Liam: July 2011

Little Yum Yum,

My favorite thing about you right now is the way you walk. It never fails to make me smile: shoulders back, round little belly out, right arm swinging twice as fast as the left. A little wiggle in your shoulders. You always look so joyful, strutting around like a peacock who's just found his plume.

As I was tucking you into bed a few days ago, you initiated a game of cover-your-eyes- peek-a-boo. You looked so cute, lying there in your crib, a big grin on your face, little chubby fingers covering your eyes, an occasionally sparkly peek from underneath, and then a cheery "I see you!" followed by a gale of hysterical giggling.

You've finally started saying "Mommy." It sounds more like "Aunnie!" or "Nonny!" with an occasionally "Ommy!" or "Mommy" thrown in for experimentation sake, but you call it out cheerfully and repeatedly when I come home, in chorus with your brother's "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!" and together the harmony makes me feel very welcomed.


At the end of prayers, when everyone else is quietly murmuring, "Amen," as a "Mm-mm." you shout it out in two distinct syllables: "EH!" "EN!" In Sacrament Meeting everyone mumbles their little finish and you wait politely-- and then, from the shiny-faced redheaded baby in the back, it comes: "EH! EN!" It makes me think you were made to be some sort of more flamboyant type of Christian-- a Pentecostal or a Southern Baptist or something.

Your occupational therapist tells me that it's good for kids to learn animal sounds because it's a fun way to get them comfortable with the phonemes of their primary language. So when we read books with animals in them, I've been trying to make sure to emphasize the animal sounds. This means, of course, that you've learned the one animal sound that is not a phoneme in your primary language: a pig's snort/grunt. That's my boy.

In general, though, your language development has taken a great big leap as of late. You've become much more interested in words, in repeating things people say, and in describing things around you. Everywhere we go you're shouting out "car!" "car!" or "key!" key!" ("key" means any kind of animal). You say "all gone," describe things as being "cute," "nice," or "kikky" (yucky). You practice touching people "ostly" (softly). When you want something you'll ask by saying "More?" or "Augin?" ( again) or "Eease?" (please.)

A lot about you makes me think that you are an old soul, that you've been around a while and done a lot of things. I think that's part of why you're so relaxed-- you're not in a hurry to rush through things because you've done this before and know there's no need, that all things will come to pass in their own due time. It's not orthodox of me, but I do relish the thought of reincarnation, and I frequently find myself contemplating things you might have been in a past life. Some possibilities: a wizard (you seem to be performing complex incantations at times, complete with magical hand movements to help stir up the magic). a dog (you stopped one day to bark back at a dog yapping at us from behind a fence), or a charismatic dictator (you've been known to give lengthy, punctuated orations at top volumes in your own private language).

A month or so ago, we decided that you were plenty old enough to be getting read of your night time bottle, so we replaced it for several weeks with a sippy cup. And then one night at bedtime you were playing with trucks, so I put you to bed with a truck in each hand. And you haven't needed your sippy since. A truck in each hand, yes, but to heck with those babyish sippy cups.

You are a bold and an intrepid little explorer. Grandpa Hanson describes you as a lemming. He and Grandma took you to the park and they were both amused by how they'd put you down and off you'd go, in a straight, determined, unwavering path.

Tonight as I cleaned up the kitchen you sat on the counter by the radio and fiddled around until you found your favorite station. Then you grabbed a bottle of bubbles and, pointing the bubble wand at me and flashing a winning smile, asked, "Augin?" "Augin?" So I climbed up on the counter next to you and we sat together and blew bubbles. You made gleeful little noises at every one. With the evening's golden sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window and my little pink-cheeked baby boy laughing at bubbles, I felt deliriously happy. And so rich. Rich in adorable little boy product.

I love you so. So, so, so.

Aunnie

Soren: June 2011

Oh Soren.

So we've been trying to teach you about having gratitude for the things you have, rather than languishing over the things you don't have. In fact, we spent a rather lengthy (and fruitless) Family Home Evening one night trying to explain to you that a little cookie dough (what you were offered) was better than no cookie dough (what you got), even if it wasn't as good as a lot of cookie dough (what you wanted.) We would ask, "Soren? Which would you rather have? Some dough? Or no dough?" And you would say, "I don't want no dough OR a little dough. I just want A LOT of dough." "Right, Soren, but what if you CAN'T have a lot of dough? Then which would you rather have? A little dough? Or no dough? And you would say, "I don't want no dough OR a little dough. I just want A LOT of dough." When this line of questioning continued leading to the same a brick wall, we switched tactics slightly: "Okay, Soren? Which would you rather have? One block, like this? Or no blocks, like this?" And you just looked at us like we'd lost our minds and said, "I don't want no blocks or one block. I just want A LOT OF DOUGH."

Anyway, I tell you this story because yesterday you demonstrated that you HAD internalized this lesson. You fixed a bowl of food for Liam and sent him out to the porch to eat it; then you fixed yourself a bowl and followed him out to the porch. A few minutes later Liam started screaming. A moment after that you ran inside. "Mommy! Liam doesn't want what he has. I took some of his food because I was so hungry and left him some but now he doesn't want it. He is not being very grateful."

Sigh. Close, dear. Close. But no cigar.

Tonight you popped out with a similar garbled regurgitation of something I might say to you. We were playing in your bedroom and you telling me what you wanted our blanket house to look like. At the end of every sentence you added, "Do you understand me?" You've been saying that a lot lately, and though I don't think you intend it to be, the tone/phrase sound a bit bossy--perhaps even menacing-- so I finally told you to stop saying it. "Why?" you asked. "I don't like it," I said. "Why?" you asked. "Because I don't," I said. You then took a step back, looked at me sympathetically, and said, in your kindest voice, "I'm sorry, sweetie. I'm sorry you don't like it. But sometimes people say things you don't like and they're just going to keep saying them. Do you understand me?"

How I love you. In so many ways you are just like the baby we brought home from the hospital four and a half years ago--alert, active, and-- above all--intense-- but in so many other ways, you have completely morphed. You have turned from a helpless infant into a long-legged coltish boy creature with an insatiable curiosity. You talk. And talk. And talk. And talk. And multiply all that talking by one million and you get the number of questions you ask every day. You continue to grow and develop and learn and change and I love being a part of your life, to try to see the world through your eyes. It's a joy watching you try to gain a grasp on this great big complicated place called Earth, a pleasure to see you learning how to love others and treat them with kindness. My greatest happiness comes from watching you and your brother play together as friends, to hear you talking to him with a gentle voice, to see you sharing your toys with him.

