Has Anyone Seen Spring?

This was the view out of our front window Thursday morning. I wasn't very happy. And neither was Kathleen.

Ideals versus Reality

As a fairly new parent, I am still coming up against every parent's daily struggle of ideals versus reality. The first source of ideals comes from parenting books and magazines. There are enough ideals stuffed into such sources to make any mother feel as if their child will grow up to be a mass murderer because they weren't read to in utero and had at least 3 hours of concentrated play-time and parental interaction. Thankfully, I learned to ignore those sources early on; I had enough guilt without needing a well-designed layout to increase it.

However, the second source of ideals is harder to ignore: the ones we create ourselves. Those ideals we hold because we think that they are an intrinsically good idea or principle, not just because a slick magazine layout told us they were so.

The first ideal that got discarded was 'I'll never yell at my darling child;' it lasted about 3 weeks until Kathleen wouldn't stop crying in the middle of the night and all I wanted was sleep. Somehow children should know to stop crying when you yell instead of simply crying more. And ever since, they've been dropping by the wayside.

Ideal: My child will always eat healthy food and no desserts. Reality: Macaroni and cheese is perfectly nutritious, and cheerios are a great distraction
Ideal: My child will never eat treats in church. Reality: At the height of snack-dom we had three different types of treats (cheese, cheerios and cocoa crunchies).
Ideal: I will enrich my child's mind with daily activities and reading. Reality: Daily activities definitely include sitting on my lap while I surf the internet. And Noisy Nora can certainly enrich any child's mind.

With the coming of Kathleen's 18-month birthday, another ideal bit the dust. Despite being perfectly happy with her first week of nursery, Kathleen was not nearly as happy with her second and third weeks. I have never heard a child scream the way she did while being left in nursery. So, despite my resolution never to sit with my child in nursery, that's exactly what Brandon and and I have been doing for the last three weeks in church. On his week, Brandon got to enjoy a full two hours of play time, snack, lesson, and coloring. We'll have her trained just in time for Sophia to arrive and start disrupting the peace again.

Date Night

Last Saturday was Date Night. For those who don't have children, date night may perhaps not be the sacrosanct event that it is for us who are tied down after 6 p.m. However, once Kathleen is in bed at the appointed hour, either Brandon can leave the house or I can leave the house, but to leave the house together requires a third party (who is usually paid). And last Saturday was an especially special date night, the kind that doesn't involve separate seating during the movie; we usually only manage that kind on our one night out a month.

In anticipation of seeing an earlier movie, we grilled at home, pretending that it is actually warm enough this time of year to grill outside. And seeing as this was Date Night, a special time where Brandon and I can sit down, talk, and discuss the deepest matters of our soul, the phone rang. So I enjoyed a delicious dinner while Brandon tried to eat around being harangued the entire meal by a well-meaning caller.

But no matter. We could still lovingly hold hands while being surrounded by teenaged girls at the dollar movie showing of Enchanted. I liked it, and well, it was better than anything else offered. Afterwards, we decided to splurge and go to Coldstone for ice cream. Obviously we hadn't been out on a Saturday night for some time, because we weren't aware of the 45-minute wait time for someone to mix your ice cream up on a cold piece of marble. At both stores in Provo. So instead we went grocery shopping. Aren't onions romantic?

On the way home, our rumbling motor emitted a clunk followed by an ominous scraping sound. Our poor car had chosen that moment to break a pipe on University Parkway. So, to finish off our date night, Brandon crawled under the car and rigged up a license plate with string to hold us over until we got home. Anyone who says that married life isn't romantic obviously hasn't watched their Henry Higgins turn into McGuyver.

Lowered Expectations

As a tender youth in the Young Women's program, we were always told 'never lower your standards or expectations!' I took that advice to heart, always looking for what I could expect more from. Friday night date? Dinner and a movie were so overdone. Just dinner itself? Don't even think of taking me to something like Applebees - they get all of their food from Sysco! Vacations? The more remote and related to the Caribbean the better. I once dated a young man whose highest desire from life was to sit in his library at home and read books. Who'd ever want to marry someone like that?

