Wordseed

Preschool outline: Rockets, Letter Mm

2012-01-09T11:47:00.000-08:00

Monthly Theme: Space
Weekly Topic: Shuttles/rockets
Letter Mm

Tuesday

Gathering activity: Memory matching game (I've learned that starting with an open-ended activity is vital, since the children all arrive at different times.)

Rug time: calendar, weather, Pledge of Allegiance. Discuss how the weather this week is very different from last week. Now we have snow. What sorts of things do we wear to play in the snow? Encourage children to think of one that begins with the letter M.

Read The Mitten by Jan Brett. Do coloring and cutting activity to retell the story. Source: http://www.janbrett.com/put_the_animals_in_the_mitten.htm

Workbook practice writing uppercase M.

I did not hold preschool on my last planned day due to our area's big windstorm. So I am including the science lesson of making ice cream here -- plus it goes well with the following story. Gather children in kitchen to help mix milk, cream and sugar. Talk about the order of seasons. What season was it when we started preschool? What season is it now? It is colder in winter. What happens to water outside in winter?

While ice cream maker runs, read Mooncake by Frank Asch. This story is about a bear who builds a rocket because he wants to visit the moon and see what it tastes like. He falls asleep during take-off. When he wakes up he thinks the snowy landscape is actually the moon; he's never seen snow before. It tastes delicious!

I hope children will arrive dressed for the weather so we can play outside and mimic the story. If not, we'll play "Mother, May I?" inside.

Talk about how the story of the bear was make-believe, but that scientists have actually created spacecraft to visit the moon.

Storytime:
This Rocket by Paul Collicutt -- uses the concept of opposites to explain spacecraft. Realistic pictures.
Space at Your Fingertips, written by Judy Nayer and illustrated by Terri Chicko, uses illustrations based on photographs.

Singing time:
Use the book There was a Bold Lady who Wanted a Star by Charise Mericle Harper, sung to the tune "There was an old lady who swallowed a fly."
"The Mitten Song" -- Thumbs in the thumb place, Fingers all together! This is the song We sing in mitten weather.

Check ice cream mixture. How has it changed? Do you think the moon would taste as good? :)

Thursday

Gathering activity: Examine rocket page in Look Alikes Jr. by Joan Steiner. She creates scenes made up of everyday objects. Encourage the children to identify what they see.

Rug time: calendar, weather, Pledge of Allegiance. Introduce lower-case m. We've learned half the alphabet now.

"Magic sounds" game to review letters A to M: Ahead of time write capital and lower case letters on index cards. Drop cards into a magician-type hat. Tell the children that we're going to "turn" these pictures into sounds. Encourage children to call out the letter sound as I pull out several cards, one at a time. Then ask children to match the capital letter with lower case letter. (Save cards for matching game as a future gathering activity.)

Workbook practice on lower-case m and numbers.

Outside activity: Build a small snowman together to save in the freezer. Read The Summer Snowman by Gene Zion, illustrated by Margaret Bloy Graham. Identify how the letter m is in important sound inside words, too.

Social studies: Teach about Martin Luther King Jr. Read My Brother Martin by Christine King Farris, illustrated by Chris Soentpiet

Decorate milk jug space helmets with crayons and stickers. (I will cut these out ahead of time, provided I gather enough cartons. Drink up, kids.)

Other stories:
The Berenstain Bears on the Moon by Stan and Jan Berenstain
Curious George and the Rocket by H. A. Rey
If You Give a Moose a Muffin by Laura Joffe Numeroff, illustrated by Felicia Bond

Singing time;
"I am Like a Star Shining Brightly"
"Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star"
"Once there was a Snowman"
and these silly lyrics to "I'm a Little Teapot" (although I can hardly sing this song without lapsing into the Jeopardy "time's done" music, hee hee):

I'm a speedy rocket, watch me pop! (hold hands in fists that burst fingers open)
Here are my boosters (point to feet), here is my top (point arms upward).
When you do the countdown, point me high.
5-4-3-2-1, Watch me fly! (jump up)

Natural light

2012-01-01T17:48:00.000-08:00

We visited Midway's annual Creche Display at the precise moment the sun streamed in through the window and lit this stunning crystal nativity. December 3.

As a general rule I don't like to use a flash when I take pictures. Sure, it can be helpful, especially in low-light or back-lit scenes, such as making the difference between this:

and this:

Most of the time, though, I like the challenge of using ambient light to capture images. And I really like taking pictures at Temple Square.

We went there on Wednesday, Dec. 28, our 18th wedding anniversary. Jeff, having already seen the lit square at the start and finish of each work day for a month, could have justifiably balked when he came home and I suggested we go right back. Especially with the kids in tow. I think a quiet restaurant meal was more what Jeff had in mind. But I found a sweet significance in sharing the day and the site of our wedding with our children.

Here's the obligatory group shot, taken with a flash. Red eyes and everything.

Aside from cropping out a random little girl in James' shots above, all the pictures here are straight out of the camera. All those that follow were taken without flash.

Samuel took this one of the Christus, above. And if you've seen the size of our camera, you appreciate the effort it took for him to point it upwards. I dig the composition!

James

I show you all these pictures exactly as the camera recorded them for a reason. Today in Sunday School the teacher used a lesson on gold-mining to introduce this year's focus of study, the Book of Mormon. With a quiet power the teacher stated that if our goal was merely to read the book by year's end -- just to say we'd done so -- we would fail.

A higher goal, he said, is to study the scriptures more painstakingly, more deliberately, more prayerfully -- more slowly -- than ever before so we don't miss the treasures within.

I return to my pictures. I had not looked through them until after church today, which experiences provided a new lens.

For this one I was below a tree, looking up the statue of the angel Moroni atop the temple. According to my camera's specs my shutter speed was 1/60th of a second.

But look at the brilliance of this one in the exact same spot, all because I opened the shutter longer (1/10th of a second).

I look forward to a year of committed scripture study, the kind where I can be still long enough to soak up more of God's light.

FDA warning

2011-12-20T15:05:00.000-08:00

Beware the now-functional, but still-being-remodeled kitchen that houses these similarly packaged items at once:

(marshmallow creme and vinyl spackling)

Fudge, anyone?

Preschool outline: Trains, Letter Ii

2011-11-29T17:26:00.000-08:00

Here is my latest preschool recap and outline. Recap, because I'm posting this after Tuesday's class -- these days, that's how I roll. I did have it all in my head, of course. We had a lot of fun!

Monthly theme: Transportation
Weekly topic: Trains
Letter Ii, number 11

Tuesday

Gathering activity: words printed on an envelope, with corresponding letters printed on individual cards inside. Encourage each child to arrange the cards and spell the word on her envelope.

Calendar/weather report. Sing days of week song (to "Clementine").

Introduce letter I and its sounds.
Our preschool uses a big flip chart of song lyrics, one song for each letter of the alphabet. Before singing the song, pretend index finger is an inch worm (curve up, then down). Finger-walk the text of the song, asking children to shout "stop!" when I get to a word that begins with I or i.

Read R. M. Schneider's Add it, Dip it, Fix it, an alphabetical exploration of the many things you can do to the word "it."

Workbook practice writing I.

Display a toy train and discuss trains, their different uses and parts. Read books about trains. Encourage children to share their experiences seeing or riding trains. Ask: can trains go anywhere they want? Could they arrive in your driveway? Talk about the significance of the track.

Use prepared worksheet of a train with sections of the track missing. Hmm, what shape could make the tracks? Ah-hah! The letter I. (It probably took me longer to write about this worksheet than it did to draw all the copies, it's that basic.)

Tell children that the cars of a train are connected in a chain, just like paper loops can be connected. Practice writing numbers 1-12 on paper strips for a advent chain we'll complete Thursday.

Gross motor activity: outside, walk across two 2x4s placed side by side, like a railroad track. Encourage children to do this while connected to each other.

Singing time with alphabet song and "Wheels on the Train" variation.
Story time: My Little Train by Satomi Ichikawa, with animal sounds for children to mimic; If ... by Sarah Perry, a family fave. Encourage children to come up with their own "if" scenarios.

Social studies lesson: introduce the culture of the Inuit people through Mama, Do You Love Me? by Barbara M. Joosse and Barbara Lavallee.

Finish by building "igloos" of half an apple spread with peanut butter and topped with marshmallows.

Thursday

Gathering activity: Continue working on numbers 13-25 for advent chain.

Calendar/weather. It's a new month! Who has a birthday this month?

Have children help pour ingredients into ice cream maker. Make a show of bringing out ice cube from freezer and leaving it in bowl in room (for science lesson below).

Fine motor activity: Use small round stickers to dot the lower case "i"s in a simple sentence I'll type out.

Finish advent chains. Possibly make picture ornament. (I took everyone's pictures Tuesday but haven't come up with anything other than a canning ring presentation. Anyone?)

Outside play.

Science lesson: What has happened to ice cube? Talk briefly how temperature affects physical state. Eat ice cream!

Read The Little Engine that Could by Watty Piper and Imogene's Antlers by David Small. Afterwards decorate paper antler crown (made of what else? Two upper case "I"s). Encourage children to imagine how they would use antlers if they had them. (Thanks, Katrina, for reminding me of this book.)

All dressed up

2011-10-19T11:10:00.000-07:00

Andie and Katie, this one's for you ...

The other day I went to the Deseret Industries thrift store, that treasure trove of do-it-yourself Halloween expression.

Reliably, right at the front, was a long rack of costumes and accessories. I filed through it. I found cowboy gear and bears and bats and Frankenstein's monster (not to be confused with simply Frankenstein, who as Emma likes to remind us, was the name of the scientist who created the monster -- a distinction I didn't know until a college lit. class.)

Anyway, between a toga and a Christmas angel I found this:

Never mind the poor cell phone quality, it will suffice. I can see the doorstep scene now:

DING DONG!

"Trick or treat! Trick or treat!" in chorus.

"Well, lookey here. We've got a ghost, {plop of candy bar in bag}, Harry Potter {plop}, and ... er ... what are you, dear?"

"I'm the sister of the groom in an early 1990s wedding!"

"Oh. Of course. {plop} That deserves two. {plop} Have a great night!"

Really, my dress wasn't that short, the slush was just that high.

Jeff's sisters Andie and Katie with my brother, Jeff at our reception. December 28, 1993.

HALLOWEEN BONUS:

Apparently I was either in disguise on my wedding day or have mutated greatly since. I used to have this photo framed in my living room but removed it because on two separate occasions a visitor asked, "Who's that a picture of?"

Can you believe that?! And that it happened more than once?! And that it was within only seven years of my wedding? Now it's been 17 years. Don't you dare ask, too.

One questioner was my visiting teacher. The fact that she didn't know me well enough to recognize me in the picture (it IS me, people!) should have prepared me to know she also wouldn't recognize my humor when I said, "It's Jeff's first wife."

Forever, I'm glad to say.

Happy Halloween!

Superpowers

2011-10-05T09:15:00.000-07:00

You know, superpowers are relative.

If everyone in Metropolis could fly and had X-ray vision, Superman might only be special for his tights. Meh.

It's all in the company you keep. Which is why MY superpower is ... (drum roll, please) ...

seeing that the dishwasher is full of dirty dishes and ... (wait for it) ...

STARTING THE DISHWASHER! (last night's newly discovered dishes are humming right now)

That, and lowering my expectations.

What's your superpower?

Preschool outline: Dinosaurs, B, more

2011-09-12T17:19:00.000-07:00

Samuel, April 2011

I'm doing a co-op preschool group with five friends this year. This is my week to teach, two hours each on Tuesday and Thursday.

I'm posting this outline 1)To actually create it! and 2)To encourage your ideas. Hello, Katrina!

All the topics were assigned.

Monthly theme: Dinosaurs

Weekly topic: Fossils (good thing my dad's a geologist, eh?)

Letter B; Number 2; Color: blue; Shape: triangle

Tuesday

After greeting/rug time (which includes calendar, weather, pledge of allegiance), review circle shape from last week. Display capital B and help children identify how circles help form it. Show color blue. Introduce B sound with Berenstains' B Book by Stan and Jan Berenstain.

Move to work table for pre-writing worksheets (tracing lines, mazes, etc.) Use pans with a thin layer of salt for finger tracing as well (can lightly shake and draw again like a cheap Etch-a-Sketch). Teach about the triangle shape; have children practice in salt pans.

Move back to rug to read Color Farm by Lois Ehlert, which uses die-cut basic shapes to form animal faces. Shape by Shape by Suse MacDonald uses the same concept for more advanced shapes as the story unveils a dinosaur. Talk about how shapes are everywhere!

Make and decorate "binoculars" out of cardboard tubes. (I will do the taping.) Go on a shape hunt in the front yard.

Back inside, show pictures of 3-4 dinosaurs, especially those whose names begin with B. Ask children to find the Bs on the page. Teach that dinosaurs hatched from eggs.

Go on an egg hunt in the backyard. The plastic eggs will be filled with pictures of objects that begin with B (ball, baby, etc.). Have each child share what she found.

Talk about how some dinosaurs were fast, some slow, and have children romp through the yard accordingly. Open play, then snack. (peaches)

Move back to rug for story and singing time. Books may include:

The Blue Balloon by Mick Inkpen

The Baby Beebee Bird by Diane Redfield Massie (great repetition of B sound)

Dinosaur Roar by Paul and Henrietta Strickland (opposites for children to act out)

How Do Dinosaurs Say I Love You? by Jane Yolen and Mark Teague
ABC T-Rex by Bernard Most

Songs:

ABC
Wheels on the Bus

and this twinkling little ditty I just made up:

Small and giant dinosaurs (crouch then jump up)

Roamed the earth so long ago. (swing arms, march in place)

Some of them had plants to eat, (hold arm and hand up like a tree)

Others liked to chew their meat. (put arm in front of mouth)

Small and giant dinosaurs

Roamed the earth so long ago.

Coloring activity: dinosaur poster

Thursday

Gathering activity: Provide popsicle sticks (some cut to different lengths). Encourage children to take three and form into a triangle.

Greeting/rug time followed by review of B and introduction of lower case b. Can the children see how it is different? Explain that it makes the same sound, even though it looks smaller and different. Read/paraphrse Blueberries for Sal by Robert McCloskey. Did Sal do the same things as her mom even though she is smaller? How about Sal and the bear cub?

Move to table for counting activity. Repeating the "kuplink" from the story, ask children to listen for how many pebbles I drop into a metal bowl. Teach how to draw the number 2. Do worksheets.

Maybe have snack of blueberries and bananas, maybe not.

Go outside to play freeze the dinosaur -- like freeze tag, only since this age group doesn't really grasp the concept of holding themselves still, I will be the dinosaur. Assign children to freeze me, others to release me, all the while chasing each other. After a couple of rounds, pretend to fall asleep and have the children do the same. Explain briefly that layers and layers of mud covered the dinosaurs. Explain that dinosaurs don't live on the earth anymore.

Back indoors, elaborate on fossils through first pages of book Fossils Tell of Long Ago by Aliki.

Use sea shells and leaves to form impressions in salt dough, thus making fossil models. (Great idea with the shells, Dad!)

Set fossils aside and do name-spelling activity. Provide each child with an envelope that has her name printed on it. Inside are the individual letters. Encourage her to put them in order. Can she do it without referring to the envelope? (Thanks for this one, Katrina!)

Coloring activity: dinosaur poster

Story and singing time, with some of these books:

Zoo Farm by Lois Ehlert

Chicka Chicka 123 by Bill Martin Jr.