You continue to make strides at improving your ability to recognize and cope with emotions. Just recently, for example, you allowed Liam to enter your bedroom. This in itself was a noble gesture; unfortunately, while Liam was in your room he accidentally broke one of your many Duplos creations. Normally a calamity like this would result in an intense fit of rage, probably some violence--most definitely some weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth. But this time you just turned to me and said, "Mommy, I'm really disappointed that Liam broke my airplane but....I guess it's okay."

"Soren!" I said. "I'm so proud of you! You handled that very gracefully."

"What do you mean?" you asked.

"Well, usually you would have gotten really upset and yelled and maybe hurt Liam. But this time you told me how you felt and didn't get mad at all. I'm proud of you."

"Yeah," you said, "But I'm still REALLY disappointed."

I know you were, sweetie. But I was still REALLY proud.

Sometimes during the day your father will send me little text message updates about you and Liam. Here are a few I saved from the last month about you because I think they capture well your very....um....how you say....colorful personality.

Soren is napping. He was just doing his 'I-have-no-life-left-in-my brain-or-my-eyes-I-will- just-scream-as-loud-as-I-can-while-I-stare-straight-ahead' thing."

"Your son started his own dance party. Stripped off his clothes, got a hip-hop station, and was doing the boogie on a storage box in the kitchen."

"It's like he is wired directly to a 220v socket all the time."

You were playing in your bedroom one peaceful afternoon when, out of the blue, you started scream-crying and ran out to your daddy, who was reading on the couch. Your face streaked with tears, you begged, "Don't let the doctor cut me until I'm big!"

Er. Whaaaa.....?

Between sobs it came out that you had swallowed a piece of floss. This was something we had warned you to not do when you took to chewing on wads of the stuff. We had told you that if you swallowed it, the floss would get stuck in your stomach and a doctor would have to cut you open to get it out. Apparently you took that to heart. It took Daddy quite a while to convince you that you wouldn't be going under the knife.

Some other random things about you:

You've been intrigued by very small things as of late. Recently you asked me, "Are ants small enough to see atoms?"

Your brain seems to be being sponsored as of late by the number twelve. You will often tell me, "Mommy, I love you twelve." And you frequently remark that you have twelve songs in your head.

Your favorite all-time activity is building "houses" around the house. If it were up to you, the house would be strung wall-to-wall with blankets and sheets all the time.

You call Dr. Seuss Dr. Suzie.

A quote: "Mom, I want to go to Auntie Clee's house today because it's cooler than Grandma's house. Do you know what 'cooler' means? 'Cooler' means something has more funner toys and stuff."

You are afraid. Of a lot of things. Automatic toilets. Haircuts. Being alone. Noises at night. Heights. Bees. Dogs. Lawn clippings. Ambulances. Trampolines.

Recently I committed some sort of parenting indiscretion--let you and Liam eat sugar cereal for supper or something--and your papa was calling me on it. "I'm a Bad Mom, all right?" I quipped. To which you immediately responded, "No, Mommy! You're a good mom. You're really nice to kids."

You are not much of a pray-er. When called upon to pray during family prayer times, you usually offer some resistance. Generally I only call on you once a week or so because it's such a battle to get you to do it. But one morning I insisted that you pray. "It doesn't have to be long, honey," I said. "Just say a prayer." So you did:

"Dear Heavenly Father, Please bless that all the shapes will keep all their sides. That squares will have four sides, that triangles will have three sides, and that circles will just have one big side. Name of Jesus Christ, AMEN."

Pretty legit, really. Can you imagine waking up in a world where squares suddenly didn't have four sides?

This is the day before Easter, 2011. You used a sticker to attach a clear plastic sheet to your face. You insisted, however, that it was NOT a beard.

Rare (as in blue moon rare) nap that I just HAD to record for posterity. Rare for you, anyway. Daddy can fall asleep any time, any place.

You brought that paper bag owl home from church and decided that it needed some babies. So we made it some babies.

You helped me make molasses sugar cookies one day but insisted that at least a few be given faces.

Isn't he/she cute?

Love you so.

Mommy

Book Reviews: Or, Why I Haven't Posted in a Long, Long Time

The Wolfblade Trilogy

by Jennifer Fallon
Fantasy

These books are the primary culprits for my recent long bout of silence on the interwebs. These, combined with regular doses of The Mentalist, have commandeered all my spare time and attention. I'm not much of a fantasy reader, but Abe has been recommending this author to me for a year or more, so I finally broke down and read Wolfblade. It took me a little while to get into it--mostly, I think, because my reading opportunities usually come in five minute spurts of time--but I got hooked pretty quickly and, as you know, invested every single one of my 15 spare minutes a day into the series.

These are the things I liked about the Wolfblade series:

-Complex, multi-faceted characters with realistic psychological make-up.
-An engaging plot.
-A socio-political emphasis in lieu of the usual fantasy quest/dragon-slaying rigamarole.
-Interesting ethical questions raised in a non-polemical way.

These are the things I didn't like about it:

-The lazy editing. Nothing like an occasional typo or a malformed sentence to jerk a person back into reality.
-The ridiculous covers.

Overall they're a worthwhile form of entertainment, though the series does contain some sex and violence that some readers might find objectionable.

Don't Shoot the Dog!

by Karen Pryor

Non-fiction, Pyschology

Applied behaviorism 101.

Karen Pryor was a professional dolphin trainer for many years. As part of her work, she learned--and learned to apply--the basic principles of behaviorism. In spending a lifetime training animals, she discovered that these principles of change could be effectively applied to people as well. Her feeling was that, while a lot had been written about behaviorism, very little had been written about how the principles could be applied in real life. Her goal in writing this book was to fill that gap.

Don't Shoot the Dog! makes an excellent case for the use of reinforcers-- never punishment--to bring about permanent behavior change. It describes many effective ways to bring about meaningful, long-lasting behavior modifications in all sentient beings--from fish to people--without using punishments.

All in all, the book contained some useful ideas and a warm conversational writing style. The only shortcoming is that Pryor used a lot of anecdotes and very little data to back up her material.

Death Match
Lincoln Child
Techno-Thriller

Eden Incorporated is a dating service that stands out from the crowd. It promises a perfect match, guaranteed. Thousands of couples have used the service and found happiness through their flawless compatibility. Years have passed and the business continues to create successful unions.

But then three couples--three Eden couples--are found dead in their homes, presumably murdered, and Christopher Lash, a retired forensic psychologist, is called in by the company to investigate the deaths.

Intriguing premise, addictive plot.

