Pizza and Panic--SuperDads to the Rescue!

There are some things we never grow out of (fortunately, I think my shoes are finally some of them, but unfortunately, I doubt my favorite jeans are another). I think I will always love chocolate, Jane Austen movies, and holding my kids on my lap while reading story books, although eventually they have to sit next to me rather than on me.

There are certain habits I don't think I'll ever outgrow, though. I still hold my breath when I cross over a bridge, I must have Peeps on Easter and candy canes on Christmas (even though I won't eat them), and I pretend to cough during church so I can sneak the snacks I bring every week into my mouth.

But there is one thing I realized I still do, and it makes me feel quite young--only because I did it all the time when I was a kid. I came to this realization of my habit when a couple of weeks ago one of the 12-year-old Beehive girls I teach at church volunteered to bring the refreshments for our next activity. "My dad can just pick up some pizzas at Costco and bring them to the park!"

I laughed to myself as I e-mailed her parents (telling them they really could just bring brownies or something) and told them about an experience I had as a second-grader:

I'm sure it was the night before our school Christmas program (those were days), when I informed my father I had volunteered him to do all the scenery. Well, instead of handing out a panicky lecture (that probably came later), he just went out to the garage and pulled out some handy refrigerator boxes and 2x4's and built a life-sized camel and donkey, and a wooden manger we still use every year for our family Christmas nativity.

It would have been just a sweet, funny little story, except that the next day at church the girl's dad was telling us how some of our plans for the up-coming youth trip had just changed. We were taking about 75 people to Utah for our general world-wide church conference, and everyone would be staying with a few family members who had opened their homes to us all. One of the planned homes had fallen through, and they were looking for another place for a dozen of the 12-13-year-old boys and their leaders. So, of course, what did I do?

"Let me call my dad," I said. And five days later my parents had 15 boys and men sprawled on beds, couches, and covering the floor of their entire basement. And what, of course, did my dad say?

"We were happy to help."

I'm sure he and my mom really were. It probably helped that one of those boys was their grandson. But I had done it again, only this time, I wonder if my dad was wishing it were a fully functioning automatronic donkey capable of carrying Mary and Joseph to Egypt rather than a house full of boys and all the food, noise, smells, and chaos that entails. Surprisingly, or not, they used very little hot water (we are talking about teen-age boys on a trip without their mothers to tell them to shower), and left everything intact!

Thank goodness for people like that who pitch in in a pinch and come through in a crisis. They're the ones who really keep the world going round, and they even bring the pizza.

Oh, the Simple Pleasures of Life

Remember that show Green Acres where the big city attorney marries one of the Gabor twins with the thick European accent, and they move to the country to get back to the simpler life? OK, just checking.

On my son's birthday last weekend he wanted to go see some of his favorite cars. So, while our oldest son was off on a fabulous back-packing trip, and our other son was playing in a baseball game at the park, I took the birthday boy and his friend window shopping.

When we pulled up to Symbolic Motors in La Jolla you would have thought that the king of the universe was there giving out unicorn rides and chocolate covered cotton candy handmade by Elvis from the way the boys were screaming.

Well, a kid in a candy shop is nothing compared to these two boys in the car showroom. "A black Lambo! Look at the Lotus! Check out the red one! No way, (and here's the hyperventilation squeal) a blue and silver Bugatti Veyron!" Thank goodness for those powerful forcefield velvet ropes surrounding that car and the laminated do not touch signs on all the windows, or those boys would have hopped right in, had that thing hot-wired and taken it on the open roads for the Salt Flats in no time!

They raced around the store drooling at all their dream cars amidst a couple of other boys (apparently doing the same thing), a woman with a puppy (who fortunately kindly kept my daughter thoroughly entertained), a man seemingly actually buying a Bugatti (while his son, who looked completely bored, watched longingly at my enthusiastic bunch, and his dad chatted on the phone about doing the show Friday instead), and a few showroom workers with that expression of man, I hope that lady knows how much these cars cost when one of those boys puts a dent in it with their excitement (or maybe I confused that look with the look of seriously, can't she see we're actually trying to sell cars here--don't get your breath on those windows!).

