Darth Schlictenstein

Since Brooklyn was a wee infant we have been taking her Dr. Schlicter. From the beginning we have fondly referred to him as "The Schlictenstein" and in the beginning he was both pleasant and helpful. I turned to him for every cough. But in the last couple of years something has changed inside The Schlictenstein. He has turned to the dark side. The enthusiastic pediatrician is dead. Darth Schlictenstein is our new doctor.
I first noticed the change last year at Avery's two-year check up. He could find nothing wrong with her. This angered him.

"Where did this bruise come from?" He insisted.
"I have no idea." by which I meant I had no idea.
"Strange place for a bruise."
"Yeah." Oh wait, maybe it was from that severe beating I gave her. (heavy sarcasm).

"Does she stack blocks?"
"Yes, she loves Legos."
"No, not Legos BLOCKS. How high would you say she stacks them?"
"I have no idea."
"I see."

Then, at Brooklyn's five-year check up...

"Well, she's definitely knock-kneed."
"What?"
"Yeah, it will probably cause her problems in the future. Does she play hopscotch?"
"Um, no."
"I see. Can she count backwards from twenty?"
"I have no idea. She can add and subtract and read books and memorize songs on the piano and skip, and ride a bike and draw everything she sees. But I don't know if she can count backwards from twenty."
"I see."

Finally yesterday at Avery's three year check up...

"Do you have any concerns?"
"Not really."
"Really? Are you sure?"
"Well, I guess she could benefit from being around kids her own age. She's used to playing with older children and has a hard time playing with other three year olds."
"That's very immature."
"Yes, well she is three."
"I'd say she's acting more like a two and a half year old."
"Hmmm."
"How high can she count?"
"She's solid up to five."
"The next time I see her I want her counting backwards from twenty."

"No bruises??? Is she a couch potato?"
"Not at all."
"I get worried when I see no bruises."

"I see that last year Avery was in the ninetieth percentile for height. Now she is only in the fiftieth percentile. Its probably not a big deal; she may be in between growth spurts. So we won't check her for cancer just yet."
"WHAT?"
"Yes, children with cancer don't grow the way they should. We'll have to see how she grows this next year. No reason to worry...yet."

What the-!!!

I cried and fretted the rest of the afternoon until it occurred to me: The Schlictenstein is a real douche. Time for a new pediatrician.

A Day in the Life of Avery

 These days I never can be certain on which side of the bed Avery will wake up. On a good morning I wake up to the sweet sunshine of toddler kisses, and the quiet crunching of the apple she got herself as she cuddles at my feet watching Dora the Explorer. She gives me time to get her cereal. She joins me for my morning stretches. She disposes of her own bedtime diaper and dresses herself (always in her favorite orange skirt). She plays Barbies in a singsong voice. On a good day she will happily put away the dishes for a couple marshmallows. She is happy, independent, and generous with her affections. On a good day she truly is my angel.

But the last few mornings have not been good mornings. I have been waking up to noises that no human child should be able to make with Avery standing in my doorway wrapped in her blanky, hair wild as a pet monkey, brows knit, lips puckered, shooting flames of displeasure from her eyes.

"You wanna watch Dora honey?" "NOOOO!" "How about a nice crunchy apple?" "NOOOO!" "Ba-na-na?" "NOOO!" "Cereal?" "Pancakes?" "Maybe some brimstone? Or my soul? How does that sound pumpkin?" What does one feed an angry devil-monkey? On a bad morning there is no pleasing her. She doesn't want to say the prayer, but gnashes her sharp baby teeth if anyone else does. She will not get in the bath, she will not get out of the bath. She weeps over her princess panties. Putting her into her car seat causes her to speak in tongues. Today was one of those days. But it gets better. Today was also grocery-shopping day. I seriously considered staying home, but in the end my desire for a dill pickles and cream cheese won out. Huge mistake.

As soon as we entered Smith's lobby, the red box caught Avery's eye. "Come on babe, stay with me!" She stood statue still, slowly turning her head to give me the stink eye. "We can rent The Highlander later if you're nice. Come on!" But she did not come on. Every five minutes she would wander off, or start a fight with Brook. At one point she threatened to "spank my bum" if I failed to buy her chocolate chip granola bars. "You're NAUGHTY!" She cried on the way through check out. She threw her head back and screamed and flailed about "NAUGHTY MOMMY! NAUGHTY!" "You're very patient", the cashier commented, looking a little frazzled herself. I forced a smile. Funny how losing the will to live and patience can look so similar. She kicked and screamed all the way to the car, all the way home, and all the way into a much needed time-out.

