Volume VIII, issue vi, June 2012

The Graduate
In the past two years, Peter has gone from a strong (tempered) but silent loudly-non-verbal type to a kid who uses words like "invincible" and "actually" and "Gandalf" with regularity. We attribute this personality growth-spurt in part to his time at preschool with Mrs Doggett. His tantrums, while not non-existent, have decreased in both volume and frequency and he is becoming a charming, funny wonder-boy with a hearty, delicious laugh and a sparkling wit.

I went on a speed-walk with Eric the other night and when I returned, Peter planted a super-smooch on my cheek. He made a face and said, "Sometimes you taste sour, Mom."

 Swing Low Sweet Cello

Holden and Ethan's cello recital was enough to send me to the musical moon and back. They both played with confidence and precision and genuinely seemed to enjoy the moment.

Holden had been greedily eying Bach's Prelude in C for months since we saw it performed by Steven Sharp Nelson (who always sounds like a feminist to me because of the use of two last names in his title. . . or maybe an 80's child star. . . but I digress). His teacher gave him the green light and he dug in to the broken chords with gusto.

The night of the recital, Holden was repetitively rehearsing the shifts and chords in the final measures and said sadly, "If I play everything else perfectly, but mess up that last chord, that's all they'll remember!"  I found myself praying for him and that final chord as he began his performance.

As he wove through the chord progressions he started to lean in to the sound and gave himself up to the music; he even closed his eyes and swayed just a bit. I nervously watched him through my camera lens as he approached the final line and waited until the end to snap the picture.

What follows is the satisfaction of a boy who has just NAILED his musical dismount.

Check out both his position on the cello and the lift of his bow! Seriously! That photo is the visual manifestation of what it feels like to reach the point that playing music becomes its own reward. I was in tears as I sniffled all the way home and thought, "Now he's one of US!"

Princess Ballet Boot Camp

Marie has been begging for dance lessons since I was pregnant with Charlie, but it's been more than we could manage. When I saw the flyer for a one week crash-course in all things princess-y and ballet-related, I knew it was just the thing for our over-programmed crew.  Marie went to dance class for one hour each day for five days and then had a recital on Saturday. Can someone say "Genuis?" Included in the forty dollar fee was a tutu AND a tiara, so what was not to love? Eric read my mind and said, "It's perfect. We get all of the cute pictures without having to take her to months of lessons."

She practically floated to class each day and to make sure that it was extra adorable, Eve came with us each day. I admit that I cried a little during each class when they came to the part of the song that said, "Once you believe you are ready to shine, the princess inside you will show. You are the glow."   I told Eric that he needed to feel the explosive cuteness involved in observing a dance class, and he absolved me of my shame from my overloaded pathos when he whispered, "Watching that actually made me cry!" 

When Marie dragged herself out of bed on the morning of the performance we were greeted with a cute little face full of anticipation and ink. 

She had somehow made herself into a human canvas between the time I kissed her goodnight and when she woke up in the morning. 

        Luckily I was able to scrub off her artwork before the performance and we gussied her up to be a tulle-bedecked, pink-covered, curly-haired angel. (Only we knew that the "angel" part was just mostly true.)

 

Just in case you weren't convinced about Marie's true Disney princess alter-ego, let me tell you just one more royal tale. Marie was fawning over a stuffed kitten when Eric asked her, "Marie, what is your cat's name?"
She responded with her sweet, true-eto voice, "Uhhh. . . Sparkles Beauty."

(That response actually plays second fiddle to the time when Marie's cousin and princess doppelganger, Devi, gave my Mom a hug and pronounced excitedly, "Gramma! You smell like TURKEY!" She beamed up at my Mom as if she had just given her some sort of olfactory award.)



Up Chuck

Charlie up and decided that being stationery in a house full of bipeds wasn't working to his complete advantage, so he attempted to crawl. At first he mostly wormed himself in a foward direction, but after about a week, he started to try his hand (and knees) at a more traditional approach. Now he motors around like he means business.

The other day when the kids and Eric were playing outside, Charlie crawled up to the window and started pounding on it to get their attention. He squealed with joy every time he waved and they all waved back.

