how should you pronounce "armoire" anyway?

In keeping with the general state of chaos and amateurism around here, I have been trying to furnish our entire house with screaming deals from craigslist and ksl classified ads. All done while being as picky as possible, a process that's either fun or masochistic - I'm never quite certain which it is.

After 2 months of having our tiny TV live on our old kitchen table, I knew that I wanted to find it a permanent home where I don't have to look at the dang thing all the time. So I decided to search for a TV armoire with pocket doors. Most of what I found that looked like it wasn't going to fall apart if you touched it was in the $300 range. And that, my friends, is too much for us for now. So I searched and searched until the day I found this beast:



She had a bad faux finish, but she was huge and heavy duty and only $50. Poor Mr Renn had a devil of a time getting her transported, but he conceded that she was a great find. With some primer and paint and polyeurethane, she now looks a bit less like she was attacked with a dirty sponge. Eventually our family room may look like purposeful people live there. Only 6 boxes left to unpack, one wooden file cabinet to repair and refinish, and a sofa to reupholster. Anyone want to take bets on whether we finish before we move out?

 

over the river and through the woods

I suspect that Flaming Gorge may be Mr Renn's favorite place in all the world.

 

 It's a place so full of good memories, spanning about as far back as his memory serves him.  His Grandparents have lived there for ages. He lights up as we gain elevation during the uncomfortably long drive there. (4 hours if the stars align just right)  I am always a little hesitant to go.  You know - keeping tabs on small children in someone else's house and around lethal drop-off cliffs, there is some hassle involved.  But Mr Renn is always beaming in anticipation, and I do love the company, and so I am really pretty quick to consent.  And there's always the excuse of cutting more firewood to help get them through the winter.  They need it; they can't do it themselves; it gets people up there, and we are always glad.  We had an especially nice evening visiting with Renn's Grandma this last time.  She may be the best storyteller I've ever known.  And she is full of stories, true ones.  Next time I'm bringing my mp3 recorder and filling it up with her.  Because we will be back, any chance Renn can find.

 













 And here's a treat, I managed to catch this just minutes before we left last week:

traditions - watch me sing

I'm not sure how it's happened - other than my love for tradition and routine with my kids - but we start just about everything with a song around these parts.  This is not because I am a great singer.  I am passable, that is all.  Whether singing or speaking my voice only travels about 5 feet.



(And I will forever and ever have dreams that include my high school drama teacher closing her post-rehearsal notes with a frustrated, "Emily, I still can't hear you!"  every.single.time.)

But my boys are not my critics.  yet.  So we sing.  I largely pull from the Children's Songbook and random musicals. We sing before we pray, we sing before we read scriptures, we sing when someone's grumpy, and we definitely sing when someone is feeling sorry for themselves.   It's funny how singing sends a message that gets accepted in ways that yelling or nagging never would.  Somehow my boys know that when I bust a song out, there will be no negotiating.  It's the handiest parenting tool I've got right now.  Especially in the middle of Sacrament Meeting.

on dirt

My landlords can't be terribly happy about the hole our Captain is digging in the front flowerbed.  It's getting deep, and wide, and a number of intentional plants have turned into casualties.





I have tried, and threatened, and forbade, but I seem to come up powerless against the attraction between a boy and his dirt.



As often as not, our Captain looks an awful lot like this:

Imagine the ill-fated Matthew Gerber's Michael Banks as he tries to sneak past his father, culminating in a "hello gov'nor".  Couldn't find a still of it, but that dirty.

What to do with such a boy of a boy?

the lost boy

 We've been focusing on our Captain's speech of late.  When he was tested for articulation, he was in the 1st percentile for his age.  So many sounds are so tricky for him to make.  His little mouth can't seem to cooperate and keep up with his vocabulary.  I have a stack of worksheets that we are supposed to work through 3 times each day (sometimes we manage that), and he's started attending an articulation group with similarly delayed kids.

Because I needed more on my plate.... or something.

