Volume XI, issue i, January 2015

Sixteen Candles

Birthday breakfast burritos at the "taco bus."

The birthday present I opened on January 17, 1999 (or did the birthday present open me?) was not only the best birthday present I had ever received, but he was the gift that kept on giving. Since that birthday 16 years ago, I've been able to celebrate my big day each year by making it someone else's big day.

When Holden was about eight, he approached me with a wave of shame moving across his face at the sudden realization that I had been throwing him an elaborate party on my birthday every year. He gulped back the guilt as he told me, "Mom, I feel bad. I don't want you to have to throw a party on your birthday!" (You should have heard Eric snort.)

Little did he realize that he had been giving his party-planning-addict-of-a-mother an annual present without ever having to do anything besides being born.

This year, I started planning Holden's Sweet Sixteen bash months in advance. During moments of brain-quiet, I would imagine scenes from the party that involved teen girls and teen boys who had come of their "Mormon Age," giggling merrily and basking in their sixteen-ness. I had plans for sparklingly interactive games dancing through my head along with an erudite guest list and an embarrassingly complicated yet adolescent-friendly menu.

Then I finally decided to ask Holden if he wanted a "boy girl party." Oops.  This introvert-to-the core should have realized she had trained her birthday twin to be an introvert-to-the-core. We exchanged alternative ideas for a few days, and I told him to choose the kind of party that he would really enjoy.

About a week before our birthday, we were discussing different options for his party, and without expecting him to really be interested, I casually added to the list, "Or the two of us could just go out together?"

My normally serene teen immediately lit up and said, "Really? That would be fun!" in the same way that I had expected him to react when I originally suggested the idea of having a boy girl party. I was stunned.

The perpetual sixteen-year-old that lives in my brain couldn't believe it. I had to grab her by the permed hair and threaten her to calm down or she wouldn't get to go on the date at all. Without a trace of hyperbole, I can say (and Eric will back me up on this) that I reached an entirely new level of GIDDY.

I have not spent more than an hour to get myself gussied, prepped, and ready for any event of any kind since the day of my wedding on March 28th, 1999 (which, if you're shrewd, you've already figured out was approximately 10 months before Holden was born). But on January 17th, 2015, I actually ironed something to wear and curled my hair and put on makeup. I didn't want my first-born son to go on his first-date with some slob!

As Holden waited patiently for his date to finish curling her hair (which I discovered is not like riding a bike at all! [The girls don't even use bikes any more. . . they use FLAT-irons to curl their hair! Did you know that?]), he made poses like this one in the living room:

Forty-five minutes later (clears throat self-consciously), I went out the mud-room door and re-surfaced in front of the front door and rang the doorbell. I couldn't stop smiling alone in the dark as I waited for him to answer the door. I was more excited than I ever was for one of those girls-choice nightmares in high school. Holden was so cute when he saw me produce a Snickers Bouquet from behind my back that I couldn't stop grinning like I was the Mom Prom Queen for the evening.

As Eric attempted to take a few snapshots of us, he kept saying, "Stop smiling like that! Can you please tone it down just a little?" I just flashed every single one of my teeth at him and said, "I can't!"

My sweet boy and I went to dinner at a local barbeque joint and just talked and laughed like old friends. At one point, Holden offered me a charming smile and said, "I just love spending time with my favorite woman in the world!" He then paused with perfect timing and continued, "But since she's not available, you'll have to do."

As the oldest of seven, our poor Holden has rarely eaten at a restaurant, so he was completely overwhelmed by all of the choices on the menu. He struggled to narrow down his options until I educated him about one of the best perks of dating--sharing your food. I told him to choose two main courses so we could share.

Perhaps my aging heart wouldn't normally have tolerated both the chicken fried steak and the brisket, but it felt so young that night that I think the fat just sailed right through my arteries!