I swear I'm not trying to block up the blog with videos, but when the game with Charlie escalated to the shoe-throwing point, I had to share.

Tiny Charlie has been taking baths in our master bathroom sink like the little Charlie Thumb that he is. A couple of weeks ago I decided to try letting him join the tub-time with Peter and Marie. He resisted with screams of protest until he got used to the big tub and settled in like it was a hot-tub for three. Then he shot me a big blue-eyed look that said, "I told you I'd love it, Mom."

Poopageddon


This month we had one of those trembly, rubber-gloved, sick-kidded days where you scrub, wash, clean, sanitize, sanitize, sanitize, smile broadly, and coo words of comfort, then quietly tip-toe to your corner and sit . . . rocking. . . waiting. . . because, despite the harried, repetitive antibacterial ritual, you know you've just willingly tied yourself to the tracks of the oncoming germ train.


On Saturday morning while I was make my grocery-related rounds, Marie approached Eric with a concerned look and said in her sugary tones, "Dad. . . I'm not feeling like myself."


Eric gently led Marie to the bathroom where he pulled back her hair and held it with one hand while patting her back with the other, waiting for the worst to come. And come it did. Out the other end. In droves. The multiple eruptions that ensued caused that moment to live on in infamy as "Poopaggedon" . . . as in (I'm aggedon out of here!). (Thanks to Holden for the name.)


When I returned from the store, Eric had a silent, wild-eyed look of one who has survived not just one traumatic event, but several in a row, and just can't find the words to express the utter horror. He had given Marie not one, but two baths, and said quietly, "You go take care of her. . . She's on the floor in the bathroom."


 I found her bare-bottomed and horizontal on the cool tiles of our bathroom, moaning. I asked her if she was okay and she replied, "I don't know. " 


Eric picked up some pink pedialyte and called it "Girl Juice" to encourage Marie to drink it. A few hours later she had perked up and said, "Mom I'm feeling like myself again! It was the Girl Juice that made me feel better."


Peter became so suddenly afflicted at the park that he and Eric sprinted to the bathroom. I heard Peter wailing from where I was sitting, but later Eric told me that it was because about ten feet from the bathroom, Peter grabbed his hind end and shrieked, "I've got poop gas!" 


(Hopefully that wasn't too much.)


Poor Caleb also suffered a five day string of flu-filled days and looked like the bags under his eyes had bags under their eyes. 


(You can thank me later for the deliberate absence of photos with this post.)

Oh So Eve


Eve's brothers were teasing her (as they do so well and so often) at dinner and Ethan insulted her.  She gave him her best bored expression and said, "Seriously? That's the best you got?"


* * * 
Eve was carefully preparing her hamburger at the park by decorating it with ketchup in the shape of a smiley face. Eric said to her, "That's something your Mom would do." Eve responded, "Yeah. . ." and then she grabbed the top bun, smushed it on top of the hamburger with relish (hah) and said, "And THIS is what happens when the bus came by!" 


I guess she has some of BOTH of her parents in her. 


PS She is pictured above in her "mid-evil" outfit for her school play. (See May's edition of The Review if you don't know what I'm talking about.)

On a whim, the school-aged kids and I planned a jail-breakout-themed end-o'-school bash. Each of the older kids got to invite two friends for a late-night. Who doesn't love an excuse to plan a party, specially when you end up with fifteen kids and twelve gallons of popcorn on your basement floor?

Volume VIII, issue v. May 2012

Charlie's GRANDE Sombrero Cake made from a giant home-made chocolate chip cookie and TWO cakes in the shape of a Barbie skirt. Of course we had to eat it with ice cream to cut the sweetness. 

Cinco de Charlie
Our mercurial cherub turned one this month.  He's still tiny for his age, but he makes up for it in charm. And our charming Charlie has a whole entourage of admirers made up of both relatives and friends telling us how cute he is.  We may be a little biased, but we whole-heartedly agree.