Curious George's Dinosaur Discovery by Catherine Hapka
Chalk by Bill Thomson -- I love this book! It's a wordless tale of children's chalk drawings coming to life.

Songs may include:
ABC

Five Little Speckled Frogs

Five Little Ducks

The dinosaur ditty

The last book will be Chalk, so we can then go outside and recreate the story. Send home printout with Curious George finger puppets for children to cut out at home, if I ended up reading that book.

###

So there it is. I'm planning to adapt as we go. I planned lots of activities but won't rush the children just to do them all. Peeking in on the group last week I noticed that the girls could sit for an hour with their workbooks -- but Samuel, the only boy, could not. This level of variety is definitely with him in mind.

Send me your ideas -- and wish me luck!

P.S. My next topic is trains. Any fun activities for that one?

Happy birthday, little monkey!

2011-08-28T21:11:00.000-07:00

Dear Samuel,

Today is your birthday and I can't believe you're already 4! Maybe when you're older you'll remember this day, maybe not. For all the anticipation you showed this summer wondering when your big day would come, you were remarkably nonchalant. Is that how big boys are? I played the piano in Primary today and swore you blushed when the group sang to you. After church we ate spaghetti for dinner (by your request) and celebrated with ice cream and a fire truck cake modeled after one you and Emma found together in a book.

I think this picture sums up your place in our family perfectly: Look how thrilled James is for you to blow out your candles! Look how happy he is! Everyone was so excited to help you have a great day. James, Emma and Elise hovered over frosting bowls to help with the cake. Your sisters wanted to wrap the presents. We called Kyle to come out his room before the candles burned low. He didn't come right away, not until half the cake had been served. Yet when Kyle did emerge he was so sad to have missed it that he set up candles in the crumbled cake and asked you to blow them out again.

On your blessing day, Samuel, your father spoke of all the peace you brought to our home from the very beginning. (Psst. We miss it some days. We'll take it back anytime!) He also blessed that you would bring us closer the more you taught us about love.

I truly believe this. I feel it in Emma's extreme patience with you (often greater than mine -- but you're teaching me!) I see it in the way you can cheer Kyle up after a rough day at school. I hear it when Elise creates a 10-minute narrative to relate a simple, but funny, sentence you said. I smile when James calls you his best friend brother.

Samuel, when you see yourself I hope you see how much you are loved. Making you happy makes us happy.

You were so excited about your monkey hat that you ran to the mirror. The abacus and Curious George books and shirt were hits, too. Thank you, Grandma Shirley and Grandpa Jim!

Minutes after you were born we gazed intently at each other. You had so much to tell me. Tonight I stopped you from running through the kitchen long enough for me to crouch down, look in your eyes and give you a birthday hug. Do you remember?

"I love you so much, Samuel," I said.

We all do, you little monkey.

Mom, 35; Samuel, day of birth; Kyle, 11; Emma, 9; Elise, 5; James, 3 -- just too much for him!

Love,
Mom

PDA #15: Samage control

2011-08-14T21:23:00.000-07:00

No, that is not a typo. If you have 3-year-old tyrant named Samuel, you know exactly what I mean. (Good luck with that, by the way.)

Today was my fifth straight Sunday of playing music during sacrament meeting at church. One week the congregation was unusually hushed as the choir (for which I am accompanist) approached the end of its beautiful, spiritual offering. Right at the last line of music I heard my son cry. But this was no mere case of a mother singling out her child's voice in a crowd, oh, no. Everyone heard it. As the choir faded in volume, Samuel increased to full-blown screams. Embarrassed, I marched from the stand, brushed past Jeff in our pew, picked up Samuel and marched out of the chapel with my little banshee. The story is Samuel had hit his head on the bench in front and wouldn't let Jeff console him. I apologized to the choir director for ruining the effect she had tried so hard to create. "Oh, we all felt for you," she said.

Another week I was to do a piano solo. This time Samuel threw a HUGE fit before church. He screamed at home. He fought and kicked as I got him in the car. He refused to go inside the building. I finally got him inside, but only as far as some chairs in the hallway. I was rattled and frustrated, not in a performing state of mind at all. It was so bad that Jeff took Samuel home before the meeting even started.

Which brings us to today. Samuel again threw a tantrum about attending church. I couldn't leisurely reason with him because I had to be at the church in five minutes to do a final run-through with some singers -- surprise! I bribed Samuel with the only yummy morsels in the house: chocolate chips. Emma packed a baggie for him that I figured he'd consume by the time we arrived.

Phew! Crisis averted. Nope! I did the rehearsal then sat at the edge of the pew with my family. I looked over during the opening hymn and saw a brown smudge in Samuel's ear. Yes, in. My vigorous attack on the ear with a tissue must have caught Jeff's attention, for he also looked over, registered shock and mouthed, "Uh. Ther. Side."

It's time to insert a little-known scientific fact: the opening of the outer ear traps just enough body heat to melt a chocolate chip into an impenetrable blockage.

That's why I once again fled the chapel. It took a while to get Samuel cleaned up, but he was too noisy to rejoin the congregation. I held Samuel and hovered near the door so I'd know when it was my turn. I anticipated depositing Samuel with Jeff as I walked past the bench on my way to the piano. Instead, Jeff came out to the foyer and rescued me. He once again provided the damage control that allowed me to perform. So thank you, Jeff. We're on a steep learning curve with this kid! It's not exactly the piano practicing I had in mind.

Grandparents in my garden

2011-08-09T20:42:00.000-07:00

When my columbines burst open this summer I was transported to my Grandpa Earl's front steps. A columbine is a rather unique looking flower, with star-shaped blooms atop long, trailing pointy petals. The flower beds flanking Grandpa's front door were full of 'em, presenting a vivid white, yellow and blue welcome mat. Even though I never asked him, I figured columbines must be my grandpa's absolute favorite flower, to have them in such profusion. It was like our shared contempt of cucumbers (among a teasing family that loves them) -- another funny little tidbit to bond the two of us together.

Page from Emma's scrapbook. Text: Mom's favorites: Grandpa Earl, her children and columbines.

Grandpa was so cute. When Mom said she'd like to take a picture in front of his flowerbeds, he went inside to change his shirt first.

June 1999. Midway, Utah. Kyle: 3; Emma: 11 months, Grandpa: 82.

Today is Grandpa Earl's birthday. He would have been 95. There seems such a huge distance between that number and 88, the age when he died. I wish I could still visit him. I wish my children could play in his sandbox, then saunter inside to open his treat/cookie drawer and hear him call out, "What's a seven-letter word for keepsake?"* while he did the crossword. I miss him.

I miss my other three grandparents, too. All four are gone.

I was mulling my status as a "grandparent orphan" one day as I worked in my garden. The columbines, naturally, made me think of Grandpa Earl. Then, as I started weeding, I heard the words Uncle Willis spoke in a funeral tribute to his mother, my Grandma Orton. Sitting is not the proper posture for working, she had taught him as a young boy. When a task requires us to be close to the ground, we summon more strength by kneeling.

I began to think of all the other ways my garden brings my grandparents near:

The mingling scents of flowers remind me of how Grandpa Orton humored fussy Grandma, as shown the time I was 13, visiting from another state. They took me to the mall. Grandma flitted from perfume counter to perfume counter, each time waiting for Grandpa to sniff his approval. "Mmm," he said with the air of a practiced connoisseur. "That stinks pretty good."

I think of GranMarie, Grandpa Earl's wife, every time I brush past a tomato plant and release the aroma of her minestrone recipe. Come winter I make about a batch a week. I look at my apple tree and remember her pushing me high enough on the swing in her yard that I feared hitting fruit.

I have just one zucchini plant this season (one is enough!), but even with such a small quarry there's sure to be one squash that will escape notice -- you know, the kind you never, ever see forming until it's the size of a man's leg. And I'll laugh to remember the time my dad, brothers and I slipped such a specimen beneath the disproportionately puny leaves of Grandpa Earl's squash plant. He was too shocked to remark on the curious lack of stem/plant attachment.

I hunted for worms by flashlight in my grandparents' carrot rows, felt my grandmother's patience when I pretended to understand her grape vine pruning lesson, expectantly planted vegetable seeds with my grandparents, harvested alongside them. That all these memories can take form in my own garden today makes me very grateful indeed.

*memento

PDA #14: Gene pool

2011-07-27T19:29:00.000-07:00

This Public Display of Appreciation post honors my husband's DNA.

Hmm. Unless I'm mistaken, and this trait comes from me.

"Do you want a bag for your hair?"

2011-07-23T12:36:00.000-07:00

Emma was standing by me at the register as I paid for our haircuts, distractedly bouncing her braid in her hand. "Do you want a bag for your hair?" the stylist asked.

Do those words make you laugh, too? I can't help it -- I think it's funny!

The braid was fun for shocking her siblings, now it's off to Locks of Love where it can be made into a hairpiece for a child going through chemotherapy.

Emma created quite an uproar in the salon with her request to cut off 11 inches. "Are you sure?" the stylists asked over and over.

Emma was. She continually delights me, this self-assured daughter of mine.

Emma, unplugged

2011-07-22T17:17:00.000-07:00

Happy 13th Birthday, Emma!

It's an exciting day around here. James and Elise helped me prepare our traditional birthday breakfast in bed. Samuel heartily joined in the singing as we presented the tray. Since food pics are nearly always unrecognizable, I'll fill you in on the menu: scrambled eggs, spiced applesauce, and pancakes shaped into a 13, topped with apricot syrup, raspberries and powdered sugar.

It's a thoughtful day around here. I heard Kyle turn philosophical saying, "I'll never look at Emma the same now that she's a teenager."

But when Emma entered the room this morning Kyle reverted to the teasing older brother. "You're not really 13 yet, not until 4 or 5 (in the afternoon)."

Emma was a whip. "Yeah I am! It's called birthday, not birth minute."

It's a grateful day around here. My children's birthdays always make me pensive, Emma's especially so. I still catch my breath when I revisit her birth. Jeff and I were scared, but also felt so ... lifted. I felt shielded, protected in the moment from what could have been too much to bear. It wasn't until Emma was out of the woods, weeks later, that I learned some of the details of her birth: that she emerged from the C-section limp and blue, earning a 1 out of 10 on the APGAR assessment scale; that doctors performed CPR. I couldn't see any of this going on in the hushed room. Oh, the silence! I remember waiting to her hear first cry, but did not panic. Instead, I was buoyed. I felt it.

The same doctor also delivered Elise and James. He was hilarious. When Jeff couldn't accompany me to my appointments he wanted a full recap of the crazy things Dr. Roth said. So I was caught off guard one time during another prenatal visit when Dr. Roth suddenly turned serious. He asked how Emma, then a preschooler, was doing. "That was a scary day for me," he recalled. That remark was the first time I realized how tragic it could have been.

It's sobering to know that in a different time or place, neither Emma nor I may have survived her delivery. She was six weeks premature, delivered by C-section because I was bleeding out. She was 4 lbs. 13 oz. She was in the NICU for three weeks. She had no surgeries, just needed to develop.

As far as we can see Emma has no lasting effects from being a preemie. At her first grade teacher conference I slumped in relief to hear Emma was on track with her classmates. I explained to her teacher a little bit of the guilt I had felt (it was my body, after all) about Emma's early birth, especially wondering if it affected her cognitively. "I think you can stop worrying now!" she said.

July 1999, age 1

I don't know why our family was so blessed with this beautiful outcome. I know so many others watch their babies suffer, and my heart aches for them. Thirteen years later, sharing this story is still tender for me.

I am so grateful this loving, compassionate, capable girl is in our family. I look at all the wires and tubes Emma once had to keep her alive. I could be glad that Emma is past that stage, that she's "on her own power" now, so to speak, but there I would be wrong.

Because it's been Heavenly Father's power all along.

Self portrait, December 2010

PDA #13: Not a dud!

2011-07-05T17:05:00.000-07:00

Jeff surprised us Monday night. We spent the day of the 4th with family a couple of hours away. Since Jeff wanted to get home in time to get a decent night's sleep before work Tuesday morning, we had to pull away before dusk. As in, BEFORE FIREWORKS with the cousins. Grumble, grumble. The kids were sad.

Still, we got to see snippets of practically every city's fireworks display as we drove along I-15. When we got off the freeway for our own town, Jeff headed south instead of the usual north. That got the kids' attention! A local display was in the works, and Jeff wanted to find the kids a good vantage point. He snaked the van around town, pausing at intersections as long as he could, so we could watch, moving only if other cars came by. Ultimately we stopped right in the middle of the road.

We hit the last 5 minutes of the show, just perfect, if you ask me. It finally dawned on me that I had the camera in the car, so I grabbed it and shot without regard for the right buttons. (These of Jeff and ear-covering James are long exposures without flash -- that's why they're blurry!) Samuel dubbed the show "too loud" and chose not to leave his car seat.

We were close enough to hear the crowd's cheers signaling the finale, which meant we better high-tail it out of there! Jumping back into the van and peeling out was exhilarating. Jeff got us back home in a flash. Being last-minute renegade fireworks spectators like this, without having to find parking, might become a tradition.

Later, when Jeff sat at the dining room table recording the day's receipts, I kissed his cheek and thanked him for making such a fun memory for the kids. "I CAN be spontaneous," he said, smiling. "I just don't plan on it."

Spin cycle

2011-07-01T10:50:00.000-07:00

I experimented with a slow camera shutter speed to show motion on the merry-go-round. (The green and white forms are children running and pushing.) Samuel is in the center, above the white mass. Elise, by some fluke, is the only face in focus. She thought that was cool!

You wouldn't know it by this initial show of fear, but Samuel loved the merry-go-round so much he wouldn't get off.

I love this shot for how Samuel's face is in sharper focus relative to the spinning around him. (Look at his fingers and feet!) I also like how the stripes on his shirt mimic the spinning grooves.

Spin Cycle

A mother I know, a stylishly grounded woman whose exquisite paintings expand my thinking, used this word to describe the realm of child-rearing: Perpetual.

Meals, dishes, laundry, carpools, homework, conflict resolution. Rinse, repeat.

Perpetual. It has a lofty connotation. It is not the word I thought of first. Tedious, routine, monotonous maybe. Overwhelming, overbearing, draining sometimes.

We had to abandon the merry-go-round sooner than expected on Monday because the friends we drove to the park, a mother and her two daughters, were ready to leave. This did not sit well with James. My normally mellow 7-year-old threw the biggest tantrum known to man -- made worse because I could not shrink into anonymity. Next, at the grocery store, where I drove my neighbor too, Samuel threw a huge fit. What gives?

Rinse, repeat.

I have been bogged down lately in a swamp of mothering discouragement. I am exhausted. I'm lonely. I often feel like I'm spinning out of control, not able to stay on top of anything (although my laundry pile would grant an impressive "king of the hill" perch).

The spinning of the merry-go-round -- almost hypnotically tranquil to watch that day, with its soundtrack of laughing, happy children -- stays with me.

These things are perpetual, too:

• Seasons

• Sunrises and sunsets

• My daily choice to put a positive spin on my current role, because I get to have these precious children forever.

PDA #12: Well-stocked

2011-06-24T14:11:00.000-07:00

Jeff's fishing gear really came in handy this week. These scissors with teeny tiny tweezer points -- meant, I'm guessing, for extracting fly hooks from fish lips -- were just the thing for gently pulling out Samuel's forehead stitches, saving me another trip to the doctor. (He fell on a rock in our yard.) Yes, I'd rather wrangle a 3-year-old for five minutes on the bathroom counter than wait with him for 45 minutes at the clinic, even if the magazines are good. Un-huh. I asked Samuel to hold the scissors up today, thinking that would be a much better photo, but Emma vetoed that as cheesy. Which is just as well because Samuel's posing nearly resulted in more stitches. Silly me.

