Volume IX, issue ii, March 2013

Our Lucky Kids

St Patrick's Day is one of favorite holidays, not just because of the excuse to sport green (which happens to be both Eric's and my favorite hue) or because we can stuff ourselves like hungry leprechauns with brisket and cabbage and potatoes and minty green confections. We love it because it gives us a chance to celebrate the Devine--to joyfully remember Eric's mother, Kathleen, and her pure Irish blood and Irish ways; to tell our one-quarter Irish offspring tales about Kathy's siblings and wonderful parents, cheerful John and back-breakingly strong but radiant Edna; to help them appreciate their beautifully diverse heritage as they look in the mirror and see Irish blue eyes or fair skin or a mischievous spark of playful glee. All of those things are divinely Devine and we cherish them.

The Irish blood is strong with this one. 

Crazy Hair Day at Lincoln Elementary School

Prerequisites for creating hair this crazy: genetically superior hair follicles (that I'm hoping offset the pathetic eyesight and skin genes); a bowl full of egg whites mixed with three kinds of hair gel and hairspray; and a mother ready to receive her reward for countless painful hours in the 80's locked in front of a mirror with hairspray and blowdryer wheezing furiously to coax miraculous heights from her own stiff layers of bangs upon bangs.

During my adolescent years, the screaming sound of the hair dryer accompanied by the frantic pumping of sticky, ozone-destroying hairspray were part of my morning ritual. I scooped my frizz onto my pick like a pitch fork to hold my poor, perm-ridden locks away from my ears and then aimed the hairspray in an unrelentingly sticky stream of heat until I could smell that it was done. 

I kept having flashbacks as I created the mother of all mohawks out of Peter's long, thick mane. 

I was sitting by Marie on the couch when I noticed her looking dreamily into the air. Suddenly she sighed and said,"I  just love that you can bring people back to life when they die."

At first I was confused until I realized that she wasn't talking about the zombie apocalyse, but about Easter. I said, "Oh, you mean the resurrection!"  She smiled and said, "Yeah. . ." and sighed again.

After a few more minutes of resurrection-themed contemplation, she said, "Making people is hard and kind of gross."

I'm not sure exactly what she'd been taught in Primary for Easter, but she was certainly absorbing the Easter ambience.

This shot was taken right before Marie's pre-school Easter Party. When Charlie sees the camera, he scurries over to our white wall like some little photographic Pavlovian pup. I couldn't get him out of the shot, and now I'm thrilled that I caught him looking so gleefully disheveled and miles away from camera ready. How could I edit out that messy little imp? 

Marie's Easter Party : Sponsored by. . . 

Marie is always looking at me hopefully and asking me if she can plan a party (I have no idea where that comes from. . . ). Somehow she coaxed Caleb and Eve into helping her, and the week before Easter our little trio of party planners was in mach 5 party planning mode as they concocted charts, created invitations, cut out decor and dreamed up games with an intensity perhaps only I could appreciate. 

They hand-delivered invitations to each family member and made a play-by-play party schedule that Martha herself would be proud of. They even made a cheerful "Happy Easter" banner out of fishing wire that they strung across the living room. Eve hand-sewed fabric easter eggs for prizes and Caleb designed a crown for the grand prize. 

As I proudly watched Caleb and Eve put their cute noses to the celebratory grindstone, I thought how sweet they were to work so hard to make Marie's dreams come true. I praised their selfless service until they said, "Marie is paying us." 

Marie is doing what? 

"She's paying us five cents each!" 

I asked them where their four-year-old sister had gotten money to pay them and Eve shrugged her shoulders and said, "She found it in her pockets." 

How sweet. . . 

We scheduled the posh affair on Monday night for Family Home Evening and Caleb stood on the hearth in the living room like some celebrity MC for the Oscars and announced slowly and  with authority: "Welcome to Marie's Easter Party!" 

We played "Pin the Tail on the Easter Bunny," "Find the Easter Eggs" and "Find the Easter Bunny" in teams, with each team rotating from game to game according to the schedule. 

When Caleb tallied up the points, we weren't surprised to find that Caleb's team had won, considering that the awarding of points was completely subjective and overseen by. . . Caleb himself. 

Twelve with a Vocabulary Going On Twenty

In Ethan's history class, they were discussing a political issue that highlighted the unfair treatment of a woman. Ethan made a comment about how the situation was "sexist." Loud gasps erupted from all of his pre-teen classmates. They couldn't believe he would use that word in class. Ethan patiently explained that being sexist means "the unfair treatment of someone based on their gender" (his definition). Ethan and his teacher were the only ones in the room that found the whole scenario funny. 

