Snippets

I love that the phrases, scriptures, and words that you put into your mind can, at just the right moments, and nearly of their own accord, unlock the little doors they’ve sat behind and coming whisking like a cheery little breeze into your conscious mind.

Most recently, as I’ve looked at my little people, it has been this lovliness from the book of Psalms:

“. . . for I am fearfully and wondefully made . . .”

(Yes. Mike is totally giving Mette bunny ears in that picture above.)

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My parents have a real, live, attic. Not the kind where you open a little hatch in your ceiling and crawl along rafters. No. No. Theirs is the kind at the top of a flight of stairs with a real door, and a celing shaped like an A. The kind full of Halloween costumes and wedding dresses. Letterman jackets and old stuffed animals. Christmas ornaments and forgotten journals. Prom dresses and books.

Nearly every family friend has spent time in that attic searching for something – boots to make a Halloween costume, clothing to wear to a 70s themed dance, or (as was most often the case with me and my friends), random things to wear for various guests on filmed talk shows. Linda! Linda! Linda! Was the go to talk show. I was the host – Linda (you may have guessed at the name) and we would come up with all sorts of interesting guests whom I would interview (after they found appropriate clothing in the attic). Then we’d watch our creations and laugh and laugh. Oh how I wish I could find some of those films!

Anyway, all of that was to say that my own kids have spent plenty of time up there (in the attic) as well – examining the little dollhouse, searching for dress-ups or toys. A week or two ago I was there to retrieve some of my things. Jesse found my dad’s old typewriter and was instantly in love.

I know decluttering and organizing are all the rage these days, but that attic? It’s full of memories and magic.

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I took Summer and Mette for well-child exams last week. To appease Summer’s crying after her shots (and while I held Mette for her shots), the nurse gave her a blue sucker which she proceeded to suck on for awhile before rubbing it back and forth nervously throughout her hair.

And last of all – a little picture from our recent snowfall (followed by what I wrote about it on Instagram).

Snapshots. Tiny quick glimpses. They never tell a very complete story. Raising eight kids is complicated. Exhausting. Messy. There are more things to worry about, fix, accomplish and manage than I ever actually can. There are more moments of tears -- from the kids and from me -- than I'd want anyone to ever know about. This image was captured after a morning of mess and tantrums and only exists because, on our way to the grocery store, I noticed how perfect all that snow and ...sky looked, and creating pretty images fills some artistic craving in me. So no. These moments could never tell the whole story. But what they do tell is truth. A more beautiful truth than exhaustion and stress and whys and how's. A truth I always struggle to remember. And that truth is: there is perfection and loveliness and utter joy all sprinkled in this messy existence. And these tiny glimpses are what keep reminding me of the eternal significance and amazing beauty of everything we get to experience by living this gift of a little mortal life.

Mette’s Blessing

Mette Mary was blessed earlier this month. Dear little soul. Her two grandpas were able to stand in the circle while Mike gave her the blessing. (I intended to make Mike put back on his suit – later in the day – when I realized we had no decent pictures of him with Mette, but it never happened.)

I love the beauty of . . . presenting an infant before the Lord. It feels humbling to come before her eternal Heavenly Father – as her imperfect earthly parents – to give her a mortal name for her journey here.

And something about it all made me feel extra emotional about my own parents – the ones who brought me into mortality and presented me – with all their own hopes and fears and unknowns – before the Lord. There is something cyclical about it that makes it all so . . . powerful? Profound? Overwhelming? I don’t know. I was once like my little Mette. And my parents were me. But now? They’ve done it. They’ve lead me along just as they were meant to, . . . while I still have such a ways to go in doing the same for my little ones.

I feel I will always be just behind them: seeing them a distance ahead on the trail; eager to make it along the paths they’ve already walked; anxious to catch up to them -- to do what they’ve done and know what they’ve learned. I love them.

Readying for Christmas

I’m never quite sure how we pull Christmas for eight (plus birthdays for two) off each December. There’s no real list. No serious plan. No early start. No wisely set number of gifts. No specific plan on amount to be spent. Between Mike and I, there are just a few haphazard orders made on Amazon. A few uncertain and random purchases tossed in shopping carts. A hectic Saturday or two spent at Costco. A few chaotic visits to Target with kids running about while coats hide items in the cart.