We visited specialists twice this month who took all sorts of blood-tests and sweat-tests and measurement and the verdict seems to be that he is "catching up."  Compared to the grim diagnosis we were looking at in January, the whole thing feels miraculous in a very Mount Moriah-esque way. My Dad asked me if I was going to take the news and run with it and I said, "Well. . . I think I'll take it and walk carefully with it."

The fasting, the prayers, and the comforting words have all helped more than you could know or realize.  Let's just say for now that we are not the same people we were in January.

 As I was combing Charlie's wispy golden threads, I noticed how long the locks were getting right behind his ears.  My memory was jolted by those baby-blues and blond strands of hair, and my mind revisited an episode from those tender TV years when Tom and Jerry were our daily after-school snack. I whooped aloud when I saw the actual image because it was as exactly and as perfectly Charlie as I had remembered it to be. Before I trimmed Charlie's "old man do" I had to capture the two side-by-side to show-off Charlie's doppelganger.

Charlie's newly acquired talent this month is the ability to do what Eric calls "Winkies."  You can't see it, but Eric is winking at Charlie behind the camera.

 On Mother's Day, you get to eat breakfast in bed, girlishly open true treasures like home-made cards and presents created with legumes and pasta and paint, and enforce a dress-code with items like lacy pantaloons and bow-ties just because you can. What a good day!

I started to ask the girls to go and pose for a shot with their Dad, but before I could even focus the camera, I looked up and noticed the configuration on the right.  The shot is unbelievably organic. It was as if two planets had returned to their natural orbit around their sun. The shot on the left was requested, but I got a kick out of the little lift in Marie's leg as she leaned in for the smooch.

While it happened to be Mother's Day that day, EVERY day is Father's Day at our house!

I Beleeve in Sci-ence

I'm not a scientist.  I'm not a genius.  But I am pretty scrapbooky, and since that's what it takes to succeed in the 4th Grade Science Fair arena, I'm all set. I can create images of talking pennies and boys who look like they're sailing off into the scholastic sunset on a literal bottle-rocket even if I can't use the scientific method to help perform, well, actual science.  Basically, I am scientifically useless and creatively priceless.  I can create a darn good party and if that helps my kids pass 4th grade science, well then, keep calm and party on!

Watching the heat "blow" the coin off of the frozen bottle was as exciting in person as it appears to be on film.  We cut the first twenty seconds of anticipatory boredom, but Caleb's signature smirk is better than the actual scientific finale and makes me blush with maternal glee.

I used the same creative philosophy to help Ethan with his history project about Napoleon Dynamite, er, Bonaparte.

Pure Medieval (as in Fruits of the Dieval)

This is a repeat from an earlier note, but I couldn't help but revisit the revelry.

Eve's teacher's note said to dress her in "midevil" clothes for their class play. Now, if I understand correctly, if your basic evil garb is rated on a scale of 1-10, with 1 being dressed as one who cuts people off in traffic or tells you that "you don't look fat in those jeans" while 10 would have her dressed like a terrorist or Hilter, then "mid-evil" should fall smack dab at the halfway mark. So, my question is just how should I have her dress? Like, how evil is too evil? For example, is a Toddler and Tiara mommy too evil or not evil enough? How about OJ Simpson? Is that leaning too far one way or the other? Is it evil like "fru-its of the dev-il" or just evil enough to burn a little? HELP!!

Volume VIII, issue iv. April 2012

Conference Fort

Eve takes on the clear role of leader when she plays with her younger siblings.  She's 50 percent maternal and 50 percent bossy-pants, which suits the three Littles just fine. They disappear for hours as they dress up in costumes and explore unknown worlds and plot-lines.

While we watched General Conference the first weekend in April, Eve helped her mini minions create a massive fort with blankets and toys.  It spanned the length of the family room and occupied its happy occupants for many peaceful moments. (Although, as you can see, Charlie wasn't so sure about the whole ordeal by the end.)

We spent several tender days in Utah this month. The funeral for my niece, Chaya, was the sweetest I've ever attended. Because it was held right before Easter weekend, we had a perfect taste of the real meaning of the holiday and didn't need to hunt for eggs or eat candy.  The kids absorbed the sacredness of it all and keep Chaya and her family in their prayers with no reminders from us. I can't put to words how extraordinary her life was.

