The Path to Diversion

After Lauren's nap -- that time of day when she is enclosed in her bedroom, quietly NOT sleeping -- I usually enter the room gingerly.  I expect to accidentally stub my toe on a wayward farmhouse or impale my tender arches upon some pokey princess figurine. 

I am rarely surprised at the mess.  It sprawls in a garish combination of primaries and pastels across the carpet in maps of secret toddler activity.  Here, a shelf is emptied, proving a marathon reading session.  There, a bucket overturned, spilling plastic nativity pieces before an empty stable. 

The stuffed-animals are a given; never a nap goes by without them being flung to all corners, weaving a path of destruction or creation: their intended pattern is in the eye of the beholder.

But on this day...Lauren's sneaky playfulness caught me off guard in its unexpected ending. 

Settled perfectly cozily in a toy bucket, book on her lap, animals scattered far and wide, my Lauren was engaged in quiet rest. 

But never in her cozy, warm bed.  No, never there.  Who could endure such boredom?!

Weekly Column: The Beauty of Pizza

I’m eager to keep my family gathered around our dinner table for as many years as their activities and preferences will allow, but I also understand why family dinners can fall by the wayside.  Boring menus, busy schedules, and differing tastes all seem to work against my dream.  But one meal, in particular, holds the promise of surviving the test of time and keeping us right where we need to be: in the kitchen, together. 

Homemade Pizza. 

It’s quick, easily adaptable to individual tastes, and fun to prepare.   I’ll hang my hopes on the impressively simple pizza-pie to keep us coming back to the kitchen for years and years.  Care to join me?

This soft, chewy pizza dough recipe is quick enough for a weeknight meal and easy enough for kids of all ages to work with:

1 ¼ Cups very warm water

2 Tbsp sugar

1 Tbsp active dry yeast

1 tsp salt

¼ Cup olive oil

3 Cups flour

Dissolve sugar in warm water, add yeast; let mixture sit for 5 minutes, until foamy.  Add salt, oil, and flour.  Mix until combined, and then knead for 3 minutes on a lightly floured board.  Place dough in lightly oiled bowl, cover with plastic wrap, and let rise in a warm spot for 30 minutes.  Punch down dough, and divide in two.  You could also divide the dough into 4 or 6 balls to create smaller, personal pizzas – which would work very well for families wanting several, personalized topping choices.  On oiled or floured hands, gently stretch each ball into a 9 to 12 inch round, or smaller for individual pizzas.  Place each round onto either a cornmeal-dusted, preheated pizza stone, or into a lightly oiled baking sheet.  Top with sauce, cheese, meat, and veggies of choice.  Bake in a preheated, very hot (450 to 500 degree) oven until cheese is bubbly and crust is golden – around 10 minutes.

There are wonderful opportunities for kids to help with this recipe: from kneading (utilizing those many years of play-doh practice) and punching down the dough (SO much fun for little ones), to shaping personal discs and arranging their favorite toppings, they’ll be able to help from start to finish. 

Even better, they’re more likely to try a new vegetable if they’ve added it to the dish themselves.  Some delicious toppings for pizza also provide helpful practice for older, supervised kids wishing to hone their chopping skills: colorful bell peppers, tender mushrooms, and sliced purple onions.  Don’t be afraid to encourage a new vegetable – your children might surprise you with their culinary explorations.

Kids can spoon store-bought pasta sauce over the dough, shred mozzarella cheese, arrange strips of creamy provolone, sprinkle bits of sausage, Canadian bacon, or pepperoni, and dot bright veggies over their pizza.  Once it’s all in the hot oven for a few minutes, there’s plenty of time for a quick clean-up of the workspace, or the preparation of a light, tossed salad. 

Once you’ve got your pizza-making habit formed – and if there’s any better habit for a hungry family to have, I’m unaware of it – your family will be able to tweak it to fit your needs.  Experiment with thin, crispy-crust recipes and artisan toppings: garden-fresh tomatoes and basil; prosciutto and natural mozzarella.  Try grilling a pizza in the summertime.  Invite friends over for a full-on pizza party. 

The beauty of pizza has never been something I’ve had to question or dissect before, but now – with a growing family around me – the value of wholesome, family-made pizza seems to be more beautiful and delicious than ever.

[Online version here.]

The Jumbo Pack, Unpacked

In the interest of getting the heaps of groceries out of the middle of the kitchen, I encouraged Mia in learning this important life skill: unloading and putting away.

She put her own spin on the activity, though. 

I turned around to see the most utilitarian of goods being turned into an amazingly envisioned, architecturally astounding tower.

