The Rexburg Review

Volume VIII, issue i. January 2012

2012-01-29T22:31:00.000-08:00

This is my 100^th post! Whoop-a-dee-doo!

Confessions of a Teenage(r) Mamma Queen

AlthoughI’ve now only been the mother a teenager for two weeks, my limited experience tells me I’mgoing to love this stage of motherhood. A lot. Holden is as sweet as he is sarcastic and that is saying a lot.

Justto give you an example, about a month after Charlie was born, Holden cameupstairs to find me doing dishes. He gasped when hesaw me and said, “Why are you doing that?” and he muscled his way in front ofme and finished the dishes.

* * *

Teenage-hoodis difficult enough on days that aren't your birthday, so I wanted to usher him in to this new phase withstyle. One of his favorite parts of ourChristmas Day festivities is the Christmas Breakfast Casserole we have onChristmas morning each year (When I raved about it to one of my friends , shementioned that she has never heard me use the word “casserole” in asentence. That made me very happy.) Youcan find the recipe here if you’d like. (You'll have to scroll down until you get to it. Stop being lazy and scroll!)

Whenhe lamented that he only gets to eat the potato-ey miracle once a year, he gaveme the idea of serving him breakfast in bed on his big day. Luckily there was no school that day, so Ilet him sleep in until 8:00 and then, like a sun with kiddie-planets orbitingaround me, I walked into his room and sang “Happy Birthday.” He was in that adolescent form of slumber that borders on comatose, so it took himabout five bites before he woke up. I’venever heard such a string of groggy, yet enthusiastic thank-you’s in my life.

Weinherited my Grandpa Kartchner’s pool table when my brother moved into a newhouse that already had one. I wanted the table so much that I stewed long and hard over where to put the beautiful, vintagegem. We decide to take opon ourselvesthe Extreme-Home-Makeover-esque task of cleaning out one of ourdance-studio-sized storage rooms in the basement to create a new home for the“Man Cave.” Eve complained that shedidn’t like the name and Eric suggested the “Man Cave with Lovlies.” She didn’t like that one either. I said, “How about ‘Man Cave with Benefits?’"

(Obviously we are currently open to any suggestions.)

Our new Man Cave made both a perfect venue and alibi for a surprise birthday party for Holden. I mean, you only turn thirteen once, right? (Thank the stars above!!)

WhileHolden was sweating his way through basketball practice on Friday night, wesurrepticiously snuck thirteen of his pubescently awkward friends into the ManCave. Eric picked him up from practiceand then asked him if he’d like to play a friendly game of pool. The gangly gang of friends were so hopped upon sugar from emptying the bowl of candy I’d thrown in the room to keep them happy thatI had to turn the TV on extra loud to drown out their cracking voices.

When Holden entered the room they yelled their “SU-PRISE!” with such gustothat Marie crumpled to the floor in terror. Tosay Holden was genuinely surprised is an understatement.

Thisis the real deal.

Wespent the next three hours eating grown-uppy-type food and playing nostalgic partygames pulled from the files of my own memories of Rexburg parties as a teenager. There was screaming, jumping up and down, squealing, and grotesque gorging at the birthday buffet, but that was just me.

I suppose the boys had fun too. They were explosively boys-terous, but equallyrespectful. I couldn’t ask for betterfriends for my boy.

(Yes this is indeed SICK and WRONG. I am so sorry, but it had to be done.)

Birthday Bunco

Peter's Prowess

Peter was chattering on about Charlie being asleep in my belly and I was sort ofhalf-listening as I typed.

Finally hesaid, “What’s it called when you were stuck on your bed for like, forever?”

I stopped typing and gave him my fullattention. “You mean when I was pregnant?”

Yup. That was the thing.

* * *

Ever since the days of his Elvis-like baby bouffant that wouldn't quit , Peter has been our little Chris Farley-on-a-drinking-binge comedian. For his last haircut, I decided to let his hair do more of its thing and really set it free from the straight lines of the bowl cut. I added layers and Peter-personility to the do.

Caleb looked at Peter's hairstyle and commented, "I like Peter's new haircut. He looks like he's from New York or something."

* * *
I recently climbed the Mount Everest of cleaning projects and reorganized the toy closet. . . one toy at a time. Once everything was peacefully categorized and shelved, the play-a-thon began. It was like all of the toys were new again, especially since the kids had been shrewdly applying the "throw-up" organization method my entire pregnancy. Peter and Marie played for hours. I actually sat down on the floor and played with them, entranced by their imaginary dialogue with the plastic figures. At one point, Peter created some sort of snack drive-through with different toys ordering peanuts and candy and popcorn.

Then he marched a lion toy up to the take-out window and, in a deep throaty voice, growled, "PEOPLE!!!"

The Gospel According to Peter

Peter gave me an impromptu Sunday School lesson the other day as he played.

He said, "Youknow how we came to earth to get a body?"

Yes. I know that.

"Well, you know that guy who was mad that he didn’t get tohave a body?"

Sure,sure. I know that guy.

"And hewas mad that he didn’t get a body so he made a robot body?"

I’m alittle hazy on that particular detail actually.

"And then hewas so mad that he killed Jesus. . ."

Okay. . . ?

"Andthen Jesus got to have more lives!"

Just Because Everyone Should Get to Have a Marie in Their Life

2012-01-17T00:01:00.000-08:00

13-years-ago tonight, my unexpected birthday-dinner detour to check in with the OB forced me into a hospital bed and franticallypeaceful pre-term labor.

Eight exhilaratingly exhausting hours later, thewailing out of healthy newborn cries singing a cadence of newness andearth-shock were the sweetest birthday tune I'd ever heard.

That song accompanied me into my first moments of motherhood.

Happy Birthday, my incomparably sensitive,freshly teenaged Holden.

Happy Birthday to US!

Volume VII, issue xii. December 2011

2012-01-02T11:28:00.000-08:00

Hair today. Faux-hawk Tomorrow

I dragged my feet as long as I could, but the time had come for the tween-age bowl-cuts to go. I had to close my eyes as I grabbed their long, thick locks and sawed away with my shears. We were all pretty happy (and relieved) with the results.

Luckily I've still got two more boys for years of bowl-cut enjoyment. I did try and trim Peter's hair before Christmas, but he protested, "If you cut my hair, then me and Charlie won't be twins!" I don't know. You figure it out.

To Thine Own Self Be True

As a nine-year-old, I carefully etched out a list of names for my future offspring in my journal, each one sounding like a protagonist in a Danielle Steele novel, my pre-pubescent heart aching dreamily as I rounded out each perfect syllable. Sensible names like “Violet Rose” and “Leticia Dawn” graced the nauseatingly lacey list.

Marie, on the other hand, is either less creative or just more self-assured. Every time I ask her what her current doll-in-hand is named, she says, “Marie.” When concocting her Christmas Wish List for 2011’s over-indulgence, she said, “I need another baby so I can name it Marie.”

When she’s not playing with her Marie-Babies, she’s doing things like transforming a container into a vehicle and taking it for a drive around the house.

If the Shoe Fits (or even if it doesn’t for that matter)

Herding all of the kids over to Marie and Peter’s Preschool Christmas Program wasn’t easy considering how it had been scheduled on the same week as finals, graduation and the grading of roughly a bazillion research papers (give or take one or two—it’s just a rough estimate). I asked the older kids to help Marie get into her shoes and coat. It wasn’t until we were already outside fighting our way through the blustery Rexburg gusts that I noticed that one shoe was hers and one was Eve’s. Curse my need to have them match! I did the sane thing (for once) and let it go, hoping she wouldn’t be singing that tune about missing front teeth because of a tragic, clog-caused mis-step.

Let's Hear it for the Boy

In the past year, Holden’s voice has undergone a two octave Peter Brady-esque metamorphosis, leading us to constantly tease him about working at Krusty Burger (“Welcome to Krusty Burger. May I take your order?”). He’s also grown several inches and adores inching close to my face, raising his eyebrows and looking me squarely in the eyes. He’s also trying on a pre-teen, sarcastic rhetorical stance, but in an extremely good-natured way.

Unfortunately, I treat my life the same way I do a good buffet—I pile on everything that looks good, then I suffer later. During finals week in December I picked up Holden from his Cello lesson as one of about ten things I needed to accomplish and said to him, “When we get home, I’m going to need some help getting things ready for dinner.”

He gave me his best big-eyed look of compassion and said, “Wow, Mom. . . Well, I hope you can find some help.”

We both laughed appreciatively at his well-played wit and I said, “Where did you learn how to be such a smart-mouth?”

Without missing a beat, he replied, “From your husband.”

* * *

A few weeks ago, Eric was doing a desperate two-step-at-a-time dash up the stairs, shouting, “Sarah! I need a . . . ” and Holden yelled out, “adult-sized diaper?”

Holden’s increasing ability to be a true sarcastic smart-mouth is funny. . . most of the time. We’ve tried to explain to him that, like the boy who lost his life from crying wolf one too many times, his smart remarks lose their power if those are the only kind of remarks he makes. After listening to Holden make several quips one day of our vacation, Eric paused and said, “Oh crap. That’s what it’s like being around me, isn’t it?”

The shield of sarcasm suddenly disappeared the other day when I asked Holden to hold Charlie and he blurted out, “Oh good! I like Charlie!”

The Little Prince

Our pint-sized Prince Charming causes us all to swoon on a regular basis. I overheard Peter playing with Charlie. He was looking into his eyes and whispering, “Charlie, you're so cute. Your feet are cute! And your hands are cute! And your belly is cute!”

At our house, EVERYONE wants to play with a Charlie in the Box. No misfit here!

Pre-school Puppy Love

I’m surprised there isn’t a path worn into the road between our house and Mrs Doggett’s Building Blocks Preschool. Peter and Marie attend on alternate days and, like the old married couple they imitate, they constantly bicker about whose turn it is. Often I have to tell them that nobody gets to go to preschool if they don’t stop fighting over whose blessed day it is.

One day Peter begged for Marie to walk him to the door because, “I want her to see Annie. . . (insert long, wistful pause). . . She has golden hair.” Uh-oh. I asked Mrs Doggett about it and she grinned and whispered, “I think he likes her.”

I am constantly either ten minutes tardy or locked into a workout of loading, unloading, buckling and unbuckling little bodies, and hadn’t had the chance to witness Annie’s glimmering locks for myself. For days before the preschool Christmas Program, Annie constantly made her way into Peter’s dialogue.

At lunch, Peter told Marie and me that “Annie has long legs. . . and long arms. . . and a long body.” Because I knew that Santa was making a surprise visit to the party, I asked the kids, “Who do you think might be coming to the Christmas Program?” Peter perked right up and said, “Annie!” By the day of the program, Marie had become Peter’s back-up admirer. Peter would croon, “Annie has yellow hair like Rapunzel, Mom” and Marie would echo, “Yeah. It’s golden hair, Mom” and they would both smile and look dreamily into the air even though Marie had never even seen Annie.

Even though Eric told me I was being “weird,” I had to capture Peter’s first crush on camera. As they were posing for the shot, Eric commented, “I don’t think this is her first time.” Prepare yourself for the oozing of admiration on Peter’s face and the utter dismissive smugness on Annie’s (sigh).

Fast-Foodie Free-for-All

During my pregnancy with Sir Charles, lots of things piled up—laundry, dirty dishes, medical bills. But the pile that concerned the kids the most was the Everest-sized stack of award coupons they had earned at school for doing their reading and homework. The week before Christmas we decided to cash them all in in one grotesque fell swoop. The giggling in the car as the load of fast-food grew could only be outweighed (pun intended) by the groans permeating the kitchen after the feast (urp).

Christmas Images

Peter was so excited for Christmas that every night for the two weeks preceding the holiday, he would say, "Christmas is tomorrow!" He was disappointed for several nights in a row until finally he said, "Well. . . MY Christmas is tomorrow!"

Holden and Ethan have been begging for a DS for years, and when one of their friends was selling his old one, we negotiated a deal. They could get the cursed object if it was all they would get for both of their birthdays and Christmas, plus they could only play with it for as many minutes as they had practiced each day. I honestly didn’t think they would agree to such austere conditions, but they did and I was stuck. I think they’re both going to be progressing quite nicely on the piano and cello this year.

Faux-Beard the Pirate

My favorite Christmas morning moment was hearing Eric erupt into spontaneous child-like laughter when he opened one of my gifts to him. For a full two minutes, his pure laugh rang out in a way I rarely see and Holden said, “I’ve never heard that laugh before!” He reserves it for only the most especially humorous occasions, which tend to come when he is particularly stressed-out and sleep-deprived. He needed a good laugh after a rough year of juggling new administrative responsibilities at work. Since he can’t wear “skinny jeans,” he can wear this hat on his more rebellious days at BYU-Idaho.

Yes, Anne of Green Gables. I achieved my adolescent dream of marrying a man who "could be wicked but wouldn't."

Halloween 2011

2011-10-31T23:36:00.000-07:00

Nine days. Nine Costumes. Game on.

Covered in sweat, faux fur, and the high-pitched fervor that only accompanies intense self-deception, she huddles over the sewing machine. It must be the last week in October at the d'Evegnees.

Peter and Marie, wearing a couple costumes from our 2008 theme for a Halloween Party.

My Halloween Princesses

Happy Halloween!

The Healing Power of the Oregon Coast

2011-10-09T10:36:00.000-07:00

Our little Harvest Break get-away may have saved our sanity. Now we can face Rexburg reality with a little more cheer.

Volume: 7? Maybe 6? Issue: Uhhhhh. . . I Know I HAVE Issues, But Have I Published an Issue This Year?

2011-10-04T16:33:00.000-07:00

Editor's Note:
I have been editorially devoted to The Rexburg Review for almost eight years now, and it has never suffered a gap like the one that brought the house down this year.

When I started The Review, (shortening it makes it sound more significant and worldly) it was our perky family newsletter that cheerfully made its way via snail-mail to family and close friends. I dragged my fingers reluctantly into the world of blogging because it seemed painfully impersonal and glaringly self-promoting. But with Eric's family living so far away, I knew it was the most practical option and would allow me to share enough photos and videos to make everyone squirm just the right amount. That's what you do when you love people, right?

I never thought I'd share anything really personal on a blog. And then during this last pregnancy I did. The emotions were churning too close to the surface and they overflowed on to the page. And it didn't hurt too much. I cringed in Eric's direction and told him it was making me sick to think of how my private thoughts were out there on that interweb thing. I'd always tried to hide behind stories about the kids so that people wouldn't see me lurking there. He shook his head in his loving way and said, "You're there, you know. In the stories. You've never been hiding."
Oh. . .

Here's hoping that the self-deception continues in a more regular way.

Peter's Progress

Truth be told, Eric and I have been concerned about Peter's verbal prowess since he was eighteen months old. Peter has not moved forward in linguistic leaps and bounds, but rather slow strides, one word at a time. I admit that I've taken more than one online test to determine whether our little Chris Farley look-a-like had a legitimate issue, but I've felt that I needed to exercise more patience and love his sweet silence (when it wasn't punctuated by frustrated tantrums because he wasn't understood).

It's been well worth the wait, especially when I see him deliberately make good choices because he can recognize for himself that they are good. The tantrums (most of them anyway) have been replaced by thoughtful pauses. Peter makes me understand repentance better because the good choices haven't always been the "natural" ones the way they've been for some of our other kids. But I love watching the wheels turn behind his bright, blue eyes as he weighs his different options and then finally settles on the "right" one because he understands why it's the right one.

Over the past year, Sweet Pete has started speaking in not only sentences, but humor-filled, carefully measured sentences that reflect some of the loveliest observations I can imagine.

Example #1
Peter didn't just fall down this year. When he came in from playing outside, he rubbed his head and lamented, "I broke my crown!"

Example #2
When Peter was hungry, he said, "My stomach is on 0 points."

Example #3
One day while exploring his facial orifices, he excitedly exclaimed, "I found gold in my nose!"

I tried not to laugh out loud and responded, "Well, you need to put it in a tissue and put it in the trash."
He shook his head emphatically and shouted, "No! Gold is good!"

Example #4
You may have heard that my pregnancy with Charles was fairly difficult (from me, mostly). As I was experiencing one of my many hormone-related crying jags, Peter said, "Don't cry Mom, or our house will be broken!"

