Vacuuming Karma

When I was a kid we had chores. We actually had a lot of chores - which were solidified into permanence with the chore charts my mother hung on the wall. There were inside chores and outside chores, and as far as the inside chores went, we each had certain things that were "our" chore. I suppose you could say Mom had us specialize. For instance, Laura (age ten) mopped the kitchen floor and cleaned the upstairs bathroom, and I (age eight) vacuumed the living room and dusted. (I don't have any recollection of what Annie did, but I'm assuming she must have had to do something).

Anyhow, when it came to vacuuming I definitely specialized. As in, I vacuumed in a very special way. And might I just add that it had nothing to do with how well or quickly I did the job. My specialty was in style.

Every Thursday (i.e., vacuuming day) I would come home from school (Mom was usually still at work) and get ready to vacuum. Eagerly, I would hurry into the living room, sort through the records and make my selection - "Million Dollar Sellers Vol. (1,2, or 3, I can't remember)" side Two. Straight out of the 1950's, these were some rockin' songs. Songs like "The Wheel of Fortune" "Mule Train" and "Three Coins in the Fountain". As noted, we had three volumes - which translates into six sides - and I always vacuumed to the same record, side two.

It usually took me at least three renditions of "Wheel of Fortune" (using the vacuum as a microphone, of course), and a couple rousing trips through "Wild Goose" (or whatever the official title of that one is), and at least a few repeats of "The People of Paris".

These were all performance numbers, by the way. I had routines. I danced, lip synced, and/or sang my way through the entire record - sometimes twice - before I considered the job done. It took me a really, really, really long time to vacuum the living room.

And I relished every second of it.

And I have no doubt that had my mother been home to witness this recital, she would have gone mad watching me and wondered (and possibly yelled about) how long it took me to finish vacuuming.

Today I told N (my eight year old) to vacuum. I want you to know that every single time I came in the room and found him standing in front of the mirror vacuuming up his lower lip whilst making strange noises (which got even stranger as they echoed out of the vacuum), I tried to have patience. I pictured myself waltzing around the living room with the vacuum extension (which wasn't even hooked to the hose half the time), and I took a few deep breaths.

And then - in my most patient mother-voice - I would say, "Um, do you think you could do a little vacuuming?"

I love that kid.

The Rummage Sale Blues

This week was my kids' school's annual rummage sale. In case I've failed to mention it, my boys attend a little three room school house, and there are only about seventy kids in their K-6th school. It's a close little family, to say the least.

As usual, my boys (L ten, and N eight) have been drooling over the treasures to be "rummaged" since the sale opened on Tuesday, and by Thursday night they were dying to make their purchases. This year, I decided that rather than go with them, I'd let them take five dollars of their own money to spend however they wanted.

Friday morning as we're getting ready to walk out the door, we have the following conversation:

Me: N, how much money do you have in your wallet?

N (without hesitation): Five dollars.

M: L, how much do you have?

L: Uh, fifteen.

(Keep in mind N is sitting right there, listening to all of this)

Me: I don't think so, I said you could take five.

I then sent him to put ten back in his cash box, and (again, with Niall right there watching) counted what was left in his wallet to make sure he'd put enough back. All the way to school they talked about the things they had their eye on, and how they hoped no one else would get there first.

At this little school of ours, most kids get picked up by parents rather than riding the bus. So every day after school, I pull through the drive and sit there while the teachers or aides find, collect, and deliver my children to my car. I've had children in this school for five years now, and we all know each other very well.

Imagine my surprise on Friday, when as I pull around the drive I see all the aides start snickering, and trying not to smile as they see me pull in. Confused, I quickly review: Am I at the wrong School? No. Is today one of the days I'm not supposed to pick them up till 4:00? No. Do I have food on my face? No. So I park, and wait as Mrs. W approaches my window while Mrs. P gathers my kids. Mrs. W and I have the following conversation:

Mrs. W: Well you might as well pull back around to the front door, because you've got some loading to do. (quickly hides laughter by coughing into her hand)

Me: Loading?

Mrs. W: Oh yes, your kids made quite a haul at the rummage sale today. Most of it's still inside.

She added this last as I looked over to see L carrying a small end table to the car.

Me (Looking rather confused, and slightly concerned): How much did they spend?

Mrs. W: I have no idea, but N sure got a lot of stuff. Unfortunately none of us were out there while he was, uh, shopping, and the parents running the sale just let him keep buying.

At this point I, got out of my car and headed for the school as I informed her that the boys each had a limit of five dollars.

Mrs. W: Oh I'd say N spent quite a bit more than five.

