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.

As a middle-schooler, I obsessed over Seal’s song, “Kissed by a Rose.”  When it came on the radio, I would rush to hit record so I could have it on a tape to listen to whenever I so desired — which was a lot.  It took a few tries to get to the radio in time to record, but I finally got it.  And then I practically wore the tape out, rewinding and replaying the song while I wrote down the lyrics.  Embarrassing?  It probably should be.

But ever since then, I’ve had an interest in Seal.  I have been so happy watching his relationship with Heidi Klum.  They were the poster-couple for marriage.  They were openly affectionate, made time for romance, loved on their children, and talked each other up whenever they were interviewed.

So I was un-healthily devastated when I found out they are splitting up.  How can it be?  They were perfect together.

And I am completely baffled by the curious reason they gave in their press release: They simply grew apart.

Seal appeared on Ellen yesterday, and talked about how much he loves Heidi, how wonderful she is, how shocked they both were when they decided to separate.  Ellen pointed out that he is still wearing his wedding ring, and he gave some non-answer about how you don’t just take off your wedding ring when you decide to separate — because, get this, there is still so much love there.

So if there is so much love there, WHY are they calling it quits?  They don’t really owe anyone an explanation for their split, but then again — they do. Because they flaunted their happiness.  They told us all how to do it.  And now they are ending it.

“Growing apart” is not a good reason for a divorce.  It’s a good reason for soul searching, a great reason for finding your spirituality, a fantastic reason for marriage counseling, a stupendous reason for — you know, working at something in which you’ve invested your life (and the lives of four children).

We all know “growing apart” is just Hollywood code for infidelity or some other such treachery.  But can’t they give us something a little more… concrete?  Because now they’re going around, telling the world that couples simply grow apart and divorce.  Like that’s a standard we should accept.

Let me tell you something:  Marriage is roses and marriage is thorns.  But most importantly, marriage is a commitment.  You ride the good times with a smile, and you hunker down and barrel through the tough times, and you know what?  You come out stronger.  You come through it together.

I know I sound callous about what is surely a painful thing in two real people’s lives.  But shouldn’t somebody just shake them?  If they grew apart, can’t they grow together?

Seal — I still love your voice, and Heidi — you sure can rock a post-baby body.  But give us a better reason for your split or please please stop talking about it, and making it seem like husband and wife should just walk away when they wake up and find themselves going in different directions.

Well I tell you what… this winter is really throwing me for a loop.

I don’t know what it’s like in your part of the world, but here it’s warm.  Not like let’s-go-swimming warm, but warm enough that my new winter boots are getting awfully jealous of my old flats.  And my flats are feeling just a little… used.  My closet has started taking sides, with the scarves and mittens hurling shameful insults at the t-shirts.  It’s just a mess.

Normally at this time of year, we’re knee-deep in awful, horrid, freezing snow.  Plans are usually being cancelled because the latest snow storm is preventing me from driving to the end of my road.  Each day normally commences with a ceremonial glance outside, fingers crossed with a hope for dry conditions and ultimately a silent (or audible, depending on the day) curse at the housing market that has planted me firmly in freezing, snowy Utah with no escape back to sunny California.

This year, the ceremonial glances are still occurring.  But each day, I feel like I am looking out a California window — and not even a California window in January.  More like a California window in April.  It’s just that nice outside.

I should be happy about this wonderful weather, but I’m having a hard time dealing with this shift.  Yesterday, I gingerly and very timidly stepped outside for a walk with my bundled babies.  I was worried the good weather was all in my head, and as soon as we were two feet away from our house, the weather gods would throw their vengeance upon me in the form of a blinding blizzard.  (“How dare you think you can waltz around outside this time of year?  We’ll show you!”  Eh… Something like that…)  We were all sweating by the time we got home.  What kind of trick is this?

This is just so out of the ordinary that I feel wrong enjoying it.  There has to be some sort of repercussion for such a great gift, doesn’t there?  Even now, as I bask in the sunlight from my window, I can’t help but feel an awful gloom and dread.  Somebody slap me, and tell me to go dance in the sunny streets!

I read a post the other day about women who live under the illusion that other women are perfect.  The writer, Sabrina, wrote about how she was still crying for no reason three and a half months after her baby boy was born.  She felt like she was the only one experiencing this, and pointed to all the “other” moms out there who are able to handle everything with such grace.

I imagine she was surprised at many of the comments.  Most people said they thought she was one of those “other” moms, handling everything perfectly.

I wonder why this seems to happen over and over.  Women take their very worst qualities and set them right next to the very best qualities of their friends.  In fact, nothing they do is as good as what other women do.

But how is that even fair?  It’s like me trying to slam dunk a basketball, and then really hating myself because I can’t — even though Michael Jordan can.  Why don’t I instead say, “Man, Michael Jordan really stinks at breastfeeding.”

