We have been blessed with kids who, left to their own devices, would sleep until at least 8:30 or 9 every morning and a church that meets in the evening, so Sunday is a day we usually get to sleep in. This morning was an exception, though. Ian was up by 5:30, Clara by 6:30, and Simon by 7. Clara tried to make it up to her daddy with a little pre-lunch nap for both of them.

Stalling bedtime.

DPP pics from past years: 2006 2008 2009 2010

I’ve had it in my head for a couple of weeks that I wanted to do a little photo shoot with each of the boys. Somehow, as if I didn’t know any better, I thought that we would, without any fussing or arguments, load up in the van and, at just the right time of day, head out to some idyllic, quintessentially autumn location (probably Pioneers Park). Once there, we would have found the perfect light with plenty of time, and Jason would have played with one of the boys while I captured the carefree shenanigans of the other—tossing leaves up into the air, stacking pine cones, doing somersaults, or looking directly into the camera with an impish grin. Then we’d switch kiddos and I’d catch boy #2 being completely himself as well. The colors would be rich and amazing! There’d be no stray cars or outhouses in the background! The light would take your breath away! The boys would be wearing killer-cute clothes, and their faces would be clean and snot-free!

Ahem. Instead . . .

I decided rather late in the day that the photo shoot should be right! now! I was, of course, neglecting to take into account the fact that the magic hour of light is also the witching hour. So instead of all that stuff I said before, we were looking at a fit that only a three-year-old could throw and that left ME in tears. What was it about? Shoes? Jacket? Candy? I can’t even remember now. As part of the Tantrum Suppression Agreement, we settled for Cooper Park across the street (strike the peaceful lake; strike the tall prairie grasses; strike the woodland paths; cue the playground already fully shaded; cue the grumpy mommy who had something else in mind).

I left the house with the camera and our mostly compliant youngest child, while behind me I could hear Jason and his mom, who is here visiting for the weekend, riding out of the end of the wrath of Simon. I’m not sure what negotiations had to go on, but it wasn’t too long before Simon emerged calmer, almost happy even, and with a dinosaur in tow.

It would be wrong of me to say I learned some profound lesson about gratitude, expectations, spontaneity, or even parenting. At the time, I was able to let go a bit and enjoy the moments of true delight in my adorable kiddos and in my wonderful husband, who never ceases to blow me away with what a great dad he is. Still, if I’m honest, I was still frumping about my expectations being blown, and I went home almost as grouchy and frustrated as when we started.

In the end, I didn’t get all those amazing shots I wanted (and, as I’ve written about before, maybe they weren’t even possible). But, yeah, we had some fun (she admits reluctantly):

And by “Village Pie,” I do not mean Village Inn–esque or anything of the kind. I mean simply that it took a village to make this pie.

Once upon a time, we went to the apple orchard/pumpkin patch with Grandma Morehead and Uncle Hans and Aunt Leslie.

We picked out Simon- and Ian-sized pumpkins (and plenty of apples too). From the beginning, Simon was insistent that we make a pumpkin pie with his find. Did he want to make a jack-o-lantern? Nope, pumpkin pie.

On a Monday two weeks or so later, we roasted the pumpkins.

Except for scooping out the seeds (not my favorite), roasting a pumpkin is surprisingly easy. Simon and Ian were good helpers too. They didn’t like the “yucky strings,” but they did like scraping the insides of the pumpkins once I had most of the grody parts out. I put the roasted pumpkin in Mason jars, where they sat looking beautiful in the refrigerator for another four or five days.

Then on Wednesday Simon insisted it was the day to make the pie. I didn’t have a pie crust (I find the ones in the refrigerator section quite tasty enough and oh-so-convenient), so I thought as long as we’re doing the whole fresh thing, I might as well give making my own crust from scratch a go. I found a recipe that looked pretty straightforward (and, bonus, I had all the ingredients on hand). Simon didn’t want to help this time, but somehow I managed to get the crust made without my little sous chef. The crust then sat in the refrigerator for a couple more days.

On Friday I decided the pumpkin and the crust either needed to be used or frozen, so I asked Jason to roll out the crust. (He is so, so much better at rolling out dough than I am. He learned from his dad, I think. Truth be told, Simon is probably better at rolling out dough than I am. He also paid close attention to Grandpa Morehead. It is a talent I simply do not possess.)

