And yet, I feel like a total hypocrite. You see, last year my son turned five and had his first “friends” birthday party, based on Scooby-Doo. I borrowed a cake pan from a friend and spent over two hours producing an intricately-frosted cake that showed Scooby himself eating a giant hamburger. After three trips to different stores I put together games, coloring sheets, goodie bags, and elaborate decorations. I even spent too much money on a giant mylar Scooby balloon the same size as my son. My son loved his party and talked about it for months afterwards.

And so, like most parents, I am inconsistent. I don’t let my kids watch television, but we do watch shows on DVD and I’ve been known to not-so-gently urge my youngest to watch Dora so that I can finish grading some papers in peace. I generally don’t buy them products with commercial characters on them, but when my sister bought my son a pair of Converse with Superman and Batman on them, I thought they were the perfect gift. My kids have no clue about sports teams, but even my two-year-old can name the members of the Justice League because their dad likes to read comics with them (age-appropriate ones, of course). I also think that part of the reason why I like don’t like Angry Birds is because they are new and different. Scooby-Doo, Barbie, My Little Pony, and G.I. Joe are the icons of my childhood and most likely to provoke nostalgia. Angry Birds just provoke irritation. Perhaps in twenty years my kids will talk fondly about their childhood memories of Angry Birds cupcakes and Club Penguin stickers, but for right now I hope they forgive me if I want to plug my ears and run away screaming.

 How do you manage your kids’ relationship with fads and trends? What things do your kids love that you loathe? Did you have any obsessions as a kid?

Related posts:

1. Stuff, Stuff, Stuff
2. This Time Next Year
3. A confession.

I can still vividly remember the first time I hit my daughter. She was about eighteen months old and didn’t want to get in her carseat. I was frustrated by her wriggling and whining, and somehow my hand came up and slapped her on the cheek. Her eyes widened and filled with tears, and so did mine. I Iooked at her sad little face and vowed never to do that again.

But I did.

After that first time with my daughter and her carseat, I felt horribly guilty for several months. But then I got pregnant right around her second birthday and things started to slip out of control. I was tired, hormonal, stressed because my husband was working two jobs and applying for graduate school, and trying to figure out how to parent a very willful toddler. Then my son was born early with complications that necessitated an emergency c-section and I began a very dark period in my life. We moved to another state when the baby was only a few months old so my husband could begin a graduate program. I didn’t know anyone and now I had two small children to take care of while my husband went to school and worked.

Most of the time I did an OK job with parenting: the kids were always clean and well-fed, the house stayed in order, we went to the library and the playground. But I couldn’t seem to control my anger, and as my son became a toddler I often found myself vigorously spanking both kids, roughly slamming my grouchy toddler back into his bed when he didn’t want to sleep, and even sometimes slapping them as I had done that one time with my daughter. I never thought I would be an angry mom. I never thought I’d be the kind of mom that spanks her kids simply because she’s mad at them, or who gruffly yanks her kids by the arm and pulls them away from the playground when it’s time to go home. Each time I felt horrible guilt and shame; I knew I was a bad parent, that my kids would be damaged forever, and that I could do nothing to stop it. Sometimes I threw things or yelled when I was angry, and I even kicked a hole in the door of a closet in our apartment. The anger seemed to come from some place deep inside me; I didn’t always understand why I was so angry or why I couldn’t seem to make it go away.

Thankfully, one day I got up the courage to see a therapist. I didn’t dare tell him the truth about what I did to my children, but we talked about anger. Through his help, and a few other things, I managed to control my anger and became a better parent. It has been several years since I have ever put a hand on my children in anger. I now have a toddler again, and even though she can be extremely frustrating, I’ve never hurt her. I made a vow to never touch my children when I am angry, and even more importantly, I don’t feel as angry as I used to, so keeping that vow has become easier each passing year. Here are a few things I did that helped:

1. I learned about anger. My parents had a volatile marriage, and as a child the only lesson that I learned about anger was that it was scary and dangerous. So I vowed never to get angry; I become the ‘good girl’ that never bothered her parents, never talked back, and never spoke up about anything. Unfortunately I never learned how to do anything with anger other than to stuff it away inside. For the record, that doesn’t work. From my therapist and several books I read, I came to accept that anger is a normal human emotion. In fact, anger often is really an outgrowth of other, more difficult emotions like shame or anxiety. I learned that most of my anger at my kids was actually anxiety; I was nervous about being a good parent and I was worried about my marriage and my family’s financial situation. My son’s traumatic birth also triggered post-partum anxiety that manifested itself as anger (if I were to go back in time, I would make myself speak up about my post-partum feelings and I would get medication right away). I learned to listen to my body and my feelings, and to take a moment to identify my real feelings in a heated moment. Often just the acknowledgement of the fear or the depression helps cool things down.