Example #5
When Peter came to see me in the hospital just after Charlie was hatched (cringe), he noticed how the maternity ward was on lock down for security purposes. When Charlie and I finally came home, Peter said to me, "They took the key and locked you up!"

Example #6
Peter saw President Monson on TV and asked, " Is that President Monson?" He then said thoughtfully, "He's a President. . . and a Jedi. . . and a Person!" Yes, Peter. I agree.

Cheer Up Charlie

With our miniscule man, this is both a command and a description. He is what the medical community (at least online) calls a "scrawny screamer." His near-constant squawks of discomfort remind us that mortality is more difficult than it is easy. His acid reflux and colic seem to create an internal cocktail of misery and we have to keep reminding him : "Cheer up, Charlie. It will get better."
But the little dude sure does bring us a load of cheer. I can't imagine a baby so simultaneously sweet and cranky. Some of his nicknames are: Char-Char Binx (or Char-Char), Chuckles, Charlie Brown, Charlemagne (or Charle-pain if he's been belly-aching for a while), Sir Charles, Charles Dutoit (thanks to G-pa Hafen) and Mr Dickens (which is my personal favorite partly because Holden made it up on the fly one day. "Mom, Can I hold Mr Dickens?").

From day one, Charlie has been passed around like some yummy plate of cookies, with everyone clamoring for more. When I need to use both of my Charlie-filled hands, I will shout out, "Who wants to hold Charlie?" and I can count on multiple shouts of "Me! Me! Me" as twelve hands reach out.

Eve dotes on him so maternally that sometimes I linger a bit just to watch her attentive interactions with her favorite fellow. One day she exclaimed, "Charlie is really good at rock paper scissors! He keeps winning! He keeps doing paper and I keep doing rock and he wins every time!"

Caleb observed one day, "Charlie isn't good for much. . . except entertainment."

Typical Eve

Yesterday one of Eric's colleagues couldn't remember Eve's name and said, "What is her name? The sassy one?"

As Eric was leaving for work, he teased Eve (as usual) by saying, "Are you going to cry when I leave?" A few minutes later, he said, "Eve, you're not crying?"
Stone-faced, she responded, "You're not leaving."

Typical Caleb
Our mild-mannered Caleb has developed a dry sense of humor that only occasionally emerges. When it does, though, it makes me wish he would share what's going on in that cute Belgian head of his more often.

I was cooking our favorite Sopapilla Cheesecake and couldn't find the cinnamon in the spice cupboard or on the counter. I asked the kids to help me search for the spice (I'll refrain from any Dune digressions) and Caleb emerged triumphant a few seconds later and said, "I found it on the flour! That's why they call it ground cinnamon!"

Harry Potter Party for a Week--August 2011

2011-08-11T19:21:00.000-07:00

You're going to read this and think I've been hit by a Confundus Curse. But I haven't. Since reading each and every one of the 4,175 pages out loud to our four oldest children, my literary love-affair with the Harry Potter series has spread like a wonderful, wordy contagion in our family.

I started on page one of Book One, inwardly tittering with glee as I read with an American accent for the description and then spiced up the dialogue with an English accent. I thought it would be entertaining if not terribly cute. By page two, I was inwardly praising my talent, but Ethan cleared his throat in an Umbridge-y fashion and said with clear distaste, “Ummm, Mom? Please don’t do that.”

The rest of the 4, 173 pages were read with a decidedly boring Utah-American accent, except when the kids so graciously allowed me to read Fleur and Madame Maxime’s lines with my French accent (Merci, mes enfants!).

More often than not, as we got sucked into the magical world each night and one chapter would turn into two (or three), Eric would appear in the doorway of the boys’ room warning, “Sarah. . . do you know what time it is? You’ve been reading for an hour-an-a-half!” Whoops.

The kids and I were linked together by words and images so tightly that it was like an invisible thread had been cut and we were plopped back into reality, finding ourselves leaning forward on the edge of the beds, as if we could somehow lean in closer to Harry and his happenings. They always begged me to read “Just one more chapter, Mom. Please?” Could I deny them their educational right? I didn’t think so.

The door we opened to that nightly bubble of fiction made us forget the petty cares of the day as we entered the ever-gratifying world of wizards. By the end of Book Seven I couldn't read it out loud without blubbering. (Like I ever do anything without blubbering anymore!) Harry’s rite of passage will always be connected to those years in our lives and we’re better for it.

Nostalgia aside, Rowling’s wizarding world is jammed with sensory detail that lends itself to planning a darn good party! The food, the games, and the culture beg to be part of a long “To do” list, especially when you’ve got seven kids and a blissfully empty-calendared summer in which to plan and play.

For Camp d'Evegnee, last week (the WHOLE thing) was dedicated to all things Harry Potter. We immersed ourselves in it wholeheartedly to the point that were positively drunk with whimsy and Butterbeer.

Each day for a FULL week, we had a Potter-esque dinner, dessert, activity and a movie so we could revisit all of them before the grande finale at the theater. (I am exhausted! But, as with life, the mess was worth the memories.)

First, the food. Since we are currently sans house elf, we had to do all the cooking and the resulting piles of dishes. . . oh, so many dishes. To see ALL of the recipes and tips for creating them, please go to our Recipe Blog HERE

That tart may look tantalizingly innocuous enough, but she BURNS! SHE BURNS!!!

We took a Tour through Hogsmeade:

SWEET Visit to Honeydukes:
We had Butter Beer at the Three Broomsticks

And. . . We visited The Shrieking Shack (after we somehow packed all that sugar into our fragile, magical systems)

For ALL of the recipes we used to make our concoctions, please go to my Recipe Party Blog found HERE

I feel a little like I drank a full batch of Polyjuice Potion when I think of all of the food, drink, and sweets we consumed. I’m going to be Yaxleying any minute now (oh boy).

Luckily we worked off some of the calories by making freezer paper stencil t-shirts (which took two days because we painted both the front and the back of our t-shirts). For a complete tutorial about how to make your own t-shirt, go here. We also decorated dollar store brooms and played a little non-flying Quidditch (aka broom hockey).

Who knew Quidditch was so exhausting?

(It looks like it swept Marie off her feet! Merlin’s pants, I’m tired!)

For the grand finale, we smuggled bottles of Butterbeer and hot mini meat pies and pumpkin pasties into the movie theater to watch the second part of the Deathly Hallows. Holden and Ethan cried nearly as much as I did and I could hear them sniffing in tandem with me throughout the show.

You’d think after a week of Harry Potter being crammed down their throats, they’d all want to perform some killing curses on themselves if I made them do one more magical thing, but I caught them in the backyard performing spells as they jumped on the trampoline. You just need to hear Marie squealing, "Expelliarmus" once and you'll want to have Potter Party of your own.

2011-08-11T16:04:00.000-07:00

Harry Potter Freezer Paper Stencil T-shirts in 4 "Easy" Steps

The first time I tried this method, I was skeptical. I had tried painting t-shirts before and they always looked like I had painted them myself and only possessed marginal craft-ability. That frustrated me because (in my opinion at least) I'm not so shabby at crafty stuff.

Then I gave the freezer paper stencils a whirl because I refused to shell out fifty bucks for a t-shirt at chasing fireflies. Honestly. It was like magic! I wanted to make about thirty shirts a day and give them away for birthdays, graduation, and Ground Hog's Day. If you play your crafty cards right, you can make a quality shirt for about $1.50. AWESOME, yes? YES! (Okay, I'll go take a break for a minute and calm myself.)

Now that I'm back, I won't lie to you. It does take a little bit of patience. That being said though, if my kids can do it, other kids (and adults) can do it too!

What you'll need:

*Freezer Paper

(NOT wax paper) You can buy this at the grocery store right by the aluminum foil, plastic wrap etc. It costs about 5 bucks (in muggle money) for a whole box of many, many feet of the stuff.

*T-shirts

We bought ours for the kids at the dollar store. Most craft stores (and Walgreens) have t-shirts for 2-3 dollars.

*Fabric Paint

NOT acrylic paint. For these to really look sharp you need to buy fabric paint. It costs about $2 a bottle and you can do several shirts with one bottle.

*Exact-o-knife

Personally I recommend buying the knock-off knives for about one-third the price.

*Sponge paint brushes

These cost about a dollar for five of them.

Now you're ready to get going. Here are the 4 steps:

1) TRACE

Print out or draw your design and then put it under the freezer paper so that you can trace it. Make sure you trace it on the NON-shiny side.

2) CUT

With an exact-o-knife (or a cheaper knock-off for about one-third the price), carefully cut out the INSIDE of the design. We just cut out pieces of cardboard from old boxes to put under the paper so we didn't ruin the dining room table. This is the part that takes the most patience. I showed the kids how to do their first letter and then they took off. (For kids under 5, you'll probably want to do this part for them.) Now you've got a stencil.

3) IRON

Carefully center the stencil on the t-shirt with the SHINY side down. Don't use any steam. Hold the iron over each spot for a good ten seconds.

4) PAINT

This is the best part because ALL of the kids (except the baby) could do it. You can paint away to your heart's delight and you don't have to worry about smudges or sloppiness. Go ahead and slop away. Just make sure you get all of the corners of the stencils so that it looks sharp. Put a piece of cardboard inside the shirt so the paint stays on the side you're painting.

Now all you have to do is wait for the paint to dry. A lot of people will tell you that you need to sit and wait for 24 hours, but that is a bunch of bologna (baloney? How do people spell that nowadays?). My poor kids were keeping a fidgety vigil by their t-shirts and there was no way I was going to make them wait that long. They really do dry in 3-4 hours, so unless you need to use it as leverage to make them get some chores done, let them rip the stencil off after a few hours. Really.

Then just put a light cotton cloth over the design and iron it to make sure the paint has set. Then you can wash it and dry it just like a normal store-bought t-shirt. (But this is so much better because your kids made it themselves!)

We made up the designs ourselves, but you have to be familiar with the books to "get" some of them. (We are NOT nerds. Stop being rude.)

(You are free to do any non-nerdy things with your own t-shirts at your leisure.)

I don't have a picture of Eric or me in our t-shirts that you can see very well, but his said, "What's Your Patronus?" and mine said, "Not my daughter, you *itch!" (Heh, heh, heh. We put a lightening bolt instead of the asterisk. You have to know the book to appreciate that one, but that part seriously made me cry because I loved the power it gave to motherhood. You think I'm kidding, but I'm totally NOT.)

*If you'd like to use our designs, I can e-mail you a pdf file. I can't for the life of me figure out how to post the designs here.

d'Evegnee Backyard Zoo

2011-07-14T07:05:00.001-07:00

We looked out the window and what did we see? Nothing like a little wildlife to wake you up in the morning!

Charlie's Song

2011-05-20T23:41:00.000-07:00

I caught Eve serenading Charlie with gusto, and was lucky enough to get it on film. I get chills of happiness every time I see this (especially her reaction when she realizes she's on camera)!

Let the compensatory blessings roll in!

Here are the lyrics:

Little, little guy

You’re the cutest, bravest, little Charlie in the world

You’re the bravest, the strongest, and the cutest too

You’re the bravest, strongest, and the cutest too

Because you’re the Charlie of the day!

You’ve got super powers

If you’re rich, you will help the poor

If you’re very brave you can help us

You’re so strong, you can show off to the ladies

By Eve d’Evegnee (May 20, 2011)

Cinco de Charlie!

2011-05-08T19:05:00.000-07:00

Introducing. . . . (cue the maracas, please!)

Charles Bruce d'Evegnee

The family fiesta in the hospital room post c-section

(You should have seen the looks some of the nurses gave us.)

Amish Fiesta or Abe Lincoln Fiesta?

Dr Watson, who got to break open the pinata

(and is one of the most good-natured people I've ever met).

Did I really give birth to all of those people Aye-yi-yi!

2011-04-01T15:45:00.000-07:00

It's April. After so many twists and turns of muscles and stomach and nerves and facial expressions, we're only one month away.

I'm finally letting myself peek just a bit through the blinds of my misery and allowing the luxury of just a little excitement.

Instead of just looking down with my shoulder to the wheel for the sake of sheer sanity, I sometimes look up. Not too much. But enough to want to shriek and let my fingertips flutter together as I bounce up and down on my toes (figuratively. . . oh, so figuratively).

All the joyful suspense and longing that has been building up during these months of physical and emotional confinement can't raise its hopeful head too often or I would never sleep. Never. My heart races and my fingers reach out and I would never be able to calm down. So, for now, I'm still just peeking with my eyes squinted at all of the gorgeous future moments.

This is the song that I indulge in during these slivers of hopeful anticipation.

Just go ahead and try not to cry. I cry streams every single time I hear it.

Happy V-Day (I'm NOT talking about the sci-fi thriller from the 80's)

2011-02-14T09:03:00.000-08:00

True love is a husband who will purchase obscure craft supplies for me (and call me seventeen times from the store to let me know it). I discovered last week that sewing in short spurts actually distracts me from feeling horribly pregnant. Wahoo!

Someone was a little excited about his pre-school Valentine's Day party. I don't think there's anything sweeter (that isn't edible anyway) than a blue-eyed kid in skinny jeans and converse. (And, yes, these pictures do make me want to eat him a little bit.)

Eve decked out for her school party. I saw this t-shirt for 38 bucks at an online boutique and decided to recreate it using freezer paper stencils for $5! The supplies for the skirt cost about $7. Now I'm feeling so frugal that I want to go shopping!

1 o'clock church=plenty of time to make last-minute bow-ties.

One of our Valentine's Day traditions revolves around chocolate chip cookie dough, ice cream, whipped cream, heart-shaped ramekins, and gluttony : COOKIE MONSTERS!

If you don't have ramekins, you can use cupcake pans and shape the dough into a cup shape. When it's done baking, just use a small measuring cup and flatten the middle.

Putting the "OW" in Pregnancy Glow

2011-01-13T08:43:00.000-08:00

Obviously that ain't me. This is my friend, Heidi, at the end of her sixth pregnancy, and she personifies what well-meaning observers call "The Pregnancy Glow." She had these portraits taken to capture this maternal moment and I applaud her decision.

She looks like something out of a pregnancy magazine, where all the women don't look as pregnant as they do blessed or enhanced. The dainty little orb perched on their midsection is like a little gift or tiny bonus room that has been added on to their otherwise lanky frame. A little "Oops. How did THAT get there?" said with a feminine giggle before they skip off to go running or skiing or to the next photo shoot.

It's the way every woman hopes to look when she's expecting. It's the reason I nearly killed myself with diet and exercise after birthing my babies. No. It wasn't so I could back in shape. It was so I could look fabulous in my maternity clothes the next time around. That is the oxymoronic (with an emphasis on moronic) truth.

Ow. Shudder. Shudder.

It's okay. You can laugh. I know I do. At least now anyway. After more than 68 months of being with child, it honestly gives my pregnant belly something to laugh about. If a picture really is worth a thousand words, most of the words produced by this picture are synonyms with hilarious. And pain. Hilarious pain. A few weeks into my first pregnancy as I begin to grotesquely balloon everywhere (and I mean everywhere) except in my midsection, I realized that I wasn't going to be one of those women with a charming, Lillipution-esque baby bump. I was going to have and be more of a Baby Blob. My Gestation Transformation involves feeling pregnant and swollen in every nook and cranny. I even feel pregnant in my eyelids. And, speaking of orbs, what is that orb in the middle of my face? (I can imagine my friends, tittering, "I haven't heard an official announcement yet, but I think Sarah is pregnant again. Have you seen her nose?") (We won't even get into my Lit'l Smokies for fingers.)

When I am expecting, what I expect the most is to look like my pre-pregnant self and Jabba the Hut's offspring. Last week when I waddled past the mirror, I could hear Jabba's guttural double, triple, and even quadruple-chin-surrounded, fat encased voice saying, "See fah luto twentee, ee yaba..." (Which, loosely translated, means something like, "Work that body, my slug-daughter.")

As my medical records and the blisters all over my body within hours of pushing out Holden can attest, I am allergic to being pregnant. And as these pictures prove, I look like someone who is having an allergic reaction to something (something, for instance, like looking normal and happy).

