{Candor}

"Mom? Are you able to get up on my bed?"

Aidan nimbly scrambled to the top bunk, eager to show me one of the new additions to his LEGOs poster wall.

"Can I just kind of perch here on the edge?" I proposed.

"Sure." And he went on to explain in detail (and in a tongue that sounded rather foreign) all about the various characters and accoutrements splashed across the wall.

After I did my best at being an interested mommy while clinging pathetically to the rail, a certain question nagged. Why was he wondering if I would be able to climb up on his bed?

Did he think I was too old? Too uncoordinated? Not agile enough?

It rankled. I had to know.

"Aidan? Why did you ask whether or not I'd be able to get up on your bed?"

The candid child flatly stated, "You're a bit big."

They say that ignorance is bliss. They're right.

{Hams and Life}

All ready for Norman Rockwell to paint their portrait. The Saturday Evening Post never looked so good.

What am I to do with these boys?


We all slept in this morning. Jamie's been sick which has thrown us all off a bit. It was nice to gather 'round the table and eat our cream of wheat together (cream of wheat feels so good on a sore throat). I seized the moment and asked Aidan to read our Jesse Tree devotion for us. We're a couple of days behind. I pushed back the guilt and enjoyed the moment instead. The sun poured through the kitchen window and we were warmed, inside and out.

* * * * *

Aidan's plunking away at "Up on the Housetop." He's wearing a Superman cape. The girls are wildly giggling in their room and most likely not making their beds like they're supposed to. Drew is noisily shooting hoops on the nerf thing.

My guess is that one-fourth of my children have followed the instructions to brush their teeth this morning. I better look into this.

Maizy is blissfully alternating between snoozing in a patch of sunlight and chewing on her rawhide chip. She's got it good.

We really should be doing math or something. That probably means I should step away from the computer and get dressed. Or something.

Day 9: Dangerous

Generally, one is expected to remain somewhat composed during a church service. Especially when the pastor is speaking and all is hushed.

This becomes difficult, however, when sitting among a number of children. Now, my wee peeps are finally starting to get the hang of sitting through a service. It's a bit wiggly at first, but if they all have a Bible to thumb through and a paper to doodle on -- I mean take notes on -- then they're in pretty good shape.

I still find myself holding my breath during the sermon, though. What if one of them completely loses it? Jumps up and squirms, "I need to go potty!" Or grabs my head (messing with the do) and demands in a very loud whisper, "I need a Bible!"

Or, say, perhaps . . . begins to undress?

This is definitely cause for alarm. But some eight-year-old boys get really excited when wearing new undergarments. That new pack of seven tanks from Target? SO awesome. So awesome, in fact, that the boy just has to take a peek. During the sermon.

I look over just in time to see that five buttons from the dress shirt have mysteriously come undone. Because that tank underneath is just. that. awesome.

My eyes get as wide as possible, that I might silently yet urgently communicate the need to button. up. that. shirt. right. NOW. (Because mother loves you.)

Sometimes sitting with kids can be dangerous.


Read about the 31-day challenge over here.

Ain't We Got Fun?

The other night at the dinner table, Little Miss Avery Kate ranked our family members according to funniness. I was a tad nervous to hear the results. Daddy, of course, was the funniest one of all. I've forgotten the ranking of the others, but I certainly haven't forgotten mine: Last. Dead last. I'm the least funny person in the Lawson home. Leave it to a five-year-old to tell it like it is.

I figured I'd try and gauge her system. "So Daddy is super, super, super funny, Aidan is super funny . . . and Mommy is just regular funny?" This was not her system. She wrinkled her brow and looked at me as though I was terribly misinformed. "You're not funny."

Oh. Not funny at all.

I'm slowly recovering from the blow. It still rankles a bit. She wasn't being mean. Indeed, I get frequent reminders that I'm her "best mommy ever!" I'm just not a "funny" mommy. But aren't "best mommies" supposed to be just a little bit funny? Maybe they're not necessarily supposed to make weird noises or quote Nacho Libre with flawless accents, but still. Ain't we got fun?