She was careful.  She was precise.  She was singing.

She was squealing.

Why have I never put groceries away like this before?

a) Yes, there are couch pillows situated directly below my sink.  They serve as a makeshift step-stool, of course.

b) Yes, that is a LOT of toilet paper.  It was on sale, of course.

Bigger Picture Moment: Dreams, Unnoticed

I get frustrated with writing.

I get stuck and bored and misdirected. Uninspired. The ever-exciting blank page also has the unwanted capability to intimidate, but I keep coming back for more.

Well, doesn't every writer? (Did I just call myself a writer?)

Earlier this week, I wrote about the 'work' aspect of my writing, and it still fascinates me that I can call it such a thing. Work. It's very small, and very simple, and I tend to think of it as a hobby with benefits. I tend to undermine its value by writing it off as unimportant. Sometimes I wonder if such a small article in such a big world can actually be called writing.

But a comment from Patty Ann made me stop in my brain-tracks and stare off into space for several minutes.

She said,

It is so nice to hear how someone, somewhere gets to live a piece of their dreams. And the best part is that you seem to love it.

My dreams? Well, yes: writing is one of my dreams. But...writing a newspaper column in my home town? Is that the same thing? It isn't a novel, and it isn't read 'round the world. It certainly isn't perfect. It isn't amazing. Somehow, in the space between of all the 'isn'ts', my dream-come-true has turned into a dream unnoticed.

But writing -- in any form, no matter the significance or scope -- is my dream. THIS is my dream. It's important. It's a building block (I hope), and even if it weren't it would still be worthwhile. It fulfills the fantasy aspect of my still, quiet life, and gives me an outlet.

What other fulfilled dreams have I ignored? Oh, nothing much: my lifelong hope and desire to be a mother, a wife.

No big deal, huh?

It turns out that a few of my biggest dreams have already come true, and all I need to do is turn them around in my head for a minute to embrace their truth. Their tangibility.

So here's to it.

I'm off to recognize my fulfilled dreams. How about you? Care to join me?

We're seeing the Bigger Picture in the Simple Moments today at Melissa's place -- please stop by to share your moment and revel in the simple moments of others!

Focus. Focus. (What?)

Standing over the reflective glare of the kitchen sink, I ponder dinner. 

There is a thawed package of shredded chicken on the countertop, waiting to be inspiringly attacked, when the perfect idea comes to mind.  I shuffle to the pantry (as it were), ready to grab the first, pivotal ingredient for dinner.  There is a lone marker on the counter, though.  It waylays me.  Before I can question the logic, the marker is nestled in my palm, and off we go. 

The rest of the markers are displayed prominently on the coffee table, which is, after all, a much more reasonable place for markers to reside.  I tuck the violet-purple back into its place, but not before the phone rings.  A friend is asking about when we might be able to exercise together, and I hear half of her while listening to half of an argument happening in the bedroom.  I hang up, not really knowing to what I've just committed myself. 

In the hallway, a tear-streaked Lauren is barreling towards me, wailing.  On my knees now, I hold her gently and ask for details: Mia has appropriated the fairy that SHE, herself, wanted and meant -- with all good intentions -- to play with sometime during the course of the day.  The fairy is not, it would seem, transferable.  But mother knows best: Mia can have the fairy because we share all of our toys and you can find something else -- here...how about an Ariel doll?

Lauren screams with indignation.  I walk away. 

The chicken is still sitting where I left it.  What was I going to put with it again?  I unload cannelini beans and green chiles from the pantry and search for chicken broth in the fridge -- under a container of leftovers that belongs to my cousin.  (The container, not the leftovers: they're in no state to belong anywhere but the trash bin.)  I haul it all to the counter, and take the leftovers to the garbage.  (Phew.)  Those containers need to be washed and returned to my cousin, and with much speed.  They go into a soapy sink of hot water.

But the dinner...it's a priority. 

I need my biggest pot and my cheese grater.  One is in the dirty dishwasher.  One is languishing on the stovetop, burdened by the crusty residue of last night's dinner.

I'd be willing to throw in the towel -- if I had one that wasn't soaked in spilled juice from lunch.  I'd be willing to call Justin and beg for him to bring home take-out -- if I could remember where I'd laid the phone.

Oh yes: the bedroom.  The scene of the fairy-theft.  I'm not going back into that snakepit. 

But there is a yellow dress-up dress underfoot that I've kicked around for the past 37 minutes while wandering to and fro in the kitchen, NOT making any dinner. 

I might as well put it away. 

And this, my friends, is why dinner is late. 

Every evening.

