You should see: Bella

Bella, when I first saw it 3 years ago, left me rather agog.

You know the kind of movies that you wish were being made?  It turns out there actually are people making thoughtful and important films out there. (And the story behind the process of making this film is impressive) You just have to dig a little. This film swept through the Toronto Film Festival in 2006, but never managed the distribution it deserved. Like any film that you can call "important" this one tackles difficult issues.  But unlike most "important" films it doesn't claim to have a universal answer to the "issues" it tackles.  It just invites us to think harder, love harder, and remember that the worth of all souls is great.  Such a light and loving touch, it made me want to celebrate the existence of it's medium, despite it's inevitable imperfections.  So many "issue" films have such a heavy heavy hand.  You can tell this one was made with love, rather than with a wagging finger.  There is some difficult subject matter (hence the pg-13 rating), but in the end my heart was swelling, which is a sensation I could stand to experience more often.

On Parenting: the impossibility of being

There is no such thing as a parent, especially a mother, who is "on top of it all".
As my wise friend Owenna once said, "You're not supposed to be able to do it all.  That forces you to make choices."




And so every person, but a parent in particular, has to decide what's essential, what's important, what's ideal, and what's just not happening.  And it's different for every parent.

Mr Renn made it very clear after we were married that having an unmade bed was not an option for him.  However, since I'm nearly always the last one out of bed, it falls to me to make it happen.  Luckily once I got into that habit it was easy to stay in it.
Showering every day - essential for me.  I can't seem to accomplish anything without being clean - even if I don't wash my hair everyday I have to wash the rest of me.  I may not be pretty, but I'm clean!
Other things that are essential for me - everyone is dressed first thing every morning, and we sit down to eat dinner together every single day.
I'm currently trying to get into good habits so that exercising and scripture reading and personal prayer stay in the essential tier and don't get waylaid by life happening.  That's hard for me, but totally worth trying!

I also have to choose what to let go of.  In some ways that's even harder for me than choosing what to keep as an essential.  I get so darned attached to impossible ideals and expectations.  I want it all.  Obviously I'm letting things like "home of our own" and "saving for retirement" slide right now because they're monetarily impossible.  But I've also had to let "my kids will always have clean faces" and "I will not allow clothing to be destroyed in the process of laundering it" flutter out the window and into oblivion.  I've had to learn that it's okay for my kids to cry - in fact crying means they're alive and breathing well, so sometimes it's even welcome.  (I try not to let them cry excessively, but when 2 or more kids are crying at the same time...which is often at our house.... one of them has to be patient and cry until I can get to them or they figure it out on their own)

Part of my intense personality is an inexplicable drive to learn and stretch and improve and try harder.  I'm not naturally blessed with the gift of contentedness.  In fact in my life contentedness happens only in moments, never in days.  So accepting this prioritizing and "first things first means last things last" is hard for me.  There are both blessings and curses in that.



By the time I figure it all out, it'll be time to move on to the next phase of life and learn it all over again.

Letters: my funhouse mirror

Dear Sir O -

You have been causing me no small amount of angst lately.  And by lately I mean the last year or so of your short life.



Every little thing you do - and especially the ugly things - seems to be an amplification of my flaws.  Every moment I am lazy or disinterested, or short-tempered or distracted seems to fly back at me and strike me over the head in the things you do.
You are smart enough, we'll give you that.
(Conniving might be more accurate.)
Without fail, if I turn my back on you for 20 seconds there will be trouble.  I have figured out that this is due in part to my not being consistent enough with disciplining you.  I guess you haven't quite figured out that I mean what I say.  And so it is my job now to convince you that I mean what I say every single time I open my mouth.  If I can come up with the energy to do this, then you will eventually stop needing me to prove it and start taking my word for it - so in theory this herculean assignment will pay for itself tenfold.  I'm a little wary though - both of my ability to pull this off, and of your ability to actually start being responsive.  I think I need to have more faith in  us both.

But for how much trouble you give me, you are certainly capable of being kind and helpful and friendly and enthusiastic.  You are impressively patient with the Captain who copies your every move.  You are also better than me at guessing what he wants.  (This is both good and bad though - "older sibling who speaks for him" is toward the top of the list of common factors among children who aren't speaking on time).  You want to be present for every moment of our Gentleman's unfolding life.  Not a diaper change goes by that you aren't on hand to make the baby smile and tell him how cute you think he is.

Really if we could just curb the impulse to use art supplies on anything but paper we'd be halfway there.  The ebb and flow of letting you use crayons/markers/scissors and then having to take them away is becoming a predictable rhythm in my life.  You have this odd impulse to scatter and dump and I cannot seem to wire myself to anticipate it properly.  Between that and your constant episodes of sneaking into anything with sugar or fat I am starting to feel a bit tired, or maybe a whole lot tired.