What I really want to thank Jeff for in this post, however, is doing all the packing and preparations for our boys' trips. Last week Kyle attended Especially for Youth in Logan from Monday to Saturday, and this week is on a camping trip with his church age group. James went camping with his grandpa Wednesday through Saturday last week. Jeff got them ready. He did it ALL. He carefully packed just what they needed. By the time I even registered that the trips were coming up, Jeff was done. Jeff was on top of things and looking out for his children. He saved me a lot of work, too. Way to go, Jeff!

Inner Beauty

2011-06-23T10:31:00.000-07:00

Preparing for Friday's dress rehearsal

Emma and Elise had their fabulous ballet recital last week. And when I say fabulous, I mean fabulous! This is the type of carefully planned production with original songs and live orchestra. Did you catch that? Live orchestra! The theme was "Once Upon a Time," and the fables and fairy tales portrayed through dance were food for thought in delicious eye candy packaging. In many dances the beautiful costumes became a narrative tool. I especially liked "Sun and Wind," the story of those two elements betting which could get a man to take off his coat.

Emma was a princess among frogs, and Elise was a flower in the story of Snow White. This is Emma's second year of ballet; she started last year at age 11 in a class for older beginners. (This ballet school generally starts girls at age 4.) This year she was several years older than most girls in her class, but I'm so proud of her for working hard and not letting the age difference affect her. I'm also grateful to her wonderful teacher, Circe, for cultivating Emma's confidence. This is Elise's first year of ballet. Last year as soon as the curtains dropped on Emma's recital, previously disinterested Elise leaned over to me and whispered, "Can I take ballet?"

Emma's entrance at the staging rehearsal (the orchestra was not there yet).

All performance pictures were taken at this rehearsal.

Emma's song about made me cry with its words, "Shouldn't every little girl believe that she's a princess?" But be careful, says the song, because someday a prince will make her his own.

Every parent says it, but it's true -- children grow up too fast! Seeing my "little" girls all dressed up like this gives me a glimpse of the women they will become ... all too soon. Although it must be said the hours prior to the recital were practically Elise's undoing. She was an emotional wreck! As we scrambled around the house getting ready I finally pegged her: she wanted me to say she was more beautiful than Emma. I told her I wouldn't do that. I wouldn't! Yet no amount of "You're both beautiful" and "I love you!" would help. Thankfully the drive to the auditorium was long enough for her to reset. Elise also ended the recital very pleased with how she did, and I was grateful for Emma's sincere compliments to her. So grateful! This picture below was taken before Friday's dress rehearsal, when Elise was still a bit grumpy.

Elise is second from right.

This picture makes me smile, the way Elise faces the rest of the group.

Aargh! Degas would not be pleased. Ballet pictures that cut off the feet?

To be close enough, I was standing right at the orchestra pit, looking upwards.

(Note to self: next time bring longer lens!)

Emma is holding her crown because it had fallen off -- but no worries by performance time.

With Grandma Shirley on Saturday.

Grandpa Jim, Grandma Hatch and Aunt Katie came, too.

(Other pictures, with them, are still on Jeff's phone.) Thank you for supporting us!

What I appreciate most about the girls' ballet experience is this: for every sequin and tube of mascara; for every yard of taffeta and swipe of shimmery eyeshadow, are hours and hours and HOURS of work with no immediate, easy reward -- a year's worth, almost. Emma had two 1-hour classes a week, with one at 8:30 on Saturday mornings. And getting up was no easy task, I tell you.

So, now we're coming down from the recital high. The girls were stars, but now it's back to the every day. I know though, that their poise and self-assurance on stage can touch most anything else in their lives, especially when hard work goes alongside.

What I hope my girls learn is this, that beauty backed by substance is the very best kind.

PDAs #10 and 11: Sous Jeff and Pine Dining

2011-06-06T09:06:00.000-07:00

BAD PUN ALERT!! Or, apology. Sous Jeff, sous chef -- get it?

I've gotten terribly off track again with my weekly Public Displays of Appreciation posts, probably because I haven't posted much of anything lately.

Here's a new one and one from April, thrown together in the same post because of food.

Pine Dining

Look what Jeff built Saturday! We've been missing a patio table ever since last September when I listed our glass table with four cushioned chairs as freebies online. One of our relatives is big on the "vacuum principle," that if you want something new in your life, it will fall into place if you first clear out the old. His stories of same-day acquisitions are pretty convincing -- and I wanted something that would fit our family and space better. (Never mind that a woman with her own family of seven picked it up.) I figured I'd stumble on the perfect table at the next garage sale. No?

Jeff filled that void. He researched plans and tweaked one to make it longer, bought the lumber Saturday morning and set to work. Samuel pulled out his toys and helped. As soon as the table was done giddy Samuel brought out an apple, announced to all he was having a picnic, and sat down.

Jeff accused me of "getting all artsy" with this shot.

See? Here I am on the other side. Thanks, James, for the photographic proof I helped. And thanks for not taking pictures of my scribbled calculations when Jeff consulted me about figuring out the angle and length for a cross brace. We gave up, then altered the plan for a simple 45.

Here's the finished product and Elise's castle from scraps. Thank you, Jeff, for your hard work. The kids and I love it! We've eaten every meal there since.

Sous Jeff

My aunt recently had brain surgery to remove a tumor, and I am glad to say she is doing well. In the scary period between doctor's discovery and plan for attack, I felt very inadequate in what I could do to help her. She lives about an hour away.

Then one day I decided I would make her freezer meals. I knew I would see her the following Sunday at a family gathering, so wanted to get them to her by then (her surgery was not yet set). Trouble was, I did not budget my time very well. That Saturday I was frantically finishing (OK, starting) a baby gift to present the next day, as well as practicing the organ and finishing my Primary preparations. Jeff made minestrone and a zucchini-based lasagna for my aunt.

Jeff, that was the end of April, but I haven't forgotten the way you picked up my slack. I know it aggravates you sometimes when my ambition exceeds my ability, and you have to make up the difference. Thank you for loving me anyway.

Cocoons

2011-06-05T23:44:00.000-07:00

I was typing an email to a junior high teacher Friday afternoon, hoping to tie loose ends on the very last day of school, when James came shouting and running through the patio door.

"Mom! Remember that caterpillar? It changed! MOM!!" He tugged my sleeve in urgency. "Come see!"

Hoo-boy. Just that morning I found a striking, piano keyboard-patterned moth while I was weeding. It was so sleepy I was able to go inside, hunt for a canning jar, return and scoop it back up without a flutter. (An adolescent, perhaps?) I hoped the kids would think it was cool.

James obviously did, given the determined way he pulled me from the computer. But I knew, by his mention of the word caterpillar, that he was thinking of the little wriggler he found two weeks ago and optimistically put in a pickle jar habitat on the patio.

My heart sank.

The hurried march with James from the computer desk to the patio was one of those drawn-out, time-defying debates in my head. Should I correct his misconception? Would he be disappointed? Would I squash the magic? Could this be as damaging to his psyche as Santa Claus gone wrong? Wait, how do I know? Maybe that other caterpillar, you know, the one on the patio for two weeks, maybe it did spin a cocoon unnoticed, and maybe it did hatch the very day I found the other moth. Whoa. Could it be?

Samuel and the two mixed up jars. The moth is elsewhere, in Elise's hands, to be exact.

No such luck. Two jars. One moth.

Maybe I ultimately hoped James would think I was such a cool mom to catch the moth, and we all need Cool Mom recognition, right? So I divulged.

I'm not sure I made the right call.

"Oh," he said. That was all. And he was off to find sticks.

But I do know that the beautiful moth will forever be a memory of this last day of school, a very fitting symbol of my children's growth this year. That, coupled with the class autograph shirt James wore home Friday, makes me think about the kinds of cocoons I want to spin this summer:

James has wrapped himself in a strong sense of self-worth that I love to see him possess, even as I jealously desire it myself. I never want to see this leave! It's so hard otherwise, so hard to get back. I want to help all of my children emerge this season stronger in their belief of worth, and I know, to be effective, that I need to have a firmer conviction of my own. That is my goal, with prayer as my guide.

Here's to a summer of transformation!

First and last days of school -- August 2010 and June 2011.

By the way, if any of you noticed from the top photo, Elise got quite the shiner bumping heads at recess. Here's another look. The accident was Tuesday, and this photo is from Friday:

Story problem

2011-05-16T13:22:00.000-07:00

Q:
If a little boy pedals his tricycle at the rate of 3 feet per second, and passes under a leafy branch overhanging the sidewalk, how many ... um ... "souvenirs" can one measly, rustling robin deposit?

A:
10

(3 on pantlegs, 2 on front of shirt, 1 on head, 1 on shoulder of jacket, 2 on back of jacket and 1 on back of tricycle)

Oh, well. At least one of the kids is already bathed for tonight.

Photo, be gone! (and PDAs #6-9)

2011-04-14T10:58:00.000-07:00

I check into my blog pretty regularly for the sidebar of links to my friends' blogs, and I've got to tell you, I am sick of the watering can photo! I really like -- and benefit from -- reading those blogs, even if I'm so wishy-washy about my own. So, if for no one else than me, I'm throwing out a new photo to greet me when I check in. It might be the only thing for awhile. (I've noticed my blog contributions correspond to my general well-being, which -- my recent momentous event of FINALLY HAVING EMPTY LAUNDRY BASKETS, MATED SOCKS AND VISIBLE BOTTOMS OF EVERY HAMPER!!! aside -- is not the best.)

What about the PDAs, you might ask? I've tried to let Jeff know of my gratitude even if I haven't written it here. I need to get back on track, because that public accountability was huge and kept me on the lookout in a very good way. Plus it pains me to start something and drop it. Here's a quick summary:

6. Jeff has made special efforts to show Emma how much we appreciate her hard work at school, and so planned a night for her to got out to eat with us. He was sensitive to her feeling overlooked in our tornado that is Kyle.

7. He got Samuel excited for their haircut date -- well, that I went on too, once I convinced Jeff of the perils of letting Samuel sit unattended in the shop during Jeff's turn. But to have Samuel look forward to a haircut? Huge.

8. I took the children for a spur-of-the-moment overnight trip to my parents during spring break. When I returned the next evening, I was surprised that in my absence Jeff had turned on the rack lights over my growing seedlings.

9. He came home from work early this week to get sand bags and take them to a neighbor whose creek bed needs stabilizing.

Let's see ... was it four weeks since my last PDA? Oh, good. I'm set.

And now, an explanation of the photos.

The children and I, minus Kyle who didn't want to come, enjoyed a great afternoon at the park on April 4. (I wish Kyle had been with us, but I understand the allure of alone time at that age.) Without planning it, as each was doing his own thing, we were all reflected in the playground structure -- Samuel is the farthest in the background behind the yellow railing, in his red jacket. It was fun to shoot from the hip (or tummy) and get the stylized group shot. I like the composition of this bottom one better, but Samuel wasn't in view, and some stranger is instead. What can you do? Maybe I'll post more photos ... after the laundry, of course.

PDA #5: Heavy lifting

2011-03-14T09:38:00.000-07:00

Jeff helps my ideas come to life. I'm the plotter, he's my plodder. (Get it? I think it, he works it.)

This is no more obvious than this time of year, when winter finally gives way to my favorite pastime: gardening. I love, love, love to plant seeds and see them grow. For me there is nothing more enjoyable.

I don't think gardening holds the same allure for Jeff as it does for me, yet over the years he has pulled bushes, installed sprinklers, built garden boxes, created a seed-starting light rack, tilled the soil, and hauled wheelbarrow load after wheelbarrow load of compost so that I have worthwhile places to plant. He continues to stretch canvases for me to paint.

This is not to say that Jeff doesn't come up with his own ideas, because he does, and they're good. Yet I realize, more and more, that many of my ideas would never get off the ground without Jeff's heavy lifting.

Balance

2011-03-09T09:35:00.000-08:00

Inspired the by the destructive quality of yesterday's beautiful heavy snow, I was going to write a thoughtful little discourse about balance. Something about how I know that when I am rested and pay heed to my health; when my soul is nourished and my priorities aligned, I can handle whatever is thrown at me. That, like a careful backpacker who meticulously distributes his load, I can carry more than I thought able.

Whatever.

I can't really pull it out of my head today.

So instead I'll just share these photos with you while they're still timely. (That is, I HOPE this may be the last of the snow!) The irony is that when I drove home from errands and saw this split tree, I really didn't have time to drive back with my camera. Too much awaited me at home: the driveway to finish shoveling, bank problems to probe, food prep, the usual laundry list.

I worked for a while, but the scene called me back. Samuel and I tromped. Backstage birds filled the air with song. The sun sparkled. Those 15 minutes basking in God's beauty filled me with enough cheer to tackle the looming mundane tasks without complaint.

Besides, Samuel, who got snow in his boots, did enough of that already.

Balance. I'm getting there.

PDA #4: Just keepin' it real

2011-03-07T07:01:00.000-08:00

Jeff popped in the kitchen one night this week after coming home from work, and saw me making dinner. "Oh, I'm not very hungry," he said.

He genuinely thought that would release me from the burden of making the meal. So cute.

Too bad the kids didn't get the memo.

####

On a serious note Jeff encouraged me to go through with our planned temple outing even though I felt so tired. We also went to dinner (on a different night!). What? Two rare breaks in one week? Unheard of. I'm sure I did most of the talking, but he listened. Thank you, Jeff.

####

This picture has nothing to do with the PDA, I just like it. This icicle stopped me in my tracks. What do you see?

Letter to my future daughter-in-law

2011-03-04T09:11:00.000-08:00

Dear new daughter,

There's something you should know about Kyle: he likes to know what his next meal will be.

He once sent me a text message from seminary so he could plot his after-school snack.

When Kyle was 5 we moved to a new ward, one that did a Fathers and Sons camp-out. Jeff was excited for Kyle to go. He pitched the idea to him, trying to build enthusiasm as he talked of sleeping bags and tents, crickets and stars. What little boy wouldn't be thrilled?

Kyle thought this over carefully. "Well," he wanted to know before committing, "what are they having for breakfast?"

I'm afraid this personality trait is still deeply ingrained. When we're invited to Grandma's, Kyle wants to know what she plans to feed us -- even if the invitation is a week out. Potlucks? The uncertainty messes with his head.

I tried to help him go with the flow, pointing out that I ALWAYS feed him.
Something.
Eventually.

Just because I may not know the details right away doesn't mean it won't happen!

In my more organized moments I found that weekly menus help Kyle as much as they do me. When Kyle was 15 I pledged to keep working really hard to help him cook on his own -- despite the mess. (Oh, my poor kitchen!) Yet, I decided then that I'd gladly put up with marred stovetops, ruined pots and broken dishes if it helped make things easier for you someday. The man must be fed.

It's the quickest way to his heart, you know.

Love,
Mom

P.S. We're having roast chicken and mashed potatoes Sunday. Tell Kyle. Hope you can come.

Beethoven doesn't have braces!

2011-03-02T17:24:00.000-08:00

"Beethoven doesn't have braces!"

That's what James said this morning as Elise dressed as Ludwig von Beethoven for a school presentation. Elise was undeterred; she giggled at her reflection and said, "I look just like him! Except I'm smaller and my hair is a different color." {More giggles.} How she knew this hair fact I don't know, it's not like Beethoven's legacy includes color photographs.