Last week, I made the trek to Walmart for the second time in four months. (The first time was to get Eric a Christmas present and it took me three days of strategizing to figure out how I could get in and out of the store without making any of my internal organs external ones.) I picked up a few items before I knew I was making a mistake and wobbled up to the cashier, grimaced in pain, leaned over the conveyer belt and let out some well-practiced Lamaze-type breaths. The cashier cheerfully called out, "Sister d'Evegnée? I think you were my English Teacher!" I attempted to lift the dumb-bells which are currently my cheeks into a smile. (See photo #3 to see what this looks like.) We engaged in what I hope was some light-hearted banter about the class and my pregnancy until I wrote the check and he asked for my driver's license. He nodded happily as he looked at the picture and said, "Yeah. THIS is what I remember you looking like!"

That wasn't the first conversation of its kind. A few months after I popped out my teensy 9 pound 7 ounce Caleb, I was taking out the trash in my exercise clothes and my neighbor gave me a slow, approving once-over and said, "Wow. You look different when you're not pregnant." (Thank you, kind sir. . . but I am clearly taken--pregnant or not.)

In my third trimester I have been asked too many times to count if I am having twins, and when told that I am not, several times the curious strangers have insisted. "Are you sure?" Wait. Just a second. . . Let me check. . . Yes. I'm sure. And well meaning women have clucked, "Oh! Have you been out in the sun?" Each time I have chuckled politely (because swollen people are required to chuckle--have you noticed that?) and assured them that I haven't. One of them even made me look in the mirror in the ladies' restroom to see for myself.

The summer I was with-Ethan, my parents decided to have a photo taken by a professional photographer. We had a large family shot and then got to pose for individual family shots. As each of my siblings and their families posed in turn, you could almost hear the perfectly pure beauty in the air as the camera clicked and clicked as if it was eating up their photogenic aura. When it was our turn, the photographer took one short look at me and yelled, "Can someone turn that bench around?" She didn't say anything to me except a terse,"Just look over your shoulder, okay?" (Which, frankly, was like asking a jello-salad to do a cartwheel.)

This lovely specimen was taken moments after Holden was born and, while I'm clearly not myself, you can see the relief in my face. That is, if you can find my eyes! My goodness. What was I thinking? It looks like I've given birth to a pair of glasses rather than a baby.

I made quite a spectacle of myself. . .

Apparently I was paying homage to my Dad's look circa 1978. Even though these pictures were taken twenty years apart, the eye-wear makes them timeless.
Why would I do this to myself (and to my face?) The picture on the left was taken a year ago. I like my face well enough. As faces go, I think it's a keeper. Why would I force myself to go through such a mucky metamorphosis?

(Uh-oh. I feel a thesis coming on. If you have an aversion to sentimental conclusions, you might want to stop here. Honestly! What did you expect, though? I'm an English Teacher!)

Years ago I was a painfully perky Sister Missionary in France, energetically pedaling my way through the French Countryside on my purple bike, sharing chocolate chip cookies, home-made cards and rainbows with everyone who crossed my deliriously cheerful path. I was in love. In love with France. In love with the people. In love with the message I was sharing.

One evening my French companion, Soeur Piquet, and I had an appointment with Madame Nicot, an eighty-something-year-old woman we had been visiting for months. Madame Nicot was full of European grace and French charm and I called her my Grandmère Francaise. She spun stories about her childhood and I ate up every perfectly pronounced word, perched on the edge of my seat, eyes gleaming with wonder. She served us hearty crêpes, laughing as she whirled the thick, creamy batter with her whisk. We made her smile, kept her company, and taught her about The Book of Mormon. I could see in her face that she believed what we were saying and wanted to know more. That evening we knew that it was time to ask Madame Nicot if she wanted to be baptized and I was exhilarated because I fully expected a "Oui."

Instead we got a "Non." No to baptism. No to coming to Church again. No to any more visits.

I held it together as Soeur Piquet and I slowly pedaled to our rickety apartment a few blocks away. But when my companion went to the bathroom to get ready for bed and turned on the water, I collapsed to my knees and flooded my bedspread with the tears I refused to wipe away. I cried and prayed simultaneously, asking God to help me understand and to help me be a better missionary,

Finally I cried, "I would do anything--anything at all--to help someone have the Gospel."

Fast-forward a few years. I was draped across our couch in our miniscule newly-wed apartment, alone and moaning. I was only a few weeks pregnant, but felt like I had been injected with a large dose of everything awful. Even the simple act of inhaling made me vomit. I felt like Atlas, bearing the weight of a world of fatigue and misery, and I couldn't conceive of how I was going to survive the next few minutes, not to mention months of that cruelly ironic form of torture. I watched people walk by and was in awe that the world was populated. Every person seemed to be a miraculous representation of maternal endurance.

As I groaned and clutched my stomach, a picture formed in my mind.

It was a Sister Missionary, her thread-bare a-line skirt and knee-highs crumpled underneath her as she clings to her bed, leaning on it for support as much as to conform to a position of prayer. I could hear her despite all of the tears--past and current.

I would do anything--anything at all--to help someone have the Gospel.

I heard my pregnant self let out an audible, "Oh."

Anything? Yes. Even this.

I'm lucky, really. I know that. If you know me at all, you know that I know that it's worth it. That goes without saying. The way I feel about being a Mom compares with that painful perkiness of my missionary days. I am in love all over again. It just feels so good to laugh at myself and the hyperbole of my affliction.

I've been hiding all of these photos for years, thinking that years down the road I could possibly pretend to myself that I had been gestationally elegant, even willowy with just a touch of middle-roundness.

But the reality is just plain awesome. Hilariously, painfully, wonderfully awesome.

Nostalgia

2011-01-09T07:04:00.001-08:00

I'm feeling about ten percent better these days. That means that I still feel like a parasite-infested, flu-bitten, over-stuffed automaton most of the time. But there are moments, however fleeting they may be, when I actually feel like a person.

During one of those moments, Eric whisked me away to grab some Thai food and I was able to see one of my former students, a favorite female freshman who is now a fresh-faced, light-filled newly returned missionary. She mentioned that when she received my Christmas card from last year (which is actually my ONLY Christmas card from ANY year) that it was soggy and unreadable. I told her I'd e-mail it to her. Early this morning, when the pregnancy insomnia kicked in (again), I found myself sitting in the dark, the only one awake in my house-full, enjoying the silence.

I re-read that letter and felt like the old me was speaking to the pregnant me. I needed it. So, as egotistical as it may seem to quote myself, I'm going to post the letter here, partly because that old me is so different from the "now" me that it almost doesn't feel like me. (Did you follow that?)

PS I also posted some BP Recipes on my Recipe Blog if you'd like to cook up something new.

I don’t send out Christmas Cards. I send out Birth Announcements. We’ve been married eleven years and we’ve sent out six birth announcements, which keeps the friends we really care about in the card loop.

This year, though, unlike any other year of our marriage, there are no births to announce, no babies to nurse, and no raging pregnancy woes to prevent me from sending a card. Weird.

Even so, I’m not sure I can compose a Christmas letter in keeping with standard procedure. I have so much to beam with pride about when I make those birth announcements—not only the new baby, but the fact that we all survived the ten months leading up to the announcement and we’re still smiling. But, I’m not so sure about this kind of Dickensesque look back over the past year. It’s enough to make a goal-setting, neurotic, hyper-analytical, enabling, introverted Mom like me go into painfully philosophical fits of seasonal soliloquy. I guess I’ll take solitude in the fact that some people will take a look at the font and the length of this epistle and just give it a skim.

Here’s my deal. This year in d’Evegnee Land has been full of familial fits of giggling at the dinner table, new resolves to take a crack at a whole new us, and some genuinely peaceful moments of both self and group introspection and epiphany. But at the same time, my glance at the past makes me cringe. The soundtrack to our lives is so much more “Carol of the Bells” than it is “Silent Night.” Most of our laughter revolves around embarrassingly low-brow bathroom humor. My goal to shed a few pounds left me standing at a gas station last winter with my pants around my ankles, feeling the biting Rexburg wind whishing past my bare knees, the woman at the pump next to me screaming “OH!” as I struggled to regain my britches and my composure (I’m always happy to give the longer, one on one, more Sarah-logue-like version). We scurry in to Church a bustlingly loud and disruptive five minutes late every week, even though we live right across the street from our Church building. We fight. We shout. We cry. Peter wears his Buzz Lightyear shirt for days worth of filth and accumulated toddler residue before he’ll let me wash it. Eve has an inch long scar on her face where Peter swiped at her with his overgrown claws. We arrive at any event much more than fashionably tardy with trails of miscellaneous matter on our clothes, small gobs of food in our hair, and cheerios clinging to our shoes (and that’s just Eric and me!). Even now, my poor offspring have been strategically plopped in front of the TV, a bag of chocolate candy at their sugar-saturated fingertips to buy me enough time to write this. Sometimes I feel like I am in a storm of dirty laundry, sticky floors, and personal dissatisfaction.

So why am I writing a Christmas letter? Well, as I mulled over my potential holiday greetings, I realized that the thoughts in my head weren’t exactly chock full of fa-la-la and warm-like-cups-of-cocoa cheer. I almost chucked the picture in the envelope and called it good. But then I remembered what Eric told me about the crooked sign I put on our door in my frenetic rush to contribute to the gleaming festival of holiday lights and magic that is Rolling Hills Dr. The sign is cheap and tacky. And it just has one word in bold letters. At the end of his cold walk home in the snow after a shaky day, Eric looked up to see that word hung haphazardly on our door. He told me that when he read that word he knew that no matter how he was feeling at the moment, things were going to be okay. Just one word. The word I had almost forgotten. The word is JOY.

My life is a jumble of well-placed, carefully chosen chaos. I am full of weaknesses and flaws and immaturity. And both despite and because of all the hiccups in my plans, wrinkles in my clothes, and dishes in my sink, I can “Be of good cheer” (3 Nephi 1:13) because of Jesus Christ’s Atonement. That’s why he was born—not to praise us for our perfection, but to aid us in our weakness. My hands ‘hang down” and my “knees” are “feeble” (Doctrine and Covenants 81:5), but He helps me create joy in the doorway of my home and the doorway of my discouragement, even in this stressful season and stressful life. He came for me and my family with all of our foibles, contradictions, and idiosyncrasies this year and every year. I love knowing that I have someone who knows about all of what I failed to do and be in 2009 and loves me anyway. And not only does he love me, but He reaches out to me and offers me the power of His healing. And that gives me plenty to write Home about.

A Pregnant Pause for Christmas

2010-12-23T00:29:00.000-08:00

Pregnancy-induced Insomnia Thought of the Night: Necessity whittled down the holidays to their raw form. No parties; no projects; no presents gleefully deposited door-to-door. I'm wistful. But knowing it's all about the baby makes it lovely somehow in its simplicity.

It's all about The Baby.

Merry, Merry Christmas indeed!

Eve's Stake Conference Debut

2010-11-21T16:33:00.000-08:00

Pre-recorded for your viewing pleasure.

You know the mental check-list you scroll through when you get a call from the Stake Executive Secretary. Am I due for a new calling? Is Eric due for a new calling? Did someone see my pants fall down at the gas station and finally report me for lewd conduct?

When the call came last week, my indiscretions flashed before my eyes until I heard the words, "Can you bring Eve with you?"

Eve? Sure, she did dabble in some familial Halloween candy thievery this year, but I didn't think that merited a talk with the Stake President. Plus, she hasn't even been baptized. I can't help but pull out the old quote from Hafen family lore when an eight-year-old, Jon, said about a seven-year-old Dave, "He's still got another year before he gets baptized, so I told him to live it up!"

On Tuesday night, we informed Eve that the Stake Presidency wanted to talk to her and she didn't seem the least bit concerned. Luckily, Eric is friends with the first counselor who had given him a clue that it had something to do with Stake Conference.

Eve sat in her chair across from the dark-suited trio and stared them down like they were the ones being interviewed. The adjective that kept coming to mind as I watched the way Eve looked at the authority figures was "steely." Her steely gaze never faltered as the Stake President told her that the Stake Primary President had loved her talk in our ward's Primary Program so much that they wanted her to give it for Stake Conference.

Eve didn't even pause. She just said, "No."

And kept on staring.

The men sort of cleared their throats and smiled and said, "Well, Eve. . . perhaps you could think it over and talk with your parents and they can get back to us later."

When we got home, Eric was embarrassed, but, man, I was just proud. I reminded Eric that we've taught her to be cautious around people she doesn't know and as far as I was concerned, she'd sort of passed the "stranger danger" test. You go, girl.

Of course, we sat her down and explained to her how much people at Stake Conference would love her talk, but that it was up to her. She sort of shrugged and agreed like it was no big deal.

Because, really, why would speaking in front of HUNDREDS of people be a big deal?

To a six-year-old?

This morning, I kept flashbacking to Stake Conference three years ago when I was pregnant with Marie. Thirty minutes into the meeting, Eric had to flee the building with a blow-out saturated Peter. Thirty-seven minutes into the meeting, I knew that I was what Robert Fulghum once described as "a living grenade with the pin pulled out." I told the four older kids to follow me as I covered my mouth and b-lined for the Ladies' Room, which to my horror, had a line several women long. As I did my Lamaze breathing double-time, I furiously whispered to the kids, "Follow me. . . NOW!" and like traumatized little ducks, they scurried after me in a running row across the street to our house. I yelled out to Holden as we neared our house, "Run ahead! Open the door! Open the door!" As I flew into the house and headed straight to the bathroom, Eric looked up from Peter's diaper explosion clean-up and yelled out an encouraging, "It's. . . all. . . in your head!" as I upchucked enthusiastically for the first of many times with his words still echoing in the bathroom.

But this morning my usual nausea was also accompanied by flurries of nerves on Eve's behalf that made me an absolute sick mess. I had a bag full of saltines and gum, but I was still a major gag-fest. I had to keep reminding myself not to let my nerves radiate to my calm and collected daughter who had a happy, carefree morning as I dry-heaved and retched my way to 10 AM. I had to stop myself from asking her if she was nervous several times and I could tell Eric was doing the same.

I simply told her, "Eve, you'll be awesome!" and she responded, "I know."

Eric sat on the stand with Eve, who didn't seem bothered by the rows of Conference-goers that filled the chapel, the gym, and the stage of the Church. We were so far back in the gym that we had to watch Eve on the big screen. Marie sat up in her seat and squealed when she saw Eve saunter up to the pulpit and we all beamed up at her.

Since she was the kick-off talk, she and Eric were able to come and sit with us when she was done, and she grinned as she walked back to our row. I told her she had done "awesome" and she said, "It felt like my stomach was on fire!" You and me both, kiddo.

The talk started off as a simple mother-daughter endeavor for a talk Eve was assigned for Primary, then became her part in the Ward's Primary Program, and then she gave it in Stake Conference. I can almost see Lea Michele shrieking in her dewy-eyed, peppy, short-skirted way as she step-ball-changes across the high school hallway: "Now she's ready for NATIONALS!"

You might not be able to tell from the video, but she's wearing a strawberry-bedecked frock, a bracelet with a big strawberry dangling from it, and the bow in her hair has a strawberry embroidered on it. And. . . I honestly didn't buy any of it for the occasion. It was stuff we already had. . . you know. . . just kicking around in her closet, like I'm sure everyone else with a daughter TOTALLY does. (Yes, you can let your jaw drop and shake your head at me. I KNOW already.)

Our Strawberry Girls

Pregnant Thoughts in the Afternoon

2010-11-10T13:16:00.000-08:00

Les disciples Pierre et Jean courant au sépulcre le matin de la Résurrection. Eugène BURNAND, 1898. Musée d’Orsay.

Let's see if I can get this out before I have to run for refuge in the bathroom. (If I use bigger words than usual it's because I get that way when I am sick and tired. . . just a quirk I fully realized recently.)

While in one of my many horizontal positions yesterday, feeling particularly afflicted and needy as I groaned under the blanket that I wear like a cape when it isn't over me, I caught a glimpse of these two anxious fellows on my wall.