What's making me so nervous is the way our confrontations about these things tend to go over.  You are not a particularly rational little man.  I have a hard enough time confronting you myself, but whenever anyone else tries to do it - you sort of turn into an angry little flailing demon-child.  You say horribly mean things and you kick and throw.  You, my boy, haven't quite learned how to cap your rage when it starts to flare up.  I do so very much hope I can help you learn that sooner than later.  I'm still hopeful that having our own home again will alleviate this particular propensity a bit.

You happen to be sharper than any tack I've encountered and you remember everything I say.  This means I'm having to slow down and be awfully careful that I mean everything I say.  I dare not make any promises or threats that I'm not willing to carry out in full - I know you will test me on both counts.

While most of this is just an explanation of how tired I feel and why - there are so many bright sides that I need help remembering them all.

You have decided to love preschool again.  You're not so much a fan of getting up in the morning and getting ready to go - but you always come back with exuberance and an impressively good mood.
We finally got you to remember how to spell your name - orally.  On paper you're at least getting all the right letters in there....somewhere.  You are still a strong and wiry kid.  My sister complains that you have a better six-pack than she does (and she has one!)  and you've taken to dragging your night stand around your bedroom to reach things.  That's not exactly a highly mobile piece of furniture, especially with two drawers full of clothes.  (And in the name of safety that night stand will be disappearing as soon as I can find another home for its contents).

You really just want me to play with you - pretty much constantly.  You got so excited the other day when I made time to sit down and play puppets with you.  It didn't go smoothly.  The Captain wanted to join us and he couldn't quite get his fingers situated to his liking - so there was a constant background of him trying different puppets and shrieking his disapproval, plus the invariable crying of our Gentleman who can't sleep for more than 10 minutes at a time.  But you - you were happy as long as I gave you the majority of my attention.  It only lasted 15 or 20 minutes.  Three extremely short puppet encounters, then my narrating your play with the Captain on your imaginary laundry basket train.   It takes so little to keep you happily occupied and out of trouble, but I just cannot seem to give it very often.  It can be terribly discouraging to have 3 little men who want all of me (occasionally 4) and not be able to actually satisfy any of them.  There are lots of moments when I wonder what I ever had to complain about with only one child.  I expect that's a phenomenon that every mother of more than one child has experienced.

I'm still hopeful that I can get all of our acts together.  First and foremost I need to get more sleep.  (Which means we've got to get our Gentleman to sleep through the night).  Then I intend to get us all into a groove where mom is up and ready and inspired before the three little men are allowed out of bed.  I'm still hoping that such a groove will help me stay "present" with you boys instead of starting out behind, then hitting a disastrous climax when I attempt to shower before noon.  I keep feeling I could take life by the horns, if only I could get enough sleep to wake up early enough to actually prepare for each day and the challenge (and privilege) of being your mother.

So next time you tell our Gentleman how cute he is, could you try dropping some hints about sleeping with his eyes closed?

Weekend Recap: what I didn't do

Despite one fun dinner invitation that temporarily dissolved into a million legos being dumped on the floor, our weekend was quiet and somber.

I may or may not have spent my weekend wishing that all the best bloggers weren't preoccupied with Alt.  Knowing that so many women in my age group are not only more stylish than me, but also had much more exciting things to do this weekend than meal planning and grocery shopping; well it left me a little deflated.  These are the dangers of being a blog reader.  I expect most of those reading this know exactly what I mean.

But the weekend was a bigger downer than that.  Sometime Saturday one of my Dad's horses died unexpectedly.  (As unexpectedly as a rather old horse can die).  There proceeded to be an unpleasant ordeal of moving and burying an extremely heavy, muddy corpse.  I never did get very emotionally attached to the family horses.  They began to be acquired shortly before I graduated from High School and moved out so I never shared in the chores of keeping them fed and cleaned up after, nor did I ride them much.  The rest of my siblings, however, were visibly distraught.  I mostly had my hands full trying to keep Sir O from seeing the horse corpse when everyone else was so preoccupied with it.  The kid has nightmares about VeggieTales, I'm not exactly eager to be dealing with visions of dead bodies.

But the glimpses I caught of the corpse-dragging ordeal were enough to leave me disturbed and introspective.  There is no escaping death for any of us.  Someday my body will also be a corpse - though I hope it will not be dragged through the mud when the time comes.  Even though I cannot currently comprehend participating in reality without a body, I am not my body.  My body is a tool and a shell and an experience - eternal in nature, but in it's telestial state it is fleeting and I am not.  There are lots of moments when I can almost tangibly feel how my mortality limits my capacity to comprehend truth.  This body and this brain have such a heavy veil placed on them, and I expect the phenomenon of shedding it all is rather joyful.