Elise has been working all month on her Beethoven biography. I was glad to see her so giddy about going to school today and giving her speech. That spark, that precious happiness, that giggle -- all have been overshadowed lately by her moodiness. Jeff and I both told Elise last week we couldn't deal with her whining ANYMORE. This shift was welcome.

I don't know why Elise chose Beethoven. Maybe the idea was subliminal, borne of the master's sheet music covering our piano stand for weeks, his melodies drifting through the stereo nonstop as I supplemented my practicing. Rifling through an instruction book I'd left out, Elise discovered a version of "Für Elise" and decided she wanted to do that for our piano recital. I mean, come on! A song with your own name! Who wouldn't want to? Only problem, the recital was one week away. I wasn't sure she could do it, given that it was levels above her other pieces, but she did play it -- memorized, and with feeling.

"Didn't you play this song the day I was born?" she asked me. It's true. After passing my due date (sigh) I was scheduled to be induced. The other children were at Grandma's, the house was in order ... the hospital didn't have room for me until the afternoon. I frittered away the time at the piano. The name Elise was one of two we'd picked in preparation for meeting our daughter.

It fit.

(Lest you think we were trying to cram in some last-minute in-utero culture, we surely negated that by watching "Ferris Bueller's Day Off" while I labored.)

I'm thrilled Elise is becoming a Beethoven fan. I'm a huge one. I marvel the way his music makes my heart feel in turns vulnerable and ebullient. That Beethoven could still compose after becoming deaf amazes me all the more. I think of him, oblivious to the audience's applause until someone turned him around to see. That makes me sad.

During his lifetime Beethoven was constantly compared to Mozart, whose quick, prolific output he could not match. Elise pointed out in her speech that some of Beethoven's works took years and years to compose, but "with a lot of hard work he finally did it. His students also learned to work hard from his example."

And that, she concluded, is a contribution as great as his music.

The brooding, the intensity, THE HAIR!

P.S. In telling me some of her Beethoven facts prior to her speech, Elise pronounced the word sonata "SAUNA-TAY." {Giggle.}

PDA #3: Mirror Model

2011-02-28T08:24:00.000-08:00

This picture was taken in 2008, on the Sunday 12-year-old Kyle received the Aaronic priesthood and was ordained a deacon in our church. Sure, he'd worn ties lots of times before, but something about spying this scene as I walked down the hall, and the import of the day, touched this mama's heart. "Ah, Mom. Don't take a picture!" Too bad.

Three years later I'm especially grateful for Jeff being an example to our son. This week the two of them had an appointment to home teach -- our church's program of establishing relationships with assigned families by monthly home visits and the sharing of a gospel message. Jeff asked Kyle to prepare the message. Kyle dug in his heels. He didn't want to. Jeff persisted, gently guiding Kyle on topics and where he could find information. Kyle pulled a message together the very minute they were to leave the house.

I know it would have been so much easier for Jeff to just do it himself, but he didn't. Thank you, Jeff, for all you do to help shape Kyle.

****

Also this week, although not quite the date I had in mind, Jeff let me accompany him to Home Depot. Woo-hoo! Secretly (who am I kidding? -- it's all out in the open now!) I think Jeff hates trips to home improvement stores with me. Walking 10 untethered puppies at once would probably be more fun for him. I get so easily distracted. One clerk asked me, "Can I help you find something?" and I was tempted to say, "Yes, my husband." He was in pursuit of the task at hand (who knows what) whereas my dreaming eyes took my feet from aisle to far-off aisle. Jeff has done a TON of work in this old house, and there's much more he'll willingly do. Yay, more trips!

PDA #2: Music to my Eyes

2011-02-22T10:30:00.000-08:00

My little experiment is already working! Knowing I've committed to write my weekly "Public Display of Appreciation" post, I'm on the lookout. I've been richly rewarded.

This week Jeff gave me flowers on Valentine's Day, but in a nod to my practicality, they were pots of lavender I can transplant to the garden in the spring. (Early on in our courtship I declared bouquets that only died days later to be undesirably frivolous. Young girls, take note: Do NOT do this.)

What meant the most to me this week, though, was a casual comment Jeff may not even remember. I tend to bite more than I can chew. This time it's a commitment I made to a violin student to accompany her at an upcoming scholarship audition. I really try to balance my obligations to my family whenever I undertake these kinds of things, and to be fair, I agreed to help her because it was a piece we'd already done together; I knew the music. But then she decided she wanted to do a different piece. Aargh!

This has meant lots of practicing, the kind where I'm trying to cram years of advancing ability into mere weeks. Thursday night she was coming over to rehearse. The house was in shambles that afternoon. Shambles! (Psst. I did have dinner in the oven.) I should have been supervising my children to whip the house into shape, but I needed every spare minute at the piano.

There I sat when Jeff came home from work. When he peeked around the corner I ceased playing and apologized to him for how awful everything looked. Not to worry, he said. "I like to hear your music when I come home."

Really? I was touched. I wouldn't go so far as to call myself a musician, but music is a big part of my life. Jeff gets that. He tells me he understands that chances to perform are important to me, especially while my deteriorating thumb still allows it.

So, thank you, Jeff for putting up with all the music you hear -- and see -- around you.

Samuel

P.S. I visited a photography blog that gives prompts for picture challenges. The first photo is my quick interpretation of "MUSIC." Do you know what it is? I quite like how the motion looks like diagrams of radio waves.

They wrote the book

2011-02-18T18:13:00.000-08:00

The birthday boy, age 7, holding breathy Elise at bay, Feb. 9.

I may as well write it on my calendar now: struggle with James next Thursday to get his weekly writing homework assignment done. The boy complains and sulks, hides and avoids. Then, once I do get him in the same room, it's torture to pull the prescribed number of sentences from his tensely gripped pencil. Which makes the cute little book I found this morning all the more baffling. (It was published at least 10 days ago, apparently.)

Spring time By James nathan Hatch Age 6

chapter 1

Spring is comeing my mom and DaD are happy. I'm even happier!

But I like winter too. Sometimes I don't. Because it usually has a Blizzard aaaaahhh!

So I thought I could help plant some seeds with my mom and dad. (Word bubbles: Can I help? Yes.)

"Yes" Said mom. and my dad said yes too.

I've turned into Mr. can I help.

Mr. Can-I-Help! I laughed and laughed. Hard.

I wonder if the stick figure's blank expression represents James' own puzzlement at this development.

In less concrete ways my children often remind me that the key to successful parenting is not making them do what I want -- it's planting the desire for them to do it on their own. The writing assignment James had to do? Drudgery. But being surrounded by books, and having the freedom and materials at hand to make his own? Inspiring.

James' teacher is so wonderful that, with explanation, I know she will accept future writing assignments from him in this format, rather than the rigid lines of the handout. My trick will be pitching next week's topic to this aspiring author without him catching on, ha ha.

I've been thinking a lot lately about teaching my children to work. Removing the drudgery factor is important. I need to teach them that a job well done can be its own reward, and that work can make them happy. I also need to give them the leeway to do tasks in their own fashion, focusing on results rather than my idea of the process. I wish I knew how to do all this.

Come on, James. I need you to write chapter 2!

Campaign promises

2011-02-14T18:26:00.000-08:00

In my college journal I wrote of my "get Jeff to notice me campaign." Actual quote. (Oh, college journal, how I love you! I figured when I wrote in you instead of doing my homework, it wasn't REALLY wasting time, right?) Anyway, I had my eye on a cute young photographer on the campus newspaper staff where I was editor. (Did that make me his boss?) He was mild-mannered, steady, focused. He seemed rather reserved, aloof even, but I remember attending a gymnastics meet that he was assigned to shoot, and watching him suddenly turn bold behind the camera to get the shots. That intrigued this Lois Lane.

Did I mention Jeff's extreme reserve? It seemed forever before he acknowledged my existence. Just map out our different stories of how we met, should you ask. His version is about seven months behind mine. That's how memorable I was. sniff

So it's oddly karmic that after 17 years of marriage, what I value most in Jeff is how patient he is with me. I don't thank him enough.

It's time to launch a new campaign.

I still want Jeff to notice me, of course, but this time I want him to notice me appreciating him.

When I got the disk of pictures from our family's session last year, this one was a surprise. I don't remember it being taken, didn't even recall Jeff's show of affection. How much more do I miss?

I host a constant inner debate on whether to continue this little blog, but on this matter I hope it can be a useful tool. I plan to do a weekly post highlighting what I value in my husband. Public Displays of Appreciation, if you will. I realize these posts may not appeal to everyone, but they are important to me. I really believe that as we navigate relationships, we find exactly what we're looking for. If we look for the good, it will be there.

I got the idea after discovering my friend Susan's blog one night when I was up late waiting for my daughter's medication to start working on her terrible hives. Susan has inspired me ever since with her testimony and cheerful attitude. Thanks, Susan!

So for this week's PDA, I'm grateful for how Jeff makes me laugh. I'm grateful that, just like when my friend Marisa took the photo below and told us to "talk dirty" to each other, our whispered "house" and "laundry" made us crack up. Jeff's a great help in that department, by the way, and this week he did the lion's share of housecleaning while I was up to my eyeballs with a piano recital and birthday parties.

I really did notice.

Happy Valentine's Day, Jeff! I love you.

My take on the Tiger Mother

2011-02-02T09:43:00.000-08:00

Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, by Amy Chua

This memoir about the author's obsessively strict parenting style and her children's resulting amazing accomplishments, was, for me, full of paradoxes.

Among them: I absolutely loved reading this book. But, I couldn't be like her.

Tiger mothers are, Chua says, not just Asians, but any who demand nothing short of academic and musical brilliance from their children. Chua scoffs at most Westerners for falling into the stereotypical lax parenting approach of not pushing children too hard, for fear of damaging relationships. What nonsense, she says!

Yet it seemed like much of what she did with her daughters was to please her parents, who raised her the same way. She talks about how being the harsh taskmaster will arm her daughters with accomplishments to navigate life, but also relates not knowing what to do next after she completed law school. She deferred to her father.

You cannot deny Chua's commitment to her daughters. It made me think of how much more I could do to help my children develop their talents. Just when I was reading along thinking, Wow, this mom knows how to get results! I should try this, she throws in the bit about rebuking her children for the sloppy birthday cards they presented her. They were 4 and 7. Does that break your heart too?

Whether Chua's wry satire was also at work here, pointing a finger at herself for this episode, I can't say. But that was my turning point.

The idea of a battle hymn suggests a fight. Who is rallying against Chua's tiger mother? Society? Her daughters? (Certainly the one who rebelled!)

Is the battle hymn instead the internal dialogue readers will have debating their own parenting strengths?

I said before I couldn't be a tiger mother a la Chua. I couldn't hold nightly shouting matches to complete musical drills. (First off, I'm too consumed in the laundry!) I couldn't openly compare my children to spur greater effort. I couldn't push, push, push at all costs. Ideally I want their drive to be their own.

I've learned, though, that children aren't always equipped with inner drive, a realization all the more confounding to this tiger child. Yes, I admit it. I couldn't be a tiger mother, because I was once a tiger child. (Note, not the child of a tiger mother, but a "self" tiger.) I was very self-motivated. I may not have had much innate ability, but I worked really hard. School was my arena. When effort translated into accolades I thrived. I defined myself through my accomplishments.

When my life shifted to a different phase, gone too was the praise. I floundered a bit. Make that a lot. It took me a while to learn I am my qualities, not my accomplishments. I had to relearn, as an adult, that I am a worthy child of God. My tiger tendency of being very hard on myself lingers.

And this brings me to the chief paradox of Chua's tiger mother. She pushes her daughters to excel, but that success is measured by the world. Stellar grades, first-place competitions, Carnegie Hall performances -- these are all external recognitions. It is someone else telling you "Good job, you're worth something." (No, we shouldn't throw "good job"s to our children like the salt shaker sprinkled injudiciously, but we should be honest when we see our children trying their best, and thus further encourage them.)

It makes me wonder if the idea of worth is offset in the tiger model. Is that why parents push so hard, because they measure their own success through the vicarious accomplishments of their children?

No matter the triumphs, unless they are accompanied by a strong sense -- and love -- of one's identity, we set our children up for defeat if they depend on adulation. So I'll marvel at the work ethic Chua has undoubtedly instilled in her children (can I just say WOW!) and try to apply that in my family. But I'd rather teach my children to value themselves for how hard they've worked and not for the world's idea of a reward.

Chua sure is funny, though, and crafted a fascinating read. I only wish the book didn't shift in tone right before the end as the author, now a relenting tiger mother, limply speculates what will happen to her daughter who rebelled. What will her daughters be like as adults? Better yet, how will they raise their own children? I hope Chua will someday tell us.

All abuzz

2011-01-24T09:06:00.000-08:00

Our cute little 3-year-old can spell two words: his name and his name.

1. "S ... ... ... A ... ... ... M ... ... ... U-E-L," recited in this rhythm because the U-E-L, to him, is more of an afterthought that he only recently accepted and parroted --

and

2. "B ... ... ... U ... ... ... Zzzzzz ... ... ... Zzzzzz!"

So one recent afternoon I threw laundry and dishes aside (now, really, wouldn't the literal use of that expression be so awesome?!) to instead play a game with my little cutie and take pictures him as Buzz. Funny -- he's only been wearing these green jammies EVERY day since Christmas, and I had yet to take a picture.

But since the game was -- what else? -- Toy Story 3 Memory, I was prodded. I don't want to forget what a kick this obsession of his has been. Oh, how we've laughed at our little "Buzz Lightbeer" and all of his magic buttons -- or is that "Litebeer?" Thanks, Mom, for this memorable gift. We've had loads of fun, and Samuel has learned lots about laundry timing. (wink)

Pretty slick

2011-01-18T13:57:00.000-08:00

I don't know why, but skating at an outdoor rink is even more fun than indoors. We took our family to Midway Saturday and enjoyed a great time on the ice. A loud speaker blasted ABBA (awesome!) and other catchy tunes, and even "Achy-breaky heart" (groan) couldn't wipe our smiles. Emma and Elise were the only children who had gone ice-skating before. Kyle, certain he wasn't going to like it, ended up thinking it was uh, pretty cool. Samuel felt like a huge bag of flour on blades, but my achy-breaky arms managed to keep him upright. The only time he fell on his "butt-tom" was stepping off the rink. He's still talking about the zamboni "chine" that smoothed the ice.

Look in the background for Elise (in pink, on the left) and Kyle (in the middle.) Some people pushed strollers which I think is genius. I wish I could have done that, no passenger needed.

Concerning the zamboni, our family were the "tourists" who didn't know that when the music went off, you better clear off the ice. I found myself at the gate at the end of my lap and just followed the crowd. The kids informed me that the zamboni driver had to wait for James. Really? I asked. Sure enough, you can see a blue-coated figure behind Elise being escorted by someone else.

In the background on the right are sculptures formed of icicles. About a block behind those is the house where my father grew up.

(I have a feeling I may have to remove this picture. :))

James, like his Dad, used his tongue for balance. By his count he rounded the rink 20 times. He was a natural!

Every time James fell, he assured us he was just doing a trick.

So head on to Midway for a super fun time with your family. You may not have a grandpa up the road cooking a delicious pot of chili for when you're done skating, but the scenery and community feel can't be beat.

This just begs the question ...

2011-01-18T11:05:00.000-08:00

... How do YOU do your best quality parenting?

I love our first-rate teachers, but this notice on the school calendar cracks me up.