Change Me into Zeus's Daughter
Barbara Robinette Moss
Non-fiction, Memoir

It's kind of hard to review a memoir-- it's like assessing someone's life and the way they feel about it. That said, I did enjoy reading Change Me Into Zeus's Daughter.

Barbara is the third of eight children, growing up in abject poverty in the South in the mid-20th century. Her mother sings and recites poetry. Her father drinks and stomps around abusively. The children run around participating in the sort of antics kids in really big families do.

Change Me Into Zeus's Daughter was well-written and engaging. There was a distracting theme/topic change at the end, but other than that, it was good stuff.

Seven Years (and some news...it's at the bottom if you want to skip the ramblings.)

On April 23, Abe and I marked our seven year wedding anniversary. This weekend (a week weeks later, so that Abe would be done with school), we're celebrating. We've checked into a fancy hotel on the Idaho Falls greenbelt and I'm sitting on our balcony, watching people and ducks and geese and soaking in as much precious sunshine as I can. It's a beautiful day--one of the first really warm, sunny days this year--and there's a gentle breeze blowing. Life is good. (For me.) (Right now.) (Don't want to undermine the fact that there are people suffering today and that for them, life might be less good.)

But anyway, I've been wanting to post for a while about where we've been in our life together at each of our anniversaries--and what we did to celebrate. So, since I have a long weekend of uninterrupted free time stretched out in front of me, I think I'll finally do it.

April 23, 2004. Honeymoon. We went to the Oregon Coast. We arrived at our rental cabin on the beach after dark but went for a stroll along the surf anyway. Moonlight glowed on the black waves. A fawn darted through the brush. Shooting stars streamed through the sky. We were deliriously happy. The next day we played on the beach like children; that afternoon we realized we were horribly sunburned. We were in pain, and couldn't touch much, but we still had fun-- went to beaches, visited the Redwoods, read books, held hands. We ate roll sandwiches with provolone cheese and pepperoni. Abe read an entire Narnia book out loud to me. The last night of our honeymoon, however, Abe's sunburn took a turn for the worse. Much worse. We ended up taking him to a hospital in the middle of the night and he spent the remainder of the time completely doped up on pain pills and anti-itch medication. I drove all the way from Pendleton, Oregon to Idaho Falls in silence while he slept. He woke only to (1) drunkenly spray gasoline on a gas pump at a service station, (2) advertise how fabulous his meds were and tell me that I really needed to try them, and (3) snarl at me for hiccuping too loudly. So yeah, our honeymoon pretty much summed up what was to come: euphoria, joy, pain, and long-suffering. And books. Lots and lots of books.

April 23, 2005. First Anniversary. We were living in Wymount--affectionately known as The Rabbit Hutches--one of the family housing complexes at BYU-Provo. We were nose-deep in school and work. I was working at the BYU Bookstore Textbook Information Desk, Abe was working at Liberty Square Apartments as a maintenance man. We were shocked at how much fun married life was. We'd expected it to be more work.

Some of Abe's younger siblings were visiting on our anniversary, so we spent the actual day sitting in our apartment while they mumbled to each other, "What do you wanna do?" "I don't know, what do you want to do?" I threw a little fit-- cried, possibly stomped my foot. My brother Scott and I went for a walk so I could vent without harming any Skousens. When the sibs were gone--a week or so later--Abe and I celebrated our year by pushing both our couches together, throwing all our blankets and pillows into the mix, buying honeymoon food, and having a read-in.

April 23, 2006. Second Anniversary. Nausea. I was pregnant. We graduated from college--me with my degree in English, Abe with his in Philosophy--and moved in with my parents in Idaho. I got a job as the Office Manager at the Domestic Violence Intervention Center (DVIC). After ten long months of unemployment, Abe got a job at Barnes and Noble.

April 23, 2007. Third Anniversary. My sweet parents watched little Soren for a few hours while we went on a date. We sat in a cold breeze by the river and ate honeymoon food. I wanted to go to the library and find books about Origami but the library closes early on Saturdays. We went to Barnes and Noble instead but had to go home early so I could nurse the baby. Abe was still working at the bookstore; I was working twelve hours a week doing finances/grant-writing for the DVIC.

April 23, 2008. Fourth Anniversary. Destinations Inn: Arabia Room. It was the first night I'd spent away from Soren since he'd been born. It was so nice to spend a few quiet hours together--and an entire night without waking up with the baby. Abe was working full time with kids at Harbor House, an inpatient drug-and-alcohol treatment program for adolescents. We had bought our house in Shelley. In a couple months, I would be embarking on another nausea-fest.

April 23, 3009. Fifth Anniversary. Primary Children's Hospital. Our two-month-old Liam was sleeping in an incubator, tubes and wires and beeping things sprouting out of his tiny body. Our friends Mark and Rachel took us out for lunch at P.F. Chang's. As I fell asleep that night spooning Abe on a hospital cot, I decided it was a good way to spend an anniversary--a good symbol of our shared journey through thick and thin. When we finally checked out of the hospital with our precious little baby, we went back to jobs at Harbor House--Abe working with the clients, me maintaining order (part time) as the Administrative Assistant. Abe had begun work on his master's degree in Library and Information Science.

April 23, 2010. Sixth Anniversary. Another hotel vacation. This hotel room had stairs, which I thought was pretty sweet. We spent the weekend reading, sleeping, and shopping. We also made a Powerpoint presentation for a group project for one of Abe's classes. My parents and Briar took turns watching the kids during the weekend. During the previous year Harbor House had closed. I had been lucky enough to be offered a full-time position as the Office Manager at a counseling agency, so Abe had taken over the role of stay-and-home parent and increased his graduate course load. We were both worn out from a busy year--the kids were particularly difficult that year--so we were extremely grateful for the two days of bliss provided by a getaway.

April 23, 2011. Seventh Anniversary. Abe finished his final class two weeks ago and the following week the director of the Idaho Falls library offered him a job. He'll start next week, working three ten-hour shifts/week. This means I'll be able to cut back on my hours and spend an extra day at home each week with our chilluns. The library job is temporary--only guaranteed through the end of the summer--but we hope it will blossom into something more permanent. We're excited--and a little anxious/guilty (<----me) --about the changes, though I think it will be a good thing. I'm already planning how I'm going to spend that extra day with the boys: there will be crafts! and baking! and educational activities! and kitchen dancing! and trips to the park! I couldn't ask for anything more: we've got good jobs, a warm home, lots of yummy food, healthy, handsome children, our own health, family, friends, and time to enjoy it all. (I'm knocking on the wooden balcony right now.)
All in all, it's been a good seven years. Not perfect--there have been times when Abe and I have wanted to drown each other like unwanted puppies--but good. I'm looking forward to the next seven.