Yet so much of my job just now is to help our Gentleman figure out how to get comfortable and familiar with his rapidly changing, temporary body.  It is a grim and gritty place to be a mother and remember that your young children will someday prove mortal.  It serves as a terrifying and yet poignant reminder of how necessary faith in a loving God is to make our short lives meaningful and productive.  I'm beginning to understand.

And so I have on my mind how I want to be remembered.  I do NOT want to be remembered as the mom who was preoccupied with the internet - so that's a perpetual  balancing act in progress.  But I do want to be remembered as a listening ear, a soothing touch, a warm meal, an inspiring and relevant story, a creative outlet, an honest opinion, and a testimony in action.

What sort of legacy are you shooting for?

Feeling enlightened

Last week I listened to this interview on the mormon channel.  There's plenty of goodness packed in there, but a particular bit about a slight course correction that feminism ought to have considered has stuck with me and been the source of much introspection.  I recommend this one whole heartedly.  Listen to it while you do something prosaic (for me it's breastfeeding, folding laundry and ironing) and you'll find your mind perfectly engaged.

You Should See: like Stars on Earth

I know there are some people who genuinely cannot enjoy a good Bollywood flick.  I'm just not sure why.  Usually they complain about a) the inevitable musical numbers no matter what the genre, or b) how long they are.  (I'm pretty sure they're long because of all the added musical numbers, incidentally).  Sure, Bollywood could make a good film without anyone breaking into song, but why would they want to?

Our latest favorite was "Like Stars on Earth" telling the story of a little boy learning to overcome a learning disability. Sure the soundtrack and teary-eyed close-ups were manipulative, but I think the mother in me would have cried anyway.  AND I sat through the whole thing and I never sit through entire movies anymore.   So pardon the heavy handed emotive moralizing in it and try it out.  And if it's your first Bollywood just know you're in for some culture shock.  In a fun way; just go with it.  Watch the trailer here.

Hot, sharp, and other irresistables

HSF beat me to posting about our awesome adventures in peppermint pillow making.  Everything is more fun with small children pulling on your arms.  I think I should always be learning new skills from my favorite people.  It makes life fun.  Watching the two of us and our husbands hustle to get the hot candy pulled and cut before it cooled would probably also be a barrel full of laughs.

HSF's secret family recipe:

Candycanes:

• 1 1/4 C. Water + more for heating extra pan
• 4 C. Sugar
• 3 Tbsp. White vinegar
• 1/4 tsp. Cream of tartar
• Peppermint oil
• Food coloring - both liquid and gel are fine

"Heat a small pan of water for later.  At the same time heat the water, sugar, vinegar, and cream of tartar in a medium-large saucepan on high stirring occasionally to combine all ingredients.  When it reaches a boil it looks like it will boil over but stir it a bit and it will calm down.  Once it's boiling cover and continue boiling for 2 minutes.  Uncover and put in the candy thermometer (be sure you've tested it beforehand so you know what temp it boils at and adjust the candy-making temperature as needed).  Boil the candy until it reaches 285*F.

While the candy is cooking butter the marble slab, several knives, and the candy hook.  Prepare several pairs of clean scissors, and pans or cookie sheets to cut candy later.  When the candy comes to temperature pour most of it onto the buttered marble slab.  Pour several drops of peppermint oil onto the hot candy.  One person begins using a buttered knife to turn the candy over on itself as it cools so it stays moving and the peppermint spreads throughout.  Pour about half of the candy that is left in the pan into the small now-emptied-of-water warmed pan.  Add food coloring into both pans (red and green are traditional, obviously) and swirl and rock them back and forth.  Do not stir them.

When the candy on the slab is cool enough to handle (it will still be very hot but manageable) take it from the slab to the hook and start pulling.  Gravity helps pull it down which gives the puller's hands a break from the hot candy now and then.  Twist the candy as it is pulled so it continues to wrap around itself and stick together.  While clear-white candy is being pulled pour the colored candy out in two separate puddles on the re-buttered slab.  Again, use the buttered knives to fold the candy over on itself eventually forming the puddles into logs.  Back at the hook pull the candy until it turns very white.  The longer it is pulled the more opaque white it will become.  When it is ready remove it from the hook and return it to the slab.  Form it into a log and use a thumb to form a trench on one side.  Place one of the colored logs into the trench to make a stripe.  Turn the log over and make a second trench.  Fill it with the other colored log.

Working quickly, one person pull out lengths of striped candy, snips, and hands the pieces to the other candy-makers who form them into long, twisted strands, lollypops, candycanes, or snip them into little bite-sized pieces with scissors (in which case cut them smaller than you may think).  I'd recommend making them with no less than three people, preferably more."  

  - - - - - - - - - -

Speaking of scissors:

It's hard to see in a photo of blonde hair, but Sir O took some massive chunks out of his brother's hair recently.  He's officially and unconditionally banned from scissors for a while.  I'm still scratching my head on the best way to approach damage control, so for a few days the Captain's going to look pretty ridiculous.  I've been assured over and over that this is a right of passage for both parents and children, but somehow that's not making me feel any better.

