise downstairs. Not regular noise, but cat noise. And so now I understand why they call them "cat burglars", because I must have come downstairs with various heavy objects as weapons five times before I figured out what was going on. Leo and the mouse (more like Tom and Jerry, stupid cat) were playing hide and seek. My aversion to mice which need to be exterminated is pretty strong, so I went to bed grossed out and thought Leo would have it handled by morning. I tried not to think about removing the dead mouse, and just hoped I'd be able to do it when I had to.

The morning dawned, and I gingerly stepped down the stairs afraid to land a foot on the poor little mouse. No need to worry. The poor little mouse was closely guarded by the cat, who was still batting around the only partly dead mouse. I now think my cat is far worse than stupid. That's serious cruelty, to torture a mouse like that. It took me four attempts before I was able to get close enough to put a trash can over the mouse. I couldn't bring myself to put it out of its misery. Leo sulked accordingly, and I dry heaved. I was unable to overcome my gag reflex, and almost cried with relief when Carrie showed up to borrow our blower and threw the now all dead mouse out for me.

Leo's back to being locked in the garage at night, and the cheese in the trap is responsible for catching the mice. I feel a little guilty about swatting flies, so killing mice is truly beyond me. Mike sets the traps, he checks them, and he empties them. I put it down to experience, and am grateful to have discovered a little more about my limitations. I don't do live mice--not so much the mouse itself, but the killing of it. I guess I don't do killing. Oh, I know I'm complicit. But I just can't pull the trigger.

I keep thinking about one day too many years ago when I announced my intentions of becoming a nurse, and Aryn snorted. I was quite reasonably offended, but she assured me that I didn't have it in me to be around the pain of people dying. I never really thought she was right about that until this last week. The mice have convinced me where Aryn couldn't. I'm not cut out for hospital work or military service. Or veterinary work, for that matter. Shoot, I couldn't even be an Orkin Man.

Train On, Girls

This is just a shout out to you sisters. After I hurt my foot a couple of weeks ago, I thought I was a goner as far as the whole training for this marathon thing. But on Sunday, after a week and a half of not running (or doing much other than hobbling), I ran eight miles. The whole eight! I'm amazed at myself, but finally thinking I can maybe really do it. And I also finally don't really care if I can--if I walk some, so what? If I'm slow, who cares? So keep walking/running/biking and I'll see you in October. I think it'll be great.

Also, I want to say that I love my new shoes. Before my blueberries, as I call them for reasons that will be clear shortly, my shoes were a source of distress. My shins felt like they were splintered, half my foot went numb 10 minutes into every run, my sock twisted like it was alive, and my right foot suffered different pains every time I ran. I finally decided to go to a store where I heard they help you choose the right shoes, and I LOVED IT. The guy there checked out my feet and measured them. He then looked at my old shoes, and informed me that they were a full size too small for running--who knew I was supposed to buy running shoes bigger? He asked if they were for running or walking and then asked how far and how fast I run. He watched me walk around, and told me that I also had the wrong shoe for my gait, and came out with three shoes to try on. By now, he seemed like a shoe god, and I admit I was feeling pretty close to him (he had, after all, been examining my feet). But I was still surprised when he picked up the third pair, leaned in and said, "smell them." I thought he was crazy. He actually made me smell them several times (I wasn't inhaling deeply enough for him, I guess), and insisted they smelled like blueberries. Perhaps influenced by the huckleberries of McCall and my awe of his foot detective work, I bought the blueberries. They were clearly his favorites. I'm happy to report that all my feet problems are solved. It's magical. We live in a world where knowledgeable service is rare and hard to find, so I was just delighted with my running shoe outing. In 30 minutes, I had the perfect shoes. I wish all shopping worked like that. Shoot-I wish life worked like that.

Everybody is OK!

We live by freeways. Who doesn't these days, I know, and hardly a day goes by that I don't spend part of my time on one or more freeways. I listen to music, I listen to my kids fight, I listen Paige holler that she needs chocolate. But always in the back of this is the running dialogue in my brain which tends to focus largely on all the danger, both real and imaginary, that I feel hunkering about me waiting to strike. Usually this involves some splitting of my family, and it's hardest not to listen when we are in fact separated. Mike at work, some kids at school, Paige at a play date--any time we're divided. But I don't really feel the intense worry when I'm driving with all three kids in the car. I guess I figure if something happened, it's OK because we're all together, because I wouldn't leave any children behind. I know it's warped and irrational, but I know you understand.