Answers for Suzannah: Freelance Writing

Remember when I asked for questions to jump-start my need to write in this space more meaningfully, and then I PROMISED to answer whatever you shot my way? 

Remember that? 

That was almost three months ago, and I've answered less than half of your thoughtful questions. 

But I'm here to say, I'm a trooper: I'll answer them; I will.  Starting today, with a question from Suzannah, a sweet, smart, shouting, laughing blog friend:

sarah, i want to know how you landed your newspaper column. when did you start writing for the paper? how much do you work now and how do you balance writing and family? do you write anywhere else as a freelancer?

I landed the newspaper column mostly by plucky assertiveness.  After being convinced and persuaded by a few friends and family members, I finally agreed that writing could be something more than just a hobby for me.  And after asking around a bit, the local newspaper seemed like a wonderful venue in which to ply my trade. 

First, I wrote a (too-long, too-detailed) email to the newspaper's editor.  It included a few ideas I'd come up with for columns I could regularly contribute to, as well as a handful of writing examples from my blog.  I tried to sell myself, but in hindsight, I wonder if that eagerness was actually helpful; I might have been more successful had I stuck mainly to a professional tone. 

But even with my happy naivety, I was offered a job.  The editor was very nice, very encouraging, and very efficient.  In truth, I feel extremely lucky to have landed this job.  First off, I have no journalistic experience: my features editor often jokes about how obvious my writing is in ousting my non-industry training.  But also, the people I've encountered at the local paper are all very generous with their encouragement.  If you felt like you might want to pursue a freelance column in your town, I'd say Go For It!  It can't hurt, and any critical advice you might receive can only help in the future. 

That was in February of last year; in March, they ran my first column.  Since then, I've been doing freelance writing (small as it may be), in whatever free time I can manage.  A morning here, an evening there.  On a good day, I can write a column in under 2 hours unless I become completely stumped, in which case I step away from the computer until next time -- a luxury, knowing that my other responsibilities will allow me to come back when my ideas are better formed and more easily expressed.

The biggest problem I have with freelance writing is learning to make it a priority.  Since I write so much -- for fun, for blogs, for emails -- it feels difficult to compartmentalize what HAS to be done, versus what I WANT to get done.  I've found that setting aside a certain day and time for deadline writing to be really helpful in keeping me organized.  If I approach it like a job -- professionally and intentionally -- everything flows more smoothly.   Now, if only I could stick to that plan...

Currently, the newspaper column is my only freelance job.  I could say that I'm hoping to branch out and do more...but I'm not.  I'm happy with this level of pressure (low-key and manageable) at this phase of my life.  My family is my first priority, and as long as we're comfortable with me not contributing in a major way to the family income, I'll stick to my plan. 

I want to spend every available moment with my kids.  I'll sacrifice to make that happen.

Plus, by doing so, I'm provided with endless fodder for newspaper column ideas.

Weekly Column: Let a Willing Toddler Help

 There is a right way, and there is a wrong way to fold socks. 

The right way, of course, would be to mate a matching pair, roll the tops down together, and toss the whole bundle into the sock drawer – at least according to my quick-and-dirty approach to laundry.  Whether my mandates would hold steam with a verifiable expert in sock-folding (with whom I’ve yet to meet in my daily wanderings) isn’t important.  The point is,THIS is how it’s done. 

Enter: my two-year-old. 

Sitting atop a pile of clean laundry as if it were at once her royal kingdom and her private amusement park, she rolls and climbs, tunnels and tosses.  Close by, I work diligently to dismantle all of the park’s most entertaining rides.  I yank a t-shirt from under her wriggling body, coax a sock from under her giggling head, and generally disrupt her mayhem.  She doesn’t mind: it’s all fun.  As playfully as ever, she begins hoarding socks into a pile of her own: a bit of kingdom that’s watertight in its construction and which cannot be undermined by my work ethic. 

But before she can roll around upon her freshly created castle, she is hit by a flash of brilliance: she can FOLD!  She can be like MAMA!  One by one, socks are plucked from the rubble.  A black, businesslike affair with tiny, gray diamonds is laid out with care.  Several flaps and pats are required before it submits to my daughter’s will and lies perfectly straight.  Then, gently, the toe is folded towards the heel, the cuff is jelly-rolled towards the toe, and voila: a folded sock.  Triumphantly, my two-year-old protégé wads the whole thing into a handful of fabric and lays it to one side.  She begins again.

It is all I can do to leave that sock alone. 

For one second, I contemplate distracting my child with candy in order to allow myself a moment of emergency-sock-correction.  But I don’t follow through.  Instead – and with much effort – I leave the sock alone.  I praise her helpfulness.  I help her uncover the matching sock, and sit patiently by as she gives it a similar treatment. 

