A Belated Easter Post

-Saturday morning I awakened Abraham early (9:00 am -- so don't feel too bad for him) so that we could take Soren to his very first Easter Egg hunt in Idaho Falls. We were very excited. On the drive to town, we talked about how cute it would be to see Soren and a bunch of other little 0-to-2-year-olds toddling around, picking up plastic eggs and putting them in their mouths, wandering off in the wrong direction, tripping over each other, and being generally cute. We brought a camera and prepared ourselves for some serious cuteness. And then, as it did on Christmas, reality kicked in. We arrived at the park, lined up with the other kids in Soren's age group, and waited with great anticipation for the signal to turn our kids loose. At last the horn sounded. We sat Soren down on the ground, encouraging him to walk forward and look at the brightly colored objects on the ground. In the meanwhile, all the other parents had swept their children into their arms and were shoving their way through the fray, stuffing as many eggs into their baskets as they could get fit into their gigantic adult paws. Soren just stood watching, dazed. Everything was gone in twenty seconds.

Soren stands outside the fray at his first Easter egg hunt.

The highlight of our Easter egg hunt was running into our good friends Ressa and Ryan, who had brought Ressa's daughter, Grace, to try her hand at the warlike art of Easter egg hunting. She seems to have had a more successful experience hunting eggs with the 3-to-5-year-olds.

Grace showing off her spoils.

-Saturday afternoon Auntie Loriann came over and we (me, Abe, Loriann, and Abe's brother Quentin) dyed eggs during Soren's nap. We'd gone through two dozen eggs when Loriann noticed that Quentin hadn't yet dyed a single egg. "Are you going to dye an egg?" she asked.
"I was going to," replied Quentin, "But while I was thinking about a design, you guys dyed all the eggs."
Loriann rolled her eyes and handed him a freshly boiled egg. "HERE'S an egg," she said. "Hold on to it until you decide."
Quentin sat for a few more moments, then quick-dipped an egg into a cup of blue dye. "There," he said. "Done." And he set the egg back in the carton to dry. Loriann was deeply perturbed. Here she is pictured demonstrating the similarities between Quentin's egg and an undyed egg. Quentin maintains that it is elegantly subtle. I tend to agree.

After the egg-dying festivities, Soren awoke, and Loriann set out some eggs in the front room for Soren to find. He immediately found two, sat down, and smacked them joyfully together until they cracked.
-The Easter bunny showed up late Sunday afternoon and left baskets for Abe, Quentin, and Soren. (I guess I haven't mentioned that Quentin's been living with us for the past month. We're planning on having him here until Fall, when he starts school at LDS business college with his (favorite?) sister, Briar.) I think the Easter bunny did a pretty dang good job.

Newsletter # 1

(This idea is copied entirely from Dooce's blog. Just to give credit where credit is due. I think it's a fabulous thing to do. I only wish I'd begun sooner.)

Dear Soren,

You've been a part of our lives for nearly fifteen months now. A year ago I was still getting accustomed to the cold wave crash of love combined with crippling exhaustion that marked my entry into motherhood. I loved you passionately and felt intensely anxious whenever we were apart; at the same time I spent a lot of time fantasizing about a hotel room in Maui where I could go live by myself, sleep as much as I wanted, and forget about this crazy thing your father and I had done in choosing to procreate.

A year later you and I are both sleeping a lot better, though you still wake up once or twice a night for a few minutes of cuddling. I know I should let you cry yourself back to sleep so that I'm not still getting up with you when you're three, but my resistance is so low at night and your cries so utterly heartbreaking. A couple of weeks ago I decided I would go into your room so that you knew I was there, tell you I loved you, and lay you back down. I did this for a couple of days, then you started wrapping your arms tightly around my neck the moment I picked you up, and that innocent trusting baby monkey grip broke down any resolve to teach you how to go back to sleep by yourself, forced me to sit down with you and rock. When I hold you at night you always tuck your legs and arms up underneath your torso, and I bury my nose in the soft downy hair on your head and rub your curved back. Daddy says you're like a drug for me. He's right. There are times when my soul feels like it's rotted through and will never be good for me again and I will pick you up and the purity of your little spirit will permeate mine and I will feel clean and bright and good again.

