Finding My Way

Cue the Joni Mitchell if you wish.




In trying to find my way forward, I often toil to unearth my roots.
I yearn for the lucid rays that gently light a child's view and bewitch bruises and melancholy.



If I could capture the eager wonderment which enchants dewy slugs and spins mythical spells on chaos; surely the peace would settle. At the moment peace brushes briefly; as a feather-only to flit away just beyond my fingertips.



The effortless stillness swaying easy and meekly. Sometimes frantically I try to force it's space.



I try to recall how to find amusement in every crevice and shadow. I try to dissolve scar tissue in an effort to resurface.





I clutch at fragments, hoping to piece together enough of a portrait to study.





As I chase the golden light I hope it's beams cast youth's treasure spilling gleefully against rumpled skin and spirit.




I look upward hoping to be bathed and cleansed of the scales and confusion.






























And as time cruelly shows me no mercy, I hope my choices are enough.

The Party

My husband wanted a girl.
"Wanted" may be inappropriate; he "knew" his first born was destined to be a girl. I had hoped for his sake (and our marriage's sake) that the life growing inside of me was indeed, female.
When the 20 week ultrasound confirmed that the child was of the pink persuasion, I breathed a sigh of relief. Little did I know that Norah's sex determined much more than the validity of my marriage union.




Girl(at least the type of girl Norah is)= Drama + Fancy

So, I did my best.
Preparations began weeks before. Norah and I started baking the day before.










We made tissue pom poms.



We set the table with my collection of Limoges and milk glass.





We frosted, clipped, sorted, arranged, and lamented the rotten eggs (raw eggs) in batter.

I lamented the lack of respect that time has had for me (I am always shocked when I see wrinkles etch a skething their way throughout my portraits).


OK, it's better bleached out, I can remain in denial.



There was talk of this and talk of that.



The glow was soft and rosy, as 8 girls and 1 boy sipped raspberry lemonade and dismembered smoked turkey and Gruyere sandwiches.

















The candle was passed and each girl made a wish (there were 8 unbirthdays as well).



Rocky fanfare paved the path for dancing around musical chairs and Bozo's grand prize game (thanks for the music uncle Andy).

Sugar melted the sour. Spice perfumed the swirling pinks and purples. And nice graced the blush and kiss of young femininity.

Underqualified for the job

Today is Norah's birthday. I was going to write a sweet post about my beautiful daughter, but I just don't have it in me today. I am depleted at the moment. The past few days have been tough and this morning just about did me in.

One of the downsides of having four young children so close together is that you often have to take four young children with you every where you go; such was the case this morning.

I've had so many obligations, church matters, meetings, and stresses that I forgot that Norah would probably want to open a present or two on her actual birthday and not just on the day of her party. So thus starts our drama.

The stage was set for tragedy at Bangerter Crossing this morning. As we entered the store Norah began rehearsing lines for what is sure to be the next made for television drama; complete with fainting, squeals,and mayhem. Lulu disarmed every plastic bag dispenser of its twisty ties and then threw them in a twist tie parade up and down the artisan bread and produce aisles. Grocery shopping is Abram's stimulus to break out in what can only be compared to rabies (I am sorry to say that this is not an exaggeration). The minute he enters the store he begins to scream and flail. All discerning and unbelieving eyes were fixed on me today as Abram shrieked uncontrollably as I made my way around the store.

He wouldn't get in the cart.

He wouldn't get out of the cart.

He held on to the cart with one hand and constantly threw himself on the floor. I am sure to the other store patrons he appeared to be in some sort of phase of torture, and unable to free himself from the grasp of a mad woman with frizzy hair and a horrified grimace.

As I tried to make my way out of the store, we were caught shop lifting basil and a fruit roll up. Apparently, someone had stuffed them in the flower holder part of the cart. Not only am I now known as a child abuser at Harmons but I am also a thief.

This may sound funny, but it's not.

To compound it all, I am exhausted. My husband has been out of town, I've had very little sleep, and I have met up with a particular part of my calling that I don't really care for. I know it is necessary, but I don't like it. Having to confront people (with as much love as possible) about their service, is hard.

And, I miss my friends in the 3rd ward. I know how to make new friends, it's just difficult right now. Being in YW takes me away from the adults and by the time an enrichment activity comes around I've already been out so many evenings that week, I'm just too tired and too guilty to go. So, I'm a little bit lonely as well. I sure miss you girls.

And, I just ruined the cake I made for Norah. So it just goes to show you what feeling sorry for yourself attracts.

A Birthday

Norah's birthday is next week, which means for the last 11.8 months she has been planning a party. For the last 2 months, I decided to join her.

