The Amazing Trips

now, where is that cape?

2012-01-23T23:45:00.000-05:00

Henry attended his first birthday party, yesterday.

His siblings have been attending birthday parties since they were infants - and Henry has tagged along to several along the way - but this was the first party that Henry, and Henry alone, had been invited to attend.

It was a big deal.

I made it a big deal, because for the past four-and-a-half-years, Henry hasn't had any friends of his own. He's the little brother of the triplets. The little guy that spends every play date he's ever attended, chasing the bigger kids around. He seems to like the role of always being "it" but I don't.

I've tried to coordinate play dates for him, with kids his own age and have actually said to absolute strangers, "Hi, you don't know me, but it looks like you have a son approximately the same age as my son, you wanna get together sometime?"

There are a number of parenting challenges when you work full-time. Coordinating social activities for your preschooler is but one of them. Although it probably would help my coordination efforts if Henry was always with me, when I approach the parents of potential playmates.

The party was at 2:30 and since I needed to pick up a gift first, I had planned to leave the house at 1:00. But as it always happens, things popped up that required resolution. Like lunch for the kids. I mean, come on. Didn't I just feed you breakfast a few hours ago?

At 1:30, I realized I needed to walk out the door, right that very second, or we'd be late. And I hate being late to birthday parties. Especially when it's my son's very first one and it was only scheduled to last an hour. Including cake consumption.

So I bundled Henry in to his many layers of winter gear and we rushed out the front door, only to realize that the van was covered in snow and ice. For the next several minutes, I ran around looking for the vehicular snow removal equipment (i.e., scraper) because it was missing from where it was supposed to be and .... CHARLIE!!!!

Help!

Me!

Another several minutes later, equipment was found and I began the snow removal process. Which took some time, because I also removed the snow and ice that had accumulated on the top of our extraordinarily lonnng van when I remembered that last year, I almost crashed when a huge chunk of ice slid off and slammed in to my windshield from the not-fully-deiced car in front of me. I'd prefer to avoid unnecessary accidents.

By the time I buckled Henry in and pulled out of the driveway, it was 1:52. I have exactly 38 minutes to drive to Target - in one direction - pick out a present, wrap it, and drive to the birthday party, in the exact opposite direction. We make record time and arrive at Target by 2:02. We are then in and out of Target within eight minutes. It could've been five, if I wasn't totally distracted by all the shiny and unnecessary items on Aisle 2.

With our gift in hand, we rush out to the car to wrap it - using the paper, tape, scissors and ribbon I'd thought to bring from home. Yet another challenge of working full-time: I wrap more presents on the front seat of the car ~ on my way to parties ~ than I wrap anywhere else. I've come to terms with the fact that in my current situation, I'll never be so prepared as to have a birthday gift ready to go, more than thirty-five minutes before a party commences.

I'm cutting and taping, and beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, we'll be on time and my heart warms with the thought. But as I'm curling the last ribbon, Henry who is securely fastened in his car seat informs me, "Mommy, I have to go potty!"

Of course!

He does!

Based on his sudden and furious kicking and fidgeting, I ascertain that there's no way he could hold it, nor would I be willing to take the chance. So I unbuckle him from his car seat and weigh my options. I could walk back to the store and use one of the restrooms, or I could capitalize on his ability to stand and let him aim beneath the car. The first option is considerably more civilized. The second option is considerably more efficient.

Thirty seconds later, Henry was back in his carseat and we were on our way.

On our way to ..... ?

Hmmm. Where are we going, again?

It dawned on me that I'd left the invitation on my desk and had never fully digested the address. The distinct possibility exists that where I think I'm going isn't where I actually need to be. So with fingers crossed, I head in what I hope is the correct direction.

Here's a photograph of my sweet Henry, clutching his present and wondering as we ride up in the elevator, "Mom, I sure hope you've got this right! I'D BE SO SAD TO MISS MY FIRST PARTY."

Of course he wasn't actually wondering that. It was my Mommy Guilt that assumed a voice which was echoing around my head, "You'd better not mess this one up." My son was totally happy being out, alone, with me. Had we missed the party, he probably would've said, "That's OK. Can I keep the present?!"

When we entered what I thought was the birthday venue, a man who introduced himself as the father of the birthday child, came out to greet us. When they affixed a sticker to Henry's shirt with his name, I felt very proud. We made it. To the correct location. On time.

WITH A WRAPPED GIFT.

It was truly nothing short of a miracle.

Because Charlie does all the drop-offs and pick-ups, I haven't had much of an opportunity to socialize with the other parents from Henry's preschool. So while Henry ran around playing with his friends, I made the rounds, taking time to ~~ambush~~ talk with all the other parents. Focusing especially on those who have boys. Henry loves playing with other boys and seemed lost for the first 10 minutes of the party, wandering around until the first boy arrived.

I've been asking / telling / begging Charlie to line up play dates with his classmates, but the execution of such a concept is not something my husband embraces. Not because he doesn't agree that Henry should play with other kids outside of school, but because it's significantly outside of Charlie's comfort zone. As a man, he'd rather not call around and line up play dates with moms he doesn't know. I get that, which is why I mapped out a schedule of play dates for times when I'll be available, too. The way I see it, play dates aren't just for the kids. They're also a very important opportunity for parents to connect and trade notes. And since I've been out of the play date circuit for so long, I really need to do some note trading.

I didn't mention it during the party, but one of the other parents knew that we had triplets. So she told another mother, who told another of the mothers (and another and another) that I have three seven-year-olds in addition to Henry. And this prompted a wave of excitement and awe. How do you do it? How do you manage? AND you work full-time?

You must be superwoman!

Ah yes. I'm the new generation of superwoman. She's flies around with her hair on fire, encourages her son to void in a public parking lot and half the time, doesn't know where she's going. But I didn't tell them any of that.

I figure it'll give us something fun to talk about during our first play date.

Photographic evidence Henry made it to his first party: balloon and goody bag in hand.

He was thrilled. But I was even more so.

the risk assessment

2012-01-22T23:35:00.004-05:00

This morning the children were up early.

I think it was 6:35 when I felt someone poking me with their little finger and asking, in hushed tones, if I'd go get their sled. Two questions swept through my mind:

1) Why the hushed tones, since they're clearly interested in waking me up?

2) The freezing cold attic? Why must they disturb me and not their father?

Not right away, but eventually, I did get out of bed. And we did go sledding. And when I went in to the house to make beds and unload the dishwasher and begin thinking about breakfast, my children were still outside, sledding, by themselves. Within a matter of minutes, I heard someone crying. When I ran out to investigate, I discovered Henry had sled headfirst in to a tree.

(No, I didn't snap off a photo of my injured child. This was a DIFFERENT lesser impact sledding injury and I thought it was so sweet how his brother was helping him up the hill.)

Of course crashing in to a tree was a possibility that I'd considered, seeing as our backyard is a partial forest, but I'd instructed the children to take a route that would be AWAY from the trees and I was hoping that our four-year-old would heed my warning and / or been more successful at steering his sled.

Additionally, I'd reasoned that if one of our children were to strike a tree, they had on a lot of padding. (Including thick hats, which I swear they had on when they went out the door.) They had on layers upon layers, because I'm very good at dressing them warmly. Before putting them on a piece of slick plastic, on a treacherous slope with multiple hardwoods jutting from the ground.

Yes. The safety professional in me sees the flaw in my logic. But it's the realist in me that understands sometimes the most harmless activity - like running across a yard - can cause a bone to fracture. And pulling someone out from beneath the table can result in a premature tooth loss. Small children whipping down a steep hill with mature trees? OK. From this perspective, I can see it's a suicidal obstacle course and I need to hide their sleds.

The important thing is that Henry's fine. Within a few days, the small scrape on his cheek will heal and he'll hopefully remember, from this point forth, that trees aren't soft and it's best to stay out of their way. Unless, Charlie has his say and cuts them all down.

In which case ... risk averted, problem solved!

neither wind, nor hail, nor sleet, nor snow...

2012-01-21T23:32:00.003-05:00

We woke up, this morning, to snow and ice coating our world. But the inclement weather didn't stop our girls (and their brother) from getting out and selling cookies today.

Although the weather was difficult, sales were great. Nearly everyone was house-bound because the roads were too bad to be out driving and everyone it seemed, had a hankering for Thin Mints.

Hello! Hello!

I see you in there!

You're trapped and I know it!!

If not for icy conditions, it's highly unlikely we would have sold more than 50 boxes in less than 60 minutes. Yay winter!

i'll do anything to keep the kitchen clean

2012-01-20T23:22:00.001-05:00

My husband was slightly aghast that I allowed our children to cook their dinner in our front yard earlier this week. On two separate occasions.

He was worried that our neighbors would see us with a raging bonfire and hotdogs on sticks and what would they think?

I think, that they'd think, "Can I come over?"

we're banking on the cute factor

2012-01-16T23:46:00.001-05:00

If you live within a one-mile radius of our house, this is a sight you might expect to see over the next few days...

Remember how I wrote about this last year?

Girl Scout cookie sales officially began a few weeks ago and the first round of orders are due this Saturday. I'd been holding off on the door-to-door sales because I wanted to affix all the Daisy Petal badges they'd earned to their uniforms, first. But when it struck me this afternoon that we only have five days remaining before our initial orders are due, and we have thus far sold ... quick check ... zero! ... our girls threw on their patch-deficient smocks and we hit the pavement. Within an hour, we'd visited five houses and sold 15 boxes.

William came with us to support his sisters. No one could say "no" to three tooth-missing first graders proudly sporting their scout uniforms.

(In return, our girls have promised to help their brother sell popcorn next fall.)

Friends and family, if you're interested in buying cookies, please send me an e-mail (TheAmazingTrips@gmail.com) and we'll add you to the list. They cost $4.00 per box (they were only $1.50 a box when I sold them 30 years ago!) and here's a website with all the details on the various kinds.

Within only 185 boxes remaining for us to meet our goal, I might need to bring the kids to work with me one afternoon. Maybe I should bring Louie, too. He could wear a sign that reads, "Please buy our cookies...

Or, I'll leave a puddle on your floor."

Although, he'd probably do that anyway.

the co-ed bathroom

2012-01-14T19:18:00.001-05:00

The children have always shared a bathroom and it hasn't been a problem, until recently. For the past few months, every day, I'll hear the girls complain, "MOM! The seat is all wet. Those boys are gross!!"

Regardless of how many times I remind the boys, they always seem to forget the most basic bathroom etiquette.

So until such time that the girls are able to have their own bathroom space, we're hoping a visual reminder will help everyone stay happy. And dry.

favorite thing friday: juicers

2012-01-13T23:09:00.003-05:00

On or about the sixth consecutive week of continual sickness at our house, when I had forked over a small fortune in copays and our entire family had been prescribed an apothecary of medications that we were required to take day and night ... and we were whipping through two boxes of Puffs Plus with Lotion (per day) and had become proficient singing the Vick's VapoRub song ...

Do you know this one?

Rub-a-dub-dub three men in the tub!

Lost in the ocean blue-ue-ue...

Oh, rub-a-dub-dub with Vicks VapoRub,

And you'll feel better in the MORNIN'!

(My mother used to sing this whenever she'd rub Vicks on my chest when I was little. And I'd totally forgotten about it, until she was here a few months ago and rubbed Vicks on our children's chest and broke in to song. I was instantly transported back to my own childhood, like magic!)

... that I'd decided I'd had ENOUGH.

I'd had ENOUGH with being sick and all the whiny sadness that comes with it. So I went down in to our basement, grabbed our juicer, brought it upstairs - blew off the dust - cleaned off all the parts - and plugged it in. And then I proceeded to juice everything in sight.

This is a newer model of the the juicer that we own, and it is o-kay. There are so many great juicers on the market, when this one seizes up, we'll definitely upgrade to a heavier duty variety. Ideally, I'd like a juicer that I can throw an entire pineapple in to, without having to core, first.

Grapes.

Strawberries.

Apples.

Pears.

Pineapple.

Grapefruit.

Oranges.

Melon.

Parsley.

Carrots.

Beets.

Not all together, but in batches, fruit with fruit - vegetables with vegetables.

For the next week, I juiced several times, every single day, and cleansed my digestive track like it had never been cleansed before. And miraculously, I began to feel better. I also lost seven pounds, which was a nice side effect.

The first sign of my recovery was the ability to breathe through my nose and taste food, again. The second sign of my recovery was the disappearance of empty tissue boxes all over the house. The third sign of recovery was being able to carry on a conversation that didn't include the words, "I FEEL LIKE DIRT. Waaaaah."

Now, granted, my healing could have been the result of antibiotics which FINALLY kicked in and decimated the misery that was lingering in my system. But I know, from my mother's experience at the Optimum Health Institute, the importance of detoxification. I believe in that stuff. I believe that fresh juice cleanses your body to the cellular level and can restore you to health.

We call it, "Nectar of the Gods" and whenever we drink it, we can feel the goodness surge through us. It's a healing sensation, so even now, I try to juice at least once every day.

Fresh juice costs more than buying it from the store, and it takes some time to prepare. But fresh juice that cleanses your body from the inside out, is well worth the effort and expense.

If you have small children around the house to help, all the better. They gain immense satisfaction from pulverizing things and their presence can also be restorative to the soul. At least until that moment they start fighting over whose turn it is and .... ACK!

Find my happy place!

gentle dusting

2012-01-11T22:52:00.000-05:00

There isn't enough to sled on....

Just enough to coat every branch of every tree.

And make the world beautiful.

We love it here.

we've been tebowed

2012-01-08T22:21:00.005-05:00

After he'd decided that he didn't want to watch another Superbowl from his child's beanbag chair, Charlie's Christmas present this year was a new couch for our basement. The couch arrived this past Friday which was perfect timing - what with all the playoff football games that happened, today.

(Next up ... blinds for the window.)

Today, my husband was educating our children on the different football teams and offering them trivia on the various players. Since he's long been a Steelers fan, I thought for sure that he'd influence our children to root for Pittsburgh in tonight's game. But after Tebow threw his miracle pass in overtime and our daughter dropped to one knee and did this ...

I think it's safe to say she's a Bronco's fan.

I've got one week to convince her otherwise, since next weekend Denver is playing New England. And my loyalty ... it runs deep.

how king louie came to be (alternate title: adopting a puppy 101)

2012-01-07T22:42:00.002-05:00

For months now, years even, our children have wanted a dog. Carolyn, especially, has been begging - pleading - praying - that a dog will come to our family.

Charlie and I have been very hesitant to get another dog. We know the work that is involved to be good dog owners and we didn't know if we were ready. But when we moved in to this awesome house, with the awesome yard, and my mother started whispering in my ear that our children really needed a pet ... and then, in the heat of the moment, she promised them that she'd get them a dog for the birthday (but, only if your MOTHER says it's OK {Thanks Mom!}) the stage was set.

We'd made the decision that we'd prefer to adopt our next dog from a shelter. So for the past few months, I've looked. And looked. And looked. And looked.

And although I believe that all dogs come in to this world with the potential to be loving and kind, the only dogs I was able to find in the shelters around our area were older dogs that were pit bull mixes. My Aunt Grace has a pit bull mix who is a wonderful dog. But, I'm not too keen on adopting one when I don't know for sure it's prior history.

Especially given our prior history.

So I'd made up my mind we were going to adopt a puppy. We've had puppies before and the long process of housebreaking a puppy and teaching it not to chew everything in sight had obviously turned to dust and blown from the crevices of my mind. But even if my subconscious tried to remind me, I'd already convinced myself that puppies are a blank slate and we can train them up right and most importantly - they are so stinking cute.

For reasons that elude me but I think may have something to do with a gradual increase in spay and neuter rates as you move north from the equator, there are a lot more puppies in South Carolina than northern Virginia. So when we drove down to South Carolina to visit my mother and Jim in late November, my mother suggested that she and I take the children to her local animal shelter. This animal shelter is wonderfully clean and bright and smells nice and is staffed with a team of people who adore animals. Add to that, it's a No-Kill shelter and they bring in animals from other shelters and will keep the animals there for as long as it takes for them to be adopted. Or forever. Whichever comes first.

We'd been there before because my children's grandmother finds immense pleasure bringing her young grandchildren in to a room full of adorable, cuddly animals that are available to take home immediately. Remarkably, our children have been very good about leaving the animal shelter without a fur ball in their arms.

Until this trip in November.

Because during this trip in November, for the first time ever, we removed puppies from their kennels and spent time with them in a visitation room. The only reason you'd do that is if you were "test driving" the puppy. Even four-year-olds know that.

When we first walked in to the puppy section of the shelter, I heard a little dog whimpering and crying. When I walked over to investigate, I saw the fuzziest little black dog I'd ever seen in my life. She was a border collie mix and looked like she'd been shocked because her hair was all standing on end. She had white on her chest and across her feet and she was quite possibly, the most adorable dog I'd ever seen in my life.

When I saw that her name was Virginia, I thought, "IT MUST BE A SIGN." So I opened her cage and scooped her in to my arms and she immediately stopped whimpering and snuggled her tiny black face in to my arms.

Once the children saw that I'd just taken a dog out, they went totally ballistic.

"Oh my gosh! OHMYGOSH! Are we getting THIS dog? CAN WE GET THIS DOG? CAN I HOLD HER? CAN I HOLD HER? CAN I HOLD HER? CAN I HOLD HER? CAN I HOLD HER? CAN I HOLD HER? CAN I HOLD HER? CAN I HOLD HER? CAN I HOLD HER? CAN I HOLD HER? CAN I HOLD HER? CAN I HOLD HER?"

Virginia was a hit, especially with Carolyn and I would have adopted her right then and there, except:

1) Charlie wasn't with us and I wanted for my husband to provide his endorsement and

2) Virginia's litter mates had all been sick and there was concern she might get sick so would probably be going in to quarantine and unavailable to adopt for several more days. Which we didn't really have because we would be driving home.

So we put sweet little Virginia back in her kennel (while tears fell down my daughter's cheeks) and we looked at other puppies.

William was smitten with a black labrador named Shadow. Truth be told, I really liked Shadow, too, but we were interested in getting a smaller dog that we'd be able to take with us on our road trips. If we were to get (another) big labrador that could grow to 80 pounds or more, the chances would be slim that we'd just pack him up as we dart around the eastern seaboard.

Elizabeth was smitten with a yellow labrador named Chester. She loved this dog because it reminded her of Monty and so I opened his kennel and let him out. It only took four seconds in the visitation room with a totally WIRED Chester before Elizabeth realized that he might be a little too hyper for her. "But not really, Mom, because I love him even though he scares me because he jumps all over me and tries to eat my hair. ACK! Please hold me!!! CAN WE GET HIM?"

Sure thing kiddo, if they throw in a 40-pound bag of puppy ritalin.

Henry was smitten with all the kittens and was laughing hysterically going from one cage to the next. Of course our children didn't all agree on one pet.

That would have been much too easy.

We stayed at that shelter until an hour before closing time As I was walking out, with four crying children who had empty arms, I stopped at the front desk and very discreetly whispered that if Virginia was still there in the morning, please call me and I'd come back with my husband to complete the adoption.

The next morning, my mother took the girls ice skating and Charlie and I took the boys back to the animal shelter. The girls had been much more attached to the idea of getting a new puppy so if for some reason we came to the conclusion that we weren't ready for a dog - the boys would be far less devastated.

When we arrived at the shelter, five minutes after they opened, Virginia had already been adopted. My heart hurt a little until I saw that overnight, a litter of cocker spaniel mixes had arrived on the scene. They were so tiny and crawling all over each other and fellow Animal Shelter visitors were falling all over themselves trying to get in for a closer look.

I stopped by Shadow's kennel and had to fight the urge to bring him home. Those paws. Those adorable paws were so huge he'd be 80 pounds in less than a year.

I stopped by Chester's kennel and he was jumping up and down chewing the wall and .... I just kept on walking while saying a little prayer for Chester that he is adopted by someone who has an abundance of patience and will run him.

Constantly.

By the time I circled back, there was a clearing in the crowd around the new puppies and I reached in and scooped up a little female named Lilly. Charlie meanwhile reached in and scooped up a little male named Sebastian. We brought the two puppies in to the visitation room and put the puppies down where they ran around sniffing, climbing across our children's laps, and precipitating little puddles on the floor.

For a solid hour, we debated which puppy to adopt.

I loved Lilly.

Charlie loved Sebastian.

The boys loved both of them (and all the kittens in the entire shelter).

So for another solid hour, we debated adopting TWO puppies.

William had renamed the boy, Louie, and how sweet would it be to have a Louie and a Lilly?

So sweet! I could just see us out walking our two little black puppies around the yard and with two dogs, the children wouldn't fight over them and they'd keep each other company and .... imagine us coming to our senses like a needle dragging across a record player.

Eerreeeekkkkkkkkkkkkkkk!

Charlie finally said something along the lines of: There is no way we're going to adopt two dogs. We're caught up in the moment, looking in to those sweet puppy eyes and rubbing those soft puppy ears, we were DRUNK on puppy love.

Thank goodness my husband sobered up or there would be two dogs that wake us up all hours of the night, yapping and precipitating little puddles every 30 minutes.

Although the shelter told us he was 10 weeks old, we estimate that Louie was no more than six weeks old when we adopted him. This was later confirmed by our vet. Although we'd completed the adoption on a Saturday, we weren't able to pick him up until Monday because Shelter policy is that all animals are spayed or neutered before the adoption is complete. YES, I KNOW. He was way too young to go through such a procedure, but he did and he's fine and it probably hurt me more than it hurt him.