It only took about twelve tries for the two of us to get our arched eyebrows in sync with each other, but we were quite pleased with our selfie shot. When we showed Peter this "cynical eyebrow" (as Holden calls it) face later, he said seriously, "It's handsome. . . but sarcastic"

Among other topics, Holden and I discussed dating, French grammar, The Great Gatsby, European History, and the meaning of the scriptural phrase "grace for grace." I had to turn away from him so he wouldn't see my tears after he voluntarily shared the verse that had been on his mind lately from D&C 93: "And he received not of the fulness at first, but continued from grace to grace, until he received a fulness." Holden told me how he loved how even though the Savior was perfect, he still had to learn from the scriptures in order to become fully developed. 

For his birthday, this cooky kid asked for books about writing and cheesecake. . . 

(Let me just pause and say, "Seriously??? Where did this kid come from?")

The week after his birthday, Holden was ordained to be a Priest. As he loosened his tie when he got home, he said reflectively, "Now I'm available AND righteous!"

* * *

As happens so often these days, I wished I could somehow travel back to that disheartened 16-year-old that I used to be (or to the single 26-year-old in graduate school or the rash-ridden, vomiting pregnant woman, or the miscarrying mother). I would tell her to savor those teenage tugs at her heartstrings and not to become swallowed up in comparisons or suffering or sacrifice. I'd describe the delicious details from idyllic scenes in her future, scenes that would only surface after years of waiting on the Lord--scenes so absolutely full of an organic happiness that would have been utterly unimaginable on some of those lonely days of self-pity and awkwardness. 

But she wouldn't have believed me. Thankfully, it all had to be lived. 

World Meets Girl

Our Eve has never suffered from an ounce of self-consciousness (perhaps because I am neurotic enough for both of us). This year she's been choosing her outfit every day, which are just slightly more understated than the frilly works of clothing-art that I would assemble for her during her elementary school days. 

One cold day this month, she came upstairs after getting ready for school with a fun striped cardigan and a t-shirt. I looked at her outfit and said enthusiastically, Eve! That looks cute!"

My girl just shrugged and said, "That wasn't its purpose. . . but thanks."

Volume X, issue xii, December 2014

d'Evegnees in One-derland

Thanks to my dear friend, Lori P., Eric and I discovered the one-derful world of onesies. At first we were prancing around in them to be silly, but little did we realize that we had found a new way of life. Comfortable, warm, relaxed life. Apparently onesies are all the rage with certain celebrity startlets, so that's why I'm wearing heels in the photo. Normally I just wear it with slippers and a vacant expression.

Eric now calls me his "Onesie and Only" and his "Onesie True Love." 

We wore them to deliver some Christmas presents to friends and tried our best to keep straight faces and failed miserably. They're surprisingly flattering, especially when you don't care at all what you look like. 

On our way home from delivering our special neighbor gifts, I realized we needed to pop into the store to grab something for one of the kids. We sheepishly walked into Walgreen's and tried to avoid eye contact with any of the normal twosie folks who were actually wearing pants. 

A fellow shopper spied me out of the corner of his eye and Eric saw him do a double take with a startled expression as he gave me a onesie once over. . . twice. Then the gentleman noticed Eric in his matching outfit and didn't even try to disguise his horror as he quickly vacated our onesie-fied aisle. It was onesie discrimination at its most pathetic!

At dinner one evening, Eric and I were lounging in our onesies (again) and Eric was teasing Holden about not being very mature. Holden grimaced, shook his head and replied, "Says the man-child in the onesie."

And if you were one-dering. . . yes, I am wearing my onesie right now as I type. It's cold everywhere but right here in my onesie. 

For Peter's December Pack Night for Scouts, he found himself in a rare pairing with his Dad and no one else. While basking in this one-on-one parental attention, he exclaimed gleefully, "This is just like a Boys' Night Out!"

Peter proudly harnessed every bit of his French/Belgian heritage and grinned his way through a presentation about Christmas traditions in France. We let the kids in Peter's class sample some fresh Liegoise waffles we had baked that morning and one of them said, "This is the best waffle I've ever had!" Well. . . bien sûr!

Do You Want to Save a Snowman?

I got a text from a neighbor, Camille, saying that she wanted to tell me how proud she was of our Eve. Camille just had her third baby boy in three years and we've developed a soft place in our heart for her familiar familial situation.