I understand we present our best selves to the world, and hide all the ugly, yucky things we hate about ourselves.  And I understand that does tend to create false perceptions of reality.

Even though Sabrina’s post and the comments had nothing to do with me, I felt a little self conscious after reading it.  I started to wonder if I present my best self, and decided I better clear up a thing or two.

There aren’t many perfect women out there… but you are so lucky to know me because I happen to be that “other” woman who has it all together.  Be jealous.  Let me demonstrate.

I have the cleanest silverware on the block.

Removing silverware from the dishwasher is the drudgeriest of the drudges, in my opinion.  Rather than remove it and put it in the drawer, I let it cycle through the dishwasher again and again until my husband unloads the dishwasher.  Since he is currently working two jobs and spends a fourth of a fruit fly’s lifetime at home each week, that’s not too often.  We’ll soon be eating with our hands.

I read a book a week, or close to it.

That’s because I frequently lock myself in the bathroom with a book when I need a break.  My daughter, the constant debater, can’t argue for my time when “Nature” calls me.

My daughter hardly ever eats sweets…

because I eat them all when she isn’t looking.

My daughter has the cleanest bedroom…

or not.  I don’t really know because I close my eyes when I go in or near so I can avoid facing the likely mess and subsequently dealing with it.  But I sure live in a state of ignorant bliss, tell you what.

See?  It’s all in how you choose to look at things.  Read the bold words, and forget the rest.  That’s what you’re doing when you look at Suzy Q down the street with her perfect makeup, high profile job and impeccably-dressed kids, so do the same for yourself!

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.

The last New Year’s resolution I remember making — and keeping — was in middle school, when I resolved to never yawn with my mouth open again.  What?  It’s rude to throw out a big-mouth yawn when someone is talking!  I succeeded with that resolution — until I realized that when I yawn with my mouth closed, I look a little bit like my face is about to peel back, soon releasing from my mouth an alien who has taken residence in my body.

I now simply cover my mouth when yawning.

Since that pre-adolescence resolution, I have made a few attempts at more worthy New Year’s goals, — like exercising more — but like 99 percent of the nation (I’ve never been good at statistics, so I just make them up), I always end up falling short when I make New Year’s resolutions.

So I hadn’t even considered joining the ranks of my fellow resolution-making Americans this year — until a few days ago.  My friend Alina, who is now a fitness coach after amazingly transforming her body with healthy lifestyle choices, asked Facebook friends about their New Year’s goals.

One of her friends said she plans to run 1,000 miles in 2012, which averages out to about 20 miles per week.  When I read that, I guffawed.  I wasn’t guffawing at her friend (that would be rude — and I certainly wasn’t yawning with my mouth open at her either).  I guffawed simply because that sounds like insanity to me and my abilities.

But it got me thinking.  I am a new runner, and I really, really, really love it.  Plus, I finally got some new, attractive running shoes.

So why not make a running goal for the year to keep myself motivated?  I’ve made a gazillion fitness goals over the years, and have never stuck to them.  But I like the idea of setting a mileage goal.  Normally my goals are more along the lines of, “I plan to run X amount of times per week.”

Inevitably, something comes up: a holiday, a vacation, a kidney stone from Hades… and all of a sudden, I’ve fallen off the goal wagon.  Once off that wagon, I find it incredibly difficult to get back on.  It’s not logical, but when I miss a goal, it makes me want to give up completely, rather than try again.

So instead of committing to something that will most definitely not happen (i.e., running three times a week every week), I’m going to try and run 300 miles in 2012.  That averages out to about six miles a week, which means two miles three days a week.  If I get sick or feel lazy one week and don’t end up running, it will be ok because my goals won’t be missed.  I’ll just have to adjust my mileage in the weeks to come!

I’m working on a fancy schmany sticker chart to hang on the wall by the treadmill to track my progress.  Stickers helped my daughter learn to use the toilet, do her chores and stay in bed at night.  You can tell me a sticker chart is juvenile, but I’m pretty sure something that can produce those results in a toddler has magical powers.  Abra-cadabra — wish me luck!

Are you ready for the best, sure to become your most favorite Christmas Eve dinner tradition?  A warning from my mom: once you start this tradition, nobody will let you stop.  But I say, why would you want to?

Step 1: Get a small present for each person in your family.  In our little family, the present is an ornament.

Step 2: Wrap the presents — don’t attach any visible identifying name tags, but you’ll probably want to mark the bottom of each present so you know who they all belong to as you set things up — and place them in the middle of the dinner table.  Don’t let the kiddos see you doing any of this.

Step 3: Attach a ribbon to the bottom of each present, and lead it back to the plate of the person who the present belongs to.

But this is the tricky part: you have to wind the ribbon around the presents and the centerpieces, so that when people sit down to eat, they can’t tell which present the ribbon under their plate leads to.