Finally the time had come to make the pie! I found the easiest recipe I could (and made a few modifications to suit my own spice preferences—added cloves, cut back on the nutmeg, e.g.). We (and by “we” I mostly mean Jason) whipped up the filling and popped the crust in the oven to pre-bake just a little).

Meanwhile . . .

Simon must have decided that he wanted a trauma and scar to match Ian’s recent adventures. Just as we were getting Ian’s jammies on, I heard a bump and a scream from Simon’s room. He had been running “weally fast” and tripped somehow and cut his forehead open when he hit it on his space heater. I will say that this was considerably calmer this time than our last trip to the ER. Jason called Rebecca, who came immediately to fetch Ian (bless her! I don’t think she even knew at the time what had happened, just that we were taking Simon to the hospital). Simon was done crying before we even left the house.

We tried to prepare Simon for the fact that he would probably need stitches. He was totally calm on the way to the hospital, dutifully holding a washcloth to his head while he chattered on about how it had all happened. He did say, “Mommy, I don’t like bleeding.” I don’t think anyone does, kid. And his one question when we told him that stitches meant the doctor would sew his forehead up was what a sewing machine for boys looked like. Good question.

He was quite the charmer in the ER, telling everyone who would listen how fast he had been running, that he weighs “firty” pounds, that he’ll be four! on his next birthday, and so on. At one point the nurse told him he was being a very good patient. “Yeah, I suppose I am,” he said. In the end, he didn’t get stitches, just glue (he was disappointed). And by now, you’d hardly know it happened (he has such a crazy amount of hair to cover), but he will have a scar to rival Ian’s.

And back at home (and back to the story of the pie) . . .

Rebecca and Liv came to put the Squisher down to sleep. Jason had turned off the oven but hadn’t thought to take the crust out. Rebecca to the rescue! I am so thankful for friends who took such good care of our kiddo, the pie, and, um, also of our house (I am particularly fond of the “also” link—love the sweet, sly expression).

We ended up baking the rest of the pie after Simon was safely tucked into bed. The end result was really quite good—but probably not quite as good as the saga of getting it made might have warranted.

Sadly, not all the hands involved got to partake of the Village Pie (which has now been polished off), but hopefully Rebecca for one was at least partially mollified by Baked Pumpkin Spice Donut Holes, made from the same pumpkins.

“Mommy, remember a long, long, long, loooong time ago? That time we went fishing on Papa’s boat with Daddy and Papa? That was fun, wasn’t it? But we didn’t catch any fish. Nooooooo, we didn’t.”

So we survived our first trip to the ER.* To make a long story short, while we were in St. Louis this past weekend, Ian was climbing on a chair and lost his balance and hit his head on a windowsill. As you can see, four stitches later he is doing just fine and hardly the worse for wear.

I knew when I saw the (really deep!) cut that he would need stitches. I also knew that wounds on the head bleed a lot and that, despite that, I needed to stay calm because Ian would read my fear. I tried. I really did. But, I’m sorry, my BABY had blood running down his face! So much blood—all over him, all over me, all over the carpet and microfiber chair** (which I had actually worried about earlier when Simon scraped his knee near the chair and drew blood), all over the carseat. Seriously, a lot of blood. And, yeah, I panicked. A little. In the whole scheme of things, I think we did alright.

The ER itself was a decent experience, all things considered. They got us in immediately (a toddler’s face covered in blood and and a very frightened mother helped I’m sure). There was no parking, so Jason had to park a couple of blocks away (ugh). The admitting nurse kept telling me, “It looks worse than it is,” which apparently was true because after the initial triage, we waited in a room—long enough for Ian to fall asleep, actually. Then after the drama of getting the stitches (seeing him restrained/helping to restrain him was so, so hard on this mama), we waited again for paperwork (and again, sweet kiddo fell asleep).

I was so sorry to miss dinner with Brook and Lou, Jason, and Chloe, but by all accounts Simon was well behaved and had a good time without us. I can’t even begin to say how thankful I was for our friends.