He loves running around the yard and chasing squirrels. He also loves playing with the children and - for the most part - is gentle. What with bi-weekly Girl Scout and Boy Scout meetings and scores of neighborhood children filing through our house everyday, he's adapting well to all the little people. He's growled and nipped at them a few times, but in my opinion, children need to understand and respect an animal's quiet time and limits.

It's a learning process.

(This was before I mopped. But yes, our floor is that gross and needs to be replaced.)

Louie's adoption card read that he is a cocker spaniel and mountain cur mix. Our vet seems to think he's a cocker spaniel and lab mix.

We consider it a great mystery what, exactly, his genetic makeup is or how big he'll grow. On the day we brought him home, he was three pounds. He's since packed on ten more, in large thanks to our children who thrive on feeding him.

The two biggest challenges that we face are keeping him in his kennel when he is not immediately supervised (the kids will let him out, which finally prompted me to put a padlock on the door) and impressing upon the children how to properly feed him. A few weeks ago, after he'd had six HUGE poops in one day, we realized that the kids had given him five heaping cups of food and had slipped him at least a quarter of a box of dog cookies.

"But Mom! He was hungry and kept eating and eating!"

Yes.

Dogs will do that.

We could do DNA testing, but to us, it really doesn't matter what his lineage is.

What matters is that he's part of the family and he's loved.

Although, I suspect I'll love him a little bit more once he is able to sleep all the way through the night and his bladder expands to a size larger than a lima bean.

four and a half

2012-01-04T22:17:00.002-05:00

Henry is four and a half years old, today. It seems impossible to me that as of tomorrow, he'll be closer to five than he is to four.

MY BABY!

Who authorized this GROWING UP stuff?!

Some of the things that I want to remember about him, at this precious age, is his unbelievable sweetness.

Sure, he has the propensity to terrorize his siblings like most little brothers are prone to do, but he also warms their hearts when he gives them tight hugs and looks up at their faces and says things like, "I wuv you brudder. You my Willow. I wuv you sistas. You my Gwacie and my Lizbet."

He is his father's little buddy and Charlie absolutely adores being home with him during the day. They'll take trips to Home Depot and Starbucks and every so often, go out for lunch while the big kids are in school.

They spend an exorbitant amount of time rolling around on the floor, wrestling. To balance the manly stuff, they also spend a lot of time cuddling and giving each other butterfly kisses.

He calls me "Mama" and asks me to marry him, every single day. Whenever I tell him, "Of course!" he'll inform his father with a sly smile, "Me and Mommy are getting MARRIED and I'm gonna kiss her on the lips!"

He is infatuated with letters and whenever he sees the letter "H" he'll yell out, "HENRY!" Since I've been working so much with the kids on reading and drill them with flash cards while sitting around the dinner table and whenever we go out, I suspect that he'll be reading before he enters kindergarten. His math skills are fairly advanced for a four-year-old since he, too, is learning first grade skills such as addition, subtraction and how to construct number houses.

He loves to dance. And sing a wide assortment of songs that he's learned in preschool including this number about a slippery fish, octopus, great white shark, hammerhead, HUMONGOUS whale and ... scrod?

Although the boys have bunk beds, William prefers to sleep on the bottom bunk with Henry. He is so tolerant and really loves his little brother. So much, in fact, that he unselfishly gave him the teddy bear that he received at a Build-A-Bear birthday party. The bear's name is Climby. And William wanted his brother to have him, because William loves Forest - and William loves his brother - he just wanted Forest to have a brother to love, too. Henry understands his brother's sacrifice and he treasures that bear. Almost as much as he treasures his 27 varied Buzz Lightyear toys.

He makes me smile and laugh ...

And on rare occasion, a little batty. (Within seconds of snapping this photo, he laid down and tried to swim in the puddle.)

But most of all, he makes me feel like the luckiest mother in the world.

I'm so glad he joined our family. It will never cease to amaze me that he (or any of our children for that matter) are here. They light up our world.

long live gutter guards

2012-01-03T22:36:00.000-05:00

Scenes from bowling.

To the far right, Charlie's shelling out a small fortune for six pairs of rental shoes...

The scorekeepers. Alternatively dubbed, "The boys who pushed all the buttons on the computer and made our screen turn black. Twice."

The lightest ball that they had available was six pounds. Our children still nearly collapsed under the weight of it.

I missed it by …. THIS … much.

Big sister receives a pep talk from little brother.

"Lizbet! You need to dance, like me. WATCH!"

What I loved most about this adventure is the dance Henry would do every time he bowled the ball.

What I loved second most is gutter guards. Because of those fantastic contraptions that block off the entire length of the gutter and would facilitate the most phenomenal ricochets, for the first time since I can't remember when … I broke 100. Please note, I bowled the only strike during the entire game. Not Charlie.

ME.

Conclusion = bowling might be my new favorite sport.

getting on the right brain path

2012-01-02T22:56:00.005-05:00

Kathleen sent me a little book by Dr. Wayne Dyer entitled, 10 Secrets for Success and Inner Peace. It was nice to receive this book because if there's anyone I know who is in need of inner peace - it would have to be me. This morning, I picked it up as I wandered in to the kitchen and as I flipped through it, the second secret, "Don't Die with Your Music Still in You" caught my attention.

After I read through the chapter, I asked Charlie to drop everything he was doing so I could read it to him. As I was reading, I could see him nodding his head and saying, "Yep, Yep, YEP." While I thought that this book spoke volumes to me, my husband thought it spoke volumes to him. Later in the afternoon, I read it to my mother over the phone and now, I'm going to express "Listening to Your Right Brain" for the fourth time today because it is that good and has consumed my thoughts all day.

Now, granted, my desire to hone in the communications emitted from my right brain might have something to do with the fact that I'm 40 and in mid-life crisis territory AND I'm heading back to work tomorrow after almost three blissful weeks off and there is a lot of angst about hopping back on the turbo-charged gerbil wheel. Nonetheless....

There's an intuitive, invisible presence that's always with you. I picture this presence as a nagging little creature who sits on your right shoulder and reminds you when you've lost your sense of purpose. This little fellow is your own death, urging you to get on with what you showed up here for because you have only so many days to get it done, and then your body will be departing from this visit. Your invisible companion will prod you when you're spending another day doing what someone else has dictated if it's not part of your passion in life.

You'll most likely always know when you're off purpose because of your thoughts of frustration. You might not always act on this knowledge, though, because your left brain has not mustered up the courage to do the bidding that your right brain knows is your destiny. Your intuitive inner voice keeps urging you to play the music that you hear so that you won't die with it inside you. But your left brains says, "Wait a minute. Be careful, don't take risks, you might fail, you might disappoint all of those who have a different view of what you should be doing." Then your right brain invisible companion (your death) speaks even louder. The volume gets turned up and up, trying to get you to follow your dream.

Listening exclusively to your left brain will turn you ultimately into a pretender, or even worse, a commuter - getting up every morning going with the crowd, doing that job that brings in the money and pays the bills; and getting up the next morning and doing it all over again. Meanwhile, the music inside of you fades almost to a point of being inaudible. But your constant invisible companion always hears the music and continues tapping you on the shoulder.

The attempts to get your attention may take the form of an ulcer, or a fire to burn up your resistance, or being fired from a stifling job, or being brought to your knees with an accident. Usually these accidents, illnesses, and forms of bad luck finally get your attention. But not always. Some people end up like Tolstoy's character, Ivan Ilyich, who anguished on his deathbed, "What if my whole life has been wrong?" A fearsome scene, I must say.

You don't have to choose that fate. Listen to your invisible companion, express the music that you hear, and ignore what everyone else around you thinks you should be doing. As Thoreau put it, "If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music he hears, however measured or far away."

Be willing to accept that others may even see you as having betrayed them, but you haven't betrayed your music - your purpose. Listen to your music, and do what you know you have to do to feel whole, to feel complete, and to feel as if you're fulfilling your destiny. You'll never be at peace if you don't get that music out and let it play. Let the world know why you're here, and do it with passion.

The fly on the wall of our house can attest to the fact that not a day goes by that I don't say something - along the exact same lines - to Charlie. For that matter, I'm 99.9% sure that I've used terminology precisely surrounding my own fate tapping me on the shoulder.

TAP! TAP! TAP!

Hello pneumonia and hospitalization!

Hello debilitating auto-immune disease!

Hello stress and malaise!

Is it time for a change yet?

Or should we go take a peek at caskets?

I've felt for a long time that I've been totally off track and can feel the frustration and anxiety mounting, every day. So our quest for this year is to figure out what exactly our passions are and pursue them with total conviction.

I'll admit, I'm afraid. But I'm also excited because I want to/must begin to feel better than how I've been feeling. Even with my cautious optimism, I have two concerns:

1) Do I have the courage to completely give up my career and (financial) stability to pursue my passion?

2) Do I know what my passion is? What if I think I know what it is, only to later discover, I WAS TOTALLY WRONG?

I can just see us living deep in the mountains. I'm homeschooling the children, spinning wool and making candles. And at some point, on or about day three, I look at Charlie and say oops!

Honey? This wasn't quite what I had in mind.

auld lang syne

2012-01-01T23:35:00.002-05:00

Our children are typically in bed every night by 7:30 PM. We'd told them that they could stay up with us and ring in the New Year and they were extremely excited. Charlie and I had a lot of activities planned for the evening to keep things moving along...

The kids made their own pizzas.

There was chocolate fondue.

Bubble baths.

Ping pong.

Wii.

Karaoke.

A movie.

Charlie and I really tried to stay awake but could only make it until 11. We both fell asleep sitting upright in our chairs. Meanwhile, our very alert children woke us up at 11:55 to watch the ball drop. Welcome 2012!

Happy New .... zzzzz.

relaxation, prayers and recovery

2011-12-30T23:47:00.002-05:00

We'd had plans to drive up to New England this week and spend New Years with my family. But, we began to reconsider when we realized Carolyn had not responded to her amoxicillin and spiked a temperature on Christmas day. When I tucked her in to bed on Christmas night, she was covered from head to toe in hives, thanks to a delayed allergic reaction.

Our decision to stay home was confirmed when the day after Christmas, Elizabeth, after taking her new bicycle for a spin around the driveway, hopped off and ran over to tell me how excited she was about riding and en route, twisted her ankle and fell down. When she still couldn't walk the next day, I brought her in to the pediatrician ... who sent us in for an x-ray ... where it was determined that she had suffered a hairline fracture.

Carolyn accompanied me to the doctor with her sister, and while we were waiting for her x-ray, we were subjected to televisions that were locked on CNN. Although we do read the newspaper, we don't watch much news at our house because it isn't as much "news" as it is the most horrible recent events, run on a continuous track.

The girls are learning to read, so they were deciphering the captions. "Mom, did that boy die? What happened to him? Where were his parents?" I tried to distract them with coloring books and flashcards, but when images of the devastating fire in Connecticut flashed up, they were mesmerized. "What happened to that house? Oh my goodness! Were there people inside? I really hope there weren't people inside...."

Yeah, I'd really hoped that, too.

Like quite possibly every mother in America, I've been unable to stop thinking about Madonna Badger and it's impossible for me to fathom how she is going to move on in her life. Over the past two days, the children have asked me questions about what exactly happened and I've tried my best to answer their questions, appropriately. While I know that people endure losses everyday, this particular tragedy has really gripped my heart and many of the coping mechanisms that I typically employ are falling terribly short.

So we've just been hugging our children a whole lot tighter. And all the expectations that we'd had to pack in a week of adventure have fallen by the wayside. We've had no plans and no agenda and it's been incredibly relaxing. Just as our fleet of doctors have ordered.

Because Elizabeth's fracture is so small, she isn't in a cast.

(At least not yet.)

And because we want to keep her "quiet" we equipped her with a walkie-talkie and some binoculars and camped her out at the kitchen table while her father played an awesome game of hide-n-seek in the woods.

Charlie is darting around the yard with one walkie-talkie. When the kids would see him, they'd yell it over the walkie talkie. He was very stealth and was only spotted once. When I traded spots and went outside to hide, I fell in the creek and lost both of my shoes in a mud pit.

The kids immediately saw me, flailing about.

So I retreated to the house where we made banana bread in the shape of a train.

William set up a Harry Potter museum in his room and offered free tours.

He'll make a fine curator one day...

He hasn't taken these glasses off since Sunday. (I need to hide them.) Look at that sweet little face. Did I mention that he lost his first tooth two weeks ago? He was at a birthday party and yanked it right out. Such bravery!

Everyone has received pedicures.

And since Santa brought all the children Camelbaks for Christmas, there has been a lot of hydrating going on. There has also been a lot of baking and juicing and napping and game-playing and reading and knitting and happy memory-making.

This has been the most wonderful week of the entire year. So like a squirrel storing up nuts for the winter, I'm storing up all the relaxation and awesomeness for what I hope will be a very good start to 2012.

scenes from Christmas morning

2011-12-28T22:22:00.000-05:00

Little feet pitter-pattered in to our bedroom at 6 AM on Christmas morning.

First up was Carolyn. She noticed the ribbon strewn all down the hallway and she peeked her head in to the living room, only to see that the stockings were full and there were gifts spilling out from beneath the tree. She hustled in to our bedroom and whispered in to my ear, "MOM! SANTA CAME and he took my shoe and potato!!"

Ten minutes later, Elizabeth was up.

Followed by William and Henry.

For as long as we've been married, our Christmas tradition is that Charlie and I will have breakfast and slowly, open our stockings. We try to extend the gift exchange experience for as long as possible, so that if we pace ourselves appropriately, we're still opening presents at noon. Add children to the equation and within a matter of minutes, they had every single present under the tree opened.

They were like a gift opening MACHINE.

All told, they received:

A Harry Potter costume. (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

Julie.

Ruthie.

(Note the curly hair on Ruthie?)

(Note the curly hair on Carolyn?)

Although he received a cool Imaginext castle and race car track that was rated for 8+ but his father swore he'd love, Henry's favorite gift was a McFinn matchbox car that hasn't left his grasp since Sunday morning.

Charlie was correct about the boys loving that race car track. Especially the BIGGEST boy in the house. He's been reliving his childhood ("I had one of these when I was eight and it was so incredibly AWESOME!") and keeps asking me, "Wanna race?"

There was also a karaoke machine...

And bicycles that were way too big for the children (but looked so much smaller in the store?) which were exchanged.

Santa, that trickster, even brought out some of the toys that he'd delivered in years past that we haven't been playing with. Exhibit A: our marble run. There has been a renewed interest in this toy that I never could have expected. As such, Santa is thinking that he might make a tradition out of re-introducing things in to circulation.

This was MY favorite present.

And …. this was second.

After my Christmas gift last year, Charlie has most definitely redeemed himself.

I've been sleeping with the 278-page manual beneath my pillow in hope that I'll absorb the contents through some kind of osmotic process. Thus far the only thing I've figured out how to do is attach the neck strap.

T-1 (5 minutes)

2011-12-24T23:55:00.002-05:00

Cookies and letters lovingly left for Santa.

So sweet. Although I'm not really sure what the "Mat" refers to?

In the workshop.

Preparing a Special Delivery From The North Pole...

Whilst eating cookies.

Santa most definitely was here.

Not only did he eat all the cookies (and respond to the notes...)

(and replace all the potatoes and apples with gifts...)

But he remembered to leave a little stocking for Louie, too.

He was upstairs ...

And downstairs ...

And he tracked his boots right through the fireplace soot.

He also lightly wrapped a sparkly Christmas ribbon all through the house. Down the hallway, around the doorknobs and throughout the bannister.

I think this was part festive decoration and part an attempt to keep children's doors closed because Santa suspects they'll be up before the sunrise on Christmas morning.

(Merry Christmas to all and to all a Good Night!!)

T-1 (6 hours)

2011-12-24T20:42:00.001-05:00

We took the children to see the matinee Arthur Christmas, today. I think my new favorite Santa line of all time is, "On Dasher, on Dancer, on Prancer and Vixen and ... I forget your name ... Bambi? and you two, with the white ears! Go!"

As is often the case with children's movies these days, Charlie and I were in stitches at some of the lines while the kids looked at us and asked, "Why is that so funny?"

We'd had all kinds of grandiose plans to spend the afternoon baking and delivering gingerbread cookies, Christmas caroling at a few neighbor's homes and attending a candlelight Christmas Eve service this evening. But it was chilly outside and memories of two years ago when Mommy and Daddy had high expectations on children and squeezed too many activities in to a short span of time and Santa nearly turned his sleigh around came flooding back to me.

This is supposed to be a wonderful, relaxing time.

Let's strive to keep expectations low.

So instead of venturing out, we returned home from the movie, lit a roaring fire and settled in with a game of Candy Land. The kids decorated their gingerbread cookies and after snacking on fruits and various appetizers throughout the day, had a dinner of bananas before they went to bed.

I love this picture of Henry. Albeit poor quality, he's got a look that screams, "It's Christmas Eve and I'm eating a banana. Where's my Honey Baked Ham and English Crackers?!"

Everyone received new pajamas ...

And heard "'Twas the Night Before Christmas."

(The same copy that Charlie and I have been reading since 1997).

They put out their potatoes and apples, as Santa had instructed...

And then they pretended to go to sleep. After pleading to sleep in the living room, Carolyn wanted to tie one end of a string to her cookie and the other end to her finger so when Santa picked it up to take a bite, she'd wake up. I asked what she'd do if she actually SAW Santa and as she thought about it, she decided that she'd scream. So she then asked that I please put a letter on her door that reads, "Santa, although I told you I wanted to give you a hug PLEASE do not come in my room. Love, Gracie."

An hour after tucking the children in to bed, William nonchalantly wandered out of his room, looked around and declared that he needed to use the bathroom. Which he did. But I suspect that he suspects that something suspicious is going on. When I just went in to check on him, he is tossing and turning, unable to sleep. He asked if I had some sleeping pills or something I could give him because he's just SO EXCITED.

Oh, I remember the feeling well.

There's nothing like it in the world.

T-1 (10 hours)

2011-12-24T11:30:00.001-05:00

After one of our neighbors gave us the 100-page Christmas catalogue on American Girls, several months ago, our girls have been going crazy to own one of these dolls. Apparently, there's a whole culture surrounding these dolls that we've been oblivious to.

Until Now.

Carolyn immediately spotted Ruthie. She has dark brown hair and blue eyes and looks very much like Carolyn. Elizabeth immediately spotted Julie who has blonde hair and brown eyes and looks very much UNlike Elizabeth.

Yesterday, we took the children shopping so that they could pick out presents for their siblings. And it just so happens that we conveniently have a two-story American Girl doll store in one of the local malls. Charlie had the girls - shopping for the boys - and I had the boys - shopping for the girls. The boys and I wandered in to the American Girl store and although they had Julie in stock and we picked Julie up and turned her box around in our hands ... William and I both agreed that Marie-Grace had the same exact coloring as Elizabeth. Her brown hair with the beautiful blond highlights and blue sparkly eyes? It was uncanny.

Surely, Elizabeth would LOVE this doll. Because Elizabeth is so pretty and this doll is so pretty and the dolls are supposed to look like the girls who own them. Right?

Right?

So we bought Ruthie and against my better judgement, Marie-Grace.

Supposedly, the girls don't know what their brothers gifts for them are. But since our purchase, Elizabeth has done nothing but talk about how much she loves Julie. When we visited with Santa, she made it a point to tell him, "Santa, I'd really love to have Julie. SHE HAS BLOND HAIR." Then she pointed at William and said, "Kind of gold, like my brothers. Do you see?"

William looked up at me with a grimace and whispered, "Oh no, Mom. I really think we need to go get the other doll." I returned his grimace and said, "You mean the one that she said she specifically said she wanted and we just got the one that we thought she'd like better?"

He nodded and asked, "Can we please go first thing in the morning?"

UGH, what a huge inconvenience this will be, competed with the thought, "Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. "

Although my boy isn't one to get up and out of the house early, this morning at 8 AM, William was back at the mall and first in line to exchange Marie-Grace for Julie. With the new doll in his arms, he was wearing a smile ear-to-ear as he said, "Oh my goodness. I can't wait to see her open this present. It is going to make her SO HAPPY!"

Of course it will.

It came straight from the heart of Santa.

T-1 (12 hours)

2011-12-24T09:26:00.003-05:00

We're tracking Santa via NORAD.

He's currently over Japan and has already delivered over 97,000,000 presents.

It's only 9:30 AM, EST!!

And I thought the Army was amazing!

T-1 (15 hours)

2011-12-24T08:00:00.002-05:00

During a conference with the children's first grade teacher on Thursday, she mentioned that she'd heard of the incident on William's school bus wherein the bus driver told the children that Santa isn't real. And she suggested that we visit the Merrifield Santa because he is the REAL Santa and any lingering doubts would be immediately and forever extinguished.

We'd heard that Santa was going to be available from 5 to 8 PM, so we arrived at 4:55 PM, expecting that we'd be among the first in line. We assumed wrong. After standing in line for 30 minutes, we moved six inches. It turns out, the Merrifield Santa is a tradition in these parts and people started forming a line several hours before he even arrived.

It took us just over three hours to see Santa.

It's a miracle we waited at all, since waiting is one of our least favorite things to do. But soon after we'd arrived, I'd overheard the family in front of us say that although it might take us a few hours, they were experts on this Santa because they've been coming to visit him for the past 25 years. Ultimately, they convinced us he was well worth the wait.

As we waited, we wrote (and re-wrote) letters to Santa and socialized with our fellow line-standers ...