Mama Mia

When I grow up, I want to be like my mom.

That's always what I've wanted, really. When I was a little girl, my plan for life after graduation was to do exactly what my mom did: go to Ricks College for two years, then BYU, then live the wild-n-free single life for a while, then get married and have babies. I didn't exactly follow that path (I skipped Ricks and got married before I graduated from the Y), but I'm still trying to do things the way my mom has done them.

Mom has just always seemed so put-together to me (except, maybe, when I was a teen, and then even the way she breathed was wrong and completely humiliating). She's friendly. She's smart. She's fun. She's engaged in life. She's been happily married for over thirty years. She's raised four healthy, kind, intelligent, self-disciplined children. She's comfortable with herself and confident in her choices. Who wouldn't want to follow in her shoes?

When I find myself in a sticky parenting situation, I often ask myself, "What would my mom have done? How would she have handled this?" When a holiday comes around, I try to remember, "What did Mom do that made this holiday special for us? How can I do that?" I cook my kids hot breakfasts most mornings because that's the way Mom did it. I won't cut the crusts off Soren's sandwiches because Mom didn't cut the crusts off my sandwiches. I listen to music with my kids because Mom listened to music with us.

The thing about my mom (as a mom) that is most impressive to me is how good she was at striking balance in her parenting: she was warm and caring but didn't put up with crap, she offered support while encouraging autonomy, she was a parent and a friend, she knew when to say "yes" and when to say "no." She devoted a lot of time to nurturing her children but knew when it was time to stop and nurture herself.

I will forever appreciate the positive support my mom has always given me. I don't recall ever feeling like my mom disapproved of me: she might have disapproved of some of my choices or opinions, but never me. I remember occasionally coming into my bedroom to find the bed unexpectedly made and a treat and a note left on the pillow. It was Mom, of course, expressing her love, giving encouragement, pointing out the good things she saw in me. During times when I've felt particularly frustrated and inadequate, she's always been there to say that she believes in me. I remember losing a writing contest in the fourth grade. She knew how much it had meant to me, how much I wanted to win. I sat on her lap and cried, and she told told me about how all the good authors in the world had drawers full of rejection slips from publishers and that I should just consider this my first rejection slip, a badge of honor, really, for an aspiring young writer. When I didn't make the drill team in High School, she left a bag of chocolate in my car with a note telling me how sorry she was, that it was their loss, and to keep my chin up. I called her one morning recently, crying because I was overwhelmed by my children and feeling inadequate to the task of parenting them. That evening when I got in my car to drive home from work, there was mug of candy and a note from my mom: "Believe in yourself, Tootsie. You're doing great."

During my childhood I learned that life can be a good and a joy-filled thing, that I can cope with challenges, that I am capable of doing things that are difficult, that kindness and service are important, and that I should follow my dreams and become the person I was intended to be. My mom cultivated an environment in her home in which she was able to nurture these beliefs in her children. I am overwhelmed with gratitude for my mom (and dad) for giving me these gifts, and--at this point in my life, particularly--I am endlessly grateful for my mom's beautiful example of motherhood. If I can be even a part of the mom that my mom is, I will consider my endeavor into motherhood to have been a rousing success.

Happy Mother's Day, Mama. I sure love you.

Now we are 28.

I'd totally decided to be tranquil about my birthday this year. No big deal, just let it be another day, you've had plenty of birthday attention over the years, I told myself. But apparently everyone else must have gotten a different memo, 'cause I was THOROUGHLY spoiled and/or lavished with attention on March 14, 2011. (And before-- and after.) And, let's be honest, I would sell souvenir-sized bits of my dignity on the street corner for a little attention, so I loved every minute of it.

It started out with a girls' weekend getaway trip to beautiful Twin Falls, Idaho! (Say that in a Rod Roddy voice.) My mama and sister and I ran away together for our first-ever girls-only vacation. We went to see Singing in the Rain in the historic Oakley Opera House, we ate delicious Thai food, we swam in the hotel swimming pool, we went to parks, we giggled. It was lovely.

Then, Abe's Nana sent me a butterfly birthday card containing a crisp, shiny $20 bill. I cannot tell you how much I love cash. It's like magic money that I don't have to account for in the budget. If I were Scrooge McDuck, I would make a swimming pool out of cash dollars and swim around in them every day.

But anyway, on the actual big day, my friend Pam showed up at the office with this beautiful bunny cake:

I had mentioned to her-- months earlier--that bunny cakes were something of a birthday tradition for me. And she remembered! And made a whole bunny cake! With butterfly cookies! Isn't it ADORABLE?

(Pam also made me an adorable recipe-holder magnet board thing for my kitchen, which she presented to me when we went out together with our husbands the following weekend.)

And then, flowers arrived!

These were sent by my brother Scott and his wife Amanda. The bouquet lasted for two good weeks.

My co-workers Brandy and Laura bought me this terrific hat. You can't tell, but it lights up. Doesn't get much hotter than that.

My co-workers BJ and Andrea did this to my car. The inside was LITTERED with confetti. Two vacuumings later, I'm still finding shiny little party hats. They did something very similar to me with silly string and confetti when I stood up to make an announcement at a company meeting that evening.

Throughout the day, I received phone calls, texts, and facebook messages. My brother Seth and his wife Karen gave me a gift subscription to a magazine. (It hasn't come yet, so I can't tell you what it is. It's a secret 'til it comes.)

My bosses, Tom and Michelle, gave me a couple of cute decorations for my home/desk and a gift card to Chiles, which Abe and I used to stretch our dating dollars that month.

When I arrived home that evening, Abe and Hillary and Briar presented me with--respectively--a bigger, more magical crockpot, princess fruit snacks, and a new electric hand mixer.

A few weeks later my sister-in-law Lara mailed a gorgeous dress that she had hand-tailored just for me, some fabulous dress gloves she had crafted out of crochet thread and satin, a card her children had made themselves, and a bevy of hand-made winter hats.

A few weeks after that, my mother-in-law found the perfect birthday card (it had a big peacock on the front--is she trying to say something about me?) and mailed it, along with another, blessed twenty dollar bill.

With that much attention to store in my canteen, I suppose I can keep my dignity in tact for at least another year.

Thanks to everyone who made my twenty-eighth birthday such a special and memorable one.

I feel very loved.

Sitting on the Diamond Throne

Let me tell you a story.

