Wordful Wednesday: Unity in Marriage

Unity in marriage is worth fighting for.

Just kidding - I don't think fighting ever works, that is unless of course you own a couple pairs of old boxing gloves because laughter certainly helps.

But I suppose unity may be achieved through many angles including love, laughter, affection, communication, prayer, kindness, service, and work.

Just the other night Paul brought home a brand new sectional sofa (in boxes) from IKEA, the sofa was actually a replacement for the one that snapped in half (in two places) but why it snapped and how it was resolved is for another post. Needless to say I don't know anyone who enjoys IKEA assembly - I don't even like watching the process.

Once most the kids were settled in bed Paul announced it was time to get the job done and suggested I join in. I had enough (very valid) excuses to get out of it and quickly buried myself under the covers because "I needed a quiet moment to myself" and a little bit of rest might "help take the edge off".

In most cases rest is rejuvenating but on this occasion it was not. Every time I heard a box open the thought came to me... "I should go down and help him, or at least just watch". So I did.

Baby George was still asleep at this point so I actually had two arms to chip in and did so by sorting out the cushions and slipcovers. It is actually not easy to wrap a couch in a snug fitting slipcover so together we worked pulling, tugging, and even fisting the form into proper shape.

I was then assigned to be the hardware sorter but made enough errors to be redirected to searching out some online support and instructions. By this point baby George was up and in need of some care so the last request was for me to dig through a box of old CD's and pick out a surprise, I chose Mama Mia and spent the rest of the building time nursing on a chair nearby.

Actually, I didn't make it to the end of the project but was happy to see the completed couch at 3:00 am when I came down to walk the baby. So even though I really didn't help much, working together was rejuvenating, probably more so than a nap or even a night out together.

Not too long ago I was chatting with one of my sister in laws about her and my brother fixing their dryer together. I was quite impressed with their handiness but even more impressed when she said "you know Al, that was a great moment in our marriage". Among pictures of them together on the Great Wall of China, traveling through Europe, hiking, and welcoming new babies my brother included a picture of them fixing this dryer on their wedding anniversary slide show.

Writing this post also reminds me of the afternoon I took Paul to meet my grandparents. My grandma prepared a "special" salmon lunch and while she was busy with the final condiments and dressings she sent us outside, each with a butter knife and requested that we dig out the weeds growing between the cracks in her front walk. She soon made her way out to treat us with her own version of peach lemonade then encouraged us to keep at it. Years later at our wedding lunch my grandma joyfully recalled how well we worked together on those weeds and promised us much happiness if we continued our life together in such a manner.

Unfortunately much of the work in front of us often becomes "divided" then conquered because it seems to be most efficient. But perhaps in trying to save time or just get it over with we miss out on so much more, perhaps instead we should first be "unified" then face our tasks.

I may have just cursed myself to having to help clean out the garage this next weekend but if it means increased unity - I'm in! Because work may not be romantic but it works in marriage just the same.

Unity in marriage is worth fighting working for.

More Wordful Wednesday here

Wordful Wednesday: Poetry

This is a playful kid poem, something I composed for my baby who I can't believe is 1 today!

The Shrinking Machine

My kids think I'm mean
For, I've invented a shrinking machine,
I'll wait 'till they sleep and just stick 'em right in
And Zip! Zap! Beep! Whirl! give it a spin

From four feet to three, I'll stop it at two
Look at them now! my babies brand new.
With three on my lap and the rest strapped to my back
Now, where do I buy a six baby front pack?

A multi-task mama tries to get it all done
But diapers, dishes, messes soon take from the fun
The Caution! tag reads: "This spell will not last"
For babies and children, they grow up too fast

So hold them now kiss 'em, cradle them too
Play with them, listen, something else I should do
Look right in their eyes and capture their voice
Then let them grow up, there's really no choice

Tonight I'll just leave them and let 'em all sleep
Then shut down the shrinker with a beep, beep, beep, beep
But wait! an idea for the machine, something I missed
Instead I'll just load my growing to-do list

More Wordful Wednesday here

wordfull Wednesday: funny

Here's a guest post from Paul because I'm too tired from my big canning day

"Jackpot"

Though I am somewhat renowned for my ability to select just the right type of potato chip to appropriately match any family meal – pairing a less complex salt and vinegar chip with grilled chicken sandwiches, or a deeper-bodied rippled barbeque chip with a hamburger cookout, for example – I rarely get the call to assist with cooking or grocery shopping. Unless we are in the need of doughnuts or ice cream or root beer, I rarely make the trip to the local grocer.