But you know what he can say, loud and clear?  B.Y.U.  It's hilarious.  And no, we didn't train it into him.  We just drive by the Y on the mountain often enough, and everytime they see it the boys chant "BYU, BYU".  I'm guessing that one of the gracious people that helped tend my kids during our move taught them that trick.

He can count to 10 in Captain-ese.  If you know what he's doing then you can totally understand him.  Which may mean that nobody but me totally understands him when he does it.  The same probably stands true of his letter and color recognition and hourly insistence that "Sir O doed dat" or that "I Big Boy".   He tries so stinking hard, and look at that little face.  How can I not squish him and kiss his head off?

We're making progress folks, and I cannot wait to hear all he has to say.

bean tent momentum

There is hope smiling brightly before us!
Our Bean tent is coming along swimmingly.



Or rather, as swimmingly as it can come when I planted bush beans instead of pole beans.  I was making do with what I had on hand.  Now I wish I had thrown a fit and spent the extra dollar to buy the right kind.  Luckily, since it's our first attempt at a bean tent, my kids don't know any better.  Imagine how happy they'll be next year when I do it right!

metamorphasis

I'm in the thick of my routine identity crisis.  Every couple of months I seem to take a stark look at my life and find myself wanting.  Lately I'm feeling painfully aware of all the childhood longings of mine that I gave up on all too easily.  I'm not very stubborn.  And I avoid confrontation like a plague.  This makes for one wishy-washy, peaceable, but perpetually disappointed lady.  I suppose I'm finally feeling old enough to put up a fight for getting what I want out of my life.  Only not older in a "grown up" way, older in a, "holy cow, I'm running out of time!" way.  It's far less pleasant.



 So I've been "cleaning house" and finding solutions.  It's amazing how much work it is to find solutions when half of those solutions involve "who's going to watch my kids so I can______".  I purged most of my google reader to curb my internet time spending (in hopes of directing that time elsewhere), and am (yet again) working on some concise and direct mission statements and goals.  I've only got one life to live, and yet the dang thing seems to be perpetually wiggling out of my control.  I know I can't control most things, and I need to be flexible above all.  (Pretty sure that was the first and most pressing lesson I got out of motherhood)  But I've also got to take as much charge as I can and be a person who makes things happen.

Because in my world, friends, things just do not happen by themselves.  Not the serendipitous types of things anyway.  And when I want something, I have to want it with incredible tenacity to actually see it happen.

Patience, perseverence, and focus.  I think of the three I have patience down best.  The other two are next on my "to develop" list.

Please tell me I am not alone in this habit of regularly stumbling into critical self-evaluation?  Hopefully someday I will be able to feel a bit better about what I see.  I just need a backbone.

Slow Learner

On Wednesday I went to see the dentist.  Luckily I love my dentist.  And luckily my kids are welcome to run amok at the dentist's office.  But, back to my mouth, it was not an overly happy visit.  The last two pregnancies have been rough on my mouth and I was in for my first real cavities since I was 5.  AND, it was time for my one and only wisdom tooth to come out. It obnoxiously decided to break through my gums when I was pregnant with the Captain.  Since it surfaced, Mr Renn has made a big deal about what a cute little tooth it is, because it is tiny; apparently he has never seen a tooth like it before

After getting two fillings and a tooth extracted, I felt lousy.  (And one should not open pandora's boxes when they feel lousy, it makes them feel lousier).

But while I was feeling lousy, I spent a lot of time lying around and reading.  Because I finally secured a copy of my friend Heather's novel, Entwined.  I went to high school with this lady and I can't think of anyone I've known in real life who was more magical in person.  She had a positive energy and an ability to spot delightfulness that I could only envy.  I haven't caught up with her in years, but was beyond thrilled to see she'd published such an indulgent fairy tale. (So fun to read!) You can't help but be happy to see people like her have successes.

However, whenever I read novels, I turn into a reading bulldozer.  I plow right through them and completely ignore real life.  My house falls apart, I read instead of sleeping.  It's bad.  It always takes 3 or 4 days for the whole household to recover.  And even longer for me to stop feeling guilty for the havoc I've wreaked by indulging in a good read.  Any tips on balancing this better?