Slowly, her pile of ‘folded’ socks grows. 

Slowly, my will to perfect dwindles. 

She is learning.  She is helping.  She is enjoying a chore – one that, in a few years, may be the bane of her pre-adolescent existence.  I will not shrink her enthusiasm by criticizing her attempt.  Soon, when she’s capable of executing the trusty Roll & Toss method of sock folding, I’ll teach it to her. 

But now, in this early hour of chores and responsibility, I’ll do whatever I can to help those tasks be viewed in a positive light.  A fun light. 

If she scrapes a vacuum hose over the same spot a dozen times and leaves crumbs anyway, I’ll cheer the effort.  If she wipes a mirror and leaves more streaks than she first found, I’ll admire her helpfulness.  If she sweeps more dust out of the dustpan than into it, I’ll applaud her joyful spirit.

I trust that her desire for perfection will grow as she does; my five-year-old bears proof of that hope’s possibility whenever she knowingly corrects the slightest imperfection in anybody’s attempts or ideas.  With her, we’re working on more generosity of spirit in accepting different levels of ability and creativity.  A skill that I must repeatedly learn, myself.

And I’ll hope that when my daughters are teenagers, all of this happy practice will have led to some helpful, beneficial fruits, the least of which will be well-folded socks.

[Online version here.]

On Secrets and Bottoms

Fresh from a sweetly-scented bubble bath in which Lauren only received a terrifying face full of bubbles twice, the girls lie on the bed, shivering.  They're wrapped in bright, yellow towels.  Ever helpful, Justin and I rub frictional heat over the towels covering their backs and legs: Mia squeals with hyperactive, bedtime glee; Lauren stiffens and begs for me to stop. 

In turns, the girls are swathed with lotion.  Sotto voce, Justin makes an innocent observation: Mia's little backside looks just like her mama's -- I swear you two are carbon copies.

But we've forgotten a recently learned lesson: sotto voce is worthless around Mia's ears.  She's developed a keen sense of eavesdropping, but she doesn't yet understand that she's supposed to pretend ignorance in those situations. 

Laughing, she responds to Justin's observation: No!  Mama's bottom is WAY much bigger! 

She giggles, Justin heaves, Lauren wonders what just happened, and I refuse to smile.  It's not funny, after all.

Not very funny, anyway.

All the Randomness of a Week, Helpfully Reduced into Four Vignettes

Knowing the proclivity of glitter to adhere itself to any available surface and never be removed, I trapped our crafty excess in a jelly-roll pan yesterday.  My grandma's jelly-roll pan, to be precise.  I was innocently aiming to keep the shiny situation contained.  Now, I fear I may never again get to use the pan for its intended purpose -- glitter is nothing if not indiscriminate in where it chooses to land, and now the pan is forever twinkling.  Something tells me my grandma wouldn't mind its being used for such creative outlets as glitter and glue, but oh -- the pineapple bars it has known...

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I was quite happily impressed with the endurance my tiny girls showed in the three-inches of snow we received this week.  While my thighs were beginning to go numb and I was wishing I'd chosen mittens instead of gloves, Mia and Lauren were impervious to the wet, cold snow.  Or, they professed themselves to be; Lauren's rosy cheeks led me to believe otherwise, and I utilized my mom-veto power to lead us all back indoors for lunch.

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I did, however, offer up thanks for the exhaustive qualities of a snow day, allowing that if it could force a napless child into sleep -- in whatever position she landed after a massive, screaming diatribe against the unwillingness of a spaghetti-strapped shirt to cover her abdomen adequately -- I'd take it. 

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Something about all that blushing pink on a background of bright blue makes me want a baby.  Although you know as well as I do, that everything makes me want another baby.



What've you been up to this week?

Bigger Picture Moment: Taking Ownership

It's snowing right now: tiny specks of snow, buffeted about by directionless winds, and piling up in small inches on the road.

What I love about snow in Southwest Missouri is that it's an event.  It breaks up the steady march of cold, dreary days in a long, dull winter, and provides a distraction.  Short-lived, probably: snow here usually melts before the week is out.  But there's excitement -- remember when you waited up late at night to watch the snow accumulate with the hopes of cancelled school the next day?  I still feel that. 

The promise of something interesting happening gets me all riled up.

I'm not bored. 

I'm not.

It's just...tedious sometimes, you know?  The housewifery.  I can't honestly say that I'd prefer a job right now -- of any sort -- other than this one, but it still rankles sometimes that my days are so monotonous.  Or predictable, maybe, is a better term.  I'll play and clean and fold laundry and wash dishes.  I'll cook dinner, shop for groceries, turn on PBS, and encourage sharing.

