Magic

UNO: Mom, can I have a magic stick for my birthday?

RCH: I'll think about it. That might be fun.

UNO: And then I'll hypnotize you and Dad so you have to do what I say!

RCH: So this is part of your never ending quest for world domination...?

UNO: Yes!


~RCH~

Roly Poly Tres

Tres has been tentatively rolling for about a month now. Sometimes she'd get all the way over to her tummy, sometimes she'd get stuck on her arm. But in the last couple of days -- since Friday, maybe? Saturday? -- she has learned how to roll with consistency and skill. Arm-schmarm! If she wants to turn over, she'll do it!

Hooray for the milestone, but she's so excited about her accomplishment that she has mostly stopped sleeping. No more morning naps, no more afternoon naps, no more sleeping in her crib at night -- because, obviously, if I set her down she feels compelled to roll. She simply has to. There is no other option. She must rock and roll all night, and party every day.

She will sleep if I hold her. She's sleeping right now, in fact, flopped over against my left arm, her little mouth hanging open while her eyes dart across her closed lids. Such a cozy baby, my Tres.

I had been enjoying my own bed for the last little while -- before we hit this milestone, we had just gotten to the point where I could set her gently in at night without setting off her Oh Crap Mommy's Gone! alarm. But now? She's still for a minute or two, then she rolls over, then she wakes up and realizes she's alone and the sirens sound. So we've taken to sleeping together on the couch again. Indefinitely. Oh well.

I look at Uno -- tall, well spoken, imaginative, authoritative (lol) -- and I know that she (any of them, really; all of them) can't stay little forever. So I let Tres sleep on my arm; I take my spot with her on the couch; I set her down to play and watch her roll away from me, my roly poly baby.


~RCH~

Easter vignettes

I

Uno got several compliments on her Easter dress at church last week. "Thank you," I heard her reply, and then -- her voice full of pride as if it were the most wonderful, chic and sophisticated place on earth -- "My mom got it for me at Walmart!"

II



III

Dos was supposed to have given her very first talk in Primary last week. She came up with the entire thing herself, and she practiced for days before hand. When she got up in front of the room full of children, though, she was overcome with the giggles and just couldn't (wouldn't, grrr) do it.

Oh well. Maybe next time.

Here's what she would have said, in precisely the Dosy way she had practiced it:

"Jesus got dead from the bad guys, but then he camed alive again. We can come alive again, too. And we can turn our bad choices into good choices, and that's called Repent. In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen."

:-D


~RCH~

Dear Moral Crusaders,

You make me sick.

No offense; I respect your view that photos of half naked women (on, say, the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition cover or GQ) should perhaps not be prominently displayed at the Barnes & Noble checkout counter at the eye level of the average five-year-old. What I mean is, you make me literally sick.

I would like to address this open letter specifically to the two women who stood in front of me in line at Barnes & Noble on Monday, speaking loudly and wagging their fingers at the cashier over this concern: You ranted about the violation of community standards, citing a recent resolution passed in an adjacent town that all smutty magazines should be covered with plain paper. ("Well, we're not actually in that town," the cashier replied, "and anyway a resolution is not binding as law.") You raged about his personal lack of moral fortitude. ("There's nothing I can do about it," he told you. "B&N has a corporate policy against censorship of that kind, except where the law requires it.") You were full of righteous indignation and on the attack.

I sort of agreed with you, I thought, as I averted my eyes toward all the clearance books and tchotchkes and tried to mind my own business. Even so, your reaction seemed waaaay out of proportion to the matter at hand (especially given that the cashier had no control over whether or not, or where, the magazines would be displayed) and I figured your "performance" would make for a good story later.

But then you turned to me. It felt like you turned on me.

Exasperated with the cashier and hoping, I guess, either for a confirmed audience or a new ally, you whipped around. "Do yooouuu have children?" I said I did. You started in on your tirade again, wagging your fingers at the magazines in question one minute, then jabbing your fingers in my face the next. "Is this really something you want them to see? Do you want your daughters to grow up thinking it's okay to expose themselves for money? Do you want your sons hiding this filth under their mattresses?" And on and on. Way too aggressively. Way too loud. Very much in my personal space.

