From the time Abby was old enough to point at a box, she wanted a funfetti birthday cake. Every single year. Eventually we started to complain. I don't know why. It was only once a year, and it's not like I never baked a cake at any other time. Nevertheless, by the time she was 10, we had teased her into better flavors.
A couple weeks ago, she had a party to celebrate the end of the year. I offered to make some cupcakes but, short on time, told her we would just spice up a mix. We went to the store, to the baking aisle. I was looking for a few other things. When I turned around I saw Abby, her hand on a french vanilla mix, but eying longingly the funfetti box.
I encouraged her to get it; you're only young once. You should have all the funfetti you want!
Note: We added 1 box of vanilla instant pudding and used buttermilk in place of the water. We made our own buttercream frosting from scratch. The "funfetti" cupcakes were really quite good. :)
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Monday, June 6, 2011
i am your monster friend
For some reason, when my kids were little, my mother-in-law was fond of giving them gifts that make noise. Most of them were Christmas things, like a creepy little tree with a Santa hat and big white eyeballs that popped open when you walked past him, followed by an unbelievably annoying voice singing "Deck the Halls" or some such carol. Or a bright red and green angel with yellow yarn hair, wings that beat gently back and forth, and a head that moved eerily around on her body as she lulled you into the Christmas spirit.
But one time, she gave them an extra-large stuffed monster who faintly resembled Animal from the Muppets. He didn't sing, but had two or three sentences he would shout out when roused. He was big, blue and furry, with a black mouth, scary monster teeth and pink (or was it red?) hair and beard. We tried to get them to like him, but they were never too interested in playing with him (What do you do with a monster friend?) and eventually we stuck him up on the closet shelf. He stayed there for weeks, months, maybe a year, until his batteries started to die.
When that happened, he would occasionally call out from the closet shelf, in his gruff monster voice. It only took a few times of him scaring me nigh unto death before I donated him to the D.I., but in memory, he lives on. Just today, I found myself telling the kids, "I am your monster friend!"
But one time, she gave them an extra-large stuffed monster who faintly resembled Animal from the Muppets. He didn't sing, but had two or three sentences he would shout out when roused. He was big, blue and furry, with a black mouth, scary monster teeth and pink (or was it red?) hair and beard. We tried to get them to like him, but they were never too interested in playing with him (What do you do with a monster friend?) and eventually we stuck him up on the closet shelf. He stayed there for weeks, months, maybe a year, until his batteries started to die.
When that happened, he would occasionally call out from the closet shelf, in his gruff monster voice. It only took a few times of him scaring me nigh unto death before I donated him to the D.I., but in memory, he lives on. Just today, I found myself telling the kids, "I am your monster friend!"
Sunday, May 22, 2011
hard things
When I turned 40 I decided to start running. I figured instead of looking back on all the things I haven't done, it would be more productive to choose one of those things and do it. Part of my process was to look at all the reasons I had never run before. Most of them were obvious: A) It's hard. B) It's hard. C) It is really, really hard.
I then tried to look past these reasons to figure out the ones I could more easily solve: A) It hurts my feet and my knee. B) It's too cold/hot outside and I don't have time. C) I'm too fat; I don't want people to see me, which eliminates running outside or at the gym. I found solutions to these problems fairly quickly. New running shoes helped a lot, and a little ibuprofen at first. I bought a treadmill so no one would have to watch me strain, and I could fit in my runs (mostly walking) without leaving the house.
But then I was back to square one: running is hard.
I am not good at doing hard things. I know this because I have, occasionally, tried and given up. I have always required some natural ability at a thing in order to continue, and running was never my thing. I have accomplished other things, like playing the piano, serving a mission, graduating from college, becoming a mom. But none of those things ever made me simultaneously want to throw up, scream out in pain and cry all at the same time. Running has.
When I decided to start, I started out slow - like one minute at a time slow. I figured I could do anything for a minute. And I could. I did. But in truth, it was hard. I can remember counting down the last 30 seconds of every minute I ran. Gradually I worked up my intervals to 2 minutes, then 3, with an 8 to 10 minute walk in between. I still didn't love it. I never "got in the zone" and forgot to stop, but every minute I gained was a victory. I was taming my beast and it felt good.
In retrospect, running has definitely improved my health. But maybe more importantly, it has improved my attitude toward hard things. A few weeks ago I ran every step of my first 5k. I feel it is one of my biggest accomplishments, ever. Not because it is the most important thing I have done, but because it was one of the things I was least likely ever to do. And by doing this hard thing, I know I can do other hard things as well. Which is a powerful thing to know!
