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

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  The tantrums (most of them anyway) have been replaced by thoughtful pauses.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!"