I loved the comment, "My plan is to start saving now so I can buy one of these when I get my license," my son's friend informed me. "I only have eight dollars, though. I blew the rest on a convertible Lamborghinni remote control car. Why?! Why did I buy the Lambo?!" I suppose that question will haunt him forever, now.

The sheer joy of being surrounded by their dream cars was exhilerating, but the clandestine rebellion was the most exciting part--as the boys circled the showroom time and again they secretly touched every car--twice! Some of them more!

Their conversation said it all: "I'll never wash this finger again!" and "I went to the bathroom in the Bugatti store! Beat that!" Well, how could I? So, we settled for a trip to the ice-cream store next door and an afternoon at the beach house with the future President (who, it turns out, has a pretty good singing voice).

So, the day of simple pleasures would have to end with the birthday boy being surrounded by his brothers and sister and cousins and parents and uncle singing four verses of the Happy Birthday song (I know, huh), while eating our our own attempt at a custom Lamborghinni made entirely of chocolate cake and frosting with a side of Fiery Fudge tabasco ice cream. It may not have been an Aston Martin wrapped up with a bow, but I say "Beat that!"

As I was Saying...

I feel like I was just saying something about restraint and grandparents...

Crossbows, cannons, bunk beds--those are chump change compared to the granddaddy of garage projects. Yes, I'm speaking of the all mighty Pine Wood Derby Car.

I've gained great appreciation for those pre-fab kits you can buy at the craft store. Sure, they lack a little personality, but only a little, and put on a shiny coat of paint, add an army man, and it's a custom hot rod. Of course, my son's definition of "custom" makes my definition look like custom in the sense of customizing your Richmond tract home with brown carpet instead of beige.

But our latest true custom Pine Wood Derby car is nearly on par with my heirloom hand-made wedding dress.

When Grandpa was visiting, and my son asked for a little help on his car, well...you can imagine what followed. Yep, a couple of visits to the hardware store, two hours of math lessons on proportions, half a bottle of glue, and about a pound-and-a-half of sawdust later (and a few whispers of "he's making this all a little complicated"), what emerged was the fanciest sports car to ever hit a Cub Scout Derby track. Oh, yeah, it even ran pretty fast (as if that mattered when all was said and done).

There is something that happens when you give a boy and his grandpa free reign with a block of wood, a little imagination, a bit of determination, and a power sander Dremmel. Could that really have been how the Lord began--a little art project for school, or maybe even a Pine Wood Derby wood block, then asking his grandpa for a little help (that part's left out of the scriptures), and an afternoon later, the solar system?

Well, you know what they say, "home is where we train for the eternities." I can't wait to see what kinds of planets these guys come up with someday ( I hope one of them involves something to do with rivers flowing with chocolate and flowers made of snickerdoodles).

In the mean time, that "Best Design" certificate hangs proudly on the bedroom wall right next to the framed letter from President Dieter F. Uchtdorf--but that's another story.

You'll Shoot Your Eye Out

There’s an unspoken rule about the certain amount of restraint one must practice when it comes to grandparents—take for instance, when your 7-year-old asks Grandpa, “hey, can we make a cross-bow?” and Grandpa says, “sure.” Well, what can you do. Of course, in my mind I’m picturing his typical 7-year-old popsicle stick creations, but, no-o-o-o. It involves 2 trips to Home Depot and a whole pile of power tools and a garage full of sawdust. An afternoon later, voila, a fully functioning weapon to protect the house when wild dogs take over the world.

Maybe someday I'll be glad we have that crossbow (you know, for the wild dogs), but for now, I just hide the arrows and take lots of pictures at Halloween--it does make an awfully good Hunn accessory.

Of course, even without the arrows, the boys find other things to fire, like army men and magic markers. But, I'd say their favorite thing about the crossbow was making it with the undivided attention of their grandpa, who never once told them "no, you'll shoot your eye out."