Once upon a time, there was a young Indian prince named Siddhartha. The prince was raised with great pride by his father, a good king and fair ruler, who saw much potential in the boy and wanted him to be his successor. Siddhartha lived a very sheltered existence and grew up enjoying the many comforts and riches afforded to those of his caste. When, at the age of twenty-nine, he traveled unsupervised for the first time among his people, he discovered much sickness, sorrow, death, disease, and suffering in the world beyond the palace grounds. This troubled him immensely, so much that he felt compelled to leave his comfortable life and pursue a path of ascetic self-denial in an attempt to understand and overcome this suffering.

He spent many years studying meditation and engaging in extremely intense fasts. He had brought himself nearly to the point of starvation when he, weakened by hunger, nearly drowned while bathing in a stream. It was then that he realized that the path of strict asceticism would not take him where he wanted to go. And, in the words of the Buddhist monk Paramanda, this is what happened next:

"Once as a young boy he had been seated under a tree, watching his father plow a field, when he quite spontaneously entered into a state of great bliss and contentment. It now occurred to him that such a state might form the basis upon which a higher understanding could arise. So, having eaten, he seated himself under a tree, composed his body and his mind, and brought his powers of concentrated awareness to bear upon his examination of the human predicament.

"It is at this point that, according to Buddhist mythology, there arose a figure called Mara, 'the evil one,' who gathered together all his forces to try to prevent Siddartha from becoming the Buddha...In Buddhist art, Mara's forces are depicted as a vast army of strange and furious beings hurling all kinds of missiles at the prince, while he sits composed and undisturbed. As the rocks and arrows come close to the prince's body they are transformed into beautiful blossoms and fall harmlessly around the majestic figure.

"After the failure of his attack, Mara tried a different approach to turn the prince's mind away from the task it was resolved upon. Mara tried to instill a sense of doubt in his mind by questioning his right to be seated on the "Diamond Throne,' the central point from which the whole universe unfolded...

"In reply the prince extended his right arm and touched the earth with the tips of his fingers.

"What happens next is quite wonderful. The goddess of the earth rises up out of the ground and testifies that the prince is indeed rightfully seated on the Diamond Throne, by virtue of his own great effort. She testifies that she has seen Siddhartha, throughout many lifetimes, develop to the point of perfection all the positive qualities of the human being-- qualities of generosity, patience, energy, kindness, and awareness. At this testimony, Mara is completely undone and flees in dismay."

And Siddhartha, having achieved Nirvana, became the Buddha.

Pretty interesting, eh? I am particularly taken by this story because it so resembles a story from my own (Mormon) religious tradition.

Are you ready for another?

Once upon a time there was a young American farm boy named Joseph. At fourteen years old he became deeply concerned with religion and began a sincere search among the Christian faiths he encountered in Upstate New York. He encountered what he described as a confusing array of conflicting religious ideas and strong feelings from their respective proponents.

In his words:

"At length I came to the conclusion that I must either remain in darkness and confusion, or else I must do as James directs, that is, ask of God. I at length came to the determination to 'ask of God,' concluding that if he gave wisdom to them that lacked wisdom, and would give liberally, and not upbraid, I might venture.

"So, in accordance with this, my determination to ask of God, I retired to the woods to make the attempt. It was on the morning of a beautiful, clear day, early in the spring of eighteen hundred and twenty. It was the first time in my life that I had made such an attempt, for amidst all my anxieties I had never as yet made the attempt to pray vocally.

"After I had retired to the place where I had previously designed to go, having looked around me, and finding myself alone, I kneeled down and began to offer up the desires of my heart to God. I had scarcely done so, when immediately I was seized upon by some power which entirely overcame me, and had such an astonishing influence over me as to bind my tongue so that I could not speak. Thick darkness gathered around me, and it seemed to me for a time as if I were doomed to sudden destruction.

"But, exerting all my powers to call upon God to deliver me out of the power of this enemy which had seized upon me, and at the very moment when I was ready to sink into despair and abandon myself to destruction--not to an imaginary ruin, but to the power of some actual being from the unseen world, who had such marvelous power as I had never before felt in any being--just at this moment of great alarm, I saw a pillar of light exactly over my head, above the brightness of the sun, which descended gradually until it fell upon me.

"It no sooner appeared than I found myself delivered from the enemy which help me bound. When the light rested upon me I saw two Personages, whose brightness and glory defy all description, standing above me in the air."

And Joseph Smith, having had a vision, became the Prophet.

So why am I sharing this with you?

Frankly, I don't know.

My strongest tendency when it comes to religion is to remain completely neutral, acknowledge the validity of all religious (and non-religious) perspectives, and to never, ever, ever express my own religious feelings, beliefs, or ideas. This is partially because I don't want to offend or alienate anyone. It is largely because I don't have very many concrete opinions in such matters. And, honestly, it is also because I don't want to come across as foolish, childish, or naive when it comes to my worldview.

But this shared motif--the dark power unleashing all its furious strength right before a moment of great enlightenment-- speaks to me on a very personal level because I've experienced the darkness; in fact, I experience it nearly every time I kneel down to pray.

I hate to pray. Hate it. There are a million things I would rather do--such as having a tooth extracted or cleaning a subway restroom-- than kneel down and attempt to pray.

But I know I need to, right? I go to church every Sunday, I insist on family prayers morning and night, I pay 10 percent of my income to the church. I do this because there is a part of me, the core part of me, that feels that it is right. That it is good. That, every once in a while, feels bathed in the comfort of God's love and wants to keep moving towards that love, towards the Being from which it comes. Every once in a while I'll be sitting in a sacrament meeting or a Relief Society lesson and I will suddenly be aware of myself as a creature of light, attached to these other humans, these other beings of light. I have a sense that we are all an essential part of something much larger, something that makes so much more sense than this garbled world we live in. I go to church because church helps remind me of this bigger thing, this greater love.

But I would like to be more connected. I can't base my entire life--particularly the things I teach my children--on something I only half-connect with. I'd like to build my faith, to become more committed, more fully believing. And I realize that the primary way for me to do this is to pray. The foundation of all things religious is that personal connection with Deity, something that must be nurtured through prayer. But I can't pray. There's a block. I utter the first words and am immediately swept away by a sea of uncomfortable emotions and thoughts.

Let me try to explain what it is that is so for me difficult about praying.

We Mormons have a kind of loose prayer template that is outlined in a song I learned as a child:

I kneel to pray, every day
I speak with Heavenly Father
He hears and answers me
When I pray in faith.