That was a long preface to a short story. So this morning, the kids and I were heading to Fairy Tale Town for a fun outing, when I felt I was almost waking up. Suddenly, it seemed to me, I could see the freeway clearly. It was crowded and moving fast, and it seemed abnormally dangerous to me. My internal dialogue went straight into 'what if' mode, and I thought about what Mike would do if all three kids and I were to die in a car accident. Despite my tendency to catastrophize, this had never really occurred to me before. It took a split second to see it and wonder--would he still practice dentistry? Live in the house? In Sacramento? You get the idea. Just a split second. And in that second I pulled my foot off the gas--a natural reaction to the crowded freeway and the crazy line of thought my brain tends to take.



And as I pulled my foot back, I saw a stone the size of a bucket come flying over the other side of the freeway toward the car. In retrospect it seems like it had to come from an overpass, because it was huge and coming fast, but it was arching like it came from somewhere lower. Either way, it was moving too fast for me to react in any way, and I was stunned as it slammed into the front end of the minivan and rocketed back up into the air headed someplace to my right. I still feel worried that it might have hit some other car before it finally landed.



When I parked the car and got out to look at what I felt sure would be a seriously damaged hood, I saw that the stone had smashed directly into the license plate of the car. The frame of the plate was mostly gone and the plate itself was mashed. The was a minor gash where the stone had shot back up after hitting the plate, and the H on the front was hanging off. That's shockingly little damage from anything as big as what hit my car.



I stood there with my three perfectly unharmed kids and felt dizzy with gratitude. I don't care if you view it as divine intervention or a run-of-the-mill coincidence. The fact is that if I didn't pull my foot off the gas when I did, that massive stone would have smashed directly into my windshield. It really hasn't done anything for my tendency to over-emphasize the fleeting and fragile nature of life, but I can't help feeling the miracle of my family a little more deeply today. We are whole and well and continuing today, and for once, that's enough. I guess I have enough gratitude today to overpower the fear. Maybe I haven't had enough time to process why, but somehow I'm changed from this. I may not understand what it means, but I know a miracle when it slams me in the fender.


And I feel a need to contact my family and tell them we're OK. So you didn't know we were in danger, but we're all fine. And that should be an exclamation--we're all fine! Do you believe it? We survived! Hallelujah!



Also, I think it shows how silly it is to want expensive cars. You're bound to smash into things, you know.

My McCall

So I know my family already knows all of this, but I can't quite hold it in. I feel compelled to put into words what McCall does for me, but I know I'm just not capable.

So the short version is this: McCall for me is a coming home to the essential me. It is the dropping off of all the weight with which life has loaded me, and it leaves me feeling as complete and clean as the first dive off the dock does. The physical place is all it takes. The trees, the lake, the cabin--all of it is sort of a home for my soul. Dad says that it changes, has changed already, and while he is technically correct (no denying the ice skating rink in place of the old Shavers, to name just one), the essence of McCall is just what it has always been. I believe that there are places capable of holding history, and the area surrounding Payette Lake is such a place. Maybe because there is so much of my grandma there, or my dad, or my own childhood--but we are other places, too, that don't hold us the same way. It feels like the earth there soaks up life as we live it, waits for us to come back to reclaim it.

Then again, maybe it's just the joy of not having to shower, to dress in anything other than a swim suit and a big hat, to drink as much Kool-Aid as my stomach can hold. It's being able to read for eight hours a day. I like the feeling of being remote, unreachable (I had to really work to pretend Oliver's computer was a figment of my imagination--I don't want to believe the internet is available! No TV! No cell phones! No contact with the outside world except the old red phone with it's long, over-stretched cord, please). It's simple, really. It's cucumbers in vinegar. And that's enough.

And in large part, it's the fact that I'm with family. It's safe to let go of yourself when you're surrounded by people who hold all the parts of you safe in themselves.

That's the short version. So now I'm home, ready to deal with the 65 emails and 15 phone messages that await. Or maybe I'm more ready to ignore three fourths of those, and that's the difference. Either way, I love McCall and the family I find there. I took a lot of pictures and sent them to all my family, but here's the one that makes my heart sing. Continuity.