In which Sir O has a birthday party

Last week we (finally) had a birthday party for Sir O.  I had to consign myself to the fact that it would not be the sort of over-the-top production that I really enjoy throwing.  And I reminded myself about a hundred times that the most important thing was for Sir O and the kids to have a good time.  Unfortunately we headed into the party with Sir O all ornery and strung out from our camping weekend, so he was a bit touch-and-go.  But with some parental acrobatics, I think it went over all right.

Because Sir O's big and exciting birthday gift had been a new bike with training wheels (with which both he and the Captain are obsessed), I had all the kids bring their bikes (or scooters, or wiggle cars) and we had a bike party.  We started with a bike wash.  The overachiever in me wanted to create something like this, but the realist on a budget in me handed the kids sponges, buckets of soapy water, cheapo water guns, and bubbles in front of a fan.  I don't think the kids felt cheated at all.  In fact the bubbles in front of the fan (because I couldn't find batteries for our bubble machine) may have been the most popular event of the whole party.

After the bikes were all clean, we decorated them with crepe paper, curling ribbon, and balloons. We are inordinately fond of balloons around here. I gave every bike a gold-star award. (Some on-the spot creativity for me), handed out party noisemakers, and then we had a bike parade down the sidewalk to our neighbor's driveways. It was insane, and my ankles were nipped a dozen times. But the kids were smiling so I call it a success.

 

Sir O was a bit of a bear a few times, but with some careful parental maintenance, we avoided full-blown melt downs until after the party. Now that we've smoothed back into our routine he's back to being a reasonably pleasant human being.  He's awfully likeable when he's not strung-out.

 

There followed the traditional cupcakes, candles, presents, and an awfully amusing game of red rover.
I give myself a pat on the back for surviving my first real "friend" party for my children. Luckily Mr Renn's sister and HSF stayed around to be insanely helpful. Had we been more outnumbered than that, I think the party would have flopped.

 

And I'm still trying to wrap my brain around having a 5-year-old! Too soon! Too soon!

 

Hanna Reunion

Soundly putting away my pandora's box, I'll move into the safe waters of .... camping.  With boys.  And rocks. And lots of dirt.

Every 2 years we have a family reunion at a family-owned campground near Duschesne.   I have never in my life been overly-fond of camping.  But this campground has sleeping cabins with real beds and electricity, showers in the bathrooms, and a refrigerator and sink under a covered pavillion, so it's like camping without all the things I dislike about camping.  I don't have to be distracted the whole time about how dirty I feel or how poorly I slept.  Win!



Despite injuring themselves about every 2 hours, my boys were in heaven.  (Although when Sir O split his lip wide open we had extended tears) Communing with nature always brings out extra joy in them.  Extra time with their dad's undivided attention, even better.









And I found I thoroughly, thoroughly enjoyed the company of my family.  Really, to an incredible extent.  Belonging to a family circle of people who love and support you, despite all of your and their idiosyncrasies and foibles, is really a lovely thing.  I'd be happy to share them with anyone who needs that kind of love in their life.  You let me know.  No shortage of love in this family, even if we're all weirdos.  And we've got some impossibly good scum players.

(what happens when Sir O dresses himself - that's a 2t shirt someone handed-down to the Capt.)

And, like all group outings, I got comments about people "making the blog".  Such is my life.  So, let's introduce you to my 2 biggest fans.  These are the GG's.  And I love them.  And they made the blog.

 

the familial smocking debate

The fact of the matter is that Mr Renn generally disapproves of how I dress our boys.  Or rather, how I dress our boys when we're dressing up.  I am irrationally fond of little boys in corduroy short-alls and Mr Renn calls it a man-dress.  I love peter-pan collars and Mr Renn calls them girly-shirts.  And I adore smocking.  Mr Renn says it's frilly.  So, dear reader.... no pressure..... but what do you think?  Cute, handsome, weird, or totally inappropriate?  You're not likely to change either of our minds.

reflective gentleman

Despite being a gurgling fountain of slobber 24/7, our gentleman is passing through a tremendously endearing phase.  He's sweet and soft and usually smiley.  The world is delightful to this little man, and he constantly expresses it in his own reserved little way.  Oh how we all make fools of ourselves to see him smile!  Today he discovered one of many, many items still living on the floor that ought to be living on a wall.