Every day.

At the beginning of winter, I got myself ready for the drudgery.  By that, I mean I thought about it long enough that I understood how difficult the winter would be, but not so long that I came up with any plan for making it better.

Somehow, though, this winter hasn't been drudgery-ish.  It's been fun.*  Not because of interesting events filling up our spaces, but because I've been actively trying to focus on different parts of this job: enjoying my kids; appreciating their growing independence; letting my soul be energized by progress -- a job well done -- be it in the form of childhood passions or a crumb-free floor; willing myself to appreciate the symmetry of clean dishes stacked up against each other on the counter.

It's still monotonous.

I still cook and clean and play -- every day.

But it's my monotony.  I can choose to love it, or be bored by it. 

I choose to love it.




* Watch: as soon as I admit this, tomorrow will be an awful day!**  Fingers crossed, knock on wood...
** Which I would be okay with, because I can love it anyway.  Right?

Today is the day to see the simple moments that make up the Bigger Picture!  Please join in -- link up your post at Hyacynth's place, and be sure to visit other participants' entries!

Bad Odds

There was one, single library book in sweet Lauren's room yesterday at nap time.

One library book, among twenty or thirty home-owned storybooks.

One book, illustrated by my very favorite children's book illustrator: Alison Jay.

One story that's been ripped to shreds, torn to pieces. 

That one library book is now marred and scarred -- maligned and taped -- forever.

Though it is still beautiful,

There's no guarantee that the library will see beyond the miles of tape to the much-loved book beneath.

Sigh.

How much cash should I have on hand when we go to return it?

A Mid-Winter Evening's Adventure

The girls were beside themselves with bored energy, and it was almost the time of day that would tamp down on any attempts to stretch our limbs in the wilderness.  I was ready to send them outside -- alone -- for a moment's peace, but at my parents' house, there's this to contend with:

The creek.  It's gorgeous throughout the seasons: meandering and graceful, rushing and swollen, clear and cool, or humid and still.  And it's not deep enough to be very dangerous to our little girls -- my brother and I played in it for years before we were even old enough to have memories of such things -- but, still.  It's cold and wet, and those wouldn't have complimented the chilly day very well, had a distracted child toppled into the drink.

So out we ALL went.  For the best, too: being so cooped up together could only successfully last so long with two toddlers and a preschooler before space and air became vital.

The rocks are always the biggest draw at the creek.  Is this an Indian rock, mama?  Did you see how big that one splashed?!  Our luck will never run out, as far as the rocks are concerned.  This gravel bar has millions.  Billions?

The sun set over the western bank (as per its usual, millennial, routine), and in this watery, chilly light, we unraveled our tensions.

We watched our steps, and our backs: flying rocks, when launched by two-year-olds, can be quite cantankerous.

And -- isn't it amazing? -- the creek didn't even know we were there.  The ripples we made and the splashes we scattered (both with meltdowns and skipped rocks)...they were smoothed over instantly, as soon as we let ourselves loose to explore.

Simply amazing.

Weekly Column: Dinner -- Misfits Accepted

Although it’s one aspect of our family life with which I’m the most consistent, sitting down to dinner together is not always pretty. 

Food commercials on TV make family dinners out to be all sweetness and manners, all depth and conversation, but around our own dinner table on any given night, there are directives and warnings and whining.  Much, much whining.  I tell myself those peaceful mealtimes will come with age and maturity; since our daughters are only 5 and 3, our real-life dinners can provide a decidedly more frustrating atmosphere.   

The dinner table in my kitchen is much-abused.  Daily – sometimes multiple times per day – it is the proud wearer of a spilled drink.  It is viewed as a climbing platform by my toddler who wants something from its center.  It sees crumbs and piles of tipped-over food, and waits patiently beneath chunks of unwanted, flying portions. 

But I have to trust that there is more goodness happening at our table than a mere lack of calm and order.  There are opportunities to learn and chances to grow.  There are teachable moments and –perhaps most importantly – there is simple interaction. 

Think about how busy your day is: morning rush for school and work, evening bustle for dinner and activities, nighttime wind-down towards sleep.  When, in all of that, will there be dedicated time for your kids?  Even as a stay-at-home parent, I find myself busy with things that take my focus away from my children.  That’s not terrible; I’m convinced that occasional unstructured, unsupervised play is vital to growing curious, creative kids.  But one-on-one interaction, and interaction as a family unit, is just as important. 