Everbody Say CHEESE, and I Mean It.

Family picture time is always one of my favorites. The only appropriate word is 'debacle'. Usually we have Raelynn crying, Miles raging, Paige screaming and arching her little back, and Mike headed for the car within 10 minutes. Good times. This was our best year yet! Raelynn lasted the entire session without crying--in fact I never heard her complain. One for one. The only one.

Miles isn't exactly capable of holding still in any position, and understands posing about as much as he understands clear instructions to clean his room. I'm pretty sure he hasn't been able to attach any real meaning to any phrase that functions as a command, certainly not a command which involves the word 'clean'. I can't help but remember those old photos of the siblings where Brady wouldn't quit cocking his head to the side and mom went a little savage. Miles and Brady have a good bit in common (savage mother included). Add to that his total inability to fake a smile that doesn't look like he's pretending to be a sweet old lady without her dentures in, and you get the idea of what we were dealing with.

Paige generally is about as good at the holding still as Miles, but smiling on demand is not really in her repertoire. She has some good moves, don't get me wrong--the limp fish, the stiff-as-a-board, the arch-and-slide--but smiling on demand isn't one of them. She fusses, she fumes, she screams, but she never once cracks a true smile.

This leaves me generally screaming at the kids through my smile (at which I'm remarkable skilled), and Mike faking his smile (which is better than Miles's only because his mouth is open and you can see teeth) while inching his way toward the car. He's pretty much over it before we even get there.

So you'll get a Christmas card with the best we could manage, but just know that the reality is something more like this:

My Toothless Wonder

There may come a day when I wish Mike had chosen a different profession, but this isn't it. For the second time, Raelynn has busted out half of her front tooth. Her permanent front tooth. Same one she busted last time. I expect, because of the nature of the break, that she will experience this particular trauma at least once a year until she starts dating and begins to be more careful about activities that may result in her face plunging toward concrete. At least I hope she'll begin to be more careful. So here's the before.

I'm a little embarrassed about my reaction both times. Here's my daughter, crying and bleeding and shocked, and all I can think is that I wish she'd just break a bone! Or if at least it had happened to Miles or Paige--anyone with baby teeth. I hate to see my beautiful girl marred like that. Bad mom, sure. But true.

And this is where the gratitude comes in. Hooray for my dentist husband! Because I can just bring her on in and he'll work his magic, and voila! Beauty restored. He's a terrific guy, a truly superb father, and a gifted dentist. What luck! He cooks, he cleans, he fixes teeth. What more could I ask for? Maybe less snoring. But who's perfect?

When Life Gives You Lemons

Last night was typical. RL was crying, with a host of very serious reasons for doing so--she was, after all, NEVER going to be able to play the piano which I just keep making her practice, and Mrs. J was making her do an ENTIRE PACKET a day for reading groups (which is obviously unfair). She had to finish her homework before going out to play, and I wouldn't give her ice cream beore dinner. When I snapped at her to stop whining, she wailed, "See? I'm stupid, too!"

This comes two days after a discussion about lemonade, and how to make it if life hands you the proverbial lemons. During this discussion, of course, RL mostly bemoaned the fact that if she does manage to look on the bright side, I probably won't even know since she'll likely be at school, so I won't reward her for it. What's the point? She is not my most optimistic child.

The thing I keep thinking about lately is this feeling of entitlement that radiates off my children. Lemons? Life has handed them two parents who are highly educated, hard working and utterly devoted to them. They live in a country where they have rights, freedoms, opportunities--not to mention electricity and plumbing--and I'm talking to them about making lemonade. It more than once occurs to me that this is ridiculous.

I'm guilty, of course, too. Someimes, I don't feel happy. And I indulge in a little self-pity. If I didn't have so much to do for everyone else, if my husband were more sensitive, if my children were better behaved, and the kicker--if my mom had lived. It reminds me of the scene from Bridget Jones's Diary where she's in some foreign jail with all these women complaining about boyfriends who beat them, sell them, make them deal in drugs and all sorts of horrid things. She realizes how silly it is to be so upset with her man over the way he so tidily folds his boxers. And my life is like that. It seems like such serious business, the living of our individual lives. Still, I'm aware of my tendency to dramatize (thanks, Dad, for the tater tot incident), and can snap myself out of these little bouts. I recognize the unspeakable beauty of what life has handed me, and I count myself lucky. I'm mostly grateful, and mostly happy.