Kyle speak

2011-01-11T11:11:00.000-08:00

Polo shirt: "That thing you wear only on picture day." Context: Response given school-shopping when I tried to steer his purchases.

Jacket: Oops, my mistake. This word is not in his vocabulary, even on a below-freezing winter day. Nor is "long-legged pants."

Rubber spatula: "Child disappointer." Huh? "It's because kids are disappointed when you scrape out all the batter and there's nothing left for them to lick."

Happy Birthday, Kyle! I can't wait to see how you define being 15. I love you.

The Christmas I Remember Best

2010-12-28T12:27:00.000-08:00

Christmas – especially the anticipation of it – has a way of transforming a child’s fuzzy sense of time into crystal-clear precision. Come December, youngsters who normally don’t care a whit for calendars suddenly know the daily countdown to Christmas.

So it was in my family. With every passing day my brothers and I grew more excited. I am sure that I, as the oldest, instigated most of our waiting games. My brothers and I wrote letters to Santa, read catalogs, made lists, drew pictures. We coached toddler Benji into sharing our enthusiasm. Our household was boisterous. We children simply could not wait.

My mother had a very different countdown of her own. It is only after becoming a mother myself that I have come to appreciate her role in all this. My father was on a weeks-long business trip to Indonesia. I knew he was far, far from our Denver-area home, but I don’t remember feeling any stress or anxiety about his absence; I knew he’d come home by Christmas, and in the meantime Mom took care of all.

We went about all our normal holiday preparations. It seemed forever, though, before we got our Christmas tree, picking one from the sparse display at the grocery store entrance. It was dark and finger-tingling cold, and my mom urged us to hold each other’s hands so we wouldn’t slip in the icy parking lot. The tree was the smallest ever – it could fit in the car with the four of us children. The night we decorated it ended with another X on the calendar. We were almost there!

Finally my mother had to sit us down. How would we feel, she asked, about postponing Christmas until Dad came back? Problems scheduling connecting flights meant our father might not make it back in time for Christmas after all.

Would we reschedule Christmas? Would we wait to open presents and dig into our stockings? We’d work it out with Santa, Mom promised the younger ones. Would we wait?

Without hesitation we, (at least those of us who could talk), said yes, we would. We wanted to wait for our dad.

That night I went to bed with a warmth I’d never known before. My excitement for the holiday, previously based on what presents I hoped to receive, shifted outward. This celebration would be special.

Then, one morning before Christmas I awoke to unexpectedly bright sunshine, the reflected light off new snow from a major storm the night before.

My mom ushered me into her room. There was my dad! Inexplicably he’d made smooth connections all along his multi-country journey home. He landed at Stapleton airport in the middle of the night and took a taxi home so my mother wouldn’t have to worry about loading us in the car to pick him up.

My dad was home! It was then, and remains now, one of the happiest surprises of my life. All of us crowded onto the bed and bounced Dad awake. We soaked up his attentions as eagerly as we did the warm indoor sun.

Yes, the Christmas I remember best is short on certain details. I don’t know for sure how old I was, 9, maybe 10? Without consulting my mother I couldn’t say what year it was, or how many weeks my father had already been overseas, or the exact date he returned. I don’t even remember what material presents I got that year.

That didn't matter. I doubt she planned it, but by giving us the choice to postpone that Christmas, my mother gave me something far better. That year I formed part of my core, that having my family all together was what I wanted most. The spirit of Christmas – Christ’s love – transcends time and is not bound by the grid in a calendar.

I celebrate this forever.

Overlapping traditions

2010-12-20T11:56:00.000-08:00

In sorting through several digital Decembers I was amused to find these two very similar photos, taken two years apart:

They both show Elise and Emma working to decorate the roofs on wooden gingerbread house forms made by their Grandpa Hatch. The first one was taken in 2007 (ages 6 and 9); the second, which includes Samuel, 2, in 2009 (ages 8 and 11).

The very best traditions are as comfortable as a favorite pair of shoes, or in Grandpa Jim's case, socks. Every Christmas morning he catches my eye and pulls up a pant leg to model that year's installment.

James, 3, and Grandpa Jim, Christmas 2007

Traditions can be silly, meaningful, cooperative, fun. They connect us. So follow along in this chain of pictures from some of our family's Christmas traditions.

Andrew, 10, and Kyle 11, 2007.

We all buy tons of candy, cereal and pretzels; packages of powdered sugar and cartons of eggs; and descend on Grandma's house for a day of decorating gingerbread houses with the cousins. Grandma whips up batches of royal icing while the kiddos get to work. This particular tradition brings adult personalities into sharp focus. One wants to just get it done, the quicker, the better, so he can sweep up the kitchen. Some like to help make sure every surface is decorated, happily assuming the task themselves when finished children saunter off. Many, like Jeff, hover to eat the candy. (I've noticed, though, that no one bothers buying chocolate anymore.) I'm rather laissez faire myself, letting the kids decorate as randomly as they want. (It's less frosting for me to have to clean off the wood later!) No matter what, it's fun, and I'm grateful to my in-laws for establishing these memories.

Ready for the chain? Watch!

Christmas traditions mean ...

... enjoying the process as much as the finished project ...

Jessie, 5. 2009

... snatching the goodness while you can ...

James, 5, and Elise, 8, sample sprinkles while Emma, 11, cuts more sugar cookies. 2009.

... making other kitchen yummies to share ...

Jeff stirs a batch of fudge. What? You don't see any? Yeah, that's a tradition, too. It disappears fast.

... stirring, stirring, circling ...

OK, this link is a stretch. But if I'd taken the photo a minute earlier you would have seen Elise spinning into the strand of pink lights the other children wrapped around her (2009).

... lighting up anew ...

Above: Samuel, 2, and Jeff at Temple Square. Below: James, 5. (2009).

Kyle, 13, stops to admire the lights. (This was a long exposure.) 2009

... reflecting.

No, this photo isn't upside down. Almost as cool as the Temple Square lights was my children's response to seeing their reflection in the ceiling of the parking garage elevator. 2009.

Elise, 8. likes her reflection in a Christmas ornament. 2009.

I hope you'll find lots to smile about this holiday, too!

Christmas story recommendations

2010-12-16T10:42:00.000-08:00

James, 3, Elise, 6, and Samuel, 3 months, read The Berenstain Bears' Christmas Tree. December 2007

I love to fill my home with books, and at Christmas time we're burstin'! I wrap books to make an advent calendar, we make meals to match certain stories, I choose special ones to launch family home evening discussions. Our Christmas celebrations would not be complete without books, most especially Jeff's well-thumbed Bible that he holds each Christmas Eve to read from Luke chapter 2.

Here are some new favorites:

Angela and the Baby Jesus, by Frank McCourt. Illustrated by Raul Colon.

My mother gave us this beautiful book this year. I am glad I read it by myself first because I was surprised at my strong emotional response. Even when I knew what was coming I couldn't stop that choke in my voice as I read it aloud to my family. It is the story of 6-year-old Angela (the author's mother) who frets over the uncovered baby Jesus in the church's nativity scene and secretly takes him home to warm him. The obvious question of why she just didn't bring a blanket is answered by the author's descriptions of Angela often being cold and hungry herself.

Angela's older brother Pat figures prominently into the story. The author never outright says, but I understood Pat to be mentally challenged somehow, yet exceptionally loved. This, when Angela's secret mission is thwarted:

She nearly died of fright when the back door of her house creaked and out came her brother Pat going to the lavatory. He stopped and stared at her and the Baby, but she didn't mind because he was like a baby himself and often said foolish things even she wouldn't say.

Raul Colon's subdued palette and texturally combed paintings add richness to the story. My favorite picture shows Angela throwing the baby Jesus over a wall she couldn't climb while holding him.

McCourt won the Pulitzer Prize for Angela's Ashes, also about his mother. He retells the unfolding events of this tale without moralizing, which for me made it all the more powerful, for the parallel to Christ's Atonement is one I drew myself. Thank you, Mom!

Father and Son: A Nativity Story, by Geraldine McCaughrean. Illustrated by Fabian Negrin.

This story, which I picked up from the library, also twinges the heart. When all is finally quiet the night of Jesus' birth, Joseph alone is awake and contemplating what he has to offer this precious Lord.

"How can I put a roof over your head, knowing it was you who glass-roofed the world and thatched the sky with clouds, and stitched the snow with threads of melting silver?

"And how shall I ever astound you, child, as my father did me? You are the one who fitted the chicken into the egg and the oak tree into an acorn!"

Naturally, the story ends with Joseph deciding what he can do for Jesus, but it was the very last page that got me the most, and made me reflect on my own role as a parent. Do read it!

Now, for a change of pace ...

It's Christmas, David! by David Shannon

This one is on the list with a caveat: This is the children's favorite that almost wasn't.

We are big fans of Shannon's "David" books, so when I saw this one on the French book order, it was a no-brainer. I had not seen the English version before, and that proved problematic.

For when James brought the order home from school, I was SHOCKED to look through the book and see a page with David's signature in yellow across a snowscape. You follow? Hmm, let's call it an art activity boys can do but girls can't. Got it yet? Now, that irrepressible David is a naughty fellow, but I thought author Shannon went too far this time.

I was going to send the book back. Jeff laughed that off, telling me this is what boys do. (He is Scoutmaster, you know.) When I learned both of James' teachers (English and French) read this to their classes, I softened and decided to keep it. Really young kids, for whom this book is aimed, won't dwell on the picture or require explanation; older ones who do know should be reminded "Naughty, naughty, naughty!"

This is the book Samuel asks to hear all the time. Tout le temps. Like other Scholastic books, my copy is unevenly bound, and some pages jut out. An advantage this time, because during read-alouds I can easily skip over the questionable spread without making it obvious I've turned two pages. Ha! So be forewarned, it's right after the picture of David's long Santa list.

And finally ...

The Latke Who Couldn't Stop Screaming, by Lemony Snicket. Illustrated by Lisa Brown.

Hey, I know what you're thinking. Isn't it disrespectful to classify a tale about a latke, that traditional Jewish food, as a Christmas story? Well, that's the subtitle itself: A Christmas Story.

And that, my friends, is the source of the latke's frustration. This is the story of how Hanukkah began, told from the latke's point of view, who jumps from the frying pan and tries, in exasperation, to explain the Jewish holiday to all those Christmas-centric objects around him.

Snicket, of the A Series of Unfortunate Events fame, imbues the same wicked satire here. There's depth for adults, and just plain fun for the kids. We loved it. Last year I read this over a dinner of, what else? Latkes served with sour cream and homemade applesauce. I'm craving them just writing this.

What are some of your favorite holiday books?

P.S. Based on comments, my last post must have come across as a fishing expedition for compliments. I'm sorry. I merely wanted to set the stage for how much James' sign in the middle of sacrament meeting meant to me. But thank you for your encouragement!

Organized thought

2010-12-12T15:00:00.000-08:00

I used to subscribe to the Shel Silverstein school of thought regarding playing the organ in church.

Witness his poem "HOW NOT TO HAVE TO DRY THE DISHES":

If you have to dry the dishes
(Such an awful, boring chore)
If you have to dry the dishes
('Stead of going to the store)
If you have to drop the dishes
And you drop one on the floor --
Maybe they won't let you
Dry the dishes anymore.

See? Replace "dry the dishes" with "play the organ" and you've got it. Well, maybe we ought to tweak the word boring, and ... oh ... no shopping anyway. But hey -- the "drop one on the floor" bit is not far off. I make some glorious mistakes. And still, the choir director keeps asking me to play the organ. Aargh!

Silverstein's theory? IT DOESN'T WORK!

So the absolute best antidote to walking off the stand after yet another iffy attempt is to see this in the congregation:

This is an after-church reenactment, of course.

I was mortified and warmed all at once by James' on-the-bench cheering section. When I quickly pulled down his arms, it was really to wrap that crazy boy in a hug.

We Are Sowing

2010-11-24T10:37:00.000-08:00

I wrote this last year, but the message remains pertinent.

We are sowing, daily sowing
Countless seeds of good and ill ...

Seeds that lie unchanged, unquickened,
Lifeless on the teeming mold;
Seeds that live and grow and flourish
When the sower's hand is cold.

Selected passages of the poem "Pure Diamonds," anonymous. Words were set to music for the hymn "We Are Sowing," number 216 in the LDS hymnbook.

When my 8-year-old daughter giggled with confusion that we were planting bulbs in November -- a time, she pointed out, that's really the harvest -- I was again glad that gardening provides a unique classroom for so many life lessons. You reap what you sow. We won't have tulips in spring unless we plant bulbs now, I explained. Though you may not see the outcome for many years, dear girl, the choices you make now will affect the rest of your life.

This Thanksgiving I'm grateful for new insight into the law of the harvest. I'm thankful to know that If I keep sowing, even when my hand is cold or my heart troubled, my Maker understands and makes up for my deficits.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Grandma Morgan's rolls

2010-11-23T20:16:00.000-08:00

One of my prized possessions is an index card smudged with butter and ink.

Years ago, I don't remember when, I asked Jeff's Grandma Morgan to write down her recipe for rolls. She looked a little surprised. Surely she knew how legendary her rolls were, how no holiday dinner was complete without them. Surely she basked in the flurry of arms reaching to grab a hot one when she paraded around her big dining table with the latest pan fresh from the oven. I don't think anyone bothered with a roll basket.

I never saw her mix the dough or shape the cloverleaf balls. When we came to dinner, even well before the appointed time, she'd already done most of the work.

I wish I'd thought to ask for a private lesson before arthritis robbed pliable fingers, and before the baker was gone.

Grandma Morgan died last month. She was an elegant, accomplished woman who made me want to stand a little taller. She loved babies and cultivated incredible gardens. I love that she seemed equally at home playing in the dirt and -- at least once upon a time -- in flour.

Yes she was surprised when I asked for her recipe but she pulled it from the top of her head and wrote it down quickly. The arrows, cross-outs and spartan directions of this recipe card amuse me. I treasure it.

We love you, Grandma!

with 1-day-old Elise, 2001

Rolls

(with my notes in italics)

2/3 cup shortening (part margarine) -- (I asked her to clarify this; she said 1/2 cup margarine and a rounded Tablespoon of shortening. Go figure!)

2 cups scalded milk

1/2 cup sugar

1 Tablespoon salt

3 yeast cakes (or pkgs.) in 2/3 cup warm water and 2 teaspoons sugar

4 eggs beaten, add to cooled milk

8 cups flour, approx.

Raise one hour. Roll Mix. Roll out. Raise again, 1 hour or plus. Bake 375 for 8-10 minutes.

More!

1. Scald milk. Meanwhile, mix yeast packages (equivalent of 2 Tablespoons plus 3/4 teaspoons) in 2/3 cup warm water and 2 teaspoons sugar.

2. Remove milk from heat. Add 1/2 cup margarine or butter with rounded Tablespoon of shortening to warm milk.

3. Beat 4 eggs.

4. Mix yeast, cooled milk, eggs, 1/2 cup sugar and 1 Tablespoon salt.

5. Gradually mix in 8-9 cups of flour.

6. Let rise one hour. Stir down dough, make into desired shape and place in greased pans. Let rise another hour.

7. Bake at 375 for 8 to 10 minutes.

It gets better

2010-11-16T09:15:00.000-08:00

The perspective of details:

1. I gave Samuel ice cream. La-di-dah. Ho-hum.

2. It was a potty treat.

3. Not as a reward for producing -- a bribe just to get him to sit there!

4. It was 5 p.m., almost dinner time. I didn't care. This kid hadn't produced since 10 a.m., and was a screaming, naked time-bomb running through the house. Something had to be done. Enter the bit of ice cream Jeff brought home for our in-house date. (He'd eaten his share alone.)