I walked into the second grade class to see N - who's satisfied smile froze on his face as he saw me - standing amidst the following items: An exercise bike, an old manual typewriter, a standing lamp, a coat tree, a talking fish, a desk lamp, a world atlas, and various other small items.

It turns out he brought $32.00 - i.e., every bill in his possession. He'd spent $24.00 on his treasures, and (as tears filled his adorable and pathetic eyes) he tried to tell me he didn't know he was only supposed to bring $5.00.

Unfortunately (as illustrated by the above conversation from earlier that morning) we all know this to be a falsehood. A lie. A complete, and unquestionable untruth. I hate being a mother in these situations.

With a sigh and a grimace, and feelings of great regret, I informed him that because he had lied about how much money he had, he wasn't going to be able to keep any of it. Every last item - including the beloved typewriter AND the antiquated exercise bike - had to go back out to the sale.

And we hauled it all back.

And I felt horrible.

And he was very good about it, and even went back in and collected his funds all by himself.

This was seriously one of the hardest things I've ever had to do to to one of my kids. Did I mention how excited they were about this sale? Or how much my son wanted that typewriter? (His best friend quickly offered to buy it off him when he found out it was going back. Apparently it was a pretty hot item as none of them had ever seen one before). But I honestly couldn't think of anything else to do. Even letting him keep five dollars worth of goods didn't seem right. (Which is a blessing in disguise, since the price of the typewriter was exactly five dollars).

And now today, I have to reflect on this whole thing as it pertains to Mother's Day. Being a mom is not easy. Most of what we do (laundry, dishes, potty training, etc.) is not fun. Possibly the most unpleasant task of all however, is discipline and the stress of having the lives of these dear little people we love in our hands. I've often told my children (as I send them to their room, or take away their treasured possessions/privileges) that my most important task as their mother is to teach them right from wrong, and make sure they know that when they make bad choices, bad things happen.

What a rotten job. But when you think about it, it's a concept that will literally shape the rest of their lives. Integrity, accountability, and a love of the Savior and knowledge of his love for them are some of the most valuable gifts I could ever give my children. And if we all have to suffer a little heartbreak so they can learn these lessons, I have no doubt that it will be more than worth the pain. So, I'm sorry kids, for occasionally ruining your lives (I'm sure it will be an ongoing occurrence), but in the end if it means you're better, stronger, kinder, or more like your Savior, I have no doubt it will have been worth it to all of us.

And don't worry N, someday you'll get over the typewriter. I promise.

Truth and Lies

I know that as a general rule, children in the age range of four to eight are not that great at telling the truth. More precisely, they tend to make up things and try to pass them off as truth. In our family, we call these "whoppers". My kids have told some pretty creative ones.

There was the time Niall (age 6) told the aid in his classroom about the bats. That would be the living, flying variety. Thanks to my husband, our boys are rather obsessed with hunting. They just wish there was something they could hunt - preferably something besides the cat. So Niall apparently invented his own hunting adventure and shared it with Mrs. P. She came up to me after school when I was picking the boys up and wanted to know about the bats.

Me: What bats?

MP: The ones Liam and Niall have been hunting.

Me: Hunting?

MP: Yes. Niall tells me they have these bat traps - that they made themselves - and that they hang them up to catch bats.

Me: Oh really. Then what happens?

MP: Well, the bats are very dangerous, but the boys shoot them with their bows and kill them. Niall says they do this all the time and have killed hundreds.

I could see that Mrs. P was fully enjoying this story. Women like her belong in elementary schools properly appreciating children. It turns out she had done everything she could to get Niall to admit that just maybe, the story wasn't exactly true. No go, he stuck to his guns.

Me, being the concerned parent, decided that something must be done. My child cannot get away with telling a whopper when an adult has called him on it. These principles must be taught, right? So I immediately descend on Niall (we're still at the school) and ask him what he was doing telling Mrs. P. that he hunted bats. Panic struck his adorable six yr old face at being caught in his lie, and momentarily my reserve shook. Our conversation went something like this:

Me: Well?

Niall: (tears falling, head hanging, sobs starting.) I don't knowwwww.

Me: (feeling really bad, but also thinking I must stick to my plan and teach him to tell the truth) Did you just think it sounded really cool?

Niall: Yeah. (more pathetic tears as his eyes dart around to make sure no one can tell he's crying)

Me: Well, you have to tell Mrs. P. the truth, and apologize for lying. It's okay to make up cool stories, but if they aren't true and people think they are, you have to tell them the truth. Especially if they ask you "is that true."