2. I also learned better parenting skills. I read some books and I took some parenting classes offered through my daughter’s preschool. Before having my own children, I didn’t really have much experience with small children. Toddlers can be very difficult; in fact, rates of child abuse are highest between the ages of 1 and 3. Learning better parenting skills as well as learning more about child development and age-appropriate behavior reduced both my own frustration and that of my kids. One of the key things I’ve been doing, especially as my children have gotten older, is talking about our feelings and appropriate ways to express them. My children and I understand that feeling angry or scared or sad is normal, but we have to choose acceptable ways to express those feelings.

3. I started taking better care of myself. I learned good ways to speak up for what I need and to express my displeasure in constructive ways. I’ve also learned that getting enough sleep is vital, even if it means sacrificing some of my precious ‘me time’ after the kids are in bed. Exercising, eating well, and keeping up my scripture study and prayer habits help me not feel so anxious and angry.

4. I just decided to stop. This sounds simplistic, and it would not have been possible without the help of a therapist and some of the other things I mentioned. But, I did have to one day simply say “this is wrong and I’m not going to do it ever again.” Anger is addicting and feeds on itself. It can be habit-forming. When I first made the decision to never touch my kids when I was upset, it was really hard at first. I had to use great self-control to do it. But, as time went on, my angry responses to things lessened. As I quit expressing my anger inappropriately (including throwing things or slamming doors), I actually felt less angry.

I am certainly not a ‘perfect parent’ now, by any means. But, I can say I am a much better one than I was five years ago. I still deeply regret the way I treated my two oldest children and I’m not sure I’ve totally forgiven myself yet. But I also know that I didn’t have the courage to change until I realized that I could. When I assumed that I was just a ‘bad parent’, I didn’t think I could do anything about it. Then I discovered that there were reasons why I kept making the choices that I did, and that I didn’t have to act that way. A key moment in my decision to seek out therapy was when a woman in my Relief Society shared her story of dealing with a terrible depressive episode that left her hospitalized; another key moment was reading a blogger’s story of suffering from post-partum anxiety and recognizing myself in it. I’ve debated for a long time about writing this blog post, but I hope that sharing a little about my life can help others realize that they are not alone and that they can change.

Related posts:

1. It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad world
2. Paradigm shift
3. Parenting and Happiness

I’ve been conflicted over letting my daughter get her blessing at thirteen. I received my patriarchal blessing when I was twelve, and later I regretted not waiting longer. But my blessing occurred under unusual circumstances: We were living in Australia at the time. Because my father was a bishop, and the Church sent bishops and stake presidents in Australia to one General Conference during their tenure, my father had the opportunity to go to General Conference the October that I turned twelve. And since my two younger siblings and I had been born in the U.S., my parents decided to take a month-long family trip to the U.S. so we children could experience American culture and spend time with our American relatives. Since my father’s grandfather—my great-grandfather—was a patriarch at the time, and he was advancing in years (to put it nicely), my parents suggested I get my patriarchal blessing from him during our visit.

Of course, I was excited at the prospect—how many people can say that their great-grandfather gave them their patriarchal blessing? But I don’t remember if I prepared much—or at all—for the occasion. I was having too much fun hanging out with my cool American cousins, and my aunt, who was only three years older than I was, and having sleepovers and putting together talent shows for the big family reunion. I was enjoying going trick-or-treating for the first time, eating doughnuts and tacos and other delicious American food, and going to a real American high school for a day with my aunt.

But I do remember that on the day I received my blessing, as my great-grandfather placed his shaky hands on my head and pronounced a blessing in his quavering voice, calm and peace enveloped me, and I felt a distinct impression of being loved and known by God. About six weeks after we arrived back in Australia, a type-written copy of my blessing arrived in the mail, and I eagerly perused it, thought about it and what my future might hold, and then tucked it away in my drawer.