Henry made his first love connection. She was a four-year-old girl who was wearing light-up Toy Story 3 boots. If that wasn't awesome enough, she shared his fascination with dinosaurs. As I watched the two happily playing, for the better part of an hour, I couldn't shake the thought that one day this little girl very well might be my daughter-in-law. I've never had a thought like that, before. And I'd prefer not to think like that again. I, instead, opt to see my children as children. Never growing up, always living with me and whole heartedly believing in Santa Claus.

I snapped off some pictures of letters that had been written, over the years, to this exact Santa (who has been serving as Santa since 1966).

Some of them were touching and funny...

And some made my heart break for children who have painful challenges in their young lives.

The wait was long to see the Man in Red because Santa, who was perched in his REAL sleigh, would take the time to talk to each and every family. He jumped down from the sleigh, once, to sing "Come All Ye Faithful" and tell the children about the nativity. He then climbed back in to his sleigh and reviewed everyone's letter that they wrote to him. And with each person from toddlers to teens, he challenged them to think about the real meaning of Christmas.

If you can't read the tiny font on this "Open Letter from Santa," in my opinion, the best part is:

The one special gift that I would like to give each and everyone of you this Christmas is the gift of understanding the meaning of Christmas. It is not the toys that are important, for toys break. It is not the games that are important, for they can become dull. It is not the clothes that are important, for clothes wear out.

What is important is people doing things for people. The truest gift you cannot wrap with paper of silver or gold. The truest gift of Christmas you cannot even hold. There is a meaning in Christmas, far more important than Santa Claus, and if you can grasp the full meaning, you will have a gift that will last your lifetime, a gift far greater than Santa could ever bring.

By the time we arrived, he was completely hoarse from talking and singing with everyone. So Elizabeth reached in to my purse and pulled out a cough drop which she handed to him and very sweetly said, "Santa, I really need for you to take care of yourself because if you go to heaven.... WHO WILL DELIVER THE TOYS?"

(She has never been one to mince words.)

While his beard wasn't as natural looking as some of the professional mall Santas that I've seen over the years, his message was true and like everyone else who stood on their feet for 180+ minutes tonight, we walked out with a warm feeling. Everyone was kindly smiling and believing that yes, indeed.

He is the REAL Santa.

After he'd talked with the children, and told them in very general terms the gifts he'd be bringing them, he'd cut a string of souvenir ribbon, which he gave them with specific instructions. Henry was told to put a sweet potato on the kitchen table before he went to sleep. He instructed Carolyn to put her shoes outside of her bedroom door with a potato in them. He instructed William to put his Santa hat on the table with a potato inside of it. And he instructed Elizabeth to put an apple in her Santa hat. On Christmas morning, he said, they would find presents where ever they had left things, just as he'd instructed.

My mind was swirling. How was I supposed to remember all of this? But as we were exiting, Santa's helper slipped me a note and with a wink said, "Here's your homework."

Tonight, when we returned home, Carolyn told me that she wanted to put her potato in her father's shoes. Because they're MUCH bigger than her shoes.

What is important is people doing things for people.

A larger shoe isn't for her benefit. Of course, not! She just wants to help Santa out by making sure he has enough space to leave her present.

T-1 (18 hours)

2011-12-24T00:30:00.001-05:00

They're at it again....

T-2

2011-12-23T22:58:00.003-05:00

With less than two days to go before Christmas, there are no less than 20 things that we need to see, do and accomplish.

Maybe one day, I'll shrug away from the self-imposed pressure of participating in specific "Christmas-activities"... but we're making memories for our children. Good memories! (With only a minimal amount of, "CALGON. Take Me Away!" moments.)

In these last 48-hours, it's so fun baking gingerbread; and visiting Santa; and taking the children shopping for their siblings; and singing Christmas Carols; and attending holiday parties; and participating in a candle-lit service and albeit new to us this year, driving through the Festival of Lights at Bull Run Regional Park.

With all that there is to do, it's really no wonder I'm in my pajamas all day on Christmas.

T-3

2011-12-22T23:27:00.001-05:00

Our favorite Christmas song is Good King Wenceslas. Which isn't really a Christmas song. It's more of a "Day-After-Christmas" song, since it occurs on the Feast of Stephen which takes place December 26.

We've heard a lot of different versions of this song, but we're all in agreement that our favorite version is the one performed by The Skydiggers (which just so happens to be the version I'd used in the photo montage for The Hilarious Givers I created, last year.)

Initially, the kids liked the song because of the soulful guitar. But when I explained to them what the lyrics actually meant, their imaginations took flight and they reenacted a few of the scenes. Specifically, they set out to gather winter's fuel = pick up sticks from our front yard and then, pretend they were walking through the rude wind's wild lament and the bitter weather.

In my lifetime, I really hope to teach my children a lot of things. But nurturing in each of them a compassionate heart may be one of the most important things I do as a mother. So after the children had asked to hear this song for the 50th time in five days, we were struck with an idea.

In honor of the upcoming 100th anniversary of Girl Scouts (in 2012) and to help make this Christmas a little more bright for some local families, we conducted a scout-wide toy drive for the Marine Corps Toys for Tots. Our Daisy Girl Scout troop, set a goal of collecting 100 new, unwrapped toys or books. But soon after Charlie heard what we were up to, he recruited his Tiger Cub Scout den to do the same. This was our dining room table with the various toys our neighbors had generously donated throughout the week...

All of those toys, plus several bags more, were dropped off at a local fire house, which serves as an official Toys for Tots donation center.

The firemen gave the children a lesson on fire safety and I thought it was fantastic how he offered them an opportunity to really study his face before he added several layers of personal protective equipment.

The BIG takeaway is that instead of running the other way screaming, just remember: the scary looking guy in a mask is a fireman that very well might slide down the pole yelling like Tarzan. And the whole reason he is there is to help.

They let the kids check out all the firetrucks and ambulances and we marveled over the trousers and boots that were ready for the men (and women) to jump in to before they rushed off on an alarm. They said that having their clothes ready to pull on, can save several valuable seconds when they're in a rush and can mean the difference between life or death.

Seeing this "clothing station" gave me a whole new idea that I plan to implement after the winter break. It takes so long to get ready around here in the morning, it's a miracle if we can get out of the house before 8. To counteract the morning chaos, I'd been debating just putting the kids directly to bed in the clothes they were going to wear the following day.

But this approach may cut down on wrinkles - both on the children's clothing and my face.

T-4

2011-12-21T23:56:00.002-05:00

The Secret Santa Reveal Party...

Since Henry is the only four-year-old in the neighborhood, he went first to receive his third and final Secret Santa gift. Once he opened the present, he had to guess who, of all the neighborhood children, had been leaving presents on our doorstep for the past two weeks. But once Henry opened his gift - a bag full of dinosaurs - he lost all track of sense and reason. He couldn't guess who his Secret Santa was. All he could do was repeat, "Oh my goodness! OH MY GOODNESS!" Is this for me?!"

The kindergartners went next, followed by the first graders.

Followed by the second, third, fourth ... all the way to eighth graders.

The parents stood around chatting and commenting on all the joy that the children get to experience when they deliver presents as Secret Santa. Shockingly, three of the four families we had been assigned, accurately guessed it was us. It seems despite our best efforts at camouflage, people still saw our children as they were running out of the yard(s) as fast as their small legs would carry them.

This is our second Christmas living in the neighborhood and our second year participating in this event. From what I understand - the Secret Santa tradition extends for decades. It's such a fun activity and although I'd offered to host it at our home next year....

We'd need to find a couch that comfortably seats 25 children.

T-4

2011-12-21T08:30:00.004-05:00

The children brought their gingerbread houses home from school yesterday, on the bus, in plastic grocery bags.

But if those houses didn't look overly appealing when they'd made them at school, they looked even less so when they were on our kitchen table after a bumpy bus ride home, in a plastic grocery bag.

When I asked if I could just throw them out, the response was deafening. Despite the appearance of these houses, the children had it in their minds that the were going to consume them, entirely.

We've really been watching what we eat so in my opinion, if we're going to consume sugary treats - they're going to be a GOOD sugary treat that will taste as delightful as it looks. In my parental opinion, this does not come close to meeting the minimum criteria:

Then again, our children are growing older and the things that I could once just toss without their recognition, are now NOTICED. And questioned. And mourned. And I had a feeling that if the children woke up today and their gingerbread houses had mysteriously disappeared, there will be ~~whining~~ sadness at acoustic levels I cannot fathom.

So last tonight, when the children were tucked in to bed and sleeping soundly, the craziest thing happened. Santa was flying around the world finalizing his "list" and as he flew by our house, he caught sight of the children's gingerbread houses.

And well... it would appear Santa appreciated them a lot more than I did.

Instead of tears this morning, there were huge smiles and laughter.

It's the most amazing thing.

T-5

2011-12-20T23:32:00.001-05:00

The most fun experience of this Christmas season has been the children's school events.

It brings back memories of my own school experiences, as a child. The excitement surrounding the upcoming winter break and Christmas - was the best feeling ever.

(Happy Birthday, Baby Jesus!)

Henry had a preschool performance where along with his classmates, he stood up on a stage and bravely belted out the words to, "Away In A Manger." He also sang another song that I'd never heard before but based on the fact that he was holding an evergreen figurine, I think it had something to do with Christmas trees.

(A choir of four-year-olds aren't very easy to understand.)

A year ago at this time, I was grieving Henry's rapid dismissal from his first preschool. A year later, I am so thrilled at the progress he has made and the love and attention that he receives from his new preschool.

Last year, I was told that Henry won't sit still. Twelve-months later, he still has trouble sitting still. But instead of getting booted out of school, they've placed a sock full of pinto beans across his lap. And it works!

All of the teachers are so wonderful to him that on the days he doesn't attend school, he cries. He is eligible for full-day kindergarten next fall, but Charlie and I have opted to delay his start by a year and instead, enroll him in the 5-day per week (3-hour per day) program at his current preschool. He is developmentally on track, but he is a very young four-year-old. (Which in my opinion, makes him a very adorable four-year-old.) The consensus is that he recognizes he cannot keep up with his siblings, so he reverts to the baby. Ultimately, we think an extra year under the tutelage of his devoted teachers, will be so good for him.

As for the triplets, Charlie and I volunteered in their first grade class today to help them make gingerbread houses out of graham crackers. I'm not sure how we hit the lottery on both school fronts, but our first grade teacher is amazing. Amazing to the point that she's widely recognized as one of, if not the best teacher, in the entire elementary school.

As a point of reference, she e-mails me every week. We've had four parent teacher conferences, wherein we discuss the progress of all three children, and it's only December. When I met with her last month, she sent me home with several of her own private school supplies so I could continue working with the children at home. She makes it a point that we're in this together. Her success as a teacher, is only possible if we work together as a team. And this woman with more than 25 years of teaching experience under her belt is a phenomenal team player.

In addition to giving her an insulated coffee mug and Starbucks gift card, the children helped me knit her an Irish knit scarf for Christmas. (Help = kids, can you please grab me another skein so I don't have to get up off the cozy couch?)

I know a lot of people opt to split their multiples up, but I am so glad that our three are together. They've developed their own social circles and are fully independent of each other. But they also look out for each other - in ways that their teacher says is the sweetest thing she's ever seen.

Today, when Charlie and I were both able to volunteer in their classroom, we were reminded of why it's so nice that they're together. We had Henry with us, but that awesome first grade teacher welcomed him right in to the fold. She made room at one of the tables so our four-year-old could make a gingberbread house alongside the "big" kids. (As I snapped off this picture, Elizabeth was saying, "I love it here and want to stay in 1st grade FOREVAH." I can't blame her.)

The teacher then invited Henry to sit with everyone during story time.

Which only lasted until his sister pulled him on to her lap and hugged him tightly. It's so nice to see how much she cares for him, in public.

When they're home, she'll hold him alright .... in a nelson.

T-6

2011-12-19T22:47:00.002-05:00

This is our Christmas tree.

Beneath the Christmas tree there is a small gift and card.

The gift and card are for me, from Elizabeth.

She wrote,

"To Mom, I like you I mad you a pasit {present} I like you, Elizabeth."

We've had the discussion before that I love my children ALL the time, but sometimes I don't like their behavior. So when I read this card, I immediately understood her intent and I'm sincerely touched. She loves me. But she also likes me. May it always be so.

Everything about her present is hand-made, except the ribbon - which she found in her hair accessories box and carefully tied to the package.

The package that she cried over, last week, when she saw that her little brother had tried to rip it open. Henry doesn't know how to read yet, so he didn't recognize the card had my name on it. Then again, even if he could read, why should that stop him from opening the present? When you are a small child, presents are meant to be opened - regardless of whether you are the intended recipient. Or not.

Regrettably, Elizabeth was beside herself and had tears streaming down her face as she asked me for tape. It was very important that she repair the box so I wouldn't know what's inside.

It's a surprise, Mom. For Christmas!

She made the box out of cardboard and drew pictures on all four sides. On the top, she created a picture of our dining room table and chairs.

On the sides she has colored festive holiday scenes including a Christmas tree and present...

Stocking and snowman...

Jingle bell and piping hot cup of chocolate...

And a candy cane and mitten.

Spoiler Alert: I know what's in the box.

And not because I peeked, but because my two other first graders gave me a similar present that they immediately unwrapped and showed to me. They had created colorful pinch pots in their art class. Last year, I had volunteered in art the day that they were glazing their kindergarten pinch pots. Last year, none of our three children could wait until Christmas to give me their present. They stepped off the bus and proudly handed me their boxes before running off to play.

This year, two of our children immediately showed me their first grade version of the pinch pot. We compared them side-by-side to the kindergarten version and it is obvious these are the creations of older children. The pots are larger and more refined.

More first grade and less kindergarten.

Although Carolyn and William had no intention of putting their gifts under the tree, Elizabeth had her mind made up. But less than 24 hours later, she'd decided that she'd waited long enough to surprise me. So we sat down together and very carefully opened her gift.

Now, I've received a lot of gifts over the years.

I've received the most awesome pair of downhill snow skis (that my parents had cleverly hidden under my own bed - because who would think to look THERE?); I've received jewelry, pricey electronic gadgetry, underwear and dishtowels galore. But those gifts cannot hold a candle to this little pinch pot, lovingly created by my first grade daughter and carefully placed beneath our Christmas tree. It is the most meaningful and treasured gift I've ever received.

Fortunately for me, I'll get to enjoy it again on Christmas morning because soon after we opened the present, Elizabeth re-wrapped it and put it back under the tree. Her sweet gesture warms my heart. At seven-years-old, my little girl has a firm grasp on the joy of giving.

Parenthood. It just keeps getting better and better.

T-7

2011-12-18T23:50:00.003-05:00

We have a week left until Christmas and I still haven't begun my Christmas shopping. This year, for the first time in many years - I'll be doing the majority of my shopping the good old fashioned way... going in to the stores. While I recognize this might take more effort on my part, that's the price to pay when you don't want to pay for expedited shipping.

I'm hoping to kick things off, Tuesday, and am really looking forward to it.

(Charlie and I have dates planned through out the week while children are in school!)

(Dates!! Romance!!)

For the past three days, in an attempt to heal thyself from the inside out, I've been fasting and my diet has consisted of 100% freshly squeezed juice. Today, I drank approximately eight pounds worth of carrots and two pounds worth of beets and fully expect I'll have a reddish-orangish hue, tomorrow. I also called my pharmacist sister, Beth, in a panic because my current symptoms are eerily familiar to what I had this past June.

Immune system? Immune system?! Wakey-wakey!

Beth told me the biggest gun antibiotics we can throw at this, so tomorrow, I plan to call my doctor and beg (demand? threaten?) that they please call in a script for Cipro or Levaquin before I'm driving myself to the Urgent Care Center at 3:30 AM. Again.

There is no way I could miss any of the dates with my husband.

***************

In our 17 years of marriage, there are certain highlights that arrive via mail each and every Christmas season. Those highlights include:

A package of home baked goodies from Steve and Kathy. Nonna's (Kathy's mom) biscotti is the best we've ever tasted and it makes our hearts very happy.

A package of Harry & David pears from Jeff and Susan. However it is that H&D precisely time the arrival of those pears so they are ripe the very next day, is delicious magic and you've never seen children eat fruit so fast.

An abundance of wonderful cards from friends and family. The annual greeting sent by Aunt Nancy and Uncle Chick always features a beautiful hand-sketched creation by Chick, with a narrative on happenings over the year, by one of the animals from their farm.

Although Charlie and I have, with the exception of last year, always sent out our annual greetings in December, this will be the second year in a row that we'll miss our self-imposed deadline of distribution the week before Christmas.

Family and friends, please keep your eyes peeled for another Valentine's Day greeting (or maybe we'll move the date forward by honoring Martin Luther King Jr.) Considering we only have six shopping days left, our top priority is ensuring Santa's sleigh is stocked and ready. That priority is in tandem with my priority to get well because I'd really prefer to not hang my stocking on an IV pole.

As for the children, they're doing fantastic and are considerably better than they were just a few days ago. They are young and resilient and incredibly cute....

As evidenced by Henry enthusiastically reading Louie, "How the Grinch Stole Christmas."

T-8

2011-12-17T23:51:00.001-05:00

For the past few years, ever since our children have been old enough to carry on a conversation, we've received a phone call from Santa - who obtained our telephone number through my sister's husband, Michael.

Tonight, Santa called just as the children were returning from their second Secret Santa drop-off. And his timing couldn't have been better because the children's confidence in Santa's existence has been very shaken since last week, when one of the boys on our children's school bus told them that Santa isn't real.

According to witnesses, William immediately jumped to Santa's defense by saying, "HE IS TOO REAL!" so the boy turned to his mother - THE ELEMENTARY SCHOOL BUS DRIVER - and asked, "Mom, is Santa real?" and his mother - THE ELEMENTARY SCHOOL BUS DRIVER - responded before an entire school bus of elementary-aged children, "No, Santa isn't real."

Well, you might imagine the tailspin that caused for my children and 95% of the faithful Santa believing children on the bus. When I was tucking William in to bed later that night, he was totally perplexed. "How can Santa NOT be real?" he asked, over and over again. "I mean, how do you explain the FULL stockings on Christmas morning if not for Santa?"

"Who eats the cookies and drinks the milk?"

For over a week now, the wheels have been spinning in our seven-year-olds minds. They are suddenly questioning EVERYTHING. "How, exactly, does Santa come down the chimney and how, exactly, do reindeer fly?" Countless times this week, I've been asked ~ point blank ~ by our children if Santa is real. And without hesitation, each and every time I respond, "Santa absolutely IS real. The Spirit of Saint Nicholas is as real as love."

When the phone rang this evening, William answered it and his eyes nearly popped out of his head when he heard the "Ho, Ho, Ho ... this is Santa Claus!" on the other end of the line.

We quickly put Santa on speakerphone and everyone gathered around.

He then spoke with each of the children, separately.

He knew that everyone has been sick and that Elizabeth had pneumonia.

"HE KNEW THINGS, MOM! How does he know those things?"

"He sees you when you're sleeping. He knows when you're awake. He reads Mommy's blog so be good for goodness sake!"

As soon as he passed the phone to his sisters, William sat down and drafted his third letter to Santa. I thought he was going to write, "Santa, do you know what I want?" again as a reflex, but his focus shifted to an expression of love for Father Christmas. If the words, "I'm sorry I ever doubted your existence" were in my young son's vocabulary, they would have been included.

Christmas isn't just about Santa. Our children know that.

But there is a magic in believing.

A magic that I intend to preserve for as long as possible.

T-9

2011-12-16T23:48:00.001-05:00

Tonight, Charlie took William and Carolyn (along with his Den of Cub Scouters) to see a basketball game at a local high school, while I remained home with a recovering Elizabeth and Henry.

The game was scheduled to begin at 5:45, but Charlie was due to arrive at the school at 5:30 for early seating and so the kids could meet all the players. The school is approximately 15 minutes from our house. He stuck a pizza in the oven for the kids at 4:45. When I came home (from a doctor's appointment) at 5:05, the timer for the pizza had just gone off. I opened the oven door and noticed that the pizza needed five more minutes. So I reset the timer ... but Charlie decided that he'd speed up the process and just turn the heat to broil.

A split second later, we heard crying from the hallway. We dash out to see William laying on the floor with blood on his chin. He had been attempting to "ice skate" on our hardwood floors in his socks. His attempt was unsuccessful. I scoop him up and he has a 1/4-inch gaping wound. The kind of wound that might require a trip to the ER to have 2-3 stitches, if it wasn't Friday night and he didn't have somewhere to be in 23 minutes.

Also ... I have medical adhesive and butterfly bandages ... and since my mother is a nurse, my father and two sisters are pharmacists ... my great-grandfather was a Harvard-educated doctor there is enough medical-know-how in my genetic makeup that surely I can mend my son's chin.

This is probably exactly what they'd do at the hospital after we waited for four hours, anyway.

So as I'm retrieving the First Aid supplies while Charlie is consoling our eldest son, Carolyn mentions that she smells something burning. It seems four minutes on broil were approximately three and a half minutes too long and smoke BILLOWED out of the oven when Charlie opened the door. Our kitchen smoke detector went off, followed by our dining room, living room and hallway.

Charlie is running through the house, pulling smoke detectors off the ceiling and flinging open all the windows. As he hastily moves from one room to the next, he steps on the puppy, who someone had let out of his kennel. The puppy runs in to the kitchen and pees on the floor as Henry starts screaming that water is coming OUT of the toilet. As in, overflowing the rim. All because our children are capable of producing such mass that that they clog the toilet.

Frequently.

From William's injury to the scorched pizza to the puppy incident to the toilet overflowing, less than three minutes had lapsed. And the only reason I'm jotting this story down, is to memorialize the crazy that often reigns in our house.