Jason was, of course, amazing throughout. And later it occurred to me how nice it was to get through the experience together and without any arguing (even in the TAKE THIS EXIT! and NO! TURN HERE! driving moments). I’m so deeply grateful for him and was especially aware of that during this surreal evening. I tried to rehash again with him on the way back home to Lincoln, and his response was so classically Jason: “With all due affection, honey, how many times are we going to have to process this?” So he wrote down his feelings for me, so I would always have a record:

The follow-up literature the hospital gave us said that the scar could be minimized by applying sunscreen once a day for a year. I have mixed feelings about that. In theory, it would be nice to minimize the scar, but realistically, I’m not going to remember sunscreen every day. Also, Jason was a little horrified (or at least feigned horror) at the thought of downplaying Ian’s first “badge of honor.”

* We actually did take Simon to the ER once, but this was our first panicked, bloody, plan-out-what-you’ll-say-to-the-officer-who-pulls-you-over type of trip to the emergency room.
** Apparently, club soda does wonders to remove blood from microfiber and carpet. Blot, don’t rub. Phew!

When the second Project Simplify hotspot was revealed to be paper clutter, my first thought was “Meh. Too easy.” After a quick look around the main floor, I was almost disappointed with our lack of paper clutter. How was this supposed to keep me busy all week? I figured I’d deal with the mail basket by the door, the short stack of papers on the dining room table, and the addresses and notes on the refrigerator and be done with it all before the kids finished breakfast.

But then I remembered that we sometimes put papers that need to be filed in a pile on Jason’s desk. And, oh good grief, suffice to say I was wrong: as it turns out, we have no shortage of paper clutter. Plus, Ian has been helping Jason with the filing, and while I’m thankful that he wants to help, I think the system needs a bit of tweaking.

This project will be ongoing for a while: Jason had saved every bank statement, bill, pay stub, and insurance EOB since at least 2004. To his great credit, the first several years’ papers were neatly filed (the folder for the Sprint bills was three inches thick). For the last year or so, though, papers started getting stashed and stuffed, just to get them out of the way. We did a bit of research on what you actually do need to keep (relatively little) and then started shredding.

We filled up a huge box of papers to be shredded, and Simon was gleeful at getting to help. We turned out six garbage bags plus a giant tote all full of shredded paper before I busted the shredder. We’re probably about halfway through, so I will continue to sort and recycle until we can get a new shredder.

In the meantime, we have a new and improved system for dealing with incoming mail. I am ever so slightly disappointed that we didn’t get done with the paper clutter so that we could have a clean slate for next week’s project, but we have made so much progress, and I can see how good it will be when it’s all done. So that’s a big something (that doesn’t take up any space at all).

This blog post is mostly a joke (though the facts are real). Inspired by a dream I had last night, wherein my friend Cortney asked me to blog about the history of my teeth, I offer pretty much everything that I can remember about them:

* My class sang “All I Want for Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth” in a school Christmas program before I started losing teeth (so probably kindergarten or first grade). I thought it was such a stupid request and kept silent on the “all I want for Christmas” part (in other words only singing “is my two front teeth”) because I was trying to be truthful. (I also had a disconnect with “Up on the Housetop” in that same program because I had stopped believing in Santa by then.)

* I believed in the Tooth Fairy much longer than any other similar parent-as-mythical-figure figure. When I finally started losing teeth, I put them in water in a short Tupperware glass on the kitchen counter, and my Tooth Fairy replaced the tooth with a quarter (yes, I had to reach in to get the quarter). One night I was in the bathroom down the hall brushing my remaining teeth when I heard a bell ring. I ran lickety split to the kitchen to find my dad sitting at the table, the tooth gone, and a quarter already in the glass. When questioned directly, my dad claimed that he hadn’t rung the bell and in fact didn’t even see a bell—musta been the Tooth Fairy. It was YEARS before I even thought to question his account. (The Easter bunny rang the doorbell one year, but since neither parent directly denied it, I caught on more quickly that time). Three side notes here: (1) I never had a crisis of Dad trustworthiness over his Tooth Fairy fib, so it should not be used as a cautionary tale; (2) One of the most interesting This American Life episodes I ever heard was “Kid Logic”—“stories of kids using perfectly logical arguments, and arriving at perfectly wrong conclusions.” One of the stories was about a little girl staying over night at a friend’s house and catching the friend’s dad being the Tooth Fairy. Instead of realizing that parents are tooth fairies, she concluded that her friend’s dad was the Tooth Fairy for the whole world; (3) Jason and I are planning to do the under-the-pillow Tooth Fairy thing at the going rate, probably more than a quarter these days.