Growing up in North Carolina, I had definite ideas about climate. Anything less than 85 degrees is cool, and anything less than 50 is downright cold. And below freezing? We don't talk about places like that out of respect for the mental deficiencies of the people living there.

However, this winter has been only the worst in a long string of cold winters; I was just grateful to stay home and not walk to class in the miserable weather. Spring has finally decided to show its face around here, and the snow has almost melted. The weather has been gorgeous. Kathleen and I have gone running in reduced winter gear (only one blanket for her, and one jacket and pair of running tights for me, sometimes ever stripping down to no jacket at all). After all 30 degree mornings are quite balmy compared to 20 degree ones. And those ones are better than 10 degree mornings. This afternoon, charmed by the sun, Kathleen and I even shed our coats and I donned flip-flops. And who wouldn't on a balmy, 55-degree day? Despite the warnings of my long-ago leaders, I have come to embrace lowered expectations. Being happy is so much easier when one doesn't expect much.

Unsolved Mysteries

In the universe, there are many mysteries, unexplained phenomena that puzzle scientists and lead to such multi-billion dollar projects as the Large Hadron Collider or the Hubble telescope. Often the phenomena occur, and no one can explain how.

Although the very large and very small have been explored, cosmos, and microcosmos, no one has turned their attention to another treasure-trove of mysteries: small children. Their specialty lies in teleportation of matter. Where have the car keys gone? Try looking in the bottom of the bathroom cupboard. How about the phone? Try the back of the freezer. And don't even think of leaving really valuable items laying about; they may end up buried in the backyard.

As Brandon and I were talking today, Kathleen was pulling books out of the bookshelf and reading them to herself as consolation for being ignored. In the midst of perusing Love You Forever (the one she always brings over when she's feeling neglected), Kathleen froze and then her face fell, followed by what can only be described as blubbering. One can only imagine the things that she's saying to herself as she cries. "They don't love me, everyone hates me, why does this always happen to me?" When asked to come over and receive comfort, she wouldn't budge, but continued crying with an expression of extreme consternation. Brandon walked over to investigate and discovered a new act of teleportation: a solid mass from
her diaper had magically moved intact from its original location to halfway down her pant leg.

Why I Have a Child

When I was a child and my mother would inhumanely make us children help about the house, she would reply 'that's why I had so many children - so they can do my work while I sit around reading trashy novels and eating bonbons.' I've decided that there is something to my mother's methodology, so we're starting Kathleen young.

Gearheads Unite

As my father's daughter, I was raised in a household of Gear. My parents' garage ceiling and walls are covered with various tributes to gear-sports: kayaks, windsurfing equipment, numerous bikes, the obligatory power tool collection, and a canoe. Not to mention the gardening equipment, but that belongs to my mother. Enter the kitchen, and her domain is also gear-infested: numerous cooking pots, springform pans, whisks, spatulas, cake pans, cooking torches, and the absolutely necessary microplane grater (no cook can do without one).

Brandon, however, if he was raised in anything close to a household needing Gear, never inherited that propensity. At the commencement of our marriage, I brought a car, a computer, at least five boxes of kitchen equipment, sewing odds and ends, three boxes of painting, stained-glass, drawing, basketweaving, and bookmaking supplies, a chair, a lamp, a small collection of custom-framed artwork, a stereo system, and various other small items. Brandon brought Babe (on video, and we have no VCR), some clothes, and three or four boxes of books.

Being a farsighted person and liking to plan for the future, I have recently begun planning for the arrival of Sophia. As we own a crib, clothes, a carseat, and the diapers can be bought closer to her arrival, that only left one thing: a stroller. When Kathleen made her appearance, Brandon and I had our first discussion about strollers. He balked at the necessity of two strollers (one for running and one for other places), to which I finally appealed to experience by asking how many strollers his mother had. To which he replied, "None, where would she have used a stroller?" I suppose there aren't many sidewalks through cow pastures in Missouri.