Camille reported to me how she and her little boys had spent several hours that day carefully constructing a snowman in their front yard. As the middle-school kids got off of the bus near their home, a group of boys started yelling and throwing snowballs at her boys' snowman, trying to make it fall down. Camille came to the front door to ask the boys to stop, and she heard a fierce little female voice saying, "You guys! Stop it!" Our fearless little Eve placed herself between the boys and the snowman like a protective maternal force of nature.

Camille told me how proud she was of Eve for "standing up for what's right." I was pretty proud of her myself.

Some of the Moms in our neighborhood organized a cute little preschool group with six of our three-year-olds. Every time its my week to be the teacher, you can bet that we figure out how we can make a party out of our assigned theme.

Neighbor Gifts
Each year we create some sort of handmade gift for our neighbors and friends in town. Little by little I've been integrating the kids into the process and this year our dining-room-turned-craft-room-for-the-holidays was transformed into a little Santa's Workshop as the kids and I cranked out over 50 wooden blocks. There's nothing quite as satisfying as a busy, organized assembly line!

As we snuggled together on our sectional in the basement watching A Christmas Story one evening this month, we couldn't get over how much our Peter looks like a brunette Ralphie.

The next day, Eric and I were dressed up for a Christmas costume party and I had drawn brown circles under my eyes as part of my costume. Charlie looked at me with concern and said, "You shoot your eye?"

In the past week, the dishes we've made have been rendered with culinary mastery, which means that they've all left piles of dirty pots and pans in their wake. As Ethan took his turn on dish-duty, I discovered him wearing the hat he crocheted himself, looking like a happy little kitchen elf.

We were able to spend a few days and nights with my parents and siblings after Christmas. My favorite part was playing Christmas duets with my Dad. Four-handed holiday bliss with Bach and my Renaissance man of a father.

That's right, we stopped in Salt Lake on the way back from my parents house and grabbed some Belgian food. My stunning niece, Sarah, met us there and made the whole experience even better (which we had thought would be impossible).

The woman working at the counter was about to throw away the remnants in a huge bucket of ice cream, but offered it to my sweet little vultures instead.

Happy New Spear!

After our New Year's Eve fondue party, Eric and I headed down to the junior high to be chaperone's for the multi-stake dance. I could almost hear the Ghosts of Hafens Past roaming the hallways.

Eric said it smelled like axe body spray and awkwardness. He told the kids we were going to supervise "Make-out Corner." They asked if there was such a thing and I replied, "When we get there there will be!" They were so grossed out that it was awesome.

Volume X, issue xi. November 2014

The Great Debate

This month Holden smoothly transitioned from one extracurricular activity to the next and said, "I went from Cross Country to cross examination."

(A kid who can play with words like that really should be in debate or at our dinner table!)

The whole debating thing is in Holden's blood. My grandfather Orval, for whom Holden was given his middle name, was a star debater in college at UC Berkeley as well as a gifted attorney and orator. I was beyond tickled as my big brother Jon (who is also named after Orval and who is also a gifted attorney and former Madison High debater) and Holden hunkered down before our Thanksgiving feast to energetically discuss resolutions and value premises like most people discuss celebrity sightings.

3......2.....1....Contacts!

Holden tried his first pair of contacts and even the optometrist was impressed at how good he looked with only two eyes rather than four. (Does the eye doctor usually say, "Wow! That makes a big difference!") Holden leaned close to the mirror and carefully studied his eyes in their new lenses and said with a slight edge of awe in his voice, "What color ARE my eyes? I see green. . . and blue. . . and a little brown. They're. . . cool." 

I wanted to say, "I know! That's why I've been so carefully hiding them from the girls at school!" 

What I actually said was, "It's called hazel. You got that color from me."

His smoldering look with the eyebrow arch is one he calls "Skeptical Eyebrow."

Peter the Great is Eight

Peter was the "Top Toucan" in his second grade class for a whole week in November. Do you think they give out failing grades to kids who can't pronounce their middle name? (My apologies to Eric's saintly great grandfather who definitely deserved a namesake, but couldn't be furnished with one who possessed a francophonian tongue.) We even practiced pronouncing the hyphenated tongue twister before he left for school with his poster and it only got cuter and cuter as his eyebrows struggled to compensate for what his mouth couldn't handle. 