* * * 

The Lego Advent Calendar has been a family Christmas tradition for the past three years. . . for the older kids only. This year we decided to involve Peter and Marie, knowing we were taking a risk. We bought two Star Wars advent calendars so that every night two kids could open one of those magical doors and put together one of those adorably teeny tiny, miraculously creative figures (you can probably tell who initiated said tradition). One evening it was clear that someone (insert Peter's name here) had opened several doors to "check and make sure all of the figures were where they were supposed to be." At first the kids thought some of their prized figures were missing and a whole lot of teeth-gnashing and grumbling ensued. I launched into lecture #372B about turn-taking etc. etc.,  assuming that everyone was too upset to really listen. 

During family prayer that night, Ethan reverently asked for heaven's aide by saying "Please help us that we won't be overtaken by greed."

Happy Anniversary to Us!


On March 27th Eric and I celebrated our fifteenth anniversary. Fifteen years of the most shockingly witty, hysterically inane, and incredibly insightful commentary a girl could ask for. Fifteen years of late-night talks about literature, scripture, human nature, and every other imaginable (and unimaginable) topic that end with the words, "We DO live together. We should probably get some sleep!" Fifteen years filled with loyalty, and yet he can still surprise me. Fifteen years and seven kids, but my heart still flips when he winks at me. My only regret is that I doubted that I would find him.

Still in our anniversary-induced reverie, Marie (4) studied the youthful photo of Eric and me on our wedding day, sighed and said, "I like how Dad looks in this picture!" Bracing myself for the worst, I asked her how she liked me in the photo and she said, "You look exactly the same!" Oh, kisses for EVERYONE!!

Volume IX, issue i, January/February 2013

Eric picked me up from class one snow-blown day in January and reported that Charlie had been happily playing by himself for several minutes in a row (which, for our loving [aka clingy] Charlie, is quite a feat). Eric discovered him in the toy-room sporting a black top-hat and carefully spoon-feeding a plastic princess like some well-groomed baby butler.

Eric said, "Do you remember that claymation New Year's Baby with the big blue eyes and curly blonde hair? Charlie looked exactly like him!"

Grandpa Charlie

Some of the most meaningful questions find their voice on the road, between drop-offs and pick-ups for lessons, meetings, and practices of all kinds. Perhaps it is because it is in that carpool movement that I am finally still. My ears and my answers are open and ripe for the plucking. The childlike voices rise from the back of the car and I am constantly cheered and surprised by the subjects that come up as they sit, surrounded by deep thoughts and the detritus of car-trips long past--the crumbs, the wrappers, the toys.

A few weeks ago, Peter's backseat question was "Mom, what is Charlie's middle name?"

Following the tradition of my own socratically sensitive mother, I responded to his question with a question : "Well, he's named after Grandpa Hafen, so what would his middle name be?"

Peter paused and then his deliciously deep giggles bounced around the suburban as he cried, "Charlie's name is Charlie Grandpa d'Evegnee?!?"

For the next few minutes, Peter and Marie took turns staring hard at Charlie and yelling, "Grandpa Charlie!" to unleash a whole new set of giggles.

Call Me Charlie

Charlie loves my phone, and like the mother of seven that I am, I let him play with it even though the residual mother of 1 and 2 and 3 and 4 in me certainly doesn't approve. I paid the consequences of my lax mothering when I couldn't find my phone for days and ended up having to get a new one, assuming that Charlie had chucked it (haha) in the garbage can (which he had done with several other items ranging from utensils to toys to brushes) and it had gone out with the trash. After enjoying my new and improved phone for a couple of months, I was getting ready for a party and got out my favorite punch bowl from one of the lower cupboards in the kitchen. My old phone was sitting inside the punchbowl, looking a little lonely and dusty. It could no longer make calls, but still worked enough to keep Charlie entertained for minutes on end (he doesn't work in hours).

I love that we've captured four of my favorite current Charlie-isms in this clip:
1) The cheesy I'm-on-camera grin
2) One of his first words: "Hell-o?"
3) One of his first sentences: "What do?"
4) The way he shakes uncontrollably from his pointed toes all the way up to his gritted teeth when he gets really excited.

Not long after this, I received this e-mail from my friend Kimberly: 

I had this great voice mail on my phone.  It was AWESOME!!  I had no idea that Eric had such a great singing voice and, WOW, what amazing whistling skills! AND, he did all that while looking for a pacifier.  I feel like I should have a Playbill for my journal ... or at least his signature.  