Poor little Niall suffered an all out anxiety attack at the thought of this confrontation. He was so stressed out about it, we finally decided he could write her a letter and give it to her the next day. He was very sweet about it, and very brave, and I was very proud of him when he got in the car the next day and announced he'd delivered it first thing.

Besides, it could have been worse. When Liam was that age he told his whole class his dad was in prison. Why prison? Couldn't he have just said jail? (Neither were true by the way, but prison just sounds so much worse!) I'll take bats over the smirching of our good names any day!

Anyway, today Niall had to make another confession. After blaming his poor little cousin Harrison for something - swearing he had seen the offense committed - it turned out he'd been *gasp* lying. He was distressed, it's true. Sheer heartbreak had caused the blunder. But alas, a lie is still a lie and a confession was in order.

I would just like to say that my little Niall is growing up. He panicked - but only a little. Tears welled, but they didn't fall. And best of all, no letter was needed. We called, and he humbly apologized with a very determined look on his still adorable face. Thank you Aunt Annie for being so forgiving. Thank you Niall for having the courage to confess. I can tell by his determination to make things right that he is learning - despite the occasional little slip-ups.

Bored Four Year Old Blues, And Other "Mom Issues"

The rest of you can refer to this as the first day of school. I prefer to call it "the first day home alone with my four year old." Yes, Meara is here too - technically - but in some ways that only complicates the issue. Since she has very poor fighting moves, no skill with numchucks, swords, or any other weapons, is not named Liam (frankly, even Niall would do at this point), and has the audacity to be a girl and play with dolls, Conan has absolutely no use for her. I dropped the boys off 55 minutes ago, and I'm already going crazy.

"There's nothing to doooo," "who can I plaaayyy with?" "Are we going somewhere? Whyyyy not?" "When does preschool start?" "[various crying, whining noises, while throwing himself around on the floor]". This is so not-peaceful. Preschool doesn't start for over a week. Insanity is definitely a possibility if things don't improve.

Hopefully, Conan will eventually relent and forgive Meara for being a girl. Meanwhile, I just want everyone out there who's even considering having only one child to rethink the issue. TWO IS SOO MUCH EASIER THAN ONE!! Once they're old enough to play together that is. And thankfully, now that Meara's two that does happen more frequently, so there is hope. And to any of my girlfriends out there who have four year old boys and are reading this - by Friday I WILL NEED A PLAYDATE!

On another note entirely, I have to say just one little thing about dropping the boys off at school this morning. Despite the fact that I am a hardened mother of a fourth grader and a second grader, well versed in "first days", I felt a little teary this morning.

I really didn't see this coming at all, and walked my children into their little three-room school feeling completely unemotional. Niall headed into his class, while I went in to have a word with Liam's teacher. On the way out, I decided to peek in at Niall and say goodbye.

I don't really know what got me - whether it was his anxious little face as he carefully unloaded his school supplies into his very first "desk", how big he looked now that he's out of the K-1st classroom, or how little he looked to be in with the 2nd-3rd graders. Who knows, but whatever it was, I suddenly felt very sad. Maybe it isn't so bad that Conan is a lonely, whining, four year old. Maybe I'll just spend some time cuddling with him - preparing against the day when he too, is a big 2nd grader with a real desk, and school supplies he doesn't share. It seems so far away, but experience tells me it will happen all too quickly.

Isn't that the way motherhood goes? You can't wait for the next thing, so anxious for them to move on (and stop being four), but when they do, you just want them to go back and be little. Yesterday when Liam and I were shopping, my sweet nine year old wanted to hold my hand. I couldn't help feeling scared that it would be for the last time, and I was sad. But really, I guess that's what it's all about. Loving them, teaching them, enjoying them, and sometimes not-enjoying them, until you've given them the tools to move on - whether that means second grade or out of the house. It is sad, but it's so incredibly worth it! Children are the greatest thing the Lord could give us, and I'm so grateful for mine. Love your kids today, everybody - they won't be little forever!

Night Walkers

Little known fact about me - I love to be out at night with out a flashlight. Walks in the dark, or being in the woods when camping - as long as it's dark, and nature-y, I'm all over it.

This probably originated from my childhood. We had acreage and cows, and occasionally nighttime hunts for an animal were necessary. The ones that made the biggest impression happened when I was about eight or nine. This makes Laura 10-11, and Annie 6-7.

Missing cows usually ended up in a two-acre stand of large trees (i.e. woods) in our lower field. It was always the same - Dad and Annie would go one way, Laura and I would go the other in the pitch black forest of darkness. We would be totally terrified. Eventually, however, we'd calm down and start having fun with our adventure.

