Follow the...what now?

Rachel was in charge of our Family Home Evening lesson today. We told her to look at the Come Follow Me manual and go to town. So she did. She prepared a fabulous lesson...for last week.

It didn't take us very long to figure out her "guess the topic" hangman opener because, well, The Sermon on the Mount was pretty easy to figure out since we learned about it last week. But we went ahead and had her give her lesson anyway and we had some good discussions.

At the end of her lesson she passed around paper and pencils to everyone and asked us to write down something we thought was interesting from the lesson and then she collected them and read them out loud. This was actually a very entertaining thing to do because even though we all wrote down serious, well-thought-out answers, some answers were easily misconstrued to be silly.

For example, when she got to Andrew's she couldn't quite read his writing, which is, to be honest, perfectly fair. His writing is so poor it could rival any medical doctor in an "illegible prescription" contest. It's simply awful. He once suggested to me that I keep a pen and paper by the bed so that I could jot ideas down there, rather than take notes on my phone (I think I'd had some autocorrect issues with some things I'd typed when I checked my notes in the morning) and I was like, "Please tell me you don't do that!"

He enlists my help in deciphering things he writes down in the middle of the day! I can't imagine trying to work out his middle-of-the-night scrawlings!

Anyway, she got to his paper and read, "The...Satan gives us a...good pattern for life. What!? Who wrote this!?!"

"Must've been Dad, I think," I said, because he was already cracking up over her misinterpretation.

"Not Satan!" he finally choked out. "S-O-T-M! S-O-T-M! The Sermon on the Mount!"

We like to turn as much as we can into acronyms at our house and had his writing actually been legible she might have been able to piece together what he was trying to say, but his sloppy O turned into an A and his sloppy M morphed into what was possibly an AN.

Then she pulled out Benjamin's passive-aggressive note, which said (in beautiful, well-controlled six-year-old handwriting), "reading the sermin on the mont AGAIN" and we all burst out laughing.

It was a good lesson.

We're a week behind in Come Follow Me now, but it was a good lesson.

Nights at the Museum

On Friday night Rachel went to a sleepover and the rest of us were itching for something to do so we headed to BYU for their "Nights at the Museum" activity. I wasn't quite sure what to expect, other than knowing that the museums were open extra late, but when we arrived we were handed a paper with a scavenger hunt of sorts. The employee gave us the hook—that if we finished the scavenger hunt by visiting all five museums we would win a water bottle—and the kids (Benjamin, especially) were sold.

Our first museum was the Museum of Peoples and Cultures. In addition to the regular exhibit they also had the back of the museum open and had booths set up with students exhibiting their work. One of the exhibits was on Nabatean pottery from Petra—they have some of the thinnest pottery found in the world and no one quite knows how they were able to make it so thin. It was kind of fun to get to talk with the students about pottery after reading Uncle Patrick's paper on pottery.

Next we hit up the Paleontology Museum, which was by far Alexander's favourite. We really need to take him back there when it's a little less crowded (and a little less past his bed time).

What math?

This morning I went to a meeting with some of the curriculum committee members for our school district. Such a thing might seem somewhat pointless since we're moving at the end of the school year, but my friend, who is in charge (as a parent volunteer) of the "gifted" program at our school was asked to come in and meet with the committee because she'd been asking them so many questions. She didn't want to meet with the committee alone because she was afraid she'd buckle under pressure, so she asked a couple other parents to come in with her.

Zoë had preschool, so I just sent her off pretty much as I normally would on a Wednesday morning, and I asked my ministering sister to watch Alexander for me. She bravely said she would. Actually, she's offered over and over again to watch Alexander but I've been too nervous to leave him with her because he's a screamer.

Anyway, he did fine for her! After I dropped him off at her house, he screamed and screamed and screamed until she loaded him into her car to go to brunch with her friends (at a fast food joint with a kiddie area; she also brought her preschooler). She said he sat on her lap perfectly calm the entire time they were at the restaurant. And then he started screaming again the minute she started buckling him back into his car seat to bring him back to me. So, all in all, he did much better than I expected.

The meeting went well, and my friend got all her questions answered and I learned a bit about how the gifted and talented program works. I felt a little silly if they asked me if Rachel was in the advanced math group. I was like, "Yeah. I don't even know. I, uh, know she's doing fine. It's been quite the year for us."

