The first child is hard.  Everything is new, which leads to a lack of confidence.  You start the day with questions, find a few answers scattered along the way, but end up scooping up even more questions than you originally started with.

The first child is easy.  You have time.  Time to hold and snuggle.  Time to lie on the floor and teach the first child how to roll over.  Time to videotape every milestone, time to photograph millions of smiles.  Time to read and research and figure out how to do this parenting thing.  Time to be in the moment and absorb.  Time to develop confidence, and realize this parenting thing can sometimes be easy when you take it one step at a time.

The second child is hard.  Your time is divided.  Your first child is vocal with words and arguments.  Your second child is vocal with cries.  The second child doesn’t get as much instruction in the art of rolling over.

The second child is easy.  You know what to do; you’ve been here before.  You know by now that it’s ok to ignore the vacuuming, and instead focus on snuggling your little precious.  Your first child both suddenly and gradually becomes more independent as you require more of her.  You stand back and let your first child develop into her personality while you grab each dwindling moment of fleeting time with your second child, your baby.

The first and second child together are hard.  The oldest wants your attention while you give an emergency bath to the second child after a blow-out of epic proportions.  The youngest grows, and needs more entertainment, making that clear by her squawks from the floor while you try to teach your oldest how to measure peanut butter.

The first and second child together are easy.  They love each other; it is obvious.  The oldest stops what she is doing to speak baby-talk to the youngest.  The youngest feverishly turns her head to find the oldest while the oldest dances around the room, and the youngest finally grants the oldest a smile of all smiles when the oldest notices her.

The first and second child and the husband and wife all together are hard.  The oldest gets louder and louder to compete for attention.  The youngest does the same.  The wife gets frustrated, and wants just one stinkin’ minute of silence so she can talk to the love of her life.  The husband feels torn in three directions as the girls of his life each want to soak up every second of his brief moments at home.

The first and second child and the husband and wife all together are easy.  They lounge in the big bed of the husband and the wife, climbing all over each other, laughing at the silly things the oldest child does for attention.  The husband, wife, and the oldest child all cheer together with real joy as the youngest child smiles, laughs, sits on her own, or rolls over.  They all compete to get the baby to laugh the hardest, smile the biggest.  And the husband and the wife look at each other over the heads of the oldest and the youngest with a look they both understand: this moment right here is bliss.

I have a distinct memory from when I was a little girl of standing in my backyard, whining to my mom that we should change my name to Sarah.  My mom told me again and again that we weren’t going to change my name, and that Rebecca was a perfectly nice name.  I responded by pouting and begging some more.

Now it’s come full circle, as my Lydia begs me to change her name to Olivia.  I think it’s a logical request for her, since every morning, she decides she is no longer human, but some sort of animal. “Mom, today you are the mama bear, Daddy is the daddy bear, I’m the big sister bear and Emma is the baby bear.  And my name is Olivia.”  See?  The logic is totally impenetrable.

We sat in the doctor’s office a couple weeks ago, filling out a 4-year-old check-up survey.  It told me to ask my child to tell me her full name.  If she could do it, I was supposed to circle “yes.”  I complied, and Lydia responded perfectly.  When I went to circle the “yes,” I saw her brain click on.

“No, wait!  Put Olivia.  My name is Olivia,” she told me.  I could tell she really believed that if I wrote Olivia, she would automatically become Olivia.  That logic really is somethin’ else!

A few days later, she had a new teacher in her Sunday School class.  When I dropped her off, I introduced her as Lydia, but by the time I picked her up, the poor befuddled teacher had to ask me, “It IS Lydia, right?”

Apparently, Lydia wasted no time in getting her name change crusade underway.  At the beginning of class, she called herself Lydia, then immediately “corrected” her statement. “No, I mean Olivia. My name is Olivia now.”  Every time the teacher called her Lydia, or every time Lydia opened her mouth (which was a lot), she reminded the teacher that her name is Olivia.  Her poor teacher couldn’t remember which name was right by the end of class.

I love the name Olivia, and we actually considered that name.  Lydia often is called Olivia, because it sounds similar to her real name.  That’s probably why she ever got the idea to change her name in the first place.

