Yeah, yeah, yeah—I know; I’ve heard all the clichés:

-Everybody starts dying the moment they’re born.

-Your first breath could be your last.

-Mortality is reverse birth (okay, so I made that one up. But it’s true: your birth was accompanied by blood, water, and a spirit. You spend the rest of your life donating blood (or having it plungered out), ridding your body of water, and following (sometimes neglecting) your spirit.)

And yet, I didn’t realize how real death was until the thought glazed over my brain[1] that , were my wife to die today, billions of people would live having never known her. And that was too tragic to stomach.

I wanted to avoid the following reaction so common upon completing a post-mortem, semi-spousegraphical book:

                (Sniff) “…”

                “What’s wrong, Dear?”

                (Sniff) “I…I…

                (sobbing, a squeaky-tight voice) “I wish…I could … have… metthispersonbuttheydiedofcancerandlefthbehindahusbandandfourchildreeeeeeeeen…”[2]

So I am writing this pre-mortem. My wife is not terminal. She is not even sick. She is the mother of six, the carer of many more. She is healthy, happy, and happy to be healthy. She enjoys her life, and helps others enjoy theirs. 

These Eight Things Make My Wife Terrific: 

1. She Holds Personal Religious Convictions 

2. She is Willing to Learn from Any Teacher of Any Age 

3. She Cherishes Children 

4. She Looks Young, Acts Young (Is Young), but Parents Wisely 

5. Her White Rolls, Honey-Wheat Rolls, and Biscuits 

6. She Has a Quick Laughter-Trigger 

7. She Loves Pancakes 

8. She Listens with Interest

---

[1] I love glazes on cakes. The glaze soaks in a bit, then forms a semi-hard crust. Most of my good thoughts are like that. 

[2] Sob talking is such a phenomenon. It carries not a single iota of rhythm: you begin slow, then race through, stuttering all the while. The racing energy only lasts four or five seconds, so you are forced to cram as many words as possible into the brain-mouth conduit. 1 in 4 of all such instances come out comprehensible. But you only have four or five seconds; more than that and you are once again inconsolable for a good seven-eight minutes.

Your Bad

It's interesting. With No.'s 2, 3, and now 4(1), we've had to really work one-on-one with them becoming socially capable, competent, and confident. No.3 is where No.2 was two years ago, and No.4 is where No.3 was at two years ago; it's nice to know that (if pattern holds) her bashful nature will, to a certain extent, subside. I remember Ashlee and I being unsure about No.3 beginning kindergarten this past fall (these feelings were about a year ago). However, by the time August rolled around, she had matured so much, there was no doubt that she was ready! Now, looking at her, it's bizarre to think we even discussed waiting on her!
And we see the same thing happening with No.4...gradually. What I find interesting about No.4's particular personality is how embarrassed she gets when she realizes she is wrong. Depending on the mood, she does one of two things:

1) She clarifies what she "meant". This disables anyone from denying her request. For example, she might ask if she "can play Beatles RockBand." If I respond with anything other than "yes", she restates her question with something like, "I mean can we play Beatles RockBand tomorrow." Oh. Well...And since I've already said "maybe not tonight", I can't really say "probably not tomorrow night" either(2). My response, therefore, must be one of one choice: "Yes." No.4 then replies, "Yeah Dad, that's what I meant. I mean I want to play Beatles RockBand tomorrow." So whether it's for today or tomorrow, she walks away with a "Yes."