I’m a horrible decorator, and awful at taking pictures of tabley things, but this gives a decent idea.  See how the ribbon all wraps around, and you can’t tell where it is or isn’t attached to the presents?

After dinner is over, clear the plates while everyone holds on to the ribbon that was under their plate.  On the count of three, have everyone gently pull their ribbon towards them until their present is in their spot!

My mom did this for our family for as long as I can remember, and even when I was home from college, I still requested (or demanded) she continue the tradition.  When I was little, I loved sitting through the meal, staring at the presents and trying to guess which was mine.  It’s the best tradition ever.

Because of messy schedules, we already had our Christmas Eve dinner this year.  This was the first year Lydia cared about this tradition, and she loved it.

Her ornament:

When I saw the ornament, I thought the little girl was singing, although I suppose she could just as easily be reading.  At any rate, Lydia loves to do both things — sing and read.  She’s a darn good singer, and sings all the time, so I told Lydia this ornament reminded me of her beautiful voice.

She said, “Oh,” and then eyed Daddy’s ornament that was a guitar-like instrument you can really play.

“Hey Dad, we can share your ornament,” she ever-so-kindly offered while her own adorable, chosen-with-love-and-care ornament lay discarded in a pile of wrapping paper.  Oh well.  One day, when she’s a famous singer, she’ll look at this ornament and actually like it.

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.

My cute little 4 year-old has a mind of her own.  She chooses… um… interesting things to become obsessed with.  Her current obsession?  Ghosts, or ghosts-es as she calls them.  NICE ghosts-es, she is sure to clarify.

So when I asked what kind of birthday party she wanted to have, she immediately chose a ghost party.  Last year, it was a monster party. Do you know how difficult it is to find ghost and monster ideas and decorations for a party in December?

Am I indulgent to let her choose her own random themes for parties?  I don’t care.  It’s fun to come up with these parties.  We definitely don’t go over-the-top — we choose similar games and decorations as the simple birthday parties we used to go to as kids, but we add a tiny twist to pull in her theme.

Almost all my ideas were found for me by my amazing party planning sister-in-law, Vanessa.

The decorations

{found the milk carton idea here}

{found the balloon idea here}

{Lydia drew her own ghosts-es faces on the cups}

The party favors

{found the marshmallow idea here}

The Games

{Pin the Birthday Crown on the Ghost.  My own idea, thankyouverymuch.}

We also played ghost bowling, decorated paper ghost chains and played “Ghost, Ghost Boo.” (“Duck, Duck, Goose.” I came up with that one on my own too, thankyouverymuchagain.)

When we ran out of things to do with ten minutes left, Vanessa came to the rescue by turning each kid into a ghost in picture form.

I think you just have the kids wiggle around while you take the picture, but I’m not sure.  Go ask Vanessa how to do it.  She also told the kids the “Chocolate Chip Ghost Story.”  Too cute.  Go read it here. What would I do without Vanessa?  Really.

We served Nutter Butter ghost cookies.  I took a picture, but it’s really embarrassing how sloppy of a job I did.  So you can see a better picture here.

And the cake, guys.  The cake.

{Made by my talented husband.  Idea found here.}

All in all, it was a really fun day, and the birthday girl felt extra special for getting the party she wanted.  We’ll see what morbid idea she comes up with next year.

]]> http://www.thrilledbythethought.com/2011/12/09/ghost-birthday-party/feed/ 4 http://www.thrilledbythethought.com/2011/12/06/and-now-she-is-four/ http://www.thrilledbythethought.com/2011/12/06/and-now-she-is-four/#comments Tue, 06 Dec 2011 21:50:25 +0000 Rebecca http://www.thrilledbythethought.com/?p=1658

This little girl just turned 4!

When she was a baby, I read about a birthday photo tradition in a magazine, and I have loved doing our own photo tradition.  The magazine suggested taking your child’s picture in the same chair every year as a cute way to show how your child is growing.  Since I tend to buy cheap things (slowly learning that quality is more important than price — slowly learning), I’m pretty sure I won’t be keeping our furniture for the next couple decades. So when Lydia turned one, we picked her favorite stuffed animal — Mono the Monkey, made for Lydia by our good friend Jonathan — and decided to take her picture each year with the cute little sock monkey.

When she turned one, she was busier than ever.  We couldn’t get her to hold still long enough for our old camera to get a good picture of her.  This was the best we could do.

By the time she turned two, we had mastered the “cheese” command and accompanying face.

When she turned three, we managed to get our act together long enough to take professional pictures.

And now, at four, she is more than happy to take picture after picture in our “photo shoots” — as long as I promise to read stories to her when we’re done.

Happy birthday to my hilarious, stubborn, sweet and lovable little girl!