On bad days like this I question my parenting skills (as I rub my nine-month pregnant belly). But I know this too shall pass. The bad days and the good days too. Avery won't be two-and-a-half forever. Today I am grateful for that. But then there are those good days...

Of Poo and Parenting

I have few simple requests in life. I like a sunny stroll now and again. I enjoy an occasional bubble bath. I love a fresh-baked donut in the morning. And I like having as little to do with human feces as possible. Friends, I beg you is it too much to ask? Apparently, yes if you are the proud mother of the most anal-retentive child on the planet. I will spare you the details of "the incident". Suffice it to say at around eight-o-clock last night Brooklyn found herself trapped inside the bathroom- a poo lying menacingly between herself and the door.

Now don't judge me too harshly. Since I have become a mother I have dealt with my share of nasty diapers, vomit, and various bodily fluids- most times with a great deal of patience and understanding. But "when poo is found where poo ought not to be, it becomes the responsibility of he of whom it was created, once that person is above age three." Not only is that a lovely bit of poetry, but it is also my motto. Plus I think its in the Bible somewhere. Old Testament. So anyways, everyone in the family felt that Brook really ought to be the one to put said poo to rest in the toilet where it belonged, seeing as it was her fecal matter and all. She disagreed. She strongly disagreed. She swore in her wrath that she would not ever, ever, ever pick up that poo. I suggested if she planned on spending a great deal of time with the poo she ought to ask for its name. Andy asked her if her new friend was too good for its home. She didn't laugh, or even crack a smile. I suppose it was hard to see the humor from her perspective, holed up as she was with the silently ominous poo.

After some soul-searching and some Clorox wipes, she did eventually farewell the poo in a flush of triumph. And I believe that once she works through the emotional trauma of our questionable parenting techniques, that she will have learned some valuable lessons. Firstly, that she is ultimately responsible for dealing with her own crap (effective on so many levels). Secondly, in the midst of life's most horrific moments Happy Gilmore references are still funny. And most importantly, poo will out.

My Dilly-Dallyer

Brooklyn is a dilly-dallyer. Meticulous and careful by nature, she has exceptional concentration for a five-year-old. However, this does make it difficult for her to move from one activity to another. In a world where we are often driven by the clock, life can be frustrating with someone who will not be rushed.

This month she has been attending our neighbor's Joy School twice a week. Each Tuesday and Thursday morning we awake with time to spare. "Hurry and get dressed Brooklyn" I instruct. She disappears in her room. Thirty minutes later I find her still in her underwear, putting multiple outfits together, unable to decide. "Brooklyn we only have ten minutes before Joy School starts and you have to eat breakfast. PLEASE HURRY." I emphasize. Five minutes later, "Brook, if you don't put something on and eat RIGHT NOW you will be late for Joy School." "Brook, less talk more action." "Do you know what HURRY means?" "It doesn't MATTER what socks you wear. JUST HURRY." "Brooklyn, no TALKING- EAT!" "HURRY! HURRY HURRY!"
Its not her fault. Like many kids her age, she just doesn't grasp Go-Time. But unfortunately I still get frustrated with her.

This morning it was my fault. I thought it was Friday until Avery remembered, "Is Brooklyn going to Joy School?" Thank you Avery. She was already fifteen minutes late. "Brook! Today is your Christmas party! We have to HURRY!" And she tried to. But there were so many pretty panties to choose from. And she couldn't find the socks she wanted. Avery and I said a quick obligatory prayer over the Cream of Wheat but I soon realized Brook wouldn't have to time to eat any of it. "Brooklyn! You are not very good at hurrying! You are going to miss your party!" I yelled. She came running down the hallway with her snow boots, flopped down and pulled them on as quickly as she could. "Is this the right way Mom?" She asked. "Yes! Hurry!" I threw her her coat, "Hurry!" I handed her a Pop Tart. "Eat this! Hurry!" She flopped back down to the floor. "What are you-?!" But I had to stop. She was kneeling down in the middle of the floor, eyes closed, arms folded, head bowed reverently, saying a silent prayer over her breakfast.

I don't teach my children half as much as they teach me. In the midst of worldly demands I had grossly neglected my priorities. My five-year-old Brooklyn, however, my little dilly-dallyer, had remembered her Savior. And in her humble way, she taught me the most valuable lesson I've learned this Christmas season.