At some point (frighteningly late in the game) everything is pulled from where it’s been tossed in our walk-in-closet (which we keep locked throughout the month [except for when we go in -- tripping, side-stepping, and maneuvering -- to retrieve clothes and shoes]) and divided into piles. There is humming and hawing. Arranging and rearranging. Someone has too much. Someone has too little. A few things might be returned (or stowed for future birthdays). Another frantic order might be made. One last store might be run to. And then another.

When I chat with friends about their planned and orderly methods, I fret, momentarily, that the lack of order in our process surely calls my character into question (if not my eternal worth).

And yet, somehow, this last week always arrives with things mostly figured out, and me wrapping presents late at night while kids are sleeping, and everything mostly really readied for a magical Christmas morning with far more material blessings than anyone has a right to enjoy.

An Unrefined Palate, Traditions, and Trees

I fear asking this will show my lack of refinement, and certainly cast a shady light on my upbringing; but couldn't I just have my caramel . . . unsalted? (Hush. Don't tell a soul I prefer it that way. I couldn't bear the sidelong glances and disapproving snubs.)

But wait! We've been drinking a lot of hot cocoa around here lately and I've discovered that I am a big fan of whipped cream on top. I hardly even give marshmallows a thought anymore (poor little dears).

I'm not sure where this leaves me. Whipped cream might be a tier above marshmallows in its classiness, but that blasted salted caramel is clearly more sophisticated.

In any case, I suppose I shall never be able to truly boast of a refined palate. Nobody cares about . . . an average palate. (And now that I've established that nobody cares about an average palate . . . and that that is, indeed, most likely what I have, it strikes me that I should move on from this topic with all due haste.)

I often fail at this, but, ever since writing my post on mothering (or homemaking or whatever it was) in mortal conditions, I've been trying to view the never-quite-perfect goings-on around here with more tolerance and acceptance. I've tried to be patient with the fact that an evening of holiday traditions will likely include at least one child whining, mess looming over me, two kids fighting, perhaps a moment (or two) of frustration and temper loss on my part, and probably an unanticipated cup of milk spilled in the middle of it all. I'm trying to be patient with myself and with us in all of this; trying to trust that Heavenly Father is pleased with our efforts and that good memories are still being made.

Last Christmas I remember feeling worried I'd done nothing to make it special because I never could manage large chunks of stand-alone magic and perfection, but, as I looked back over the season as a whole, I saw the beauty and brightness as they were – sprinkled nicely throughout the stressful and the mundane. I'm trying harder to recognize that happening as it does (rather than only discovering it “in retrospect”). In doing so, I've become more aware of some happy new developments in our home. My older kids are beginning to know our traditions well enough to often get them rolling (and occasionally fully carried through) before I've had time to consider how I'll juggle them amidst the demands of babies and dinner and bedtimes. Lights are taken out of my hands and wrapped around banisters, snowflakes are folded and placed in little hands eager to cut them, family treats are baked. And I find myself a bit startled over how on earth things I was only intending to get done . . . got done. (Daisy and Goldie are the ones generally deserving the most thanks.) It's a novel and lovely new thing.

Speaking of traditions: everyone was a bit put out last night when, upon walking into the tree lot, I spotted our tree immediately. “This is it!” I exclaimed, a mere 15 seconds into our arrival. “Look! It's our tree!” They all looked. And I knew that they knew, just as well as I did, that it belonged to us. But it was as if I'd told someone what a present was seconds before they'd opened it. Nobody was thrilled that I'd ruined the fun of the hunt. They insisted they needed to have a look around. I shrugged and followed them about (though nobody's hearts were really in the search – we'd already seen our tree after all).

It's home now. Undecorated. But standing happily in our family room. All 14 plus feet of it. And I can't help but fall a little in love with our Christmas trees each year. I impart human virtues on them and grow attached to them as I think up little storybook tales about all their years of growing and fretting that they'd never be picked only to finally be here. In a home. At Christmas-time. All done up in lights and bobbles. Wafting their piny scent through the house. Oohed and ahhed over by our kids. And generally filling the measure of their creation. Good little (big) tree.

The End. (For now.)

(Though I can’t help but add what I wrote on Instagram concerning that top middle picture of Abe in his bed: I still remember his first night in a “big boy” bed and how Mike and I watched him sleep and whispered about how crazy it was to think that someday he’d fill the whole bed.)