I begin by saying, "Our Heavenly Father."
I thank him for blessings he sends.
Then humbly I ask him for things that I need.
In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen

Simple enough, eh?

And if I just push through without thinking about it too hard, I can do it. I can say a prayer just like that. A pretty good one, even. But I can't ever go too long without thinking about it, and that's where I get all jacked up. My prayer thought processes are usually something along these lines:

I begin by saying, "Our Heavenly Father."

Just saying the words makes me feel vulnerable. Partly, I think, because I associate the name "Heavenly Father" with the primary teachers who taught me about the gospel in Primary classes when I was a kid. It makes me feel like a child....trusting, weak, naive.

It's here that I will also occasionally fall into spasms of feminist indignation and start feeling furious about the whole God-as-Man thing, wishing that I could connect with a being who understood the uniqueness of my life as a woman, my experiences as a mother.

I'll push past that, however, and spend some time trying to visualize this Being with whom I am speaking, gain some sort of grasp on His personhood so I can make a viable connection with Him. And I can conjure up all kinds of wonderful images and personalities, but I can't decide if those are real impressions of this Invisible Deity, or if they're just fond wishes of my imaginative heart. My true fear is that, despite my fondest hopes and spiritual experiences, God is the angry controlling manipulator I generally find in the scriptures. And that fear is rather alienating.

I thank him for blessings he sends.

Here I hit another roadblock.

Don't get me wrong: I am keenly aware of the many things in my life that are good, and for which I am deeply grateful. I am happy to list these things and highlight anything special that happened to me during the day that was particularly special. Right now I can tell you how thankful I am for my healthy children, my kind husband, my cozy house, my job. I can tell you that I am thankful to live in a place that is quite safe,where I enjoy many freedoms, in a home that has hot running water and electricity. I am thankful for the family I came from and the family I married into. I am thankful for the bed in which I sleep, for the computer I am writing this on. I am thankful for my health. I am thankful for my mind. And on and on. I really am very grateful for all that I have and realize that I am, in all things that truly matter, rich.

But I'm not so sure these things have come from God. They may have, but they may not have, and I feel silly saying thanks for something God didn't give me. Some might argue that God has given us everything we have. If that is the case, however, then I wonder what it was that motivated God to grant me so much abundance when there are mothers who can't feed afford to feed their own children, when there are fathers who have to leave their families to fight in wars, when there are little ones who are unspeakably abused and heartlessly neglected. To say that God gives us all good things seems to be a slap across these already-bruised faces.

I generally push past this part too, though, by simply stating to God that I am grateful for these things, without"giving thanks" for them, per se.

Then humbly I ask him for things that I need.

There are so many issues with this one I'm not sure when to start.

First, I hate to ask God for anything because I don't want to feel angry if it doesn't come through. When I asked God to please comfort my sick baby, he seemed to sit by in silence. That stung. A lot. And I want to ask God to heal the world, to save all the children from truly horrible things, to feed the hungry. But I've done that before. Lots of people have. And he hasn't.

And then I think about praying for people I know who need things or who are going through a hard time. I want to pray for each of the children I encounter through my job, children who are going through things that no child should have to endure, things I feel powerless to prevent, but I doubt it would do any good. Like, if God doesn't care enough about these children to do something for them without being prompted, why would he suddenly take interest when I request he do so? So I don't. But then I feel angry.

And I realize there's probably some Grand Scheme Reason for God's not responding to these requests, but it does make me wonder why I'm even asking for stuff. If God's going to do whatever He wants to do anyway, why am I even wasting my breath? And if God's not good enough to give these people the things they need without being asked, why am I worshiping Him?

I do recognize that a lot of these issues are perhaps just a lack of understanding on my part. I do. So I'll still continue onward. Usually what I end up doing is simply asking for help in becoming a better person and in finding opportunities to serve others. And it is at this point that I become completely overwhelmed by a keen awareness of all my many weaknesses and faults--and by a terrible fear that God is going to ask me to do more, to give more, to be more. I am already trying my damndest to do my very best, I think, and I can't stand the thought of being asked to do anything else, to try harder, to give more, to become better. I can't carry any more burdens. I can't. So it is at this point that I completely give up in despair, and move quickly on to the closing:

In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.

And there are issues there, too. But the whole Jesus thing is a story for another day.

The point is that I have a bit of a darkness gathered around me, a Mara questioning my right to sit on the Diamond Throne, to kneel in the sacred grove, to call on God. I imagine that there are many other people who do, too. But Siddhartha--by extending his fingers to the earth--and Joseph--by calling out in prayer--were able to summon the powers of goodness to fight off the enemy, to disperse the darkness.

I hope to do the same. With patience, with practice, with persistence, with a calm refusal to submit to the darkness, the light will come. I believe the light will come.

Liam: March 2011

Sweet William. He's two and still sweet, though he does have a fondness for splashing in toilets, unraveling toilet paper, and throwing things from his high chair.


I brought Liam to the office with me for a few hours last week and he was actually quite a delightful working companion. He watched some Blue's Clues on Briar's laptop, played with toys, opened and closed my office door several dozen times, and toddled up to the front desk, where Linda (secretary extraordinaire) gladly entertained him. He then climbed into my lap with a rice cake and watched me make a spreadsheet. Halfway through the cake--and the spreadsheet--he was asleep. Linda helped me make him a little bed under my desk and he slept there quite peacefully for about an hour.

Now that he's a walking kid, all Liam wants to do is walk. He gets quite outraged when we walk him to the car and strap him into his car seat. (Maybe he's concerned about reducing his carbon footprint?) He particularly likes to walk in shoes because the shoes add exclamation points to his steps, noisily punctuating each one he takes.

When Liam's not walking, he's dancing. The child can bust some serious moves. He'll dance to Schubert, he'll dance to Black Eyed Peas, he'll dance to "Give Said the Little Stream." He turns circles, he does the knee bop, he'll wiggle his bum, he's got a wicked high step. He even does this cool back-and-forth thing with his head sometimes. It brings me such joy to see him dance. It makes me believe that the surgery did its thing-- it gave him better balance, it gave him better hearing--and he's taking the two and going to town.

Liam loves to be my little helper, particularly in the kitchen. He'll stir, he'll pour, he'll dump. One Sunday he carefully loaded potatoes and black beans into the crockpot for me-- then proceeded to take them all back out again. He also very much enjoys scrubbing the toilet. I suspect this is because it so closely resembles splashing in the toilet. He once spent thirty minutes taking each clean dish out of the dishwasher and handing it to me, very pleasantly adding a "There you go!" to each dish.