Cute casts are costly

I had a series of Zoë stories lined up to share, one of which is how she found a toilet paper roll and put it on her arm like a cast (because she might be a teensy bit jealous/curious about her brother's cast). But instead of telling you about her cuteness I'm only going to share pictures of her with her cardboard cast and complain about the healthcare industry a little bit.

Rachel's first temple trip

This afternoon Rachel and I went to the temple to do baptisms with some friends of ours.

We haven't taken Rachel to the temple yet because we've heard horror stories about the wait times to do baptisms. People were waiting sometimes four hours. We didn't see how it would be possible to coordinate a babysitter for an unknown period of time.

My friend who went with us said she just asked one of the Laurels (a young woman from our congregation between the age of 16 and 18 (or going on 16 these days)) to babysit for their younger kids and since this particular Laurel knew how crowded the temple has been lately they just told her that they didn't know when they'd be back.

That's all well and fine when your youngest is six (as my friend's youngest is).

It's less well and fine when your youngest is one (and still a nursling at that).

Going out—for any reason—is just complicated with babies. So this afternoon I left the kids in Andrew's care and Rachel and I went to the temple (because it's one thing to leave your baby with your husband for however long versus leaving your baby with a stranger for however long; I mean, the baby will still scream but Daddy can handle it).

We lucked out, though, and the baptistry was really quite empty when we got there. We hardly had to wait at all, but soon the waiting room was full so we were glad we got there when we did! We breezed right through.

It was wonderful to get to spend some one-on-one time with Rachel and to visit the baptistry again. I haven't done baptisms for the dead since Andrew and I got married (we went weekly back when we were dating/engaged but then we had other things to do in the temple).

Rachel got to take five family names to be baptized and confirmed for, mostly from my paternal grandmother's side—Naomi Ruth Chason, for example, who was born in Cairo, Georgia (over a hundred years ago)!

I hope Rachel had a wonderful time as well.

It was nice to be in a quiet, distraction-free place for a while where we can sit and soak up stillness and peace and think about our relationship with Heavenly Father. 

Valentine's Day and Karen's Birthday

This was a busy (and rather dichotomous) holiday for us, abounding in revelry but not without sorrow.

I was in charge of three Valentine's Day parties this year, which was a lot and had me feeling rather stressed out. I knocked the preschool party out on the 13th. Since I had the preschool kiddos last week as well as this week, I was able to stretch a project out over two weeks. I had the kids cut some hearts out of salt dough last week and this week we painted them (we did that first thing in the morning so that they would have plenty of time to dry before it was time to go home).

Orphan socks

Miriam's teacher assigns her class a chore to do at home every week. This week's chore is to do their own laundry, which Miriam said she informed her teacher she already does. But I wonder if she told her teacher why she does her own laundry.

Technically she and Rachel work together to do their laundry, which works out nicely because between the two of them they make a good sized load with a full week between washing days.

Rachel started doing her laundry last year when I decided that she was old enough to help fold laundry. So instead of folding her laundry for her, I'd just sort her clothes into a basket for her to fold on her own. The problem then became that she'd never get around to folding anything so by the time I came to collect laundry from her room I couldn't tell what was clean or dirty because it was all just thrown about her bedroom.

I told her that if I can't tell what's clean (because it's in your dresser put away) or dirty (because it's in your dirty clothes basket), I guess I don't have to wash anything because it's certainly not my job to sniff every article of clothing in her room to decide whether it needs to be washed or not.

And that's how Rachel came to be in charge of her own laundry.

Miriam joined her ranks late last year when she went on a rampage through the house, trying to find a pair of clean socks, a futile mission.

"You need to be better at getting the laundry done!" she snapped at me. "I don't have any clean socks left!"

Facial hair

I already wrote about how Zoë described a moustache as an "extra eyebrow" last month, but our questionable understanding of facial hair continues. We were reading a book the other day (Lyric McKerrigan, Secret Librarian by Jacob Sager, and which I found to be alright but not read-aloud-twenty-times-a-day good) and in it the antagonist threatens to string his henchmen up "by their nose-hair" if they don't do his bidding.

"Well, it looks like that middle guy got lucky," Benjamin said, pointing to the only un-moustachioed henchman in the bunch. "He doesn't have any nose-hair."

I explained to him that moustaches and noise-hair are two different things entirely. He seemed baffled by the idea that people have hair in their noses (because young children don't). I'm sure this idea will seem less baffling to him in a few years.