Every once in awhile, however, I am called on in an emergency. Recently, when out with a couple of the kids I got the call from headquarters. We were running critically low on baby formula. “Could you possibly stop by the store” Alison graciously asked, “without buying a lot of treats?”

We were out on the west side of town, the decidedly tougher, less familiar area of Salt Lake. “Sure” I said, “we’d be happy to.”

As luck would have it there was a supermarket across the street from where we were parked. It sat in a rundown strip mall, anchoring a development that had seen better days. Several dark storefronts populated the center which was surrounded by an enormous, optimistic expanse of asphalt parking lot to accommodate the cars that both never did and never would come.

As we passed through the front door of the supermarket, the squeaky and rusty carts, mustachioed men, crooked teeth, faded blue jeans, flannel shirts reeking of second and even third-hand smoke, and hairsprayed bangs reaching for the sky lent the place a decidedly downscale feel. It was a refreshing change of pace from the normally snooty scene at our preferred east side grocer.

At once the kids and I set out looking for the baby formula but before long we were lost and disoriented in the foreign and unfamiliar store. I did my best to block out all the treats that seemed to beckon me as we passed up and down the aisles in search of the baby goods. Everything of interest seemed to be on sale and the kids and I seemed to be equally well aware. “Look, Daddy” my 3 year old said “these ones are yummy” as she pointed toward a display of Keebler Rainbow Chips Deluxe cookies, on sale 2 for 1.

Besieged and distracted by the seductive power of all the endcap displays and feeling somewhat lightheaded and disoriented by all the temptation I practically ran over a young employee who was dutifully restacking a display of Nutter Butters in the shape of the Great Pyramid of Giza.

“Can I help you with something?” she cheerily asked.

“Just looking for the baby formula” I said.

“Well, it’s just right around the corner” she smiled, “c’mon, I’ll show you.”

As we turned the corner she paused briefly to straighten a few chairs facing the pharmacy window and then led us down to the baby aisle. The formula was, like fine jewelry, set in a glass case under lock and key and looked to be, given the security camera perched above, under close video surveillance.

“Do you know which kind you want?” she asked.

I knew exactly which one I wanted, the organic Similac, in the green can, the one featuring the creepy looking teddy bear with the enormous forehead. But the question seemed odd, and, as I stared at my reflection in the formula window, I wondered if I ought to be taking more time with this, such an important purchase. I had never seen formula as anything but a commodity, but now it seemed like so much more.

“Yeah, right there” I said hesitatingly, “the green one.”

Out of her pocket she produced a massive keychain with what must have been the keys for all the other really expensive store items like Depends and organic milk. She unlocked the cabinet, slid the glass aside, and handed me one.

“I’ll take two” I said. “Thanks.”

The kids and I made our way back to the self-checkout where I rung up the purchase. It came to $60 total for the two cans of formula. Just as I was about to walk away a coupon spit out of the register: $5 off any kind of formula, expiring in 1 week.

As I stood there in the no man’s land between the checkout and the door, I briefly considered reentering to use the coupon to buy another canister of formula. I’m not a huge coupon user, but we would most certainly need more formula in a couple weeks, after all, and there was virtually no chance I would be back this way in the next week to redeem the coupon before expiration. For a moment I thought back to a memorable date when Alison and I were newlyweds. We were at a local hot dog joint, Red Hot Lovers, when she pulled out a “15% off one item” coupon. The most expensive item on our order was a $1.50 hot dog. They were gracious and rounded up. We saved 23 cents.