We decided on a tea party theme. I collected so many cake platters and Limoges plates over the last few years that I feel the need to put them to use on a regular basis.



I also picked up pretty little {on sale} tea cups and saucers from Anthropologie. I explained to Norah that they were for her tea party but they belonged to me. She asked me why I got to keep them and I told her it was payment for the amount of time this party is costing me.

Our afternoons are spent making party projects. First up: the invitation.



{sorry, I had to cover our address, just in case you know}



I love texture and the homemade feel, a little old fashioned; just like a tea party. Plus, Norah can help.

Next: party favors.





Norah chose headbands, so we {I} have been making avant guard {at least for a soon to be six year old} flower headbands. These photos are especially for you Rochelle.

I have a basement full of tissue aspiring to bloom into flowers and garland. Wish me luck, I'll keep you updated.

Weekend Edition

This blog has served as a journal/documentation of sorts {because heaven knows this is the only place that I do document; lazy artist that I am}, and an opportunity for self expression. My blog has also served me well as a faithful friend finder/maker. Thank you.

It has occurred to me that my children, my husband and I, might actually be interested in some of the little events that take place in our lives and not just in my self-serving pontificating. So in an effort to bring the past into our future, here are the trivial, but lovely moments of our weekend:





Norah lost her third tooth. And this time, it did not wash down the drain.






The tooth was lost while eating a Costco hot dog. Hot dogs are contraband in our home {Norah's pediatrician banned them when it was determined that Norah was experiencing migraines}, but when Brad and Norah shop at Costco they like to walk on the wild side.



Brad and I love Pad Thai. We unfortunately date very little, but we sometimes get take out, and it usually involves Pad Thai. So last Friday, I made Cook's Illustrated Pad Thai, and I must say it was a spectacular success. Brad even thinks it's better than any of the restaurant versions we've eaten.



Abram has truly been something else. You are welcome for the becoming photograph. I dread taking him anywhere. Which brings us to the next story:



My selfless brother Peter, gave up his Saturday night to watch our children while we attended the evening session of stake conference. Of course, we showed up an hour early and therefore wasted an hour of Peter's time because I am unable to read email.

The next morning, Brad and I switched off during the morning session of stake conference because Abram is on fire with antagonism. My turn was the last hour and it was the longest hour of my life. Sorry to Steph and Mac who had to endure possibly 2 hours of my daughters' endeavors to perform high impact aerobics by the light of the dimly lit cultural hall.




Norah created a farm exhibit in our basement. Art imitating life I presume.




Norah has been wanting to use our camera to take pictures. I have hesitated, but...she created this be beauty. There were a few photos in this series which made me realize that I need to take my workouts a little more seriously. I have been pretty serious, but now I need to get Terminator 2 serious.

Which brings me to my next tid bit. We purchased 6 boxes of girl scout cookies because nothing says serious like eating a whole sleeve of Trefoils.

Dichotomy

"Two more, just two more", I often tell (ask) my husband. He shakes his head and tells me I'm crazy.

Maybe I am. Tell me true.




On the heels (hopefully) of a rough week, it does sound crazy. Abram is possessed by at least 6004 devils and has only ceased screaming for 3 to 4 minute intervals. Not to mention the "deposit" he made on our basement carpet, correctly placing them in order from largest to smallest. I'm also not mentioning that while taking these photos, Abram raised an extra-large box (which usually holds my sewing machine) over his head while I had my back turned and was on my knees, and slammed it over my head, smack down style.



My legs beg for long runs uninterrupted by breastfeeding and a rocking to sleep that only mom can preform.

The desire to sit for more then 30 seconds and place food in my mouth, without hearing the word "some?" is in the top 5 on my wish list.




Selfish? Selfless? Both lists fill with reasons to keep our family at the number 6.
Vacations, romance, service, education, existing children with needs, an aged body...the list goes on and on.




Yet, the pull is strong. I never thought I would find myself in this position, yearning for more babies while knowing there are perfectly good reasons not to have more babies.



I've often heard other women say to me, "There are other things I want to do with my life besides raise children". I get that, but in my heart I hear, "Like what?".

Maybe my heart travels to the beat of an unrestrained drum, this is a possibility.




All I know is that I have never felt so alive and intertwined with what is real as when I am lost in the gaze of my babies. They are why I prevail.




I was average before I met my children. As our partnership grows with each new arrival, I am in awe of what can be accomplished.



Time continues to pass regardless of whether my hands are filled with tiny sticky fingers. But tiny sticky fingers have passed time so sweetly...I don't want to let them go.



You have time to get back to me about the "crazy".