2) She pulls herself into an imaginary shell, acknowledging nobody. We are dead to her. Or at least, we are invisible to her. Actually, maybe it's more like she is invisible to us. No, you know what? There's nothing imaginary about the whole situation; she just flat-out ignores us. And her brain ignores her body: no matter how badly an arm wants to bend, or a leg wants to stand, her brain is in "Attack" mode: "How do I attack this foreign word No? I must expel it from my being! But how? Only the most logically potent response can dispel No's pithy presence."(3)
And so she will sit there, motionless, for upwards of an hour. I used to think she was simply pouting. No, no, no. Plotting. She is plotting her perfect response: something that makes you wrong, and her right. Something that immediately explains her "frozen screen" mimicry (she saw that screen often on our old PC; thank you, Mac!).
For instance, the other night at dinner was going fine. The children were eating, having a good time. Then No.4 decided she was done. No, you need to finish eating. She didn't even argue--or eat. Just froze. (Yes, I clicked her mouse repeatedly--I even pushed her "Ctrl-Alt-Del" buttons.)
Nothing.
So I just sat there, trying to make eye contact. She avoided me completely.
Our silent non-staredown continued for nearly an hour. My toothpick was pulp. What had started as a "Thinker" pose had slouched to a "(fill in the most boring class you ever took)" pose.
Finally, I said,
"How about I just feed it to you."
"Dad, that's what I was waiting for you to do. I was just waiting and waiting for you to feed me. Hahaha! But you forgot!"
Yes. Yes I did.


1. No.1 has needed no social help. It's a skill I can only dream of having.


2. Yes I could. In fact, I can go further: "Probably not tomorrow dear, or any of the tomorrows after that." But I need to save my No's for important matters--matters that cannot be reversed. Beatles RockBand is not one of those matters.


3. Less-potent counters: I don't want to; Pleeeeease???; My face hurts; I want to play PBS Kids; Andrew Rich did it;(our fish; every fish we get is named after a former BYU football player.); Uh-HUUUUU-uuuuuuh.

It Makes Sense to Them

No.4 and No.5 were walking up to the church doors today. As they passed the closest parking stalls, No.4 directed No.5's attention to the blue sign and said--with complete surety in her insight--

"And there's a man sitting in a high chair."



The thing is, she didn't seem to find it strange that a man would be found in such seating accommodations; she just kept right on walking with No.5.
I wonder what other "strange" things are completely normal to a toddler...

WWRD?

What would Russ do?
I had that thought the other day, while I stared, dumbfounded, at my vehicle.
I felt like a Little Caesar's employee:

Before moving to our current locale, Russ was my go-to guy. Together(1) we cut down a tree; rebuilt a kitchen cupboard (I think that's what he said we were doing); replaced...something...on my vehicle; fixed the doohickie in my furnace; replaced a leaky faucet; and other tasks which are too complicated for any of you to understand.(2)

I didn't really think I'd gleaned much from watching Russ work, but as I stood before my vehicle, I recalled something I had noticed Russ do multiple times: pull harder.

If a nut was too tight...crank it harder. It will come loose. 

If the doohickie in the furnace refuses to budge...pull harder. It will come out.

So that 's what I did: I gauged where exactly I might be able to separate the panel from the rest of the vehicle, and pulled. And it worked. As if Russ had done it himself.

But it doesn't work on everything. Since universally applying the America of fix-it discoveries, I have torn the tabs off four diapers; broken off two keys in a door (same door); cracked a door jamb (I swear it said "PULL"); and snapped my ring finger (ring: still stuck).

Now here I sit, wondering once more: 

What Would Russ Do?

1. Together: adv. Where one or many circle-up to watch one person do something they enjoy or excel at.

2. Yeah, I don't understand the tasks, either.

The Age Card

On New Year's Eve, our children winding down (surely it was 2011 somewhere), I started pointing out the last (toothbrushing, pajama-changing, praying, etc.) of 2010. Except I didn't initially say "2010." The year whose passing I started lamenting was...
1997.
Thirteen years ago.
1997 was the last year I welcomed by name, and targeted as a year worthy of celebration.
1997 was high school graduation.
Everything after 1997 was simply, "after I graduate..."Sure, I knew what I was doing post-1997, but none of those events had a year tied to them as firmly as did 1997: The Year I Graduate High School. I hadn't circled 2001 as the year I would get married; I didn't celebrate 2003 as the Year of the College Grad; and the New Millennium (2000) was not a big deal in my mind, since I knew I would be serving a mission for my church during that transition, and wouldn't be up celebrating anything past 10:30 pm.
But in high school, 1997 had been driven into my mind as an important year, our year. Everything thereafter was, potentially, nonexistent. Even the years preceding 1997 were big deals. 1996: I'm almost a senior. 1995: Driver's license! 1994: High school!!
I didn't always anticipate years this way. Before I matured, I anticipated actual ages.
As a child, age is the pillar supporting self-esteem. Child No.4 has served as a constant reminder of this fact. She is three, but continually plays the Age Card:

"Daddy, look what I can do!"
"Woa! When did you learn how to do an aerial?!"
(Let-me-explain-it-to-you look) "That's because I'm almost four."

However, she can just as quickly use her age to rationalize her actions:

"Hey woa, what'd you do that for, No.4?"
"That's because I'm only three."

I think I will start playing the Age Card. For example, in pickup basketball:

"Hey, nice shot, Josh."
"That's because I'm almost thirty-two."

Or when cleaning the kitchen:

"Daddy, you're not very good at cleaning the kitchen."
"That's because I'm only thirty-one."

Who knows? Maybe I'd start welcoming years by name again.

Santa Fail

I forgot that Santa resides at the mall. The pilgrimage to his throne has not been a part of our children's Christmas upbringing, so when we entered the mall recently, I was briefly confused by the roped-off area surrounding the Christmas centerpiece. Then I saw the elves...then Santa...then I heard one of our children exclaim, "Daddy! Santa!"

"Yep, that's Santa....Okay, let's go shopping now."

It felt almost like we were passing a dead body: "Move along, children; nothing to see here. Move along, now."

The children didn't put up a fuss, and I velt vindicated (go ahead--say those two words in a Russian accent; you'll thank me immediately) upon hearing what my children would ask Santa for:
"Ummm...I don't know."

"Ummm...I'm not really sure."

"Ummm..."

But then, as the night progressed, I started feeling a little bit bad for not encouraging (and maybe even slightly discouraging) the childes from seeking Santa (wise men still seek him). So when the mall was finally through sucking our life juices from us, and just about ready to expel our carcasses, I slowed down a bit as we passed the Santa throne. 

"Anyone want to see Santa?"

"I DO!" No.4 pleaded.

But she was alone. No.2 and No.3 started discussing the probabilities of Santa's actual existence--whether in the mall or in the North Pole--and No.1 occupied herself with No.5.

"PLEEEEEEEASE, Daddy? I want to see Santa!"

"Daddy," said No.1," I'll take her, if you want."

"Great!"

So I walked them up to the throne (it was late, so nobody was in line). About ten yards from the man, No.4 froze. Not unexpected, but unexpected. I thought she had hurdled the hesitation during the mall tour, going over and over in her head what she planned to tell Santa (I'm a fool. Even Ralphie--he who had planned his speech for months--froze. And he was a professional actor!)

But she froze. Then she spidered up my leg and lunged off my hip and onto my head. 

Meanwhile, Santa's sitting there expectantly, pasting his "I can't wait to get home" smile onto his whisker-shrouded face.
She wasn't coming down--not while he was nearby.

So he turned to No.1.

He started small, then went for the big (but definitely not least expected) question:

"And what would you like for Christmas?"

"Ummm...(giggle) I don't really know....just...some books, I guess."

"Ohhhh. You like to read, do you?"

"(giggle) Yeah."

"You know, Santa likes to read, too--"

Stop. Now here is where I, a Santa pro, would have taken things: 

"Do you know what Santa most likes reading? The list of good girls and boys. Do you think your name is on that list?"

But lo, this Santa has apparently never associated with small children. Here is what he said:

"I just finished a book this summer. Oh, what was it called...they made a movie about it just recently...oh, I can't remember...Oh yes! Lord of the Rings. Have you read that?"
"..."

"You know, with Bilbo Baggins, and Gandalf..."