The first time I met them was during my days as a post-mission traveler in France, cruising through the culture-doused streets of Paris with nagging anxieties about my future clawing into what should have been a care-free vacation with a good friend (whose rich "uncle" was paying for the whole shebang!). While I should have been joyfully diving into patisseries and appreciating only the layers of butter and air, I was worrying about that whole husband thing. Would I ever meet him? The One? Would I be too flawed for him to love me back? There were no prospects at the time and while I was prepared to run to him with open arms, I had serious doubts that he actually existed.

We wandered through museum after museum, feeling that floaty sensation that carries you through truly good art--the one where you feel like the paint is lifting you with soft fingers over the crowds and over all your woes just because it is there in front of you. Snapping into an ethereal connection between creator and audience, like they created it just for you in that moment.

In the Musée d'Orsay, I could almost hear the ghost trains sighing out steam around us as we wandered the hallways. That's when I saw Peter and John. That's when I saw me in their worry-ridden faces and clenched hands. I was them, running towards the unknown, not knowing what its face would look like when I saw it.

But I couldn't deny the beauty of that breathless morning behind them--all around them. Something bigger than what was inside of them was all around them. Undeniable despite not being seen. . . yet.

The fact that they were frozen in the tension just made it more breathtaking, more like how I felt most of the time.

I bought a print in the museum store and carted it around with me the rest of my trip, bringing it home a wrinkled mess after all of the travel, which was fine because it seemed more appropriate that way.

The rest of that particular chapter is family history. He did come. He did love me. And I only had to wait two aching years to make the dream real.

So yesterday, Peter and John reached out to me again. They were me again. They are me again. So much unknown. So much stillness. So much hope. So much frozen motion. . . and motion sickness.

And yet the sunrise is there too. I have so much beauty ahead. It will come because it always does. He always does.

The Halloween Costume Reveal 2010 (and a little surprise)

2010-11-01T19:40:00.001-07:00

Chicka-Bow-WOW! Lucky Number Seven! And in case you're wondering, the answer is YES. Yes, I do feel as awful as I am pretending not to look. Worst. Pregnancy. Ever.

Luckily I had been planning the costumes around this much-anticipated pregnancy, so Eric and I planned them almost a year ago so that I could get them done even if I was completely overwhelmed by Hurricane Preggo. We're looking forward to meeting our new player the beginning of May 2011!

Since I was in my usual reclining-like-some-Greek-Goddess pose on the couch on Friday night, it was a perfect place to spend forty-five minutes putting a plethora of curlers (no, not piñatas, El Guapo!) in Ethan's thick locks. He has been wanting a "real afro" since we told the kids about the costumes a few weeks ago and even refused to let me shear his mane. He wore the curlers all night and then all throughout the day on Saturday. He was so proud of the result I could practically hear his giddiness in the air around his fro. Total, afro-puff, man!

Peter's Toy Story Party

2010-09-21T16:44:00.000-07:00

The invitation:

I felt so much pity for Woody when only one boy chose the "Woody Side" that I actually made a couple of them make the switch without their knowledge (as in "Here, let me fix your cape for you, Buddy!"). How can you watch Toy Story an estimated gazillion times and not have your heart-strings pull for the cowboy?

When I was pregnant with Peter and found out I was having boy #4, people asked me if I was disappointed. Are you kidding me? My internal organs get all soft and sappy when I think of little boys and I could never get enough! I could have just squished all these boys together and made a little pie of cuteness and eaten the whole thing myself. (I don't know exactly what that means, but you get the general gist, right?)

I had been wanting to do a Superman Party, but finally gave in (and you can plainly see how I still stubbornly used some of my super-hero ideas in the planning).

The green grapes were a must on the Pizza Planet menu. Every time we're in the produce section and Peter sees them he yells delightedly, "Look! Buzz Lightyear grapes!"

Just looking at this busty creation makes me feel slightly sick, like a mandatory nap is around the corner. This fellow bordered on confectionary deviance. I was insanely determined to master a 3-D Buzz cake, so I planned out my strategy for days before the party. I ended up using THREE cake mixes, two pans, about six hours of after-hours labor, and absolutely no common sense. When I finally tucked my frosting-covered, obviously stupid self into bed some time after 4 AM, I had to get up again and take about twelve pictures of the cake because I was sure it would somehow be magically destroyed by morning.

When we were chowing down on the cake, Caleb looked at me between sweet mouthfuls and said wryly, "Well, it looks like this is the last party this Buzz is going to!"

No, you di-unt. Yes. We did. We just used a butter-knife as a party guillotine and lopped the poor guy's cranium clean off. It was too funny to watch Peter's expression as we served it up on a platter (I will refrain from making any inappropriate Biblical allusions here. Sorry, Mr Baptist, for even thinking of it.)

Volume VI, issue viii, August 2010

2010-09-05T23:22:00.000-07:00

Caleb's Big Day

Even though Caleb's 8th birthday was in April, he chose to wait until July to be baptized so that his cousins could be there (with the exception of his only cousin on the d'Evegnee side, who was still too little, having just been born a few weeks earlier--HOORAY for MATTHEW!).

When I leaned close with my proudly glistening eyes after the big moment and reverently him asked how it felt to be baptized, expecting spiritual pearls to spring forth, he said, "Everyone has been asking me that."

I chuckled (which makes me sound really old and matronly and like I'm wearing a mandatory floral jumper, but that is what I did) and prodded a tad, "So. . . how DO you feel?"

My newly purified offspring looked back at me and said, "How do you think I feel?"

* * *

(On the sweeter side)

A few weeks before Caleb's baptism, we were having Family Home Evening and I was giving the lesson about choices and consequences (sound familiar?). I told the kids that I always wanted them to make good choices so that we could always be together as a family, sort of like on the same "team." I told them that we need to plan now so that when they get older they will still be able to feel the Spirit in their lives. I asked them what we could do as a family to make sure that happens. The other kids gave some great responses, but Caleb was quiet as he studied his folded hands.

As the others stampeded into the kitchen for the treat, Caleb stayed behind and whispered, "I know what we can do to help us always be together."

"What, Caleb?"

He softly answered, "We can always try to feel the way we feel when we are holding Marie."

(I can't even write about it without getting several lumps in my throat.) That's when I sure he was ready to be baptized.

All Petered Out

(Spoiler : This contains my favorite story in a good long time. And THAT is saying something!)

Peter has been a man of few words for a long time. We've tried to encourage him to "use his words" and we've even helped him pray for "more words" during his bedtime prayers. Perhaps there was no need for him to talk with Caleb the "Peter Whisperer" around, or perhaps he didn't want to waste his words on those of us who wouldn't appreciate them. However, during the last few months, both Peter's personality and sentence structure have blossomed into an irresistible mixture of humor, charm, and sincerity.

Peter's Sunbeam teacher from Primary tracked me down last week and said she had a "Peter Story" for me. I said, "Oh no." She said, "No. . . it's funny."

They had been having a lesson entitled "I am Thankful for Food" a few weeks ago (they like to tackle the deeper issues of theology in the Sunbeam class). The teacher asked the kids what foods they liked to eat and Peter raised his hand and started squirming with excitement in his chair. His teacher called on him and he bounced up and down on his little behind as he started to talk.

He took a deep breath and said, "I went to Gamma and Gampas. . . . and. . . . there was FIRE!. . . . and there was. . . .CRACKERS!. . . . and there was. . . MARSHMALLOWS!. . . and there was. . . . CHOCOLATE!!! And. . . and. . . (by this time she said he was wiggling so much in his chair and speaking with so much passion that she was on the edge of her seat) . . . . and it was. . . it was. . . . it was. . . .LOVE!!!!"

As he reached that climatic last word, he sighed and sunk down into his chair with the pure emotion of his story, and grinned with satisfaction.

All Things Bright and Back-to-School

Unbel-EVE-able

Eric: When is it time for me to spank your butt?

Eve: My butt is too adorable to be spanked.

* * *

Eric was spread out daddy-fashion on the couch when Eve came up to nestle her way into her usual spot in his arms. He looked at her, raised his eyebrows and said, "Why?"

Eve responded, "Because you love me. . . and you MUST."

Eve got to cheer for the good ole' Madison Bobcats (WAHOO to Jon, Dave, Tom, and Cheer-Queen Auntie Em!) after attending the cheerleaders' fund-raiser/cheer camp/booty-shake-fest. (I don't know what the Madison High Cheerleaders are called, but you MUST believe me when I tell you that in the 80's the drill team used to be called the Bob-Cadettes. But there was a minimum bang-height requirement, so I never would have made it. Luckily we moved before I had a chance to seriously consider it.)

During half-time, as Eve clapped and smiled coquettishly at the crowd, I leaned over to one of the other moms and said, "I am just a little ashamed with myself for how cute I find this." I was simultaneously haunted and pleased when someone said, "Wow. Eve is really good at that!" The Eleanor Roosevelt in me huffed a little at the anti-feminist display, while the Kathie Lee part shrieked drunkenly and struggled to get up on the field and shout out Eve's name and perhaps join her in a few hip-gyrations (luckily Eleanor was there to restrain me).

A Shout-Out to Gregor Samsa

Holden has an enviable social ease that has been present since he was a baby. During my hours of piano-lesson teaching and otherwise bringing home the proverbial bacon for my student-husband, Eric used to take Holden on long walks around Provo to survive the stress of speeding his way through school while working at his early morning janitorial job and dealing with a pregnant wife. Even before he was a year old, Holden would wave his bechubbed fingers in such a cheerfully diplomatic way as he hailed any passer-bys within the sound of his high-pitched, "Hi!" that Eric dubbed him "The Senator." Heck, I'd vote for him.

Holden isn't phased by the blowing social winds of middle school, being content with whatever clothes or hairstyle his Mom chooses. For school pictures, we (meaning I) decided to try a new coif that was short around the back and sides, but just a tad longer in front--that sort of "I-just-gelled-my-hair-and-then-ran-into-a-wall look." I cut and styled his hair that morning, telling him how handsome he looked and how much I liked the tween-o-centric style (although I didn't use those exact words).

Even Eric got in on the praise (with a side of teasing, of course) telling him how much Ally Rigby (a heart-breakingly cute blonde in our ward) would like his haircut. Holden shrugged it off and rolled his eyes. But as he put on his jacket to leave and Eric started to put his hood up, Holden swatted his hand away and said, "No! My hair!"

Uh-oh. This scares me much more than Kafka ever could.

I Can't Believe I Didn't Have to Use Butter!

I had to jump on this photo-op before her calves came springing out of the boots and the skirt went zinging off into the trees. I'll probably have to erase this when she's old enough to understand it, but for now, we can exploit her chubby-kneed-ness. When I pack her into little skirts like this, Eric starts to sing a little "Big Legs, Tight Skirt!" Thank you, John Lee Hooker, for not discriminating against the clothing-challenged.

Top d'Evegnee

2010-08-21T11:31:00.000-07:00

The Mission: To make 250 bite-sized servings of French Cuisine to be sampled by the youth from our Stake.

I was given the assignment by my friend, Shannon, who is in the Stake Young Women's Presidency. I was thrilled to accept the challenge, but not without my sous-chef, Eric, by my side. (This blog will self-destruct in two minutes. . . or at least the writer will at this rate.)

Eric and I had a little tête-a-tête and settled on whipping up a little vichyssoise and some crepes. I delusionally patted my own back for exercising restraint, but after all of the chopping, cooking, and flipping (out) that went on during the whole process, I can see now that I "over do it" even when the little voice in my head assures me in such a convincing, yet harried, way that I'm not overdoing it. Why didn't we just do one dish instead of two? Looking back, I realized that I honestly had a part of my brain that was hoping the judges would be extra impressed by my execution of two dishes instead of one.

Wait. There WERE no judges! This is reality, Sarah. Not a cooking show, honey! (Too much Top Chef. Too much Iron Chef. Too much Chopped. You caught me!)

Eric and I kept a running gag going about feeling like we were on a reality show, but the pathetic truth is that more than once I felt like I was going to get kicked off the show or lose points if I didn't season our dishes perfectly. . . and I was nervous.

I actually caught myself at one point thinking, "Now, when Shannon comes to our table, I have to make sure I get her a fresh, hot sample."

When I fretted about the seasoning of the soup, Eric tasted it and said, "Well, it's not bad, but I'm not sure what Tom Colicchio is going to think about it."

More than once, Eric and I frantically shouted, "Time!" as we scrambled to get our food completed before 7:00 and then we'd burst into a fit of giggles (that makes Eric sound much too feminine for his liking. . . sorry, man). We started chopping veggies at about 3:30 and barely screeched into the chapel at 6:55.

We gained more empathy for the contestants on those cooking shows, but how many of them have to try and take care of and feed SIX kids while trying to complete their dishes?

The recipes are on the Recipe Blog!

Our kitchen counter was piled high with grocery store bounty, making it look like we had just breezed in from a French Country Fair (We actually had gone to the Madison County Fair the day before, and what it was. . . was NOT breezy. [Unless, that is, your idea of breezy is a combination of toothless carnies, Rexburg Poofs, and chickens. . . lots of chickens]).

When Eric and I used to teach the French Culture Class at the MTC in Provo, he could whip up about fifty crepes in 30 minutes with no errors. (Can you see why I married the kid?) Yesterday he did not disappoint.

We were frantically ladling up soup and setting out samples for a good fifteen minutes before the wave of hormones, acne, and social awkwardness descended upon us. And that's before the youth even got to our table (HAH). Seriously, though, there is a reason you are blind to the reality of adolescence when you're smack dab in the middle of it. I don't care how many clichéd movies there are trying to convince you that you'll learn much-needed life lessons by somehow going backwards or forwards in time or switching places with one of your progeny through magic or voodoo or fortune cookie or hot-tub or DeLorean--you couldn't pay me to go back there.

The hair flipping, flirting, screeching herds milled about the gym in a controlled, orbit-like , caste-based motion that was quite beautiful actually.

And so hypnotic. . . .a whole universe of socially arbitrary, cruel satellites. . .

Both Eric and I watched them for a good three minutes of open-mouthed, horrified silence until we snapped ourselves out of our stunned stupor and looked at each other in mutual gratitude.

We started serving the crowd. Again and again the word "vichyssoise" caused them screw up their faces in that teen look of repugnance I adore so much.

I smiled and told them reassuringly, "It's potato and leek soup," as if that would make their slack jaws and misshapen mouths go back to normal.

Wrong.

I had somehow forgotten that an unknown word like "leek" would wreak havoc on the appetite of our adolescent audience. When I said the word, they looked at me like I had told them I had put a small, fanged, woodland creature in their soup.

Our mind-bogglingly extroverted friend, Derek, helped us serve our French fare, but kept calling the soup, "Viscious Swans" and saying "Craypes" to get on our nerves. He swaggered up to youth, girls or boys, and would say, "Are you ready to eat the most mind-blowing thing you've ever tasted?" After about twenty minutes, he said to Eric, "Okay, I started annoying myself ten minutes ago." That's why we love him, even though he comes from the opposite end of the social spectrum.

Luckily for us, Derek was on our team and the teens reluctantly tried the soup. One of them said to her friend, "Hey. This is just potato soup."

On Saturday, Eric flipped out dozens more crepes for our little frenchies at home for breakfast and we feasted on Vichyssoise, french breads and cheeses for lunch.

Eric insists that our kids say crepe with a french accent, which causes some obvious (but hilarious) linguistic ambiguity. Yes. I do like to exploit my children. But it was so funny I had to get it on tape.

Marie's TWO-TWO Birthday Ballet Bash

2010-08-07T23:49:00.000-07:00

Marie turned two an embarrassingly long time ago, but I couldn't bear the thought of not throwing the party I had been planning since I had my ultrasound two-and-a-half years ago.

WARNING: You may want to slide on your sunglasses if you have an aversion to things that are hyper-pink (as in pastel-pepto--which you may need after you witness this overdone party).
Like the two and three year old ballerinas we invited, I like invitations to be interactive so that I can move them from side to side and play with them before I have to take my nap. Marie's invitation was designed for dancing (just like me. . . I love it when I'm so tired I just don't care anymore. No self-edit button? No problem!)

You know it's a rockin' party when a few belly buttons make an appearance! Woot! Woot!

This is a group of people I could hang out with all day and not get tired of. YUM! Is it bad if you kind of want to eat your party guests with lots of whipped cream and frosting? (Don't answer that. I'm not going all Jonathan Swift on you.)