William has a fantastic disapproving face. He'll flash it (eyebrows down, mouth in a pout) even when he does approve-- just so you'll do it back to him. This makes him smile, but then you'll smile, so he'll switch back to Disapprove. Disapprove. Smile. Disapprove. Smile. It's like he's bipolar. On steroids.

His favorite words right now are "Hi!" "No," "Eye," "Nose," "More," and "Uh-oh." "No" is the answer to every question, ie: "Liam, do you want a cookie?" "No." "Um, okay." (Desperate screaming when cookie isn't given to him.)


So adorable.

QIA: The Good Choice Jar

Issue to be addressed:
We wanted some of Soren's less-desirable behaviors to change.

Activity:
A while ago Soren mentioned that more than anything in the world he wanted a toy vacuum. "Like Koen's," he said. "But cooler. Let's go to the store and get one." "Well, sweetie," I told him. "We can't just rush out and buy you a toy vacuum. "First of all, we don't have the money. Secondly, I think it would be good for you to earn it, rather than just getting it."

"But how?" he asked.

"I don't know," I told him. "I'll think about it and get back to you."

Abe and I discussed it and decided that rather than having Soren do chores around the house to earn money towards his toy, we would focus on helping him eliminate some of his less-desirable behaviors, particularly (1) hurting his brother and (2) ignoring directions from his parents.

Methodology:

I believe (and studies back me up) that punishment is not an effective way to bring about lasting change in children's behavior. My basic discipline philosophy is that children should be lovingly, firmly, and consistently guided, redirected, trained, and taught to make good choices-- not coerced or frightened into bending to the parental will. Does this mean that I don't ever send Soren to his room for hurting his brother? No. Does he get spankings sometimes? Yes. Do I feel bad about this? Not particularly. But I do try to use more positive techniques than punitive methods to teach my little guy about making good choices.

Which brings me to The Jar.


I borrowed a small jar and a bag of little rocks from my mother and showed them to Soren. I drew a couple of lines on the jar with an erasable marker. I told Soren that every time I caught him making a good choice, I would put a rock in the jar. "When you have rocks up to this bottom line," I told him, "We'll go to King's and get a piece of candy. When you get up to the next line, we'll get you a little toy from Broulim's. And when the rocks fill up the jar, you can have a toy vacuum."

The jar would only be for rewarding good choices-- he couldn't lose rocks for making mistakes. The only exceptions to this rule were (1) if he was caught putting rocks in the jar, we would take out more than he put in, and (2) if he asked for a rock, we would take one out.

Over the next several weeks, every time we saw Soren making a good choice, we would verbally praise him and put a rock in the jar. "Soren! Thanks for sharing your toy with Liam. I'm going to put a rock in your jar." "Soren, I'm glad you put your dishes in the sink without being asked. Now I'll put a rock in your jar." "Soren, I could see that you wanted to hit Liam but you stopped yourself. What a good choice. There's another rock for your jar." "Hey! You picked up your toys the first time I asked. Thank you! I think I'll put a rock in your jar."

I purposely put the first line low on the jar so that he could quickly catch on to the concept of getting rewarded for good behaviors. After the first week, we went to Broulim's and bought him a treat. We actually kind of forgot about the other on-the-way reward because Soren was pretty focused on that vacuum. He dreamed about the vacuum. He talked about the vacuum. He wanted that vacuum and began consciously working towards earning it by making good choices.

After about a month, he earned a vacuum. I saw a small (real) vacuum on sale at ShopKo that looked like it might be just what he wanted, so we went to the store, he picked it out, and we brought it home. He's been a vacuuming fool ever since.

Results:

It wasn't a miraculous overnight change, but I do see an increase in "good" behaviors from Soren. He treats his brother more kindly, usually puts dishes in the sink and clothes in the dirty laundry basket without being prompted, and generally follows directions without too much nagging. More importantly, I think he now thinks of himself as a good kid. We talked to him a lot about how great it was that he was able to make so many good choices, and he had a visual representation of those choices that he could see and understand on a very concrete level.

We don't want Soren to become dependent on rewards for making good choices, but the jar provided opportunities for us to reinforce his positive behaviors and help him get into the habit of choosing the right. We're not using the jar anymore, but we might bring it out again as needed.

(Lord knows there are other behaviors we could work on.)

Soren: March 2011

I came home from work last Friday very worn out. I was already been sick to begin with and the day....well...let's just say I've had better. Friday is usually the night that Briar makes us pizza (pbuh), but we were out of cheese, so there was no pizza when I got home. I greeted the boys cheerfully, hugged and kissed them both, made them each a slice of toast to stave off starvation, and, in no mood to cook, proposed that we buy ourselves pizza for supper. Everyone was in agreement, so Briar handed us some cash, Abe and I loaded the kids into the car, and we headed into Idaho Falls.

We got about one block into the drive when a little voice wafted up from the backseat. "Mommy, why are you so grumpy right now?" Caught. I hadn't said a word about my day. I hadn't raised my voice. I hadn't even said anything cranky. But Soren noticed I was sad anyway-- and he was worried about me. I explained to him in very simple words why I was sad and he listened attentively and asked lots of questions.

I thought that was that, but he must have been keeping a pretty close watch on me because a half an hour later he asked, "Mommy? Why are you sucking on your finger?" The dry skin on one of my knuckles had cracked and was bleeding. I explained this to him, and told him it wasn't a big deal, but he persisted in his concern. "Are you just going to drive with one hand?" he asked. "No, sweetie," I told him. "It doesn't really hurt. I'm fine." "But I think it does hurt," said Soren. As soon as we got home he headed to the bathroom, got out the Lubriderm, and brought it to me in the kitchen. "This will make it feel better," he said.

And let me tell you: nothing takes the bad out of a bad day like lotion handed to you by a worried four-year-old.

And oh my goodness, what I wouldn't give to keep him four. So sweet, so small. Little enough to be picked up and cuddled, to put his little hand into mine when we walk, to believe that the solution to all his problems begins with M- and ends with -ommy. But big enough to converse, to tell stories, to sing songs, to express opinions.

One particularly nice thing has been that he and Liam have recently reached a better place in their relationship. They are more friend, less adversary. They were playing around on the recliner one morning when I told Soren it was time for us to go to Grandma's. He looked over at his brother and said, "I want to be with you, Nyeeum, but I have to go now." Then he ruffled Liam's hair, slid out of the chair, and put on his coat all by himself. When Liam started to cry, he told him, "It's okay. Daddy will keep you safe."