On Parenting: remembering joy

I have an awful lot of moments, especially in my current living condition, when I feel so utterly lost in the trenches of parenting.  It is so hard to gauge any success.  It seems impossible to know which behaviors are normal and which are problematic, and anything that is problematic engenders immense motherly guilt.
Oh, and then throw in the crazy sleep deprivation and distraction that comes with nursing a newborn.  Wow.
It is so frighteningly easy to become overwhelmed.  But I've noticed something.  It's potentially troubling and yet also potentially empowering.
My mood matters.
When I am stressed out and second guessing myself I am usually snappy and mopey.  It's not altogether shocking that my children, and even my husband, follow suite.   When I'm resenting my to-do list it's not really that shocking that my children start resenting the things I ask them to do.

So I have a choice.

I've got to really dig deep here, and probably employ some acting skills at first.  (At least until the sleep deprivation lets up).  I've got to remember to enjoy my job.



But it's important to say that enjoying my job does not necessarily require acting skills in the long run.
Being the mom will always be hard.  But there are so many perfect moments of tender mercy sprinkled in there that I don't have to lie to say that I love my job.  I can choose to dwell on the positive, and it doesn't mean that I'm ignoring or covering up the parts that are hard or ugly or devastating.  Personally, I try to be very frank and open about the hard and ugly and devastating.

But, BUT.....

There is beauty and to spare.  There is joy to be had for the taking.  There is so much depth and meaning in the life of a mother.  You have to choose to see it, but it's there.

And the funny thing is, that on the days you manage to enjoy yourself, and the days you remember to smile - the rest of the family seems to catch your buoyancy like a raging epidemic and suddenly you're all in a fit of giggles having a tickle war or all curled up reading A Child's Garden of Verses.  It's these moments that it becomes easy to remember that Motherhood is the best job in the world.  There are lots of reasons for that - but the biggest one I've found is that it's the job that God helps out with the most.  It's the place where the most miracles parade through unheralded.  It's the stewardship that sanctifies.

I just have to remember.

"Educated women in the home?  What an odd thing to deplore!  What better place to have us "end up"... What more important job is there than sharing the values we are learning to cherish with the next generation of adults?  What more strategic place could there be for the educated woman?"

Edith F. Hunter - via Seeing the Everyday

(provoked by this) 

I Remember: dormitorium

Moving out and going to college was the perfect new beginning in my life. Almost nobody from my high school followed me down to BYU that year. There were three of us and we weren't very close, so I think I saw the other two a total of 3 times, and never together. All of my high school baggage, all of my awkwardness and poor choices, were left behind in a heap. Here was an opportunity to reinvent myself, to admit to myself that I was still a kid and had a lot of growing and learning to do and welcome the opportunity to evolve and grow up without anyone expecting me to be consistent with my old self. It's not so much that I changed drastically, as that I cherished the sensation of having no expectations to live up to for good or ill.

I didn't actually get such a great start though. I moved into my dorm a week early in order to attend some sort of orientation program. I am not a naturally neat person anyway, it takes considerably mental effort for me to remember to clean up after myself as I go. On the day my roommate arrived the room was a whirling dervish from a frantic morning of sleeping through my alarm. Poor poor Megan.

The day of her arrival also happened to be her 19th birthday. I figured that my mess had been the antithesis of what I would have wished to give her for her birthday, so I bought her flowers. I soon found out that Megan was a meticulous natural cleaner. Nothing in the world seemed to come more naturally or with more enjoyment to her than keeping her space enviably clean and neat. I know I must have caused her hundreds of thousands of weighty sighs.

It turned out that Megan had requested to room with one of her friends from high school, but from some glitch in the system she ended up with me instead. I have no doubt that her exasperation was amplified by this fact, but, BUT by the end of 2 years of living together she seemed to have developed a soft spot for my quirky, turbulent self. She taught me how to clean, and a bit about how to WANT to clean, and I taught her how to cook, and how to love Sinatra. She taught me about buying quality clothes and making them last forever, and I taught her about loving going to class. She taught me about the importance of sleep, and I taught her about pushing the limits on how little sleep a person could function on. We were quite the odd couple.

Megan's mother died suddenly of an undiagnosed illness when she was still quite young. There was one night when I started crying in my sleep while having a nightmare about my parents dying and being left to take care of my siblings at home and arrange the funeral. (Being a dream and not bound by rationality, there may have been coffins dumped on the front lawn because I didn't know where to tell the hearse driver to deliver them.... and then I had the added in-dream stress of trying to keep my siblings from seeing them.)  Megan woke me up to see what was the matter and I had to explain to her that I was having a nightmare about essentially the nightmare she'd already lived through. That could have been awkward, but was actually a sacred little moment in the middle of the night in a dorm room.