I then tried to look past these reasons to figure out the ones I could more easily solve: A) It hurts my feet and my knee. B) It's too cold/hot outside and I don't have time. C) I'm too fat; I don't want people to see me, which eliminates running outside or at the gym. I found solutions to these problems fairly quickly. New running shoes helped a lot, and a little ibuprofen at first. I bought a treadmill so no one would have to watch me strain, and I could fit in my runs (mostly walking) without leaving the house.
But then I was back to square one: running is hard.
I am not good at doing hard things. I know this because I have, occasionally, tried and given up. I have always required some natural ability at a thing in order to continue, and running was never my thing. I have accomplished other things, like playing the piano, serving a mission, graduating from college, becoming a mom. But none of those things ever made me simultaneously want to throw up, scream out in pain and cry all at the same time. Running has.
When I decided to start, I started out slow - like one minute at a time slow. I figured I could do anything for a minute. And I could. I did. But in truth, it was hard. I can remember counting down the last 30 seconds of every minute I ran. Gradually I worked up my intervals to 2 minutes, then 3, with an 8 to 10 minute walk in between. I still didn't love it. I never "got in the zone" and forgot to stop, but every minute I gained was a victory. I was taming my beast and it felt good.
In retrospect, running has definitely improved my health. But maybe more importantly, it has improved my attitude toward hard things. A few weeks ago I ran every step of my first 5k. I feel it is one of my biggest accomplishments, ever. Not because it is the most important thing I have done, but because it was one of the things I was least likely ever to do. And by doing this hard thing, I know I can do other hard things as well. Which is a powerful thing to know!
Thursday, May 19, 2011
41
41 pages is a good start on a book. $41 is spent way too fast. 41 carbs is (almost) 2 pieces of bread. 41 days is too far off to think about right now. For 41 minutes I can endure just about anything, even running. 41 years is starting to freak me out.
Monday, March 21, 2011
what could be
Yesterday was the day my dad was born. He's been gone for years now, but I still miss him terribly. He wasn't perfect, my dad, but he embodied possibility. There was no "I can't" in my dad; there was only "let's try" and "we'll see."
A dream could be one or a million steps away from real life, but either way, it was worth a shot. So what if it ended in a pile of failed attempts? We were no worse off for trying and, no doubt, learned something new along the way.
I hope to instill possibility in my kids, the way my dad instilled it in me. I pray they will (sometimes) ignore my warnings of what will be and embrace what could be instead.
A dream could be one or a million steps away from real life, but either way, it was worth a shot. So what if it ended in a pile of failed attempts? We were no worse off for trying and, no doubt, learned something new along the way.
I hope to instill possibility in my kids, the way my dad instilled it in me. I pray they will (sometimes) ignore my warnings of what will be and embrace what could be instead.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
utah in march
For at least 6 weeks I've felt restless and worn. There have been a few days when I've crawled into bed, fully dressed, to get warm. And then today it was Spring. I know it won't last - not in Utah, in March. But for one lovely hour I worked my land. I could feel the sun through the coat on my back; I could feel it burning my face. As I walked, the ground was soft beneath my feet, not dried out and parched from the heat. Even the weeds were a hopeful shade of green, all mossy and wet. I know it won't last - not in Utah, in March. But for a minute I stood perfectly still, took a breath of fresh air, and felt completely at peace.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
o-we-o-s and black binkies
I love having tween and teen children. They are independent, clever, have interesting, thought-provoking questions and stories, and make some pretty good jokes. But sometimes, I wonder if we are still speaking the same language. A simple question is answered with a resounding, "I AM!" (when clearly they are not), a caveman shrug-and-grunt, or the oft-heard "GEEEEEZ!"
For the most part, I don't let this language phase bother me. I know it's just their age. But it does make me miss my little stinkers and their sweet baby-kid talk...
I actually can't remember when Abby first started to talk, although I know she was very young. I have a journal entry from when she was not yet 2 and had ridden the city bus with Dave. There had been a big thunder storm which she referred to as "raining noises." I also remember her naming the bunny she got for Easter that year. She named him "Bunny." When we pressed her for more, she just said, "Bunny." As the year went on, though, she added a first and a middle name, so that his full name was, and still is, "Funny Funny Bunny."
At 3, her command of the English language was quite good, except for a few problems with speech and schema. Two very frustrating experiences involved our own misunderstanding.
The first was when Dave took her to Dairy Queen where she asked him for an ice-cream cone. Simple enough. He got her the cone, but she burst into tears, refusing to eat it. Several cones later, we realized she actually wanted a sundae, with a cup and a spoon and chocolate sauce. When I explained this thing was called a sundae, she didn't believe me. A "Sunday" is the day you go to church.