We moved into our first house when you were one year, one month, and one day old. You were just barely starting to toddle around then. At night I'd sit in the rocking chair in your room and watch you practice walking: you'd stand behind the door by the wall, shove the door closed, and walk to it. Then you'd swing it back open against the wall, and walk to it. You'd go back and forth for maybe a half hour-- until I got bored and dumped you in your crib. At the beginning of your adventures in bipedalism, you felt that crawling was still a much more efficient way of getting around. But now you walk everywhere you go-- and you're even working on learning to run (practice sessions currently consist of a few hurried steps followed by a face plant that you don't even seem to notice.) I'm in no hurry for you to master the technique of rapid ambulation; I have a hard enough time keeping up with you as it is.

Anything that is electronic, wheeled, or mechanical holds special powers over you. When I'm filling the dishwasher, you're busy pushing around the wheeled rack, opening and closing the door, and spinning the water blades. When I'm in the bathroom, you dash off to your bedroom to shove over the fan, turn it on, turn it up, turn it down, move it around. You spend a lot of time, your eyebrows knitted and your lips pooched out in concentration, examining things, tweaking them here, pulling them there, turning them this way and that.

As of late you've developed a voracious appetite for books. And I wish I meant that you simply thirsted after their content; alas, I mean it quite literally. Whenever your solitary playtime grows quiet, Daddy or I will immediately come to see which book you've found to nosh. We'll fish the cardboard out of your mouth and take the book away, but this doesn't stop you from sneaking away and indulging in this strange appetite when our attention is diverted. Most of your books have edges and bindings that have been eaten away, though I must acknowledge that books are not your only source of edible cardboard: earlier today you ate a good portion of a Ziplock bag dispenser; a couple days ago you gnawed off the bottom of an oatmeal container. I feed you several nutritious meals a day, but this doesn't stop you from saving room for your one true culinary pleasure. Sometimes I feel like I've mothered a goat, not a child.

Words hold very little interest for you. You do like to hear books read aloud and you'll listen while I recite a nursery rhyme or tell a story, but it's the rhythms and intonations that are fascinating to you; the meanings and forms or words seem to you to be of little consequence. The only word you'll say right now with any consistency is "Dada." Sometimes I'll patiently remind you that it isn't Dada who nursed you for thirteen months, who gets up with you in the night, who bathes you every evening, who dresses and feeds you, who tiptoes into your room to make sure you're covered properly with your blanket. I'll explain to you that "Mama. Mah-Mah. MAH. MAH." is the person who does these things, but you'll just smile your twinkly little smile at me and say, "Dadadadadadada!" And then maybe you'll throw back your head and crow like a rooster.

I cut your hair for the first time on March 14th. It was getting scraggly and a bit mullet-ish. I plunked you in your high chair, handed you a bunch of hair clipper guards, and did my best to trim things up. You, of course, wiggled, whined, jerked your head around, and grabbed for the scissors. So your new haircut is a bit uneven. Even so, it looks much better. I know some moms dread their baby's first haircut and weep afterwards, declaring that their child no longer looks like a baby. I felt no such sentiment. I was just relieved you no longer looked homeless. I didn't even save a lock of the hair for your baby book; I tossed it all callously in the garbage. Today I molded your newly shortened hair into a jaunty little "faux-hawk." Your father groaned, as he always does when I spike your hair, and declared that I was sending you straight down the path of juvenile delinquency.

Other cute things that you are doing right now include: puckering up your lips and breathing rapidly through your nose; speaking Sorenese alternately in very high and very low voices; and laughing maniacally whenever you knock something over.

You're at an age of self-destruction. It seems that every time I turn around you're bleeding. Just this week you've sliced your thumb on my razor, split your chin open on the cedar chest on the landing, and dived off our bed, splitting and bruising your lip. On this latter occasion, I gathered you up in my arms and took you into the kitchen so you could bleed on the hard floor instead of the carpet. You sat on my lap and screamed while your dad looked on in great concern for the welfare of my blouse sleeves, which he tenderly rolled up to keep from getting bloody.