Buoyed by the memory of Alison’s frugality I lead the kids back to the formula aisle for another round of purchasing. Walled off by all the security measures and unable to help myself, I pushed the “Ring for Customer Service” button next to the case.
In a few moments the same young employee came bounding dutifully around the corner, her cheerful expression turning decidedly puzzled when she saw me and the kids standing in front of the formula bank once again.

There was an awkward pause as I explained that we had come back on account of the coupon, which I then proceeded to hold out in front of my face as proof. She took out her keys once again and pulled out another canister of expensive, green, organic Similac.

Back at the self-checkout, Ruth, the plain-looking, matronly cashier overseeing the four terminals expressed surprise to see me and the kids again. I showed her the coupon and as I swiped my credit card to complete the transaction she agreed it was a great deal and, mentioning the recent birth of her 5th and 6th grandchildren, reassured me she would have done the same. Just as she said so another $5 coupon popped out of the register, and for a moment it felt like we were on a winning streak in Vegas. “Jackpot!” I cried triumphantly.

Ruth looked at me in astonishment and nodded approvingly. She lowered her head so that her eyes could make contact with mine, unencumbered by her thick glasses. “Go for it” she said with a stern determination, reading my mind with the savvy of a veteran grocery checkout clerk.

Her encouragement was all I needed to trek back inside once again to the formula aisle. At the checkout again Ruth smiled at me admirably as I once again rang up another sale. I had purchased 4 canisters now, enough to last a month back home, and, more importantly, I had saved $10 in doing so.

Waiting for the transaction to clear and receipts to print, Ruth and I chatted about the unseasonably warm weather. Out of the corner of my eye I nervously eyed the register hoping for yet another formula coupon. When yet another one popped out I was ecstatic. “Oh, Baby!” I yelped as I pumped my clenched fists in excitement, cutting Ruth off in mid-sentence, “winner winner, chicken dinner!”

Something deep inside me was now gently telling me to quit while I was ahead. But the indescribably intoxicating thrill of collecting and using the coupons was too great. It wasn’t really gambling, but I still had a creepy, foreboding feeling that I was doing something wrong. But whatever good sense I had to quit I rationalized away quickly. “I can’t lose” I told myself,” I can’t lose.”

Four minutes later I was back at the self-checkout with my 5th container of formula in hand, for what I promised myself, no matter what the register spit out, the last time. I inexplicably used cash to speed the process and the $30 formula less the $5 coupon came to $25. I put two $20 bills into the machine.

Distracted momentarily by the whirring noise of the coupon printer spitting out yet another $5 coupon and my daughter attempting to stuff an entire pack of Bubblicious, wrapper and all, into her mouth, I gathered up my grand total of 5 cans of Similac and the kids and headed out to the car, satisfied with the fruits of my labor.

We were halfway home when I realized that I had failed to pick up my change out of the self-checkout machine. $15. The exact amount I saved by using the three coupons.

I should have quit while I was ahead.

Somewhere in the grocery store parking lot, I imagined, a mustachioed man in a flannel shirt and faded blue jeans climbed into his rusty, dented pickup truck. As he plopped his bags of groceries onto the front seat and took an unlit cigarette into his mouth he sorted through his receipts and change.

“Jackpot!” he whispered to himself with a crooked, toothy grin.

Wordfull Wednesday: Learning to Read

I can't remember being taught to read.  I think it just happened.  What I do remember is my parents and teachers being very concerned about my development and placing me in special learning classes and even hiring private tutors.  I could read but I didn't want to read what they placed in front of me, it was boring and my mind was elsewhere.  What they didn't know was in my free time I loved to read the Encyclopedia Britanica, the old brown leather collection neatly stored high on a shelf in my Dad's office, D and H were my favorites because I liked reading about all the different species of dogs and horses.  I also enjoyed the Sears catalog reading the women's clothes descriptions and strangely fascinated by my Dad's medical journals.

At this time only half of my children are independent readers. I can't remember teaching them to read. I think it just happened as well.