The day after the party, when we were all feeling mighty hung-over from the sweetness of the day before, Peter woke me up too early for a summer morning and dragged me out of bed so I could slop some breakfast in a bowl for him. But he didn't want cereal for his post-party meal. He said to me, "Mom. I want some Barbie-que cake."

The sound of my own belly laugh woke me up. (Especially because I remembered Eric trying to find all sorts of inappropriate locations for the two candles on our cake. . . use your imagination. This is a family blog!)

When we cranked up the classical music and told the pint-sized ballerinas to dance, they all started spinning like little tutu-clad tops and wouldn't stop. They kept turning and turning until we noticed that they were starting to tilt ever so slightly. And then, like some sorority of dizziness, they began to topple over like girls who had had their first taste of tainted punch at the prom. Take a close close look at their little nausea filled faces. Ahh. I do SO know how to party.

As we were prepping Barbie to be eaten (please don't read this aloud to your kids!), Ethan looked at her sugary gown and said, "That cake went straight to her hips!"

Volume VI, issue vii, July 2010

2010-07-28T00:49:00.000-07:00

Camp d'Evegnee is brewing with a vengeance now that Dad has a little vacation time. This week should probably have been called "My Big Fat Camp d'Evegnee," but we've chosen to call it "Greek Week."

Holden instructed us all about the in's and out's of Greek Mythology and we did the cooking and crafting as a team of giggly, giddy familial olympians. To cap off the week, we had chariot races and our own Olympics.

I've decided to post all of the recipes on my recipe blog so they don't take up too much space here. There is a link on the sidebar or you click here: RecipeParty.blogspot.com.

Let me just say, though, that our tastebuds were in Olympus with all of the earthy, homey flavors. We were so happy to see our little geeks, uh. . . I mean, greeks gobbling down spinach and eggplant, among other things. Eric says he wishes that every week could be Greek Week just because of the menu.

After one of our evening feasts, Ethan made up this joke:

What do you call a Greek God after he eats too much?

An O-limp-ian.
On Wednesday night, we watched "Percy Jackson" and tonight we watched "Clash of the Titans" (with a little light editing. . . kids only need to see so much dismembering of mythological monsters).

During a break in the movie, Eve looked up at me and said cheerfully, "Hi, Goddess of all Moms!"

After the scene where Percy learns that the Gods can't hang out with their mortal offspring, Eve said to Eric, "I'm glad you're not a God. . . so you can spend time with me."

Ethan rode the Zeus Mobile and chucked cardboard lightening bolts at the other chariots, white Holden painted a huge white skull on the front of his chariot and proudly represented Hades. Caleb raced in the "Sea Mobile" (C-Mobile, get it?).

Eve chose to ride her chariot for the Goddess Athena and we told her she could write anything she wanted on the side of her vehicle. She asked me for some help on the spelling, but she honestly wrote the line: "Wisdom is an experience."

We asked her where she had heard the phrase and she shrugged her shoulders and explained that she hadn't heard it anywhere. Okay. . . not to brag because I know she's my daughter and all . . . but what can I say here?

Volume VI, issue vi, June 2010

2010-07-10T23:52:00.000-07:00

The Graduate

For Eve, kindergarten was like walking the red carpet. You strut along the plush, preparatory path, wave to your admirers, maybe even blow a few kisses, and then you go on to the big event. From day one at the bottom rung on the elementary school ladder, not even a tic of anxiety passed over Eve's demeanor. It takes a pretty big storm to ruffle Eve's boa feathers. She takes each event as it comes, happy with whatever she gets. (Cause you git what you git and you don't throw. . . )

* * *

As she read one of her final homework books of the year to Eric, she methodically plowed through each page. After reading one of the pages, she paused and looked at Eric impishly. Finally she raised her eyebrows and slowly said, "Wait for it. . . wait for it. . . " and then turned the page and went on reading as if nothing had happened.

* * *

A few days ago, Eve dramatically burst into the room, waving her hands and shouting, "They lied to us ALL!"

She had been in her room looking through her pre-school photo-album when she had seen a picture of someone dressed up like the Easter Bunny and realized, in her state of obviously increased maturity, that it wasn't actually the real Easter Bunny.

* * *

On one of her final kindergarten days, she bounced in from the bus and happily announced, "My teacher says I'm ready for Once Grade!"

Labor Pains

Summer at our house means a little bit of sun, lunch at the park, Camp d'Evegnee and more time for chores. Some people do Spring Cleaning, but at our house we wait a season to start the true scrub-down. I'm pretty sure we bent, if not broke, several child labor laws, but I have to admit that seeing those four big kids bent over the crown molding with toothbrushes and attacking Marie's petite little swirly pen markings on the wall with magic erasers put me in a rather good mood. Our little laborers have spent hours in the garden weeding like servants, but they've also been rewarded like kings (Lucky for me, the motivation of double dollar store prizes was a royal reward to them! Eight bucks for like thirty hours of work? Sweet.).

One morning as I worked on cleaning the kitchen, I overheard someone singing loudly enough to be heard over the roar of the vacuum. I perked up my ears and moved in closer to the staircase so I could hear the lyrics. Holden was vacuuming the stairs and crooning with feeling, "I'm just a poor boy from a poor family! " in a way that was most certainly both bohemian and rhapsodic.

As I was cleaning out my closet and my room, bravely willing myself to toss out nostalgic momentos like the shoes I wore to defend my Masters Thesis (I still kept the dress. . . maybe next year), Caleb walked in, surveyed my work as he nodded thoughtfully over my progress and said, "Good job, Mom. Reeeaaally good job."

Thanks, Caleb. Even Moms need a little encouragement.

Wrapped Around Marie's Finger

Marie's vocabulary is increasing as exponentially as her charm. We get chills each time she says, "Love you" or bounds up to Caleb for a squeeze, arms outstretched and calling out to him, "Bug! Bug!" One of my favorite Marie-isms is when she expresses her gratitude by crinkling up her eyes, breaking into a wide grin and saying, "Thank you. . . MUCH."

What she lacks in vocabulary, Marie makes up for with her belief that air-kisses are worth a thousand words. She'll pucker up and give a loud smooch to punctuate any tender moment.

However, the length of the kissing sound is often determined by how much trouble she knows is bound to follow her previous choice. If caught with her pen or crayon in hand while embellishing our white walls with her signature tiny circles or engaging in any other similarly destructive activity, she looks at me innocently, protrudes her pudgy lips and offers a full-bodied, five-second long air kiss as if her life depends on it.

* * *

She still demands payment of her food tax at each meal and we all know that by the end of dinner she'll be sitting on my lap, eating more of the same exact menu she left unfinished on her highchair tray. When I let Eve try a bite of something I was eating (probably when I was finally eating lunch at about 2:00 in the afternoon when I remembered that I had forgotten to eat yet), she tasted it and then said, " I agree with Marie. Other people's food does taste better."

The Sweeter the Peter. . .the Louder the Juice

Our other kids didn't make their debut in Sharing Time in Primary at Church until they were four, but apparently this ward likes a bit of comedy mixed in with religion, because they let the three-year-old sunbeams have a turn giving scriptures and prayers. When it was Peter's turn to "read" a scripture and offer the closing prayer, it was like open-mic night at The Laugh Factory.

I whispered the words into Peter's ear so he could repeat them into the microphone and he looked at me like, "Are you setting me up, Woman? You've been warning me not to talk into this microphone ever since I can remember and now you're telling me to let loose. . . and with a reverent audience?"

At first he just giggled at the sheer absurdity of the moment. You could hear the belly laugh amplified around the room, which only made him and his rapt audience laugh more. When he realized that I was serious, he spoke softly at first and then gained volume as he gained confidence. Eric and I had wisely chosen to have Peter share a scripture sliver, if you will, rather than a whole verse, thinking that the runaway comedy train might be controlled with brevity.

We were wrong.

I whispered "By the power of the Holy Ghost, ye shall know the truth of all things" into his cute little ear two or three words at a time.

Peter's translation sounded like this :

By. . . the. . .heh-heh-heh," (whispered, then accompanied by a look of sheer joy and anticipation of what's coming next)

POWER!!!. . . (shouted with enough force to send it reverberating around the room for about twenty horrifying seconds. . . I exaggerate only a tiny bit)

GHOST!!!! (louder giggling, not only from Peter, but from the slightly shocked, slightly bemused Primary kids)

THINGS!!! (full-on laughter from everyone in the congregation, including the teachers, Primary Presidency, and Eric)

What is that famous quote we use in hard times? I never said it would be easy; I only said it would be funny? Something like that.

* * *

I was pushing Peter and Marie on the swings with somewhat lackluster enthusiasm, when Peter started rebuking me with cherubic fury. He yelled, "Press A! Press A!!"

Confused, I told him I didn't understand what he meant and he kept saying, "Press A!"

Finally, using all of my maternal powers of deduction, I figured out that he was talking to me in the foreign tongue of Wii.

Peter's fraternal Wii mentors are always telling him to "Press A" when he needs to go faster or higher on the game. I laughed at my realization and said, "Oh! You want me to push you higher?" Peter nodded with enthusiasm. Now, even Marie screams a hearty, "Press A!!!" when she needs an extra shove on the swings.

Something Fishy

Many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after.
-Henry David Thoreau

When Ethan returned from his first real fishing trip (real meaning you catch them and you actually eat them) in Montana for our family reunion, I expected him to regale me with tales of the glories of worms and fish guts. But when he walked in the house, he was uncharacteristically tight lipped and pale. Before I could even ask what was wrong, he softly said, "It was. . . really. . . violent" and then he sort of shuddered and walked away.

Apparently squeezing pulsating wildlife while your Dad extricates blood, innards, and a hook wasn't what Ethan had expected. Why didn't Thoreau ever mention any of that?

Needless to say, at the huge trout fry that night, Ethan mostly stuck with the side-dishes. That's okay with me, though. It just meant more for me. I wasn't there to witness the savagery, so I pigged out on Grandpa's delicious Trout Almondine, thinking all the while of Norman MacLean with just a smidge of Brad Pitt thrown in (pre-Angelina, of course), my meal being narrated by one Robert Redford.

2010-05-16T16:04:00.000-07:00

Salon de Mom

All four of our boys were looking extremely shaggy, so with Stake Conference not until 1:00 this afternoon, I got that scissor-happy gleam in my eyes. Hair was soaring through the bathroom as I sheared, snipped, and clipped each boy's thick locks in turn. It was like that scene when Edward Scissorhands creates snow-flurries as he sculpts ice, but my storm was more like. . . hair-flurries. (You didn't want to be there.) By the time I was finished with each of my four subjects, it looked like a medium-sized hairy animal was sleeping in the trash-can. Yes. GROSS.

Eric has been bugging/nagging/pestering me to give Ethan a more "mature" hairstyle for months. Across the long row at Church, he would look at me sternly, then look at Ethan and mouth, "He needs a haircut" and I would respond by giving him my best you-knew-what-I-was-when-you-picked-me-up pouty face and mouthing, "But he has such great hair!"

I think he wants him to look more "Rexburg Elementary" rather than "Disney Channel High." However, Ethan and I rather like the flowing style. His hair is so thick and perfect for a longish do, plus I told Eric, "He can never have his hair this long again, so why not enjoy it?"

At the Blue and Gold banquet for scouts, our Bishop had all of the nine-year-old scouts line up and asked them what they had in common with missionaries. They piped up, "We wear a uniform" "We have high standards!" etc, etc. And then one of them said, "We have short hair!" then he paused, gave a long, slow glance at Ethan and said, "Well, except for him!"

I was so proud of Ethan. He didn't even flinch. He just stood there proudly like Samson of old (before Delilah, that is).

He's got it and he knows how to flaunt it. You go, Cover Boy! (Should I be proud of that? Yikes.) This is a shampoo commercial the kids made up that they wanted me to film. (You can see from Eve's post-self-inflicted-haircut that it was awhile ago.)

I told Ethan this would be our "Compromise Cut."

PS If you want to read about the time that wasn't a Sunday that Crazy Mommy made an appearance when her only daughter with hair (at the time) cut her own hair, click hair, uh, I mean, here:

Crazy Mommy Rises Again

Danish Delight on a Sunday Morn

If you think of Danishes as the stale, day-old offering at the Best Western free breakfast, you need to meet my sister-in-law, Amy. At the Hafen Girls' Retreat in February, my hot Danish SIL taught us how to make the lightest, fluffiest, Danish pancakes that reality can contain--ebelskivers. If you could actually hear her say it, your heart would melt into a pool of butter and sugar right there. It really is a beautiful linguistical combination. We were all in Danish heaven (and butter heaven too)! My sister, Emily, had given me an ebelskiver pan for my birthday (I know! Nana-Nana Boo-Boo!), and after the cooking demo I was ready to start flipping.

Since we had all morning to keep the Sabbath day holy, we decided to spend it making three different kinds of ebelskivers: chocolate peanut-butter and chocolate filled, cheese and bacon filled, and regular. We also made buttermilk syrup and our newest culinary experiment, cranberry-lime syrup. Oh, and to make it more healthy, we added strawberries and whipped cream to our tablescape. Eric also whipped up another one of his quiches just in case we were still starving. (And yes, this would be my "free meal" for the week. All of this week's running, elliptical-ing, shredding, and veggie consuming was dedicated to this gluttonous moment.)

Click here to see a demonstration of the Ebelskivers and then ask your Mom or your husband to hurry up and give you a pan for your birthday/post-Mother's-Day-blues etc:

Ebelskivers

Buttermilk Syrup

1½ cup sugar

¾ cup buttermilk

½ cup butter

1 tsp baking soda
Boil for 7 min.

Remove from heat and add 2 tsp. vanilla

Cranberry-Lime Syrup

1 1/2 c sugar
4 t cornstarch

1 t cinnamon

1 c cranberry juice
1 T lime juice
2 T butter or margarine

Mix cinnamon, sugar and cornstarch together. Stir in juices. Cook over medium heat until thickened and bubbly. Cook 2 minutes more. Remove from heat and add butter. Makes 1 and ½ cups.

Ebelskivers

2 c. flour

1 t baking powder

1/2 t salt

1 T sugar

4 eggs, separated

2 c milk

4 T butter, melted, plus more for cooking

In a bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, salt, and sugar. In a smaller bowl, lightly whisk the egg yolks and add the 4 T melted butter and the milk . Whisk the yolk mixture into the flour mixture until well combined. The batter will be lumpy.

In another bowl, beat egg whites until stiff peaks form. Fold into batter.

Coat each well of ebelskiver pan with butter (I just unwrap the top part of a cube of butter and run it along the well. It's much faster.) Set pan over medium heat and spoon 1 T of batter into each well. Add 1 t of desired fillings (chocolate, cheese and bacon, apples, etc or just leave plain) and then top with 1 T of batter. Cook until bottom is golden brown and turn each pancake with two wooden skewers (this is the FUN part!). Cook for 2-3 minutes more and then transfer to a plate and see how fast they disappear!

For Chocolate Ebelskivers, we added cocoa powder and melted chocolate chips. Then we filled them with chocolate chips and a dollop of peanut butter. These ones were especially good with the Cran-Lime Syrup or the strawberries and whipped cream or just plain. . . oh sorry. I dozed off just thinking about them.

And, for own sense of dietary self-esteem, I wanted you to see the light dinner we ate. I got this recipe from my good friend and kitchen whiz, Kelly. This is an easy recipe if you're looking for something to put a little ka-pow in your weekly menu. (I made a few modifications on the sauce. I halved the sugar and added some of the pineapple juice. It's really healthy, especially if you omit the sauce from your kebab. )

Sweet and Sour Turkey Meatball Kebabs

Sweet and Sour Sauce

1/2 cup water

1/4 cup sugar
Juice from can of pineapple

1 Tablespoon vinegar
2 Tablespoons ketchup
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 cup cold water mixed with 2 tablespoons of cornstarch

Boil the 1/2 cup water, add the sugar, vinegar, ketchup, pineapple juice and salt.
Stir well, then mix in the cornstarch and water mixture and stir
constantly until thickened. (Add more water if necessary.)
You can double it if your kids want more for dipping or "drinking."