You've also started developing your masculine thrill-seeking behaviors: during your bath, you find it hilarious to put your face in the water, breathe in, and emerge sputtering and coughing. You giggle a little, then do it again. And again. And again. Eventually it scares you, you start to cry, and I have to take you out of the tub and give you some loves. But that doesn't prevent you from trying it again next time.

Little boy, you grow up so fast. You are the greatest joy and greatest challenge of each of my days. You are sometimes a burden, but you are always sometimes a help: when no one else can make me laugh, you can. Thank you. I hope that I help every day brings new surprises and discoveries for you. I pray that every day I help you feel hat you are loved, cared for, and capable. You are my little angel and I love you very much. Please always know that I love you very much.

Love,

Mommy,

A Post for the Sake of Posting

Also for the sake of avoiding housework.

It's nearly 10 pm. I'm sitting at my computer, my contacts growing stale and crusty, my stomach growling mildly, the dishes in my kitchen growing mold, my mind clouding over. I should be cleaning. Or organizing. Or doing some work-at-home work. Or reading something worthwhile and mearningful. But instead I'm perusing blogs, checking out the local MLS, watching Improv Everywhere videos, and generally wasting time. My brother-in-law Quentin, who does not feel guilty about wasting time, is sitting at the other computer in our library, listening to loud music that makes it difficult for me to form a cogent thought.

Just thought I'd record this moment of my life, as it is representative of many others.

For those of you who are thinking, "You've already forgotten this one!"

It's not that I've forgotten this one. I think about posting all the time. It's just that I have all these doubts. I'll think, "I should post about _________." And then I'll think, "No. _______ is boring. Nobody wants to hear about that. And they'll read that post and decide my blog is boring and never read it. And then I won't get any comments at all on my posts. And I just don't know if I can take that kind of rejection!"

But I will strive to set aside these doubts and post about the things that I want to post about. Even if they're boring. Even if you all desert me. Because, gosh dang it, it's my blog and I think I'm pretty dang cool.

Also, no posts is more boring than boring posts.

Eh?

Blog Adultery

I've got another blog. But don't worry, I won't forget about this one.

Check it out:

watchinandlearnin.blogspot.com

He's walking!

The Pass-It-On Gift Exchange Fruits!

Please read the word "fruit" above with two syllables, as in the "froo-its of the devil." Also, say it quickly, so that the syllables are distinct, yet slurred. And then pretend that it's a verb.

Anyway, I came home from the other night, checked my mail, and was delighted to discover this sitting in my mailbox:

(Please notice the flowers running down the left-hand side of the package. I myself think I have performed an accomplishment that merits distinction if I perform the following steps: Acquire an item. Place it in a package suitable for the US Mail. Address it. Take it to the post office. Others, whom I will try very very hard not to hate, actually take the time to make their packages look attractive.)

Some of you may remember the post I made a while back about the Pay It Forward Craft Gift Exchange. I signed up purely out of avarice. I'd been salivating over my friend Karla's beautiful handmade crafts for several months at that point and was excited for the opportunity to grasp some in the palm of my sweaty little hand and call them my own.

I was not disappointed.

(If, due to my not-so-mad photography skillz, you can't tell what these items are, I will tell you: they are a cloth-bound diary, a hand-beaded necklace, and matching dangle earrings.)

Soren likes these items very much as well. He's particularly enamored with my earrings, which I have now designated as an accessory to be worn only at work, due to excessive fear that the holes in my ears may become tears through my ears if I wear them anywhere near my child.

This means, however, that I no longer have any excuses for not getting to work on the crafts that Holly, Loriann, and Brecken have signed up to receive. To the yarn store!

Home

I'm currently at my parents' home, running loads of laundry through their machines, as we have yet to acquire such a luxury as an in-home washer and dryer. Another luxury we have yet to acquire at our new home is an internet connection, so I thought I'd take advantage of this opportunity to write.