Over the years my blessing has been a comfort and a guide, and I’ve seen some of its promises unfold in my life, but I’ve always had a nagging feeling that I got my blessing too young. I wish I’d better understood its significance at the time. I wish I’d prepared myself more. I’ve even wondered if my blessing would have been longer, or more detailed, if I’d been older and better prepared when I received it.

So when my baby daughter approached me at thirteen and asked if she could receive her blessing, I advised her to wait. But over the past few months, as I’ve seen her longing and her earnest desire to receive her blessing, coupled with her spiritual maturity, I’ve come around to the idea of trusting her to know when she is ready. She is far more prepared than I was at twelve. A couple of weeks ago she met with the bishop for her interview, and came out of the interview beaming, recommend in hand. After fasting about it again last Sunday, tonight she’ll be calling the patriarch to make an appointment.

I’m still a little conflicted, but mostly I’m proud of my daughter for wanting to take this step. And I’m looking forward to being in the room when she receives her blessing, to the glimpse I’ll have of who my daughter really is and what the Lord has in store for her. I’ll savor the peace and joy of that sacred experience, knowing that, just as God knew me when I was twelve and knew the future me, as well, He knows my beloved daughter and knows who she is eternally. And there’s no age requirement for that.

How old were you when you received your patriarchal blessing? How did you prepare yourself beforehand? Do you wish you’d waited longer or prepared better? What advice do you give your children about receiving their patriarchal blessings? How has your blessing been a guide and help to you throughout your life?

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1. Fount of Many Blessings
2. just show up
3. Good-Bye

The weekend before the holiday came and went. We managed to get the kids’ valentines made (thank you pre-cut foam kits) and the heart-shaped sugar cookies baked, but there was not time to decorate the box. Unfortunately Monday is now my longest day of work, and I had to work from noon until nine. Before I left for work I made sure that frosting and sprinkles were ready for the cookies and that supplies were in place for decorating the box. I felt another pang at the fact that, even though my help would have been meager, my daughter would be left to decorate her box all by herself. I had visions of the projects I had attempted by myself as a child that didn’t turn out like I had pictured them in my mind, as well as the lovely things my mother had helped me create (like a clay diorama of a Lipizzaner horse complete with felt saddle and bridle). I walked in the door at 9:30 the night before Valentine’s day with a bit of dread, knowing that I had not been able to be there for my daughter. Then I stopped short when I looked at my kitchen counter.

There was a Valentine box that was more beautiful than I had even imagined. I knew it was exactly what my daughter had been dreaming of and would be the envy of her classmates. My sister-in-law, who babysits for us, had spent two hours helping my daughter with her box. She had come up with creative ways to make the tea set idea work, and had enjoyed doing it too. I think that what made me stop short was not only the artistry of the box, but the fact that it had been a labor of love. If I had been the one to help my daughter, it would have been a labor of obligation, frustration, and annoyance.

I am perpetually amazed and humbled by the love that other people have for my children. Yes I love them and think they are wonderful, but it is so fulfilling to see that they are valuable in the eyes of others as well. I have sometimes noticed a strain of thought among mothers that they have to be everything and provide everything for their children. As a single parent I’ve quickly realized that this sort of thinking is impossible in my situation, since I can’t even  physically be with my children every hour of the day or else we wouldn’t have a home or food on the table. But for any parent and child it’s not the best either. No one person is perfectly able to do all things and be all things for everyone. I am so grateful for the teachers, extended family members, friends, neighbors, and fellow ward members who love my children and do what they can to help them succeed. I love it when one of their teachers from school or church shares with me how much they enjoy knowing my child or gives me a little insight into how my son or daughter behaves in a different setting than our home.

One of my fears in being a divorced parent has been that my children will grow up feeling inferior to other families; that they will feel somehow “less-than” because their family is different. At the end of the day, it’s just me and my kids reading our scriptures and saying family prayer together; there are now four of us in a house built for a larger family and sometimes it can feel like there is something missing. I love my children and know that I am the primary influence in their lives, but I also know that we exist within a wide web of love from those who surround us. I may be a single parent, but the truth is that most days I don’t feel very alone at all.

Who are the people in your children’s village? When you were growing up, were there people outside your family who loved you and helped you?

