Who cares about all the reasons I can’t find time to write. Maybe we’ve been visiting family. Or possibly mailing the letter my 5 year-old wrote to Michael Bay politely demanding to know why Bay didn’t make Transformers 2 for kids. Maybe I was too busy asking Blythe for the mango that she was delightfully referring to as “her BIG penis.” Maybe I was clarifying for Burke who we obey after he had confidently answered ”Satan.” Maybe I was taking a moment to watch Olive roll over, squeal with delight, get her first haircut, or grow her first two teeth. Quite possibly I may have been on a long-overdue date with Mark in Houston watching Coldplay. Or having/going to/planning for a meeting of some sort involving people who love Jesus, home-school their kids, or like to eat food together. Maybe we were swimming. Maybe we were explaining to Liam why he couldn’t have my grandfather’s machete. Maybe we were commending Burke for standing up to people who might call him “coward” (as it happens in Call it Courage) or refraining from raucous laughter when he explained that he would do so by boldly saying “don’t call me Howard!” Maybe we were celebrating our now potty-trained Blythe. Or enjoying the way she replaces every “I” with “my” (e.g. “My like ice cream.” or the more recent favorite, “my-reka” instead of “Eureka”), or perhaps how she sometimes likes to discuss how “HUMAN it is outside.” Maybe we were reading. Maybe we were admiring Burke’s sculpted stegosaurus from clay or Liam’s pastel drawing of the polar ice caps or Blythe’s experiment in color with acrylics. Maybe we were sleeping. Not too much though. Anyway, here are some photos to document our busy existence.
I quickly informed my disheartened 5 year-old son that in another 10 years he will be grateful that his teeth are NOT curling out of his mouth and around his jaw. For now, he will just have to trust me.
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In our home, we have attire reserved specifically for weddings. We refer to them as “wedding shirts” (even if we happen to wear them to an event other than a wedding). This last weekend when Liam noticed me and Mark packing up our wedding clothes, he started a conversation that went a little something like this:
Liam: Where are we going?
Mark: To a wedding.
Liam: (his body sagging over in complete disapproval) Uhhhh.
Mark: There will be dancing there.
Liam: Rock and Roll?
Mark: I believe so.
Liam: (enthusiastically) Where’s my wedding shirt?
He is most definitely my son. And just to give you a little glimpse of some of their moves, here’s a brief video Aina took of the boys almost two years ago at my brother’s wedding. They give lessons, if you’re interested.
Mark: Hey Liam, you want a powerball (granola treat)?
Liam: Sure. I’ll eat it in the vacant lot with my brother.
Mark: Hey, take one to Burke.
Liam: Okay. Oh — I’ll throw this wrapper away here so Burke doesn’t litter in the field.
Mark: Good idea.
Liam: (re-entering the kitchen after having left) Oh, I almost forgot something. (He opens the kitchen drawer and removes a book of matches.)
Mark: Whoa buddy. What’s that?
Liam: Matches.
Mark: (listening with raised eyebrows)
Liam: For a fire.
Mark: Nope.
Liam: Burke and I need to start a small fire in the field. Just a small one.
Mark: (shaking his head)
Liam: A really small one.
Mark: Every big fire starts out as a small one. You cannot EVER have matches without my permission, understand?
Liam: (meekly) yes.
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The source of intervention and, in this instance, fire prevention: powerballs.
makes 40-48 balls prep time: 15 min
- 1 c. peanut butter (if you use natural or organic pb, use “no stir”)
- 1 c. honey*
- 3 c. old-fashioned oats
- 1/2 c. ground flaxseed
- 1 c. chocolate chips
- 1 c. any combination of nuts and soft dried fruit
Mix the peanut butter and honey together until smooth. Gradually add in the oats and flaxseed. Add the chocolate chips and fruit/nut combo. Mix gently in a stand mixer or mush together with your hands (kids prefer the latter.). Use a small spoon or a cookie-dough scoop for size, and roll them into small balls. Use paper mini-muffin cups for presentation. Layer them in an airtight container using wax-paper. Eat them immediately, or put them in the refrigerator (my favorite) or freezer to limit stickiness.
*Using a cup of honey is too sweet for my taste; I’ll definitely limit it next time. But, I’m not sure yet how that will affect the consistency.
Enjoy!
Recently while entering the local SAMS club, Liam and Burke stopped in front of the giant screens greeting us, where Liam informs me and Burke, “they’re just trying to get us to buy more stuff.” Ironically, he later brought me this picture and asked me if we could go “here” to look at toys for a while.
Then, last week, while opening a box of Pepperidge Farm Ginger Family cookies that the kids received for Christmas, I unraveled the plastic and discovered an advertisement card that fell from the underside of the package. What was it advertising? Other cookies? Breads? Cereal? Likely choices, but not even close. Rather than the typical food/beverage product, this card advertised a product that simulates oral sex (for men); the tag-line reads, “because there are times you just don’t want to cuddle.” Well, there we have it America. Again, I’m speechless.
Sometimes parenting (or cleaning/organizing a house with) young children feels Sisyphean: that I, just like this mythological man, am striving to push this boulder up a hill, only to watch it crush my toes and roll to the bottom where I must start the process again. Disheartening, I know. But, think of it: the repetitious training involved without any immediate signal of reception, and just when you expect a breakthrough moment, the expected unexpected occurs returning you to the beginning (at least it certainly seems that way); it can leave any parent (and myself in particular) feeling, well — desperately futile. Mark often jokes that you all (blog readers) get the “cream” of our little life: the best parts, without the rubbish. For the most part, it’s true. However, the hope, the truth, the place where the metaphor to Sisyphus breaks down, is that I am not condemned to a life of futility and frustration, and this “cream,” these glimmers in the mundane, remind me to laugh and to thank the Lord for these little ones and what He’s doing in me through this seemingly ineffective process. On that note, here’s some more “cream”: happy 2009.
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Knowing the time is approaching, we’ve been asking Liam what instrument he’d be interested in learning to play, the violin or piano. Last year he determined to learn the violin, but recently when Mark posed him with the same question, Liam responded like this:
“I’d really like to learn to play the electric guitar, but most of all I want to play the GLOCKENSPIEL.”
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Burke (storming into my room, abrupt and annoyed): “Blythe told me ‘I’m sorry’ FOUR times, and I told her ‘I forgive you’ THREE TIMES! (humph.)”
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Burke (pointing to my protruding belly button): “Look! There’s Olive’s penis.”
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Blythe: “I so FUNny.”
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I’m brushing my teeth in my bedroom, trying to multitask in some way.
Liam (looking at me in all seriousness): “Now Mom, we’ve talked about this. Remember? You brush your teeth in the bathroom.”
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(It’s apparent after these two blurbs, I need to clarify relational titles for little Burke.) After meeting my brother Dave and his girlfriend for lunch the other day, Burke exclaims, “But I thought we were going to Dave’s HUSband’s house!”
After telling Burke something he didn’t want to hear, he threatens, “if you don’t ____, I won’t be your mom ANYmore.” “But Burke, YOU’re not my mom.” “Oh, YES. I. AM. (as he stomps out of the room, arms crossed).”
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While the kids and I were Christmas shopping, we spoke briefly with this saleslady, who at some point mentioned that she doubted she would receive anything at all this Christmas. Later that night Liam approached me to say, rather tenderly, ”mom, you know, I think we need to give that lady a Christmas present, so she can have at least one this year.” (We couldn’t find her again, though.)
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Burke has been praying frequently and unsolicited for people to be healed.
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Blythe: “More amen.”