This shot was taken at the cemetery in Provo where sweet Chaya was buried.  Oh, how I love these folks!

Exploring Boise

Eric was asked to attend a conference in Boise for English Department chairs for all of the universities in Idaho, and we were able to use  a BYU-I twelve passenger van so the rest of us could tag along. The kids loved stretching out and the van felt downright cavernous compared to our suburban.

My little baby whisperers took turns sitting next to Sir Charles, which made the hours in the car fly by.  They don't just sit by him; they entertain him so well and with so much creativity and enthusiasm that they should be on the family payroll (but don't tell them that).  I caught Ethan sticking his head under a blanket he had placed over Charlie's carseat (try saying that three times fast [I mess it up everytime I say it]) and when Charlie coughed, Ethan would bark out, "Gollum! Gollum!"

When it was Eve's turn, she took her job very seriously. When her cute little charge started crying, I heard her say sternly (but with love), "Charles B. d'Evegnée, we do NOT cry like that!" Charlie hiccupped a little, frowned and then soberly stopped crying.

As we picnicked in one of Boise's parks, we began to feel a little Hitchcockesque ornithophobia building as many fine feathered friends flocked around us. One of the adorable little ducks had a strange gait and I shouted out, "Look!  One of those ducks only has one leg!"

Eric asked, "Which one?"

I rolled my eyes and paused before answering dryly, "The one hopping."

We were so proud of our nerdy kids when they dubbed our webbed buddy "Leg-a-less" in honor of their adoration of The Lord of the Rings. (And if you're counting, that is indeed the second allusion in this edition.)

                                               King Charles has got all of his servants/siblings
                                                    wrapped around his tiny, royal finger.

 Guy Fieri claimed that the prime rib at the Westside Drive Inn in Boise was some of the best he'd ever had, so we couldn't stop ourselves from trying it when we were only a few miles away.  (You can see the clip of it on youtube here.)

A drive inn run by a professional chef?  Count me in. Despite the chilling wind and the gawking patrons in the drive-through, we pushed a couple of tables together and shared several entrees so we could sample the "Steak Fingers," Prime Rib, and the Meatloaf Sandwich.

Before we left, my inhibitions were gone along with the Prime Rib and I found myself drinking a swallow or two of the Au Jus. (Like I could just leave it!) I couldn't help but agree with Guy.  It was deep, rich, and filled my palate with happiness.  Ethan balked at me when I asked him if he wanted to try a spoonful before we left and he said, "Would YOU want to try some if your Mom had just taken a drink of it?"  However, as I started clearing our trays, he couldn't resist asking for a last-minute sip.  That's my boy!

We shared some of their Idaho Ice Cream Potatoes made out of vanilla ice cream molded to look like a spud that has been dusted with cinnamon and chocolate powder and drizzled with home-made chocolate sauce. Don't hate me fellow Idahoans, but it just might be better than the real thing.

We took advantage of the hotel pool several times and even Charlie enjoyed the water.  (And with that buoyant belly, who wouldn't?)

Four!

Marie turned a shocking four-years-old this month.  We'll save her "friend" party for the next edition. . . since April was uber-packed and. . . we haven't had it yet.

Because Marie cried every time she didn't get asked to say the prayer at dinner (and because her Daddy turns to mush every time she looks at him), Eric has started asking her to say the blessing on the food every night. This has gone on for at least three or four months. Every night. The other kids don't mind one bit because Marie's prayers are short, sweet and get right to the point, which allows them to start inhaling their food sooner and get on to their seconds and thirds.  She blesses the food, asks Heavenly Father to bless Chaya's family and ends.

One night when Eric called on her to say the prayer just like he had every day for days on end, she looked into the air thoughtfully and mused, "Somehow. . . I say the prayer a lot."

Then she sighed, smiled appreciatively and said the prayer.