Like I said, I might have agreed with you under other circumstances or on a different day. But as conservative as I may be relative to the rest of the world, I've got a strong Libertarian bent and you got my hackles up by bringing me into something I wanted no part of. I tried to say that, no, I'd rather my girls not grow up to be anorexic bikini models, but that if they saw one of those cover photos (or if they went to the beach or a water park or traveled to a foreign country with, um, more casual dress standards -- whatever) I'd take the moment as a teaching opportunity. I know my children won't remain in the pleasant little bubble of the Mormon Corridor forever; I think it's vitally important for them to know that good people can have different ideas about what's appropriate (about dress, about politics, about responsible alcohol consumption, etc) and still be good people -- but that we have our standards, and here's what they are and why. I think education, information, and communication make far better armor than blinders do.

That's the sort of thing I would have liked to tell you.

Here's the problem: I don't handle confrontation well. I seriously avoid confrontation in my personal life, so I certainly don't want to be drawn into anyone else's drama. I couldn't spit out what I wanted to say very articulately because you caught me so off guard, and the stress of your tone and your waggy fingers and your beady little eyes squinted at me as if I were a traitor to innocent-looking young mothers everywhere induced in me a physiological reaction.

I stammered. My face flushed hot and red. My eyes watered. My heart raced. My chest tightened. The mild headache I'd had since the day before intensified.

I made it out alive, lol, but not long after -- probably within 30 minutes or so of leaving the store -- I was vomiting over a toilet. Repeatedly. It took me six or seven hours and Rx-strength Ibuprofen to feel human again -- not great, but human. DH, when given the complete H&P of my day, diagnosed me with my very first migraine. Apparently, you stressed my serotonin all out of whack. Thanks a lot.

(Side note to various family members: How come you all get the cool migraines? I wouldn't mind a random fit of unconsciousness, or even some zany vision changes. Why do I have to get the kind of migraine that comes with vomit? Whatever.)

So, dear Moral Crusaders, you make me sick, but I say that with love. I appreciate that you want to protect your children from our vulgar, oversexed culture; I do, too (though I still sort of disagree with you in this case). I admire that you're brave enough to stand up for your principles; I'm not, at least not in any public way. HOWEVER! Please, please reconsider your approach: Lower your voices. Speak politely. Remember it's not nice to point (or wag or jab). Channel your passion for protecting children into some less confrontational, less aggressive, less scary -- and probably more effective! -- activity ... like local politics, maybe!

And please, next time just leave me out of it.

Sincerely,
~RCH~

Easter Postcards 2K8

From Uno:







From Dos:







Meanwhile, in Tres Land....




~RCH~

Tres, two ways

I took pictures of Tres in her Easter dress today (I'm paranoid that it won't fit her in a week, lol). I think tomorrow I'll stick all three girls in their Easter dresses for individual and group portraits; if they turn out well, I'll post those later. In the meantime, though, here's sweet little fat-faced Tresy:



You can't see it well in that picture, but the dress has little lambs frolicking above the yellow flower border. It's probably an expensive ensemble.... It's all Carter, and each piece -- onesie, dress, sweater, bonnet -- came separately. But I fell in love when I saw it, so I just closed my eyes, gritted my teeth, and made the purchase. Eeeek! It seems extravagant for what is likely a last child, but maybe she'll end up with a younger girl cousin somewhere down the line to whom we can pass the set.

Anyway.

As I am often wont to do, I messed around with today's pictures in Photoshop after loading them on the computer. I played around with the Curves function (which allocates different amounts of the color channels -- red, green, and blue -- to the shadows, midtones, and highlights) and came up with this pseudo "cross-processed" treatment. It's kind of retro. I like it. What are your thoughts?