5. THE ICE CREAM WAS BEN AND JERRY'S!!! THAT'S PREMIUM STUFF, PEOPLE!!!

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

And here we see a scene I vividly recall from my own childhood when I, like Elise, was enlisted to read to a younger brother in training.

I'm thinking about installing a loudspeaker in the bathroom so James can read to Samuel, and I can listen to James from the kitchen while I work, thus fulfilling James' oral reading homework.

P.S. On Elise's watch, Samuel ran off from the EMPTY potty and, er, "decorated" the fireplace.

Do-it-yourself pumpkin portraits

2010-10-28T23:04:00.000-07:00

Emma saw me working on this post for another blog where I freelance (and I mean freelance), and she convinced me to come out of blog exile (did anyone notice?) and put it here. Hmm, maybe because she's the star? Whatever. Enjoy!

Something about Halloween releases the creative juices, wouldn't you say? Characters, decorations, eerie foods, ways that parents can hide the candy ...

Usually around here Halloween is a crazy rush. Out of necessity I am an absolute pro at making last-minute costumes, and I can carve a basic triangle-eye, gap-toothed pumpkin in no time flat.

But one year I let those creative juices steep and stew for a while with very satisfying results. Ah yes, Halloween 2000, I remember you well. It was a presidential election that year and I saw a newspaper photo of two jack-o-lanterns someone had done of Bush and Gore.

I could do that. At least I wanted to.

Only I had two significantly cuter subjects in mind, my 4-year-old son and 2-year-old daughter.

The dreaming, ambitious side of me actually considering drawing my children's faces onto the pumpkins (!), but then the practical side reminded me that I'm not an artist. So I decided to use a photograph as my pattern.

Here's how to create your own using Adobe Photoshop:

1. Choose your pumpkin and get an idea of the size area you want to carve.

2. Size the image to match your carving area.

3. Convert to grayscale (black and white).

4. Go to Image, then Adjustments, then Posterize. Play around with the number settings until you like what you see. This step ends up looking something like this:

Hmm, is that an orange speck of pumpkin goo on her chin, and in my scrapbook all these years?

5. Print and get ready to carve! Or in other words, set aside your entire day and thank your lucky stars that PBS can help occupy the children while you sit in the room with them.

I wanted the white areas of my pattern to be the lit, open areas of the pumpkin. I drew on the pattern before carving to better outline the parts I would cut. Then I taped the pattern to the pumpkin and used the poker from an inexpensive carving kit to punch dots through the pumpkin. With a paring knife I "connected the dots" in specific sections to make the cutaways.

This is what the pattern of holes looked like in reverse:

I carved Emma's pumpkin first and actually got better and faster as I did Kyle's. I scooped, outlined and carved the two pumpkins over a five-hour span tending my children.

In the decade since I've added three more children ... who vocally wonder why they don't have a jack-o-lantern portrait too. (Hey -- fold the laundry and I'll do it!) Sadly, I've never done another; my time has been needed elsewhere. This project was indeed rare for me, to actually see my ideas take form -- and that's why I love my memories of it. A little creative victory, if you will, all thanks to Halloween.

P.S.

If you've read all the way through this, let me reward you with a little tip. What do pumpkins and canning rings have to do with each other? Oh, I'm so glad you asked. I DARE you to find a better tool for scraping out a pumpkin's insides. So get carving!

Happy Halloween!

Modeling clay

2010-08-31T09:27:00.000-07:00

The walk to school on the first day, Aug. 23.

Indulge me here. I know, I know. The first day of school was last week, and I honestly had this post written in my head then -- but it was trapped there, awaiting the time my hands were free from housework long enough to type. (O, laundry, will we ever part?)

We're off to a great start of school. Our goal is scripture reading at 6:20 a.m. before Jeff leaves for work. So far only Elise has a perfect record of attending, but we'll keep at it. It's worth it.

The children are split two and two between the elementary and junior high schools. And if you're thinking -- what? Emma is in junior high? -- yes, my heart tried to deny it too.

The traditional front step shot. James is wearing a name tag his teachers mailed to him.

Ooh -- somebody go get Samuel!

Never mind.

Samuel's favorite site at the school: the aquarium.

Modeling Clay

The boy took his assigned seat across from James, scanned the room of new classmates and blurted out in disgust:

"Not him again! I HATE George!"*

James looked up briefly from fist-pounding his yellow Playdoh.

I waited expectantly. I was there, having dropped James off for the first day of first grade. In mere seconds my head was already screaming with "Hey, that's not very nice!" and "I'm the only adult who heard this, what do I do?" I watched to see James' reaction. Would he reply with something far worse?

"Well, I like him," he said evenly. And that was that. Boom. Boom. Boom.

I was so proud of him. Without hurting the speaker he stood up for the subject.

But I also know that, just as easily, on another day, James could be the one saying hurtful things. It comes with the territory of being a child. You hope, when you can't be there yourself, that someone else will gently help your child squish out the mistakes and start molding and forming again. That if caught in time, no harm is done.

We all reach a time as parents where we simply cannot be as hands-on as before. First grade is one of those measurable times for me. I struggle knowing that the balance of my child's waking time in the home, compared to out of it, shifts dramatically. It's hard.

I can't be there every minute. Instead, I can make sure the clay of my children's character does not dry out, that it does not get broken down by grit and debris, that it does not become so diluted and soupy that it can't take shape. I can teach and model, over and over -- till I'm blue in the face! -- but ultimately my children must sculpt themselves.

Their creations amaze me.

*name changed, of course :)

Dear Grandma,

2010-08-30T10:55:00.000-07:00

Dear Grandma,

Thank you for the package! When Mom and I came home from a meeting it was fun to see a box under the door mat. Mom was really excited when she said, "Samuel, this is for YOU!"

I already knew that. "Yeah, my toy is inside," I told her.

She took pictures of me opening it, but she didn't take pictures of my words. If she had, they would have looked like this:

Wow!

and

This is so cool!

over and over that day.

I love my new tools! They're just the right size for my hands.

The drill makes a really great sound -- but that's not the only way I can use my ears:

See? How about my nose?

(James taught me this but I'm pretty sure I would have figured it out on my own eventually.)

I haven't put the drill in my mouth yet (at least not that Mom has seen ... shh!), but my new tools do turn my mouth into a big smile.

Thank you, Grandma. I love you.

Love,
Samuel

Someday Eyes

2010-08-06T19:45:00.000-07:00

Gardening has taught me appreciation despite flaws. Gardening has taught me to look at an expanse of land for what it can become, to see future flowers where now are just weeds and hard-packed dirt.

Gardening requires my "someday" eyes.

The children I raise need the same approach. One recent day I was particularly hurt that my teenager exploded in anger when his sister's sudden sickness prevented our trip to the amusement park. I was so upset with him. Where was his compassion?

Where, too, was mine?

I sought a quiet moment to reconcile my negative feelings. I came to understand my son's disappointment and his limited tools to express and control it. Even greater, a picture formed in the upper right corner of my mind. I saw him as a man, leaning beside his own daughter in the bathroom and stroking her hair out of the way. Blond, I think.

Someday.

I saw my son for all the potential within him, and my heart swelled anew with the charge to get him there.

You know you're a mother when ...

2010-08-05T16:34:00.000-07:00

... from a room away you can HEAR the difference between a crayon and a Sharpie permanent marker in your 2-year-old's hand.

60 things about someone who's 60

2010-07-13T21:06:00.000-07:00

Elise, James and my mom, Shirley Ann, showing a special music box. Christmas 2009.

Happy Birthday, Mom! In your honor of your 60th, here's a list of 60 things we love about you:

1. You get Kyle's brand of humor when he told me: "If you were really nice, you'd say 50 things."
2. Your cooking.
3. You use cloth napkins for regular meals.
4. You pray for Ben.
5. The way you helped us evolve to like frozen chocolate chip cookies -- forget storing them.
6. Grieg's "Peer Gynt Suite."
7. Christmas music in October.
8. Carefully selected birthday cards -- purchased months ahead of time.
9. All the years you called me at 2 a.m. to wish me a happy birthday. (Or was it just once, and I dreamed the rest?)
10. You find the best bargains around.
11. You call to let me know of grocery specials.
12. College care packages.
13. "I'm shrinking, I'm melting."
14. You listened to hours and hours of Hanon and scales and never complained.
15. Trinkets on my pillow.
16. The stuffed animal with the "Jennifer, I love you" t-shirt, stowed in my suitcase on a high school trip.
17. How well you listen.
18. You don't look 60 at all. (See #1)
19. Kitchen sink baths and baby lotion rubdowns on all my infants.
20. When I, the woman, constantly call to learn the answers you tried to teach a disinterested girl, you've never once said, "I told you so."
21. Homemade bread -- and the fact I now also set aside Tuesdays for baking.
22. "Do I look like I'm wearing a black and white striped shirt?"
23. Your loving care of 2-year-old Kyle and me in your home for my five weeks of pregnancy bedrest with Emma.
24. Your rolls.
25. Road-kill pumpkin pie.
26. That you still let us tell the story about road-kill pumpkin pie. In public.
27. Having three guest rooms (Kyle digs this! It's the closest he'll ever get to the Ritz.).
28. "Do I look like I have a whistle?" (See #22)
29. Making Jeff lunch while he used Jim's computer during his job search.
30. The way you make plates "magically appear." (Jeff says you need to brush up on that, though.)
31. Surrounding us with no food.
32. The time you walked toward Kyle's high chair carrying a bib, but (subconsciously?) tied it around Grandpa Jim's neck instead.
33. Knuckle sandwiches, with jam.
34. Your one-day turnaround on laundry. I'd wear something to school, next afternoon it was washed and folded on my bed. Seems like it takes me weeks to go from hamper to dresser!
35. Happily paying such a steep price for trout ... what are we down to ... $1,000 per pound?
36. Movies on VHS cassette, complete with commercials. (But they're meticulously labeled with entire cast! -- the movies, that is.)
37. Your color memory. You'll buy something to go with an item I own, and even if you haven't seen it for a long time, it's a perfect match.
38. Your beautiful handwriting.
39. So we didn't feel awkward, you said all the grocery items you gave us during Jeff's unemployment were "buy 1, get 1 free." We knew it was a lot more.
40. If we were really, really nice, we'd end this list now.
41. You introduced me to Agatha Christie's mysteries.
42. The immaculate home of my memories. HOW IN THE WORLD DID YOU DO THIS RAISING FIVE KIDS? (Not that I'm baffled or anything.)
43. A freezer always full of ice cream. Holy frozen cow, woman!
44. The way you direct errands to your impressive food storage room. "It's on the third shelf down, about five boxes over, behind the pickles." And you're always right.
45. You address letters to our sons "Master Kyle, Master James, Master Samuel." It's as if you see something we don't.
46. Your wedding gift shelf.
47. The closet full of Christmas wrap.
48. The way you apologize, every Christmas, that it's not much -- yet we've never wanted for more.
49. Letting the grandchildren wind your music boxes.
50. You have a better grasp of my children's shoe sizes than I do.
51. When I had to leave the hospital before preemie Emma could, others said I was foolish to decline their offers to take Kyle while I recovered from surgery. (Jeff had to return to work.) You alone understood that I could not -- I couldn't! -- go home to an empty house, and so you drove to our apartment daily to help me take care of Kyle.
52. You told me to say "Moo" when I had to buzz in for admittance to the NICU.
53. Granddaughter sleep-overs and your party bath tub. (So recalls Elise.)
54. Your curling iron technique. Elise, especially, loves your beautiful blonde hair.
55. Once squeezing my hand during the Young Woman's broadcast.
56. Your selflessness.
57. The way you constantly tell me how grateful you are for Jeff.
58. Your testimony of the atonement.
59. How just the thought of you gives me comfort when I am sick.
60. You've given me a model to live up to, every day.

Time capsules

2010-07-02T07:46:00.000-07:00

Ann, 91, and Samuel, 1 -- July 2009

Ann, 88, and Elise, 4 -- August 2006

Grandma Ann, my 92-year-old neighbor, died this spring. I miss her. I feel her loss even more sharply now, for this is the season of daily visits on her patio. Four years of routine: Each summer morning as I dragged a watering can through my yard, I'd listen for the creak of her back door. Then I'd call out, "Hello, Ann!" from over the fence.

"Hello!" she'd holler. "Come on over!" And I'd open the gate that joins our yards. Ann liked to survey the day's new blooms, how drained the hummingbird feeder was, things like that. I'd help her weed here and there, install a drip line, or guide my children to sweep her steps, things like that. My kids knew where to find me when the phone rang. Mostly Ann and I just talked -- about parenting and education and all the cultural events she enjoyed attending. She was my friend.

She was also a saver. Of EVERYTHING.

Her out-of-state relatives recently excavated a stash of seed packets somewhere in the garden shed. Would I like them?

Hmm, let me think ... Of course I would!

There were dozens of brightly colored envelopes, the oldest labeled with "PACKED FOR 1971." Some of the flowers have never been opened. I shared these with my dad. Next spring I'll sow them, as an experiment, of course. Although kept dry, the seeds have gone through so many temperature changes I'll be surprised if they sprout. Won't that be a kick!

Several of the vegetable envelopes were neatly packed in spare cardboard cartons that once held green bean seeds. Ann once told me her husband loved to garden. Was this his way of keeping track of the varieties they liked best?

I haven't figured out what -- if anything -- I'll do with the packets. Maybe decoupage them onto a patio table top? Make a cover for a garden journal? (Send your ideas if you have anyway!)

No matter what, I'm glad I got to see these little time capsules before they went to the trash.

The empty vegetables were particularly revealing, with their top left corners uniformly ripped off. I can vividly picture Ann's husband Dwain gripping them with his thumb, making a quick tear and sprinkling them into prepared rows. I never even met Dwain. Can't you imagine him planting, too?

This packet shows how our dietary attitudes have changed over the decades. Check out all the cooking suggestions for the beans.

For variety ... try cooking home grown beans with ...

BACON AND CHOPPED ONIONS • MUSHROOMS SAUTEED IN BUTTER

SLIVERED ALMONDS • MUSHROOM SOUP AND MILK

Or season beans with ...

CREAM SAUCE • SUMMER SAVORY AND BUTTER • PREPARED MUSTARD AND BUTTER • SPRINKLED WITH GRATED CHEESE

For a last amusement, look at the front and back of this forget-me-not envelope, packaged as a bank promotion:

THESE SEEDS

are bursting with energy

to help you produce

some beautiful flowers.

Let us turn your

spring financial gloom

into bloom

BY PLANTING EXTRA MONEY

in your pocket.

ONE CALL DOES IT ALL!

By the way, that bank collapsed this year. Oops. Think these seeds will sprout?

Actions speak louder

2010-06-22T17:13:00.000-07:00

May 2007

This is one of my favorite pictures of my dad. Oh, he's a tease! See his look of delight as he pushes Elise to great heights in the tire swing? See her tentative smile but worried eyes and tight grip? Do you better understand now his look of delight? Yep, he is a tease. (She loved the swing, by the way.)

May 2010

What do you get the man who has already bought everything ... at rock-bottom prices?

I asked him myself. "Dad," I explained in desperation, "I've really struck out coming up with a gift idea this year. Is there anything I can get for you?" (It felt like such a cop out. I felt terrible.)