Our Noisy Years Seem Moments

Its been a fun and busy month and promises to continue being a fun, busy month. And while I do enjoy being busy, I sometimes regret how the time gets away from me. When I went to bed last night I peeked into the girl's room to check on them, found them sleeping soundly and marveled at how big they are getting. Brooklyn is almost five already and at age two, Avery hardly seems a baby anymore. Everyday they play, and eat, and learn, and fight, and talk, and sing, and laugh. The days fly by. And while they are still little I make it a priority to learn as much from them as I can.

*Avery is two, and the all time favorite phrase of every two year old is "Do it myself!" I hear it when I pour her cereal in the morning, during bath time, when getting dressed, climbing into the car, getting out of the car, even getting in and out of her crib, and on many other occasions throughout the course of the day. Sometimes she can do it herself, sometimes she can't. I almost always let her try, and when she succeeds I give her praise, and when she asks for help I gladly give it. Interestingly enough, more than half-way through my twenties I still find myself stubbornly exclaiming "Do it myself!" The only real difference between myself and my little daughter, is that she's willing to ask for help when she needs it, and so often I am not. Even though I know from experience that Heavenly Father will answer my prayers, its so difficult to let go of that toddler pride. Of course Avery can't buckle her own seat belt yet, that's why she needs a parent. Of course I can't be perfect yet and that's why I need the Savior.

*I have yet to figure out a way to make my kids eat their vegetables. They peck through the tolerable ones but really prefer ice cream, to be honest. I mean come on! If I let them eat ice cream all the time they would never give me any grief at mealtimes. Then again if I let them eat ice cream all the time they would be undernourished and obese and would probably not last very long. And so I keep trying to coax those vegetables down them because even though they may not taste as pleasant as ice cream, those vegetables are what's good for them. Unfortunately, I have to admit that I whine obnoxiously when life isn't all ice cream too. Obviously there are times when life is sweet, but its also meant to be bitter too. Sometimes its tasteless, sometimes I don't like the texture but those are the experiences I need to be strong, those bitter times build the character I need to survive.

*Brooklyn is a very smart kid who notices everything. Because she notices everything she's a bit distractable. When I tell her to go to her room, get her shoes and sweater, and put them on, she heads to her room and disappears for thirty minutes. When I find her, she's busy drawing on her floor- no shoes, no sweater. She intended to listen, she went to her room, saw her shiny art set and got distracted. I understand, I'm the same way. I know that I should be constantly focused on important things. I should read my scriptures every day, I should have meaningful prayers often, I should attend the temple, I should spend more time playing with my children, I should continue expanding my knowledge. There are so many important things I should be doing, and I intend to act, but somewhere along the line I get distracted by all the shiny things in life. Not that there is something inherently wrong with shiny things, but when the good things distract us from the better things, we don't reach our goals.

* We have a lot of stickers in our yard. Not the fun happy kind. The hurting kind that sting your feet. I tell my girls to put on their shoes. Sometimes they don't listen and end up stepping on stickers and crying. I don't force them to wear their shoes, and I can't take away the pain of a sticker, but I hope that eventually they will learn from their mistakes and listen to me so that by the time they're off to school they will choose to wear shoes and avoid even more painful foot injuries. Heavenly Father doesn't plan to keep us babies either. He wants us to grow up and learn from our mistakes and listen to him. So he allows us our agency, and he allows us consequences even if they sometimes sting.

*Last one. I am far from a perfect parent. I make a lot of mistakes, but when I have erred I make a point of admitting to my children that I am wrong and that I am sorry. I do this because I want them to understand that none of us are perfect, but that we need to repent and then get up and try again, and again, and again. And watching my children sleep or play I feel how deeply I love them, and how I would forgive them for anything. And if I have such love for my children, how much greater and deeper Heavenly Father's love is for me. Repentance is such a difficult concept for me. It must be that toddler pride. But I know that when we are sorry for our mistakes, and when we ask for forgiveness, and continue trying to be better people, Heavenly Father forgives us. Not only does he forgive us, but he takes our sin away entirely.

I know I have a lot more to learn from my children and that we've only just begun. But I am grateful for them, and grateful to God for sending them to me. They are still so little, and believe me life isn't all ice cream but I adore them. And although I may have passing futile wishes that time would stand still for a moment, that they will stop growing up, I realize that's selfish. I try and keep in mind that I'm raising them to be strong faithful women. I try and be a stronger, and more faithful woman myself. And the days fly by.