Charlie and the kids gobble down burnt pizza and fresh fruit before shoving off to the basketball game, while Elizabeth, Henry and I stayed in our warm house and crafted gingerbread men.

The children made these last year and they were so adorable, I wanted to try and re-create them. If we make this an annual tradition, we'll soon have enough to make a gingerbread man garland that we can string across doorways.

To make them, just take brown butcher paper and trace the image of a gingerbread man. Cut out the image and using it as a template, cut out the second gingerbread man. Use markers, paint, glue, glitter and pom-poms to decorate.

Staple the two images together, while adding crumpled tissue paper (last year we used crushed paper towels) between the two pieces in order to give the gingerbread man a more "full" look.

I love (love! love! love! love!) children's art.

T-10

2011-12-15T23:07:00.003-05:00

We went back to the doctor today and our sweet Elizabeth was diagnosed with pneumonia. The doctor has bumped up her medication and is also requiring nebulizer treatments, every four hours. Fortunately, we already own a nebulizer because of my pneumonia bout earlier in the year. There's no question, our 16-months in Virginia have been challenging, from a health perspective. At this moment, Charlie's only talked about returning to what he calls, "Pneumonia-Free California" 25 times today. I thought for sure there would have been a FOR SALE sign up in the yard.

The current tally is four cases of bronchitis, three cases of sinusitis, two ear infections, one case of pneumonia and a Partridge in a Pear Tree. As such, this is what I'll be administering for the next week and a half to the children...

(Oops. I think we cleared the pharmacy out of amoxicillin.)

I'll be out of work for the rest of the year and my laser-beam focus is on restoring this family to good health. Today, in between running back and forth to follow-up doctor appointments and the pharmacy, and dragging my juicer out of storage, I stopped by Starbucks to pick up Christmas presents for all the children's teachers. I'd wanted to do something more personal and crafty, but in the end, convenience won out. And who doesn't love Starbucks?

We settled on these cool mugs and a gift card to fill the mugs up...

Here's Henry giving his present to his beloved preschool teacher. She is kind and patient and artsy and pretty ... and she even smells nice. She is everything a preschool teacher should be and more. Henry didn't go to school today, but when he heard that I was dropping past, he insisted on coming along. I snapped the photo just as he was launching in to one of his coughing fits.

Please note how he is coughing in to his elbow.

We're nothing if not conscientious.

T-11

2011-12-14T23:30:00.001-05:00

Our family has been gripped with sickness. Within the past week, for the first time in our family's history, all of us have had visits to the doctor and all of us are on antibiotics.

Alas, the Christmas Spirit is strong ... even in the sick bay!

Despite the crazed hand-washing and Purelling and Lysoling and vitamin-taking and humidifying, with three first graders and one preschooler, we reside in a petri dish of germs. We've been battling one thing after another since before Halloween, but it has exploded in the month of December. The sore throats and the headaches and the stuffy noses and the coughing.

All I want for Christmas is for Santa to take away the phlegm.

Every time I catch a cold (e.g., bronchitis, sinusitis, complainalotitis), I'm convinced it's the worst one I've ever had. But maybe they really are getting worse? Are viruses stronger now than they were 30 years ago? And if so, will they continue to strengthen with time? Will my grandchildren pick up a cold and be incapacitated for six-months?

Louie is the only one in our family who isn't sick. Although he can't whip up a batch of Jell-O, we're trying to teach him how to fetch us boxes of Kleenex. He's shown in the picture, below, wearing a Santa hat like a blanket. One of the kids stuck this on him, and he quickly collapsed in to a two-hour nap.

To his left and right are little black stuffed animal dogs that the children have donated to him. These are his favorite toys (along with our socks, hats, gloves, mittens, little fingers or anything for that matter that he can get his teeth on in the two seconds we're not looking at him), probably because they remind him of his litter mates. Although he's nearly doubled his size in the past three weeks, sometimes when I look in his crate, I can't immediately tell which one is him. And sometimes, I'm just in sheer disbelief.

DID WE REALLY ADOPT A TINY PUPPY?

FOR KEEPS?!

Oy.

T-12

2011-12-13T21:37:00.004-05:00

Charlie came home tonight with one of our favorite holiday treats.

And thus, the Christmas season really began.

Ho? Ho? Ho?

NO!

Joe! Joe! Joe!

Okay.

That picture isn't entirely accurate...

However!

Two of the boxes are earmarked for the Christmas party at Henry's preschool.

Of course Charlie didn't buy three boxes of Joe-Joe's for our family. My husband and I are highly concerned with good nutrition for ourselves and our children.

As evidenced by my young son who is eating an organic apple the size of a softball.

T-13

2011-12-12T22:40:00.003-05:00

Before I dive in to this post, I need to give a quick overview of our neighborhood Secret Santa Process....

1) All of the children who live in the neighborhood who would like to participate are eligible. The participating family of the child needs to provide the child's name, likes and any food allergies to the Secret Santa Coordinator.

2) The Secret Santa Coordinator randomly assigns each child to a Secret Santa. The assignments are dropped off by the second week of December.

3) The Secret Santa is responsible for buying (or making) two smaller gifts and one large gift. The total cost of the gifts should not exceed $20.00.

4) Over the course of ~10 days, the Secret Santa shall drop off the two smaller gifts, on two different days, preferably at night. Those gifts should ideally be deposited directly before the door and the doorbell shall be rung. The Secret Santa must then HUSTLE as fast as they can in to the darkness before their identity is revealed.

5) The third larger gift is to be given at a "reveal" party, typically held on the last day of school before the school vacation.

Our Secret Santa assignments were delivered this past Thursday. By Friday, someone had dropped off the first gift for Henry. William's present was delivered on Saturday and Elizabeth's present was delivered on Sunday.

Carolyn was so upset that everyone's present has been delivered except for hers. She was crying tears of grief when I pulled her aside and said, "Listen, last year when everyone else was receiving fun presents, Elizabeth's Secret Santa dropped off her first gift (in our mailbox) two days before the reveal party. The second gift was dropped off (also in our mailbox) one day before the reveal party. And then, at the reveal party - Elizabeth received a toy that broke before we even walked out the door."

Carolyn wiped away tears and said, "That's SO sad!" But then she shook her head and said, "No! Don't you remember? Elizabeth received that little pink race car and SHE LOVED IT!!!"

''Yes,'' I admitted. ''But that was because after three of our four children had received two presents and Elizabeth had received none, Daddy and I were feeling badly that Elizabeth's Secret Santa was not participating, so Daddy sneaked away from dinner one night, left that present which I'd bought earlier in the day, rang the doorbell, and ran back before Elizabeth even noticed that he'd been gone."

(Edited to add: if you partake in a similar Secret Santa exchange, it's helpful to have a gift or two laying in wait just in case your Secret Santa defers their deliveries until the end of the event. This is particularly necessary if you have other children who are receiving presents on time and one child that feels completely left out. While the real joy in this event is the secrecy of giving, at this age - our children really enjoy the receiving part, too.)

For their first drop tonight, the kids dressed from head-to-toe in black. While I stayed home with Henry who was feeling ill, Charlie drove the kids around the neighborhood. He said it was absolutely hilarious because they acted like a bunch of little Marines. For each of the four houses that they delivered to, the kids would jump out of the car - zig zag run up to the house - ring the doorbell and then dive under bushes and belly crawl their way back to the car.

They're totally in to it.

As of tonight, they're referring to themselves as "Alpha Team, GO, GO, GO!"

T-14

2011-12-11T22:41:00.002-05:00

Last year, when the children were in Kindergarten, William made his very first best friend.

Or rather, his very first real best friend. They met on the first day of school and immediately connected when they discovered that they both had an obsession for dinosaurs. William talked about his new friend incessantly. Over breakfast, he'd have a story to share ... as soon as he'd get off the bus, he'd have another. Over dinner, during bath time, when I'd tuck him in to bed.

All he talked about was his best friend.

It took a few months before we were able to connect the boys for a play date. Once we did, we learned from his mother that his family would be moving to New Jersey in early January. It was a very sad moment for all of us. But over the past 11 months, William and his friend have written letters to each other and talked on the phone. They've communicated via Skype, and today, they reconnected in Washington, DC.

Because I've been battling a virus for the past couple of weeks and was feeling totally depleted after our full-day jaunt yesterday, and just thinking about all the things that I have (need?) to accomplish between now and the end of the year puts me in coma, Charlie took William and Carolyn in to DC.

They visited the boys' mecca: the "dinosaur museum" (aka: Natural History Museum), and then dropped by the National Christmas Tree which Charlie said was the saddest looking tree he'd ever seen (is it trapped in a net?!) ...

... to hear the (older) Girl Scouts sing Christmas carols.

Meanwhile, I stayed home with Henry and Elizabeth and recharged my batteries. We cleaned the bathrooms, dusted, vacuumed, made dinner, wrapped a few presents and worked with Louie on his fetching skills. Then, we painted our toenails and took a nap.

Recharge, approximately 50% complete.

The other 50% will require a two-week vacation.

Which thankfully, begins next week.

T-15

2011-12-10T21:25:00.001-05:00

This morning, by the Grace of God and vast amounts of coffee, we were able to get ourselves and our four children up - dressed - and out of the house by 7 AM.

The purpose of our early morning departure was to drive to Arlington National Cemetery where, aside the Boy Scouts and several thousand volunteers....

We would lay 85,000 wreaths on the graves of men and women who have served in the Armed Forces for the United States of America.

It is almost beyond comprehension to take in the tidy rows of marble headstones, for almost as far as the eye can see. When we paused and read the dates, so many died so young. And despite when they died, last year or several decades ago, my heart broke for their mothers and those that they left behind.

We wandered up and down rows, taking a moment to say a prayer of thanks before laying our wreaths. When we had one wreath left, we made our way over to an area where only a few wreaths had been laid. As we were laying our last wreath on the grave of a man who died in his early 20's, a man walked up and asked, "Is this your family?"

"No, it's not," I told him. He stood silent for a moment and then pointed to a hill and said, "My father's marker is over there." He went on to tell us that this area where we were standing was for those soldiers whose bodies had never been recovered.

His dad had disappeared in 1961, near Vietnam. He was a pilot and his plane crashed in to the ocean. His co-pilot's marker was right next to his father's. When his dad died, he left behind a young wife and two sons. He was two-years-old at the time. His brother was three.

Three days after his father's plane went down, they found his navigator floating in the ocean. He was still alive. Earlier this year, fifty years after his dad perished, he and his brother flew to California to meet the navigator. He was in his seventies and was preparing to move away in less than two weeks. It was an emotional miracle that they had been able to find him - exactly when they did. Two weeks later, his number would have been disconnected.

Our children stood listening to this story, a story which Charlie and I both believe the man really needed to tell. And a story which Charlie and I both really needed to hear that would allow us to make a personal connection with a solider's sacrifice. As the man wished us a Merry Christmas and walked back towards his car, I surveyed the cemetery and felt a sense of loss, gratitude and patriotism. Although our children didn't fully grasp the sacrifice that this man's father had made for his country ... one day they will. And if they don't understand the personal stories for each soldier, they may find commonalities with these strangers which I believe, will endear them.

Participating in events such as this will ensure that they are immersed in remembering and giving thanks.

As parents, it is our job to lead them by the hand ... but also by the heart.

T-16

2011-12-09T20:46:00.003-05:00

When I was ten-years-old, my mother and I went out to a restaurant for dinner and I remember the horror I felt when I realized that I had forgotten Frosty was on television that very same night and I was missing it. When I was a child, Costco didn't exist and you couldn't just swing by the store and pick up an assorted pack of Christmas movies on Blu-Ray.

You miss that one annual airing and you're out of luck.

To prevent that feeling of utter despair, as an adult, I own almost every Christmas movie imaginable, and yet whenever I catch one on television, I almost always have to watch. There's something magical about seeing a Christmas movie on TV.

Especially the cartoons.

For example, when Rudolph, Yukon Cornelius and Hermey are face to face with the Abominable Snow Monster and the scene cuts to a commercial ... you're on pins and needles wondering if they'll escape. Just how fast can you run down the hall, use the restroom, and get back to see what happens to Clarice?!

Even though she makes it out alive, year after year - it is heart pounding excitement!

Tonight, Charlie and I are pouring ourselves some eggnog and cuddling up with another of our favorite Christmas movies.

Last week, I discovered that my Girl-Scout co-leader also considers this to be one of her absolute favorite movies of all time. Which means our relationship has ascended to a whole new level and we now sign off all of our e-mails with a different NLCV quote. Here's an excerpt from our e-mail string this week:

I'll pick up the glitter and be at your house by 5:15.

"Save the neck for me!"

Sounds great. Could you also grab some glue sticks?

"If I woke up tomorrow with my head sewn to the carpet, I wouldn't be more surprised than I am right now."

OK. By the way, what day are we going to the Fire Station?

"Did you bring a saw?"

Let's plan for Wednesday the 21st.

"What's that sound? You hear it? It's a funny squeaky sound."

You'd have to see the movie to understand those lines. But you'd probably have to watch it 20 times or more to think it's as deliriously funny as we think it is.

SQUIRREL!

T-17

2011-12-08T23:40:00.002-05:00

One of my favorite Christmas books is "The Gift of the Magi."

(And not just because it is written by O.Henry.)

(Which makes me think of O'Henry's.)

(And you know how I love O'Henry's.)

(And Henry.)

I truly appreciate the story of Delia and Jim, a young married couple who are so in love, that they sold their most prized possessions to buy a Christmas present for each other. But once they unwrapped their gifts, they were both wrought with despair when they realized that because of what they had sacrificed, they would not be able to use the gifts which had been carefully chosen for them. Their story is a tribute to unselfish love.

As the children were enthralled looking at all of the beautiful illustrations, I remembered that Charlie had inherited a pocket watch, much like the pocket watch that Jim had owned in the story. So I brought it out for the children to examine.

From what I understand, this watch belonged to Charlie's great Uncle, Henry Charles, and it had been passed to Charlie's father - who has since, passed it on to his son. This watch, which I estimate to be at least 80 years old, still has a beautiful tick and keeps perfect time.

It even has a clasp.

Six years ago, today, my dear friend Julie Maggi left us. The similarity of my friend's name to that of the Magi, the wise men, is not lost on me. I think of my sweet friend often and I think of the abbreviated time that she had on earth and yet, the wonderful, loving gifts that she brought to those who knew her.

Tonight, I shuffled children in to bed after yet another long day. As I was tucking William in with Forest, I was thinking of all the things I needed to accomplish before I turned in for the night. In that moment, I was feeling hurried and borderline impatient because I wanted to get on with what I needed to do. But I caught sight of the pocket watch sitting on my boys' dresser and as I picked it up, I could hear the seconds ticking past. Instead of it alarming me to the fact that I still had a litany of activities to complete before my own bedtime, I thought of the time that is ticking past (so fast!) in my (and my children's) life.

Time I'll never get back.

This alarmed me in a whole different way.

So with that perspective, I flushed my now insignificant to-do list from my mind and sat down on the edge of my son's bed and smiled as he told me stories. I scratched his back and rubbed his blond hair and savored that awesomely perfect moment. And then I did the same with his brother. And sisters. And father.

This Christmas season … and every day for that matter … I need to do a better job remaining cognizant of the time that we have available to us. Time really is the best gift that we have ever received.

And the best gift that we have to give.

T-18

2011-12-07T23:14:00.001-05:00

The children sat down and wrote letters to Santa, today.

William wrote:

Deer Santa:

I want a Harry Pottr costume and a Capaain America costume and sam toy. Any cind of toy. Love, William.

Translation:

Dear Santa, (or maybe it really was deer, as in reindeer?)

I want a Harry Potter costume and a Captain America costume and some toys. Any kind of toys. Love, William

Some toys. Any kind of toys. I love that. He has a very open mind as to what those toys might be. But he is very prescriptive on the types of costumes that he'd like to receive. Thank goodness for the internet! In years past, I'm not sure where Santa would find a Harry Potter and/or Captain America costume in December.

Elizabeth with the (initial) help of her father wrote,

Dear Santa,

I have been a good girl this year and I would have I wit a dohas wif brbeze di wotd pises cis i ned i wot qises texe piwo ta hug. Love, Elizabeth

Translation:

Dear Santa,

I have been a good girl this year and I would like to have a doll house with Barbies and the little pieces. I also want a dressmaker and I want to give you a hug. Love, Elizabeth

When she read this to me my initial thought of, "How sweet!" conflicted with my secondary thought of, "OH NO. The Barbie house with the LITTLE PIECES?! Please! Not the LITTLE PIECES!" My vacuum loves little pieces! Yummy, yum, yum!

It's worthy to note: Elizabeth is very artistic and has been asking me for a dressmaker (bodice? mannequin?) for several months. She is clearly more interested in the needle and thread than her mother, who just last night was busted trying to staple Girl Scout patches to her daughter's uniforms. That Charlie. Just because he is so prolific with Badge Magic he thinks everyone should be. What a Boy Scout.

Carolyn wrote,

Dear Santa,

I hop you hab a grat fol. I want a frey fauz and a tokin bune thos foh wut I want for Chrisstmas. Love, Grace

Translation:

Dear Santa,

I hope you had a great fall. I want funny friends and a talking bunny. That's what I want for Christmas. Love, Grace

My daughter is so thoughtful to wish that Santa had a great fall. As for her letter, I want funny friends, too. Assuming they are actual funny friends, as in people, and not stuffed animals because we have over a million in our house and don't need any more. With the stuffed animal overpopulation issue, we could definitely skip the talking bunny, which I assume is also a stuffed animal. That talks. As it is, my children talk so much - they never stop talking, not even in their sleep. Now, we've added to the mix an adorable yapping and spontaneously leaking puppy.

So here's my letter to Santa.

Dear Santa,

Please bring me some ear plugs. Also, I'd appreciate some new covers for my steam mop that I'm using ALL THE TIME to clean up puppy spills. It might be helpful if you could bring us some little tiny puppy boots and a tiny puppy coat because Louie doesn't like the cold so he holds his pee-pee and poo-poo until he is inside the house. On his warm cozy bed. Santa, it's not even winter yet and our new dog doesn't like to go outside. I'm very concerned for what the next 16 weeks might be like. If you have any tranquilizers laying around, please throw those in the bag. Alternatively, an abundance of wine and chocolate will suffice. Love, Jenny

Sorry. This post is to document our children's letters to Santa, not my crazy rantings.

Tonight before bed, William drafted another letter.

Dear Santa,

Do you know what I want for Christmas? I want a Harry Potter costume and sum toys. Love, William!

Translation:

Santa? DO YOU KNOW WHAT I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS?

Listen up …. I've told you TWICE.

T-19

2011-12-06T20:40:00.001-05:00

Many years ago, my grandmother claims that she saw a person who was collecting Christmas donations for the Salvation Army, open the red bucket and place the contents directly in to their wallet.

Well, you might imagine the impact this had on my family!

Stealing donations which had been provided for the needy is as sinful as skimming money off the collection basket in church!

My grandmother's observation had a real impact on her daughter. Over the years, every single time we've walked together past a Salvation Army Christmastime donation stand, my mother will whisper, "Did you know that Nana saw someone open the red bucket and put the donations directly IN their wallet?!"

Now, I prefer to give the Salvation Army the benefit of the doubt and expect that this organization has very robust control measures in place to ensure that any donations which are provided by the public are in fact routed to a cause other than buying a six pack of beer and cigs for the guy ringing the bell. Based upon my expectation, the distrust of the Salvation Army's Christmas donation drive does not extend beyond two generations in my family. Because while my mother will clutch her purse a little tighter, I'll dig in to my pockets for whatever spare change I have available. And for the past few days, whenever we go to the grocery store, the great-grandchildren of Nana Coleman will dig in to their piggy banks for money that they can also donate.

It's a really good thing the Tooth Fairy paid off her IOU's to Carolyn last week or we'd be in trouble.

T-20

2011-12-05T21:53:00.003-05:00

The first year Charlie and I were married, we bought a Lionel electric train for Christmas.

I love electric trains, especially the kind with a light on the front of a smoking locomotive, and believe they are the perfect addition to the base of a Christmas tree. Every year, we'll take our train out of the storage boxes and set it up on the tracks. And every year, after a very short period of time lapses, we recognize that our children (named Henry) are still too young to have this kind of "toy" within their reach. But much like we can now have glass ornaments on our tree, soon enough, I know we'll also be able to leave our train out for more than 10 minutes.

If I remember correctly, last year it was only five.

T-21

2011-12-04T22:42:00.002-05:00

The tree that we bought yesterday, was decorated this morning.

The children were awake before sunrise asking, "Is it time? Can we decorate it now?" And I groggily responded, "No ... not yet. The tree is still sleeping. It is very, very tired...."

For as long as they've been able, we've recruited the children's help decorating our tree. And there has been a distinct improvement in their ability. We've evolved from the tree being placed on a table, completely out of their reach for fear that they'd knock it down and eat it, to buying an abundance of small, unbreakable ornaments...

... that the children would painstakingly hang on one branch (circa 2008).

This year, the children were taking turns to climb up a step stool to carefully place each of their ornaments.

Including, for the first time in their existence, some of the fragile glass ornaments Charlie and I acquired in our pre-children years.

What with learning to read and losing teeth, it's obvious our children are growing older everyday. But today, when I could see how carefully they placed the ornaments and spaced each one so expertly - it struck me just how fast they really are growing up.

Which makes these fleeting moments all the more precious.

(There are GLASS ORNAMENTS on our tree. GLASS!!!)