This weekend, I got my chance to be a fun mom. Jamie took the boys out for the evening. Inspired by a couple of friends who are super creative when it comes to pampering their daughters (hello, Heidi and Kelly), I decided that we would have our very own, at-home spa night. I really built it up. And they were excited.

A bubble bath was first on the agenda. The lights were dimmed, and I served the girls ice water as they soaked in the tub, surrounded by candles and classical music. Doesn't that sound nice? You would think so. But you're forgetting about Miss Kate. "I don't like this music. I want Bach." We listened to Bach.

I asked if the girls would like a towel rolled behind their necks and brought in dishes of sliced strawberries. Doesn't that sound nice? You would think so. But you're forgetting about Miss Kate. "I just wanna play. Like a real bath." I eventually convinced her of the merits of a relaxed soak.



I wrapped their little heads in towels and escorted them downstairs for massages, manicures, and a movie. We started a cute Shirley Temple film . . . . "I don't like this movie." (We watched Little Women instead.) I massaged their arms and legs with lavender body lotion, I painted their nails a dark color, and I put Avery's hair in sponge rollers, Bethie's in french braids so they could wake up in the morning with lovely hairdos.



For the grand finale we enjoyed strawberries dipped in chocolate. Bethie was aglow. And Miss Kate, you ask? Well . . . . Maybe I wasn't quite clear with her in the beginning about what a spa night would entail. She found it to be . . . lacking. "Where's the other stuff? I thought you said we were gonna do lots of stuff."

I was under the impression that we had done lots of stuff. I was also under the impression that we had fun. Actually, we did have fun. It was a wonderful, girlie kind of night. I bet even Miss Kate herself would not be opposed to taking part in another spa night sometime (assuming certain criteria were met . . . .)

So maybe I'm not a "funny" mom. Not funny at all. But that doesn't mean I can't be fun, right? I'm working at it. (If the zip line isn't proof, then I'm sunk.) In an attempt to increase my fun-ness, I would love to hear from you. How are you a "fun" parent to your kids? What makes them laugh? Are you a wild and crazy mom? I need some ideas. And quick. Miss Kate is starting to cry.

Headstands, Rattlesnakes and Pumpkin Pie

The number around the dinner table dwindled as the children excused themselves one by one. One child, however, was in no hurry to leave. He had things to talk about. Nothing in particular, but everything a possibility . . . . Jamie and I sat, entranced, as this eight-year-old boy talked, and talked and talked. It was as though he was transported to another realm, and we were invited to travel along and witness his stream of consciousness.

When Aidan falls into this mode, which is rather frequent, his blue eyes deepen and he actually gets that "faraway look" that you read about. He's not dreamy-whispy, though. His pulse quickens and his eyes widen. He enunciates slowly, then pauses and stares for dramatic emphasis -- not to bring attention to himself, but to let the importance of what he's just said sink in. He delivers his store of information then flows unceasingly from one thought to the next.

Sometimes I'm fast enough to jot down his conversations. I've even been known to say, "Slow down! Can you sat it again? I need to write this stuff down." He happily obliges.

This afternoon, as I visited with my grandma on the phone, she referred to that "faraway look" that Aidan gets and that way his mouth has of twisting when he's particularly enthusiastic about something. So I share here with her and with you some of the wide-eyed, twisty-mouthed gems that we've recently enjoyed:

*We've had a very wet spring (as Miss Kate recently grumbled, "I told you it was going to be a sad spring!") When the sun actually appears, the children are beside themselves with joy. The other day, I had Aidan check the temperature as part of his math assignment. He came back shouting, "If the temperature blobs up 30, it's gonna be 100!" And that was the end of the math lesson. There was no keeping this boy indoors on a rare sunny day.


Math is more fun in a blanket fort.

*Speaking of math, Aidan wanted to be in tip-top shape for a timed fact sheet. He came up with what he considered to be a helpful preparatory procedure: "If I do a headstand, it will get my brain all popped up!"

*One of the things I appreciate about Aidan is his cheerful disposition. He finds the good and camps there. Take, for instance his recent bout with the sniffles. He ran in from blowing his nose and happily said, "Listen to me smell, Mama!" (Heavy, sustained breathing inserted here.) "Just half a snort every breath!" Now that's what I call cheerful. Thankful that it's only half a snort when it jolly well coulda been a whole one.