I will never be like Megan, and she will never be like me. But I think perhaps we are both a little better for having been paired up in a shoebox of a room together. Frankly it wouldn't break my heart to be more like her. She's gorgeous and funny and kind, and she doesn't have my propensity to overcommit herself, so she's actually in a position to be helpful and extend herself to others when it matters most. She's devoted to her family, and frankly they're lucky to have her. And I'm thrilled to pieces that she'll be joining me in the adventure of raising boys. (Or rather a boy, along with her twin girls).

Maybe now I'll see how it's done properly.

Letters: my pirate

My Dear Captain,

There are moments, and quite a few lately, when your oldest-child mother doesn't know what to do with your middle-child self.

To be sure, you embody quite the conundrum.  Your natural disposition seems to be a largely content one.  You toddle around, happy to copy everything your older brother does.  Lucky for you he very rarely minds this.  You are almost always obedient and the one thing you say regularly that we can make any sense of is a prolific and unprovoked "thank you."  I don't think I've ever known anyone sweeter.



But like any dimensional human being, you've got your dark sides.  The frustration of not being able to tell us what you want has been leading to some unattractive fits.  We have got to figure out what you need to be able to learn to speak.  Appointments are scheduled, my dear.  I do what I can.



I'm not very good at focusing on you and your very important needs lately.  You've got two brothers who are squeakier wheels than you just now.  This is how your little hands ended up cracked and bleeding, and why I can't seem to stay on top of your eczema in general this winter. Your poor little chapped cheeks are fully loaded with mom guilt.  I suspect that your stunted speech is aggravated by the very same brand of neglect.  I wish I knew how to fix it all.



There are people who would venture to tell me that I've bitten off more than I can chew, and that it was irresponsible of me to have more children more quickly than I can keep up with.  There may be something to that, but not only is there nothing I can do about that now, but I can confidently say that every member of our family is madly in love with every other member of our family.  We wouldn't be willing to change a thing even if we could.  Even if we can't consistently stay on top of messes or keep aquaphor applied in a steady enough stream, we're still all tripping over ourselves with adoration.  I'm sorry that you seem to be bearing the brunt of our collective familial shortcomings.  I'll go out on a limb and hope it builds character.  Not that you're not enough of a character already.  You're a character who gives the best kisses, the best hugs, and is the funniest thing ever when he tries to jump or dance.  You're the character with the implicit arrangement with Sir O that the two of you will share every desirable thing that crosses your paths. I find the two of you sneaking into the pantry about every 5 minutes, and how you manage to coordinate your silent stealth is a secret that only brothers can share, because I'm certainly not privy to it.  You're the character who refuses to kick the bottle habit even though it's the only vice the pediatrician lists with an exclamation mark.  We've got to get you talking; I cannot wait to hear what you have to say.

Weekend Recap: lots of singing people

I wish I could keep my head on straight.
There have been at least a dozen things this week I was certain would "make the blog" which not only didn't "make the blog" but have also completely evaded sticking in my memory at all.
I want my brain back.

My kids have been cute, and better behaved than usual this weekend.  (Which isn't to say well-behaved generally, these things are relative).  Sir O has been venturing into the world of make-believe where his shadow of a little brother is not yet equipped to go with him.



Friday night I left Mr Renn and the older boys to fend for themselves and took the Gentleman with me to see my cousin star in a High School Musical.  He was stellar, nevertheless I hold that high school students will inevitably struggle to bring to light the depth of meaning in Fiddler on the Roof.  Their lives are just too cushy and narcissistic, there's nowhere for them to pull context from.

Saturday brought round 1 of my anniversary present to Mr Renn, so we dressed up and went to the Opera.   Mr Renn thought he was being a good sport, since he so strongly disliked the last opera he went to (Madame Butterfly, 15 years ago).

Wouldn't you know, he LOVED it.  I was even surprised by how much I loved it.  Entertaining, engaging, and  oh such gorgeous duets by an impressive hansel+gretel.  The evening prayer was breathtaking.

(photo Deseret News)

I have to say that I love real date nights.  They are such a hard hard thing to prioritize sometimes, but they lift my mood and clear my perspective like nothing else can.

Boost: Daily Bread

Last week the "over-18 crowd" at our house settled in to watch this fireside.
Somehow or other I managed to be the one who was constantly interrupted by small people, and called in and out of the room so much I missed over half of what was said.
I almost got resentful of Mr Renn sitting still, holding a sleeping baby Gentleman, and soaking it all in.



But then I got a sweet note on the mirror the next morning.  I think Mr Renn was listening to the line about how a marriage is sustained better by daily kindnesses than by large gestures or gifts.  I kind of hope he was also listening to the qualification, "Not that your wife wouldn't appreciate a nice gift, such as your miserable budget can allow."