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2. Help?
3. A Lucky Cow

Popham Beach State Park, Maine

In a recent Worldwide Leadership Training Conference, attendees heard someone’s thoughts on “that thing that is of most worth to a woman in this life.” If someone asked you what that “thing of most worth” is, how would you answer?

Some years ago I went through a very tough time. Metaphorically speaking I felt like my ribs had been extracted. My pulses and rhythms still functioned, but my supports and protection were gone. My mother had just died. My kids were asserting themselves in creative and dumbfounding ways, following their natural call to become “agents unto themselves.” My husband was reorganizing his heart and soul, doing important internal work, but I had no idea where I’d end up when his “remodeling” was over. My soul felt like it was, to quote Yeats, “turning and turning in a widening gyre.”

In the midst of this untethering, our family joined another family for a week at a cabin in Maine. One day we piled into our cars and headed to Popham Beach State Park. As we pulled into the parking lot, the cassette player (yes, it was a while ago) blared John Rutter’s “For the Beauty of the Earth” loud enough to shake the minivan walls. It certainly fit the gorgeous setting.

The kids piled out of the car and dashed for the sand. My husband and my friend’s husband went off on a manly walk-about. My friend and I settled with the other sunbathers on beach towels. Since the tide was out, the water wasn’t that close. She read her book, and I—well, I stewed in the possibility that I could lose absolutely everything I valued. Not just in a cosmic way; it was practical, too. I was too far away to be of any physical use to my kids in the water if something dire happened. It wasn’t out of the question that my husband could decide just not to come back.

As I lay there pondering, praying, trying to keep breathing in and out (despite the lack of ribs), a passage of scripture came to my mind. It was Romans 8:35-38:

Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword?…Nay, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him that loved us. For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

The first thing I noticed was the checklist of worries. I wasn’t too concerned about famine, nakedness, sword or principalities, but pretty much the rest of the travails seemed like present dangers.

Then I focused on the powerful bookend consolations: “nothing can separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus the Lord”. I let the meaning sweep over me like soothing tidewaters.

I found out as we headed to the car after our afternoon at the beach that the real tidewaters had been up to no good.

My 8 year old (who had only just had his first swimming lessons) told me he had been standing in the shallow waters but got knocked over by a good wave. After much sputtering and angst he righted himself. It was scary for him, but in the end it was a successful accomplishment that improved his confidence.

The other two, along with our friends’ son (all good swimmers), had ventured further out. My 11-year-old found himself unable to catch up with the older two and began floundering. An attentive lifeguard caught him, brought him to the other two and helped all three of them get back to safer grounds. “There are undertows out there,” the lifeguard told them. “Sometimes they’re impossible to fight.”

Those three older kids were snickering and poking each other by the time we got the story out of them, laughter being just a cover for the fright of their close call.

My husband came back with our friend no worse for the walk.

I thought again about that scripture and the fact that I really could have lost at least one child that day. God wasn’t joking with His litany of things that could occur. God wasn’t telling me, “Don’t worry. I’ll take all these difficulties away.” He was saying, “If everything you treasure gets stripped away from you or life takes you or your dear ones to unimaginably hard places, I will always know and love you, Linda. I will always love you. Hold on to this truth, this hope. Hold on.”

That thing that is of most worth for this woman in this life is to live the gospel with a sense of God’s unwavering and radical love for her.
Complete sentence.
Complete life.

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2. UP CLOSE: Living Single– Titanic Tears and Ministering Angels – Just Another Day Really
3. The Great Escape

In my young adulthood fasting became much easier, of course, but Fast Sunday wasn’t exactly my favorite Sunday of the month. Fasting was something I did more out of duty than devotion, and I admit that as a young mother I was secretly glad for the excuse not to fast whenever I was pregnant or nursing. Yes, I had the occasional meaningful fast, but usually my fasting was pretty rote—give up two meals, try to ignore growling stomach, attend church meetings, say a couple of quick prayers through the day, make big Sunday dinner (mouth watering), and then gratefully break fast—and oh, roast chicken and potatoes never tasted so good.

Of course, my children weren’t enthusiastic fasters, either (do you know any children who are?). In our case, we decided to break our children into full-fledged fasting by having them give up one meal when they turned eight, and then the full two meals when they turned twelve. Still, we’ve had our fair share of moaning, groaning, weakness, grumpiness, and complaining on Fast Sundays. And to be honest, though I know the law of the fast was given to us for our benefit, I don’t think I fully understood or took advantage of that law, and the spiritual benefits that result from keeping it.