But we named her Lydia for a reason, and I wanted her to know that reason.  So we had a lesson on Lydia, the seller of purple from Acts 16 in the New Testament.

Lydia was the first European convert to Christianity.  Already a believer in God, she gathered at the river to pray with other women one day.  Paul came to preach of Jesus Christ to those women, and she believed what she heard.  She was baptized, as was her entire household.

I love that Lydia heard truth and believed it.  I love that she was likely a self-made and independent woman, this seller of purple who had influence over her household.  And I love that she was a seller of purple!

Image found here

Image found here

While draped in a lovely purple tablecloth, our Lydia listened to us teach about the ancient Lydia.  She knows the scripture about her namesake and has been able to recite it for years, so she listened intently as we unfolded the bigger story.  I thought it was a lovely night.

My mom asked the next day if Lydia is calling herself Olivia anymore.  Not yet, but her identity crisis remains intact — the next morning, she bounded out of bed, announcing we are a family of sharks!  And she made sure we understood the detail that her pet shark breaks his leg walking down the stairs every Tuesday.

Time for a lesson on the anatomy of sharks.

We saw our second play put on by the Salt Lake Acting Company this weekend.  I really am impressed with these guys.  The first SLAC play I saw was The Persian Quarter, a story about the Iranian hostage situation in 1980.  That play had hardly any props and only four actors!  Even with such a heavy topic and lack of action, the intense dialogue and skilled actors really transformed the stage into another world.  My husband and I both loved that play.

After seeing something so serious and adult, I was really excited to see how well SLAC could handle a children’s play.  I wasn’t disappointed!

Lydia and I saw How I Became a Pirate. Apparently, it’s based on a book by Melinda Long and illustrated by David Shannon, but I am lame-o and did not know that until we were there.  Guess what we’ll be looking for the next time we go to the library?!?

image found here

Since I dropped the ball on preparation (you know, actually READING the story we were about to see on stage), I was a little nervous my daughter might not be into the show.

I shouldn’t have worried!

From the opening scene with the pirates singing, hidden in the back (right near us!), to the end of the applause when the actors took questions from the audience, Lydia was mesmerized.

The story is darling: a little boy boards the ship of pirates and learns, well – how to be a pirate!  He learns the lingo, how to steer the ship and how to find the perfect place to bury treasure.  He also teaches the pirates a thing or two about “landlubber” life, starting with how to play soccer.

The dialogue was witty, sprinkled with satirical comments for the adults to appreciate, while still at a level a child can understand.  And the songs and dances were so fun!  I kept finding myself amazed at the great sound produced by just five adult actors and one child actor.  The little kid in this play, Fynn White, has an amazing singing voice!  Amazing!

I love the theater’s building.  It’s an old Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints church building in a very unassuming neighborhood near the capitol.

And the theater itself is incredibly comfortable.  I have never seen so much legroom in my life.  This world is definitely lacking in good legroom, something I am constantly reminded of as a 5′10″ giant (I know, I know – life is so hard). If you give me good legroom, I’ll follow you home and bake you cookies.

It’s also a small theater, which I love.  We were sitting in the very last row, but still had no problem seeing the entire show.

How I Became a Pirate, put on by the Salt Lake Acting Company, is running until December 30.  They are partnering with the Utah Food Bank and Salt Lake County Services.  If you go, you can bring non-perishable food items, new clothes or toys to donate.

I was given two free tickets for this review, but that certainly didn’t influence me.  The amazing actors, awesome play and whopping amounts of legroom did.

If, by chance, you are a paranoid freak such as myself, and think three days of semi-nausea is a surefire sign of an unplanned pregnancy, know that all you have to do is develop kidney stone symptoms and get yourself to the ER where a pregnancy test will be performed before you get a CT scan.

I’m not pregnant.

But I felt like I was in labor this past Sunday.

I sent the hubs and the eldest child off to church while I stuck around at home to keep the contagious eye infection of my baby away from others, and to rest from the nausea I was terrified was morning sickness.  Not 15 minutes after the husband left, I started feeling pain in my lower left back and abdomen.  Within seconds I was all over WebMD, but wasn’t finding any helpful information.