James was most unique in his development but since he was my first child I did not know it was out of the ordinary. He was a fussy baby so I did what I could to calm him and that was reading. He was constantly grabbing at any text in sight but most often the letters on my t-shirts and warning labels on his baby gear. When he grabbed I would read it out loud. Before he could walk he was sounding out the letters on his crib sss-iiii-mmmmmm-oooo-nnnn-ssss. At his 1 year well baby check the Dr. asked me about his development and I casually stated "oh yeah he knows all his letters". The Dr. didn't believe me so I walked James around the room to demonstrate and the Dr. soon followed with some very wise advice. He told me not to make a big deal about it and not to use it for entertainment. Every time I saw a child perform on Oprah or the Late Show I was happy to have stuck with that advice.

James continued to progress and before he was two he was clear and articulate in reciting "this crib meets the requirements of the consumer product safety commission standard for full size cribs", or "warning: never place a rear facing child in the front seat". He had also mastered such books as Green Eggs and Ham, Ten Apples Up on Top, and The Foot Book.  Sometimes I wondered if they were just memorized but it became clear that he was reading when in the grocery store check out lane he would read aloud the headlines from various magazines and tabloids. This would make me blush not only because the headlines were provocative but also from all the heads that would turn our way. At age three he created quite a scene when I took him Gap kids. We were picking out clothes for him to start pre-school but he threw a fit and the battle was about only purchasing clothes that were "Made in Cambodia" because his old friend from Philadelphia was Cambodian. He ran from table to table looking inside the clothes reciting "Made in Guatemala", "Made in China", "Made in Macau",....

James continues to progress and is continually amusing us. I have found it a humbling adventure to raise such a child. He is homeschooled but I was never his teacher, he has always taught himself teaching me along the way. When he was 7 I checked out a speed reading course to try and keep up with him but when the book was down he picked it up and left me in the dust.

His love and thirst for learning has become contagious in our home. In fact, I think it was he who taught his younger brother William to read at age 3. Peter didn't read until age 4 but with the help of his older brothers he also mastered how to read a clock in addition to all his basic math facts. The younger girls were taught by their older brothers as well learning all their letters by age two. The example has been set and learning at a young age has become the tradition in our home, it is fun and opens so many doors to explore.

But the most important thing that has evolved from the literacy in our home is our ability to study the scriptures together. It is not an easy task to gather young children together and expect them to sit, listen, and participate. We have often wondered whether it would be better to exclude the children 2 & younger but we have yet to do so. Paul and I listened to Elder Cook's talk Family Scripture Study and were impressed with his statement "our children learned to read by reading the Book of Mormon". Perhaps that is what has helped our children read. As soon as they can talk or even just imitate sound they are sat on our lap and with one finger under each word they are given their turn to read a verse repeating what we say. If they can read:

But behold, if ye will awake and arouse your faculties, even to an experiment upon my words, and exercise a particle of faith, yea, even if ye can no more than desire to believe, let this desire work in you, even until ye believe in a manner that ye can give place for a portion of my words.  Alma 32:27 

then they will be ready to read and understand just about anything.  

More Wordfull Wednesday here

Wordfull Wednesday: Grateful

I’m most grateful for things
That aren’t really things.
Warm feelings and love,
The joy that they bring.

Take everything from me,
No different I’d be.

Things may be taken,
But real gifts aren’t shaken.

The lessons I learn,
And knowledge I yearn.
Those who are here,
And angels still near.

The life that I live
With opportunities to give.
My soul as it sharpens,
With life as it happens.

In good times and bad
Greatest blessings are had.
I’m most grateful for things,
That aren’t really things.

More Wordful Wednesday here

Wordfull Wednesday: Act of Kindness

Guest Post by Paul:

There are a few simple, paradoxical truths about the concept of giving that, when discovered, can unleash immense power in our lives. One is that, in general, the more one gives, the more one receives in return. Another is that the more anonymous the giving is, the more it says, practically speaking, about the giver.

For about a year or so, I awoke each morning to find the newspaper perfectly placed on our front door welcome mat. It struck me as odd, as our door is probably 30 feet or more from the street. Either the paper boy is the reincarnation of Greg Maddox, I thought, or he is spending an inordinate amount of time placing the paper on the stoop. Either way, I figured it wouldn’t last long – he’d either be drafted into the big leagues, or fired by his curmudgeon newspaperman boss for taking so long on his route and putting the rest of the paperboys to shame.

