Ahhh...Mother's Day!

Now, that Ahhh could be like a sigh--Ahhhh, it's Mother's Day, what a lovely holiday. OR that Ahhh could be a shrill, piercing scream--Ahhhh, it Mother's Day, hand me the cough syrup and wake me when it's over!

I'm not sure there's another day that's filled with so much mixed emotion for many moms. We're reminded of how blessed we are to have these wonderful children who are gifts from heaven, and what trust the Lord has put in us to fulfill this divine responsibility of loving and nurturing them. On the other hand, we also feel the guilt associated with our imperfect attempts at such a sacred calling.

I'm fortunate. I've already had one of those Mother's Days that serves as a gauge for me, meaning it was rock bottom and can only go up from there.

It all began with early morning Sunday meetings for my husband (really, can't someone just go ahead and add that to the Handbook that men should not have meetings on Mother's Day morning--they should be home serving breakfast in bed and wrapping homemade flower vases and crayon self-portaits with the kids, then getting them all ready for church while we--meaning I--lounge about eating bon bons?). Of course the kids were arguing over who used up all the hot water, and who took the last of the Captain Crunch. I'm sure at least one child ruined their Sunday clothes by spilling chocolate syrup down the front of them while trying to squeeze said chocolate into milk, and I'm pretty sure that same mostly-full milk bottle shattered all over the floor, along with the milk, in the attempt to grab it away before that got finished off, too. No one could find shoes or ties or the right snack. And had we owned a cat, I'm sure it would have clawed its way up the curtains after having been stepped on in a fight over whose turn it was to shoot the Nerf guns.

Needless to say, I was not having one of my stellar mothering mornings. Suddenly, after far too many blow-ups over each thing that was going to make us late for church, I thought, "What am I doing? What's more important right now--getting to church less late, or not stressing out at my kids?" So, we took our time.

Of course, when we finally pulled into the parking lot 45 minutes late, my husband was pulling out. "Where have you been? Your phone wasn't on, and I was just going to look for you." I gave him look #14, the one that says "Clearly things have not gone well, and nothing else should come out of your mouth right now unless it is about how, just to show me how wonderful I am, you are going to whip up some dinner and give me a 45 minute foot massage as I enjoy Pride and Prejudice while dinner cooks." We went inside.

It was a little difficult to appreciate all the talk at church about how sweet and wonderful mothers are, and how we are the angels walking the earth who give our children a glimpse of heaven, blah, blah, blah. But at least I was sitting down for a while.

I made it through church with my little potted petunia gift, then headed home, dreading the disaster left behind that would now greet me at the front door. Feeling pretty well spent and sufficiently guilty for my less-than-heavenly performance that day, I spotted my youngest son outside.

Curious as to what he was doing I went out. That was my next mistake. There he was sitting beside a big, dirty puddle. In his hand was a pair of underpants he had taken from the dirty laundry (or possibly just picked up off the floor somewhere, after the morning we'd had). As I watched, horrified, he proceeded to dip the underwear into the puddle, now brace yourself, then suck out the dirty water! AHHHHHH!

"I was thirsty," he said.

All I could do was laugh, maybe a bit hysterically, to keep myself from screaming and crying. It had been one of those Mother's Days. I understood.

I could have had a break down. I could have wallowed in guilt and frustration. I could have made a list as long as Long Island of all the things I could be doing better. But in the end, I just gave myself a pat on the back and thanked Heavenly Father for such ingenious children. Ahhhhh--Mother's Day!

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).