T-22

2011-12-03T23:46:00.000-05:00

Few things signal Christmastime to me like the sight of tree lots at night. The white lights and teenage kids in Santa hats, helping people pick out just the right conifer for their holiday celebration. Simply looking at the photo of a tree lot at night, I can imagine the cool air, soft smell of pine and the good naturedness and cheer of everyone, mingling about...

In years past, we'd always shopped for our Christmas tree at night. I thought it was incredibly romantic to bundle up warmly and pick out our tree in the evening. The Spirit of Christmas would overtake us when we'd return home to sip egg nog and listen to Christmas music while stringing up lights. But after our tree shopping experience last year, we decided to go tree shopping earlier in the day. Like immediately after breakfast.

It's not quite as romantic ... but shopping with children for a tree at night poses a few challenges. At this latitude, it's typically dark at 5 PM and last year, the children were playing hide and seek beneath stacked trees. I was worried that we were going to lose someone in the dark. Or, be responsible for an entire row of 10-12 foot trees falling down, domino style.

The other drawback of shopping at night is you can't really see the tree very well. One year, we bought our tree and returned home only to discover that it was devoid of needles on one side. When it's daylight, you're more likely to see the tree and your children's excited faces and know precisely what they're up to. And you're more likely to STOP them before they obliviously wander in to the chainsaw area where teens in Santa hats are giving stems a "fresh-cut."

Because the word "easy" is absent from our vocabulary, we took our puppy tree shopping today. He promptly scurried under the row of 7-8 footers and left a little deposit. After briefly contemplating, "Um, fertilizer?" I scurried in to cleanup. We were on church property after all. And my conscience is great.

O Tannebaum, O Tannebaum.

These are the memories I'll sincerely treasure, forever.

T-23

2011-12-02T19:57:00.003-05:00

The children are bubbling over with excitement for Christmas. They have been walking around singing on what seems like a continuous loop, "You better watch out, you better not pout, you better not cry I'm telling you why ... SANTA CLAUSE IS COMING TO TOWN!"

Suffice it to say, they're a lot more excited about St. Nick now than they were then.

T-24

2011-12-01T21:51:00.004-05:00

Tonight, the children began the countdown to Santa.

We continued our annual tradition of opening a Christmas book each night ...

And reading a story from our Advent Storybook.

Charlie and I really should begin pulling together our Christmas lists and start shopping, but eh. We've got a whole 23 days before we need to do that.

tooth fairy loans

2011-11-30T23:00:00.005-05:00

Up until yesterday, our children had collectively lost a total of five teeth.

Because Carolyn teetered on the brink of hysteria anytime we'd even look at one of her loose teeth, we weren't allowed to touch them or smirk at them or say anything remotely related to tooth extraction without her screaming.

SCREAMING.

So in the course of sleeping or eating, she has swallowed all three of the teeth that she had thus far lost. Within the last month, through Elizabeth's lost tooth and the one that I inadvertently knocked out of Henry's mouth, we've had our first two teeth for the tooth fairy pillow. Just yesterday, within the span of eight hours, from last night until early this morning, we've now lost two and a half additional teeth, taking our grand total of lost teeth to seven and a half.

Yesterday afternoon, William was playing lacrosse with our neighbors and was hit in the face with the lacrosse stick by his sister, Elizabeth, effectively chipping his lower tooth. Shortly thereafter, Carolyn who has had two teeth jutting out of her mouth at various angles, that were continually shifting, finally disengaged. I'd been suggesting that she just YANK her teeth out of her mouth because HOW CAN SHE STAND IT? It was sticking in to her lip and then in to her tongue, and ack!!

She finally consented that she'd try to pull it out by herself. So we wrapped a small paper towel around her tooth and she stood, staring in the mirror, and debating whether this is something she could do for the next hour.

And then ...

Oh!

It was out!!!

She was so excited ... IT WAS OUT!

That distracting obstruction that had been in her mouth was finally out. And the excitement was so great because although she'd lost three prior teeth, she was in possession of her very first lost tooth. She eagerly tucked it in to the tooth fairy pillow before climbing in to bed.

Before we turned in for the night, Charlie and I remembered that we needed to exchange her tooth for money, but because neither of us had anything smaller than a $10.00, which seemed too high, we turned to Plan B which consisted of putting change in her pillow. We both agreed that was no good.

So we turned to Plan C which consisted of us running off to the grocery store and getting cash back at 10PM. We both agreed that was also no good.

So we turned to Plan D which consisted of us removing the plug from her piggy bank and taking out a few dollars. My husband thought that was a TERRIBLE idea. But the thought of change in the pillow or running out at 10 PM or the tooth fairy not coming at all was even more terrible. So Charlie unplugged her pink piggy bank and "borrowed" two dollars.

Well, the premeditated act of losing a tooth was such an awesome experience, that our daughter was up this morning at 5 AM (largely due to our little puppy that was wide awake!! and yapping!! and ready!! to play!!) begging her father to help her take out her front tooth.

Which he did. And the child that was terrified of losing a tooth is now a tooth pull junkie. She is furiously wiggling other teeth in her mouth, anxious for the next one to fall out so she can get more green money.

Tonight, we had to once again confiscate money from her piggy bank. We fully recognize that we'll need to (eventually) replace the money that we've been borrowing because on the day that she opens that piggy bank and realizes that she only has TWO DOLLARS for all the teeth that she's lost, she's totally going to be on to us.

tomorrow, I'm wearing pants

2011-11-28T22:42:00.001-05:00

Last weekend, my mother took Henry for some one-on-one time, and Charlie and I took the triplets ice skating.

Now once upon a time, a long time ago, when I was five-years-old, the Winter Olympics were on television. And like every other five to ninety-five year old girl alive, Dorothy Hamill was my idol. Almost immediately, my hair was shaped in to a Hamill cut and my mother enrolled me in ice skating lessons. Thanks to my older sister, Marylou, who splurged and bought me the entire getup, when I stepped out on the ice for my very first skating lesson, with my Dorothy Do, I had on brand new shiny white skates, nude colored tights, and a blue sparkly skating outfit. After all that I'd seen on television, my dream was that I'd swiftly skate to the center of the rink and do a double salchow.

My reality was two steps and a face plant.

But I stuck with those lessons, and soon enough, I could make it around the ENTIRE perimeter of the rink without clinging to the wall for dear life. Although I never learned to spin, I became a total master of the figure eight.

And …. that about sums up my skating career.

Fast forward thirty-five years to the day my children wanted for me to join them ice skating. And my husband, who hadn't skated in 35 years either convinced me that WE SHOULD TOTALLY DO THIS WITH OUR CHILDREN. This is an opportunity to build memories for us and them and by the way, Charlie? He informed me that he is a natural ice skater.

Wayne Gretzky? He's from Canada.

Kurt Browning? CANADA.

Everyone knows, all it takes is two points to form a line. So although he abhors real maple syrup, by virtue of being born in Canada, my athletically-gifted husband is, at a minimum, on the periphery of the same linear continuum as two of the most famous skaters of all time.

So there we are at the rink with our heavy blue plastic rented skates. Unlike our children who stepped out on the ice and immediately fell down, Charlie and I remained upright, albeit flailing around in a very un-Gretzky and/or Browning-like manner. But after a few laps, we found our groove and were able to glide across the ice without our arms flapping like we were preparing for take-off. And because we tend to get competitive with each other when it comes to sporting events, in between plucking our children off the ice, we started racing each other around the rink.

We were making memories and it was good.

But after a half hour of falling down, Carolyn decided she'd had enough. The rented skates had cut in to her legs and she was prepared to sit the rest of the "fun" out. Charlie sat with her for a while, before trading off with me and assuming the responsibility of stewarding William and Elizabeth's falls. When there were only five minutes remaining before the Zamboni came out, I signaled to Charlie that I wanted to skate …. just one more lap.

My husband skated in to the box and I slipped back out feeling completely confident in my ability. I glided around the first and second corner and was stroking my way around the third corner when all of a sudden, I slammed down on the ice. One minute I was up. The next minute I was down. I don't even remember the falling part. But I'd heard a POP coming from my left knee as soon as I crashed and there was an intense burning sensation emanating from directly behind my knee cap. I'm not sure how exactly I was able to stand up because by the time I hobbled off the ice, and in to my husband's outstretched arms, I couldn't bend my leg. And that's about the time I started to curse the inventor of ice skating because really, what total nut came up with the idea of putting BLADES on your feet and slipping across ICE?!

Sunday night was miserable and by Monday morning the pain was so bad, I couldn't walk without holding on to the wall. Charlie dropped me off at the Emergency Room to be checked out and as I sat waiting, I contemplated that age really is the great equalizer. The kids can fall down on the ice face first and backwards and every which way since Saturday, but I fall down once and I need an x-ray, brace, crutches, pain medication and referral to an orthopedist.

A week later, my knee is still extremely tender. Although I can walk without crutches, I'm having a very difficult time bending or turning it. So this morning, when I was getting ready for work and was attempting to put on my nylons, I was confronted with a tremendous challenge. Especially once I got the nylons on and realized that my left toenail, attached to the left leg that I am unable to bend, had snagged the stocking and there was a run that extended all the way to the knee. Because I was wearing a dress today, that wouldn't do. So I had to peel the nylons off and start over with a new pair.

By the time I had peeled the nylons off, and helped pull hair in to pony tails and collect library books and supervise teeth brushing and face washing … I was running late. So I flung open my dresser drawer and grabbed another pair of nylons which I then hastily tried to put on without snagging. When I pulled the nylons up, I could tell that they fit a little snuggly, but I assumed it must have been the Halloween candy that I hid and consumed in an effort to protect my children's teeth.

We hustle out the door and I drop the children off at school before driving to my office. As I'm walking from my car in to the building, I experienced the worst clothing malfunction of my life when the waist of my nylons slipped from above my hips to the middle of my thighs. And because there were no restrooms immediately available, and there are surveillance cameras everywhere, I didn't have the ability to "adjust" my nylons and therefore, had to pass through not one - but two levels of security - and up several floors waddling like a broken legged penguin.

When I finally reached the restroom, I peeled off the nylons and examined the label which clearly read, "Carters. Size 7." My husband, the man who bought me oversized underwear for Christmas last year, stocked my drawer with my daughter's tights.

Oh ... sure ... he pleads innocence.

But I'm starting to think he likes to mess with my mind.

the only thing we want to spread is... cheer

2011-11-26T11:11:00.003-05:00

We'd intended to stay in South Carolina over Thanksgiving, but we're not as small of a group as we once were. And mid-way through our vacation, our headcount went up by one.

On Monday night, Louie's first night with us, we were staying with my gracious cousin Karen. Louie was sequestered to a newspaper-lined bathroom with his soft doggy bed and random doggie toys. Every 15 minutes, for the entire night, Louie would yelp. And because we were in someone else's home and sound was transmitted to every square inch exceptionally well, we tended to our tiny yelping puppy.

We = Charlie.

Because I'd fallen down ice skating on Sunday afternoon, blew out my knee and was on crutches, I was unable to hop in and out of bed without gasping expletives. So Charlie was on Puppy Patrol. But I was awake whenever my husband was because: 1) the barking woke me and 2) I felt a moral obligation to tell a completely exhausted Charlie, "I'm up, too. You're not enduring this alone. Maybe we should have adopted a lazy cat?"

During one of the 30+ times that Charlie opened the bathroom door over a span of six hours, he smeared a fresh pile of puppy poo across the floor, that he then stepped in with his bare feet and it oozed between his toes. Around that same time, we unanimously made the decision that our entourage would drive back to Virginia as soon as the sun breached the horizon, the children were awake, or our hostess tossed us to the curb. Which ever came first.

At home, we could settle Louie in to his crate and wouldn't be as concerned that he was disturbing an entire house. At home, we would be at home. And home is a really nice place to be when you've got four children with chest colds, a blown out knee and a yelping pooping puppy.

So on Tuesday morning, we bid our farewells and we drove home.

Since we've been home, Louie has slept great. Which is fantastic because I'd been wracked with worry that our children have finally reached an age where they'll sleep soundly until 7 AM (most nights), and we had to ruin everything by bringing in a tiny puppy that'll be up barking all night. It's been 18 years since I've had a tiny puppy. My recollection on how to do this house-training this is foggy. Is there some kind of Puppy Wise book about Bark It Out?

On Tuesday, the first night home, Louie curled up in a ball in the cozy box which we'd placed in our bedroom and he slept, soundly, until 4 AM. When he awoke, Charlie took him outside to do his business, then he returned him to the box where we fell back asleep until 6:30 AM. Yesterday, he slept through the night and woke up at 6:15 AM and before Charlie's feet even hit the floor, Carolyn ran in to the room, scooped up the puppy and said, "That's OK Dad. I've got him. You go back to sleep..."

(And that's why Carolyn is now her father's favorite child.)

While it would have been nice to have spent Thursday with our extended family, it was such a good decision for us to return home early. Louie is settling in nicely and we avoided all of the post-holiday traffic. Our Thanksgiving was a very relaxing day. We made apple crisps for a few of our neighbors...

And we watched, "How The Grinch Stole Christmas", our first Christmas movie of the season. Midway through, William announced, "Mom, that Dr. Seuss is a really good rhymer, isn't he?" For the next few hours, he attempted to craft all of his sentences in rhyme. During dinner he graced us with, "Mom, I like the very cranberry and quirky turkey, but please don't make me eat the mean green bean or the damn yam."

My belief that returning home early was a good decision was confirmed this morning when our sweet Elizabeth woke up with the stomach flu. I'm hard pressed to think of a situation that would be more uncomfortable than to expose your hostess to the stomach flu after your yelping un-houstrained puppy kept her up all night and before driving 500 miles with a sick child.

As of this writing, Henry's complaining that his tummy hearts too. Our little guy is learning how to count and he knows that when there are six people in a family and only two legs on a turkey, this is how you lay claim...

And I know that if this is a virus, soon enough we'll all have it.

on this thanksgiving...

2011-11-24T08:00:00.001-05:00

Today I'm reflecting on those things for which I'm thankful.

I'm thankful for the sun that rises and gives us the promise of a new day.

I'm thankful for a very full life with my husband and children.

I'm thankful for early bedtimes after a very full day with my beautiful family.

I'm thankful for neighbors and friends and the kind people in our world.

I'm thankful for my (relatively) good health and the (relatively) good health of my loved ones.

I'm thankful for moments.

I'm thankful for options.

I'm thankful for humor, spirit and a sense of adventure.

I'm thankful for the Greenville Humane Society and the work they do.

This is Louie, an eight-week-old cocker spaniel mix.

He's the newest member of our family and we're so very thankful for him.

There is so much love and happiness surrounding this puppy...

I hope he's thankful for us, too.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. We hope you have a peaceful, thankful and memorable day!

we better hide his chainsaw

2011-11-15T10:00:00.000-05:00

As we embark on Year Two of living in a region with seasons, I'd like to take a moment and reflect on the activity that surrounds cleaning up leaves. To me, it is remarkable just how many leaves there are on the trees in our yard.

Definitely thousands.

More likely millions.

Quite possibly, trillions.

Or, if you asked Charlie, DECILLIONS.

For the past several weeks, Charlie has been riding his lawnmower around and around, mulching and collecting leaves. At least twice a week, he's doing some kind of yard maintenance and this activity has brought him an abundance of joy.

I thought that the reason he was so interested in cleaning up the yard is because he enjoys riding his lawnmower. Which he does. But also? I've learned that leaves across our lawn drive my typically level-headed husband obsessive-compulsive crazy.

When there are leaves on the ground, he is almost unable to think of anything except getting out there and removing them. I've tried to decipher the root of this compulsion and I don't think it has to do with keeping up with our neighbor's yard beautification projects. OK, maybe that has a little bit to do with it. But I think the primary cause is that Charlie's so accustomed to southern California and palm trees that don't shed.

This has obviously been an interesting venture in to my husband's psyche because while leaves on the ground don't bother me in the least ... toys on the ground drive me certifiably insane. And when disarray becomes particularly bad around our house (as it's been known to do), my husband is calm and collected, although highly confused? as to why? his wife and mother of his children? is acting like a total lunatic? and suggesting? that we haul ALL the children's toys off to Goodwill? and leave them with only a cardboard box with which to play?

For years, I've felt like it was just me battling some kind of psychosis.

This past Saturday, in honor of my husband's birthday, Charlie and I spent hours cleaning our front yard. Since I neglected to get him a present (bad wife!) I thought I'd indulge him on his need to have NO LEAVES ON THE GROUND. Of course, soon after we finished, a small breeze kicked up and those little leaves that we saw way up high on the trees, and which from that distance seemed so insignificant, had dislodged from their branches and were now blanketing our lawn. And then! There were leaf types that appeared from trees that we don't even have on our property. So we've concluded one of two things have likely occurred:

1. They floated to our yard or

2. Someone deposited them as a practical joke when we weren't looking.

While most of the trees around our neighborhood are oak, maple and beech ... perhaps next year I'll spread a bag full of gargantuan leaves, like those two-footers from the Empress Tree, on our neighbor's property just to see if they notice?

What the…?

So Saturday we spent hours raking and blowing and mulching...

And as we worked, our children jumped in leaf piles and rejoiced in the sheer magic of childhood in the fall.

At one point, after we'd filled our 20th bag of mulched leaves and hauled them to the sidewalk (Charlie is adamantly opposed to burning leaves for reasons that I cannot articulate), my husband casually mentioned that if we were to remove a few key trees in our back yard, our leaf removal efforts would be significantly reduced. Note: our back yard is at least six times the size of our front yard with over 30 trees as opposed to the TWO in front.

Coming from a man who was thrilled to buy this lot because of the acreage and believes this to be one of the most beautiful spots on earth, it surprised me to hear him look over our backyard and say, "Jen, just think of it! If we were to chop down that tree ... and that one ... and that one..." and then he paused for a moment before eagerly pointing, "And that one, and that one, that one, that one, that one, that one, that one, and THAT ONE ... this whole area would be completely DEVOID of leaves!"

"So ... Charlie … what you are suggesting to me is that we chop down ALL the trees on our beautiful wooded lot so we won't have to rake leaves anymore?"

My husband's blue eyes sparkled.

And that's when I realized even the sanest among us, have their triggers.

life in the woods

2011-11-12T11:18:00.003-05:00

We live in a very wooded area and last year, discovered that we have a deer stand 10 feet from our property line. The reason for that deer stand, we learned, is not to watch deer - but to hunt deer. Several of our neighbors have bows and have told us that yes, they most definitely hunt during deer season. Not only to help keep the population at bay - but because they enjoy venison.

The children's reading comprehension is definitely improving, so they are frequently trying to "sound out" the words that they see in the world around them. Earlier this week, we saw this sign posted on a tree in a local park. After we read the sign, together, the children asked, "Mom, what does 'Deer Management Activity' mean?"

And I translated, "That means Bambi, you better watch Yo back!!!"

It also means that whenever we go outside for the next three months, we'll need to wear our bright yellow coats and flashing beacon hats.

tooth tales

2011-11-11T16:37:00.001-05:00

Telling my husband that I knocked our son's tooth out of his mouth was/is almost as painful as the knowledge of what had happened.

When Charlie called me from the airport, inquiring why I wasn't there to pick him up, I recapped the events of the day. And he said, and I quote, "What do you mean you knocked out his tooth? You're kidding. RIGHT?"

No. I'm not kidding.

And hey, remember that time I was upset with you because you left the oven door open for a split second when you were taking out a pizza and the baby crawled over and put his hands on the 300+ degree door?

Three years later ... I forgive you.

Forgiveness is good.

(Although, I doubt I'll ever be able to forgive myself.)

When we sat down for breakfast on Sunday morning, and both my husband and I were choking back tears watching our little boy try to eat soft foods with his Nanny McPhee tooth jutting out of his mouth, William felt compelled to discuss his feelings surrounding The Incident.

So he said, "Mom, after you picked Henry up from the ground and you saw that his mouth was bleeding and his tooth was gone? You said, 'OH. THIS IS GREAT! LOOK WHAT I DID! THIS IS AWESOME. I KNOCKED MY BABY'S TOOTH OUT OF HIS MOUTH. GREAT JOB MOM! WELL DONE!'"

(It's true. That's exactly what I said, verbatim.)

William sighed before continuing, "Mom? I've been thinking about it and I really don't think you were being AWESOME and I don't think it was GREAT that you knocked my little brother's tooth out of his mouth."

So I explained what "sarcasm" means.

"William, the reason I removed Henry from beneath the table with such haste was not because I wanted to knock his tooth out of his mouth, it's because I was genuinely afraid he was going to get his teeth kicked in by his siblings who were wildly flailing their legs and kicking him in the face. Does that make sense?"

William considered this and then gave me a nod. "Yeah, it makes sense. But maybe you should have just left him there since if you hadn't pulled him out, he'd still have his tooth?"

So I then explained what "ironic" means.

I found the tooth on Saturday night when I was sweeping the kitchen. It surprised me to see how big it was, but according to the pediatric dentist the roots aren't "degraded" until the adult tooth grows in. So it's appropriate the root would be so long on a tooth that wasn't supposed to fall out for another four years.

The good news: the entire tooth fell out. So an extraction isn't necessary.

The bad news: The Entire Tooth Fell Out. And the fate of his fragile Nanny McPhee front tooth is currently unknown. I'm just thankful corn-on-the-cob is no longer in season since Henry really loves corn-on-the-cob.

*Sob!*

The Tooth Fairy came to visit this past Monday night. Henry carefully tucked his tooth in to the Tooth Fairy pillow before climbing in to bed and clenching his eyes closed to expedite the arrival of the winged bringer of monetary reward.