*I received some good advice from Aidan yesterday. He was eagerly sharing with me his discoveries about the most venomous snakes and could I guess what they were and this is how Jeff Corwin holds a black mamba and so on. But the most important thing to remember is this: California Kingsnakes eat rattlesnakes. Because of this, "You better not dress up as a rattlesnake for Halloween and go on a search for the California Kingsnake." You've been warned. Don't do it.

*Today Aidan was on a stream of consciousness roll. The following was delivered without one pause: "Mom? Can I have a whole peanut butter and jelly sandwich? In triangles? 'Cause it's just like eating two pieces of pumpkin pie. Which I can do. When are we going to have pumpkin pie again? Guess what I'm going to have in a year for my birthday dessert?" I finally had a chance to speak: "Ummm, pumpkin pie?" Aidan smiled and confirmed, "You are right."

If you're ever in need of some entertainment, please stop by. Aidan will gladly converse with you on any and every topic. Just one warning: you might feel a bit out of breath when he's done sharing. Even if you haven't uttered one single syllable.

The Incredible Zipping Sisters

We are two of the most indecisive people in the world.

"Do you think it's safe?"

"I don't know. Do you think it's safe?"

"I don't know. Maybe I should try it first."

It was at this point that I really, really wished I had my camera. My sister passed her toddler into my arms and headed toward the zip line.

"Watch your sciatica!" I gently suggested.

She grabbed the bar, grinned weakly and stepped forward. Boy did she zip. Through the woods, careening like a madwoman, my dear, sweet little sister. We cheered, whooped and hollered.

Upon her safe return, the questions began anew.

"Do you think it's safe for the kids?"

"I don't know. Do you?"

"I don't know. Maybe we should make Drew try it out . . . ."

He looked dubious. I challenged him, "If you can go whitewater rafting, you can go down a zip line." He took the bait. He zipped. He grinned, and said, "Who's next?!"

The questions resumed.

"Should there be an age limit?"

"Should they be at least eight years old?

"I sure wish the guys were here. They'd know."

"Let's say you have to be eight."

"Okay."

So down zipped the ten, nine and eight-year-old cousins with their mothers frantically reminding them to hold on for their dear lives (like they would even consider letting go . . . .). The five and six-year-olds were content to stay on firm ground. All that zipping was a bit too wild for them. (Or maybe it was the mothers that scared them: "Hold on! Remember you have gymnastics next week! You may not break one single bone in your body!" Maybe that was it.)

And then she looked at me with a gleam in her eye. "You wanna go?"

"Oh . . . . I think I'm too old. Am I too old? And I'm really out of shape. Am I out of shape?" (In case you have forgotten, we are two of the most indecisive people in the world.)

She threw my own words back at me: "If you can go whitewater rafting, you can go down a zip line."

Avery hightailed it to the house. She had no desire whatsoever to see her mother behave like a hooligan. Mothers who spend their days sipping tea while reading books just weren't supposed to act this way.

But I took the same bait that my son took. Down the zip line I went, holding on for dear life. I was sure I'd sprain an ankle or fall in a crumpled heap at the end, but I made it. No twisted ankles, no crumpled heaps. Just more cheering, whooping and hollering.

We finally tied up that zip line. Our noses were pink and our cheeks bright with the cold. My sister and I laughed as we made our way through the neighbor's woods back to her house. Who would have thought that we'd spend a day of spring break zipping through the woods? We merrily squelched through the damp mosses and lichens, my sister balancing Clara on her hip as we ducked and giggled through branches, shouting at the kids to please stay out of the freezing cold creek and to not break their necks falling out of that tree house.

My sister and I, we've always been very close. But somehow, zipping through the woods like that, doing something just a tad crazy and letting our kids witness the hilarity -- it brought us even closer. I still wish I had had a camera with me, but I don't think I'll ever be able to erase the mental image of my zipping sister. It was a glorious sight to behold.