Foster Farms Italian style turkey meatballs
1 can Fresh pineapple chunks
Red and Green peppers cut up (We use sliced zuchinni.)

I thread these on skewers and cook them on my George Forman until the meat is warm and the pineapple is carmelized. (I just broil them in the oven.)

I serve it over rice (half brown half white) It is so easy and really yummy.

Dear Mother's Day. . . Ummm. . . You and I need to talk.

2010-05-09T15:33:00.000-07:00

Dear Mother's Day,

Since you're obviously female, I will talk to you like a girl. I totally love you--you know that, right? And we (meaning all of the mothers) totally love you! But. . .

I think it would be really good for you to know that there are some things you really need to work on, and in the spirit of Charity, I'd like to share them with you:

10 Things I Hate About You

1) You are always, always on a Sunday. Whose messed-up, masculine-centered, warped idea was that? Don't you know that I always have three hours of Church on Sunday? Don't you know that our husbands always have meetings on Sunday and that we are left alone to pioneerishly fend for ourselves in a sort of ragged, harried, Sunday morning seizure of Church Preparations?

Sunday, by its very nature, is the day on which it is the most difficult to maintain a nice, smiley, patient, maternal disposition. You, Mothers' Day, should know that! Getting the kids ready for Church for two hours, and stuffing something in their mouths that won't get their Church clothes filthy right before Church does NOT bring out the best in me! (Oh! The SHOES and the SOCKS alone! All of the finding and squeezing and wrestling and buckling and finding again!) My Mission President loved to describe me as "sweet and happy." And that is pretty much true in general, I think. But on Sunday mornings, I turn into some twisted Mormon housewife version of Joan Crawford.

In fact, if I took a poll of my children and asked them when they think the time of the week is that Crazy Mommy comes out to play, it would be unanimous. Sunday! Crazy Sunday Mommy's screams of, "What time is it?!?. . . We're NOT going to make it!. . . Get your shoes on! Your shoes don't fit?!? You just wore them yesterday!. . . Who put GUM in your hair?. . . You just ATE your scriptures?. . . How did you get claw marks on your neck?. . . Get ready right this second so we can go to Church and learn about LOVE, DARN IT!!!!" aren't heard in that freakish, shriekish, shaky pitch any other day of the week! I am so nice and calm on Tuesdays! Why can't you be on a Tuesday?

2) Breakfast in bed.

I don't like eating in bed. It's where I sleep for goodness sake! The idea of crumbs in my bed makes me envision all of those millions of dust-mites the Kirby Vacuum Dude described in surprisingly vivid detail all coming for a picnic on my person. And not that I spill food, but just the IDEA of the food in the same place that I slumber makes me want to rip my lips off. (Okay. That's a lie. If you know me, you know that I notoriously slop sauces, drizzle liquids, and generally smear the front of myself with anything edible.)

And yet you make everyone who is not me in this house feel obligated to serve my first meal of the day to me in bed because of some weird ideological conspiracy I don't understand. Does it date back to the 50's when the table-tray market needed a leg up and mothers felt like they were more valued if they just weren't on their high-heeled feet for a few morning minutes? I don't get it.

3) I cannot, no matter how hard I try, make it to Church on time on you (Mother's Day--to whom I am speaking). See #1 and #2.

This morning I lay in bed way past the time when I needed to be up and at 'em to get the kids ready for Church, knowing that every minute of the wails of, "SHHHH! BE QUIET!!!! MOM'S SLEEPING!!!" was one more minute late we would come skulking in to Church looking grumpy and angry at the world.

I lay there in bed, listening to my sweet husband yelling curse words in French as he tried to cook the breakfast with the kids' help until he finally came storming into the bedroom in frustration. (But the bacon and leek quiche really was delicious and I didn't end up helping one bit! And because he had "spoiled" the "surprise" by coming to get me, I got to eat at the table! No bed bugs there! YAY!)

By the time breakfast was over, Eric had to guiltily rush off to a meeting, and I was left having to bathe all of the kids who didn't bathe yesterday because they were out shopping for me during bath-time. (And I was not singing sweet songs of maternal bliss and glory as I dunked them in the tub faster than they have ever been dunked. . . and neither were they.)

We were exactly twenty-four minutes late. I am a terrible mother who can't even get her kids to be on time for Church ON MOTHER'S DAY!!!

4) I don't like my role as a Mother being the center of attention. The whole day is like being targeted by MAMMA-Razzi of the endearingly naive newlywed and/or forgetful elderly variety and I just want to enjoy my twins and sextuplets in privacy! (Oh, wait. . . How about. . . It's a crazy life, but it's our life? Oh. . . sorry. I got off track.)

There is too much pressure to be a good Mom when everyone is talking about it for a WHOLE day. If I am caught in the hallway (at Church, of course) with a misbehaving child on Mother's Day, what kind of a mother must I be the rest of the year? Anything I do today is suddenly a reflection of what kind of mother I am. It's like my annual maternal report card and no matter what grades I receive I feel like I should have done better.

5) Husbands getting sucked into the consumer vortex out of pure guilt and fear.

I'm sorry, but Eric is NOT my child and I am NOT his mother! First of all. . . eeeww, let's not get all Oedipus today and second of all, he feels guilty enough on Christmas, my birthday, Valentine's Day, and Arbor Day anyway (I just really dig trees), without having one more day that forces him to show me the quantity of his love for me in dollar signs.

6) I am not old enough to wear a corsage to Church and I don't like them anyway. It's like everyone thinks it's the Mom Prom or something. Again. Eeeew. No thank you.

7) Every year, all the women I know (That's not a generalization. I know A LOT of women.) talk about how Mother's Day makes them feel inadequate, inferior, and guilt-ridden, yet we keep on celebrating it the same way every year. Why do we have to talk about how much we hate it in some sort of dysfunctional ritual, and then still say and do the exact same things in a perpetual Ground Hoggish Day sort of way? Can't we just take a vacation from Mother's Day one year and give all of the money we would have spent on cards and flowers to a nice charity?

8) I never know what to wear on Mother's Day. Since I feel like the Mamma-razzi has their eye on me, I need to look especially put-together, fashionable yet modest, and just a little sassy, like I'm nurturing, yet with-it, right? And yet every Mother's Day, I only have about a minute and a half to get ready because I've been held hostage in my bed all morning! And then, like today, I make my grand entrance (Exactly twenty-four minutes late, remember? So I get the full effect of all of the gawking) in a wet up-do, wearing the same outfit I wore on Friday to teach, and then again yesterday to go to the temple. (Yes. Just stop counting. I realize that makes three days in a row. Yeah. So, not only am I totally tardy, and embarrassingly disheveled, but I probably have B.O. too. And on Mother's Day of all days! Have I no respect?!?)

9) I'm going to be totally honest. I don't really have ten things that I hate about Mother's Day. It just sounded good. But I'm sure I can think of two more things to whine about if I think hard enough. I'm so conflicted about you, Mother's Day. I secretly LIKE getting a gift at the end of Church. Today, at the end of Church, I felt my neck actually craning to see what kind of loot I was going to walk off with. It kind of felt like Oprah for a second.

10) After berating Peter for nearly clawing out Caleb's trachea this morning, and giving him the fastest bath in the west with zero play-time, and then listening to him cry that he was a "Bad Boy" for five minutes, I hollered at the kids to give me the time. I had exactly fourteen minutes left before we needed to be at Church, in our seats, looking familialy fabulous.

I looked down at that pouty little kid sitting on the floor in his Sunday best, his hair still wet from his dunking, and I gave up. My hair was still wet. I was still wearing my rainbow pajama pants and my shirt that was housing more food than Chuck-a-rama. Those old ladies at Church would surely wrinkle their perfectly lipsticked mouths and surmise that I was the most terrible Mother in our grand city, and everyone would surely lower my maternal grade ten points as we walked in late, but I was going to sit on the floor and I was going to love my boy.

I sat on the wet floor and hugged Peter tight and whispered to his curly little head, "No, Peter. You're a good boy. You're a good boy." And I sat with him as the seconds ticked by and I rocked him and I held him close, knowing that those seconds in my arms count more for him (and for me) than for the ladies at Church or my report-card.

Eric screeched in from his meeting five minutes before Church started and he saw me sitting there with Peter, still in my PJ's and still not caring a bit. He helped me get Marie dressed and sang to her about her shoes. He didn't even glance at the clock.

We took pictures of the kids, then I asked Eric to take pictures of me with the kids. We strolled over to Church, and I touched Holden's arm and noticed how tall he's getting. I memorized the way Eve and Marie bounce-stepped in tandem, hand in hand, Eve calling Marie her "Little Pumpkin Pie." I told them all as we walked how happy I was just to be with them, even if we were a few minutes late. And I meant it.

I walked in twenty-four minutes late to Church. I walked right up to the fifth row, which was the only free row (because we need that entire row) with my messy head held high and my hand in Peter's.

Oh, how I love being a mother. It was my choice before it was even a choice. It is the reason I wake up in the morning, for breakfast in bed or not.

I just HATE you, Mother's Day. Nothing personal.

Love ya! 'Preciate ya! Don't tell ya enuf!

-Sarah

P.S. Despite all of the negative, tongue in cheek (sort of) venting, I do have to thank you, Mother's Day. It was because of you that I got to eat the BEST quiche of my LIFE today! As Holden grated the cheese and Ethan helped with the crust, Eric called them his, "Quiche-sters." While we ate, we kept telling each other to, "Quiche me, baby!" and other equally annoying puns.

PPS Since I know you like to cook (you sort of HAVE to, being Mother's Day and all), here's the recipe:

PPPS I think I just burned dinner because I was writing YOU this letter!

Bacon and Leek Quiche

FILLING
1 pound thickly sliced bacon, cut into 1/2-inch dice
3 large leeks, white and tender green parts only, thinly sliced
1 teaspoon chopped thyme leaves
Salt and freshly ground white pepper
8 ounces cave-aged Gruyère cheese, shredded
(Eric just used Swiss since Gruyere is harder to come by here than a sunny day!)
4 large eggs
2 large egg yolks
2 1/2 cups heavy cream or half-and-half

DIRECTIONS
Preheat the oven to 375°. On a floured surface, roll 1 disk of the pastry to a 12-inch round. Ease the pastry into a 10-inch fluted tart pan with a removable bottom without stretching. Trim the excess and use it to patch any holes. Refrigerate the tart shell for 10 minutes. Repeat with the remaining pastry.
Line the tart shells with foil and fill with pie weights or dried beans. Bake the tart shells for 30 minutes, just until dry. Remove the foil and pie weights and bake the crusts for about 15 minutes longer, until they are dry and golden. Transfer the tart pans to 2 sturdy baking sheets.
MEANWHILE, MAKE THE FILLING: In a large skillet, cook the bacon over moderately high heat, stirring, until browned and crisp, about 7 minutes. Drain the bacon, leaving 1 tablespoon of the fat in the pan. Add the leeks and thyme to the skillet, season with salt and white pepper and cook over moderate heat, stirring occasionally, until the leeks are softened but not browned, about 5 minutes. Transfer to a bowl and let cool. Stir in the bacon and cheese.
Divide the bacon-and-leek filling between the tart shells. In a bowl, whisk the eggs with the egg yolks and heavy cream. Season lightly with salt and white pepper. Pour the custard into the tart shells and bake for about 30 minutes, rotating the sheet halfway through for even baking, until puffed and lightly browned. Transfer the quiches to a rack and let cool for 15 minutes. Remove the rings, cut the quiches into wedges and serve.

All is Well. Take a Few Minutes--It's Worth it.

2010-05-05T15:01:00.000-07:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KHDvxPjsm8E

I am so inspired. I really do feel like all is well. I just want to sit and absorb the Spirit of this for a long while.

2010-05-04T18:50:00.000-07:00

Any lady who waited in line at Wal-mart guisied up in her Queen Amadala get-up at midnight on the night the final DVD of the Star Wars saga was released isn't too proud and prissy to celebrate sci-fi style! (Does it make it sound better or worse if I say that I was dressed like that anyway and just decided not to change?)

Here's how we get all nerdy and awkward for MAY the FOURTH at the d'Evegnee Death Star!

This started out as Lind Lasagna and then morphed into Mock Lasagna and then became Pasta the Hut, which like its namesake, is founded on principles of gluttony and laziness. I put this little baby together when I don't feel like cooking, and it can be frozen (in carbonite to be saved by a domestic princess in disguise at a later date) beautifully.

Here's all it takes:

1 box of pasta, cooked (we like whole wheat pasta because it makes us feel special)

1 can pasta sauce (we like the canned kind that doesn't have sugar in it; see above)

8 ounces cheese of your choice (you know I like the part-skim mozarella)

1 cup cottage cheese

1/2-1 cup of low fat sour cream (depending on how much creaminess you like)

1 pound cooked ground turkey or lean beef

Dump it all in a pan, cover it with a little extra cheese and Zee-OOM! You're on your way to the dinner table faster than the millenium falcon with x-wing fighters on its tail! Just cook at 350 for about 45 minutes.

Volume VI, issue iv, April 2010

2010-05-01T07:28:00.000-07:00

We grabbed this photo op when the sun was out one day this month. This picture was the best of the bunch, which tells you what kind of high-quality shots the other ones were! (PS Where is Holden's right shoe?)

Library of Con-dress

Reigning chaos constantly swirls around our house, leaving sticky spots, trails of toys, randomly abandoned single socks, and bellowing children in its wake, which makes it difficult to find any peace, let alone thoughts to call one's own. (It sounds like the lead-in to an advertisement for a swanky, tropical time-share, doesn't it?) Caleb, who turned eight on the 30th, is the least loud-mouthed of our brood, but is also our most consistently cheerful, which means he's often helping with the younger kids rather than demanding attention. (Marie calls him "Bug," which just melts away all of your internal organs.) Sometimes, though, even our easy-going Caleb has to creatively carve out some "me time"

A few weeks ago, I noticed that Caleb kept magically disappearing, Narnia-like, into our pathetically barren cedar closet for quite long chunks of time, only to emerge looking refreshed and ready to tackle another brother or sister (yes, literally). Later, when I peeked my head into the closet, I glimpsed a pair of bare, gangly legs draped from the top shelf and a gleeful smile beaming down from near the ceiling. When I asked Caleb what he was doing, he informed me that he had made the closet into his "library."

He had clearly posted the rules and regulations of his domain, such as the cost of a Library Card for only two cents. He even rigged up a bucket with a string tied to it to be filled with the desired reading material and then gracefully lowered down to any anxious patrons. He also posted the fees for fines on the door to the closet/library. (And he knows all about fines because the Madison Libary is currently building the Sarah d'Evegnee Late Fee Wing on to their new structure. Each summer I naively/stupidly convince myself that I can handle taking all six kids to the library regularly for the summer reading program, and when I bravely lead my little ducklings clutching their seventeen books a piece to the check-out desk, all of the librarians collectively brace themselves for the large wads of cash coming their way.)

Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater

Springtime Sell Out

We can belt out "The Sunnull Come Out, Tomorrow!" as loud as we want, and it just plain isn't true around these parts. Ethan, Caleb, and Eve decided that 40 degree weather was perfect for setting up a Lemonade Stand, but they were not only short on sunshine, but business funds as well. No problem. They decided to sell our tap water for ten cents a glass (C'mon. It's packed with fluoride. And Rexburg 2010 is a very good year). Then Ethan's friend raided his Mom's cupboards for packages of crackers, granola bars, and nuts that they sold for only a dollar a package. (Oh. But it was buy one, get one free, so it wasn't as pricey as it initially sounds.) Their profit margin was pretty high, considering that they stole all of their inventory.

Being the self-selected brains of the company, Ethan sent the "talent" to the corner to hold up a sign advertising their little set-up. As I drove around the corner after class, I saw Eve standing all alone on the street corner, rosy cheeked and shivering in the wind, waving the sign and looking adorably orphaned. Eric calmly said to Ethan, "You can't make your baby sister stand alone all the way down the street!" Ethan just blinked innocently and said, "But Dad! We made five dollars!"

I have to admit that Eve's pure charisma more than compensates for Ethan's lack of moral scruples, at least as far as street vending is concerned. Eve has no problem approaching complete strangers and offering them a smile or a little observation about life, complete with dramatic hand gestures and facial expressions. After skyping with our family for a few minutes a couple of weeks ago and listening to Eve chatter away, Eric's Uncle Jack observed, "I can see you've got an actress, but do you have a point guard?"

