Thankful for the Special

Last year I didn't decorate for Christmas. I did the tree. That was it.
I had just had a baby and the doctor had ordered 2 weeks bed rest (as if, what mom has that luxury?).
Anyway, I wasn't up for it.

The other day, as I was driving down the highway, Norah noticed the lights on the trees surrounding the entrance to our community. With childhood fancy, Norah said, "All the Christmas lights and decorations make me feel special mom". I smiled. I loved being young and believing in something magical, larger than life, and the possibility of anything. I want my children to believe as long as possible. I want them to believe in angles, peace, and happiness. I wish the weight of the world could be light and that all of God's children could avoid the sobriety of 'reality'. Such is not the case, sadly. So decorate I did, if only to perpetuate the specialness for the short Christmas season.



Brad, being a special dad, decorated the outside of the house with ethereal lighting.





I quarantined all the 'crafty' childlike decorations, snowmen, and snow globes to the familyroom/children's rec area. Decorations must know their place, they cannot mingle.



I hung colorful, graceful ornaments in the windows upstairs.



Actually, I hung glass ornaments in every possible light blessed spot (I'm a sucker for pretty light).



All of these were hung from my pot rack so that gold and amber light adorn our breakfasts (notice Brad ruining my picture from the deck).



An extra large amount of silver and turquoise draped itself all over the living room.

And my incredibly unsteady hand caught the magical drama of our night lights overlooking the valley below.



Even if all of this tangibly only amounts to a heap of glass, plastic, and electricity, it is worth the effort for the warm feeling of something extra-ordinary. And I will tell my children the incredible, fantastic, magical, peaceful story of Christmas. And we will bask in the special.

Macaroni and Cheese

The autumn night was warm and still. The azure sky was painted in fire and gold.



The peaks of Timpanogos were bathed in pastels.



The humble garden offered her last tomatoes and suggested the use of her forlorn, dying chives.



With shallots and great expectations on my mind, I undertook the feat of composing the most delectable macaroni and cheese ever.



There were 3 gourmet cheeses. Heavy cream, basil, tomatoes, and bay leaves swirled in heated effort.



A lonesome can of Costco crab meat sacrificed itself for the good of the whole.



Penne and paprika alliterated the dish.

The children were called with the promise of deliciousness.

The excited feet bounded up the staircase in hot pursuit of such a simple pleasure.



As the first enticing bite was placed in Lulu's mouth, enthusiasm and anticipation quickly turned to tears and bitter disappointment.



Lulu can still be heard to mutter pained, knowing lyrics of deception, trickery, and duplicities.

I am a fallen momma.

Abram

There were many battles to overcome from February to November in 2006.
There was the battle to keep my food down.
There was the battle to ween my currently breastfeeding baby.
There was the battle to overcome daily migraines.
Starting at nine weeks, the battle began with my veins and the pain of pooling blood.
Ted hose are a battle all their own, both ugliness (why do they only come in wretched dark suntan?) and their vice grip strength made me constantly reconsider their necessity.



Then came the needles, the tests, the fasting(no pregnant woman should have to go without sugar and carbs that long), the classes, and the diagnosis of gestational diabetes. Although my husband really believes the diagnosis to be insurance fraud (always the attorney), there was a blessing in drawing blood from my forearm 4 times a day, my blood sugar was very low, and I was able to correct my hypoglycemia with regular sugar indulgence.
There were the constant screenings with multiple doctors, parinatologists, and many, many midwives.
There was the ultrasound with the short femurs. Apparently, short femurs are a soft marker for down syndrome, so there was more testing.



As Abram's arrival drew closer, the testing, the threats (yes, there were threats), and the daily battles with the doctors grew more intense.
I knew that I would be overdue (I'm always overdue). I knew that my baby was not large, he in fact was my smallest (were there not daily ultrasounds to prove this?).
But I complied with the redundant testing, the NST's and the ultrasounds (thank you to all of you who watched my daughters during this time, it made this bearable).
Abram was due on November 10th. I gave up the battle on November 17th and surrendered to my midwife, Melissa, at the American Fork hospital. Abram took his time for a 3rd baby, and there were complications.
Through all this, my greatest battle was the feeling of inadequacy. I and my body were not ready for another baby. I didn't know if somewhere inside of me was a mother who could love and support 3 very young children.