The pain started getting so bad that the only way to deal with it was to pace the hall and breathe deeply.  I sent a text to my husband, telling him he should probably come home.  Knowing I am only prone to dramatics in speech, and that I would never ever tell him to come get me unless I was at death’s door, he raced home to find me screaming and crying.

I have been in labor twice, and I did not scream or cry during either labor.

The hubs started getting things ready so we could go to the ER, but I really didn’t want to waste the day at the hospital if I was only experiencing bad cramps or some other such foolish thing.

One scream later, however, and we were out the door.  I begged Ryan to take me to Instacare before we resorted to the ER, so we pulled up to our closest Instacare, only to discover the opening nurse had left her keys at home, and the facility was closed.

So I threw up in their parking lot, and we headed to the hospital.  Take that, closed Instacare!

Halfway there, I thought I was feeling fine again. “Maybe all I needed to do was throw up,” I told Ryan. “Let’s just go home.”  But then, at the intersection to the hospital, I was ready to throw my body under passing cars, just to be freed from the pain.  So my smart husband chose to turn into the hospital instead of heading home.

Once checked in and heavily dosed on morphine, I was feeling fine — and foolish for being there.  The doctors and nurses kept mentioning pregnancy, and other such things related to the topic, so I started to worry I was housing a vampire baby.  Turns out, they just wanted to rule out a pregnancy before they gave me a CT scan.  That makes a lot of sense now, but when one is under the influence of pain, nausea and drugs, the mind can jump to unrealistic conclusions.

The CT scan revealed a 3 mm kidney stone.  When they showed me the print-out of my insides, I swear the little stone winked at me.

They gave me lots of drugs and sent me home with the parting words that were somehow supposed to make me feel better: “Hey, this is as bad as labor, but at least you won’t have to pay for its college tuition.”  Nice one, doc.  Nice one.  My mind invented all sorts of tortuous devices to be used on the snarky little doctor once I found myself at home, screaming and crying yet again from pain.

I believe the little stone has since left my body, as I am now feeling all kinds of better.  As cheesy as it sounds, through this whole experience, I found a lot of sweet little mercies — Friends and neighbors stepped in with meals and childcare, countless people told me they were praying for me, and my husband happily took on all my responsibilities for the last couple days while I existed in a sleep-throw up-nurse the baby pattern of hell.

I’m almost ready to look back at this experience and laugh.  Almost.

Grandma Brown passed away yesterday morning.

At the age of 93, her passing wasn’t unexpected, but it was still sad, nonetheless.  I feel very blessed that I was in California just last week, and was able to visit with Grandma and introduce her to my baby.

I was fortunate enough to have Grandma literally in my backyard when I was growing up.  When I was 14, she moved from her old, white farmhouse in rural Idaho to a house on my parents’ property in California.  She rode to church with our family every Sunday, was present at all birthday and holiday celebrations, fixed us dinner from time to time, and watched out for us when my parents were out of town.

She was witty and funny in a no-nonsense way.  When I drove her to church one day as a freshly licensed 16 year old, she turned to me and said, “Very good.  You didn’t scare me once.”

Grandma had a sharper mind than most people half her age.  She could pull up the tiniest details about relatives, friends and life from decades ago.  As a lover of history, one of my favorite things to do was to ask her about her experiences during the depression and World War II.

But she didn’t only have a knack for details about the past.  She could also tell you what was going on in the lives of any of her 18 grandchildren, and she could tell you real and current details about her more than 50 great-grandchildren and 2 great-great-grandchildren.  This always impressed me, and showed me how much her family meant to her.

Towards the end of Grandma’s life, her vision deteriorated to where she couldn’t make out faces.  When she would see my girls, she would touch their arms and say in her funny way, “Hello there!  I don’t know if you’re cute or not!”  I would always assure her that they are darling.

I love this picture of Grandma meeting Lydia for the first time

She had a soft spot for animals, and spoiled my parents’ cat rotten.  Every time I talked to her, she wanted to know about the current eccentricities of my own cat.

