Irony

Claire has been scooting her little tush around our house for the last 4 weeks or so. it's more of an army crawl than a scoot, really. I've attempted to catch her on video several times. Unfortunately, Grace (read "Diva") usually sees this occasion as an opportunity. She stands next to me, looking through the viewfinder, and puts her finger in front of the camera (entirely obscuring Claire, of course). "Look Mo-om! HA! Ha-ha-ha-hahahaha!! It's mmyyy FIRNGEN!" This is how Grace pronounces "finger." She might have added, "Look mom, there's my firngen which is on my narm!" She adds consonants here and there. Like seasoning. Spicing up her speech a little. We tell her to stop.

Anyway. Back to the matter at hand. Which is...

Oh yes, Claire.

I waited with bated breath for Grace to crawl, sit, and take her first steps.

(This really does come back to Claire. Eventually.)

I didn't eagerly anticipate these things out of a joyful wish to see her grow up (sadly enough). I'm pretty sure I was looking for something to say to those other mothers. To participate in those conversations that go like this:

Mommy 1: Tommy is in the 96th percentile for height. He's soooo big!
Mommy 2: Oh, that's great. Did you know that Sarah is already getting teeth at three months?
Mommy 3: Well, our little Duncan is walking SIX months early!! Can you believe it?! He's into everything. He's so adorable.

Shameful.

But I am cured. I don't want Claire to grow at all. She can lie cozily in my arms forever. No rolling. No teeth. No complex carbohydrates. NOO CRAWLING!

It may be my imagination, but I fear she is crawling before Grace did. Grace couldn't grow up fast enough for me, and now I can't get Claire to slow down. The injustice is unbearable. Cruel, cruel world.

Never Say Her Outfit Doesn't Match

She will wear it anyway. To spite you.

We Were Warned

Brad and I watched Utah news last night. They were investigating some business scandal. Again. During this looming recession, we're all looking for a scapegoat. And we're finding them in mortgage companies, real estate agents, investment companies.

But in an economy like this, everyone is guilty. Including investors and naive homebuyers.

Did it have to be this way? Would things be different if all of us Mormons had taken President Hinkley seriously (see here and here) and saved money and built our food storages and watched the pride cycle in action?

I have no idea. But I think this recession will get worse. It will be bad enough to make us remember to be humble when the good times come again.

What I do know is: next time I will listen better. In the meantime, I'm still paying off my credit card.

Mixed Blessings

Grace has a thing for scriptures. Sort of. Scripture study is pretty much her least favorite thing ever. But the scriptures themselves, as books--those are different. She packs them around with her, opens them up, claims them as her own. Today she found mine next to the bed. She unsnapped them and let them fall open (undoubtedly to the maps appendix). Then she stated (as if to read), "And it came to pass... that the Lamanites."

It wasn't a complete sentence. But still, it was one of those moments. The kind where you think to yourself that maybe you are more than the sandwich maker and bum cleaner. Not that those roles aren't completely fulfilling or anything.

Maybe things are really sinking in. I'm elated. And terrified.

For Brianna

Although I haven't seen an episode in a very long time, I recall watching Supernanny--more than once--tape a butcher-paper schedule to a family's refrigerator. "Yo chiwdren need structcha!" She claimed.

We don't have a schedule. I know, Nanny Jo would not approve. There used to be a very detailed plan hanging on our own refrigerator. But I killed it after Claire was born and Grace decided it would be fun to stop taking naps.

We do happen to do some of the same things everyday at approximately the same time.

We wake up, for example. And we usually do that at about 6:45 when Grace stumbles into our room insisting on peanut butter and honey. (I keep anticipating pb&h overdose.)

And then we go to sleep. Not immediately after waking up, of course, but this is our only routine to speak of. We read scriptures while Grace--unable to sit still for five consecutive words--bounces and runs and wiggles and wallows. We say family prayer. We brush Grace's teeth. Daddy puts Grace to bed with a song and a prayer. Claire goes into her swing, and Brad and I collapse. We watch Netflix, or internet TV, or play a game.

And then it starts all over.

There are weekly variations, I suppose: Wednesday is playgroup, Friday is the zoo, Saturday is family-house-project-day... but no concrete schedule.

I used to be so organized. *Sigh.*

Prepping for Play

Yesterday I showered, dressed, and fancied up my hair only to don sweats and a ponytail two hours later. So much for my rare demonstration of responsible hygiene. That's an exaggeration. I actually do regularly shower. Anyway.

I changed back into pajama sweats because Grace and I decided to paint her playhouse.

"Wait," You say. "I thought you briefly mentioned that Grace's playhouse is a cardboard box." That is mostly correct. Ten points. See picture of said box:

Yesterday Grace's house was upgraded and is now composed of exactly three cardboard boxes, two yards of duct tape, one quart of paint, and one drawer knob (which was reassigned from Grace's dresser to the playhouse's front door).

So after our paint job, a coloring spree, and when Claire got sick of watching us...

we had crafted a crude masterpiece. I wonder how long it will survive the brutality of Grace-play.

Like Shoveling Falling Snow

My mom used to call me a pack-rat. This is an unpleasant term for someone who saves garbage. Apparently at four years old even a twisted paperclip can be treasure. I guess.

I don't save things anymore. I have had to move seventeen times and at some point I decided to make friends with the dumpster.

But now Grace is the pack-rat. A scavenging pack-rat. She does not favor only the trash bound items. She hunts for misplaced any things. And then she carts them around with her: in her hands, in the trunk of her tricycle, in her purse. It makes tidying our house close to impossible since there are piles of these things everywhere. And after I clean up, there are new ones.

Therefore, our house is never clean.

Today I took an inventory of her collection as it sat in her bike trunk:

1. 1 cracked, plastic thermometer case
2. A set of old Honda keys
3. 1 small bottle of Mommy's favorite lotion
4. 3 tubes of Mommy's favorite lipgloss, goobered on
5. Mommy's missing crochet hook
6. 2 rocks
7. 4 broken crayons
8. 1 of Daddy's business cards
9. 1 slice of pumpkin bread, crumbled and stale
10. 1 twisted electric wire
11. Grace's missing toothbrush, full of pumpkin crumbs