Not that I fully understand or take advantage of it now, but I think I’m finally getting closer. I’m not sure when the shift occurred for me, but most months now I find myself actually looking forward to Fast Sundays. I’m learning that there is something truly profound and sanctifying about the simple act of giving up food for twenty-four hours—if I do it purposefully, prayerfully, with an attitude of devotion and love. On those Fast Sundays when I try to put off the natural woman for a time and focus on spiritual things; when my fasting moves beyond the realm of rote and duty and when I truly come hungering before the Lord, seeking, humble, earnest, and yearning, then my fast becomes a feast. And yes, over the years I’ve witnessed some dramatic and direct answers to prayers through fasting, but the real miracles, I’m coming to realize, are the subtle and incremental yet significant changes that occur in me each time I fast with devotion and purpose.

None of this is new or earth shattering, of course, but it feels new and important to me, during a period in my life when I need the extra help and spiritual sustenance that fasting provides. Isaiah described the blessings of fasting best: “Is not this the fast that I have chosen? To loose the bands of wickedness, to undo the heavy burdens?….Then shalt thou call, and the Lord shall answer; thou shalt cry, and he shall say, Here I am….And the Lord shall guide thee continually, and satisfy thy soul in drought, and make fat thy bones; and thou shalt be like a watered garden, and like a spring of water, whose waters fail not” (Isaiah 58: 6, 9, 11).

It took me forty or so years of Fast Sundays to go from that little girl starving in the backseat of the car and sneaking mulberries in the backyard to a woman who delights in the “fatness” and soul-quenching bounties of fasting.

And it was worth every hunger pain.

Do you struggle with fasting? Have your feelings about fasting changed over the years? What do you do to make your fasts more meaningful? How do you help your children live the law of the fast? Are there any experiences you’ve had with fasting that you’d like to share?

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On Monday, Jan. 23, 2012 at 7:45 a.m. the eyes and ears of many in the world of children’s literature will be on Dallas. That’s where and when the Association for Library Service to Children (a division of the American Library Association) will announce the winner of the 2012 Randolph Caldecott Award. The award, named in honor of nineteenth-century English illustrator Randolph Caldecott, is awarded annually “to the artist of the most distinguished American picture book for children.”

Figuring out what makes “the most distinguished” illustrated book for kids is an arduous task performed by a 15 person committee of librarians selected by the ALA and intentionally diverse. For the generally subdued subset of humanity that children’s librarians constitute, there can apparently be very heated exchanges during the process and snarky controversy after the fact.  I’m not wild about every selection. I guess it’s a case of “beauty is in the eye of the book-holder.”

As an artist and a writer, I love picture books. Some women like jewelry. I would rather have new beautiful picture books.

As a mom I love them, too, and made good use of them when my kids were young back in the ‘hood (Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood, that is). We had a nightly routine of huddling together and reading one picture book and one scripture story, generally from a children’s scripture version. Once, when we read a kid-friendly version of the story of David and Bathsheba, my daughter interrupted and said, “I guess it’s like Mr. Rogers says: The very same people who are good sometimes are the very same people who are bad sometimes.”

Some of our family’s favorite picture books  include:

Brave Irene and Pete’s a Pizza by William Stieg

Mr. & Mrs. God in Creation’s Kitchen by Nancy Wood, illustrated by T. B. Ering

When the Relatives Came by C. Rylant, illustrated by S. Gammell

And, a more recent one, Pocketful of Posies by Salley Mavor

I’m eager to see what the 2012 Caldecott judges pick. Some of the books getting a lot of 2012 Caldecott buzz are:

Grandpa Green by Lane Smith

Blackout by John Rocco

Me…Jane by Patrick McDonnell

I Want My Hat Back by J. Klassen

Brother Sun, Sister Moon by Katherine Paterson

Heart and Soul by Kadir Nelson

Press Here by Herve Tullet

Blue Chicken by Deborah Freedman

I guess I’ll just be nibbling my nails until Monday morning.

In the meantime, distract me from my Caldecott angst. What are your predictions for the Caldecott? Do you have strong opinions about any of the ones mentioned above? What are some of your favorite picture books – even if they’re not award winners?  What about books that your kids love but you don’t? How would you define “most distinguished American picture book”? How do you incorporate reading into your children’s lives?