So when the purchase of a third stroller was made yesterday, Brandon did what has never been done before in our marriage: he issued an official ban. No more strollers.  Ever.

Music Soothes the Savage Beast

From a young(er) age, Kathleen has enjoyed music. When I turn on the stereo, a look of joy comes to her face, and she immediately begins directing the music and exclaiming, unintelligibly, how much she likes a particular piece.

As many children do, Kathleen has acquired various objects from the around the house as hers - an old soda bottle, various measuring cups, my brush when she can get it, and most recently, Brandon's pocket hymn book and children's song book. She enjoys walking around the house with the hymn book in one hand, held out in front of her, and waving the other hand while 'singing.' As she can't talk and can't carry a tune, her singing consists of long tones usually beginning with low-a-low-a-low or wal-a-wal. However, she doesn't seem to know the difference, and it amuses her, so we'll worry about the words later.

In addition to her own singing, Kathleen also enjoys Brandon's and my singing. Often after singing a song of her own, she will force the hymn book into our hands and insist that we trade songs. Being a smart mother, I've begun to employ songs to keep Kathleen content while working on some of my own pursuits that don't involve reading her endless repetitions of Mother Goose.

One morning recently, Kathleen was fussing again, and I wasn't ready to feed her lunch, so I started singing. We began with such classics as "Once There Was a Snowman," "Popcorn Popping on the Apricot Tree" (at this point wishful thinking), and "I've Been Working on the Railroad." Having exhausted the supply of short songs, I moved on to the longer "The Ants Go Marching" (we made up to fifteen before I couldn't make up any more rhyming words) and "This Old Man" (repeated twice). Following the singing, Kathleen brought me Bill and Pete, which I repeated to her from memory, while she kept turning the pages, looking for where we were in the story.

As it still wasn't time for lunch, and Kathleen started threatening with Mother Goose (of which half of I do have memorized), we started one last song, guaranteed for at least 20 minutes of silence from Kathleen: "99 Bottles of Milk on the Wall." We made it to 45 bottles before lunch.

I'm told that with age comes wisdom. Or at least change. As a teenager, I would unequivocally declare that I didn't believe in exercise. Upon seeing a runner on the street, thoughts of what kind of sick person they were came to my mind. After entering BYU, I amended my policy somewhat, and would work out with my friend Amber twice a week. But it was only weight lifting, and we would go eat lunch at the Cannon center previously.

My sophomore I stepped it up and did kickboxing at my apartment complex, but after attempting running, I gave it up, because I'm not a runner. However, that summer 8 pounds in a month intervened, and running was interspersed with swimming. So, grudgingly, I became a runner. But with conditions:
1. No running when the temperature drops below freezing
2. No running in the rain
3. And absolutely no running in the snow

This past month and a half has been filled with both below-freezing temperatures and snow, and I have not been seen on the streets of Springville. However, recently the snow has finally ceased its falling, and the sidewalks have been somewhat cleared. And even I have been excited to go running. Except for condition number 1. The cold.

To say that it has been cold recently would be an understatement (at least for me). It has been so cold that even Brandon who never complains of the cold has complained of it being chilly. Inside. Our dining table sits in a corner that has a window and is composed of two exterior walls, and one can feel the cold radiating off the walls as one eats. It doesn't make for a very pleasant dinner.

But it doesn't look to be getting any warmer, and I'm certainly not getting any less pregnant, so this morning Kathleen and I took the plunge. I put on two pairs of running tights, two fleece jackets, a neck gaiter, and earband, and gloves. Kathleen had on gloves, a fleece cardigan, her coat, a scarf, and her hat. Once we got outside I wrapped her up in two fleece blankets, and a big quilt for extra measure. At the point, when it started snowing, it wasn't worth undressing and going back inside, so we went running. In 10 degree weather in the snow.



I think that perhaps age only brings insanity.

Why I'd Like to Move to the South

I would like to move to the South (or anywhere else that relies on the solar method of snow removal, or ever better, anywhere that doesn't see snow) so that I wouldn't have to shovel snow when I'm 4 1/2 months pregnant.