We're in our new home! And I'm in love with our new neighborhood!

We've still got some work to do on our house (I'll post pictures when we've got an internet connection at our place, which will hopefully be sometime this afternoon), but it's coming along nicely and already feels like home. Soren had a rough couple of nights at first, but seems to be perfectly happy in his new environment. And he still gets to see Grandma and Grandpa a couple of times a week (because I, as Abraham likes to quote, "canno' stay away from th' titty"), a thing which brings him much joy.

On Saturday night Soren and I came home from the grocery store to find a thin young man wearing a Harley Davidson jacket plowing out the snow in our driveway with his four-wheeler. He said his name was Shane and that he and his wife, Katie, and their 16-month-old son, Coen, live right next door. I thanked him from clearing our sidewalk and driveway and he remarked, "Oh, well, we have a trailer and hog a lot of the parking space during the summer, so I thought I could maybe recompense by keeping the sidewalks clear." He looked like a very nice man. I'm planning on taking over cookies so that I can meet Katie and Soren can meet Coen.

The neighbor on the other side, Sr. Sotelo, has a continual stream of women coming in and out of his house. I think they're grown daughters; Abe suspects he's running an underhanded business from his home. But he spends a lot of time outside talking to his two black poodles. So, shady business or no, he seems like a nice enough man.

We went to our new (church) ward on Sunday and were so excited. The second we walked in I felt at home. There was a row of very active children in front of us, among whom was a baby boy just a couple of weeks younger than Soren. He crawled under the bench to visit and the two of them touched each others faces and toddled up and down the church bench together. Soren also used his newfound as a driving surface for his little truck. The friend didn't seem to much mind.

After sacrament meeting we were flooded by people who were eager to meet us and make us feel welcome; Soren's new friend's mommy, Ingrid, a mother of four little boys, took me under her wing, finding a copy of the ward director for me, sitting by me in Relief Society and telling me everyone's names, smiling at me encouragingly when I made a comment.

And, of course, the gospel is the same wherever you go, and it was good -- as usual -- to be able to attend church and be reminded again of the things that are most important in this life.

When we got home from church, a cute elderly couple who live across the street waved and said, "Welcome to the neighborhood!"

We're in a good place. I'm excited to see what the next few years hold for us.

Catch-up Post

I've been up to my elbows in childcare and new house affairs for the past couple of weeks and have simply not had the strength to either post on my blog or read the blogs of others. So if I haven't posted on your blog lately, it's not because I don't love you. It's just that I've got other things going on at the moment.

Here's the run-down of our little family's activities during the past few weeks:

-The first week of this month, through no real fault of his own, Soren single-handedly delayed the conception of his next sibling ("by a year," is what I would have said earlier this month. But now it's been cut back to a couple of months. They say that women's brains are programmed to forget negative child-related things so that they'll continue to produce offspring. I believe it). How did he do this, you might ask? He developed a nasty case of croup. Every experienced mother that I've told this to has sighed sympathetically and said, "Oh. That's the worst." And it was! It was miserable. I was certainly grateful that it wasn't a life-threatening illness or anything like that, but it was hard to have him be so miserable for so long. And it reminded me of what it was like to have a newborn: lots of midnight wakings, inconsolable crying, and a general excess of neediness.

(Soren, sad and sick, forces himself to eat some saltines to keep his strength up.)

-And then, after Soren got over his illness, I came down with a nasty cold of my own. I have never, in all my days, experienced so much sinus pressure for so long. I even tried taking a nasal decongestant, a thing I have never done before, but it made no difference. My daddy-in-law suggested snorting up a bunch of hot water while I showered, but I was afraid I might drown myself, so I didn't try it.

-All of this occurred in the midst of the painfully drawn-out closing process on our house. I had no idea that buying a home would be such a convoluted process. Abe and I have developed strong legs from jumping through so many hoops throughout the past several months. Would you believe we've been actively working on this process, beginning with our loan application, since August 2007? Yes, that is six months. Six months! Just to buy something!