When he awoke on Tuesday morning, he found that the Tooth Fairy had left him a $1.00 bill in exchange for his tooth. In addition, he found a Toy Story 3 collector set that the Tooth Fairy had snagged from a small inventory Santa Clause was planning to distribute at Christmas.

The children were incredulous. "MOM. Why did Henry get TOYS for his tooth? Doesn't the Tooth Fairy only bring money?" And I explained, yes, except in those incredibly rare situations when a tooth falls out FOUR YEARS sooner than it's supposed to. AND it's 100% the mother's fault.

In which case, once could deduce the Tooth Fairy shares my guilt complex.

a moment I'd rather forget but won't be able to anytime soon

2011-11-05T22:50:00.000-04:00

Henry.

My Henry.

My beautiful, sweet, lovable, Henry. My little Henry who, at various times, will drive all three of his siblings totally crazy. My little Henry who, at various times, will drive me and his father totally crazy. My little Henry who is the perfect embodiment of a four-year-old BOY.

My little Henry, who tonight, after he finished dinner, climbed under the table and was biting his siblings' legs and feet. They were all laughing, so in retrospect, from my post at the sink where I was washing dishes - I should have probably just laughed, too. But I didn't because his siblings were still trying to eat and they were kicking him about the head and the level of chaos was mounting, Mounting, MOUNTING.

Charlie is flying home tonight from a business trip and I was trying to get the kitchen cleaned up before we left to pick him up at the airport. I asked the children to go put on their pajamas, so I can put them to bed as soon as we arrive home. No one hears me or is listening to me or any combination thereof. So I say it a little louder, "GUYS. When you're done, please go put on your pajamas so we can pick up Daddy at the airport…"

I'm scrubbing pots and pans while keeping my eye on the pot under the sink that has been used to catch water from a leaky valve that was responsible for flooding our basement while Charlie's been away … when the shrieking at the table grabs my attention.

Henry is chomping on his brother's leg while his brother is kicking him squarely in the face. I yell, "STOP!" to the air before marching in to the dining area - and reaching under the table for Henry. When I grab him by his waist, he tips forward and smacks the kitchen floor. Standing him up to his feet, my stomach drops when I see that there is blood dripping out of his mouth.

Thinking that perhaps he just smacked his lip, I pick him up to examine his mouth and that's when I notice HIS FRONT TOOTH IS GONE. My baby's tooth is GONE. Where there once was a tooth, just to the right of his right front tooth, there is now a gaping hole.

Instantly, I'm remorseful, shocked and nauseous as the worst feeling I've ever experienced in my life, envelopes me.

What did I just do?

If only I could turn back time … ONE MINUTE … I'd race in to the family room and put on a movie for him. I'd do SOMETHING to get him out from under our feet, literally, so that the chaos wouldn't send me over the brink. Why must I try to avoid movies when movies are often VERY GOOD and a saving grace to parents everywhere?

I'm feeling sick with myself and the triplets are crying when I put a damp paper towel in his mouth and call the Pediatric Dentist. The long and short of it, there is nothing that can be done for a lost baby tooth. Tomorrow morning, we'll have an x-ray and examination. And eventually, say FOUR YEARS FROM NOW, the gaping hole will be replaced by an adult tooth. But every day, from now until then, whenever I see my beautiful baby's smile, I'll be reminded of this horrible moment.

Later, once he was in his pajamas, Tylenol had been administered, and I sent my husband a text message that he would need to take a cab home from the airport, I carefully removed the paper towel from his mouth. His tongue feels around the spot where his tooth had been and I'm struck with horror when I notice that his FRONT tooth is also crooked. To the point that his lip actually PROTRUDES because of the crookedness. I bury my head in my hands and I start to cry. "Oh my God, this is terrible. I'm so, so sorry!"

Henry puts his little arms around my neck and hugging me tightly, whispers, "Mommy, you not tewable. You awesome, like ME!" I lean back and gaze at the gorgeous little boy who holds my heart in his hands. His tongue runs across his new dental landscape and when he realizes that his front tooth is sticking out of his mouth, he cheerfully says, "I wook wike Nanny McPhee!"

Once he said it, I noticed that the resemblance is uncanny. So for a very brief moment, my tears of sorrow were replaced by tears of laughter.

The children were so concerned about their little brother, they quietly gathered in his room as I was tucking him in to bed. William declared, "Henry, you lost a tooth before me!" Then he added, "But that's OK because now the Tooth Fairy will come and we'll get some money!"

His sister corrected him, "William, you won't get money - HENRY WILL."

But William countered, "Well, we share a piggy bank you know."

the only picture I have is the one in my mind

2011-10-31T23:30:00.002-04:00

At some point this afternoon, I had the notion that tonight, in lieu of strolling around the neighborhood (that just two days ago was dusted with snow), and freezing myself in to oblivion while my children trick-or-treated, I would instead stay at home and make a bonfire in our front yard.

My plan was that I'd set up lanterns around our cul-de-sac and our Jack O'Lantern would be perched beneath our street sign. In addition to our candy offerings, there would be an abundance of ingredients for 'smores and water for thirsty trick-or-treaters. And for the parents, there would be wine and pumpkin ale for them to sip while they warmed their bones by the raging fire.

At around 5:30 PM, just after I made dinner for the kids - and while Charlie was carving our pumpkin - I started to scramble putting my plan in to action. I dragged the fire pit from the back of the house to the front. I dumped out the water and mucky leaves that had accumulated since it's last use in … June? July? Meanwhile the kids were running around the yard collecting kindling and we dragged logs from the back of the house up the hill.

The sun was setting fast and there was much to do.

I'm darting back and forth from the house to the yard, getting children in to their costumes (two butterflies, one vampire and a Batman) while also pulling out all of the supplies that I'd need for my front yard fiesta. Charlie has just put the finishing touches on the wagon that he'd use to cart children around the neighborhood (decorated with glow sticks) and I'm preparing to grab my *sob!* I need a new camera so badly it hurts camera phone to snap off some pictures of the children, before igniting the bonfire, when suddenly, I hear Elizabeth say, "Mommy, someone just pulled in to our driveway!"

I look out the window and I don't see anyone.

But at Elizabeth's urging, I look again, and standing there is Jim.

As in, Jim, my mother's husband.

And then, I see my mother, wearing a bright orange pumpkin mask and waving her arms in the air as she is nearly knocked over by embraces from three of our four children, as the fourth FLIES out the front door and jumps in to her arms.

Mom and Jim decided to surprise us by driving 500 miles from South Carolina to Virginia...

(MISSION ACCOMPLISHED!!!!)

… and they couldn't have timed their arrival more perfectly, since they pulled in to the driveway mere seconds before our entourage took off trick-or-treating throughout the neighborhood.

My focus immediately shifted from taking pictures to HOLY CANNOLI, MOM AND JIM ARE HERE AND HOW AWESOME IS THIS?!

There were hugs and laughter before we bid Charlie and the children farewell, settled Jim in front of the football game, and made our way outside to start the fire. Within minutes, people started to drop past and I promised that if they returned in an hour, we'd have a raging fire and 'smores. After 10, 20, 30 minutes … I began to worry because the fire ring was damp, the kindling was damp, and the leaves that I'd thrown on with the hope of success, turned my tiny fire in to a smoky smoldering mess.

But then, the Spirit of Halloween smiled upon us, and the puny smoky smoldering mess IGNITED in to the most awesomely warm beautiful bonfire. And very soon, people started appearing out of the darkness.

It was an occasion I want to sear in to my memory, forever.

The scene of my mother and I standing in the front yard, greeting people on Halloween. We had on matching black down vests. Mom had on my red headlamp and was sipping Pinot Noir out of a styrofoam cup. She had graham crackers lined up on our small patio table with squares of Hershey's chocolate atop each that were just awaiting a perfectly toasted marshmallow.

My mother has the most incredibly magnetic personality of anyone I've ever met and people who stepped in to the glowing circle, remained there. While their children contentedly roasted marshmallows and stayed warm, they shared stories about themselves. We heard stories about our neighborhood. How not very long ago, there were very few children who lived here. But now, there are an abundance.

The fog wafted above us, across a crescent moon. It was dark and bitter cold. But the small lanterns illuminated a path toward us. And the warmth of the fire was made even warmer by the wonderful people who came to share in the glowing light.

This was our best Halloween ever.

And without question, the beginning of a new tradition.

the first tooth

2011-10-30T22:08:00.001-04:00

Henry has a plastic snake that has become his absolute favorite toy. He carries it with him everywhere he goes and despite the fact that his sister lopped it's head off with a pair of gardening shears, he still sleeps with it, every night.

He calls it "Snakey."

Although Carolyn has lost (and swallowed) three teeth, up until last week, she's been our only child to depart with any of their baby teeth. Last week, I noticed that Elizabeth had a slightly loose right bottom tooth. The next day, when she was playing with her wittle brother, she thought it would be a good idea to bite the tail of his beloved Snakey and Henry not thinking that was such a good idea (on her part) decided to whip Snakey away.

Lo and behold, as he did so, Elizabeth's tooth flew out of her mouth and across the room.

(Henry was horrified but Elizabeth was delighted. Truly. Her first lost tooth!)

As of Thursday, October 27, we have now lost FOUR teeth at our house. Although this is the FIRST tooth that we have actually recovered and been able to present to the Tooth Fairy.

The Tooth Fairy, WHO ALMOST FORGOT TO DROP BY.

If not for an extremely powerful subconscious that jolted me awake at 4:30 on Friday morning, and had me scrambling for my wallet, our sweet little daughter would have woken up two hours later to her very first baby tooth sitting idly in the Tooth Fairy Pillow that she inherited from her cousin, Michael.

I don't know if it's more surprising that I forgot, or that my brain is wired in such a way that I would suddenly remember in a deep sleep?

Maybe "wired" isn't the correct word choice and "short-circuited" is more appropriate.

Honestly, take a look at where I put the eggs after I finished making an omelette for myself two weeks ago. This picture was snapped off, courtesy of Charlie, who discovered the eggs when he was reaching for a coffee mug.

I guess this just proves there's been a lot on my mind.

i must have been a dentist in a prior life

2011-10-28T23:44:00.001-04:00

So, where was I?

Oh yes...

Tuesday night the doorbell rings, just as we're sitting down for dinner, and the kids jump up and run to the front door. Less than two seconds after the Ding Dong! echoed through our house (count ... ONE ... TWO ...) all four of the children had flown up from the table, and without their feet even touching the ground, arrived at the front door which they had swung wide open.

I'd like to interject here that no matter how many times I tell the children to not rush and open the front door without their father or I next to them, my children? They really aren't the best listeners. I could say, "Please don't open the door!" 5,000,000 times and hook an electric zapper up to the knob and neither of these things would matter one iota.

OK. Maybe the zapper. But just for a moment.

The children it would appear, are like, growing up? And they think that they have some kind of domestic obligation to answer a door and/or the telephone whenever it rings? Unlike ME who prefers to NOT answer the telephone when it rings. Like ever, never, ever. Because when I answer the phone, my children pull off this amazing trick where they transform in to cannibalistic acrobats right before my very eyes.

It's true!

They could be perfectly fine and happy playing with Play Doh, but as soon as I get on the phone and my attention is diverted AWAY from them for a split second, whatever peaceful scene had just existed, vaporizes and someone is chewing someone else's arm off while others are doing front flips from the couch.

Now, if it happens to be ME on the other end of that line, as sweet and wonderful as it is to hear my offspring's voices on the telephone, it's never good when they answer before their father even hears it ringing and then after we exchange pleasantries for a few minutes and when I ask to talk with their Dad, they'll put the phone down to go get Charlie, only to become distracted with a fruit fly orbiting a banana in the kitchen and suddenly, I'm unable to call home for the next hour because the line is off the hook.

I can just see that black phone, abandoned in some remote area of the house, with my voice barely audible. "Carolyn? CAROLYN. Elizabeth? ELIZABETH!!! PICK UP THE PHONE. William? WILLIAM!!! HELLLL-OOOOOOOOOO. I PROMISE I'LL BUY A PONY FOR WHOMEVER PICKS UP THIS PHONE. CHARLIE? CHARLIE!?!?"

*Click*

Anyway. Back to my story.

So there it is, Tuesday night, and perched upon the top step, is a Halloween'esque bag full of goodies. And yet, whomever dropped that bag was nowhere to be seen. At least theoretically. Because, we could see that the whomevers that had dropped the bag were BOOKING IT as fast as their legs would carry them across our front yard.

All this to say: we received our first Virginia Boo. We'd received these, in California, in years past, and I always enjoyed paying forward (aka: spreading) the cheer.

This year, I picked up a few "Boo Bag" supplies for the two families that we were planning to Boo. One of the families had just moved in to the neighborhood, and although their son is in William's Cub Scout troop, they haven't really "settled" in, yet.

(Then again, neither have we and I still get lost going to the store because the roads around our neighborhood will have a minimum of two names, more commonly three, and interchangably, might just be referred to as the route number. Who can keep that straight?)

Prior to dropping these bags off and ringing the doorbells, in the pitch black of night, the children helped me do an inventory of the "goods" in each bag and after oohing and ahhing the festive hair accessories ...

And cool neon necklaces and rubber balls that light up when you bounce them ...

The children asked, "Why, Mommy, when everyone else gives out CANDY for Halloween, you give out toothbrushes and toothpaste?"

My response was that I give out toothbrushes and toothpaste because I genuinely care about oral health. But I suppose it also has something to do with the Practical Gene that I inherited from my mother. A woman who has been known to give toilet paper as a Christmas gift.

the trooper

2011-10-22T09:26:00.002-04:00

I'm pleased to present a picture of the world's most adorable Tiger Scout proudly wearing his sparkly clean new uniform.

And .... here is the world's most adorable Tiger Scout with his incredibly dashing, bold and brave Den Leader.

A bonus to the Man Uniform is versatility. Check it out, the pants zip off to SHORTS!!

For those about to rock, We Salute You!

Brave and Bold, people.

BRAVE AND BOLD.

... and then they were seven

2011-10-17T22:55:00.001-04:00

The nice thing about seven-year-olds, is that streamers and balloons magically transform an ordinarily boring kitchen in to PARTY CENTRAL...

Small tote umbrellas carefully wrapped with ribbons and bows, are the BEST BIRTHDAY PRESENTS EVER...

And a "7" candle in a breakfast bagel ... is BEYOND AWESOME.

Perhaps our kids are just easy going, but once we fastened pins to their chests that were approximately the circumference of their heads...

And pointed out the Happy Birthday flag flapping in the breeze, the children skipped off to school happier than I've seen them in their seven full years on the planet.

Henry joined me on Friday afternoon to shop for little pumpkins.

Which we brought to the children's classroom.

Where, along with Charlie, Uncle Steve and Aunt Kathy, we sang Happy Birthday with their entire first grade class ... THREE SEPARATE TIMES.

The children came home from school and opened a few small presents which included Razor Scooters (I never could find bikes that we liked, hopefully Santa can whip something up in his shop between now and Christmas) and Lego sets. And while they certainly appreciated their new toys...

What they appreciated most of all were the musical cards that they received from Aunt Grace.

(The best part of this almost five minute clip are the, "Oops, I messed up! Can I start again?!")

This year, there wasn't an abundance of activities or presents or friends in attendance at some HUGE party. But there was an abundance of balloons and candle-lighting ceremonies and people who love our children and celebrate their presence here on earth. They were happy, so I was happy. Or perhaps, I was happy - so they were happy.

Whatever the case, I'm more convinced than ever: the things that bring us the most joy are usually the most simple.

when all else fails, put up streamers and balloons

2011-10-13T23:59:00.000-04:00

When half of your family shares the same birthday, it's necessary to decorate your breakfast nook in streamers and balloons.

It's also necessary to decorate your breakfast nook in streamers and balloons when ... well ... it pains me to admit this, but all my grandiose plans for a birthday party for the kids hit the skids because.... (scratching head)

Where have the last three weeks gone?

Wasn't it just September ... yesterday?

Charlie's brother and sister-in-law are in town from California and they are two of the most creative, thoughtful people you could ever meet in your entire life. Both Steve and Kathy are incredibly talented and plan things out so well with meticulous attention to detail. They are the kind of people who start organizing a party months before it happens. They are the kind of people who will have all of their Christmas shopping completed in June.

I'm the kind of person that has all their Christmas shopping completed in January. One month late. Not 11 months early.

Tonight, they stayed home with our children while Charlie and I - the exact antithesis of the planners that they are - went out shopping. Yep, there's nothing like hitting Target at 10 PM the NIGHT BEFORE your children's birthday to try and round up some of the gift ideas you had jotted down on a notepad but are now trying to recall from a rapidly failing memory, because WHERE IS THAT DARN NOTEPAD?

(It's clearly hiding with the three weeks that I've lost.)

The bike supply at Target was lean to say the least, so we scrapped that idea and sought out Legos. William has developed a fascination for building things lately ... and all things Harry Potter ... so we figured a massive Harry Potter Lego set would keep him happy for days.

Once we loaded the 1,000+ piece set in to our cart, I headed straight over to the organizational aisle and stocked up on storage containers that William could use to keep all the little parts straight. It would be really sad for everyone if I tossed the whole thing by Saturday night because there were small plastic blocks scattered throughout the house and embedded in the soles of my feet. As for the girls, we bought them some really nice umbrellas.

WITH FLOWERS.

Tomorrow during lunch, I'll head to a REAL bike store.

Until then ... CAN YOU IMAGINE WAKING UP TO THIS KITCHEN?!

life lessons: be kind

2011-10-11T23:32:00.001-04:00

The Jesuit motto, alleged to be attributed to Francis Xavier, the co-founder of the Jesuit Order, wrote, "Give me a child until they are seven, and I will give you the man." The implication of that statement is that the best opportunity to indoctrinate a lifetime of belief and devotion in to a person, is the first seven years of their life.

My children will be seven later this week. So I've got three days to impress upon them what I believe to be the most important lessons I'll ever teach. And then, I'll have what will hopefully be the rest of my long life to expose them to good people that will help to reinforce those lessons by example.

Children, in your lifetime, you will be presented with an abundance of opportunities to be kind. Seize them.

Guard your words carefully and resist the temptation to demonstrate your intelligence at someone else's expense. While you might feel superior in the moment, that feeling seldom lasts long and can have devastating effects on your psyche. It was once said that, "The kindest word in all the world …. is the unkind word, unsaid."

It is my hope that each of you become a Master of Kind Words.

In about the same degree as you are helpful, you will be happy. ~Karl Reiland

So as you meander through life, try your best to help others. Look for opportunities to lift people's spirits, whether by holding open a door - bringing a sick neighbor a meal - or sending a cheery letter of support to someone that you love.

Because that's what kindness is. It's not doing something for someone else because they can't, but because you can. ~Andrew Iskander

In the 19th century, Darwin proposed that facial expressions don't only reflect emotions, but actually CAUSE them. And more recently, research has shown, smiling will make you happier. So even if you're not feeling like it, smile.

And e
veryday, give a stranger one of your smiles. It might be the only sunshine he sees all day.

~Quoted in P.S. I Love You, compiled by H. Jackson Brown, Jr.

Take the time to acknowledge people and when you speak, look people in the eye and keep your attention focused. Focused on that person you're talking with and not on the conversation happening next to you, or your own reflection in the mirror, or worst of all - the text message that just came through on your phone.

Exert kindness to waiters and janitors and the grumpy cashier in the checkout line.

Kindness is the language which the deaf can hear and the blind can see. ~Mark Twain

Kindness is gentleness. Kindness is tolerance. Kindness is compassion. Kindness is welcoming a four-year-old boy to swim with you and your friend, when you're a totally cool teenager.

Kindness is teaching that four-year-old how to do a cannonball and gladly accepting his small hand when he tries to help you up a ladder. Kindness is giving him a high-five and saying, "That was fun, buddy! Maybe we'll see you again, tomorrow!"

How far you go in life depends on your being tender with the young, compassionate with the aged, sympathetic with the striving and tolerant of the weak and strong. Because someday in your life you will have been all of these. ~George Washington Carver

Life Lesson #1: Always do your best to be kind.

Believe me, I know!

This won't always be easy!

Just ask your grandmother about the day that she volunteered to drive her house-bound friend somewhere, and that friend turned out to be a real pain in the passenger seat keester, who distracted her to the point that she got in to an automobile accident. And before the smoke had even settled, that friend hopped out of the car and loudly shared with the entire world (aka: witnesses) that they are an expert on automobile collisions because they've been in so many accidents that they've lost their license. And that "friend" will then proceed to point their finger at your wonderful grandmother and defiantly conclude that the accident was COMPLETELY HER FAULT.

God won't ask what kind of car you drove, but will ask how many people you drove home who didn't have transportation. (In my opinion, you're due extra points if that transportation-less person causes you to get in to an accident and then blames it on you.)

If you ever find yourself in a situation such as this, summon the strength to be kind even under duress. Like your grandmother, simply smile and say, "It's just a car, a material possession. It's really not anything important!"

Thankfully, your grandmother knows very well that as John Woodsen wrote, "You can't live a perfect day without doing something for someone who will never be able to repay you."

(Even if that someone may be a person who should be hit over the head with a purse.)

someone's grounded

2011-10-08T12:45:00.001-04:00

Several months ago, during our morning meeting (aka: snuggle time) when all four of the children pile in to bed with us before getting up for the day, the discussion turned to names. Charlie was telling the kids that they could call him Dad, Daddy, Father, PaPa, but his preference is "Oh Mighty One."