* When I was in third grade or so, I was standing with my feet on the bottom of a railing. I slipped off and chipped off small parts of my two front teeth on the top of the railing. We got an emergency appointment with the dentist, who told my mom, “If this is the worst thing that ever happens to her, it won’t be so bad.” I really had no sense of badness in the world and his words went over my head in all their meanings. I remember, though, thinking it was weird that my mom was so irritated about it. I realized later that it was because she was genuinely worried and found the dentist’s statements dismissive. In college, I got a veneer (or something like that) to fix the chip (you can still see where it was).

* I have had seven cavities.

* I have said that I am allergic to Novacain, but really I just think I hate the way it makes me feel.

* I had my wisdom teeth out in late high school and can clearly remember thinking that the anesthesia wasn’t working and then the next thing I knew falling out of the backseat of the car in the driveway at home.

* I had braces in college (the clear kind, which I always thought made me look like I had gunk on my teeth).

* I have a permanent retainer on the bottom, which totally captivated both of my kids when they were littler.

* My cousin’s husband, Nick, was my orthodontist, and I wrote a terrible short story called “Nick the Dentist” for my creative writing class. Really, I have no delusions of being able to write fiction.

* I floss regularly for about three days prior to and about a week after each trip to the dentist.

Well, I might as well start the new year off with a Ministry of Reality post. It’s a good thing I made no resolutions to be a perfect wife or parent (or even close); I had already muffed it twice before we had been out of bed an hour.

First up, a scolding for me: Jason and I had a minor scurfluffle over how time could/should be spent this morning. I had reacted poorly and knew it but just stubbornly didn’t want to get out of my frump. I started to say, “I wish I had responded better . . . ” and before I could add my “but I really want to do it my way,” Jason interrupted with a snappish “Yeah, I wish you had too.” And that just made me mad. So even though I hadn’t really been about to issue a real apology anyway, I seized the opportunity to be indignant and huff away with the pile of towels I had just so virtuously and sacrificially folded.

Simon, who had been oblivious to the exchange, followed me out into the hall and asked, “Mommy, what happened?” Completely convinced I had the high ground, however ill-gotten, I said as sweetly as I could, “Well, honey, your daddy made me mad, and now I’m just trying to cool down.” Totally backfired. Next thing I knew I was facing the wrath of my very earnest son: “No, Mommy. You’re being UNKIND. Daddy does NOT like to be fussed at, Mommy. Do NOT say that to Daddy.” And how could I not laugh at that little twerp, who was at least mostly right? There’s nothing like a precocious two-year-old to diffuse a ridiculous situation.

And then a lesson for Simon: He caught me on the staircase and asked very quietly, “Mommy, can I have a little bite of cake?” I turned to see that he clearly was asking for permission after the fact. Wise friends who have gone before me have warned me this day would come (and will again and again) and that the thing to do is not give them the opportunity to lie. But I forgot, and so I asked him, “Simon, did you already eat the cake?”

And then, for the first time that I can say for sure that he knew what he was doing, my son lied to me. He said, “No! I did not eat the cake.” And, wow, that sucked. I always thought that I would be angry when lied to (and I’m certain I will be in the future, when there’s more at stake than a pastry). But I wasn’t. I was hurt. And I suppose I’m still processing through this possibly inevitable, wicked milestone. This parenting gig is not for wimps.

The end of the story is that there was some tantruming (his, not mine this time) and some more unfruitful confrontation until I finally remembered the better approach. So when he calmed down (and stopped screaming, “I did not eat the cake! I did NOT!”). I took him in my lap and said, “Simon, I know you ate the cake. I’m not mad, but I want to talk to you about it.” And then we talked a bit about asking permission first and about lying. And then I said, “Simon, why did you eat the cake? Did you know you were not supposed to?” And he looked at me with those big eyes, as brown as the chocolate smeared at the corner of his lip, and said, “I ate the cake. It was mmm mmmm all down in my tummy. It was so tasty. ” And, you can guess the rest, I melted.

Before:

After:

Never leave home without them.