She was very independent, living over 30 years alone after the passing of my grandpa.  My heart always ached for her, and the time away from Grandpa Brown.  I am so happy she is now with him; I can’t begin to imagine the joy they must feel to be together once again.

I know families can be together forever, and I find so much peace in the knowledge that Grandma and Grandpa Brown are not only together now, but that I will see them again.

I love the way this video shows my beliefs of life after death in a simple way.  It’s a very uplifting video — watch it!  You’ll feel good feelings; I promise.

After the side cramp that kept me from running hung around for two days even when I wasn’t running, I decided I better get rid of it so I could stop feeling like I was being knifed in my side with every step.  So I consulted the trusty internet to diagnose my bothersome ailment.

First, I discovered that my side cramp was actually a side stitch.  From there, the advice was endless and as varied as can be expected from an internet search.

• Exhale when the foot opposite your side stitch hits the ground
• Grunt with each exhale
• Suck in your stomach like you’re trying to look skinny
• Breathe in every 3 steps, and out after 4…or something like that

As I held my side and laced up my non-cool running shoes, I decided to just scrap it all and set out for what I was sure would be an agonizing experience.

I was right.  The side stitches began feeling very unstitched with my first steps, and I immediately tried to recall all the advice I heard.

Was it exhale or inhale when the foot opposite the side stitch hits the ground?  I tried both.  And then I got confused and started timing it to the foot on the same side as the side stitch.  And then I got confused again, and ended up tripping all over the place while I feverishly tried to place the correct foot on the ground at the correct inhale/exhale moment.

I finally got into a rhythm, and found that following that particular advice did alleviate some of the pain.  But not all.  So I decided to try another helpful tip.

I stood as tall as possible, and sucked in my stomach.  Not a good multi-tasker, I immediately lost the rhythm with the inhale/exhale on the correct foot thing, which really irked me since I worked so hard for that rhythm in the first place.  While I worked to get my groove back, I accidentally let go of the perfect posture.  Suddenly I remembered the posture again and threw myself upright with a jolt.

And there went the breathing again.

Once I finally got the two of those methods coordinating in perfect rhythm, I realized the side stitch was still persisting.  I tried to remember the rule of breathing in a certain number of steps and out a different certain number of steps.

I should have known better.

I couldn’t even remember the rule, but I was desperately trying to adhere to it, which made me look more like a jolting, jerking, spasming 5′10″ marionette puppet than a woman who just desperately wants to have sexy calves and an ability to look cool while running.

That ambiguous rule was thrown out the window in seconds, but the stitch still stuck.  So I worked on coordinating the first two rules again for a minute, and finally tried the only tip I hadn’t yet tried.

Grunting.

Unfortunately this tip worked, and it worked well, so I kept it up all the way home.

You can’t imagine how happy I was when I set out for my jog the next day, stitch free.  The neighbors, however, had to upgrade their cable, since I was no longer providing the entertainment.

I wish all my piano students were rotten, stinky little kids with no respect for the world or me.  I wish they never practiced, never progressed and never tried.

As it is, I have the best students ever.  My students have enthusiasm for piano and music.  They love to perform in recitals.  They practice (for the most part) and improve every single week.  They respect me and laugh at my dumb jokes.  They tell me their own jokes.  Even when they hit slumps, they still keep coming to lessons and seem to enjoy their time there.

And their parents are just as cool as my students.  They go online and find really awesome arrangements of songs for their kids to learn.  They make sure their kids are on time for recitals and dressed nice.  They bring treats to student parties and to recitals and they even give thoughtful gifts to my daughters and me.

I couldn’t have asked for a better piano “clientele.”  So why am I sad?  Because I’m leaving it all behind.  After having Emma, it became very clear to me that I need to be a mom who is more present and available for my children.  I need to have the ability to drop what I’m doing to tend to a need of my child.  While teaching piano keeps me at home and with my children, it still keeps my attentions from them.

People often tell me how lucky I am to work from home (and I AM), but I’ve often thought it would sometimes be easier to actually go TO a job, rather than try to juggle parenting responsibilities with work responsibilities at the same time.