As I was finishing up the photo shoot, Uno asked if she could take some pictures. Normally I don't let her anywhere near my Nikon, but it was securely attached to a tripod and I had my wireless shutter release remote out so she could take pictures without actually touching the camera. Here's one she took of me and Tres (again with the fake cross-processed treatment).



Not too shabby for a 5yo photog, eh? :-)


~RCH~

Oh Happy Day!

We've been sick now for what, three weeks? Two and a half? Too long, anyway: First Uno, then me, then Dos, and then a scare with Tres but it turns out she's fine.... We've been fever-free now for two days (and by we I mean Dos, as Uno and I have been okay for a week), and all other symptoms have diminished as well. So we're breaking out. Flying the coop. We're having a family date night!

In precisely one hour, I will load up the girls and go pick up DH from work. We will then drive an hour to the lovely Cache Valley where we will eat dinner at the National House of Bancakes and get groceries at Walmart (where, unlike our local market, they actually refrigerate perishables on a consistent basis).

This is what passes for a fabulous outing around here. And you know what? I'm so excited I can hardly stand it.

Crappy diner food and Walmart, here we come! Woo-hoooooo!


~RCH~

Bound on Earth

This week I finished reading Angela Hallstrom's debut novel, Bound on Earth, a character study of various members and generations of the Palmer family.

I loved that it's a story about an ordinary Mormon family without being apologetic of that fact (no embarrassment about the peculiarities of faith and culture, no superfluous explanation of those peculiarities) and without being prissy-preachy. The characters all felt very real, very true to the life I know. I've always suspected that part of my holy envy of other faiths (Catholicism in particular) stems from their representation in popular culture, from high to low. My denomination of choice, when shown at all, has only ever been a punch line or a scare tactic; it's so rarely understood as the hum-drum, sweetly banal life of flesh-and-blood people with flaws and ideals and fears (just like everyone else, of other faiths and no faith).

I loved that it's a story of relationships. The title hints at the specific Mormon belief that families can be bound together (or in other words, their family relationships made permanent) in the life after death. The novel pokes around at the idea of what that means for each of the characters now, when they're down in the trenches together. What are their responsibilities to each other? To themselves? How do they know when it's best to let go? How does a person ever let go of someone she loves?

Each chapter is a vignette told from the perspective of one member of the Palmer family; each spare little picture, sometimes only tenuously connected to the rest, builds on the last until at the end you see this very full and moving panorama of a family. I loved the one about Great Grandma Tildy's baby, the first Christina, and the one about 5yo Beth's attempt to help with dinner. Both of those chapters broke my heart.

At just under 200 pages and compellingly written, Bound on Earth is an easy read. And it's beautiful! Without being sentimental, though, which is a feat I can't muster lately: I'm still in that emotional place I was in after Christmas, wherein thoughts of love and babies and the interconnectedness of the human family reduce me to a puddle of blubbery goo. Sigh! But really, it's wonderful, this book, and everyone should read it. I have a copy I'm willing to lend, but it wouldn't kill you to support the author and spend the $12.95 (slightly cheaper at Amazon!).


~RCH~

Another county heard from

Dos was on a roll today!

At lunch: "If you eat a lot of good food like jelly sandwiches and orange juice you'll have a party in your tummy, huh, Mom?"

Disapprovingly to me, with her hands on her hips, when she saw I was drinking something other than my Dos-approved "gatorader" juice: "Mom, are sick people supposed to drink diet soda? I don't think so!"

Upon noticing that Tres's diaper pail was full: "Well, I guess she'll just have to stop peeing and pooping now."

And those are only the ones I can remember off the top of my head.... LOL.


~RCH~

Celebrate

Dos helps DH blow out his candles (which, by the way, spell Celebrate -- the grocery store didn't have Happy Birthday candles, and he's old enough now that putting one regular candle for each year would be a fire hazard).




~RCH~

Another one for the Quote Book

Uno, upon awakening too early from her nap thanks to Tres's loud crying:

"That's it! You're walking the plank!"