The second experience also led to tears. We stopped at a gas station to fill up our car. Dave went in to get some drinks and while Abby and I waited, she told me we needed some "o-we-o." I thought she meant Oreos and told her no, but she kept repeating the request. By the time Dave got back, she was in tears. He asked what was wrong and (like all good Dads) went in and bought her some. But she wouldn't take them. She just kept saying the word, "o-we-o." When Dave took her into the gas station and asked her to show him what she wanted, she pointed to a bottle of oil. She thought the car needed oil and was crying because we couldn't understand her. Poor kid!
Max is the opposite of Abby in so many ways, and language was no different. He spoke only the most rudimentary words until he was well over 2 and even those were simplified; A-da for Abby, Da-Da for Daddy, Ma for Mama, etc. The few things he learned to say clearly early on were all about cars. He loved cars. When he saw one he liked he would say, "Oh, wow!" He loved the Mazda car commercials too and recognized them on the road. Pointing, he would shout out, "Zoom Zoom!"
As he got older and used more words, he struggled with schema too. Once, while traveling, he woke up in the middle of the night, crying for a "binkie." Since he had never taken a pacifier, both Dave and I were confused. We offered him everything we could think of, but nothing worked. When we probed for more information, all he added was the color black. It didn't help. Finally, Dave drove him to the gas station. Max stopped crying, walked over to the Hostess rack and picked up a package of chocolate donuts. As far as we could tell, "binkie" was his word for "twinkie," which Abby always got. And whenever Abby got a twinkie, he got the chocolate donuts so, in his mind, they were "black binkies."
If only our communication problems were this sweet and simple now. I suppose we could still be having schema issues. Like lumping questions in with accusations. But it is heartening to look back and see how far we have come. In a few more years, I will, no doubt, look back on these teenage years and laugh, "Remember how cute it was when the kids would yell 'I know' after everything we told them? Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!"
For the most part, I don't let this language phase bother me. I know it's just their age. But it does make me miss my little stinkers and their sweet baby-kid talk...
I actually can't remember when Abby first started to talk, although I know she was very young. I have a journal entry from when she was not yet 2 and had ridden the city bus with Dave. There had been a big thunder storm which she referred to as "raining noises." I also remember her naming the bunny she got for Easter that year. She named him "Bunny." When we pressed her for more, she just said, "Bunny." As the year went on, though, she added a first and a middle name, so that his full name was, and still is, "Funny Funny Bunny."
At 3, her command of the English language was quite good, except for a few problems with speech and schema. Two very frustrating experiences involved our own misunderstanding.
The first was when Dave took her to Dairy Queen where she asked him for an ice-cream cone. Simple enough. He got her the cone, but she burst into tears, refusing to eat it. Several cones later, we realized she actually wanted a sundae, with a cup and a spoon and chocolate sauce. When I explained this thing was called a sundae, she didn't believe me. A "Sunday" is the day you go to church.
The second experience also led to tears. We stopped at a gas station to fill up our car. Dave went in to get some drinks and while Abby and I waited, she told me we needed some "o-we-o." I thought she meant Oreos and told her no, but she kept repeating the request. By the time Dave got back, she was in tears. He asked what was wrong and (like all good Dads) went in and bought her some. But she wouldn't take them. She just kept saying the word, "o-we-o." When Dave took her into the gas station and asked her to show him what she wanted, she pointed to a bottle of oil. She thought the car needed oil and was crying because we couldn't understand her. Poor kid!
Max is the opposite of Abby in so many ways, and language was no different. He spoke only the most rudimentary words until he was well over 2 and even those were simplified; A-da for Abby, Da-Da for Daddy, Ma for Mama, etc. The few things he learned to say clearly early on were all about cars. He loved cars. When he saw one he liked he would say, "Oh, wow!" He loved the Mazda car commercials too and recognized them on the road. Pointing, he would shout out, "Zoom Zoom!"
As he got older and used more words, he struggled with schema too. Once, while traveling, he woke up in the middle of the night, crying for a "binkie." Since he had never taken a pacifier, both Dave and I were confused. We offered him everything we could think of, but nothing worked. When we probed for more information, all he added was the color black. It didn't help. Finally, Dave drove him to the gas station. Max stopped crying, walked over to the Hostess rack and picked up a package of chocolate donuts. As far as we could tell, "binkie" was his word for "twinkie," which Abby always got. And whenever Abby got a twinkie, he got the chocolate donuts so, in his mind, they were "black binkies."
If only our communication problems were this sweet and simple now. I suppose we could still be having schema issues. Like lumping questions in with accusations. But it is heartening to look back and see how far we have come. In a few more years, I will, no doubt, look back on these teenage years and laugh, "Remember how cute it was when the kids would yell 'I know' after everything we told them? Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!"
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