doughnuts accomplish nothing

Today is Miss Bee's real b-day, so even though we celebrated as a family on Sat., I still felt like I should do something to recognize her special day. Last night I got the *bright* idea: doughnuts! Who wouldn't love birthday doughnuts? And since dh is out of town and I can't leave the kids alone to drive 8 miles to Krispy Kreme, let's make some! I mixed the dough last night, laid out all my utensils so I could get up the next morning and fry, and went to bed with visions of doughnuts dancing in my head.

Everything went great this morning - got the doughnuts made (even before the kids got up!), wished Bee a happy b-day when she got up with a candle in her breakfast, and went in to wake Flip. It's always hard getting Flip up in the morning, but I couldn't wait to tell him what we were having for breakfast. I mean, wouldn't you get your hiney out of bed for doughnuts?

Boy, was I wrong. Apparently, this kid only arises for Krispy Kremes. "Homemade" has no effect on him. So, after a hearty breakfast of 3 bites of my efforts - he said he wasn't hungry - he was off to get ready for school, leaving me and Miss Bee with a plateful of sugar-dusted goodness. We both ate our fair share, but there were still lots on the plate when we were finished. So what do you do with a plate of leftover homemade doughnuts after your kids go to school? Well, you snack on them all morning, if you're me. And what happens when you snack on homemade pumpkin doughnuts all morning? Nothing, because you feel like a big, lumpy mess. So I got nothing accomplished this morning that I wanted to do. But I'm off doughnuts for awhile.

it's that time of year again...

It's officially spring! Time to change the geese clothes! (photo and description courtesy of http://www.mileskimball.com/)

"Give your geese a hippity-hoppity Easter update with cute bunny outfits, complete with ears! Each stylish ensemble includes bright wicker basket with decorated eggs. Polyester for indoor/protected outdoor use. Imported."

happy birthday to bee

Next week, my little Bee will turn 5. We are celebrating today because dh and Stuntman will be at 5th grade camp on her real b-day, so today is presents and cake (and Peter Piper Pizza) day. (By the way, that cake is a PONY, not a "pink Snoopy", as dh said when he first saw it. Just clearing that up.)

Yep, my little girl will be a year older - headed for kindergarten, new best friends (other than Mom), homework, and maybe a gymnastics class. (Yeah, I'm having a little my-kid's-growing-up pout.) She finally likes some girly things - ponytails, pink, dress-ups - but will never agree with me on clothes, I think. She's a joy, a challenge, a tease, a friend, and even though she's running around in a an old Spiderman costume right now - my favorite girl. Happy birthday, Miss Bee.

what I needed

Have you ever had one of those days (or nights, weeks, months, etc.) when everything has already been piling up on you for some time, and you really are trying to do better in those areas you have New-Year's-resolved to make an effort in, but you're getting no results or good feelings or blessings or anything? Your husband's in his office trying to catch up on the work he had to miss when he was incapacitated by strep throat for 5 days, so he's got his own stress to deal with, the kids (one especially) are absolutely non-cooperative with your keeping-the-Sabbath-Day-holy offerings, and you really did try to start the day with a good attitude.

When it all builds up to an edge you're about to fall over, then you run into the closet in tears, drop to your knees, and sincerely offer up a prayer that includes the words "I just can't do this part by myself - I need You." There's no miraculous turnaround, no beam of strength slicing through the closet ceiling to descend upon you, there's not even that warm feeling inside - not yet. It comes a little later in the day, when your arms are still held out in despair and your hands are still in a little bit of a claw shape because you're so frustrated, and...into them drops a little pearl. Small, but so precious because of what it meant and when it came. In my case, it was a "Thanks for dinner, Mom. Sure, I'll clean my plate." (This from the kid who five minutes earlier had wailed and wept because I told him we were having meat loaf for dinner.) And a little bit later, another pearl, in the form of the same kid explaining, quite thoroughly, a deep understanding of what his teacher had taught in Primary that afternoon. And another, when we were reading scriptures tonight, and Dad explained a passage we read and the very same kid (who, YES, was the main reason my hands turned into claws earlier) said, "I think I understand what this means. So if we do what God asks...[proceeding to reiterate Dad's explanation in his own words]." And that was all I needed. My burdens weren't taken away, and my children weren't automatically changed into perfect beings, and that kid will probably give me grief about the spaghetti we are having for dinner tomorrow, but I was given just a little bit of what I needed - hope. And sometimes, that's all we need.

oligodendroglioma

About 5 years ago, my brother, the one just a year younger than me (I'll call him yb), suffered a seizure in the middle of a racquetball game and was rushed to the hospital. An MRI scan showed a tumor in his brain with the name you saw in the 8-syllable mouthful that is the title of this post. To make a long story short, surgeons removed the tumor (along with a bunch of tissue from his right frontal lobe) and he's been "okay" ever since. ("Okay" being defined as placed on anti-seizure medications and scheduled for regular MRI's for the rest of his life, but able to return to work, school, driving a car - after 3 months' wait - and life in general after recovery.) He had another seizure about 2 years ago, but other than that, has pretty much been just a regular guy (missing a chunk of his brain - that's yb's brain in the picture after his surgery).

Yb waited until after Christmas to tell all of us that his most recent MRI showed another growth in the right frontal lobe again. His doctors told him this was common with this type of tumor and scheduled him for another surgery. Last Monday, they removed the new growth, along with "quite a bit of tissue" (the surgeon's words). Recovery hasn't been so smooth this time, but yb still manages to find the time to blog about it.