I am happy with my decision to be a mom who is present, but I am devastated about the children I am going to give away to somebody else.  I have watched my students grow up over the past few years.  I know them; I can clearly read their emotions when they walk through my door.

I can tell if I’ve pushed too hard – or haven’t pushed enough.  I know what song is going to excite which kid.  I know precisely what to do to lift the mood of each student, precisely what to do to encourage when assignments are hard, precisely how to motivate when each individual student hits the inevitable slump.  I know how to ask for forgiveness when I’ve made a mistake as a teacher, and I am so lucky to have kids who willingly forgive.

I am going to miss the back and forth banter between the teenage boy who started taking lessons as a 5th grader.  I’m going to miss helping the shy wallflower express her emotions through music.  I am going to miss the emerging personality of the teenage girl who has such a zest for life and can hardly be contained.

I have students who are naturally gifted.  They bring elements to their music that can’t be taught; they can only be felt.  I have others who struggle with so much, but whose work ethics are already so strong that they move forward and progress in inspiring ways.

I have students who may smart mouth me from time to time, but who will quickly change their tone with one look from me.  I have students who never, ever disagree with anything I say and who I have to work so hard with to develop their own opinions about what they are playing.

I have all kinds.  And I love each and every one of them.  Even though this is the right decision for my family and for me, this is a tough business to leave behind.

If you know any amazing (and they must be a-MAZING) piano teachers in the Salt Lake City area, please send their information my way.

Holy guacamole, this adjusting-to-more-than-one-kid thing is no walk in the park, let me tell you.  In fact, if I want to walk in the park, I typically require at least one other adult to assist me in such a crazy endeavor.

The only thing I like about the newborn stage is the guilt free excuse to watch Ellen every day.  I need something to do during the afternoon nursing, don’t I?  Really, I would rather clean bathrooms every day for a year than go through the newborn stage.

It is a thoroughly exhausting time with relatively little benefit for all the hard work.

Don’t get me wrong.  I love my newborn.  I loved her the moment I knew I was pregnant with her.  I loved her again and again as I watched my belly grow, felt her wiggle and imagined her future.  When she was placed in my arms the first time, I loved her with a love so fierce that if anyone had tried to harm her, I would have thrown myself from the delivery table, numb legs and all, and army crawled my way to her until I had her safe in my arms.  I would have.

I still love her with that fierce love.  I would throw myself under a bus for her.

But do I LIKE her in this particular stage?  Do I LIKE how she often refuses to take naps?  Do I LIKE how I wake up every other night at 3:30 to feed her? (My wonderful husband wakes up on the other nights to feed her so I can rest — I definitely LIKE that I married him.)  Do I LIKE how I flashed all the moms at dance class yesterday when trying to discreetly nurse my wiggly newborn?  Do I LIKE how my life is on a constant rotating three hour schedule and it’s incredibly difficult to plan anything?

No.

People tell me I will miss this stage and I tell you emphatically that I won’t.  I know this because I don’t miss my firstborn’s newborn stage.  I miss her 3 month, 6 month, 9 month and so forth stages.  I would love to go back in time and snuggle up to my babbling, smiling, sleeping through the night 3 month old Lydia.  I would love to go back to my 1 year old Lydia and carry her around the neighborhood on a walk while she tries to copy the words I tell her.  But would I go back to her first month of life?  No way, Jose.

I realize this may make me sound like a monster but I know I can’t be the only person who feels this way.  Everything I read tells me I AM the only person who feels this way, but I am sure I’m not.  So that’s why I’m writing this: for the few (or many?) women out there who are being told they should feel blissfully happy at this stage in their lives and they are wondering why they aren’t.

I know it gets better.  In fact, things have been on an upward path for the past two weeks.  I am finding more and more to LIKE each day.  I LIKE when my baby studies my face with wide eyes that seem to register recognition.  I LIKE when she grants me a rare, wide mouthed, happy eyed, head thrown back, sloppy smile.

And I definitely LIKE when she cooperates and takes a nap without tears.

There will be lots more to LIKE in the coming days, weeks, months and years.  And when I get out of this newborn stupor and into happy life regularity, I will be sad to see my baby pass so quickly through each following stage.

