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.
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.”
Christmas quotes:
“This is SO amazing!” -Liam
“This is totally awesome!” -Burke
“Happy Christmas-House!” -Blythe
If Blythe has ever heard Shakespeare’s infamous metaphor about the world being a stage, she has no doubt taken it literally, of course delegating herself to the leading role. I took this picture at the zoo a couple of weeks ago where she escaped the child-saturated playground to arrive at this undiscovered outdoor stage. After taking her rightful place, she proceeded to sing.
This same charming songbird has also recently taken it upon herself to reintroduce me to waking up in the night (due to her incoming molars), often with an incessant, whiny cry interspersed with “it hurts,” or “excuse me, mommy.” At least for the most part, she’s polite. But, somewhere in the middle of this two week blur of sleepless nights, a zoo trip, a space exhibit, and Christmas cheering, Blythe decided to spice things up one day by aborting naptime for the pleasure of decorating/painting her crib and all other inclusions with her poop. That’s right, her poop. She had taken off her diaper, smeared the contents into her sheets, pillow, bumper, and favorite furry companions; apparently tried to wipe herself using her two favorite loveys (“two bankies”); and discarded the remains onto the floor. When I opened the door to this soon-to-be-quarantined scandal, all my poopy-fingernailed girl could say was, “wow. poop everywhere.”