What I find so amazing about this whole deal (aside from the marvels of modern medicine and their associated technology) is his attitude. I talked to him the night before his surgery, and we talked a lot about how he felt about the whole thing. His attitude basically boiled down to this: It's all in God's hands, and I know everything will be okay.

How different would our lives be if we all had this attitude? Toward everything, not just brain tumors? Would people still complain? Would this kind of patience extend to minor frustrations as well, like today, when I've chased the puppy around the house 8 times after she snatched 8 different things she's not supposed to chew? I just marvel at such a perspective. He's a great example.

55 cents' worth of steadfastness

Okay, I know I'm not the only one who's ever had to refuse a child, but I have to tell this story...

Today I took Miss Bee with me to the music store to get some sheet music for an upcoming piano recital. She was very cooperative and didn't even touch any of the 4 dozen pianos in the showroom while I was finding what I needed in the sheet music section. We finished and got up to the checkout counter, which was where she discovered (among all the other music-related odds and ends for sale) a box of Whistle Pops. I had bought one for her on one (only one) previous occasion, but apparently she felt she deserved one again and asked for one. I felt she did NOT deserve one, since she had sneaked a Jello pudding from the fridge earlier today without asking, so I felt she had had her treat and told her just that. She responded by grabbing a blue pop and disappearing into the forest of pianos. (There went my cooperative little Bee.)

I was in the middle of my transaction, so I calmly finished it and fished the little stinker out from the pianos. We had a quiet but firm nose-to-nose conversation through our teeth, after which she very reluctantly put the Whistle Pop back in the box and burst into tears while I carried her out of the store. I hate being the center of public scenes like this, but several battles in Wal-marts all across North Texas with her brothers when they were her age have cured me of caring too much. She did not stop crying the whole 15 miles back to our house, and I heard all the way home how I was breaking her heart. Here are some examples of what came from the backseat:

"I wanted that! It was mine!"

"Oh, I miss her! I miss Missy!"

[me:] "Who's Missy?"

"It's the whistle pop! Mom, I named her!"

"Mommy, how could you do this to me??? Ohhhhh, MISSY! Now you're gone, and I don't get to lick you and play the whistle and eat you and - Ohhhhhh!"

"Mom, can you go back and get it? It has my germs on it - I licked it already!" [Yes, I was a bit horrified at this, but the sucker was completely encased in wrapping, and I'm sure if the salesman heard her say this, well, throwing 55 cents away wouldn't break the bank]

(If you've ever seen the movie Dan in Real Life, imagine the scene where Steve Carell sends his teenage daughter's boyfriend [who sneaked up to their family cabin] home in a taxi. Do you remember the daughter's reaction? Now imagine the same scene with a 4-year-old and a blue Whistle Pop, and you've got the idea.)

So, you may be saying, why didn't I just buy the candy? It was such a little thing. Was it that big of a deal? Was it worth 15 miles of tearful pleading and begging? Yes, dangit; I was standing my ground! And with my little girl, who I'll admit, is hard to say "no" to! There was a principle involved! Yes, she cried for 15 minutes solid, but we had to stop at the grocery store on the way back, and I got her out of the car and just let her sob in my arms in the parking lot for a minute, got her a sample from the tortilla machine in the bakery, and she was fine.

So now I'd love to hear your "NO" stories - blog about them and leave me a note in the comments. I'm sure you've got better ones than mine!

roots (so to speak)

Well, here we are, 3 days after Christmas, socked up in Grandma's and Grandpa's house with all the toys, all the kids, Grandma/Grandpa, and one puppy. Yes, P-U-P-P-Y. Santa brought us a yellow lab, and she is just the sweetest thing. Driving her 1000 miles back home to Texas is going to be an adventure, though. If you don't see any more posts after January 6th, you'll know we didn't make it.



Anyhoo, we attended G & G's ward today - the ward I grew up in, where many of my friends' parents still attend (and a few of my friends; all-grown-up). This isn't, of course, the first time I have come back to visit and then go to church with my parents, but every time I do, I feel my age a little more. Not that I feel old, necessarily; but the space between my growing-up years and where I am now seems to get a little wider with each visit. Every time I come back, I see something or someone that reminds me of how it was to grow up here, and it gets me a little nostalgic. I know I'm not the only one this happens to, but you can still indulge me a little memory - right, reader?



So this time it was a "who" I saw that got me. I was sitting in Relief Society with my mom, waiting for the meeting to start. There was prelude being played on the piano, and I looked up to see who was playing it and it was my former piano teacher. This lady taught all of the kids in my family at one time or another, including me. I took from her for a total of 6 years (I had a short stint with another teacher that didn't last long because one of us ran out of patience - I think it was her) before quitting in high school because I got too busy. She must be in her 70s or 80s now, but you could still hear the skill in her playing; even when she was just playing the opening hymn (a task which I have done several times in R.S., and I'll even admit I don't bother with too much expression because I don't think anyone pays that much attention). Anyway, it was still a pleasure to listen to, and it made me think ahead to when I'm in my 70s or 80s and playing the piano - I hope I'm still playing at that point - and hope that my abilities will progress to the point that I still desire to put forth a pleasing performance, even if it's "just the opening hymn".