Silly, Charlie....he could at least say hello when he calls :D

Valentine's Day 2013
Reeling with the intoxication of having EIGHT Valentines this year, I wish I could somehow transport myself, Dr Who-like, into the past and tell my acne-speckled, perm-inflicted teenage self that the future would be this disgustingly wonderful!

Jell-o. . . is it Me You're Looking For?

As I rounded up our troops to head over to the church for a Boy Scout Sponsored dinner, I told Eve that we were going to the Blue and Gold Banquet. She grinned with anticipation and said, "Is that the one with all of the jell-o?"

A few minutes later as we joined the throngs of hungry scout families waiting in line for the feast, one of my friends asked Peter if she could help him get food on his plate. He looked at her soberly and responded, "I'm just here for the jell-o."

* * * 

I was the hostess for our discussion of JoAnna Brooks' Book of Mormon Girl for my Book Group last week, and ever-loyal to my penchant for theme-based refreshments, I swallowed hard and went looking for "Mormon Recipes." I cringed as I filled my cart with jell-o, cool whip, cream of (gag) chicken soup, and other pseudo-food items. I could feel myself blushing as the cashier scanned each carton, can, and box and I eerily discovered that I felt that exact bizarre shame that creeps over me when I purchase. . . hu-hum. . . "family-planning-related accessories" (how is that for a euphemism?). I found my eyes darting from right to left to make sure a former student or ward member wasn't around. I couldn't make eye-contact with the cashier for fear of seeing the judgment in her eyes . I wanted to cry out, "I can explain! There's a REASON I'm buying these!" 

I served my guests funeral potatoes as well as fruit-filled, non-dairy-product-topped gelatin with. . . (brace yourself) cheese on top.  I've heard that a apple pie without cheese is like a kiss without a squeeze, but this was like. . . kissing someone who has recently lost their lunch who is trying to squeeze your lunch out of you. It was a real recipe I had heard about from a friend, but could scarcely believe until I saw it with my own eyes. I kept having to do Lamaze breathing because of the dry-heaves that surfaced as I scraped and slopped and stirred my way through the recipes. 

Eve's Ninth

What kind of girl requests boeuf bourguignon, crepes, her own bag of pistachios and "whatever books you think I might like" as part of her ideal birthday? That would be MY GIRL right there!

I was in tears as I tremblingly picked out her own hardbacked copies of The Little Princess and Anne of Green Gables, hardly believing what a lucky Mom I am. I love the random moments when she leans in close and says quietly, "Mom. . . I love ya! I just do!" What a girl. . . what a girl!

Caleb's Viola Festival

  Caleb has been taking viola lessons for about eighteen months and has been cheerfully and steadily marching musically forward. His festival was the same weekend as my Hafen Girls' Retreat (much to my maternal dismay), so my friend, Kimberly graciously subbed for me as his accompanist (which also means she has been mentioned TWICE in one installment of The Review! Go Kimber!). 

Volume VIII, issues viii and ix, November and December 2012

November 2013

Some of our friends generously invited the nine of us over for a pleasantly competitive Pie Contest before Thanksgiving. We decided to go for style rather than substance as a ridiculous requiem to the timely demise of Hostess only days earlier.  We used home-made chocolate and vanilla mousses (meeses?) to glue the disgustingly caloric layers together and the kids present inhaled it with guilt-free gusto and showered us with shameful votes.

Admittedly our dessert wasn't a pie, and it played on sugar-laden pathos rather than baking skills, but that didn't stop us from taking home first prize! It's a major award! Not only can I wear it, but I can also eat out of it and defend myself with it and use it to discipline small children and cheeky adults.

Before I was married, I told my Mom, "If I ever make my kids wear matching clothes, please shoot me!" Now I wear a bullet-proof vest and egg on my face to family reunions!

Holden sailed through his first year as a teen with ease, with temperamental transitions and wavy mood swings affecting not his personality but his hair (see photo above). Adding a little squirt of gel to the spikes in his hair in the morning made them spiral out of control by afternoon and his friends started calling his coif "The Wave." Holden reported to me one day after school that as he was walking down the junior high hallway (shudder, shudder), he overheard one girl say to her friend, "I want to touch that kid's hair."

He said that he wanted to turn around and say to his admirers, "That kid has a name."

I promptly gave him an appreciative pat on the back and a haircut.