-But the good news is that we're drawing near to the end of this whole process. We finally own our own home and, for the past week, Abe's dad has been here, helping us get the house all ready for us to move into. They, with a little help from my own dad, have been making walls and banisters, tearing up floors, painting, insulating, repairing, plumbing, and wiring. I'll be posting "before" and "after" pictures on our blog soon. They're sure to be impressive.

-It's been great to have Daddy Skousen visiting for the past several days. He and Abe have been able to spend one-on-one time together that they haven't been able to enjoy for years. And it's been fun for Soren to have another adoring fan on hand. For me, it's been a constant source of amusement for me to observe the parallels between Abraham and his Dad. The ways in which they talk, act, and think are remarkably similar. Abraham is unmistakably the genetic offspring of his father. No doubt about it.

(Here, Soren shows Grampa Skousen his Christmas package.)

-I also noticed recently that my baby has a multitude of nicknames. I'll record them here for posterity, with a parenthetical reference following those who are used primarily by one individual: Sorenito, Sorentino (my dad), Sorenelli (my mom), Sorentelli (my dad), Bill (Uncle Dewey), Toad (Abraham), Spud (Abraham), Squirt (Abraham), Nito--pronounced Neeto-- (Me), Noodle, Beebee (Me). There are others that I'm forgetting, I'm sure, but I've got to wonder if we're confusing the poor child.

-Soren has been a mister whiny pants lately. Especially around me. He'll be perfectly happy, then I'll walk into a room, and he'll start fussing. I'm all paranoid that I've been doing something wrong. Do I pick him up too much? Have I been giving in to whining? Am I responding to needs or giving in to manipulation? It's so hard to know...

-Another worry I've got is that Soren's not using words yet. Not even really "mama" and "dada" in context. He does talk to himself in Sorenese a lot, wherein he makes all kinds of difficult sounds, like "s" and "t" and "r." And he does say "hi." But beyond that he doesn't seem to match words to objects or circumstances. Again, I wonder if this is my fault. Have I not been prompting him enough? Should I be making a conscious effort to teach him words? Or was it the nitrates in the hot dogs I ate when I was pregnant? Have those affected his brain development?

-A cute Soren trick lately, though, has been clapping. He picked up clapping lately and just can't stop. He claps in the high chair. He claps in the bathtub. He claps while playing. He claps when I sing the pat-a-cake song. I'll go to pick him up out of bed and he'll be clapping (sometimes even clapping and crying simultaneously).

Watch him grow.

On New Year's day, my son turned one year old. It's been a good year.