The dinner table creates the perfect opportunity for coming together.  It’s physically arranged so that we can take note of those on its perimeter, but in busy families, or families with young children, it can be an honest challenge to utilize.  Conflicting schedules, meal planning and preparation, or just frustration over dealing with kids and their newly-budding social graces all seem to conspire against sitting down together.  But I would argue that all of those difficult reasons don’t hold as much weight as the benefits of sit-down dinners.

Over the beautiful mess of a normal meal, we exchange bits of our day.  Our children learn to listen to one another and show support for something of which their sibling is proud.  A problem that cropped up during school is easily addressed away from the earlier stress of the moment.  Dad can tell a story about grandma forcing him to try brussels sprouts, and everybody can laugh in sympathy.  Using our table is time and experience well-spent towards creating a safe haven of interaction. 

Even if, at times, ‘safe haven’ is the last phrase you might choose to associate with your wild and crazy dinner-hour, it is perfectly reasonable thing to aspire towards.

A preschooler, flanked by parents and siblings, WILL learn how to stay in her chair until the meal is finished.  A toddler, assisted with keeping her cup away from the table’s edge, WILL learn why it’s an important rule.  Parents, surrounded by complaints of yucky food and arguments over whether or not dessert is imminent, WILL learn how to manage the table’s chaos.  Chaos that will calm down, if given enough time and effort. 

And, after all, we have nothing but time: dinners happen every night around here.  There is plenty of opportunity for practice. 

[Online version here.]

My, How We've Grown

Lauren has always -- for almost three years of always -- loved scissors.  Or, Lauren has always loved the idea of scissors. 

On some anonymous morning at home, she would toddle over to me, clutching a package of something in her hand.  Snacks, stickers, feminine products -- it didn't matter what it was, it only mattered that she wanted it open.  And in some cases, I disagreed.  Gummy bears at 8AM?  Sorry, child.

 

Her lip would pucker out, her precious brow would furrow, and she'd march away again, morning light streaming over her pink-pale skin.  Maybe there would be a yell of anguish.  Maybe a heave -- the desired object flying in slow motion across the room. 

In her disappointed state, she'd stiffen her legs, bounce one knee in and out of tension.  Thinking, she'd glance in my direction from her slanted, angry eye.  The object would be retrieved from behind the kitchen table, or whatever other venue in which it may have found itself.  Deliberately, Lauren would leave the room, object in tow. 

Moments of silence later, the sound of crinkling cellophane or crackling paper would reach my ears, and I'd sniff out the darling culprit: Lauren, hiding behind the rocking chair in her bedroom.  In one hand, the tightly sealed package of contraband, in the other, a miniature, pink, plastic pair of toy scissors.  They couldn't cut their way through a banana, they're so round and fake, but Lauren -- sweet Lauren -- would be wielding them with sincere purpose.  Chopping at the edges of the baggie or envelope.  Trusting that her efforts would produce great results.

Gummy bear-flavored results, hopefully.

Now, though -- now, she's got the real thing.  Gummy bears everywhere are running for cover. 

7 Quick Cabin-Fever Takes

1.  After our corner of Missouri received approximately one inch of snow on Monday, we endured two days of no school and near-zero temperatures.  We gladly stayed indoors watching far too many cartoons on PBS, having dance parties, occasionally wearing next-to-nothing, and trying not to get on each others' nerves.  We did pretty well -- no nerves were trampled.  In fact, after missing my girls at the end of Christmas break, I enjoyed the fake-break.

2. The only place we've gone since Monday was to yesterday's ballet lesson. I kept my fingers crossed that it wouldn't be cancelled; Mia had brand new legwarmers and -- as if next week's lesson would suddenly be accompanied by summery temperatures -- I was desperate for her to wear them soon!

 

 

 

3. I ADORE them. Aren't they the sweetest little legwarmers?! I found them on Bloom by Arissia's Etsy shop, where there were several cute choices. These kept her toasty warm in the drafty, old ballet studio, and she loves them, which is really the most important part. (And I promise to scrub my besplashed kitchen baseboards before the next close-up. Probably. Maybe.)

 

 

 

4. Have you checked out my 365-photo blog yet? You should! It's fun over there, in a simple, easy way. Plus, some of my attempts at artistry are quite amusing. I must be getting old and wise, though, because I'm just allowing myself to completely submit to the attempts, and not feel the slightest bit embarrassed about my shortcomings. (Okay, maybe the slightest bit...but you should still come see for yourself.)

5. Here is my sweet Lauren, eating a luxurious snack -- bread. But bread, even the most mundane and common slice of wheat bread, is exciting and adventure-filled when eaten on the precarious edge of a counter top.