Holden Down the Fort

Holden is our straight-arrow, and usually leads his younger siblings with dignity and just a smidge of manipulation. To prepare them to see the new Percy Jackson flick, Holden gathered the younger kids into his room and gave them free mythology lessons, which he described to me in detail. I thought it was inspiring and all, but I'm more than happy to let him cough up the money for all of the tickets if he wants to see it that badly before the DVD is released. (We still haven't seen the movie, despite Holden's preparatory and hopeful lecture series.)

We instigated a rule that the kids can only watch one hour of TV on school days. Eric and I wondered how they seemed to be maximizing their alloted brain-rotting time, until he went down to the basement and overheard Holden frantically whispering to his siblings, "It's a commercial--close your eyes and it won't count!"

The Fall of Eve

In Eve's kindergarten's recent Circus Program, she played a graceful tight-rope walker whose mother told her she wouldn't slip on the tightrope/balance beam if she took off her shoes. Oops. I was playing the piano for the program and Eric was shooting the video footage, so rather than reaching out to our fallen star, we just dumbly sat there. If you watch the video clip, you can hear the gasping parent who obviously cares for our daughter more than we do. You can also clearly see her teacher help her up because her Mom is still playing the piano and her Dad is still filming. You can even hear the awkward pause in my playing as I debate whether to keep playing or to help my struggling performer and then you can watch as I continue tinkling those ivories as my wounded daughter sits and cries on the step. I can't decide if I should just erase this clip so she doesn't see it when she's sixteen and scream at me that I never really loved her.

She's Simply Two Much!

2010-04-21T09:35:00.000-07:00

Feeling pulled apart and mushy inside today. If you feel like bawling, just watch the video from the celebratory post from exactly one year ago.

Click here: http://rexburgreview.blogspot.com/2009/04/celebrating-our-miracle-marie.html

I Have a Pest-o Problem

2010-04-20T12:19:00.000-07:00

When I purchased some basil, our well-stocked small-town grocery store only had the massive family-sized container left. Seriously, what kind of normal person needs that much basil?

I realized that I did (although I am arguably not exactly normal) when I was staring at the gobs of leftovers from the bruschetta and thought about how much I love pesto but never make it because I never have that much basil on hand.

I had never even laid a taste-bud on pesto until I met Eric and, for me, it was an acquired taste. But once I acquired it, I never looked back. Normal pesto is pretty strong because of the large quantity of basil involved, so I started thinking about what else is green and leafy and might complement the basil flavor while toning it down a few notches. Spinach! My kids love spinach and will eat it plain, so I figured they might give a spinach pesto a try.

We had it on Sunday with whole wheat angel hair pasta and grilled chicken and they all devoured it (except for Peter and he doesn't count). I doubled the pesto recipe because Eric could eat it plain with a spoon and never get enough. As I looked at how much pesto we had to spare and eyed the extra piece of chicken still left that the boys were about to dive into for their fourth helping, I decided that I wanted to try making Pesto and Grilled Chicken pizza the next night. I had to fight for it and nearly got maimed in the process, but Eric and I are still swooning over it. (We are ridiculously foodie-ish, I know.)

Spinach and Basil Pesto with Angel Hair Pasta and Grilled Chicken

Marinade: (I'm guessing on the measurements a little--I just eyeballed it and added what sounded good. If you're super lazy like I am most of the time, you can just marinate it in zesty italian dressing.)
2 t minced garlic
2 t brown mustard
4 T lemon juice
3 t Italian Seasoning
1/4 cup minced red onion
1/4 cup balsalmic vinegar
1/2 cup olive oil

Mix well. Tenderize (with a fork) and marinate 4-6 chicken breasts in a freezer bag for 6-8 hours. Grill chicken for 7-10 minutes on each side or until juices run clear.

Spinach and Basil Pesto
1 1/2 cups baby spinach leaves
3/4 cup fresh basil leaves
1/2 cup toasted pine nuts
1/2 cup grated Parmesan cheese
4 cloves garlic, peeled and quartered or 3 t. minced garlic or 2 t garlic salt (which will make it less strong for your kids)
3/4 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice (or LIME juice--it is so good! That's what I did this last time)
1/2 teaspoon lemon zest (optional--I almost always forget to buy the stupid lemon)
1/4-1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil (depending on how think you like your pesto)

Blend the spinach, basil, pine nuts, Parmesan cheese, garlic, salt, pepper, lemon juice, lemon zest, and 2 tablespoons olive oil in a food processor until nearly smooth, scraping the sides of the bowl with a spatula as necessary. Drizzle the remaining olive oil into the mixture while processing until smooth.

Serve pesto over whole wheat angel hair pasta with shaved parmesan on top and grilled chicken on the side.

Wheat-ish Pizza Dough

(The basic recipe is my friend, Kimber's recipe, with a few modifications)
1 T yeast
11/2 cups warm water
1 t sugar

Let sit for a few minutes in a big plastic bowl until you get a nice froth.

Add:
1 1/2 cups white flour and 1 1/2 cups wheat flour
1 t salt
1 T sugar
2 T olive oil
Extra water as needed (when you use the whole wheat flour, you need to add about 1/2 cup extra water to get the desired consistency. If you use all white flour, then you probably won't need the extra water.)

Mix together until you get an elastic-like dough that pulls away from the side of your dish. It will be a little sticky.

Let rise for one hour. Punch down dough and let rise for another thirty minutes. (You could probably get away with less rise time, but this is the way I like it. The original recipe only calls for 10-15 minutes of rise time, so if you're in a hurry, go for it.)

Add a little flour to the dough and to your hands so it's easier to work with. You can roll it out in a circle with a rolling pin or just spread it on your pizza pan and then make indentations with your finger tips all over the dough.

For "normal people" pizza, add tomato sauce and sprinkle garlic salt and italian seasonings over sauce. Add toppings and italian cheese blend. Our favorites are meatball pizza and turkey pepperoni (I have a good recipe for meatballs if you want it. I double the recipe so we can have spaghetti and meatballs one night and then meatball pizza and breadsticks the next.)

For Pesto Pizza, spread about 3/4 cup of pesto over crust. Add pieces of grilled chicken and top with italian blend cheese. Bake for about 30 minutes at 350 or until the edges of the crust are browned. (We like to broil ours for the last minute, but be careful that you don't burn it to a charred crisp!)

Fancy Breadstick Sticks

I've never even been to the Pizza Factory. At least, I don't think I have. If I did go, it wasn't very memorable then, was it? Apparently they have breadsticks there that they make on dowels and serve in vases. My RS President served them at a dinner at her house and I knew I had to try them. She told me the basics and then I guessed the rest and added my own topping.

Soak 1/4 inch dowels in water for several hours. (I just put them in a 9x13 pan full of water and put a bowl on top of them to hold them down.)
Roll out about one-half batch of pizza dough (recipe above) in a 9 x 13 rectangle and use pizza cutter to cut into one inch strips.
Wrap one strip of dough around each dry dowel and place on cookie sheet. Let rise for 30 minutes. Brush on butter topping.

Butter topping:
1/2 cube better, melted
3 t dried minced onion
2 t dill weed
2 t italian seasoning
4 T parmesean cheese

Let sit for about ten minutes to let flavors meld. Spread over breadsticks with a pastry brush. Sprinkle extra parmesean cheese over breadsticks.

Bake for 10-12 minutes or until lightly browned. Turn them around the half-way mark so you don't have a flat side in your vases later. Let cool and serve in the biggest clear vase you have lying around or get your husband to buy you a big ole' bunch of flowers and take the flowers out and use that vase (personally, I prefer Gerber daisies). This recipe will make about 12-15 sticks, depending on how big your dowels are.

Volume VI, issue iii March 2010

2010-03-31T22:09:00.000-07:00

The Irish Jig is Up

The kids' slack-jawed response at being reminded that they are a bona-fide one quarter Irish was only the preface to our St Patrick's Day festivities. Holden was so thrilled that he was determined to rub in his genuine Irish descent to all of those unfortunate Nelson and Klingler and Thompson and completely non-Irish-blooded kids at school who don't have holidays with pinching involved in their genes. (WE LOVE YOU, DEVINE FAMILY!!!)

Their part-Irish eyes were doing more than smiling when they breezed in from school and smelled the corned beef and cabbage that had been happily bubbling away like some Celtic tune in the kitchen all day long. They devoured every scrap, leaving their poor Swiss-German mother with no leftovers to look forward to for lunch the next day.

Notice Ethan's greedy mitt in the corner of the roll picture and Eric's protective knife above it.
(We really are a peaceful people. . . unless food is involved.)

Some Day My Caleb Will Come: The Second Grade Fairy Tale Ball

Caleb had been painfully rehearsing the Teton Stomp and the Waltz for days during PE in preparation for the Annual Second Grade Fairy Tale Ball, but forgot to ask me to help him with his costume until the night before the event. I smiled at Eric and said, "If you've got to have a costume in a hurry, you've come to the right house!" It took me about seven seconds of digging through our graveyard of Halloween costumes in the storage room to transform Super Woman's crown, Han Solo's Jedi Robe, and Alladin's Genie's golden belt into a costume fit for a king.

King Caleb's misery at having to dance with cootie-infested girls was not masked in the least as he mouthed the one, two, three of each waltz through the grimace on his royal face. The only time he smiled was when he got to dance with his sweet Princess Marie who was swept off her chubby feet by her older brother, whom she refers to as "Bug." Unfortunately, her clothes also got swept off in the festive mood and I had to hurry and redress her issues before we got kicked out of the kingdom for immodesty.

I Love Paris in the PARTY-TIME!

Truthfully, Eve's 6-year-old birthday party had been years in the making. When I was seventeen and stood in the shadow of the graceful lines of the Eiffel Tower for the first time, the feeling of artful elegance in the presence of those stately spires was destined to make its way into a party some day.

Eve and six of her friends received Paris Party Passports and a Boarding Pass for Princess Airlines' round-trip to Party-Town flying out of the d'Evegnee Airport. The hours of party preparation were enough to give all of us a collective blast of pre-party jet-lag as my poor sous-party-planners helped to make our house into a Parisian paradise, but to their chagrin and my somewhat evil delight, it was all worth it.

We finished off our French-couture inspired skirts (by we, I mean "I" because "I" was extremely naive about how difficile threading elastic through a waist-band was for little fingers), beaded french bracelets, learned French, ate fondu, and ran around and shrieked until the grown-ups came to pick us up (Eric being my "grown up" and, in my case, by "pick up" I mean scoop up off the floor). I say we and I mean OUI! I think I had more fun than any of the petites filles and they had beaucoup de fun! I still haven't wiped the satisfied French smirk off of my face. And I still pretentiously use French vocabulaire in everyday conversations for no reason whatsoever.
They are five and six year olds, but they knew how to pose like French models beyond their years.

Volume VI, issue ii February 2010

2010-02-28T23:04:00.000-08:00

What d'Evegnee Girls are Made of :

The Spice

We've been warned about the sugar. We love the sugar! I can totally handle the sugar.

But how about the much-less-mentioned stuff hidden in there between the sweet stuff and the "everything nice?"

For us, the spice is not a mild mixture of parsley and sage (or rosemary and thyme, Mr Garfunkel!) It is more like a lip-numbing, burning blend of cayenne and cumin and ginger.

Our "little" Marie is a Viking in diapers. She thunders around the house in her Nordic-like fur-trimmed Robeez and we stand back and fear and tremble. If I stuff her, sausage-like, into her 12-18 month attire, it stretches across her bulbous belly, looking like it will tear apart as she bellows with Hulk-ish rage (minues the whole turning green thing).

As I was doing damage control (aka cleaning) yesterday, Marie enthusiastically emptied the contents of a bag of tortilla chips on the floor. Before I could rush over to my trusty broom, I could hear her shuffly, low-to-the-ground run and spied the dismount of her stunt just as she slid baseball style into the chips on her stomach. She then hoisted herself up and did a rather charming cha-cha through the chips, beaming as she savored each crunch.

I've heard of playing with your food. . . but dancing with it?

After I had swept up the dancefloor and finished the dishes, I let Marie play with the water in the sink as I wiped down the counters, and she contentedly dumped water from one cup into another for a few minutes. When I looked back at her, she had her head under the steam of water, gurgling merrily before she stood up and shuddered as it streamed down her face.

On Eve's birthday, I got a call from her teacher. Nervous that the cake pops I had sent for her birthday treat had contained a hidden surprise, my heart did a little flip as I answered the phone. If Marie is a Viking, Eve is a proper French Princess. She exhibits a tad of royal entitlement, but she also possesses enough savoir faire to have bourgeois manners to match. Naturally I was surprised when her teacher told me about Eve's "meltdown" at school.

During "Carpet Time" Eve wasn't participating in the sound-blending game as much as her teacher thought was appropriate, so she sent her out in the hall to practice her sounds with the teacher's aide. At first Eve refused, but then reluctantly complied. Later, her teacher decided to have a tete-a-tete about her less-than-agreeable behavior and Eve was royally unhappy about being singled out.

Her teacher said to her, "Eve, what's the problem?"

Eve glared back at her and growled, "You're the problem!"

Luckily her teacher said she had to bite her lip to keep from laughing, but I was stunned at Eve's bravado. Her teacher is a patient, angelic soul who was able to work out the kinks in Eve's attitude, but I've chosen denial (for now) about the light this little vignette sheds on what our now six-year-old will be like in a few years.

We Got Game

Our basketball bildungsroman came full circle yesterday when we played our original nemesis for the finale of the 5th grade 2010 season. They had mercilessly wiped the court with our city-league jerseys in the first game, but our team had grown since then. . . at least we thought they had.

Our (I said our. I AM part of the team. I'm the one that paid the fee, okay?) over-confident opponents strutted onto the court, saying things like, "We're going to SMOKE you!"

Ever heard of a little ditty called, "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes," fellas?

I once again found myself shrieking much louder and much more often than I ever do, with my heart pounding as if I were watching my son play for the State Finals.

We were up by at least four for most of the game, but found ourselves behind by one with only minutes left. There was a crucial jump-ball which should have been ours, but which the refs gave to the other team. Eric excitedly approached the refs, waving his arms and only slightly raising his voice (wink, wink). I had been so proud of him for maintaining his "Idaho Eric" facade for the whole season. But in that moment "New York Eric" was choosing to make his presence known. I could see the gleam in his eyes.

Taking an extremely, passive-aggressive wifey approach, I cheerfully yelled out, "Calm down, coach!"

He heard me and he did calm down. At least until an elderly spectator told him to, "Just sit down!"

New York Eric spun around and said to the man, "They made the wrong call! Calm down, old man!"

To his credit, that's all Eric dished out, but then he came and knelt by me and whispered, "I was fine until Old Man Winter had to butt in."

Luckily for the refs, our team, and Old Man Winter, our team was able to clinch the victory in the last two minutes. In the victory huddle, Eric's players told him that the other team was undefeated. . .

UNTIL NOW, BABY!!!

I'm such a gracious winner! (But at least I'm a winner, baby!)

2010-02-14T19:46:00.000-08:00

I have never been a girl who is easily tickled pink. When I was younger, I never wore pink and I didn't especially like lace or pearls. Even in my betrothed state, I wandered anxiously from bridal shop to bridal shop looking for something lace-free, only to have matronly women in layers of pastel eye shadows cluck at me, "Oh my! Of course you want lace, dear!" Finally, I helped a more open-minded seamstress design a plain, forward-thinking, empire waisted beauty for my wedding that complemented the plain gold band on my finger and my sleek up-do.

This Valentine's Day Season (yes. . . I said season), though, I have been craving the sickly sweet hues of pastel pink in every variety from blush to rose to salmon without a second thought. Eve and I have been both assembling and creating love-themed ensembles that have been shamelessly covered in hearts, rick-rack, and raging sentimentality for weeks. The above photo literally doesn't even give a glimpse at the half of our festive fun--she's looked like a living, breathing, smiling, adorably cute greeting card every day for weeks. I even got in on the nauseatingly sugar-coated pastel action today and wore a pink sweater to church today like a proper, normal girl. Hey. I do have a feminine side.