Still, this is my biggest struggle, this trying to make my kids see what they have. Is there any way to do that without taking it away? "For when do know anything as utterly as when we lack it?" I guess Dad would laugh at this, after battling the six of us for so many years and seeing us turn out all right (I assume he thinks we did in fact turn out all right), and in the toughest moments that's where I take courage from. And it's really all about scale, right? Don't we pretty much adjust to the level of lemons we get? I hope so, and I hope that by teaching my babies to make that lemonade over the small and insignificant things, they'll be able to step up if it starts raining lemons. Right?

It's tough to get a good picture of Paige. Every time she sees a camera, she hustles right up as close as she can get and screams CHEESE until you take the picture. She means well, but just doesn't quite understand. Sort of like how she occasionally poops on the floor and then picks it up and puts in the toilet. We do tell her that big girls put their poops in the potty, but that isn't exactly what we mean. You understand.

That's Good Parenting

So Mike and I spent all weekend busting our "bahookies" (thanks, Miles, for the lingo) in the backyard. It looks great, and we think the kids will really enjoy it. The irony is that in order to give them their paradise, we pretty much had to ignore them for 72 hours. On Saturday I found myself telling Paige to quit being such a baby (she was crying for lunch and it was 3pm, the big whiner), and so we pulled out the big guns and set up a sprinkler. Note that Paige is still in her pajama top, but we did remove her bottoms at some point which proves she got at least one diaper change. The green bowl is empty because Paige inhaled the frozen peas I put in there. And seriously, who doesn't love frozen peas on a hot day?

Easter with the Sacramento cousins

It was an Easter like most others. We gave the kids too much candy despite pre-Easter pep talks about moderation, and the kids had all the highs and the tanking, too, of so much sugar. At one point I saw Davey trying to put the top on his plastic egg, but he couldn't manage it because he was shaking so much. Good times. They ate, they cried--it was better than "Cats". They want to do it again and again.

Through a Glass, Darkly

What you're looking at here is desperation. Mike banished all the kids from the house because they were getting in the way of the TV. And really, you can't have all those scrappy kids darting in front of the screen and blocking the men while they play their video games, right? That's a separate blog, though, isn't it--this is just a little laugh at the expense of my beautiful babies and their cousins as they look through the window at the video games they long so desperately to play. But listen: video games are for grown-ups. Am I right? Oh, don't even get me started on those video games. Hand-eye coordination my @#!&%^* Great photo, though.

Proof of Immortality

The extra digit gene strikes again! When Barrett told me about the newest Fitzwater's twelve toes and eleven fingers, my immediate response was, "Awesome!" The funny thing is, I meant it. I couldn't stop the feeling of pure glee that flooded me, though I'm surprised by the strength of it. Why would I feel such absurd pride about this? Why do we so love to see our genes passed on? What is it about family, that I'm positively gleeful about Autumn's mutant baby?

There are instances of this all around me. I adore Miles's big fat bottom lip and the way it suctions to a glass when he's chugging his water because it so reminds me of Brady. Mike lights up every time Paige does her grunty little growl after a nice swallow of milk, and even though it bothers me so much when he does it that I have to leave the room, I find it endearing that Paige has inherited it. Neither of us can help laughing every time Raelynn snorts while laughing (though I still maintain that I DO NOT snort ever). Why do I find myself loving the freckles on my kids that have always been more of a curse than a blessing for me? Where does that need for our history to continue come from? And I think it's just that--we need our lives to continue. So the newest Beardsley's genetic anomaly means more than just a couple of extra toes. Mom may have died, but Autumn's little multi-digit beauty is proof that she lives on. Thank you, Autumn, and all your extra toes for proof of immortality. Twenty-three? Awesome.

This is Paigie Beth in the kitchen, where she mostly pulls things out of every drawer and cabinet. She has, I hope, finally quit finding the powdered sugar and dumping it out before licking it off the floor.

She has entered the era of "mine" with a vengeance. My binky. My cheese. My duckie. My dolly. My this! My that! The last two are my favorite. I don't know what this is or why I should want it, but MY THIS! It's a little frightening how cute this stage is. I know how quickly it gets ugly, but I can't help dissolving into laughter when she starts the hollering. That's my baby.