I Hate Christmas

I actually had the above thought at the moment this picture was taken on Christmas Eve. And it's not true. I love Christmas in many ways, but this part of the day symbolized That Which I Hate Most About The Holiday Season. And it is this: Christmas is hyped up to be the hap-happiest season of all, yes? It is supposed to be magical. Glitter is supposed to be mixed in with the snow, reindeer are supposed to fly, laughter and love should thicken the atmosphere. Nothing is ever supposed to go wrong during the Christmas season. When I was a little kid, it was like that for me. Completely magical. The feelings, the smells, the excitement, the magic. But as I've grown older, I've learned that, for me, holiday happiness increases in direct proportion with a decrease in holiday expectations. But I goofed up a little this year and allowed myself to have a Christmas-related fantasy, a fantasy that harsh reality immediately snatched up and smashed to bits over my thick skull.
In my family, a long-standing Christmas tradition dictates that Christmas Eve be spent sledding. First thing in the morning on Christmas Eve, Dad would faithfully pack us four kids into the Jeep Wagoneer and drive us into the foothills of Idaho Falls; Mom would be left at home to perform any panicked last-minute Christmas tasks that had yet to be completed. We would sled until we'd worked ourselves into a complete state of exhaustion and hypothermia and then return home to feast on pizza and hear the final chapters of "The Best Christmas Pageant Ever" read aloud by my mother. It was wonderful. It helped Christmas Eve pass quickly and therefore hastened Santa's arrival. In recent years the tradition has petered out some, but seeing as how this year is the first year that I've had a child of my own, I started getting a little excited about the prospect of the Christmas Eve sledding trip again. I imagined my son, who enjoys being spun, twisted, hung upside down, and bounced vigorously on my leg, getting an enormous kick out of the sledding experience. I imagined his uncontrollable giggling as the sled carried the two of us down a hill. I imagined him grunting and groaning with the desire to go down the hill again and again. So Christmas Eve morning rolled around. We'd made arrangements to go sledding on the hill near my sister's home in Shelley at 10:00, so right after breakfast I made a last-minute trip to Wal-Mart to purchase Soren some tot-sized snow boots. The appointed hour drew nearer, and I forced a very sleepy Abraham out of bed, demanding of him, "Would you rather sleep, or would you rather be there for your son's very first sledding trip?" We stuffed Soren into a hooded jumpsuit, a pair of his dad's socks (which doubled as leg warmers), his oversized snow pants, his gigantic coat, and his beanie cap. I put a pair of socks on his hands for mittens and then began attempting to shove his feet into his brand new boots. I couldn't make it work. I'd think that maybe I'd gotten them on, but then he'd pull them off. I tried to get him to stand in them to force his heel down, but he would not stand in (or for) such strange accouterments. So I rubberbanded some baggies to his feet ("I look like a welfare baby!" said Abe, in his best Soren voice), strapped him unwillingly to his car seat, and we were off.
Off to experience the joy and magic and wonder of the Christmas season.
Anyway, this is running on for much longer than I had anticipated, but suffice it to say that it was Soren's naptime, a barrier which I had believed would melt away in the face of such merrymaking as a trip down a hill in a sled, but which did not; it was cold, a thing which was most displeasing to the little prince; and it was not pleasant at all to slide down an icy hill in the midst of a snowstorm, a condition that elicited from my son, not coos of joy, but moans of discomfort.
I sent Abraham after the camera, which was in the car about 50 yards away, and tried to show Soren how fun sledding could be. I took him down the hill again and laughed loudly all the way, so as to cue him into the fact that we were participating in a fun activity that might be enjoyed if one adjusted one's attitude. I tried pulling him around on the flat ground to get him accustomed to the sled. I tried letting the neighbor's dogs lick his face to see if their cheer might rub off on him. Through all of these fruitless efforts, it quickly became apparent to me that Soren was not going to produce the squeals of joy my imagination had so lovingly lavished upon him for this occasion. I admitted defeat and decided it was time to go. But I was not going to go without some sort of photo documentation to help make all our efforts on this occasion seem a little less vain. Where was Abraham with the camera? I looked over at the car to see Abraham, who had been gone for five minutes of uninterrupted Soren misery, to see what in the world could be holding him up. As far as I could tell, he was being needlessly slow. And indeed he was. He was piddling around the car, moseying around it, kicking at some ice chunks hanging from the side here, scraping some ice off a headlight there.
Let's just say that our Christmas Cheer might have dissolved into some Christmas Yelling At Each Other While Photographing Our Extraordinarily Miserable Child. So as soon as the dirty deed was documented, I scooped up my tired, be-baggied son and declared, "I hate Christmas. Let's go home and put this child in bed."
Abraham concurred.

On Love

Soren, Soren, Soren. It must seem to you he's all I ever write about. But what can I say? I'm in love. And as I write this, I feel guilty, because it should be Abraham, Abraham, Abraham for whom my heart beats, and certainly there is a large portion of my heart that does beat for him, that pounds for him even, but that doesn't compensate for the fact that 95% of my posts on this blog are dedicated to my baby, 3% are dedicated to me, and 2% are related to my husband. (This is all in direct proportion, by the way, to the dedication of my time and energy.) In fact, the poor man, he recently said to me, "I knew you would love our children more than me-- my mother loves us more than she loves Dad--but I just didn't expect it to hurt so much." But, upon reflection, I think I have identified two main components of mommy love that are often lacking in wifely love (at least in my brand of wifely love).