But Abram was beautiful. His large eyes conjured up magical resources of love from my soul.
Not everyday of the past year has been magical. It is difficult. There are days that I wonder if I am the mom for these beautiful children.
But all in all, I am grateful. I am grateful to you Abram. Your smile, your eyes, your tiny hands (and femurs), are a gift. You are making me a mother. I have to dig deep, but there is the possibility of being a great mother. You forever remind me of the dependence that I need to place on the Lord. You constantly remind me that greatness is not in me, but through me.
I love you and I would battle again and again for you.



Happy Birthday!

The photos were all taken by the fabulous photographer, Kate Benson.

Happy Birthday to My Sweet Baby Girl

Happy Birthday my sweet Lu.



No one is as loud, stubborn, silly, or as sweet and precious as you.



I am grateful for every minute of these past 3 years. And I will be grateful for every minute you continue to call me mommy. I love you forever and ever and ever.

A Lovely Saturday in November

Saturday was beautiful. Not only was the sky it's bluest, but the temp. was in the mid 60's. And not only did Brad stay home from work, he also took the girls up to our new home site in order to watch the driveway and steps be poured.



Never has concrete been so fascinating.



Never have HVAC cardboard boxes been so artistically decorated.



The view from the back of our home is of the hang gliders at point of the mountain. Brad took the girls to get a closer look.





While I was walking around our new home, the central vac. installer(who had multiple piercings and was in his early 20's), approached me and said, "I'm not going to be able to finish this job today". I said, "Oh yeah?". He said, "yeah, I just found out I have a party to go to". I considered this for a moment. I have to assume that parties are not only paramount on the agenda of a 20-some-year-old with multiple piercings, but imperative (this is not based on any research only narrow mindedness and stereotypical thinking). Understanding his plight, I let him off the hook.





We also captured our children's tiny hand prints in our new driveway cement for whoever buys our home after we tire of it to enjoy forever and ever (seriously, I hope we never ever tire of it).



After the children went down for a nap, I was able to escape (seriously) to a delightful bloggers lunch date. I am so glad I went because I almost changed my mind. These women were so much fun. I was able to spend time with old friends (Laurie W. and Leslee), and make new friends (Heather, Annemarie, Laurie from Texas, Lisa, and Melissa.
I laughed hard as I listened to stories and experiences. These ladies made me happy to be a blogger. Making new friends and being able to meet them in the flesh is wonderful. I hope to have many more blogger lunch dates just as lovely as this one. Thanks ladies!


I am grateful for the beauty of the day, for my husband's help, and for the friendships I've made through blogging.

Saturday's this gratifying are few and far between, but really need to be praised.

The Other Catagory

Remember when (it could be just me) you were young and you would look at the older generation and think, "when I get older, I will never: let myself go, wear ugly mom clothes and mom shoes, listen to mom music, have ugly mom hair, get wrinkles, not shave my legs, and talk about children's bowl movements (at the wise age of 16 I was too sophisticated to use the word poop)".
Well, those all knowing, carefree days have come and gone and now I am a mom with: unshaven legs, stretched out tummy skin, my mom's hair, unpainted toenails, ice age taste in music, some sketchy clothing, great skin (I am still in denial about my wrinkles), and a limited vocabulary littered with the word poop. I know this post is supposed to be about gratitude and I am getting to it.
These days I have found comfort in shallow indulgences. When the poop is plentiful and the whining at a fever pitch, I put on a pair of pretty shoes.



A pretty shoe can turn tired, unkempt feet into a vision of grace and femininity.



A pretty shoe can turn an overworked housewife into a girl with people to see and places to go (even if the only thing on the agenda is the grocery store).



Pretty (and colorful) shoes put a skip in my step and a swing in my hip.



Pretty boots can hide a multitude of sins. Boots cover my unpolished toes. My hair covered legs can go undetected by a tall pair of boots. The ugly side of maternity is hidden by a good pair of sturdy boots (and the pair of strong, suntan colored ted hose that I had to wear summer of 2006, and no you cannot see a picture. Those days will have to be the subject of fables and folklore).



No matter how many wrinkles I accrue,




or how much poop I clean up,



I will always be grateful for the quick-fix of a pretty shoe.

The Pretty

I like the pretty. I am grateful for the pretty. My husband would argue that I like too much pretty and may be an over zealous consumer of the pretty.
But this is not the pretty I speak of today. I am thankful for the simple, less contrived pretty.



The pretty that gently persuades.



The pretty that is free of an agenda.



The pretty that easily goes unnoticed.



I depend on the pretty to remind me.



When things (or I) don't feel pretty, I embrace pretty, and pretty becomes part of me.



Call me silly or shallow, but I love the pretty.

If only I could fit shoes into this 'pretty' category.