You should read: You are my Miracle

Pardon my un-seasonality, but I've had this Christmas-y book on my mind.  Sir O's preschool does scholastic bookorders, and while I always prefer a "will-last-forever" hardbound book, it's sometimes hard to pass on a great deal.  Plus a certain Captain of ours has a penchant for destroying books lately, making me less willing to buy lovely ones that will break my heart when he kills them.

In a roundabout way, that's how I found myself owning this book.
It seemed like an innocuous enough little picture book, with a sweet parent-to-child poem.
But a few lines in there made me catch my voice in my throat and brought 100 mph tears to quiver in my ducts.  Especially reading " I am your quiet place, You are my wild" it to a certain 4-year old.

You can find the poem without illustrations here.

Something about telling your child, "I am your Peace on Earth"...... makes me fall all to pieces.

Projects: mom binder

Sometime shortly before Christmas I snagged a free download of Jessica Getsgow Fisher's "Organizing Life as a Mom" pdf for creating a "Mom Binder".  My tried and true method of writing a list from scratch for the next day has been falling to pieces since I became a mom of 3.  It was time to try something a little more comprehensive, and that could do a little bit more of the remembering for me.  (Because my short-term memory is a joke right now).

I remembered that my friend Aubrey had something like this and it had made it easy to step in and be the mom when we house-sat for her and watched her older kids for a few days.  It was almost like a manual, "everything you need to know to run this household and keep the small kids in their groove."

image: the mom writes

It's taken me over a month, but I finally have one notebook with all my calendars, lists, schedules, routines, important phone numbers, budgets, and menu planning information.  If I can just keep this puppy close at hand throughout the day, then we stand a chance of staying on track and actually accomplishing what we plan to accomplish in any given day.  Well, until something unexpected throws us off track.  But I still prefer to start with a plan!

What has worked for you in managing your household and all the people relying on you for order and instruction?  (And food?)

And yes, someday I expect a smartphone and google calendars will do all of this for me.  But for now I can afford paper and printer ink much more readily than a smartphone and a data plan.  Regardless, what apps have you or other moms loved for running life smoothly?

Birthdays

I've inadvertently spent the past week rounding up lost birthdays.



I spent the first two years of my marriage religiously sending out birthday cards to friends and family, and then parenthood happened.  I've finally convinced myself to let go of perfectionism, and that sending a text or an email is better than nothing.  (I have a horrible "do it right or don't do it at all" tendency).  So my one and only New-Years resolution was to round up birthdates again and hopefully find a groove for doing something about them.  I think I've decided to break the birthdays into categories (Gift/Card/Email/token facebook wishes).  I'd like to put most people under gift or card, but that would clearly be too cost prohibitive.  Someday, I tell you, money will not keep me from being who I really am.
So I'm wondering, in the midst of my ambition, if anyone has any tips for staying on top of birthdays.  I think most of us have known at least one lovely and thoughtful person who never forgets a birthday and always sends something thoughtful.  I want to be that lady.  Only I also want to have charming handwriting and always smell nice and never be covered in baby spit-up.  So, technically I'm settling.

I Remember: My secret hideout

Doing my routine copious amount of reading about child-development and play, I've been reminded about the need many children have for a place to call their own; a corner, a nook, or a hiding place.  Oh yes, I remember that.  Like most impulses it invariably had roots in needing to feel in-control of something, if only over a 2 foot square corner in all the wide world.  For me that spot was my closet, or at least the bottom of it.

Over the years I created various reading nooks (always with 2 or 5 flashlights) and secret hide-outs in the same very small space.  There was a long spell when the Barbie doll house took over my sacred spot to open up a bit of floorspace in my bedroom.  I couldn't explain why this felt like an invasion of my privacy, so I just rolled with it.  But then I found myself carving out even smaller territories.  The bottom of my bedside table became riddled with treasures and proclamations in pencil.  My bedrails held all sorts of innocuous secrets, and an entire drawer of my dresser was taken over at one point by notes and trinkets and unfinished short-stories.

At some point in Junior High I got my closet floor back, and did what any normal newly-teenaged girl would do. I plastered the space with stills from Newsies that I printed off of the internet.  ( A newfangled concept at the time... I am not a Spring Chicken).   At some point I moved my CD player/boombox that was the size of a large dog into the closet with me.  I can tell you that the floor of a closet is not the ideal spot for listening to anything with effectual privacy, but the idea of it was wonderful.  Being ecclectic even then I listened to a quirky mix of showtunes, crooners, country, mixtapes from friends and year-round Christmas Carols.

Our back yard growing up was spacious but far too open to the neighborhood to afford me any real privacy. I didn't learn how much people need trees until I lived in PA.  I did occasionally escape to the trampoline on warm days to lie very still and close my eyes and converse with my racing mind.  Despite being completely exposed, there is something deliciously intimate about closing your eyes in the sunshine.