He smiled, his special soft, reassuring smile. Just kind words, he answered. Kind words.

Perfect! I can DO words.

Yet every time I tried to compose the love for my father in a meaningful way, I couldn't do it justice. Heck, I couldn't do any typing or writing at all. I'd grasp a spare minute only to again have it commandeered by my children.

Samuel's interruption was the most pressing. The bloody footprints presaged his announcement, "Mommy, I hurt my toe." At first I couldn't even tell which foot was injured for all the blood, and I carried him to the bathroom sink. The faucet made him cry. The running water made him scream. His mom trying to hold him still beneath the stream made him shout, "I want Emma!"

Samuel was fighting me with all he had. Wedged high up in a hinged flap of skin on the cut was dirt the water couldn't dislodge, grit that I knew I must remove from the tender wound. This child was kicking and shrieking, but it had to be done. By me.

I drew from a sense of calm I'd seen as a child. And at that moment I knew how to form my tribute.

So, Dad, if you see me hug Samuel when you know he put me through the wringer (day in and day out!),

If you see me playing on top of the playground slide with my children,

If you see me remove the pressure by quietly setting aside the training wheels when today's lesson turned tearful,

If you see me ready to try again tomorrow,

If you see me stop to point out the intricacies of a spider web,

If you see me scratch my head at someone's homework problems but plow ahead anyway,

If you see me triumphantly say, "Hey, let's try another!"

If you see me make my children clean the campground (including the trash that was there before we arrived),

If you see me bite my lip and pause long enough to answer gently,

If you see me know how to tease smiles out of my children one minute but intently listen to them the next,

Then you will know how much you have shaped me, and how much I love you.

Rain dance

2010-06-09T19:50:00.000-07:00

"Woo hoo! This is my rain dance!"

My Memorial Day wish

2010-05-28T16:04:00.000-07:00

I hope I see her again this year.

Really, I would hardly recognize her. I only saw her bouncing blond ponytail for a few minutes last Memorial Day in the cemetery. She could have gotten a hair cut, for all I know, or experienced the kind of growth spurt that propels her beyond a "little" girl.

If I recognize her at all it will be by her handiwork.

I hope her parents bring her to the cemetery again to honor loved ones who have gone before. I hope, for her sake, that the names on the family stones she helps decorate are generations removed, that even as she forges a connection by learning the stories of their lives, it won't be with a pang of loss.

I hope, that while the grownups are visiting, she will again skip toward the ancient lilac bushes on the cemetery grounds and pluck stem after stem to place on all the barren stones, so that no one is forgotten.

Then I'll smile to know she's been there. And as I search for a blond ponytail I'll pledge to do what I can -- no matter how small -- to ease the loneliness of others around me.

Rhubarb armor

2010-05-26T09:15:00.000-07:00

Eat your veggies, kids! They're good for you.

Hmm ... even in dessert form?

Rhubarb crisp
I hardly ever measure for stuff like this; these quantities are guidelines.

2 pounds rhubarb, sliced into 3/4-inch pieces (I used three gigantic stalks)
1 cup sugar
3/4 cup flour

Crisp topping:
2/3 cup margarine or butter, softened (not melted!)
3/4 cup brown sugar (or more, to taste)
1 cup flour
1 cup oats
1 1/2 teaspoons cinnamon

Heat oven to 375 degrees. Lightly grease 9x13 pan. (Or don't! I usually forget and it turns out fine. James loves this dessert so much he'll scrape every bit from the edges for me.)

Add cut rhubarb to pan, mix with cup of sugar. Let sit for a few minutes to draw out juices, then sprinkle flour and stir well. (You can do this step in bowl if you must.)

Meanwhile, use pastry blender to mix crisp topping into pea-sized crumbs. Crumble over rhubarb mixture and bake in 375 degree oven until top is lightly browned and rhubarb is bubbling, about 30 minutes. Serve warm or cold. Ice cream or yogurt are a delicious topping.

Clarification

2010-05-06T08:19:00.000-07:00

I kid you not. I just got a phone call from a genuinely concerned relative wondering about the bars James is gripping in a recent post. "Is he in jail?" No, he is not.

In my efforts to pair a funny expression with a funny story, I badly misfired on the context front. The picture is from our adventures at Baby Animal Day. The bars adorn a child-size caboose on the small train we rode there around the farm. No, the school does not have such a facility to punish latecomers and other miscreants. Although, if it did, I think all the students would clamor to go inside it -- it's that alluring.

Here's a shot of the caboose. The children were locked in from the outside, but I'm pretty sure that was only a safety measure while the train was in motion. Pretty sure.

As you can see, James made it out.

Baby Animal Day

2010-05-05T23:15:00.000-07:00

click on collage to enlarge

Baby Animal Day at Jensen Living Historical Farm
April 24, 2010

Truth in advertising

2010-05-05T10:26:00.000-07:00

James woke up in a grumpy mood this morning, refusing all motions aimed at getting him to school. His teacher didn't even know yet to be grateful when I told James, "Fine, then, go back to bed."

Later when James moseyed out of his room he was ready to play. I stood firm: back to school or back to bed. School it was.

The office requires you check in at their computer and indicate why your student is late. I didn't know James was aware of these particulars, but he looked over my elbow as I typed and told me:

"For the reason -- put LAZY."

Worth writing (on the) home

2010-05-04T14:37:00.000-07:00

We got oDer PoPs!

So, either James lives an extremely uneventful life, or his excitement over today's grocery purchase shows the power of the child's mind to find happiness anywhere.

I choose the latter.

Well, gotta do something while those Otter Pops freeze!

Imagine the possibilities ...

2010-04-23T12:35:00.000-07:00

Lessons from the Joyography workshop

It's high time I shared some of what I learned from the Joyography photography workshop I attended in March. I highly recommend you look into attending the next one in September.

First off, it was SO MUCH FUN! Presenters Marisa and Megan are as hip and as they are down-to-earth. The day-long workshop was very well planned, combining a morning of useful instruction, individual mentoring and practice in an antique store overflowing with eye candy. How could you not want to take pictures? Then, following a yummy lunch, a family arrived so we could work on taking portraits. The workshop ended with a feedback session and an overview of basic Photoshop functions.

I left exhilarated.

But then I got home and loaded the images from my camera onto my computer where I could see them more clearly. I was deflated. I was glaringly (or is that fuzzily?) reminded of the focus problems that have plagued me since, oh, I don't know, forEVER -- with every camera I've ever owned. I can't rely on my latest camera's fickle autofocus, so I always focus manually, which can be hit and miss. (Maybe it's something to do with the refraction of my eyeglasses as I look into the small viewfinder?) Sadly there were a lot of misses at the workshop. Yet with Marisa's guidance I was able to compensate for my camera's light meter being completely out of whack. Maybe there's hope for my focus. (The light meter has since been fixed -- can my eyes be next?)

Enough about me, on to some tips. The conference was all about using SLR (single-lens reflex) digital cameras, with the emphasis on using manual exposure settings exclusively. If your camera is a point and shoot, keep reading anyway, for principles of lighting and composition still apply.

Lighting

This picture of dice in a jar was taken indoors, next to a window.

A photograph is captured light, right? So photographers are really light hunters. Use natural light whenever you can, even indoors. Use the flash as a last resort. Sometimes where the action takes place dictates where we shoot. Other times, though, such as when taking portraits, we can set the stage. Look for areas of soft, diffused light such as near windows, on a porch or even in the shade. Early morning and afternoon (within an hour of sunrise and about 90 minutes before sunset) offer prime lighting conditions. Overcast days are great because they temper the sun's harsh shadows, which are worst mid-day. Alternately, stage your subject with his back to the sun.

Composition

Learn how to emphasize the subject you want. Do this by moving in closer, removing distractions (including those in the background), and framing your subject.

Some people might balk that I cut off the top of this little cutie's head. That's so old school! By composing the shot this way I hoped to capture more than just a cute little boy; I wanted to convey the sweetness of a young child sharing. Can't you just imagine him saying to you, "Here!"

This next shot could have been fine as a cropped close-up of the couple kissing. I liked the inclusion of the sign above, however, especially its announcement of "treasures."

Yes, I know the couple is slightly out of focus here {hangs head in shame}. I'm including it anyway to show how altering your composition gives interest. I purposely turned my camera the same direction of the arrow.

The best photographs tell stories, and detail shots are another narrative tool.

I like this next one for the contrast of the tiny 2-year-old foot pedaling the rusty antique tricycle.

Use composition to reinforce universal emotion. While I have other shots showing the whole scene of the father helping his toddler climb down the side of an old fire truck, this one strips away all that to show something else: Doesn't the little boy's intense upward gaze relay his trust? (At least that's why I like this shot.)

Another look at universal subjects: This next picture, with her contemplative expression, makes me feel a little wistful for my own childhood. I remember sometimes feeling too small, looking ahead, but not always being sure what was coming.

I took all of the previous pictures at the workshop, I took the following ones this month.

Get down and dirty for creative compositions. I was on my back looking up at James in the tree.

Manual exposure settings

Using manual settings allow you to manipulate light and better tell your story. It allows you to have a fast shutter speed for action shots, for instance, or to fine-tune your lighting -- exposure.

Exposure is a three-way dance of shutter speed, ISO and aperture (shutting opening). F/stops are aperture settings. As I understand it the term ISO actually comes from film use, how quickly film cells would absorb the light and then crystallize. The same concept translates to digital, or how quickly the receiver stores data.

One analogy I've read is like this: Light is to a picture what water is to a plant. It's all in the delivery. Aperture is how wide your hose is, shutter speed is how long you keep the faucet on, ISO is water pressure. If you have a narrow hose, you'll need to keep the faucet turned on longer to deliver the same amount of water than with a wide hose. Your camera's (working) light meter will tell you when all of these settings line up for exposure. In auto mode the camera does the same thing, but it can often get tricked -- like say, compensating for bright sun in your background, which can darken your subjects' faces. I actually "overexposed" the tree picture by a few hash marks on my camera's meter, to lighten up James' face.

I learned at the workshop how to use ISO in my camera, which was a revelation! Since then, I've taken lots more pictures indoors without a flash by raising the ISO setting.

The selection of aperture defines depth of field, another composition tool. A small f/stop number, like f3.5, gives a narrow band that will be in focus. This means you can blur backgrounds by focusing only on your subject.

Here, the main point of my picture story was James giving the blossom. Because I had a low f/stop the flower is in sharper focus than he is in the near background. The branches behind him are softer still.

Here's another illustration of depth of field. First, Samuel lurking behind branches.

Then, maintaining the same f/stop I changed my focus to reveal Samuel framed by those very branches. (Milk mustache and all). Kind of a cool effect.

Obviously there is a lot to photography, and I am but a student. While I am still learning to be technically proficient, I already have a long held love of photography as a way to capture the everyday moments. To me those are the best portraits. I could have taken a posed picture of Elise and her grandpa ("Say cheese!") but I prefer these much more:

Helping grandpa peel potatoes for Sunday dinner. No flash was used (for the photo, silly!).

These two show different executions: in the first Elise is in focus; in the second the focus is on the plaque on the windowsill. Families are Forever. But I wish they'd been switched, because her expression below is beautiful.

An open letter of apology

2010-04-19T18:22:00.000-07:00

To all those with ears at church yesterday,

To Br. I, who opened the chapel door for me (from the outside! -- he could hear us coming) to hasten my flight from sacrament meeting,

To the astonished wrestling match watchers in foyer seats,

To the man who peeked into the mother's lounge to see what in the world was going on,

To the birds we frightened when we eventually went ouside,

I am sorry.

I am sorry my Samuel is so determined.

I am sorry I misdirected his LOUD "I want a drink!!!!!!" into my "Un-huh, be quiet so they can bring you the water."

I am sorry I did not honor his wish right away.

I am sorry if he splashed you when he angrily threw the sacrament cup.

I am sorry I let my slow-motion version debate of "should we stay or should we go now?" disturb what should be such a sacred ordinance. I kept hoping Samuel would calm down, so that I would not need to cause further commotion by leaving.

(If you asked yourself WHY ISN'T SHE TAKING HIM OUT YET?, it's because Jeff whispered to me, "I'll take him out.")

I am sorry.

But I'm so glad you know that Samuel is worth try, try, trying again -- that you'll smile at him (and me, I hope!) when next we pass in the church hall. I thank you for your encouragement.

By the way,

I asked Samuel if he was sorry.

See for yourself.

Lost and Found

2010-04-05T16:42:00.000-07:00

Of the photos I took at Saturday's neighborhood Easter egg hunt --

... The scene when I arrived at the school playground -- only slow-poke adults still at the hilltop ...

... Samuel's indifference -- See that green egg in the bottom right of the first picture? He wanted nothing to do with it. The only egg in his basket was the one I put there. He had a blind eye to kids picking up loot all around him. Instead, he was mad the slide was too icy to climb ...

... The sorting party as soon as we got home. James was so excited, he didn't even take off his coat ...

-- This one is my favorite:

When Samuel was irritable and crying on the schoolgrounds, James decided to demystify the whole hunt by opening and offering one of his own eggs. "Look, Sam, look what's inside!"

Because the message of Easter isn't just finding what was lost,

it is sharing what we have found.

Thank you, Circe, for all you work preparing the egg hunt!

Easter Story Cookies

2010-04-02T08:17:00.000-07:00

A couple of years ago I discovered a recipe for Easter Story Cookies. I was intrigued with the idea and decided to try them out. What a wonderful opportunity this presented to further teach the truth of Easter. I'll admit, this type of cookie is a little too ... ahem! exotic for my children's tastes (they'd much rather devour chocolate chip!), so the real value to me is in the making, not the munching. I love object lessons, and this is a great one. Make this at night to see the end result the next morning.

Easter Story Cookies -- this makes a meringue-type cookie

by Rachel Keller

Courtesy of AllHomemadeCookies.com

Read through all instructions first. Makes about 2 dozen. (My note: Ingredients may be reduced by 1/3, to make 6 to 9 cookies.)

1 cup whole pecans

1 teaspoon vinegar

3 egg whites (make sure there is absolutely no trace of yolk)

pinch salt

1 cup sugar

zipper baggie and wax paper

wooden spoon or a wooden meat hammer

duct tape or packing tape

Bible

Preheat oven to 300*F. This is very important; you don’t want to get to the end and not have your oven warm!

Place pecans in zipper baggie and let children beat them with the wooden spoon or hammer to break them into small pieces.

Explain that after Jesus was arrested he was beaten by the Roman soldiers. Read John 19:1-3.

Let each child smell the vinegar. Put 1 teaspoon of vinegar into the mixing bowl.

Explain that when Jesus was thirsty on the cross he was given vinegar to drink. Read John 19:28-30.

Add egg whites to the vinegar. Eggs represent life.

Explain that Jesus gave his life to give us life. Read John 10:10-11.

Sprinkle a little salt into each child’s hand. Let them taste. Then put your pinch of salt in the bowl.

Explain that this represents the salty tears shed by Jesus’s followers, and the bitterness of our own sin. Read Luke 23:27

So far, the ingredients are not very appetizing! Add 1 cup sugar to the bowl.

Explain that the sweetest part of the story is that Jesus died because he loves us. He wants us to know and belong to him. Read Psalms 34:8 and John 3:16.

Beat with a mixer on high speed for 10 to 15 minutes or until stiff peaks form.

Explain that the color white represents the purity in God’s eyes of those whose sins have been cleansed by Jesus. Read Isaiah 1:18 and John 3:1-3.

Fold in broken nuts. Drop by teaspoons onto wax paper-covered cookie sheets.