~RCH~

Fever ramblings

My immune system is amazing. I say that not only because I rarely get sick, but because my immune system has a unique source of power: Fear. That's right; my body operates smoothly and fights disease valiantly out of fear of visiting the doctor.

Sadly, this system does not spare me from nuisances like the common cold or insanely dry skin and eczema. Apparently my antibodies have a little checklist they go through before they decide to get off their disease-fighting butts: Will this illness require a trip to the doctor? If no, then I get to experience the joy of a stuffed up nose or itchy skin. If yes, it's rally the troops and fight! fight! fight!

I did go to the doctor once, in my early 20s. I had a miserable cold and accompanying sore throat. After my best friend's untreated strep infection led to kidney failure and an eventual transplant, I figured I ought to get myself checked out. I had never had strep throat before, and so I'd never had my throat swabbed. I didn't quite know what to expect. When the tiny doctor (a middle-aged woman about 4'9" and 85 lbs) stood in front of me and stuck the stick all the way back, past my tonsils and halfway down my esophagus to the point that I just knew I was going to choke to death, my primordial fight-or-flight response took over: I kicked her in the stomach.

Not my proudest moment, obviously.

And it turned out I didn't have strep, so poor Dr. Whatshername got kicked for nothing.

I had my first fever at age 29. (That may not be entirely accurate. I may have been sick as a baby, and I did have the chickenpox at around age 5 or so; does that one come with fevers? In terms of what I can actually remember of my childhood, though, and certainly my adolescence and early adulthood, 29 was the first.) I used to check my temperature any time I felt a cold coming on. Having never experienced one before, I thought it might hurt like a sinus headache because a cool hand or cloth on my forehead would help me feel better. But no, the thermometer always said; you are totally normal.

One afternoon, about five months after the birth of my second child, I got really cold. I didn't think anything of it -- it was November or December in a slightly drafty house, and my poor circulation means I'm pretty much always cold -- so I wrapped up in a blanket and cranked the thermostat up to 80 degrees. Still had the shivers. I curled up in a ball on the couch and put the blanket over my head. Still freezing. I poked my head out and found some more blankets to add to my pile. I fell asleep there on the couch (luckily both girls were also napping) all curled up as tight as my muscles could get me.

DH, of course, came home from work to find our house a sauna. I stood up to greet him and every molecule in my body just ached. I followed him into the kitchen but walking felt like swimming through molasses. All of these sensations were so foreign that it still hadn't occurred to me that I might be sick. DH (being the smart doctor that he is) told me to sit down while he got out the thermometer. And what do you know? A fever of 103F!

My illness -- and the attendant fevers! -- lasted an entire week, at which point DH took me to get my chest x-rayed (my first x-ray ever!) because he thought I should be better already. As it turned out, I had a bit of pneumonia. (Oooh, that sounds like an exciting, important disease! Way better than a common cold!) I got an antibiotic shot into my hip and a course of pills to take for ten days and I fully recovered.

I had no more fevers ... until yesterday. The story of my second febrile illness is not as interesting as my first, so I'll spare you the details except to say that DH has officially diagnosed me with "that viral crap that's going around" and which Uno got hit with on Friday. Blah.

Two fevers in three years, after 29 years without a single one (that I can remember).... Obviously my immune system is not as usefully neurotic as it once was. Whom should I blame? DH, who has made me less afraid of medical professionals? (I've never kicked him in the stomach!) My sweet and adorable children who wear me down and suck the life out of me (and I mean that in the nicest possible way)? Should I blame my secret candy stash and all-around bad eating habits? (I never used to be the sort who had a stash.) Maybe all of the above...?

Anyway. Fever-schmever, there are children to take care of and a house to get ready for DH's birthday dinner (he turns 37 today, yay!) so I suppose I should stop the rambling, get out of my pajamas, and get down to business. Feel free to send some healthy vibes my way! Or at least a large dose of iatrophobia, since I seem to have lost mine and I need it back.


~RCH~