After he turned eight, he wanted to try fasting for Fast Sunday the first Sunday of the month. We normally fast for two meals, but I suggested that maybe Peter should start with one. Peter ate a small breakfast and then skipped lunch before going to church with a determined look in his elfish blue eyes. During the sacrament, Eric tried to pass the tray of bread to Peter, but Peter said, "No! Mom said no snacks!" Eric explained that it was okay to take the sacrament when you're fasting, but Peter was still skeptical. 

Turning eight meant that Peter could be baptized. He had to use every drop of his small reservoir of patience to wait until November when his cute cousin, Lydia, was going to be returning from her mission in Peru so he could be baptized the same day as Lydia's brother, Brigham.

Peter and Brigham shared the special day of their baptisms like two cute little peas in a pod. 

My freshly baptized fifth child came up to me after the meeting, hugged me tight and said,"Hey Mom, being baptized wasn't so bad!"

The 8x10 glossy of Peter that bedecked the table with the programs for his baptism mysteriously disappeared after the meeting. I discovered it carefully placed next to Peter's plate at Thanksgiving dinner, looking like a monstrous place-card. He carted his small monument to self-approval around with him the whole weekend, even hiding it in his coat so he could sneak it into Sacrament Meeting on Sunday. Narcissus would be proud! 

Since we're on the Peter train of thought, I need to add one more perfectly Peter paragraph. I was wrapping up a large plate of cookies to take to some friends in our neighborhood and Peter asked sadly, "Are all of the cookies going to their family?" I explained to Peter that our friends had had a really bad day and that we wanted to try and cheer them up with the cookies. 

Peter started to trudge out of the kitchen, but then he paused and turned around and said slowly, "Mom. . . I've had a really bad day."


Chuck-a-Rama

Our little Chuckie Wonder is like a tiny atom, constantly bouncing and whizzing around with completely unfocused glee. I find myself squeezing him every time I catch him in a still moment. The other morning as I was attempting to get him dressed, I put my hands on his chubby cheeks and asked, "Why are you so cute?" He looked at me seriously and said, "I'm not cute. I'm a pirate."

We ate Thanksgiving dinner on Saturday with my family, which meant we got to concoct a private feast in Rexburg on Thursday. We decided to make some jell-o with pomegranates and pecans and whipped cream in honor of my Grandma Hafen. As we cracked open the boxes to read the instructions I realized that in all of the years we've lived in Rexburg we've never made jell-o for our kids.  

Scrunching up his button nose at his jell-o debut, Charlie pointed at his plate cautiously, leaned close to me and whispered,"Mom...It's moving!"

When it was time for dessert, Charlie enthusiastically took a bite of his pumpkin cheesecake, then, with a grimace laced with betrayal, dramatically pushed the plate away and said angrily,"This is not tasty!"

Volume X, issue x, October 2014 (Halloween)

The idea for this year's Halloween Over-do-it-fest was born in a cemetery (where all good Halloween ideas are born). On our visit to Connecticut this summer, Eric tried to lighten the rather somber mood while we were all visiting his Mom's grave. It was pretty overwhelming for our kids to be at the cemetery, so as we left, Eric asked if he should leave a piece of cheese on her headstone. When I asked him why, he responded seriously, "So she'll have something to eat during the Zombie Apocalypse." 

I laughed nervously as we crammed ourselves into the car, and realized that I had the perfect song to play as we drove away. . . and the rest is Halloween History. 

Our mini-Michael's jacket was the most complicated sewing project I have ever sunk my craft-Zombie teeth into. Since there wasn't a pattern, I fought my way through each design choice and a whole lot of trial and error.

I discovered that I am a little bit of a Dance Mom Diva during our rehearsals for the dance. I made all of us go over each move several times a day until we learned the whole thing. When Eric was describing our rehearsals, he said, "Let me just say there was sweating involved. "