Until then, you can find me nursing away every day at 3:00 while I blissfully enjoy watching Ellen.

Behold!  I am about to unlock the “mysterious” timeshare purchasing secrets for you.  We recently were suckered into a timeshare presentation in Las Vegas.  We received a free weekend in exchange for listening to the timeshare presentation.  While it took 3 hours out of our life, I’m always down for education on any subject (even timeshare ins and outs), so I didn’t mind the time investment.

Here is how to get the best deal on a timeshare:

Say no.

That’s all there is to it.  Say no again and again.  They will lower the price again and again.  Even when you think it’s over and you’re on your way out, they’ll lower the price once more.

Their methods are smart.

They get you to the presentation by giving you something for free (a free weekend or something like that.)

They pair you up with a salesperson who is incredibly nice.  You eat free food while she asks about your life.  She asks you what you were given to come to the presentation (inducing a bit of guilt), and offers you more donuts and juice.  All free.  You feel a little bad for taking all this free stuff and, even though you don’t want to buy, you decide to be kind and willing to listen.  They know this about your guilt and they jump all over it.

Your salesperson tells you personal stories of how she has taken her family all over the world with the timeshare and has pictures and plane ticket stubs to prove it.  She explains the incredibly small fees you pay for each trip ($149).  They know you have sworn a pact with your spouse that you won’t buy, but they do such a good job of seducing you, that you are actually considering this.

She leaves you and your husband alone.  You start to think this might actually be a good idea.  Only one question.  How much does it cost per year?  Your salesperson has sneakily been avoiding that question the entire presentation because she wants to suck you into the product first.

After you are in love with the idea, she finally hits you with the total.  $40,000.  You look for the exit.  She tells you she’ll get her manager.

Even though you still don’t think you’ll buy, you feel real relief when the manager starts to slash totals left and right.  This is an emotional game, my friends.  He sees your hesitation, judges what you’re hesitating about, and slashes some more.  The price is now $10,000.  He leaves you with your salesperson.

You are having a hard time saying no now.  But you tell her it’s still not manageable.  Plus, you can’t swing the deposit.  She leaves.

When she comes back, she says what you were predicting because you now know that if you show any hesitation, they will remove the cause of the hesitation: “What if we waive the deposit fee?” she asks.  Smokin’ good deal!

But after all that, we still didn’t buy because we just aren’t ready to add any sort of monthly payment to our budget.

We left on good terms and were escorted to the checkout room.  We thought we were done.

Oh no.

In the checkout room, the price was slashed one more time, down to $5000 with no deposit.  Did we want to buy?  YES.  But we didn’t.  Not this time.

But now we know how easy it is to lower a timeshare price form $40,000 to $5000.

So I’m pregnant.

This is my second pregnancy and I feel like I have a good handle on most things.  Most things are even easier this time- less sleepiness, less acne, less nausea, less anxiety.

But the one thing that is definitely NOT less is my craving for every unhealthy, completely unnatural type of food out there.  I don’t want sweet things.  That would make a lot of sense because sweet things are delicious looking, desirable and crave inducing.

No, instead I want things like McDonald’s hamburgers, Taco Bell anything, movie theater popcorn, cheese fries, hot dogs (eewww) and anything fried and/or smothered in butter.  And I want these things

ALL

THE

TIME.

You show me a picture of some disgusting fast food creation and it will literally (ok, not quite literally) take 3 body builders to pin me down and keep me from driving to the closest artery clogging establishment to gleefully stuff my face with firsts, seconds and even thirds of the non-food item.

Fortunately for me, my husband and I just started a budget and we didn’t include much in that budget for fast food.  So far, my extreme cheapness is winning out over my intense pregnancy cravings and I’ve only given into Taco Bell and soft pretzel cravings about a dozen times during these 11 weeks of pregnancy.  (Yes, that is an average of more than once a week.  I know.  But if you knew how many times I DIDN’T give into my cravings, you would give me a medal.)

But tomorrow is Pay Day, and if I leave the house with any cash, my debit or credit card, you may see me at one or all McDonald’s along the Wasatch front.