Everyone laughed because Daddy?

He's funny that way.

Fast forward to earlier this week when Charlie took the children to the store and they all made the plea that he buy them new bicycles. Since we're buying the triplets new bicycles for their upcoming birthday, the answer was an obvious no. My husband didn't tell the children our plans of their birthday gifts, because he wants for it to be a surprise.

According to him, they took the news well that they wouldn't be leaving the store with new bicycles, they didn't make a fuss, and things were going just swell until they were standing in line - in front of several other customers and the cashier. That's when the triplets, in unison, looked at their father with tears in their eyes and said, "Oh Daddy. Oh PaPa. Please can we have a bicycle? Why don't you love us, OH MIGHTY ONE?"

He snorted out loud, but then saw that all the eyes within ear shot were sadly nodding at our children. THE CULPRITS. So he pulled them in to a loving bear hug and said, "GOOD TRY."

Charlie came home to tell me this story and said, "I can't believe our children would ever attempt to premeditate an embarrassment like that in public!" Then we saw this video clip and we hope that we never get pulled over by the police when the children are in the car...

As a precautionary measure, crayons and paper are no longer allowed when we're driving.

... and then there is natural attenuation

2011-10-06T21:33:00.000-04:00

One of the other things that I've learned as a geologist in the petrochemical industry is that the environment has an incredible way of healing itself. There exists, in the soil and water, naturally occurring microorganisms that literally feed off contamination that it encounters. Because of these biological processes, the mass, toxicity, mobility, volume and concentration of contamination in soil and water can often be significantly (to completely) reduced. It's a scientific fact that with time, good destroys bad and restores the earth to a well-balanced state.

So, to the hundreds of people [Good Lord, where have you been hiding?] who have sent e-mails or left kind messages, you are the natural attenuating factors in the reservoir of my soul. Your words have humbled and healed me, beyond measure. And saturated my face with happy tears.

Friday night it was like there had been a death in the family. I went to bed nearly sobbing. There are so many things that I wanted to share (including but not limited to the dogs my mother has been "picking out" for the children and Charlie in his new Troop Leader uniform - I have photographic evidence!) that were thwarted. Obviously, I was going to stick with my plan of making the blog private, but I was in terrible mourning over what it would entail and how would I even begin to track down the e-mail addresses of the family and friends to invite? AND WHAT ABOUT all the wonderful people, many of whom I've known "virtually" for years? Do I include some of them, all of them, none of them? There's a limit of 100 readers with a private blog and I'm Irish Catholic.

I have more than 100 cousins!

Tonight, I'm sipping a nice pumpkin ale. And because of that nice pumpkin ale + a few good nights rest + my mother and my family and the masses of people who have virtually grabbed me by the shoulders, given me a good shake and said, "Jen! Those carcinogens do not deserve the power you hand them when you emotionally twist yourself into a pretzel thinking of what they said and whether there is any truth to it!" I'm recanting my prior decision, summoning my energy, and tentatively putting up a sign on my blog door that says WELCOME.

(At least for now. I wish I could predict my long-term emotional stability, alas I cannot.)

It struck me: The reason I went down to the 3Day walk this year, with my family clothed in pink, was to spread cheer and support others; I wanted to give them happiness and strength.

The reason I opted to make this blog public (five and a half years ago), was in the event someone experiencing infertility or expecting or parenting multiples stumbled upon it; I wanted to give them courage and hope.

The reason I post the pictures and stories that I do is to hopefully, validate the feelings that so many of us have, that life can be tough at times. But it's beautiful and we need to savor all of the amazingly fleeting moments and maintain faith that things are indeed unfolding as they should.

Like the vast majority of people in my immediate family, it sincerely brings me great joy to bring joy to others. And after hearing from so many "others" this past week that expressed the happiness they've gleaned from this blog, I feel a positive obligation to keep it public. Sure, I know people don't always agree with me. In retrospect, I sometimes don't agree with myself, and might wonder, "What was I thinking when I wrote that?"

But one thing is for certain: it's never been my intent to hurt anyone, especially not my children. Hopefully, the vast majority of things that I've shared here, clearly illustrate the fact that they are my #1 priority. So when I receive passive-aggressive or down right venomous comments towards me, or any one of my children, my natural instinct to not hurt anyone is rapidly replaced with a fiery desire to mow the evil-doer down like a blade of grass.

I've long been aware that I need to be extremely cognizant of our children's privacy. As they grow older, what I write about, particularly in this forum, is an evolving terrain. In so far as moderating public feedback, I'm not quite sure of the solution. Maybe I eliminate comments altogether. Or maybe I eliminate anonymous comments. Or maybe I only allow comments from people who have blogs themselves, and therefore, run the risk of having their every thought and action analyzed and/or taken completely out of context.

I'll figure it out tomorrow. Or eventually.

Tonight, I'm just going to enjoy my pumpkin ale and marvel over the phenomenal ability of good to destroy bad and restore nature to perfect harmony. To those who have offered their generously kind words in an attempt to heal and restore this microcosm, thanks.

You Are Good People.

when the bad outweighs the good

2011-09-30T21:36:00.001-04:00

As a geologist, working in the petrochemical industry, I know that it doesn't take very much of a singular constituent to contaminate an entire drinking water supply. Take for example the organic and carcinogenic chemical, benzene.

When referring to benzene in groundwater, it is typically measured in milligrams per liter, or parts per million. The best way to explain that, is to imagine one drop of benzene in a million drops of water. That ratio would be represented as 1 mg/l or 1 ppm.

Now, in California the maximum contaminant level for benzene in groundwater is 0.001 mg/l. What that means is that a single drop of benzene in a million drops of water is above the MCL. In fact, one drop of benzene in a billion drops of water is above the MCL.

So, if a tanker truck were to spill gasoline on the ground, and that gasoline contains benzene, and that benzene migrates to the soil and then, groundwater ... and that groundwater flows to a river or reservoir ... any living organism in contact with that water will be exposed to a known carcinogen. When that happens, an elevated potential exists that the organism will either perish or grow more or less body parts.

People have long known that a single bad apple can spoil an entire bushel. But they might not know that some chemicals are so carcinogenic, even in very small, teeny tiny quantities, they can easily contaminate billions of gallons of water.

************

Five and a half years ago, in my first blog post, I wrote,

[This] blog is like an empty house. There's lots of decorating and filling of this space that I need to do ... and I'm excited to do it. Charlie told me that this [blog] is really art, because the stuff that I'm posting on this blog are my creations (in the form of thoughts and pictures). I like that description, Jen the artist. Since I'll be opening this up for people to explore ... I can imagine what an artist must feel like when sharing their art with the world. A dose of hesitation - a pinch of excitement - and a big scoop of hope that those that see your "work" will enjoy it as much as you do.

Five and a half years later, and after much soul searching, I've come to the decision that it's time to put up some drapes and a lock on the door to my blog house. Because over the years, while I have tried to painstakingly decorate this space, I've been "visited" by some carcinogens that have totally contaminated the reservoir that is my soul.

Yes, I've had a glass of wine. Actually, it's been two.

Why do you ask?

Today, I walked around with that sick feeling in my stomach because I thought about this blog and how it's become such a part of me. I've shared, on this space, intimate stories about myself and my family. I've written about my joys and my concerns pertaining to wifehood, motherhood and careerhood. I've written about my philosophies pertaining to life.

I've written about incredibly happy times and incredibly sad times. I've captured some wonderful memories and put photographs to stories that I would otherwise soon forget. But I've preserved them, here, so that I might always remember and hopefully, share with my children one day. Along the way, I've met so many wonderful people that I'll most likely never meet in person. They've shared with me, as I've tried to share with others, gentle advice and touching - often times hilarious - stories from their own lives.

Of course, I've been lucky enough to meet a few of these wonderful people in person. They've approached me in book stores and clothing stores and at the zoo and at 3-Day breast cancer walks and on airplanes. These absolute strangers who hesitantly introduce themselves and then whisper that they read my blog every single day. And when I don't write, they feel like something's missing. This little blog, that started out as a platform for my family living 3,000-miles cross-country, has expanded in to a repository of my inner-most thoughts that for the past five and a half years, has drawn an average of a million visitors per year.

The fact is, this past year has nearly killed me and my doctor believes that I'm in the midst of a 15-month nervous breakdown. At this point in my life, what seems like an onslaught of negative and sarcastic comments are far too much for me to handle. Sure, I could turn the comments off, but then I receive them in the form of e-mails. And I could delete the comments (and e-mails), but once they seep in to my mind, they pull whatever energy I have remaining for REAL LIFE in to what feels like a constant battle of defending my choices and parenting style.

Since I returned to work full-time last month, I've been back to working 60+ hours a week. The rest of my waking hours are spent caring for four children, my husband and our home. That which was plaguing me turned out not to be lupus, but rather, a rare and debilitating auto-immune disease. Between all of that, there is very little left for me. So to sit down at night during what is supposed to be my peaceful time and receive feedback from the peanut gallery that I'm raising ignorant wimps who are bully targets, and we're encouraging obesity, and I'm tampering with my children's self image and privacy by writing about them at all, and so on and so forth, after a while ... the egomaniac that I purportedly portray myself as being, takes pause.

Why the hell am I doing this again?

Why am I opening myself up and allowing this kind of poison in to my life? But perhaps, more importantly, why am I sharing such private details about my family on the INTERNET without any restriction? If I had more hours in the day, or perhaps more stamina, maybe things would be different. But these days, it's a challenge to put one foot in front of the other. And all the while, random people are walking in the open door and taking a huge shit smack dab in the middle of our living room. Quite frankly, I just don't have the energy to clean it up anymore.

So with that: be happy, be safe.

And everyday, try your best to be kind.

in defense of boys who wear tutus

2011-09-28T23:14:00.001-04:00

One of the things that I've learned in parenthood is that any time you make a decision regarding your children, someone is there to tell you one of two things:

1) You're doing it right!

Or ...

2) You're doing it wrong!

Sometimes, it's fun to give advice. And sometimes it's fun to receive advice. But it isn't much fun when you feel certain that you already know what you're doing.

I was recently stopped at a light and the car next to me had an infant carrier in the backseat, with an infant strapped in, and the carrying handle was up with dangling toys hanging down for the baby to see. Chances are, I wouldn't have said anything to the person in the car next to me if the carrier was devoid of markings, but there were very clear arrows illustrating that the handle needed to be moved to the down position when the carrier was installed. Clearly these people had no idea.

So what did I do?

I took it upon myself that this child's safety and ultimate survival depended upon me so I rolled down my window, got the driver's attention, and in my most unpatronizing tone possible, told them that they need to perhaps revisit the instruction manual on their child's car seat because it really looked like the handle should be moved down to ensure optimum safety of their baby. Then the light turned green and I smiled, waved and sped away before I felt like too much of a Meddling Mildred.

After having gone through a couple car seat safety seminars, one of the things that I learned (years and years ago) is that many/most infant carriers are equipped with carrying handles that should be moved in to the DOWN position, flush against the headrest, when the carrier is placed in to the car. The reason being: if there is an accident, the baby will fly up and HIT the carrying bar. So yes, many years have passed since I've had a car seat "professionally" installed, and undoubtedly safety advancements have been made in the field of carseat design and engineering, but it's still in my head that a car accident + handle up in a carrier that is designed to be in the DOWN position = fractured skull of baby in carrier.

(Here's a great link that covers the topic in more detail.)

Not long ago, I was walking with a friend who was lamenting that their child had to have four teeth extracted because they were so badly decayed. Instead of saying, "Newsflash! If you want to give your child a fruit serving, consider an apple instead of a Fruit Roll-Up everyday!" I just nodded and agreed that yes, perhaps it was genetics and they just had VERY soft teeth.

If I said something about the way I care for MY children's teeth, it would have undoubtedly put her on the defensive and why do that? Because really, what good would come from me telling this person, who has suggested that I'm overly hypersensitive to oral care considering I took my kids to a pediatric dentist when they were less than two and to this day, take them to the dentist every four months and I still floss and brush their teeth with a headlamp every single night and use a two-minute timer and have them rinse with fluoride ... that perhaps if she were a bit more hypersensitive to their child's oral care and brushed their child's teeth until such an age that their child was proficiently able to tie their own shoes, she wouldn't be forking over the equivalent of a mortgage payment in dental care for their eight-year-old.

My opinion might not go over too swell.

So, instead ... I Say Nothing.

(I picked that one up from my mother who notoriously "SAYS NOTHING. Except...".)

Because I know that the vast majority of parents are trying to do the best job that they can for their children, the opinions of others ~ particularly if they are in stark contrast to their own ~ can cause delirium. With that in mind, I'd like to offer the following information in response to a few comments (and e-mails) asking why I'd take my BOYS out in PUBLIC dressed like FAIRIES.

First. Consider: Our children have been exposed to several cancer fundraising events over the span of their lifetime and this is the third consecutive year that they have participated, in some capacity, with the 3Day walk. Because breast cancer is predominantly a disease that impacts women, the color of support is PINK in any and all shades. So for those not in the know, the 3Day is one huge pink party. All the participants, men - women - traffic control police officers - people lining the route - are typically wearing PINK. And it's not uncommon to see men wearing tutus and pink wigs as their show of support and good humor.

What is the less of two socially unacceptable evils?

Four and six-year-old boys in tutus, or pre-teen boys in bras?

Or, what about a police officer in a pink thong with crotchless leather chaps?

Dressing up for the 3Day event was most definitely our boys choice, because at least for William, he remembered years past and wanted to get in to "the spirit" of the occasion. This isn't a get-up he wears everyday, nor would he want to.

It gets cold in Virginia!

Second. I'd never ask (or force) any of my children to do something that they didn't want to do. But when I took the children shopping last week, William asked for me to buy him a pair of wings when I bought the girls' because he wanted to match his sisters and I actually had to stop by the store (again) on the way to the walk on Sunday in order to buy ANOTHER pair of wings for Henry because he felt left out and the crying, crying, crying.

Maybe that was wrong?

I've had "static" about this issue for a loooooong time now so maybe I should have taken the advice of more conventional parents and discouraged my boys by saying, "You can't wear that! This is real life and not some FREAK SHOW. It's fundamentally wrong for a boy to dress like a girl and I don't want to contribute to your gender confusion!" Moreover, why should I spend MY HARD EARNED MONEY on items that are totally inappropriate for a BOY and will do nothing more than cause embarrassment and the potential for harassment and humiliation?

I spend my hard earned money on things like this because: 1) all four of my children love dressing up and 2) in my opinion, any time kids start to worry at such a young age about being "too girly" or "too boyish" or what others might think of them, it's largely a result of outside influences. Thankfully, at this point in their young lives, our boys have a tremendous amount of self confidence and aren't influenced by what others think of them.

Isn't that how trend setters are created?

The boys enjoy dressing up, because it feeds in to some "imaginative" scenario that they have created. This past weekend, they were interested in dressing up specifically because of the event. But once they were there, with their pink fairy wings, they were running around in circles and pretending that they were winged pterantadons. So for anyone who may have expressed an ELEVATED concern that we are tampering with our boys' masculinity (gasp!) please allow me to reassure you that my boys play with pirates and dragons and other boyish-type things a lot more than they play with dolls and dress up in pink tutus.

But if they wanted to play with dolls and dress up in pink tutus, I'd support them in that decision. AND if my boys decided tomorrow that they were never going to play with dolls again and Henry suddenly realized that his pink "Super Suit" is actually his sister's ballet leotard and the antithesis of something Superman would ever wear ... I would support his decision to stash it away forever.

They're not running around with knives or re-enacting violent scenes.

They are zooming around the yard pretending they can fly.

In pink ballet slippers and leotards.

As Charlie said to me, "If William and Henry grow up to be men who wear women's undergarments, then I'll worry." Then he hesitated and added, "Then again, if they grow up to be positively contributing members of society - what does it really matter WHAT THEY WEAR so long as they are comfortable in their own skin?"

I couldn't have said it better myself.

the cheering section

2011-09-25T21:43:00.002-04:00

One day, I will get back out there and complete another 3-Day walk ... but until that day comes, I've taken a spot along the sidelines cheering the walkers on. Today was the final 20 miles of the 3-Day, 60-mile walk through Washington, D.C. and we were there in full force.

We arrived at the 12-mile marker just as the first walkers were powering past and we remained there for the next four hours while people limped through. The children handed out more than 2,000 pieces of chocolate candy and received an equal number of high-fives, fist-pumps and smiles.

We saw walkers laughing.

We saw walkers crying.

We saw a lot of walkers pull out their cameras and take pictures. And one of the walkers greeted us like a long-lost friend when she said, "These are the triplets that I remember from last year!!" Then she pointed to her wrist and added, "LOOK, I'm still wearing the bracelet you gave me!!"

An NBC news van screeched on their brakes and a camera crew jumped out to film the kids (see the cameraman behind the hydrant?)

The newscaster interviewed me why we were out there and I told him, "We've got a family history of this disease and this is our way of supporting the walkers - supporting the cause - supporting the survivors - and remembering those loved ones that we've lost."

One of the young mothers in my girls' Girl Scout troop was recently diagnosed with breast cancer. Just this week, I learned that our mailman's wife was diagnosed with an aggressive form of breast cancer three months ago, two days after her 50th birthday. And then there's my own sister and my neighbor's sister and my co-worker and the woman standing behind me in the grocery store with the pink shirt that read, "I'm A Cancer Survivor!" We're out there for them and for countless others, most of whom we'll never meet.

We're out there because there's a healing energy that flows through the crowd that is contagious. We're out there because I want for our children to know how their active participation in a cause greater than themselves, can so positively impact and inspire others.

We're out there because I know how challenging those last few miles are and we want to support the walkers, the heroes who raised over $7 million dollars, get to the finish line. Bite-sized Snickers and pink clad tutu wearing, sparkly hat sporting, fairy wing donning cheering children definitely help.

things i'm thinking about today

2011-09-24T10:14:00.005-04:00

Seven years ago, I was completely couch-bound and my biggest fear was that my babies would be born so prematurely they wouldn't survive. A close second worry was that as I continued to grow larger, my body would split open.

I worried about how I'd care for three newborns at once. How would I nurse them and hold them or take care of them at night? What if they were all sick at the same time? Would I ever sleep again? How would I be able to chase three toddlers, simultaneously? How could I spend quality time with each to ensure that they all felt like valued members of this family?

While I certainly imagined our triplet children joyously celebrating their birthdays, never once did I contemplate the logistics surrounding those birthday celebrations.

On October 14, the triplets will turn seven. SEVEN! Three weeks from today is the day after October 14. Or, the Saturday that we are planning to host a party for the children's seventh birthday.

These are a few of the things to consider...

Who to invite?

Their first grade glass?

Scout troops?

Neighborhood kids?

A hand full of close friends, no more than two or three children each?

Where's the party venue?

At a local pumpkin patch where the average ticket price is $15.00/person not including food?

Side Note 1: The cost of celebrating at a local pumpkin patch in San Diego was $5.00/person not including food. Northern Virginia is a very expensive place to live. But the cost still might be worth it since set-up and clean-up is completely handled.

At our house with games and activities scattered around the yard?

Side Note 2: We looked in to renting a pony for a few hours and almost choked when we learned the price to rent a pony for two hours approached the cost of PURCHASING a pony.

The weather has been so volatile and rainy, it's important to have a contingency plan of what to do if all of the festivities have to come "indoors"?

If we have the party at our house, and the weather is nice prompting us to stay outside, the chances are excellent that neighborhood children will KNOW that we are having a party and will either 1) crash it and/or 2) feel very sad that they were not included.

Side Note 3: We've been invited to countless birthday parties over the past year and there's a sensation that we need to reciprocate. Sometimes just the girls are invited to a "girls only" party; or William will be invited to a "boys only" party. But there have been several other times when party host will invite our entire clan - including Henry - because they don't want anyone to feel left out.

Side Note 4: I'm glad that I don't buy in to the hype (much) that surrounds birthday parties. We've been invited to some parties where the attention to detail was greater than what I put in to my wedding. Someone recently told me about a birthday party where the child invited five of her friends and they flew to Disney World for a three-day weekend. Even if we had the money to do something like that ... I can't imagine that we ever would. The mind, it boggles.

Side Note 5: We had parties for the children on their first, second, third and fourth birthdays. On their fifth birthday we took them to Disneyland. On their sixth birthday, they helped us strip wall paper. So I do feel like they're overdue for some kind of celebration since they totally get the concept of birthdays now and are counting down the days. Also, there are three with a birthday on the same day. Maybe I should buy in to the hype a bit more than I do. And maybe I will when my fully functional clone (and Publisher's Clearing House Sweepstakes check) arrives in the mail.

Side Note 6: Perhaps I should send invitations on behalf of each of the children, as opposed to the three as a group, so the invitee does not feel compelled to buy three separate gifts. Or perhaps I just stick with the theme I adopted at their fourth birthday and tell invitees, "Your presence is our gift, no presents please!" because 1) the time it takes to write thank you notes can be daunting; 2) we honestly have enough stuff and 3) it removes more than one burden (a) financial; (b) what to get? what to get?!) off of people. OR maybe, half of the toys that they receive could be donated to Toys for Tots. Or something charitable.

Side Note 7: Party Favors. Whether we have the party at our house, or offsite, our "party favors" will be a real pumpkin. Am I the only one that is haunted by Goodie Bags? Or rather, those small plastic bags that are filled with candy and cheap trinkets that will be disposed of in less than an hour by the parents when the children aren't looking? Surely I'm not the only parent that is so cruel. Anyone? Anyone?