One autumn morning, I uncharacteristically arose early to take the dog out for an early morning walk. It was barely 5:00 a.m., and my limbs, unaccustomed to being up at such an early hour, seemed to drag lifelessly along in the chilly pre-dawn air. It was one of those misty, mysterious mornings, like something you would see in the movies, where the darkness and stillness is exaggerated. You grip your popcorn a little tighter because it feels like some kook might jump out of the shadows to rough up the protagonist.

Barely two minutes into our walk, as Archie stopped to communicate with his neighbors in the manner dogs often do, I picked up a faint shuffling sound ahead of us down the street, something like worn out windshield wipers toiling in short, swift strokes or, more likely, old rubbery-soled shoes on a sidewalk. Unable to make out anything in the darkness, we pressed on another house or two down the street, picking up the pace a bit to perhaps get a better look. There I was finally able to make out a small shadowy figure shuffling along slowly in the orange-tinted shadows of the street lamp ahead. It was clearly an elderly man, cloaked in a brown coat a size or two too big for his small narrow shoulders and skinny waist, his small head topped off with a glen plaid cap. He was shuffling along with a decided elderly gait, the kind that belies experience, propelled by feet that had doubtlessly taken tens, if not hundreds, of millions of steps before. From a distance I could hear him humming an unrecognizable yet upbeat tune as he went.

I continued to follow him, gaining on him with each step, two of mine the equal of perhaps six of his. When I was about 20 paces away, he turned abruptly to his left and then, after a few steps, stooped down at his waist and snatched a yellow plastic bag off of a wet driveway. The Salt Lake Tribune. I slowed to a pause and watched him patiently and methodically shuffle to the neighbor’s front door, depositing the paper neatly on the Welcome mat, before turning and heading back down the driveway. When he arrived again at the sidewalk, I recognized him. It was my neighbor Grant Morris.

From what I gathered, Grant Morris had done well in his life, having invested wisely in businesses and properties, a quiet, humble sort of capitalist. By any standard he was well off, yet he chose to live relatively simple, healthy life. His secret to longevity, he confided in some, was a daily dose of mint, picked fresh from his garden, squeezed into an herbal tea. Like his faded brown coat, he was practical and comfortable being so.

But the crisp, sharp mind that had once driven a hundred business deals had now faded somewhat, and as he spotted me on the sidewalk it seemed to search in vain for my name. That look was not new to me, for each time I saw him in church or in the neighborhood he mistook me for someone else. I told him my name as we briefly shook hands there on the wet, predawn sidewalk, and, looking relieved, his eyes instantly lit up in a warm, enthusiastic greeting. I wanted to mention something of his service, to thank him on behalf of the whole neighborhood, but, as quickly as the thought came to mind, a strong impression came to me to say nothing at all.

The Savior Himself said it best in the Sermon on the Mount:
1. Take heed that ye do not your alms before men, to be seen of them: otherwise ye have no reward of your Father which is in heaven.
2. Therefore when thou doest thine alms, do not sound a trumpet before thee, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets, that they may have glory of men. Verily I say unto you, They have their reward.
3. But when thou doest alms, let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth:
4. That thine alms may be in secret: and thy Father which seeth in secret himself shall reward thee openly. (Matthew 6:1-4)

Grant Morris was not like most other people. If he were he might go about his errand a bit later, after the dawn had broken, when he would be in plain view of the world. He might casually let you know in conversation that he was responsible. He could mention it in a church talk, or maybe joke about how tough the regular snowfall was making his rounds. But he didn’t. Instead he kept his charitable act to himself, his alms in secret. His habit of forgetting my name made his other habit all the more charming, his service all the more anonymous.

After exchanging a few pleasantries we parted ways. I stood still a bit and watched him shuffle off into the darkness, the windshield wiper sound of his feet fading as he continued down the street to collect the next newspaper. My eyes, like the air itself, became misty. I realized that the foreboding-movie-type feeling I had had before, the exaggerated stillness and darkness, did indeed did produce a plot twist that I would remember vividly for a long time to come.