This entertainment lasted almost half-an-hour, and I egged him on through every minute of it.  Sometimes, sometimes, it is fun to be me.  The fun comes in moments, catch them while they flutter past.  (Says a very sleep-deprived lady).

Want to cheer for our gentleman?  Watch him here.

We have a little old man

There are moments when I think I'm getting a glimpse of the person Sir O is becoming.  Luckily I usually like him. He's going through a bossy streak and is obviously having a perpetual inner dialogue about the implications of growing up and being the big kid about the house.  There's a barrage of testing his own physical limits to see what he can and cannot do.  I'm usually ok with this, except when he decides he can haul the baby around the house.  I watch him jump from high places, ride banisters down the stairs, and get twinkles in his eyes when he thinks about losing his training wheels.  I tell him he makes me nervous, but I try not to throw fits.  We all need to save our emotional energy for battles that matter more than these.



My favorite thing about the current ebb and flow of the evolution of Sir O is his engaging use of a burgeoning imagination.  His eyes start seeing possibilities all over the place and suddenly the old milk carton caps are being saved for stoplights and he's building fire engines and car carriers out of blocks.  He's "writing" music instead of drawing the same car 37 times on one page.  He's tracing his hand and turning it into a tree.  He's using his drawings to wrap "presents" for me to open.  It would be the perfect age to introduce "real" legos if there weren't also a crawling baby about the house.  (tips from the seasoned moms on that conundrum?)



He's also, occasionally, thinking outside the box of self.  Maybe I'm just noticing and jumping on it because I so badly want to train empathy into my kids, but once or twice a day I watch Sir O battle inside of himself about whether to do what he wants or to do what will make the Captain stop crying.  It's progress and it delights the spectator in me.



There's unfortunately also a lot of whining in this stage, as Sir O has to deal quite regularly with not being an only child and not having my attention to himself.  There's that minimal "how little can I get away with" level of sharing that siblings figure out early on, and most moments Sir O isn't particularly interested in raising the bar on that one.  Oh, and watch out that boy is bossy!  It will be good for everybody once our Captain can articulate well enough to argue his own heart's desires against his brother.  Baby steps.

It's early to tell, but I am always encouraged at the prospect of my kids turning into responsible, pleasant adults.

what I wished for

Yesterday brought with it a fair amount of hustling, but to a glorious end.  Tracy and HSF and I finally finally got to spend a real-life evening together.  With all our progeny.  It was kind of what I'm banking on heaven being like.  That would motivate me to be good for at least the rest of this lifetime.







I can't, with absolute certainty, remember how we all found each other.  I know I found Tracy's blog from a google search right before my first pregnancy, and HSF and I found each other as readers of Tracy's blog when we realized we had the same due date.  And now they're some of my very closest, dearest, and best friends.  It's a funny thing, because I haven't been very proficient at making and keeping "blog" friends since these two.  But I suppose God knew how very very much I needed them.  He's pretty awesome that way.



Next time (because there must be a next time) I shall suffer less from a Mary/Martha syndrome and we shall all chat and visit and talk until the end.

the rhubarb conundrum

Moving into a home with an established rhubarb plant is proving to be a liability.  I feel I must be a responsible wielder of the rhubarb.  Last week I tried making someone else's recipe for pineapple rhubarb jam and, um, it was a pretty vivid flop.  Way too much sugar, not enough pectin, and there is a reason that pineapple is not listed as a rhubarb companion in my Flavor Bible.  So I decided to see what is listed, and came up with the idea to try blood oranges and ginger.  Except you try finding blood oranges in July.  Not so easy.  So for this batch I'm settling for canned mandarin oranges because they are easy to find and I don't have to worry so much about whether they are in season.   Add some freshly grated ginger and we are back in business.