I was halfway through High School when my family moved and I found myself, for almost 6 months, with a room AND a bathroom AND a walk-in closet all to myself.  I was in heaven.  Not so much for the amount of space, or for the teenage variety of privacy.  It was the sense of control that having ownership over such a perfectly blank slate gave me.  I could put things where I wanted without the slightest bit of deference to others.  Whatever I did was right because I was the only one who had to approve.  Unfortunately those months were overshadowed by other aspects of my life and actually constitute the low-point in my life to date.  Se la vie.

Then my Grandmother came to live with us for a while and after just a couple of days of an arrangement where she was crowded into a corner bedroom and sharing a bathroom with my 4 siblings, I knew I had to give up my newly acquired nesting space.  It was truly okay.  My Senior Year of High School I was a such a blur that I never landed in one place for long enough to need it very much.  And I was only slightly less blurry in college (rather to the dismay of most of my roommates).  But as I watched my dear friend Ari set up her first home in downtown Provo, I was frequently overcome with how right it felt to see her nesting and creating a home for herself. (And she was superb at it!)  I had the most selfless sort of envy, and I found every sort of excuse to visit her because I felt so at home in her home.  Ironically she's now enduring my same brand of homelessness.

And now, for this time being, I find myself and Sir O both struggling for some autonomous space.  My little sister is now in my old teenager suite, and my boys and I have taken over all the other bedrooms.  Well, we're occupying them at least.  Other than my nesting in the nursery nothing quite feels on purpose.  All my containers and vases and lamps and art are in storage.  I had wanted to remodel all the bedrooms while we are here, but the resources are not forthcoming and I'm not in a position to be stubborn and do it anyway.  I'm learning to be pickier when I pick my battles.  But if I live to see the day I am given a green light to nest I fully intend to savor it.

Sir O, on the other hand, is frequently found hiding in closets, singing to himself and lining up contraband fruit snacks in perfect little rows.

Letters: on varying degrees of vomitousness

My Dear, Delightful Gentleman,

Somehow, you are three months old now.  (How did that happen?)



How anyone ever manages to get anything done with your little smile going on, I just don't know.  You seem to have us all under a spell right now, and while you don't seem to particularly enjoy the moments when Sir O insists on being within 2 inches of your face at all times, you go on enchanting everybody almost constantly.    I love that you are such a happy little soul.  I'm hugely relieved that you're often learning to occupy yourself with games of "bring the fist to the mouth", and even (gasp) occasionally falling asleep without being held!  The longer naps and stretches of sleep at night are very welcome indeed.  It might help if you would sleep with your eyes all the way shut (just saying).    Thanks for laughing when your brothers try to tickle you.  I'm pretty sure that you're not laughing because it actually tickles, but boy do they love it!  Don't grow up to fast on us now, but the sleeping better - I can totally get behind that!

And now I'm going to smother you with kisses and cuddles that only I will ever remember.

Love, your mama.

Weekend Recap: what a bunch of shots will do for you

Both of my older boys got flu shots on Friday morning.  That was definitely not my favorite way to kick off a weekend.  There was an overabundance of tears and tantrums.  And the way Sir O screamed and struggled to escape even the idea of a shot was not pretty.  If there's anything that can make you feel like a terrible parent, then that particular sort of frantic terrified struggle is it.  Shudder.
Luckily things started looking up from there.  On Saturday Mr Renn took Sir O out for a father/son outing to a college basketball game.  He may have had to bribe Sir O to stay a few times, but by the time they came home everyone was happy about it.


Sir O and his random anxiety issues.  I expect I will someday have to address them in earnest.

Other highlights of my weekend included a baby gentleman who has definitely grasped a trend of spitting up less and sleeping more.  There is a side effect of mind-blowing diaper blowouts, but we'll take it. (Yes, that was me that had to take her baby & carseat home in the middle of sacrament meeting because he'd blown out all the way up his back into his hair.  Luckily we live close to the church.)



And I'm finally picking up some momentum with my postpartum fitness goals.  I've been hitting the treadmill for 2-5 miles a day, and really enjoying my time there.  It's not so much the running, as the part where I turn my time into the ultimate lip-sync.  Is there such a thing as treadmill-dancing?  Someday I hope to do this in a public gym just to see how my fellow treadmill-ers react.  But so far the combination of a cold, but not frigid basement (so I don't overheat, but neither do my lungs go all constrictive), a dedicated playlist on my ipod, and the utter relief of ridding myself of all responsibility for my children's well-being for a short while makes for a delightful little running retreat.  And I get all sorts of ideas for high school assembly skits.  Too bad I don't need them.

I hope your weekend had at least as many highs and fewer lows than mine.  Did you do anything extraordinary?