It was a simple gesture really - fetching newspapers from driveways and placing them on front porches. Some might not have even noticed. But in reality his daily act of charity, rendered to all, transcended every worldly division in our neighborhood: different faiths, different political views, different life stages. In fact, the diversity of newspapers themselves, from the Deseret News to the Salt Lake Tribune, the New York Times to the Wall Street Journal, represented a sort of microcosm of all those differences. With that slow gait and the winding, hilly streets in our neighborhood, in the rain and in the snow, it may have taken Grant Morris hours every day. But under the cover of darkness, every day, without fail, the paper was there.

When Grant Morris moved out of the neighborhood recently, some of the neighbors actually called the newspapers to complain. The paper boy just wasn’t doing it like he used to, they said. They never knew. Indeed, just the way Grant Morris would have wanted it.

More wordful Wednesday here

Wordfull Wednesday: Elections

I am quite bothered by the contention that is up roared each election season. For some reason this year it seems worse than ever. There are signs drawing lines between neighbors, cars with bumper stickers that in themselves could induce road rage, and commercials that have caused my now 9 year old to ask "Mom, why do the Presidential candidates have to say such negative comments about each other"? The tension is so great it feels as if we are at war amongst ourselves.

I wish those up for election displayed more of the characteristics of a true leader instead of just representing their respective party. I wish I had better insight and knowledge about our government and constitution so that I could be more credible as an influence for good when my children, friends, family and neighbors inquire of my politic beliefs. I wish that as Americans we all had greater understanding of the vision our founding fathers had for this nation.

Without much room for discussion or explanation here is how I feel about the issues.  Few of our nation's biggest problems can be solved by politics or government.  Rather many can only be solved by strengthening the basic building block of society: our families.  Sadly, it seems like the idea of strengthening families hardly enters into the political discourse anymore, despite overwhelming evidence that many of today's most pressing issues (education, crime, etc) are a result of the disintegration of the family, and an abandonment of the principle of personal responsibility.  Our country should protect our right to freely choose our own path in life, but somewhere along the way, some have erroneously interpreted that to mean freedom from the consequences of our choices as well.

I also believe "America is great because she is good. If America ceases to be good, America will cease to be great" (Alexis de Tocqueville). I may not be able to change our nation as I wish but I can certainly teach my children to be "good" and in turn hope that they, their children, and their children's children will become a portion of what makes this nation "great".

I also believe it is our duty to study and ponder the issues and vote. On a lighter note here is my recollection of voting in 2004.

It was cold and rainy that morning in Charlotte, NC. Paul was still working as an investment banker for Wachovia which means we barely saw him and he barely saw the light of day. If he voted it was most likely by absentee ballot. I on the other hand had all day to vote.

Having only three children at the time I thought it would be no problem to bring them along to the polls -it would be educational! The kids were just barely 5, almost 3 and 10 months at the time and can't say if they could today recall that "educational experience". I on the other hand remember it well.

Like I said it was cold and rainy. Our designated voting spot was in the basement of a Methodist church on Randolph Rd. The line to enter the building wrapped around the parking lot but I told my kids a little rain wouldn't hurt us as long as we had coats and hats on. I slowly pushed the stroller along the line as the boys jumped in puddles near by. Finally we reach the doors only to discover crowded stairs! The other voters were quite kind and passed my stroller down to the end where it would be waiting. It was just harder to contain the young children there on the stairs then in the rain.

But finally we reached the open room where we still stood in line. That is everyone except for our almost 3 yr old William who wandered to the light switch. Just as I dashed out to grab him he hit it. Remember this was in a basement. Everyone gasped and shouted out, even those under the curtains in the process of their votes. Then he hit it again and again as if to turn the room in to a disco. I grabbed him and apologized to the entire room then was allowed to cut right to the front where the voters, exhibiting their southern charm, only chuckled at this curious little boy.

But it wasn't easy to fit my three kids under the curtain. They were swinging and swishing it all around me. I had to be quick but could barely think through my selections. We got out of there quickly, with one kind voter who carried the stroller all the way up the stairs for me.