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But we did accomplish some things these past three months. First and foremost, my son finally got that Eagle project done (our last Eagle project!–farewell forever, scouting!), which pretty much makes up for everything else we didn’t accomplish. And my children enjoyed their summer; they hung out a lot with friends and went to camps and EFY, and we managed to work in a little music practice and homework and a quick trip to the beach and Disneyland. And after three months of having constant noise and motion and controlled (or not so controlled) chaos at home, I’m ready to get back into a routine and have some time to myself during the school day. Still, I feel a tinge of sadness this morning. My son starts 10th grade today and will be leaving home in three short years; my daughter, my baby, is going into 8th grade, so I just checked off one of the last remaining summers I have with my younger children before they head off to college and my husband and I become empty nesters. I know how fast the last five summers have gone by—my two oldest children left home during that time—so I expect the next five to fly by as well.

So this morning I’m lingering over the memories I’ll tuck away from this summer: the night at girls’ camp that my daughter and I and the other young women in our stake spent singing hymns around the lake, high up in the mountains, the girls’ sweet voices drifting over the water as we stood under a wide starry sky; and then, a night later, when we sat around the campfire and shared pure, heartfelt testimonies, the girls’ faces lit with firelight. The confident look on my son’s face as he directed twenty-five bright-faced youth in collecting and sorting boxes and boxes of books for his Eagle project; and the evening he and his friends spent at our house making a spoof of The Bachelorette. Lazy afternoons at the pool (too few and far between) and barbecues; and the night we took our children to see the latest Pirates of the Caribbean movie, when we happened to have the whole theater to ourselves and my daughter played musical chairs throughout the entire movie. Driving across the Nevada desert, listening to Keane on the stereo, my children reading in the backseat, my husband tapping on his iPad. Riding Space Mountain with my eyes closed and tromping around Disneyland until midnight. Walking along a pebble-strewn beach with my daughter, collecting heart-shaped rocks before being ambushed by a sudden huge wave, leaving us both gasping and laughing and dripping wet.

I’ll remember all of this and more as I turn now to crisp fall mornings and mellow afternoons, as the trees turn to gold and the earth ripens toward harvest. This morning, after I send my children off to school, I’ll hurry through my morning chores and then I’ll take a drive up the canyon to Sundance, noting just a hint of color in the leaves. I’ll have lunch at the little sandwich shop and then sit in one of the rocking chairs on the porch and start a new book, looking out over sun-splashed hills covered with pines and aspens and wildflowers. And I’ll breathe deeply, feeling that age-old mixture of relief and sadness, as I mark the end of the season.

Are you sad that summer is coming to an end, happy that school is starting, or both? Did this summer live up to your expectations? What are some of your favorite memories of this summer? What is the best book you read this summer?

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1. Summer’s Here and the Reading is easy
2. Good-Bye
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As soon as church is over and my eight-year-old daughter is let out of Primary, she begins gathering her younger siblings. She picks up Parker from his primary class and Camille from her nursery class then meets me in my CTR5 classroom on the other side of the building. After all ten of my CTRs have trickled out to their own parents, we then hunt down five-month-old Rachel, who was pawned off to a member of the Primary presidency while I taught my class. As soon as we are all together again, we madly glance around for a brief glimpse of our father, also known as bishop. As soon as that is accomplished and we wave across a crowded foyer, we’re off to the car.

Currently it is warming up to a high of forty-five degrees in Utah so I will not delve into the drama of coats at this point, since anything over forty is not considered coat-worthy. As my children play dodge with cars in the parking lot, we finally make it to our mini-van. By this time, I am usually nearing the point of manic-anxiety levels and a considerable amount of energy is being used to maintain my Sunday smile and to breathe without breaking down. Everyone is finally shoved into the van, crouching underneath the bulk of Rachel’s car seat, because who would ever think to open another door that provides obstacle-free access to their seats? Tired of fighting the seatbelt/car seat war, I let the children wander aimlessly between the front, middle and back sections of the van, including the back-hatch. With no seatbelts fastened and the doors barely closed, the engine is started, the van shifts into drive and we are off to home base. At this point, the passive-aggressive side of me is coming out as I take turns and round-abouts at a slightly increased rate of speed, knocking the children off balance and benignly bouncing them around the inside of the vehicle, hoping to send a subtle message about the importance and value of seatbelts. Due to the outrageous laughter this generates, I’m guessing my message is not being received as it was intended.