6.  In my opinion, chicken noodle soup -- with lots of garlic and onions for their anti-viral (or something) properties -- is vital to the health of our household during the winter months.  Plus, it's kind of pretty, right?  So even though we were stuck inside for most of this week, at least we had warm soup to keep us company.

 

 

 

7.  But the Chicken Soup Theory of Winter Health doesn't work if one of your daughters is already huddled on the couch, trying to keep from falling asleep under the weight of some invisible sickness, instead of happily spooning mouthfuls of soup at the dinner table.  I'm hoping Mia was merely exhausted from not having left the house but once for days on end.  However, it appears that our cabin fever, actually, might have led to...a real cabin fever. 

Which means we might not be going anywhere this weekend, either.  

What are your weekend plans?  I hope they're fever-free!  Visit Conversion Diary for more Quick Takes.

Bigger Picture Moment: The Beast

Lauren is playing in Mia's bedroom. 

Except for a pair of fairy-covered panties, and silver, sparkly shoes, she is bare.  It is 6 degrees outside her window; she refuses clothing.  Apparel would only hinder the swish of hair across her shoulders and upper back, which -- obviously -- would prevent her from feeling just how fabulously long her hair has grown.  Never mind that it's short, she reminds me daily of its length, tipping her tiny head back as far as it will go without making her fall backward. 

My hair is long, mama, see?  It's SO long.  See?

She is digging through a box of Barbies, dancing a purple-dressed ballerina with one hand while searching with the other.  As if of its own volition, a Beast doll falls from the box, into Lauren's lap. 

She leaps backward without ever rising to her feet, and is screaming before she reaches the door.  The Beast, you see, is terrifying.  He is a head that fits over the body of a prince doll, with billowing cape and armless hands.  He is Lauren's nightmare, come to life.  In miniature.

Barreling down the hallway, she yells for help.  She tumbles over vocabulary, making up the words necessary to properly convey the depth of her fear.  The beast is gettin me and fallin and izza-izza gawash scary for dashug mama mama he was in the box but but but...

I scoop her up -- my baby.  My 25-pound baby.  She's the one who wraps her entire self around my middle for hugs.  The one who buries her head in my neck.  The one who turns my face to hers for a puckered kiss. 

Now, I wrap my arms around her shaky limbs and promise infinite protection.   Her fists grab greedy gulps of my shirt, and I rub circles on the smooth skin of her back while she catches her breath.

I'm all she needs, and the Beast is easily remedied. 

For now.

It's the Simple Moments that make up the Bigger Picture, and we're sharing our moments today at Alita's place -- please stop by to read more moments and share your own!

Homeschool

Mia: I'm coloring her dress purple.

Lauren: I'M COLORING HIS DRESS PURPLE, TOO!

Mia: *sigh* He isn't wearing a dress.

Lauren: Why?

Mia: Because he's a fish, and fishes don't wear dresses.  They don't even wear pants or shirts or shoes or tights or socks or headbands or...anything at all.

Lauren: He's a shark, Mia!  Not a fish!  He doesn't wear panties, either, right?

Mia: Yes, that's right.

Snow!

On December first, Mia rushed to the window and peered out hopefully.  She gazed right.  She stared left.  She frowned.

Mama!  It's WINTER time, and it's supposed to snow at winter!  When will it snow?

I did my best to explain weather patterns and unpredictability and technicalities, such as they may be, but still -- winter started with a disappointing bang.  Mia's eyes registered understanding, and I railed against the weatherman.  Where was our snow?

December passed uneventfully.  A few days ago, it was in the 50's and brightly sunny.  I held little hope for January.

Until yesterday morning.  We woke up to the slightest dusting of white over our dead grass and unraked leaves, and honestly, I was already content with that amount of snow.  It was snow, even if it looked like a thick, patchy frost.  Soon, though, it got even better: thick, fat flakes fell heavily, and our mismanaged leaves were suddenly disguised by wet snow.  And okay -- it may never have exceeded more than half of an inch of precipitation, but it was snow.

Finally! 

We headed out for a few minutes of reckless clothes-wetting before going to school, which is a magical feat I attribute solely to my camera: the promise of good photo-ops is just about the only thing that would get me out the door early, of all things. 

The girls both had their warmest winter clothes on -- for the most part.  Pants, which, for them, is a step above their usual attire of skirt plus tights. 

Their shoes collected clumps of new snow with each step in the grass, and when I realized that this would make their feet wet for an entire morning of preschool, I loaded them into the car.  It was still a wonderland around us -- blowing snow made the world white and exotic.  I kept my camera ready for any safe-shot -- snow!