Need a Boost?: mothers podcast

It is no secret that I am a big fan of the Mormon Channel.  It's not perfect, but I like where it's headed.  Regardless of religion, if you happen to be a mother to children under the age of 20, have a listen to this podcast.

You Should See: W;t

All my film-school friends are rolling their eyes and saying, "duh."  But I've found that very few people outside of that circle have even heard of this gem.  So do me a favor and get your hands on a copy of W;t if you haven't before.  It was originally written for the stage (won the Pulitzer Prize in 1999), my friend Elary starred in it right before we went to London for a semester abroad, so she got to be the tall, bald girl in the group.    This made for TV version won 3 Emmys and 2 Golden Globes. W;t, or Wit for pronunciation's sake, is an introspective, almost antiseptic look at the experience of dying.  It appropriately stacks the inevitability of death and spirituality against the learning of the "learned".  It also, inevitably, makes me cry so hard my nose runs down my chin.  Having had my mother work in hospice for 6+ years and having heard so many stories of the process of dying, I cry even harder.  If you can get over the grossly inaccurate portrait of how doctors and residents behave then you might weep too.  Parts of this story left me achingly empty, but in a productive way.  You have a character who has valued prestige over nurturing relationships, and when it comes down to it, she is shockingly alone.  Over and over I just wanted to be her friend and hold her hand and cry for her and with her.... except she's a fictional character so that's not going to work out.  But if that impulse can be constructively carried over to real life relationships when the film ends, then the creators of this tearjerker have accomplished something rather eternal in nature, haven't they?

A hummingbird cake for a sad little man

Our poor captain turned 2 on the heel of relentless waves of vomit.
It was not pretty.
Be glad you missed it.  (Unless you are my dad or my brother-in-law..... in which case I'm sorry for the puke on your carpets).
But even sick birthday boys must be celebrated, so (a day late) we made our first ever hummingbird cake.



The verdict?...........
Don't make a cake with nuts for people who don't like nuts.  Otherwise it was quite nice.

When I slipped out to go grocery shopping, I brought home a bunch of balloons to be celebratory.  As long as the Captain is this delighted and captivated by balloons, he will always get helium balloons with hi-float for his birthday.  It's like buying days of happiness.



I think "barely-two" might be my favorite age.  Overwhelmingly cute, sleeping through the night and feeding himself, and not yet particularly sassy.  It's all relative, I know.



And the 2 year well-visit verdict is..... that a vocabulary consisting entirely of "uh-huh" and "no" is nowhere near "normal".  Early Intervention is in our future.  Because I need something more to be anxious about.  At least I'll have the relief of letting someone else try to keep him from climbing on furniture for short spells.



Can you believe this kid is two?

On Parenting: Thank Yous

There's a line in one of the Peanuts Christmas Specials about Albert Schweitzer and Thank You letters.  Like poor Albert my kid so far finds the task of writing post-Christmas thank-you letters a huge drag. (And he doesn't even have to author them yet.... just trace the letters).  I have to prod him like a bellicose cattle.  But I figure despite my nagging nothing terrible is going to come of this requirement.  And worse things could happen than having a child turn out like Albert.  But ideally I'd like the kid to learn how to think grateful thoughts.  I plan to give it plenty of time and stick to my guns.

making merry

How was your Holiday friend?  We had a delightful, if not too-busy one on our end capped off with the Gentleman's baby blessing and the Captain's 2nd Birthday party yesterday.  Incidentally I've had a Texas-sized sinus infection since Christmas Eve and you could knock me over with downy feather.

But with a hefty dose of having Mr Renn around all of my boys have been pleasant and sweet more often than not.  And perhaps a little more OCD than usual.



This will be remembered as the year Sir O was obsessed with collecting candy canes and hanging them on our tree, then squirreling them away in a tiny tote bin.  And eventually eating them.  He also spent a lot of time (at least 2 days straight) coloring pages from coloring books, then wanting adults to cut thing out and tape them to our Christmas Card wall.

This will also be remembered as the Christmas where the Captain was teething and kept sucking/chewing on his fingers until they were cracked and bleeding.  The Christmas where we used an entire tub of Aquaphor.




It was also the first New Years since the Captain was born that we all stayed up until Midnight on New Years Eve.  And payed for it dearly.



It was also the year that my mother took a day off of work to Sew the Gentleman's blessing outfit - since that project was procrastinated (by me) until it was a dire emergency.  I think it's gorgeous.  (My SIL took some great photos that show it in all it's glory - can't wait to see and share them).  And it's the year I decorated her kitchen with dozens of snowflakes (and a clearanced shower-curtain) and took the usual flak for my party decorating habit.





A good year I think.  Now, to get us all healthy, and to clean and clean and stop ignoring the laundry volcano.  Life is good.