The first is an absolute purity of service that defines the mother/child relationship. The time, the energy, the strength, the sleep, the love that I give to Soren is given freely, without expectation of reciprocation or even gratitude on his behalf. He needs me to comfort him when he awakens at night with a stomach ache. He needs me to lift him out of his crib in the morning. He needs me to break his food into bite-sized pieces. He needs me to dress him, to undress him, to make sure that he's covered with blankies while he sleeps, to keep him clean. He needs me to wrestle him to the ground, pin him there with my feet, and, using half a container of baby wipes, properly dispose of the hazardous waste he daily produces in his diapers. I perform these labor and usually do them without resentment. I don't ask for his thanks. I don't expect him to repay him. All I want is for him to be safe and happy. For him to feel loved. For him to grow and develop in the ways that are best for him.

The second is the fleeting nature of childhood. This concept is best captured, not in words of explanation, but in an image:

It's me. I'm holding my son in my arms in his bedroom, rocking in the glider rocker. He is wearing blue-and-white-striped winter pajamas that are too small for him: sleeves that were once long now reach just past his elbows. I am cradling his head in my right arm and his bum is tucked into the crook of my elbow. His head is tilted back just a little, making his neck look stretched and turtle-y. His arms are crossed and his dimpled fingers are relaxed. I kiss his little cheek; it is cool and soft and smooth and elastic, like well-kneaded bread dough that has been left to rise. In the glow of the nightlight I gaze at his face and try to burn its details into my memory; I know that when he awakens in the morning something will be different, and the day after that something else will have changed. My heart breaks to think that, tomorrow, the Soren I hold in my arms will be gone and a new one will have replaced him. And that someday too soon he will be too big to be held and rocked and soothed at night. I will love him then just as much as I do now-- probably more!-- but there is something about this Soren that I don't want to lose. The sweet curve of his eyeballs resting under delicately veined eyelids. The way his bottom lip tucks in slightly when he sleeps. The unadulterated innocence and un-self-consciousness that attend him in sleep and waking. I don't want to forget the way he gives tooth-heavy kisses while pulling my hair. I don't want to forget the shine in his round blue eyes when he gives me a drink from his glass or a bite from his apple. I don't want to forget the way he inevitably smiles when I read to him the first line of his favorite book. I don't want to forget dancing with his little head resting on my shoulder. I don't want to forget the music of his smile and the poetry of his laughter. I don't want to forget. I don't want to forget. I don't want to forget. And so I watch and adore as much as I can, hoping that I can retain at least a small portion of the radiating and filling happiness, the pure, golden, brightly-lit love that mothering Soren has brought to me.

This sort of unadulterated love is very good for the soul. I believe it's the sort of love we need to strive to cultivate in all our encounters with fellow human beings. And I believe it's the sort of love I would like to develop more in my relationship with my sweet husband. I should set aside my expectations for those things I think he should do for me and simply seek for his happiness and well-being. And I should remember that my time with him, too, is fleeting and precious. I think I feel a New Year's resolution coming on...

The Goodies Themselves

Starting at left, and working clockwise: Ressa's almond Roca, Ressa's haystacks, Kristi's white-chocolate-dipped pretzels, Rachel's dark chocolate truffles, Kristi's (chocolate oreo) Balls, and (in the center), Rachel's caramels. They all turned out wonderfully. As novice candy makers, we were truly amazed. Our success was largely due to the advice of a co-worker more advanced in age (she must be over 30!) than ourselves, who told us to throw out the candy thermometers and instead use a cup of cold water to determine the "done-ness" of the candy. The trick is to occasionally blob a small amount of the candy into the cup of cold water. It should quickly coagulate. You can then test the consistency. When the candy reaches a consistency just slightly softer than you want the candy to be when it's completely cooled, the candy is done. Very simple. And so accurate.