Adventurous Eaters

On a little trip I took in April, I achieved one of my lifelong dreams to shop at Trader Joe's.  (See?  It doesn't take that much to make me happy.)  Luckily I was driving my car so I wasn't too embarrassed by the bags loaded with simmer sauces, french cheese, and tapenades. I couldn't resist throwing in some exotic items for the kids so that we could have a taste-testing extravaganza for Family Home Evening the day after I got home.  I had to snap photos of their facial contortions as they sampled chocolate-covered potato chips, wasabi seaweed, chili-lime cashews, and wasabi peas.

My Two Four-Eyes

Well, the Hafen-genes finally kicked in.  We'd made it thirteen years with my super-strength prescription being enough for all of us and I was starting to hope that Eric's 20/20 vision would prevail. Unfortunately, both Eve and Holden started complaining about not being able to see the board at school, so we all headed down to the same optometrist I used to visit as a kid.  As a young Rexburg lass, I had always felt nervous, flawed, shy, and queasy before a doctor's appointment of any kind, so I was concerned about Eve.  But she just chatted away and swung her legs as the Dr tested her eyes.  Sometimes her native confidence stuns me.

As we chose frames, I had to nudge/shove them in a practical direction as best I could, although I did let each of them get a "fun" pair.  (Thank you, Zenni optical! If you need cheap glasses go here. I should seriously be getting paid for all of these endorsements.)

Eve chose frames that  are a shade of blue so brilliant it hurts, and of course they are dotted with so many hearts and rhinestones that even Dolly Parton would blush. I told her that it would probably be "best" if she only wore them when she wears blue. . . you know, so they would match.

 Each night Eve carefully lays out her clothes in the hallway so that she won't wake up Marie in the morning.  When she plans on wearing blue for school, she lays out her clothes and her favorite glasses.
I admit that I cringe a little inside on those blue days. . . but I love the black frames (that I suggested/chose).

Double Digits

Caleb turned 10 on the last day of April.  He is starting to grow into himself and the boy who used to hide under the table when friends or family came over is now at-ease, witty, and nurturing. His friends adore him and he has a constant stream of friends lining up to play.  A neighbor commented to me that as she was driving home one day, she noticed a crowd of kids gathered on the sidewalk.  She described how they were all surrounding our Caleb, listening to him as he animatedly told a story.  She laughed as she said, "They were all so intent that I almost rolled down the window so I could hear what fabulous tale he was sharing!"

For his birthday dinner request, Caleb deliberated for weeks and then thoughtfully chose crepes for the main course and cheesecake for dessert.  I consented because, after all, you're only ten once.  Holden told us later that for his health class the next week, they had to report how many calories they had consumed each day. He had sheepishly totaled over 1000 calories for his little brother's birthday dinner.  (Although he sure didn't complain as he wolfed down five crepes and two pieces of cheesecake that night!)

Eric insists that the kids pronounce the word "crêpe" correctly, which causes some fun, scatologically related ambiguity. (Pronounce it with the soft e sound--as in, rhymes with Depp. We don't eat "craypse" at our house--Eric winces if we even try. ) Maybe it was our French pronunciation, but Charlie seemed utterly perplexed.

 Cute Caleb got to invite a few friends to a "Caleb 10" birthday bash.  (I got to come too, but only because I was the driver.)

On Turning Ten

The whole idea of it makes me feel
like I'm coming down with something,
something worse than any stomach ache
or the headaches I get from reading in bad light--
a kind of measles of the spirit,
a mumps of the psyche,
a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul.

You tell me it is too early to be looking back,
but that is because you have forgotten
the perfect simplicity of being one
and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.
But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.
At four I was an Arabian wizard.
I could make myself invisible
by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.
At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince.

But now I am mostly at the window
watching the late afternoon light.
Back then it never fell so solemnly
against the side of my tree house,
and my bicycle never leaned against the garage
as it does today,
all the dark blue speed drained out of it.

This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself,
as I walk through the universe in my sneakers.
It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends,
time to turn the first big number.

It seems only yesterday I used to believe
there was nothing under my skin but light.
If you cut me I could shine.
But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,
I skin my knees. I bleed. 

Billy Collins