Soups of Pumpkins and Peters

One Monday I asked Peter if we should have a giant cookie for our Family Home Evening treat. He was silently thoughtful for about ten seconds and then said, "Why don't you make TWO giant cookies and then we could make a giant ice cream sandwich?" Well played, my son! Who wouldn't want to consume a monstrous cookie-ish confection as big as their head?
* * *
While staying at my parents house for Thanksgiving, Peter suffered through one of the worst colds he's ever experienced and was startled when he woke up one morning and couldn't speak. He croaked, "My voice is broken!"

That night he screamed out in the dark when he thought he couldn't breathe, so I got out of bed to rush him into bathroom so he could breathe in some steam. He sweetly pitter-pattered back to bed a few minutes later. In the morning, he said sadly, "My voice is still broken, Mom. Bytheway. . sorry I woke everyone up."
* * *
Peter loves to give a sort of "dream report" when he wakes up. Last week he spun a sleepy yarn about how he was being attacked by brains that had eyes and squid-like arms. After describing the violently cerebral war, he said calmly. "Do you know how I know it was a dream? Brains don't have eyeballs."

Christmas 2013

Christmas Prayer

One night as we were opening the cute cardboard door on our Lego Advent Calendar, there were shrieks of anything but Christmas joy when the kids uncovered an empty compartment. Peter had been trying to peek and had somehow relocated the legos to a different compartment. All wasn't lost, but we still had to endure a lecture about sharing and patience and taking turns (I really don't like giving the lectures either). 

While saying the family prayer that night, Ethan said, "Please help us not be overtaken by greed. "  

Celebrity-ating in Style

Eric and I were invited to a Christmas Costume Party early in December and the invitation said to wear our "Best red and green." We couldn't resist. You should have seen us giggling and carrying on as we carefully planned each perfect detail of our costumes for weeks before the party. I have to say that conjuring up the costumes with Eric and then posing for this picture were two of the highlights of my holiday season. I had been practicing my "joyously evil ambulance chaser" expression for days to get it just right.

Marie's cute pronunciation of "hand sanitizer" inspired is to make these goodies to share with our neighbors and friends. I loved watching the kids at each door, belting out Christmas cheer, Marie popcorn-ing as she sang. Because I didn't want the delivery of the gifts to take until the new year, I suggested that maybe they didn't need to sing at every door. After the next rousing chorus, Eve returned to the car and said resignedly, "Sorry. I can't resist singing."

Eve lost one of the screws to her glasses right before her class Christmas program, so she jimmy-rigged a paperclip, Macgyver-style, to hold her glasses on. You'll also notice in the photo that she removed the bow from her hair and added it to her Santa hat for just a touch of feminine flair. 

* * *
Eve has started experimenting with language in a way that makes my poetic heart flutter. Rather than just calling us by our given titles, she'll say things like "Mom of all Moms, can I have a snack?" or 

"Charlie that I know and love, you are so cute." 

* * *
Her fingers are itching to start violin lessons and I told her that if she was exceptionally good, I'd let her start on her birthday. She sighed sadly so I told her it wasn't a long time to wait. She replied, "In my time it is."

* * *
Since she learned how to sew this summer, Eve is constantly found in her room with a needle and thread, huddled over scraps of fabric (and her brothers are constantly found yelping and pulling needles out of their feet. Oh! The memories!). She makes stuffed animals, purses, doll clothes and anything else she can piece together with a little thread and her vivid imagination. She sewed hand-made gifts for family members for Christmas, and even created a special "Idaho" for Charlie (bottom right) with paper, stuffing and staples.  

I was filled with extreme glee when I realized that we could have a Christmas quartet this year. It was the stuff that my nerdy adolescent fantasies were made of. Being surrounded by three handsome string-playing fellas was almost more than I could bear as we filled up the house with Christmas melodies for the Sunday before Christmas. We played as a quartet for a while and then I switched to the piano and accompanied Caleb on his viola and then switched things up and accompanied some duets with Holden and Ethan on their cellos. Then Eve wanted to play the piano and Caleb figured out how to play with her. By the time we finished and looked at the clock, we realized our jam session had lasted for three hours.  Oh what fun, indeed!

We brainstormed about what we could call ourselves and my first suggestion was "The G Strings." Eric and I laughed whole-heartedly until the boys wanted to know what was so funny.  I'm thinking that maybe "Me and My Bows" might be more family friendly.

Eric snickered each time we finished a song and told us our look at the camera said, "We. . . are. . . performers!"