In the car I discovered James (age 5) was covered in stickers and I then asked him what he thought of the process. He said he was sure a certain candidate would win. When I asked him why he said because he put in 10 votes for that individual in the kids vote box. I suppose it was time for some more teaching. The poor little guy was so disappointed when I told him #1 your votes don't count until you are 18 and #2 you only get one vote. He has since been counting down the years until he could officially vote.

I remember watching the votes being tallied at 5:30 am the following morning at on the gym on the elliptical machine.

I suppose this year I will not attempt to bring six kids to the polls. I also hope that watching the results will get me back on the elliptical machine.

On another side note I would like to add a bit of history about the home we are living in. It was built in 1962 and for years was not only the center of many boy scout activities but also the neighborhood voting location. Old neighbors have told me how they use to line up on our very stairs before casting their votes. Perhaps my interest and excitement in this years elections is emanating from the history in the walls that surround me. We have remodeled quite a bit but above is an image from the original mailbox which we kept in its place- a patriotic one.

Wordfull Wednesday: My Worst Fear

I never know what to expect everyday during the quiet of naptime.  Pictured here are both little girls asleep with the entire contents of their closet on top of them.  I don't know what they were thinking.   Perhaps they were just trying to be like me in cleaning out their closet.  I'm just glad they didn't make it a real mess like they use to with their dirty diapers.

Is it all little girls?  I don't want to say they are naughty but perhaps instead I could label them as creative, independent, capable, determined, spirited, and full of life.  Unfortunately I am unable to capture and document all of their little episodes (because sometimes I need to take immediate action) but here are a few more:  coloring on baby Henry's face, getting into my 25 lb. bucket of flour, climbing into the tub fully dressed, denting the wall then peeling paint and plaster off (just before a house showing), cutting their clothes, cutting their hair, spraying mommy with the hose through the kitchen window, pouring and sharing a bowl of cereal in Clara's crib, painting the bathroom with toothpaste, locking themselves in a bathroom and consuming hand soap, and running out to the front yard naked to pee in the neighbor's bushes. 

There was no need for baby proofing with my boys but I have gone beyond baby proofing with the girls.  We have out of reach dead bolts on our doors, closets, and storage room.  So I guess my worst fear is what mess or trouble I will find them in next.  I keep reminding myself of late crops  and for as much trouble as they cause now, they just may become my right hand helpers in the years to come. 

So that brings me to an even greater fear.....from the words of our dear prophet Thomas S. Monson:

 
"If you are still in the process of raising children, be aware that the tiny fingerprints that show up on almost every newly cleaned surface, the toys scattered about the house, the piles and piles of laundry to be tackled will disappear all too soon and that you will-to your surprise-miss them profoundly" 

I fear that the days, and years are ticking by a little too quickly......that all my little ones will be on their own before I know it, before I learn to just relax and fully enjoy it.

Inner Beauty

Anyone can stage a beautiful picture. That is what I tell myself as I flip through Pottery Barn catalogs and Domino magazine. That is what I thought as I cleared junk and clutter away for my house photos. The pictures turned out great and are now listed online along with the mls. The pictures themselves display a very beautiful home.

But what makes our home great cannot be captured in a photo. It is the life and energy and love that percolates 24 hrs. a day – it is the echo of laughter, running feet, and cries that need comforting . Even when not perfectly clean our home swells with this inner beauty. From the words of the hymn that I sung each week with my own family growing up,“There is beauty all around when there’s love at home”. I may leave behind my granite countertops and marble backsplash but the real beauty in my home will be packed up and transported with me no matter what style of dwelling we choose to settle in.

I know a few of you have expressed concern for me leaving the home I have worked so hard to remodel, especially my kitchen. Here are a few more of my thoughts: any kitchen covered in fingerprints is not a beautiful kitchen no matter what the colors and finish. I just may take this chance to celebrate the reality of the childhood years in an outdated kitchen. Now if my bagelsand baguettes start to burn…. that is a whole ‘nother story because a well calibrated oven is another type of inner beauty worth living with.

For more on wordful Wednesday check out this this blog. I know it is Tuesday but I'll be far from any internet connection on Wed.