"..."

"And hobbits, and dragons?"

"..."

"I really liked that book."

"Oh."

I don't know if I've ever seen No.1 more dejected. Have you ever had a moment where you weren't sure if you wanted to do something, then talked yourself into doing it, hoping it would actually be an incredible experience, only to be let down? So you end up saying, I knew that would be lame. That was No.1 times infinity. Santa was a disappointing disappointment.
At the time.
It seems that since then, the children have been making excuses to hold onto the magic of Santa:
"Dad, that was just Santa's helper; he wasn't the real Santa," said No.2. "I saw black hair under his hat, that's how I know that."
And I am perfectly fine with them holding onto the idea of Santa. Because despite the imperfect experience of our children, the idea of a man who delights in giving gifts is a pretty nice thought.

Self-motivation

In the summer of 2008, I posited the following:

June 2033: The Wife and I move to Seattle, live off wild blackberries and Grizzly-discarded salmon.

But here it is, 2010, and we are already here, in the Puget Sound. Confronted by the daunting cost of living up here, I never thought it possible...but it happened. The market had deflated just enough up here--and inflated just enough in our last area--that when a job opening came, we were able to make it work. 
I didn't have a lot to do with it working out the way it did, so I get excited when I see my--I mean our--children work things out on their own. 
For example, our second to youngest child (No. 5) is Shetland short. She would be a Munchkin, if Munchkins had shorter legs. Doctors aren't sure where her ankles end and her knees begin. For her, the only difference between sitting and kneeling is the direction her toes are pointed.
Solution: the Bucket.
The Wife keeps a five-gallon bucket of oats in the pantry (it would be a ten-gallon, but I swore off oatmeal in middle school(1)). No.5 pushes the Bucket around to where she needs to reach, and gets what she needs. It's always food, it's always quiet, it's always messy, and it's never shameful. That last one is the problem.
When caught, she doesn't fall on the food in a cover-up; she doesn't fling it off the counter and pretend she was searching for constellations; she doesn't suddenly "fall asleep." Rather, she proudly pronounces her conquest: "Eating!"
How do you get mad at that? 
So not only does No.5 get what she wants, she gets what she wants, unscathed.
And amazingly, she has found a sensible use for oatmeal(2)!
Unfortunately, No.5 is also very good at taking care of her messy diapers...at least, the wearing of such diapers.
She likes her diapers clean and unsoiled, so she will, when confronted with the down 'n dirty, remove the offending agent. Her trail of evidence (sometimes niblets, sometimes dollops) coupled with her proud declaration of "Diaper Off!" makes for quick frantic clean-up. 
Does this exasperate me? Mmmmmmm-hm. 
But I do appreciate that she is taking matter(s) into her own hands. 
What is funny confusing about all this is No.5's reaction to her own production when seen out of character--for example, in the bathtub. The few times she has relaxed in the tub a little too much, her little kneekles cannot propel her across the water surface fast enough. The (apparently) frightening sight elicits from within her a sob typically reserved for children who have fallen into a bone-chilling body of water: a sort of hyperventilating stutter-cry. She wants out immediately, but...I mean...she's dirty. So I have to turn on the shower and (gag) retrieve the (gag) bowel buoys with a (gag) cup or bucket (oatmeal, anyone?). 
And No.5 cries. And sobs. And hyperventilates.
I guess sometimes we ourselves are surprised by our own efforts.




1. Long story short: I didn't finish my oatmeal at breakfast. Came home from school...and it was there to greet me. I ignored it (barely; my gag-reflex was on high alert); my parents did not. I ate lukecold oatmeal for dinner that night. If memory holds, the rest of the family had steak and lobster. I don't recall how I avoided oatmeal the rest of my upbringing...dry-heaving? Hunger strikes? Becoming a carnivore?
2. To be fair, there are other sensible uses for this grain: brick mortar; hair gel; paper mache`; wood glue; ipecac substitute; garbage.