Explain that each mound represents the rocky tomb where Jesus’s body was laid. Read Matthew 27:57-60.

Put the cookie sheet in the oven, close the door and turn the oven OFF. Give each child a piece of tape to seal the oven door.

Explain that Jesus’ tomb was sealed. Read Matthew 27:65-66.

Leave the kitchen. If you’ve been making these cookies just before bedtime, GO TO BED! Acknowledge that the kids are probably sad that they’ve worked hard to make these cookies, and now have to leave them in the oven overnight. Explain that Jesus’ followers were sad when Jesus died and the tomb was sealed. Read John 16:20 and 22.

On Easter morning, open the oven and give everyone a cookie. Ask the kids to notice the cracked surface. Have them bite into the cookies. The cookies are hollow!

Explain that on the first Easter morning, Jesus’ followers were amazed to find the tomb open and empty. Read Matthew 28:1-9.

HE HAS RISEN!

------------------------

Here's another of our family's Easter traditions, making baskets out of plastic gallon jugs. Click here to see instructions and James' finished project.

I wish everyone a wonderful Easter!

What's wrong with these pictures?

2010-04-01T08:40:00.000-07:00

I'll tell you what's wrong ...

IT'S APRIL!

Pioneer Easter Eggs

2010-03-29T08:02:00.000-07:00

This is a post I prepared for the blog Backyard Farming a couple of years ago. Let me know if you try it!

Try this all-natural way to color Easter eggs, using onion skins. I learned it from my mother, who learned it from her mother, who undoubtedly learned it from her mother, too.

The best part of this method, and what I remember most from growing up, is that it was almost like two Easter egg hunts in one. Before we even started coloring the eggs, mom sent us a-hunting outside for blossoms, fresh grass blades, buds and the like to create patterns on the eggs. Even if we didn’t find something new and green, we always enjoyed the search. Ah, spring.

Here’s how to color your own eggs:

• Gather the outer onion skins, as many as you can! The more you have, the greater color saturation. You’ll need to wrap them around each egg several times over.

Remove skins in as big a piece as possible. Save them in the fridge for the weeks leading up to Easter. Or, if you’re like me and the holiday sneaks up on you, dig in the grocery bins to buy lots of loose skins when you purchase onions. Yellow ones produce a golden brown color, with red and purple onion skins imparting a bit more of their respective hues. It’s best to keep one variety per boiling pot so colors don’t get muddy.

• If you’ve collected vegetative material, place the pieces right next to your raw egg in desired pattern, then wrap onion skins around egg. Try moistening leaves, etc., to get them to stick to the egg first.

If you don’t make it outside, raid your crisper for celery leaves, carrot tops, herbs or more – use your imagination. (Don’t use anything that may be toxic -- check the Internet if in doubt.) Leaves and such make a silhouette effect. Pansies (which are edible and therefore safe) sometimes transfer some of their color to the egg -- cool! Onion skins alone, however, still make beautiful eggs with wonderfully layered color.

• After wrapping raw eggs with skins and more skins, secure tightly with rubber bands (easiest) or string. Or tuck egg inside a piece of clean nylon stocking. You really will get more color depth and interest the more skins you use, so break loose!

• Hard-boil using cold-water method: Place wrapped eggs in pot, covering with an inch or more of cold water. Bring quickly to a boil, then set aside covered pot for 22-24 minutes (add about 5 minutes for high altitude). Cool immediately under running cold water. (My mom says the dyed hot water can stain a porcelain sink, so carefully pour it down the drain to avoid having to scrub later.)

• Remove onion skins from eggs and admire your handiwork. Don’t forget that it’s nature handiwork, too.

• If desired, polish dry eggs with a little vegetable oil. Refrigerate eggs until needed. I've yet to have one that tasted like an onion!

Too many cooks

2010-03-19T16:42:00.000-07:00

Ever since reading of it in a magazine, I've taken pictures of my children helping me cook some of our family's favorite recipes, with the idea of giving them illustrated cookbooks when they grow older.

Today's subject: Fresh pumpkin pie

Today's helper: Elise

"Baker in training," says her apron.

Yes, we're still working on the training part.

Today's morals: Elise's feelings matter most. Grabbing the camera is a great calming device. "We'll laugh about this before you know it," I said. Amazingly, the bowl landed on its bottom! And we had it all cleaned up in time for Jeff to come home from work, only to be sent right back out the door to buy a pie for the ward party tonight.

Pumpkin pie (or winter squash)

1 1/4 cup fresh pumpkin or winter squash (butternut, banana, etc.) cooked and pureed
3/4 cup sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon ginger
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1 teaspoon flour
2 eggs, beaten
1 cup evaporated milk
1/2 teaspoon vanilla
Pastry for 1 9-inch unbaked pie crust.

Combine pumpkin, sugar, salt, spices and flour in mixing bowl. Add eggs and mix well. Add evaporated milk, water and vanilla; mix well. Pour into pastry lined pan. Bake in preheated 425 oven for 15 minutes. Reduce heat to 350 and bake 45 minutes longer or until set.

Daddy's homework

2010-03-07T13:37:00.000-08:00

Samuel came huffing and puffing into the room, carrying Jeff's scriptures. "Daddy's homework," Samuel repeatedly pronounced.

Children learn by example, we all know. I'm glad my 2-year-old has such a good one.

Harbingers

2010-03-05T17:08:00.000-08:00

It's time for the traditional winter/spring tug-of-war around here. Buzzing bees one day, snowstorms the next.

One deliciously warm afternoon last week I ventured into the backyard to take stock of the landscape. Every time I turned my head I spied another bouncy ball, discovered another missing sandal. Ha! Take away the snow, and winter's not such a tough hostage taker anymore.

But the ease with which I uncovered more and more defeatist playthings made me realize something else. In particular, I had looked for one of Samuel's shoes -- half of his absolutely favorite pair -- for several weeks before snow fell. The shoe had fallen off our busy toddler somewhere in our jungle of a backyard. I didn't stand a chance.

Months later, when I'd nearly forgotten about it, I did find that pesky shoe -- on my way to the garden last week to plant spinach seeds. Some would say it's because the snow melted, but I know that winter's way of stripping excess foliage was the true catalyst.

So what? Thanks to harsh elements and Samuel's growing feet, that shoe is of little use to me now. Yet the finding of it formed a great object lesson of a recurring truth in my life. Sometimes we lose sight of things when life is lush, requiring a season of starkness to help us find our treasures again.

****

I was delighted to find a ladybug Thursday while doing yardwork. (Don't worry. As I told my friend who drove by and called out, "You're putting us all to shame!" -- this particular yard chore of pulling out dead flowers should have been done last fall.)

Anyway, I was super excited about my find and ushered James over to play with the cute little red bug. Isn't a ladybug a sure sign of spring?

Well, within an hour it started to thunder and hail. Thunder and hail! The sky became an angry gray with wispy finger-pointing clouds. The only softening the sky did later into the evening was to sprinkle snow instead of spitting sleet. Sign of spring? So much for that theory.

Oddly enough, I recalled that the last time I saw a ladybug, winter's hold was even greater. It was January. The earthquake had just ransacked Haiti. My friend Circe had organized the neighbors to make hygiene kits to send to that country. As we finished I saw a lone ladybug skitter across her table.

It did my heart good.

I think now I'll always associate a ladybug with hope, the more unexpected the better.

Hobby

2010-02-18T14:26:00.000-08:00

I have been schooled by my younger brother.

This week marked two events. One, and this isn't really noteworthy because it seems to happen all the time, I complained to my husband that I don't have anything of my own. No time, no space, no outside interests. Anything I do for the sake of a hobby still involves my children somehow.

Two, a huge package arrived on our doorstep. It was a mystery, made more magical by my earlier announcement that no mail would be arriving that day, President's Day and all. (Thanks, UPS!) Beyond belief, this giant container that could house Samuel was actually addressed to Samuel. No one recognized the return address (except quiet me). Oh, the intrigue!

The older children helped Samuel uncover this amazing rocking horse, made by Uncle Jeffy's very own hands. Touch your computer screen. Go on, do it! That's how glossy smooth the horse's seat feels beneath your fingers. (Ahem, the wood is even smoother, I believe -- I discovered several sticky spots on my screen just now.)

As soon as we got the horse out of the box Samuel was off! Samuel treasures this horse, I can tell.

Thank you, Uncle Jeffy, for this extremely generous gift of your time and talents. Thank you for the smile on my son's face. You gave me a gift, too: the reminder that making someone else happy is the best hobby of all.

P.S.

While we're on the subject of hobbies, see how the package provided a new version of James' favorite thing to do:

Did anyone guess
"Make snow angels"
??

Talk talk

2010-02-16T09:44:00.000-08:00

Each month a different church class takes care of the weekly Primary opening exercise assignments of talk, scripture, Article of Faith and prayer. I really need to peek in on Elise's class when they make those assignments. Is she piping up with an "Oooh, pick me, pick me! I want to do the talk!"? Or is it more, "OK, if no one else will, I guess I'll give the talk"? Because either way, it seems like she gives the talk A LOT.

I'm grateful for the chance to work with her on these little speeches, however. I learn so much in the process of boiling down gospel truths to the essence a child can understand. Recently the assigned topic of "Jesus Christ is my Savior and Redeemer" had me scratching my head. It's a fundamental truth, but how to explain it? Here's what we came up with:

Jesus Christ is my Savior and Redeemer. It is important for us to know what those words mean.

Sometimes we use the word "redeem" when talking about buying items. We redeem coupons to help make it easier to pay for something. We turn in the coupon to the cashier, so the cost is less. We also redeem, or turn in, movie tickets so we can see the show.

These uses of the word "redeem" give us a glimpse of what it means to be a Redeemer. Heavenly Father has set requirements to be able to come back to Heaven. The scriptures tell us, "No unclean thing can enter in."

Jesus Christ's atonement allows us to fully repent. Sometimes it is so hard. When we have done all we can, he steps in and makes up the difference. He redeemed, or turned in his life, to make our price easier to pay.

He is a Savior because he saves us and helps us return to Heavenly Father.

Elise ended by reading from the hymn "I Know my Redeemer Lives." I hope she'll remember hearing that sentence many times from her mother's lips. What an incredible stewardship we have as parents.

Thank you!

2010-02-13T10:28:00.000-08:00

Thanks, everyone -- you helped me win the photography class scholarship. It was a tie, and two of us get to go. I can't wait!

I'm working through some thoughts for another post, I promise. In the meantime here's a little Valentine's ditty I wrote elsewhere. Have a great holiday!

Joy-ography

2010-01-30T22:15:00.000-08:00

A rerun and a new story why I need to attend the Joy-ography photography workshop:

The rerun

In September I wrote of a fun afternoon playing with this praying mantis, that releasing it back into the grass was like a farewell to summer.

The new story

Last summer my children often commented that the bugs they collected in jars were their only pets. We remedied this somewhat with Elise's Christmas gift of a gray hamster she named Buddy.

She has been in love! She wanted to show Buddy to her second grade class, so enlisted me to bring his entire habitat for show and tell. I brought the camera, too, knowing Elise's enthusiasm would be golden.

Elise opened Buddy's cage and lovingly cupped him in her hands for his celebrity tour 'round the desks. I readied the camera. But instead of the expected quick, efficient click, the shutter slowly shuddered, offering me one measly picture before freezing altogether.

Aargh!

The camera's control window said "Err." It probably stood for "Error," but I felt like the camera was casting judgment. As in, "Err, you don't know what you're doing, do you?" Nah-nah-nah-nah-nah-nah.

And just like that the camera wouldn't let me take a single shot. I missed: precious looks of wonder; Elise's confident carriage; faces framed by the white metal wires of Buddy's cage as the students eagerly peered inside; the hilarious way Elise flipped her hair to demonstrate Buddy cleaning himself.

I turned the camera off and on, off and on. Pushed buttons, removed the lens, reset. No amount of dial turning was restoring life into the machine, which is such an important (and expensive!) part of recording my family's story. I was so discouraged -- distraught almost -- that I called my husband as soon as I got home to tell him what happened at the school.

"Wait," he interrupted me. "Does this story end with the hamster dying?"

No, I laughed, flooding with the relief that comes from a new perspective. "Just the camera."

It did, inexplicably, come back to life, but I am tired of it taking the upper hand.

What I really need is the real-life mentoring I could get from the Joy-ography workshop, presented by two great photographers I know.

I want to earn a chance to attend this workshop because:

1. I love to take pictures of the everyday moments with my children, but want the quality of the shots to be, well ... more than everyday.

2. I struggle with my camera. I want to be in charge of my it, not the other way around.

3. My rudimentary knowledge frustrates me. I think I have a good eye for composition, but often don't know how to turn my vision into results. I know enough to know I need to learn more.

4. Attending the workshop will get me out of the house for the day!

5. Photography helps me see all that is worthwhile.

6. I want my children to have a beautiful record of their lives. I don't want them to see snapshots, I want them to see memories.

Waffling

2010-01-25T12:51:00.000-08:00

I'm reading a book called Becoming a Humor Being by comedian Steve Rizzo, who promotes laughter as a way to replace fear and anger as we deal with life's challenges. I think the book's message could have been bottled into one concise chapter, but each sip as I pick the volume off my nightstand again reminds me that I could be much happier if only I laughed more. Maybe the repetition is good.

Sometimes, Rizzo says, we need to create something absurd to invite laughter in.

Someone left a messy waffle iron on the kitchen counter. Someone cooked bacon in it, and didn't drain the grease before it hardened. In his defense, Someone said the Food Network told him to cook bacon this way. Probably a great idea -- bacon gets cooked very evenly top and bottom this method, a great idea -- IF your waffle iron grills can be submersed in water, or if you never care to use that particular appliance again. AARGH!! I hate bacon grease with a passion. I asked Someone two days ago to please, please clean this mess.

This afternoon, resigned to my waffle iron fate, I could have been angry. Instead I laughed at the neatly printed invoice I would create, detailing the number of minutes I spent cleaning the appliance, payable in equal minutes of back-scratching.

Ridiculous? Absurd? You betcha. But for the nine minutes I was scraping grease from dozens of grooves with an ittty bitty spoon, my mind was in a happy place, far from angry.

I hope Someone laughs too.

Testimony

2010-01-12T09:48:00.000-08:00

I wanted to bear my testimony last Sunday
of the power of temples.
I wanted to share how
just the sight of one
through his car window
quieted my cranky 2-year-old.

We headed there, with time to spare
between our hotel check-out
and the St. George sacrament meeting
we were attending.

I wanted to share the peace I felt
on the grounds,
the intuitive reverence I saw
in my children.

I wanted to share
so I found audience
in the eager visitor's center
tour guide.
I related what Samuel said
as he pulled his sister
toward the temple steps.
"Come on, Emma,
let's go find Jesus!
Come on!"
My heart had twinged.

"Oh, yes," the tour guide
matter-of-factly replied
to my retelling.
"All of the children love
the statue of Jesus."

But I had not known this
visitor's center
housed a model of the Christus
and
I am sure that is
not
what Samuel had in mind.

Samuel raced ahead
in the visitor's building,
down hallways
and around bends.
I found him sitting,
transfixed,
at the feet
of the statue of Jesus.

I wanted to bear my testimony in church last Sunday
of the power of temples,
but I was in foyer exile,
carting a loud, cranky 2-year-old
like a slippery football
at my waist
where he could not reach
my face to hit.

I bear testimony here that
Jesus loves this little boy
more than I can ever know,

and I can draw
from His power.