Poor Eve was suffering in Church today. By the end of Sacrament Meeting, she made a pained face at Eric and sighed. He asked her what was wrong and she said, "I'm bored."

Eric told her that the speakers were doing their best to share their feelings about Jesus and that she should try and listen to them. Then he leaned in close and whispered to her, "Besides, when we get home I have a special Valentine's Day present for you!"

Eve remained unfazed.

She just looked at her doting Dad and said, "Still bored."

Stalk Photo

Since last night, I have found roses in unlikely places. There was one taped to my bathroom mirror. And one perched precariously on a door. Another was found lying across my pillow. Tonight, I found a whole vase full. But I jumped at the sight of them because they were accompanied by a creepy-looking blade and if I didn't know any better I'd think that I was being stalked.

He was so sweet to notice that I needed a new kitchen knife. But did he have to recreate a scene from some horror movie to give the gift?

One of the blessings of having a husband with a dark sense of humor is hearing the stories that follow his errands of love. When he approached the cashier with his stash of soft petals in one hand and his heavy knife in the other, he wanted to gnash his teeth and growl at her madly while frothing just slightly at the mouth, "Ya think she'll like it?"

His and Hers

Eric bought me a Snuggie for Christmas as a joke, but it has kept me toasty on many a frigid, Rexburg night. As of today, Eric and I are a matched set.

It's a Mad, Mad, Mad Lib World

Lately after we deposit the "littles" (aka Peter and Marie) in bed, Eric and I have been doing Mad Libs from a book with the older kids. It feels like we've been tranported back to some kinder, gentler era when kids could be entertained by the wacky hi-jinx of the parts of speech. The kids cackle and grab their sides and beg us to do just one more each night. Today we created our own special d'Evegnee Valentine's Day Special Mad Lib :

It is Valentine’s Day and all of the d’Evegnees are super adjective The thing they love about Valentine’s Day is giving each other plural noun and plural noun They give each other gifts and say , “ I verb you!”

Mom always looks deep into Dad’s noun and says, “I will always remember the day we were first adjective .” It is so romantic! Holden says when he gets married, his Valentine will have long, dark plural noun and will love noun . Ethan, however, prefers girls who verb and hopes for a girl who looks like noun . Caleb’s ideal Valentine will be a talented noun who enjoys verb . When Eve gets older, she would love to find a guy who appreciates her noun and will take her to the noun . Peter really wants to marry someone who knows how to verb and has plural noun that look like noun . Marie’s future sweetheart will have a noun of noun and will have a gift for ing verb .

For now, though, we are so adjective to have so many sweethearts in our family, and love how we can verb together on this special day. We wish you all a adjective Valentine’s Day, full noun of and noun !

Here's how it turned out:

It is Valentine’s Day and all of the d’Evegnees are super nauseous. The thing they love about Valentine’s Day is giving each other cupids and kelp. They give each other gifts and say , “ I screech you!”

Mom always looks deep into Dad’s teeth and says, “I will always remember the day we were first constipated.” It is so romantic! Holden says when he gets married, his Valentine will have long, dark large intestines and will love socks. Ethan, however, prefers girls who walk and hopes for a girl who looks like hair . Caleb’s ideal Valentine will be a talented port-a-potty who enjoys agitating. When Eve gets older, she would love to find a guy who appreciates her helicopter and will take her to the basketball . Peter really wants to marry someone who knows how to do hair and has nose hairs that look like anvils . Marie’s future sweetheart will have a toe of duck and will have a gift for spanking .

For now, though, we are so jolly to have so many sweethearts in our family, and love how we can skip together on this special day. We wish you all a smelly Valentine’s Day, full TV of and rainbows !

Valentine's Day Recipes

Thai Lettuce Wraps

5-6 chicken breasts

Soy and ginger marinade (recipe follows)

Iceburg lettuce, cored and cut into quarters

Cucumbers, peeled and sliced into quarters

Carrots, shredded

Water chestnuts, cut into chunks

Peanut sauce (recipe follows)

Ken's Steakhouse Lite Soy and Ginger dressing

Tenderize chicken breasts by poking with a fork on each side (this is especially satisfying if you're irked by something). Marinate chicken for 6-8 hours:

Soy and Ginger Marinade:

2 t ginger

3 T minced onion

2 T minced garlic

5 T lemon juice

1/4 cup soy sauce

1 cup Italian dressing

Grill chicken for 8-10 minutes on each side or until juices run clear. Let sit for ten minutes before cutting into chunks.

Peanut Sauce:

3 T peanut butter (can use all natural, sugar free)

1/4 cup warm water

3T soy sauce

1/2 t cayenne

1 T brown sugar (optional)

Heat in microwave for one minute and stir. If it seems too runny, it will thicken up, so wait a minute or two before adding more water. You can also add 2 T rice wine vinegar and 4 T coconut milk, but this is the basic recipe I usually use. I add more or less peanut butter and water depending on how thick I want it.

Cut chicken into chunks and put chicken and veggies on a platter. To assemble wraps, put chicken, veggies, peanut sauce, and dressing onto a lettuce "cup." Fold lettuce cup in half and devour! We also serve with some version of Asian rice to help the kids fill up faster.

Cookie Dough

3/4 cup brown sugar

3/4 cup white sugar

2 cubes butter, softened

2 eggs

2 t vanilla

1 t baking soda

1 t salt

2 1/2 cups flour

1 pkg chocolate chips (we like semi sweet)

Cream butter and sugars and then add vanilla and eggs. Add flour, salt, and baking soda. Mix in chocolate chips.

Press 1/4 cup dough into ramekins or muffin tins (we like to make them in muffin tins if we're taking them to someone). Bake for 13-15 minutes or until top is lightly browned.

Let cookie cups cool. Top with vanilla ice cream, chocolate sauce, caramel sauce, and whipped cream and try not to go into sugar shock!

Volume VI, issue i January 2010

2010-01-31T14:46:00.000-08:00

MMMMMMMMarie!

Eating Family Style at Restaurant d'Evegnee means Marie's joyful romp from plate to plate to scavenge the leftovers of her whole family with style. Whether it's her second helping or her seventeenth, she positively exudes yummy sounds after savoring each bite. The rise and fall of her feminine "MmmmMMM!" consistently and tirelessly sounds as if she's taking the first and best bite of her life.

In this video, she had already finished her own food and picked at mine and had just helped herself to Eve's plate just to round out her caloric binge. She had polished off the salsa and was trying bites of Enchilada with such cheer that we had to record her sounds of satisfaction. Notice her dinner attire isn't exactly fancy or even office casual. We've decided that leaving her in "happily naked couture" allows us to easily hose her off at the end of her meal.

I Hoop They Call Me on a Mission : Battle of the Brothers

The first real game of the 2010 Basketball Season wasn't in some mammoth arena in a big city. It was in Rexburg, Idaho. The players were tiny but tough. What they lacked in skill they made up for in pure charisma. The game took place in the Madison Junior High Gym on January 9th where two mini-titans met. Ethan and Caleb's city league teams collided in a war of wills, wit, and whoever could dribble the ball more than two consecutive bounces without hitting their own foot.

When we discovered their teams were playing each other, my maternal instincts kicked in and I was just like Mother Voltaggio during the finale of Top Chef 2009 (major guilty pleasure alert). The clock (stopwatch around someone's neck) tick-tocked the first seconds of the match and I saw Ethan hover over Caleb with a menacing snarl, leaning in to taunt him. I later asked Ethan what he had said to Caleb, and he re-enacted the moment for me as he dramatically growled, "You're goin' d-o-o-own!" Yeah. That's pretty much what I had thought. His first trash-talk. I'm, sniff, so proud.

Ethan was so intent on stopping Caleb from not only scoring, but dribbling or passing or walking or participating in any form, that he played defense even when he was on offense. He waved his arms monkey-like in front of Caleb's face as his own team took the ball down the court and continued to guard Caleb as his team-mates tried to pass him the ball, regardless of our screams to him that his team had the ball. Because they rotate players throughout the game, this moment only lasted mere minutes, but Caleb still says to me, "Mom, remember when my team battled Ethan's team?" Battled? I told you it was intense!

I Hoop They Call Me on a Mission (Part Two): Flying in Coach

I enthusiastically signed Eric up to coach Holden's team and was met with a lot more resistance than I had expected ( as in eye-rolling, face grabbing, polysyllabic grunting resistance). After interacting with his tweeny troops in practice and a couple of games Eric felt more comfortable, especially with Holden by his side, smiling proudly up at him and calling him "Coach." ("Sure thing, Coach!" "Whatever you say, Coach!" "Good job, Coach!")

Last Saturday, our line-up of three basketball games, a Primary Activity, and a Birthday Party meant I didn't get to attend Holden's game. I played Super-Taxi-Mom in-between activities and met Eric and Holden after their game so we could whisk Eric away to substitute coach Caleb's game that started about thirty seconds after Holden's ended half-way across town. (Yes. I know we live in a small town! But it was still stressful, okay?)

When we screeched into the parking lot, Eric and Holden were still inside the gym, so I ran in to see if the game was over. I could hear the rustling of coats and excited whispers so I knew the game had just ended. I peeked in and saw the scoreboard blazing with finality: 25 to 26. I tried to read Eric's body language to guess if our team had won or lost. Oblivious to me or the rest of the crowd, he hop-skipped backward in a circle, smiling as he called his team over to him and patting their backs as they made a huddled circle around him. He knelt on one knee and pep-talked some final words of praise, his face alight with a moment of teaching. The love-caused lump in my throat swelled and I silly-grinned my way back to the car to wait. About a minute later, Holden and Eric jumped into the car and Eric said, "That. . . was fun." As we zoomed over to Caleb's game, Eric told me that they had lost. "Lost?" I said in shock, "But you were absolutely giddy at the end of the game. I don't understand."

Eric explained to me that at the end of the first half, they had been down by a dismal fifteen points. That teeth-clenching, stomach dropping margin was bringing out their worst. Their best players enjoy shooting. . . a lot. And it doesn't matter where they are on the court. They could be fifty feet away from the basket with nobody standing between them and a lay-up and they'll still launch that poor destined-for-air ball like a discus rather than simply choosing an easy shot.

During half-time, he had reminded them of the fundamentals he had drilled into their heads in practice--take the best shot and pass the ball if you don't have a good shot.

The first part of that second half, they passed the ball and took careful shots and played like a team. They had a 12-o run that left Eric literally on his knees on the court (until he looked around, brushed off his knees and calmly stood up as if nothing had happened).

In Eric's huddled post-game pep-talk, he reminded his team that, "You ARE that 12-0 run. That's who you really are and that's what counts. That final score doesn't reflect who you guys are. You ARE that 12-0 run." That old cliche about it not really mattering if you win or lose is missing something. It's not just how you play the game. It's how you see it. And how you see yourself.

Yesterday a certain team I know won their game by a whopping twenty-one points. (They could have had a complete blow-out but Eric took out some of his star players during the second half because of his polite, Eastern upbringing.) After the game, he said to his troops "See? You were that 12-0 streak today. That's who you are."

Interestingly enough, our "Coach's" euphoria after winning looked a whole lot like the euphoria after losing but having a 12-0 streak.

Show n' So-Telling

It was Eve's turn to bring the "Show n' Tell Bag" to Kindergarten on Friday. As she slowly rummaged through every room in the house on Thursday, I could tell she was plotting out the most impressive cargo to tote with her to school. I looked forward to seeing her accumulation of the usual toys and trinkets. Later, she showed me the pile of birthday party catalogs she was planning on showing to her class. Rather than any of her menagerie of dolls, toys, and games, she wanted to show-off her display of . . . party catalogs. Where in the world did she learn such strange and interesting (and of course FABULOUS!) behavior?

Volume V, Issue X December 2009

2009-12-30T18:30:00.000-08:00

Each year on Christmas Eve Day, we descend, locust-like, upon the local Dollar Store and let our kids roam freely so they can purchase gifts for each other. They are, indeed, like kids in a candy store with their pick of anything they want for the people they love the most. They buy surprisingly sensitive gifts, showing us just how aware they are of each others' likes, dislikes, and personalities. They collectively choose a gift for Eric and a gift for me, putting their cute noggins together in a private conference to decide what would be the perfect gift. HMMM. . . why did they choose this for their Dad this year?

Maybe it's because they know he's such a sucker for Marxist Literary Theory.

Most of our Christmas Traditions revolve around gluttony, so true to greedy form, we have an all-you-can eat buffet for Christmas Eve that always includes Babonne's Leek and Potato Soup, a cheese platter (French cheeses for us, cheese-sticks for them), crackers, fried shrimp, artichoke dip, a variety of sausages, and french bread. This year, the kids begged me to throw in some home-made mac n' cheese--you know, just in case we didn't have enough. . . urp. . . food. Holden graduated from the kiddie cheeses to Brie and discovered the wonder and awe and deliciousness of the "stink factor."

After the kids steadily shoveled in the grub for about fifteen minutes of silence (except for the occasional lip-smack and other sounds of dietary satisfaction), Ethan said, "I'm so full! But I just want to keep eating!" Holden nodded in agreement and said with resignation, "It's a curse, really."

During her toddler days, Eve ruled with a flower-petal fist, calmly demanding the respect and admiration of the household. Like Eve, Marie is a sort of tiny matriarch in waiting, but rather than opting for a peaceful political platform, she rules in a sort of joyous reign of toddler terror. She turns her volume to "eleven" on either end of her emotional spectrum, which has no middle, only ends. As I was soliciting sisterly service (sorry, let me wipe the spittle off of your monitor) today, Marie's shrieks made it almost impossible to maintain a conversant feel to my phone calls. "Hi, this is Sarah d'Ev. . . SHRIEK!!! MAMMA! MAMMA!. . . Sorry about the background noise. . . SHR-ee-ee-EEEK!!!" I kept offering my tempestuous little goddess treats to try and placate her fury. A bag of chips. Some carrot sticks. A glass of water. One by one my offerings were rejected and ended up as a soggy sacrificial mess on the kitchen floor. Her maniacal message was clear : she wanted me and only me with no phone in tow.

Not that she needs words to make herself understood when she's got the language of volume on her side, but Marie's vocabulary increased by two significant phrases over the holidays. She can now say, "Mine," which she used on Christmas morning to mark her territory as she surveyed the loot around her. (It actually sounds more like "M-IIIIIII-NE!!!!" and is accompanied by frantic, red-faced tugging and ear-splitting screams.) Fortunately, her second new phrase is "Thank you" (which sounds more like "Tae tee!), and is cute enough to offset the narcissism of the first phrase. Seriously, we'll give her anything she claims is hers just to hear her bestow a heart-splitting, grinning "Tae tee" on us!

One of my favorite lines from "Steel Magnolias" (DO NOT watch it if you're pregnant. You'll cry so hard you'll go into labor) is "Nobody ever cries alone in my presence." My hyperactive tear-ducts faithfully follow this mantra. Marie's mantra is similar, but changes the verb and becomes, "Nobody ever eats alone in my presence." It doesn't matter how painfully healthy the meal is either. She'll gobble down cookies to be sure. But she'll also eat zucchini, broccoli, peas and even canned green beans (Can you tell I've tried to stave her off with greens? It just doesn't work, I tell you!). She positions herself in the exact middle of my lap and then leans her fluffy little feather head in to my food as if it were telling her a secret. I try and sneak in a few bites for myself, but I end up spilling more food on the front of my shirt than usual. . . and as a Hafen Girl who is genetically programmed to have stains on the front of all of her shirts that's saying something!

So, now you're wondering why I don't just nip this in the proverbial bud, aren't you? You're thinking that I'm allowing her to manipulate me. You're right.

But I really don't think she's going to be climbing on my lap to share my food when she's eighteen.

This is a fleeting moment of tender closeness that simultaneously aggravates and tickles me. I find myself giggling at every splash of tomato sauce that graces my clothes. Her keen, curious interest in the event of eating and in me allows it to continue. And when next week or next month she finishes a meal without me, at least I'll still have the marks left on my shirt to remind me of the soft feel of her cheek next to mine and the fat, sticky fingers on my hand, helping to guide my food into her mouth. I'm going to feed her (and me) while I still can.