We pull into our drive-way and the grand exit occurs. Still only one door is used as an exit, which results in near stampeding as the herd again crowds beneath Rachel’s car seat, scrambling to be the first inside. And why the furious race you may wonder? The fridge, standing firm and constant, holds the promise of culinary indulgence for my young brood. Everyone is starving, bellybuttons scraping backbones, or so I’m told. As I unlatch my seatbelt, I breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth. I slowly trudge from the garage, through the house door and into the kitchen. I am trying to breathe deeply in order to maintain some semblance of a responsible grown-up who can actually control, if not her children, at least herself. It is barely working.

I lay baby Rachel in her crib, who is loudly proclaiming the unjust predicament she is in, being in a saturated diaper, unable to speak, sit up, or scavenge for herself. While she continues her wild appeal to any and all of those in the house who have by now learned to completely tune her out, I grab each child, one by one. I briskly pull them away from the fridge, explaining to each that it is the much anticipated, though not so much for them, left-over lunch day. And that they need to change out of their Sunday clothes before they can eat. Like wrestling with a greased-up monkey, I quickly undo anything that would hamper them from changing their clothes, such as buttons and zippers. With all such obstacles taken care of, I retire to my room, promptly lock the door, and begin to peel off the nylons that have kept me in a most uncomfortable bondage for the last three-and-a-half hours. Finally, in more comfortable clothes and a slightly more relaxed state of mind (by that I mean, not manic), I enter the fray again. Lunchtime. And this, my friends, is a typical Sunday morning, week in, week out

What is not typical is coming into the kitchen and finding that Camille, all two-and-three-quarter years of her, has found her own lunch. She gets as far as completely undressing and disposing of her diaper, in a place only she knows the location of, and then decides she has an impulse for a pickle. Her four-year-old brother, happy to oblige, helps her take the jar of home-canned pickles out of the fridge, opens it and sets it up for her on the counter, toothpicks and all. So I come into the kitchen to a view that, I must admit, makes me laugh, hard. There is Camille, in all her natural glory, pure, beautiful skin from button-nose to her bare piggy-toe, feasting on pickles. And for the first time today since my head left my pillow this morning, I stand still and I laugh. Some from the hilarity of the situation, some from sheer exhaustion, and some from the gratefulness that life is not always typical And so for today, I find myself happy that this typical Sunday morning is not so typical after all.

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Last summer I gave my kids a list of responsibilities that had to be completed each morning. Along with simple household chores, everyone had to be fed, dressed, hair combed, and teeth brushed by 10:00a.m. Easy enough. The TV (or DS, computer, etc.) couldn’t go on before 10:00 even if everyone had their jobs done, and it went off at lunchtime. It worked well for us as a way to keep the house relatively clean, cut down on bickering since my kids tend to fight less the less they lay around doing nothing, and get us ready to leave the house if in fact there was an activity planned that day. It worked great… until school started. My plan to follow through with daily chores has ebbed and flowed, but mostly ebbed. I’ve been terribly inconsistent in my expectations and follow through and it shows in the messy spaces under the beds, finger prints on the windows, and kids who respond as though they’ve been sentenced to a labor camp every time they are asked to do something.

Beyond an organized house, we need an organized schedule of fun. I had grand plans last year of holding a cooking class with my kids once a week. You know, just the basics. Scrambled eggs, easy dinners, homemade bread, cookies, etc. I think we lasted one time. Four kids vying for a turn to measure and dump with one mom playing referee whilst trying to keep egg shells out of and ingredients in the bowl didn’t yield the Ensign/Disney Family Fun quality experience I had imagined it would. Having learned nothing, I am determined to try again this year.

And that’s it. That’s all I’ve got. Three more weeks until my kids’ endless appetite for entertainment and tireless ability to complain about work are unleashed on the ashes of the quiet alone time I have known and cherished for the last nine months.

Help a sister out!

What are your plans to avoid chaos and boredom this summer? Do you have a magical system for chores? Do you have consistent plans each week? Let the kids run wild? When you hear “Summer Break” do you shiver with excitement or shudder with fear? Both? Tell me your secrets for sanity, harmony, survival, and making memories you actually want to cherish.

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