Silent Night, Holy Night

While I am basking in the San Diego sunshine, watching my children in their T-shirts and shorts play in the cul-de-sac, I think of my best friend hunkering down under three feet of snow for yet another storm on the opposite side of the country. Now, you'll never hear me complain about warm, sunny days, but there are moments--very brief, and usually just at Christmas--when I actually miss the snow.

Snowy nights are so silent. Of course that still, quiet is broken as soon as the sun comes out and the kids wake up. They play in the snow all day long, eating it until their cheeks are the color of cranberries and ice is caked into their hair. Although they’re freezing, it’s only the early winter darkness that ends their day of fun. They come inside and leave the heap of soggy socks and gloves and mountains of parkas and pants, then the puddles of boots and tracked-in clumps of snow migrate away from the cold of the doorway. The kids plop down, curled up on the couch with hot cocoa and blankets while they watch Christmas cartoons and fall asleep (hopefully not with the hot cocoa still in their hands). Their rosy, glowing faces look like little cherubs, and I’m reminded, that this is who they truly are, angels straight from heaven. And the snow falls, and once again it’s a silent night, and with all these heavenly little angels, a holy night, too.

Random

Just because this is funny...My nephew (whom I am baby-sitting, otherwise I'd still be asleep--see bulldozer and dark chocolate) is sitting on the floor, leaning over and rubbing his eyes with his toes! Oh, the amazing things kids remind us we were once capable of. My daughter can touch her tongue to her elbow (an idea, I'm sure, put into her head by her brothers).

Good Conversation

So, a few friends of mine, and particularly my sister-in-law Amy (check out her fantastic blog Unlimited Tater Tots), have tried to convince me to start a blog. Last year I did, but I forgot my password, so it has all of one entry floating around out there in cyberspace. Alas, here I am again making a new attempt.

Here's the funny thing about blogs--they're great to read, but writing it is so weird. I mean, who is actually reading this? No one (see followers to the right--yes, you--whoever "you" are-- could be the lucky first). So, essentially, I feel like I'm pretty much talking to myself. I'm okay with this since, as a mother of four kids, talking to myself is a pretty regular occurance. "Come for breakfast," or "Time for church," or "Let's unload the dishes," are repeated phrases I say to myself quite often. As incredibly wonderful as my children are, anything remotely related to cleaning, schoolwork, or personal hygiene completely falls on deaf ears. Unless my words somehow involve swimming pools, dessert, or cousins, I am usually talking to the air around me.

I do find, however, that I am pretty good company, and can even hold a fairly interesting, intelligent conversation now and again, even if I am the only one that hears it. I can't help but wonder when I am thinking about this how the Lord feels with me most of the time. My kids aren't the only ones who have to be told more than seven times to do something, or be given several chances and a few extra nudges to get things done. I'm sure instructions to me are often blocked by my frenzy to get kids to school on time, or tidy up before the home teachers come, or get in that last episode of Psych before I fall asleep on the couch, because we all know what happens once you sit down during the day--it takes a bulldozer or something with at least 17 ounces of dark chocolate to get you back up (and by "you" I mean "me").

So, I have decided this year to be a better listener. I'm sure I will continue to need a few reminders, and more than once I fully expect to have my little daughter stand in front of me, take my face in her hands, and with the look of a general about to invade the Hunns say "Mommy, are you listening to me?" (Wow, she's even insisting right now, "Listen to me" and expressing her concern for those people still on the "naughty list" and how she is hungry--more later on that fascinating train of thought she has).

I also have decided to be a better writer, or at least write more often. Whether anyone is reading or not. I am pretty comfortable talking to myself. Having said all this, my pre-school daughter is hosting her morning talk show "Are You Listening to Me?" and I am being asked "How do you climb a ladder in high heels?" and "What if your wedding dress is too long?" accompanied by the the request "Please Talk to Me. Don't you listen to me?" even as we speak (and again, by "we" I mean "I").

So, I guess it is time to stop writing and go do some listening.