Today, Zoë asked me why men don't have "eye-flashes."

Animated characters typically have eyelashes when they are girls and do not have eyelashes when they are boys, which is ridiculous because very clearly males and females both have eyelashes.

Anyway, she asked me, while posing daintily and fluttering her eyelids, "Why don't men have eye-flashes? Can they not flash their eyes like women can? Watch me flash my eye-flashes! They're so flashy!"

I told her that sometimes artists don't draw eye(f)lashes on men because they're too busy drawing on their extra eyebrow. Because some misconceptions don't need to be corrected right away.

Writer's block

It's weird, and hopefully a phase, but certainly weird, that I feel like I have less to write about now that I'm taking this class. It's supposed to be inspiring and sometimes it is, but sometimes it's intimidating instead.

I'm already about a month into the course and I still don't know what I want to write. The trick, I suppose, is to keep doing it anyway.

I've been thinking lately about how my opinions of things have changed over the years. For example, when I was younger I enjoyed art, but was only ever really impressed when an artist could capture a realistic representation of their subject—when I didn't have to wonder what the artist was going for or whether the artist was in their right mind while creating their masterpiece.

Realism and impressionism—Monet and Manet—were both very comforting to me, depicting the world as it appeared, how it should be. People are people, chairs are chairs, everything is lovely and dependable and predictable. This was beauty. This was art. Clearly these artists had studied the world around them with a discerning eye to be able to so accurately transcribe life's details on canvas.

Van Gogh began interjecting his emotions onto the canvas, muddying the subject matter, which my younger self callously noted lessened the quality of his work. When I was first introduced to Picasso I remember being floored that he was even considered famous. His art was abominable.

(I should probably let the record show that these were my thoughts as an elementary school student).

Wicked!

Late in October, Karen was on the phone with her sister Linda and Linda mentioned how she was just looking at tickets for Wicked. Karen enjoyed musicals and rather liked Wicked so she asked Linda to book a few tickets for her—because Reid doesn't particularly like Wicked Karen decided she'd invite Rachel and Miriam to join her.

She asked me in secret if it would be alright if she took them and I said that of course it would be! So she booked the tickets and was planning on gifting them to the girls for Christmas. Both girls love the musical and have been singing the songs since they could talk, basically, so I knew they'd be very excited when they opened them.

Karen wrote out the check to Linda on Thursday, November 1. And then, well...you know.

We took her to the hospital that Saturday and by Thursday, November 8 we were all preparing to say goodbye to her, which we did in the wee hours of the morning on Friday, November 9.

We still gave the girls the tickets, but instead of going on an outing with Grandma, the girls went on an outing with me (and Aunt Linda and Aunt Dorothy and cousin Michelle and Aunt Dorothy's college roommate). We had such a fun evening together, though it was also tinged with sadness knowing the intended recipient of my ticket. It felt odd to be driving home in the middle of the night, feeling exhilarated by the wonderful performance when I thought about how incapacitated with shock we'd felt driving around in the middle of the night (to and from the hospital) three months previous.

It was an amazing grand finale of Christmas presents from Grandma, though! We had such an amazing time!

Linda drove us all into the city (us being me, Rachel, Miriam, and Dorothy; in our van). We parked at City Creek (in section D1) and then walked down to Mollie & Ollie where we met Michelle and Dorothy's roommate, a recently retired music educator (who plays the viola).

"We chose a very healthy restaurant," Linda told me. "Because you're with us. Dorothy's a little upset that we can't go to Cheesecake Factory but I wanted to make sure there was something on the menu that you could eat."

I told her that Cheesecake Factory would have been fine (though I don't know if I've ever been there, either (there are a lot of places I haven't eaten at (our motto is: eating at home saves money (and we've been pinching pennies since forever, sooo...))).

I have this weird reputation as the family hippy because I do things like eat vegetables. But I like desserts as well. And burgers. And stuff.

Anyway, since everyone else was already waiting for us at Mollie & Ollie's, that's where we went and my girls and I thoroughly enjoyed it (though I'm not sure anyone else did). Miriam and I both got the teriyaki chicken bowls and Rachel got a ginormous pulled pork wrap (which she ate up lickety-split, and then ate about half of Miriam's teriyaki bowl). It was just a quick walk from the restaurant to Eccles Theater.