I'm not sure if I'll ever go down that zip line again. Don't get me wrong. It was fun to try something new, and it was good to step out of my comfort zone. Even Drew commented on how proud he was to see his mother zip by. But do you remember my hesitations about my age and my not-so-stellar athletic condition? Well, these things seem to have contributed to this interesting sensation I have in my back right about now. A sensation of having been pulled, stretched and unnaturally lengthened. The rack comes to mind. I guess a little heat and ice will do the trick, right? And maybe the stretching did some good, after all. I've always wanted to be as tall as my sister. Now we can really be twins -- just like we always wanted.

New Kid

There was a new kid in school today.

He called himself Transformer.



He was a little intimidating at first,



but he ended up being surprisingly good-natured and docile.

Once he figured out how to use his eyes, he buckled down and got right to work.



I wonder if he'll be back again tomorrow.

Oh, Aidan. Further chronicles involving artichokes, a trash can and karate.

The other night I went to check on Aidan while he was taking a bath. He's usually pretending to scuba dive whenever I pop my head in on bath night, and, sure enough, he was submerged and swimming as much as a kid can submerge and swim in a bathtub. The only difference this time was that he had added goggles to his ensemble. Or maybe I should say goggle. I think that's what they're called when there's only one gog. His head surfaced and he squinted through that gog with a bewildered and disoriented look on his face. He must have really been taking his dive seriously.

Indeed, Aidan has a unique outlook on a number of things. I give you the next installment of Aidan's quips and queries.

*The other evening, Aidan asked what we were having for dinner. When I told him we were having Chicken in a Hurry, he was less than thrilled: "So it's a dead chicken and artichoke hearts? I don't like any of those things."

*A recent conversation with dad included the following remark: "I don't think I'd take karate because I don't like getting hit in the face and I like to protect all of my parts."

*The guys were watching a college football game. The marching band at halftime really made an impression on Aidan: "Boy, those guys all sure know their shapes."

*Aidan was feeling a bit under the weather. He asked if I would take his temperature, "'Cause I don't feel awesome, like I usually am." I took his temperature and tucked the sniffly boy in bed. After checking to see that he had a box of Kleenex and a trash can nearby, I prepared to leave the room. He wasn't satisfied. "I feel like I don't have enough supplies." I wasn't sure what more I could offer. He suggested that medicine might help. "I like Tylenol . . . ."

*I found my bedroom trash can in a rather warped state of being after the above mentioned sniffles had run their course. Naturally, I went to Aidan to do some questioning. He confessed, "I wanted to see if it was the kind of metal that was hard or the kind that squishes. It's the kind that squishes."

Stay tuned. I can almost guarantee that there will be more where that came from.

Oh, Aidan.

Aidan finds a new use for my tea cozy.

I have dozens of notebooks lying around. A few of them are dedicated solely to my children's quirky phrases and "isms." Lately, Aidan has been on a roll. I wish I could follow him all day with a video camera. He's a funny kid. His comments start out heading in one direction. Then he takes a seemingly sudden detour and finishes his thought with a totally unexpected line. His deadpan remarks kill us. I thought I'd let him kill you today, too.

* One afternoon, Aidan came down wearing my heels. My eyebrows shot up and he explained, "I wanted to see what it will be like when I'm nine." He figured that's about how much taller he'd be in two years. As he wobbled off he assured me, "I'll be more balanced, though."

* Again he approached me one day, out of the blue. He got really close to my face and asked, "How are my freckles comin' along?" (He's really hoping to be blessed with sprinkles like his sister, Bethie, and cousin, Ethan.)

* A little while ago we were pulling out of the parking lot at Ross. I saw a very distressed man wringing his hands and wandering aimlessly. I wanted to help, but felt somewhat uncomfortable since I was alone with the children. When I noticed that he was talking on a cell phone and also interacting with a person parked nearby, I figured he could at least summon help if need be. My help probably wasn't necessary. I explained all of this to the children, wanting them to understand the importance of exercising both compassion and safety. I continued by saying that I might have felt more comfortable helping a woman. I was proud of my gallant Aidan who said he would help a woman, too. His reason, however, left me speechless. "I would only help a woman because a man is smarter than a woman and would know what to do."

Just you wait, 'Enry 'Iggins. Just you wait.