We never turned on any music; the silence outside required silence inside.  Except for our own squeals of excitement and glee: snow!  Mia begged me to drive faster, but I wanted to savor the slowness.  Gaze around me.  Appreciate the white.

I appreciated it right up until my tires started sliding downhill at the next stoplight. 

We've had so little inclement weather since we've had this vehicle, that I had no idea where the 4-wheel-drive switch was, or even how to make it work if I DID find it.  But that never crossed my mind as I saw the rear bumper of the car before me getting closer too fast.  I might have been going 15-mph, which gave me plenty of time to consider my options:  I could pump the brakes (but I didn't know if that advice was outdated...); I could let myself bump into the car in front of us (which would be a big, expensive headache -- though probably not terribly unsafe); I could pop the curb to my right, and drive onto the snowy grass of a residential yard (and hope to avoid the sturdy oak tree planted dead-center). 

I chose the grass. 

We popped the curb, and as soon as my tires hit rough grass, slowed to a stop.  We missed the oak tree.  Traffic moved on.  The big, fancy SUV behind me was sliding too, so I waited until it stopped, then pulled back into the road -- going less than 2-mph.

Again, Mia begged me to go faster.  Do you think I acquiesced?

Friends, I did not.  I crawled us the rest of the way to school, explaining in multiple ways why jumping the curb and driving through some poor soul's yard wasn't fun, but my daughters' giggles overruled me: Mom so doesn't know what fun is all about.

And, though I apparently don't know how to drive in a dusting of snow, I still love it. 

Tell me about the snow -- or lack thereof -- where you are!

Weekly Column: Never Fear the Whys

Some years ago, we entered the why-phase with our oldest daughter.  She was around three-years-old, and quite verbal, so I’d been anticipating the onset of questions for months.  I expected sweet rows of queries and easily lobbed answers.

But expectations don’t always align with reality. 

When my toddler uttered her first unending string of whys, I did think it was adorable – a sweet kind of milestone game; I vowed to always answer her questions as honestly and willingly as possible.  And for that first why-phase, I did.  It lasted a few months, becoming tiring at times, but I thought the best way to approach it was to be encouraging.  After all, her questions reflected a true curiosity, and I’d always wanted my children to be excited about discovering things.

After the whys stopped, I found it easier to have conversations with my child; she was a little person, capable of discussion and reason!  She had ideas and wonders and solutions!  She’d grown interesting in a way that babies and toddlers are still developing; she was full of personality. 

Better still, I knew that we were past the whys.  Looking back, I could freely admit that her marathon why-sessions had been exhausting to maneuver, and I was happy to say that we’d successfully navigated that weary terrain. 

Until approximately six months later, when the whys re-infiltrated our happy home, as they’ve continued to do two or three times per year.  Really, it seems like a nasty trick being played on us by the milestone committee.  Like the birthday candles that are impossible to extinguish, the whys just keep bursting back into our lives.

 As we’re currently in the middle of a doozy of whys, I’m learning more about how to handle them.  I still want to encourage curiosity and affirm the value of my daughter’s questions, but I often try to go about it differently.  She’s five now – completely able to come up with answers of her own, even if they’re just ideas. 

“Whoa!” I might yell while driving in the car.  “That car just completely cut me off!  Yikes!”

“Why?” The inevitable query comes from the back seat.

“Well, the person driving it cut in front of me really fast – they could have bumped into us and caused an accident.”

“Why would it cause an accident?” 

“Because they got too close to us, and I wasn’t expecting them to be so reckless.”

“Why did they get too close?”

“I don’t know – maybe they didn’t see us.”

“Why?”

“Um – I don’t really know.  Maybe because they were in a hurry.”

“Why?”

(And here’s where I’ve finally learned my lesson.) “Hmm…there could be lots of reasons. Why do YOU think they might have been in a hurry?”

At the very least, this halts the endless line of whys, but it does something better, too.  It shifts the focus from my daughter receiving answers to her discovering answers.  I could say something about creative hypotheses and scientific reasoning and logical deduction – but I won’t. 

She’s capable of coming up with her own ideas about how the world works, and I find myself looking for reasons to provoke questions so I can reverse them in a way that will make her think.  Even if she gets irritated at my geeky antics, I trust she’s still learning more than if I’d provided an instant answer.

My younger daughter is now entering the why-phase as well.  I might have been worn down before we’d even begun, lackadaisically responding with “Because.” or “Stop asking WHY!”, but now I’m filled with courage. 

The why-phase can’t scare me anymore.

[Online version here.]