A new Christmas tradition

Last weekend my best friends from work, Ressa (directly above) and Kristi (pictured at top), and I (looking stoned, center) gathered in Ressa's lovely Ammon home for a most novel and festive purpose. That is, we met in order to embark on the grand and new (to us) adventure of Christmas candy-making. And it was a rousing success! Candies were made! Conversations were had! Laughter was produced! Wine was drunk (by some)! And all in attendance agreed, with great conviviality and energy of spirit, that we shouldn't let so much time pass until we three, and perhaps our respective life companions, should gather again for some merry-making and festivities. (Soren also attended and, while cheerful, was also conscientious in his endeavors to make his presence known, largely through repeatedly running the cruel edge of his Walker into the Achilles tendons of all involved. Ressa's feline companion, whose name I continually forget, was also in attendance, and likewise worked in a somewhat distracting manner, though his methods differed in that he focused less on the humans and more on the confectionery goodies they were creating.)

At this point in my online journal, I had planned to post the recipes we used on this occasion, but a general disinclination to perform any tasks beyond those that are the simplest to complete has motivated me to choose, instead, to suggest that those interested in tasting these fine treats individually petition one of the three candy-makers listed above for such an disclosure.

Horrors!

I must admit, I was initially shocked and humiliated at this unabashed assessment of my blog's literacy level. However, upon further consideration, and also panicked testing of other blog urls, I have come to the conclusion that such a low rating is actually a compliment. Indeed, it is a statement that implies that you have a very clear writing style, and clarity is something for which I strive in all written communication (my friends will tell you that I make little to no effort in the oral realm). Anyway , I also discovered that I'm in good company: one of my favorite bloggers, Laurie of Crazy Aunt Purl fame, was also ranked on the elementary level. And she's a famous published author. So there. Pbpbpbpbpb to all of you so-called "genius" bloggers out there.

Elementary reading level indeed.

(So clearly this is still stinging a little, eh?)

A List of Soren Things I Don't Want to Forget

1. When he really wants something, he crows like a rooster. One of the things he always wants is someone else's food. It doesn't matter if he's just consumed a belly-stretching 5-course meal; if someone else is eating, he wants in on the action. Now.
2. He spends a lot of time smacking his gums together like a senile elderly living life sans dentures.
3. He clicks his tongue as though he were speaking an indigenous African language.
4. This morning, in the course of 2 minutes, he threw a pacifier in the toilet, unraveled the remainder of a roll of toilet paper, emptied a box of EmergenC packets, threw my glasses on the floor, and pulled a basket of toiletries off the bathroom counter, strewing its contents everywhere. All this was accomplished from the safety of his doorway jumper.
5. Speaking of "safe" places, Soren took a dive out of his high chair earlier this week, landing head-first on the hard kitchen floor. While I worry obsessively about possible brain damage that might result from this accident, his father merely chuckles to himself at the thought of Soren casually looking around, arms tucked against his sides, little body catapulting toward the floor.
6. He will go to ANYONE without crying. (But I think he likes me best.)
7. He alternatively practices speaking in a deep manly voice and a high squeaky voice.
8. At 11 months, he can turn on the stereo and change radio stations; he can climb a full flight of stairs without supervision (I thought he was playing in the closet!); he can say "Mama" and mean it; he can single-handedly set off the carbon monoxide detector.
9. While riding in the car, he will spend 20 minutes or more studiously examining, with furrowed brow, the novelette Good-Night, Baby, which is, according to him, a serious contribution to the cardboard literary canon.

Cousins

I love to see Soren playing with my sister's children. It makes him seem less like a baby and more like a little kid.

All dressed up and only cold places to go.

Shortly before Thanksgiving, Soren's Uncle Sue (because he is his Pseudo Uncle. Get it? Uncle Pseu? Uncle Sue? Hah! Nick's pseudonym is Uncle Sue. Anyway...) and I and Soren took a brisk early-morning walk across the countryside. While Nicholas and I began to fear lest our limbs turn black and fall off after a mere half-mile, Soren remained toasty warm--if immobile--throughout the journey. Yes, this little snow outfit is a wee bit large for him.

An embarrassing picture of my husband.

You'll probably have to look closely, but Abe actually has a mullet-esque ponytail in his hair right now. When my mother-in-law sees this, she will freak out. Don't worry, Brenda, we don't usually do it that way...

This is our new house! We close late this month.