When I suggested today to our children that they select two friends that they would like to invite to their party; William suggested our 12 and 70-year old neighbors, Elizabeth suggested William's best friend and the most popular girl in school who doesn't know her name, and Carolyn suggested Noni and Jim because they are BRINGING HER NEW DOG.

Seven years later, the children are here and healthy and (for the most part), I'm in one piece. These are truly the important things in life. So I suppose we could just go with their guest list and make a nice cake.

Or rather three nice cakes because everyone wants their own.

things i love about the east coast #2

2011-09-22T23:15:00.002-04:00

Horseback riding in the Appalachian Mountains...

I'm not sure if there are more horses on the east coast - or more public access to horses - but it certainly seems like horseback riding is more prevalent around here than it was in California. And riding a horse through the beautiful Appalachian Mountains is awesome.

With the exception of Henry who was squeezed in to a western saddle with his dad (ouch, the horn, particularly when trotting downhill), the kids were able to ride all by themselves.

It was such an amazing feeling to see my little people on these huge animals that if they so desire, could gallop away. It surprised me that the children were totally at ease and had no trouble guiding their steed.

So it was just me who felt like I was going to wet my saddle.

MY BABIES!!

Why did I think this was a good idea?

William, pull up the reins! PULL UP!

The kids really enjoyed themselves and have been talking about it every day, since. I totally understand their obsession since I've always loved to horseback ride. It was something that I did, quite a bit, when I was younger and for years I've dreamed of getting back in the saddle.

That's a picture of me, back in the saddle.

After a two-hour trail ride, I could hardly walk for the next three days.

Funny, I don't remember the crippling groin and inner thigh pain when I was younger.

things i love about the east coast #1

2011-09-21T08:27:00.006-04:00

Today is the first day of fall and the leaves on the trees are very gradually starting to turn colors.

Unlike last year at this time, when we didn't own a rake and all of our focus was on unpacking boxes, this year Charlie is in "hyper-crazy leaf removal mode", and can be found driving his tractor around in circles, at least twice a week, sucking up those leaves that have begun their mass exitus from the trees.

Watching the leaves fall from the trees, signals to me that it has been one full year that we've been in Virginia. Much like I wrote down a few of the things that we loved about San Diego, I thought I'd jot down some of the things that we really love about living here. And why, even though this move has challenged us in many (many, many, many) ways, it was such a good move for our family.

There's no way that you can adequately explain "seasons" to children.

Growing up in an environment with seasons, they are so important to me to signal ... I dunno. The changes in life? The passage of time? The reality that nothing stays the same, forever? Also, watching the world change around you is breathtaking and sledding is SO MUCH fun.

So I wanted our children to experience firsthand, the tangible sensation of change in the air. We had a cold snap earlier this week, so I started the process of pulling out our colder weather gear. Jackets, hats and flannel lined jeans. Then over the next few days, the temperatures warmed back up to the 70's and woolen caps were abandoned for sunhats.

But the mornings are becoming gradually cooler. So at the moment, everyone in our house is filled with anticipation for wearing cozy clothes, apple picking, roaring fires and leaf pile jumping. Provided, of course any stay on the ground long enough for us to accumulate in a pile and jump in. CHARLIE.

But we're also really savoring these last few days of shorts and t-shirts...

And a world that surrounds us with beautiful greenery.

in a land called honalee

2011-09-18T21:30:00.003-04:00

Last Monday, Henry and I met the children at the bus stop.

School is a long day for them. They leave the house at 7:45 in the morning and don't return home until 3:30 in the afternoon. So when they climbed off the bus, their faces lit up when they saw us. They all yelled "HIYA MOM! HIYA HENRY!" but then they jetted past, running as fast as they could to keep up with the older neighborhood children.

Henry stayed with me, holding my hand and jabbering on about dinosaurs. As I watched my "big" kids running down the street with their backpacks swinging, I gripped the hand of the little four-year-old next to me and smiled when he grinned up at me with his big blue eyes. When we made it to our house, five minutes later, the triplets were climbing trees and laughing. They surely would have missed me if I'd taken much longer to arrive. Not because they needed me for any maternal reason ... except unlocking the door so they could bolt inside and grab a snack.

And it struck me.

This is how it happens.

They venture off. They make their own friends. Slowly but surely, and sometimes in what seem like incredibly fast bursts, they grow up.

Henry's favorite book at the moment is Puff The Magic Dragon. I've long loved that story, but instead of reading it to our children, I've always sung it.

Puff the Magic Dragon, lived by the sea and frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honalee! Little Jackie Paper, loved that rascal Puff and brought him strings and sealing wax and other fancy stuff.

Together they would travel on a boat with billowed sails. Jackie kept a lookout perched on Puff's gigantic tail. Noble kings and princes would bow whene'er they came. Pirate ships would lower their flags when Puff roared out his name.

A dragon lives forever, but not so little boys. Painted wings and giants rings make way for other toys. One gray night it happened, Jackie Paper came no more. And Puff that mighty dragon, he ceased his fearless roar.

His head was bent in sorrow, green scales fell like rain. Puff no longer went to play along the cherry lane. Without his lifelong friend, Puff could not be brave, so Puff that mighty dragon sadly slipped in to his cave.

It always made me a little sad to think of Puff crying green scales like rain. But we've picked up a wonderful version of the book (that comes with it's own CD) where an adult Jackie Paper returns to Honalee with his young daughter who becomes a new play mate for Puff.

(I'm such a sap for happy endings.)

This morning, while the older children were outside with their father riding their bikes around our driveway, I was inside the house organizing donation piles of clothes and toys the children no longer wear or play with. Henry's favorite Peanut shirt from last year is way too small. The toy dog that William never let out of his grasp has long since ripped open and lost the majority of stuffing. Carolyn no longer wears her Princess dress and Elizabeth ... well, she still hoards everything. But her siblings have agreed that their items are ready to move on to Goodwill, so they've volunteered them for our charity bag.

As I was walking past the boys' bedroom carrying tiny potty chairs from our attic that have been collecting dust, I caught sight of Henry trying to get dressed. He had on his red Superman socks and was struggling to put a leg in the pants that were currently backwards. He was staggering around the room, bumping in to the dresser and the bed while singing, "Puff da magic dwagon wived by da sea and fwowocked in da auda mist by a dand cawd Honadee!"

I walked in to the living room and turned on our stereo. Cuing up Peter Paul & Mary I turned my eyes on the boys' door and patiently waited. Within a matter of seconds, once the chorus began, Henry came running out, with one leg still outside of his pants.

"Is dat Puff?!" he exclaimed.

I happily nodded yes and he jumped in to my outstretched arms, his pant falling off his leg exposing his Spiderman underwear which were also on backwards. For the next several minutes, while an abundance of house work was waiting for me, we danced around the living room loudly singing along. Soon, he put his head on my shoulder and I put my face in to his soft (still) babyish neck. After holding him for the song once ... twice ... three times, it felt like my arms were on fire. But when the song ended and he touched my cheeks and said, "Just one more time, OK Princess Mommy?" I choked down the lump in my throat and happily obliged.

Because a dragon lives forever, but not so little boys.

this could be a problem

2011-09-17T09:34:00.000-04:00

As geologists, Charlie and I have done a lot of camping.

We love to camp.

Over the years, we've heard that others typically do not like to camp directly alongside us. Because my husband, it would seem, snores when he sleeps. He snores loudly. To the point that he could easily wake up an entire campground and send both small and large animals scurrying in to the forest. So for those faithful veterans that have returned to the outdoors with us, we try not to be offended when they wait to see where we set up our tent and then set theirs a mile upwind.

Now, interestingly enough, Charlie's snoring doesn't bother me in the slightest. I find this fascinating considering the slightest sound that our children make during the night will cause me to stir. Just a few weeks ago, when I was under the influence of prescription strength sleeping medication, I jerked awake to rush in when my child was heaving over the side of their bed at 4 AM. Charlie, meanwhile, snored right through it.

Although we certainly have our ups and downs in our marriage, by and large we have an incredibly deep devotion to each other. Whenever I tell Charlie the things that I adore about him: his ability to make me laugh, the way that he cherishes our children, his commitment to our family, his incredible cooking skills; he will respond that he adores me because yada yada yada, and most importantly ... I am able to sleep through his snoring.

Where could I ever find another woman like you?

Suffice it to say, Charlie considers himself a very lucky man to have a wife by his side that doesn't try to suffocate him at night by putting a pillow over his face as he rattles art off the walls.

But what's the saying?

Nothing lasts forever?

Or perhaps, all good things must come to an end?

This morning, we were awoken early by Carolyn who was standing next to the bed with her arms tightly crossed against her chest. She was as scowling and as angry as a six-year-old girl could be. "MOM! DAD!" She nearly shouted. "I DID NOT SLEEP WELL AT! ALL! LAST NIGHT!"

"Oh, no, what happened, sweetheart?" I asked as I sat up to embrace her. Thinking that perhaps she had a bad dream or was feeling unwell, she stuck out her entire arm and a very accusatory finger at her father and said, "HE KEPT ME UP ALL NIGHT WITH THAT SNORING!"

Much like our triplets could sleep through each others crying when they were babies because that's what they were accustomed to, we'd been banking on the theory our children would have developed a tolerance - like I obviously have - to their father's nightly symphonics.

That's apparently not the case.

"Oh no ..." Charlie groaned when he learned that his daughter did not possess her mother's outstanding immunity. "What are we going to do about that?"

Carolyn crossed her arms again and bit her lip in thought.

Finally she concluded, "Well, either you can sleep outside in the car. Or ... you'll just have to stop breathing."

house and home

2011-09-14T22:52:00.003-04:00

Charlie recently pulled out our 4-sided measuring stick to record the children's heights. We've been charting this information since they were newborns and it's incredible to see how much they've grown...

This is the current tally:

William = 4'1"

Elizabeth = 3'11"

Carolyn = 4'5"

Henry = 3'6"

Charlie's is the shortest of his three brothers at 6'1".

I'm the second shortest of my five sisters at 5'7".

While Charlie and I aren't exceptionally tall, there are some very tall genes in the mix as represented by our niece, Alice, who is 6'2". When we recently saw Emily - who is an even six feet - we learned that when she was our children's ages, she was the same size as Elizabeth. What this means is that Carolyn, who is currently six inches taller than her sister, very well might surpass me in height by the time she's 10, and Charlie by the time she's 12.

Seeing how much they've grown certainly helps me to understand why we're spending an obscene amount of money on food (and shoes and clothes) these days. And I know that their food consumption is only going to go UP. Already, on any given day, they'll consume an average of one gallon of milk, a half gallon of orange juice, one loaf of bread, eight cups of cereal, 64 ounces of yogurt and five pounds of fresh fruit. As for me, I'm the scavenger that lives off their uneaten scraps and has been wearing the same pair of running shoes for two years.

Motherhood: It's a glamorous life.

me and my rose tinted glasses

2011-09-13T21:31:00.001-04:00

Yesterday was Henry's first day at his NEW preschool.

His NEW preschool that he attended for two weeks over the summer as part of an introductory session and that introductory session went very well, even though his teacher suggested on the last day that we might need to have Child Find come in to the class to work with him because ... well, it's too early to say but he's on every one's radar. And as far as I'm concerned, that's a good thing because I'd rather have him be ON the radar than totally OFF the radar and potentially floating away in to some behavioral/developmental sea of oblivion.

Henry will be attending his NEW preschool three days a week for the next ten months, and then potentially, five days a week beginning next Fall as a segue for the full day kindergarten that we suspect he'll begin in the Fall of 2013. Of course that scenario will only come to fruition if we continue on this path of traditional living as opposed to the one in which we sell everything off and begin a new life in some remote location as goat herding homeschoolers. (If Charlie wasn't so level headed and "responsible", you know I'd totally execute that game plan. Just think, I could be your one stop-shop for goat milk soap and mohair sweaters!)

Henry loves his NEW preschool and as far as traditional living goes, I love it because it is extremely play-based and when the Director told us to be sure we do not put our children in fancy clothes because there is an excellent chance they WILL get messy, I wiped a tear from my eye. This NEW preschool is such a far cry from his preschool last year where the majority of class time was spent "readying" them for the academic side of kindergarten.

They're little for such a short period of time.

What's the big rush on making them grow up so fast?

Speaking of which, I unintentionally ignited a very lively discussion with some of the mothers at the NEW preschool yesterday. Charlie had a dentist appointment to complete a root canal (although, eight weeks and counting and the root canal is still not completed; tomorrow's blog post topic, "Is it Possible To Obtain A Dental License From A Cracker Jack Box? Me Thinks YES!"), so I had the excitement of dropping Henry off and attending the preschool orientation.

Following the orientation, we had about 15-minutes to spare before school was dismissed and I was introducing myself to other parents. One of the women has a son in our triplet's first grade class and we've known the family for almost a year. We were talking about what we'd done this past weekend and she indicated that she had attended a memorial service at the Pentagon with her family to commemorate the 10-year anniversary of 9/11. When they returned home, they spent the rest of the day watching footage of the attacks.

Her children are approximately the same age as ours, so I asked, "How did the kids do with all of that?" She replied, "Well, it was difficult because they were very upset and confused, but with my husband in the military, I felt like it was important that they saw and understood what had happened to our country, why people are crying and why Daddy is gone so much."

Personally, I wouldn't have exposed our children to ALL of that. I probably would've told them that Daddy is gone so much because he has the very important job of keeping our country safe and is trying to promote peace in the world.

But you know how it is ... everyone's got an opinion and rather than present my 180 degree opposite philosophy, I decided to broach the subject of birthday parties because we've got one coming up a month from tomorrow (Let the Great Dog Countdown Begin!!) and I really need some ideas.

Alas, before I could even launch in to "What are some good party spots in the area?", one of the other mothers nearby piped up, "You let your four-year-old watch coverage of 9/11? Didn't that give him NIGHTMARES?!"

Now I'm sure it wasn't her intent to put the first mother on the defensive but within a matter of seconds, parents started congregating and joining the discussion and they are either violently shaking their heads in opposition or eagerly nodding their heads in agreement about just how much "news" should be disclosed with our children.

As the conversation quickly grew in intensity, because everyone felt compelled to share their opinions on the matter, I stepped away for a snack (anyone want this last chocolate glazed donut? Going once ... going twice ... ) because meh, joining that discussion was going to take way too much energy and I really didn't think I'd be able to articulate the thoughts in my head.

Also? Mmmm, chocolate glazed donuts!

Nonetheless, I've been thinking a lot about the "discussion" for the past day, particularly that component of just how much is too much to tell a child? At our house, we toe the line of "Too Much Information" very carefully. We share, but we shelter and there's a good reason...

Ignorance really is bliss!

When I was circa six-years-old, there was a house on the way in to town that had a horrible fire. Inside the house there had been a young mother with her small children. Apparently, she liked to sleep in the buff and when the downstairs had caught on fire, she was trapped upstairs. The fire department arrived on the scene and told her to JUMP out the window. Now I don't know if it was because she was nude and modest, or overcome by smoke and losing consciousness, but for whatever reason, she didn't jump. Nor did she throw her children to safety.

So she and her children perished in an inferno.

I've seen many horrific things in my lifetime, but my young memory of that house probably takes the cake and haunts me to this day. The front door, windows and portions of roof were gone and there was black soot coating every inch of the exterior. You could still see the remnants of curtains, flapping in the breeze and burned out furniture on the inside. I know it was my imagination, but every time we went past, I could see figures standing in the upstairs window.

Honestly, I wish my family hadn't told me the story of what had happened there. I wish that at six-years-old, I never knew that something like that could happen. Chances are, I never would have even noticed the burned out house whenever we drove past and thereby wouldn't have had my mind filled with such terrifying images. Moreover, I wouldn't lie awake in bed worrying that something like that was going to happen to ME and to MY family and maybe I should just keep my eyes open all night... and ... what's that smell?

IS THAT SMOKE?

As a mother, it's my instinct to keep our children safe. Therefore, I tell them what I believe to be enough information that is: 1) beneficial and 2) suitable for them to process at their young ages.

For example, last week, a local 12-year old boy drowned in a creek due to the torrential rains. We pulled up a picture of the boy on our computer - said a prayer for his family - and then I reminded the children, "You are not allowed to go down to our creek without your father or I with you." I showed them the pictures that I took with Henry the other day and how quickly the water rose. We talked about our trips to the beach and how the waves could toss us around like rag dolls. If enough rain falls, our creek could quickly turn in to raging river with currents similarly strong.

While I thought our conversation was general enough, the kids were terribly frightened. William was up no less than four times during the night, worried about the boy - worried about his family - worried about himself washing down the swollen creek. Just as I imagined that it was my house that burned down, William now imagines that the 12-year old boy could have been him. Did I share too much information - or just enough?

It is my belief (and hope) that I shared just enough to empower our children with the realization that accidents can and do happen but in certain circumstances, they possess the ability to keep themselves safe by thinking through their actions and behaving in a safe manner. As parents, we are trying to instill in our children the knowledge that they are ultimately responsible for their own well being.

This summer, I read that an eight-year-old boy in New York who was abducted on the way home from day camp. I was already opposed to letting our children walk around our neighborhood unattended and this story validated precisely why. So I shared with our children that a little boy had been taken by a stranger off the street. He was lost and had asked for directions and .... that was the end of the little boy. He would no longer see the sunshine or play in the rain and his family are very sad. The kids looked at me with wide eyes and asked, "Will the Mom and Dad of the little boy be sad for more than 1,000 weeks?"

Yes. They'll be sad for the rest of their lives.

The children asked for more information and all that I divulged was that he died because of a very bad man whom the little boy had thought was a good man who would help him. We worked through various scenarios of what would the children do if they were in a situation where they couldn't find their mother or father?

Who would they talk to for help?

Since that time, the kids WILL NOT go in our front yard without a whistle. Little surprise, William (aka: Mr. Cautious) insists on wearing it and he keeps his eyes peeled for any unusual cars that drive down the road. And believe it or not, that bit of safety consciousness comes without me telling the children that the bad man had drugged the boy before smothering him. Sure, I could have provided "all the details" but I didn't feel compelled to tell the children that when the police found the remains of the child, the psychopath had severed his feet and disposed of his body in various garbage bins around town.

In my humble opinion, that would be classified as TMI for a child to process so instead, I signed them up for Tae Kwon Do and will be buying them all nun-chucks for their birthday.

A few weeks later, in addition to praying for the family of the boy in New York, we also started praying for families in Norway. "Why?" the children asked. I don't even remember what I told them, but I certainly didn't tell them that yet another psychopath set off a bomb in one location and then dressed up as a policeman and shot innocent children as they tried to escape in the water. I didn't tell them that children used other children's bodies to hide beneath and that children who ran up to the "policeman" for help were shot dead.

Whenever news would come on covering the story, we'd quickly turn the channel. Because how could they glean anything of value from that? What could OUR children do to avoid a situation like that in the future? Not go to camp? Not approach a policeman for help?

Or, more likely, stay up all night worrying about something happening to them?

We don't shelter our children from everything. They know about cancer and drownings and vague details surrounding kidnappings. But there are A LOT of things our children don't know about. Heck, most days, I wish I didn't know as much as I did .... which is a large part of the reason we really don't watch much "news."

If the news covered stories about elementary school children spreading cheer by visiting the elderly in nursing homes, or the record number of volunteers that showed up to help out at the homeless shelter, I'd tune in every day. But those aren't the stories that make the headlines and quite frankly, I'd rather not know about another homicide, rape, senseless beating, insert the evil of mankind's ways here ________________ that vividly highlights just how DANGEROUS and TWISTED of a world we live in.

Our children don't know that the reason we lock their bedroom windows every night is because of a little girl named Polly Klaas and another little girl named Danielle van Dam both of who lived only a few miles from us when they disappeared. To tell a six-year-old that someone snuck in to their homes and abducted them while they were sleeping before raping and murdering them, is information our children don't need to know. One was a stranger to the child, the other a neighbor and yes, those horrors actually happened and because those unthinkable crimes happened in the towns where I lived, I know ALL about them, but why should our young children? For the same reason, do they need to know that the reason we insist either their father or I accompany them in to a public restroom is because of little Matthew Cecchi?

All too soon, there will come a time when our children will know a lot more than they know right now. They will be reading proficiently and will probably pick up the newspaper and devour the headlines before we do. But there are certain things that at this juncture, I'm not prepared for them to learn about. There are certain things that are so horrific for me, I don't believe that I am capable of digesting the information and transferring it to them in a way that is appropriate for their age. Which takes me back to the discussion at Henry's NEW preschool...

I don't want our children watching planes crashing in to buildings or people jumping to their deaths because they are trapped. I'm not ready to "share" that information with them just yet. Maybe I'm over protective and stunting their development in some way. But I suspect that when they are older they will be more capable of handling the gravity of that information much better than they are now. Although at 40, I can barely handle it myself.

To me, the best part of childhood (outside of fantastic skin, lightening fast metabolism and flexibility) is a certain naivety to the cold hard truths of the world. There is a very small window of pure innocence that exists wherein a child believes that they are completely safe and thoroughly loved by everyone. There will come a time when our children no longer believe in the tooth fairy, Easter Bunny or leprechauns. There will come a time when they will realize that Mom and Dad were the ones that chowed down the cookies on Christmas Eve.

Why would I allow those awesome fairytales to exist while also exposing them to gruesome under belly of humanity? Sadly, there will also come a day in the not too far off future when our children will be fully cognizant that the person sitting next to them on an airplane might very well be linked to a terrorist network that would rejoice in their death simply because they are an American.

Thankfully, today isn't that day and I'm going to keep that day at bay for as long as possible.