Running around on prank errands at girls' camp, and huge nighttime games of capture the flag cured me of the need for a flashlight. By the time I reached adulthood I was a veteran night walker. (That doesn't sound quite right, does it...) Until walking home tonight with Liam and Niall, I'd completely forgotten what could be so scary about a walk in the dark.

The boys were horrified that we were actually heading into the night with no flashlight. In their defense, it was a dark, moonless, foggy night with that dense blackness hanging in the shadows...but off we went. They were clinging so tightly to my arms I could hardly walk. They were scared of coyotes, stray dogs, large (as in giant) snakes, and every single sound they heard. No one wanted to get behind or in front of the group - especially after I told them that "things" always get the loner. Aren't I a mean mom?

Eventually they relaxed a little, and Liam admitted it wasn't "that scary". When we got close enough they even ventured out of the herd to sprint home - until they got too far ahead of me, then they sprinted back.

Overall, I figure we can chalk this up as our first night-walk together. Who knows? Maybe we can make it a tradition, and it will be something my children will always remember doing with their fearless mother. That really is the great thing about kids - they know what you know, and you can almost always pass on the things that are most important to you. To my boys, thank you for helping me remember what it's like to be a little person with a huge imagination, and here's to the future of a new Baxter tradition.

Going, Going, Gone

Niall, my seven year old, is known to stress out about things. For instance, the other day the boys and I were talking about growing up and having kids. This led into the following conversation:

Niall: Oh, I'm never having kids.

Me: Why not? Don't you think it would be fun to have kids?

Niall: Sure.

Me: Then why don't you want to have any?

Niall: (In an 'isn't it obvious' tone) Because I don't know how to get to the hospital!

This is typical for him. He has also informed me that he doesn't ever plan on moving out no matter how old he gets. Why? Because he might not be able to get to the bank. ???? Who knew the bank would factor so high on the life necessity list of a seven year old?

So the other day we had another 'stressed out Niall' incidence. A newlywed couple has just moved in on the street behind us. They are very nice, and she is particularly sweet. We've got to know them a little, because our dog Rosie loves to go play at their house. Anytime the gate is left open and no one is around, off she goes.

Niall has become a fan of Nichole - probably because she keeps offering him food - and I've become suspicious that he occasionally lets Rosie out intentionally. This happened the other day, and he came home and excitedly told me Nicole had offered to let him borrow movies the next time he came to get Rosie.

The next day, Rosie mysteriously went AWOL, and Niall came rushing in to see if he and Liam could go get her. I rolled my eyes and sent them on their way. About ten minutes later he was back and I could see there was a problem.

Niall: Mom? (In his stressed out 'I'm trying not to cry' voice) Will you call Nicole and ask her if we can borrow some movies?

Me (heartless, as usual): No, if you wanted movies you should have asked for them while you were over there.

Niall (blinking very fast as tears welled): I couldn't. Rosie was in their backyard, and when we called her she came. (usually she runs the other way when the boys go to retrieve her)

Me: (sigh) Well, if you really want to borrow movies, why don't you just go back over and ask?

Niall (breaking down completely): I can't (sob). She said "when you come to get Rosie" and Rosie isn't over there (sob, sob).

At this point I was feeling sorry for the poor little guy, and managed to convince him that it would be okay to go back. He was a little concerned, but did it anyway and came happily home with his movies.

There was nothing remarkable about this incident, but for some reason I just keep thinking about it. Lately I've found myself getting emotional about the fact that my kids are getting older. My little Conan is going to be five in December, and everyone knows that babyhood is officially over by five. The fat creases on their arms and wrists are gone, their faces thin out, and they quickly get too big to sit on your lap and cuddle.

With my first I didn't realize this was happening, and his babyhood slipped by one night and was gone. I missed it's going completely, because I failed to see the end coming. Now I feel like I'm hanging on for dear life to Conan's sweet little ways, because too soon they will be gone as well.

Liam is a nine year old giant, Niall is big enough to worry about banking, and run around the neighborhood unsupervised (okay, it's really just a field between our houses, but I wouldn't let Conan go alone) and Conan is next. What will I do with out a little boy around to cuddle and kiss? I really can't imagine it. For all the things they've ruined, all the noise and wrestling and dare-devil stunts that end in disaster, there is nothing in the world as sweet as a little boy.

And so, I will enjoy Niall's little childhood stresses, and appreciate him even more for having them. I will cherish being the one to solve his problems and calm his fears, because I know the day will come when he won't need me this way anymore. And most of all, I will thank my Heavenly Father every day for giving me such wonderful children to watch, enjoy, and love. There couldn't be a greater gift.