A few more highlights from the past couple of months:

-Liam fell asleep while he and Soren were playing together in the living room one afternoon. Abe came upstairs to check on them and Soren said, "Sssshhhhh! Daddy! Liam's asleep!" So Daddy tiptoed back downstairs. Soren then found his green safety scissors and carefully cut off Liam's soft baby locks while he slept. He also cut a patch off the top of his own hair. When Abe came back, Liam was still sound asleep on the carpet, surrounded by a halo of hair.

-Abe got up with Liam one morning so I could sleep in. Then Soren woke up, came out of his room, saw Daddy, and asked, "Where's Mommy?" "Mommy's still in bed. She needs some more sleep," Abe told him. Soren digested this for a moment. He then sighed deeply, turned, wordlessly walked back into his bedroom and closed the door.

-While the boys and I were out running errands on a Saturday morning, I decided to take the car to get washed. Unfortunately, the car wash in Shelley was closed when we arrived. Soren is terrified of car washes and was, therefore, glad to see we wouldn't be going. His comment to me, however, was very diplomatic: "Sorry, lovey. Looks like you'll have to wash the car another day."

-Soren is fascinated by the days of the week. Every day he wants to know WHAT day it is. And he'll say funny things like, "I only like Liam on Fridays and Tuesdays" or "I only eat good food on Mondays and Sometimedays."

-For several weeks he was doing this weird thing that he refers to as "going peepee after I go peepee." What this means is that he was having to pee every three minutes or so. It was very strange and quite disconcerting. We took him to the doc, who gave him a UA, said everything looked fine, suggesting that he maybe just had an undersized urethra opening. Abe found information on the internet that described this sort of case in children and said it was probably psychological. Whatever the cause, it finally got to the point where we'd put him in a pull-up every time we went somewhere. Then we just had him in pull-ups all the time. This caused me all kinds of motherly panic and after a couple of weeks I finally insisted that he begin wearing underwear again. This caused massive tantrum throwing, wild running about, and general mayhem related to what appeared to be his soul leaving his body, but he's doing much better now. He'll pull out the "I need to go peepee after I go peepee" schtick at least once a day still, but I just tell him he'll have to put it in the potty, and he seems to be urinating on a much more regular schedule again. More than ya'll wanted to know, probably, but oh wells.

-Probably our biggest behavioral concern with Soren right now is his complete lack of deference for anything of a religious/spiritual nature. He refuses to sit quietly during prayers. He refuses to even say prayers. Sacrament meetings with him are a bit of a nightmare/wrestling match. I had always thought kids were naturally kind of religious, but Soren turns that theory right onto its head.

-If there's anything that delights Soren, it's making mommy laugh. If he pulls a silly face and I laugh, he'll pull three dozen more and do a couple of crazy flip-flops around the room for good measure.

-Soren loves, loves, loves The Magic School Bus series. (Or, as he calls them, "Scoobus Books.") We always have to have a handful of Scoobus Books checked out from the library at any given time. They are excellent reading, I must admit, though I always try to avoid them at bedtime because it takes FOREVER to get through even one with all his questions.

With an owl he made out of playdough. It's one of those newfangled modern art owls.

With one of his myriad Duplos creations.

This is the tickle ball. It's invisible, but if you touch it you'll get tickled.

The child has fashion sense up to here.

These two photos are what he refers to as "dressing silly." He loves to see how many ways he can put on clothes incorrectly. (Or should I say unconventionally?) And yes, I let him go out like this. But only to Grandma's. Or Auntie Clee's.

Trying to look innocent. What Daddy? I haven't seen a Daddy. I certainly didn't use my mad kung-fu skillz to flatten a Daddy. Why do you ask?

In the house he built out of books and drawers.

Soren promises me that even when he's great big he'll still be my little boy.

The Gospel of the Green Smoothie

So it all started a couple of months ago when I noticed some talk among my Facebook friends about a mysterious thing they called a "green smoothie."

"My kids think that it's not a smoothie unless it has spinach in it," one of them remarked.

Spinach? In a smoothie? Kids? Drinking it? How could such an thing be possible? Was this green smoothie the secret entrance to nutritional nirvana?

My interest was piqued.

I googled "Green Smoothie."

During slow moments in meetings at work, I started peeking at websites about Green Smoothies. I read recipes. I memorized the health benefits. I mulled it over the possibility of making one of my own. For weeks, I let the idea simmer in my mind. I told my family and friends, "I've been thinking a lot about green smoothies."

It sounded like a great idea. Green smoothie advocates say that they find that this is the best way to get your green leafy vegetables in every day, partially because it beats chomping down a plateful of salad, but particularly because the blending breaks the cellulose down somewhat, making it easier for you to digest the plant and absorb the maximum amount of nutrients from its leafy goodness. The leafies also help slow your body's processing of the sugars from the fruits, so you feel fuller, longer, with steadier blood sugar levels after drinking the smoothie. It sounded like a good deal to me.

But I was afraid.

All the recipes I had found online called for fruit, water, and some sort of leafy green vegetable. This did not sound good to me. The people kept claiming it was good, but people also claim that trout is good, so I do not believe people and their culinary lies. I was afraid I would ruin a whole blenderful of precious fruit with the addition of a bunch of leafy greens.

So I finally asked my friend Becca, who has three small children and was involved in the Facebook conversation that triggered my obsession, about how she made hers. And she told me basically everything I'd already read on the internets, except that she said she added orange juice to the mix! The ingenuity! Juice! Not water, your raw-food eating fools! Juice!

So, a few more weeks of mulling, and I finally bought a bag of spinach and a bunch of frozen berries, along with my usual array of snack fruits. And I made my first green smoothie.

It consisted of the following:

5 strawberries
1 cup of frozen blueberries
1 banana
2 cups of spinach
1/4 cup orange juice concentrate
3/4 cup water

And....it was fabulous! Because of the blueberries, it was actually a lovely dark purple hue. And it was delicious-- even the kids liked it. LOVED it, even. I asked Soren if he wanted some and he, having watched with interest while I assembled it, declined. "No, not with that salad in it," he said. But I talked him into a tiny taste...and a tiny taste turned into a cup. And then another cup. So it was like I fed my kids a spinach/fruit salad for breakfast. And they were begging for more!

I pretty much skipped around the rest of the day, buzzing from the burst of nutrition, singing little songs to myself about antioxidants and iron and fiber.

And so I wish to share it with you, my fair readers. Come, come, and partake of the joy of green smoothie goodness, for it is worthwhile and wholesome and will make you so healthy.

(Purple green smoothie-faced baby.)