Boogers on the Wall

This is the first year we have grown corn in our garden. (I don’t count the year we naively only planted four stocks. Literally four.)

We had some mishaps with a few stocks last month when a giant windstorm blew through, but the tall rows still turned out beautiful.

I picked some of the ears a couple of weeks ago, anxious to sink my teeth into them only to pull back the husks and find several green, wiggly caterpillars staring back at me.

I was repulsed!

My boys were thrilled.

I found myself in the middle of a caterpillars-in-the-corn hunt.

I picked the corn and my boys sat on the back lawn husking ear after ear in search for more caterpillars. (I wasn’t about to let them know they were doing me a favor.)

They’d pull one back and ooh and ahh at the size of the squirmy bug inside. They threw husks all over the lawn as they separated the corn from the caterpillars.

When they had scavenged through them all, they took their seven or eight caterpillars into a net and started setting up habitats for them.

Jars, sticks and grass were spread across our kitchen table as they worked making homes for their new pets.

They found them “juicy” leaves and put in tiny water dishes. They gave them climbing sticks and soft grassy beds.

They did some research online for things caterpillars liked and they gave it their all.

Several of the caterpillars have not made it but two of them have grown brown, thin chrysalises. I’m hoping they turn into beautiful butterflies.

I may not have been happy about the bugs in my corn, but it was so fun to see what the boys did with them. And it made all husking work a heck of a lot easier!

Let’s talk about the hazards of taking four young children through the war-torn back-to-school aisles of Walmart one week before school starts.

Prepped with two back-to-school wish lists we bit the bullet yesterday and dove right in.

It was an every-man-for-himself-throw-your-colored-pencils-in-the-cart-and-then-hunt-down-a-pack-of-glue-sticks kind of trip.

We should have gone a month ago when the school supplies first appeared on the shelves. But it’s summer. I can barely find time to shower each day let alone buy something I’ll need several weeks down the road.

So we scavenged the best we could in the picked-over empty bargain school supply bins to find the items on our “recommended” list.

It was crazy. Binders, pencil packs and paper pads were scattered on the floor. Kids were wandering parentless up and down the aisles. I felt like I was going to crash into other moms and their carts every time we turned a corner.

There were way to many people looking for way too many supplies in way too small of an area.

Reams of paper, Clorox wipes and Expo markers were fairly easy for us to find. But we had to scrounge for the rest of the stuff.

We needed 8 glue sticks for each kid but only found them in packs of 6 or 4. And we searched high and low for those packs. Who knew students use so much glue?

We needed 12 pencils but those were only in packs of 10. The colored pencils came in sets of 24 and we only needed a dozen.

When we got to the store I bought a $1 drink from McDonald’s because my kids were dying of thirst. Unfortunately that meant we ended up making a mad dash to the bathroom for my just-barely-potty-trained-three-year-old – twice.

After walking from the front to the back to the front of the store again two or three times I broke down and asked for help from a Walmart employee. Where could I find some normal stock?

That’s when we ended up in the office supplies section of the store. It was just 5 or 6 aisles away from the madhouse school supplies section but it felt like we had landed on another planet.

There we found glue sticks. There we found pencils. There we found a pack of 12 colored pencils – not 24. And we didn’t trample over any debris on the way.

We struck gold, stocked up and got out of there.

I’m sure we ended up with things we didn’t really need. Like the fancy colorful pencils and the monster creation zip up pencil bag – but I was so run down by the end I didn’t care. We did it. An hour and half, several bags of supplies and four pairs of inexpensive shoes later we were finally finished. We survived back to school shopping at Walmart.

And I never want to do it again. Next year I’m either going to buy the stuff we need in June or on Amazon.

I don’t mind hanging out in sweat pants and a baseball cap. Sometimes I stay in my pajamas all day and I don’t comb my hair.

But at least once a week I try to curl my hair and put on my best attire. Out of respect for my Heavenly Father and my religion, I try to put my best self forward as I head to church each week for Sunday meetings.

So imagine my shock two weeks ago when we rounded the corner into the church parking lot and I looked down to see dirty, bright pink clogs on my feet.

Nice.

I had been helping load up camping gear into the van before church and forgot to change out of my work shoes.

If you know me well, you know that we were running late and I had no time to head back home and change. I had a split second to choose between the ratty old clogs or bare feet with bright-pink-painted-toenails.

I hung my head in embarrassment and walked into the building wearing a black skirt and nasty clogs.

I have never noticed people’s shoes as much as I did that day. Some women wore cute colorful flats while others walked gingerly in arched stilettos.

It made me want to head to Payless and pick up a couple of new pairs.

The next week I had a shirt mishap.

We went out of town and when I unpacked my church skirt I rummaged through my entire suitcase but couldn’t find my blouse. I was left to choose between wearing a Mickey Mouse or Duck Dynasty t-shirt under my front-open sweater.

I know that the Robinson’s are a religious bunch, but I opted to don the Mickey Mouse shirt. I wrapped my arms around me tightly trying to hide Mickey’s ears.

My kids were dressed in their Sunday best, their hair combed and their shirts buttoned right. But in all the hustle and bustle getting them and their stuff ready, I neglected the fine details of my own attire.

Truly it doesn’t matter what I wear to church. No one was going to kick me out for what I had on. But I giggled to myself both weeks as I sported uncharacteristic apparel.

Hopefully next week will be better. What’s the worst thing that can happen, a skirt malfunction? I sure hope not.

Me and a couple of my favorite Utah Share friends Shenara Jaynes (left) and Rachael Price (right) at the Utah Share Summer Social.

I went to a barbecue last night with my family. We met at a beautiful park. It was windy but the pavilion blocked some of the breeze and there was good food and good company.

After we ate the kids ran off to play games like fishing pond and cone toss. I sat at a table and painted kids faces for a couple of hours.

We laughed, some of us cried – especially the little boy who hated his new dinosaur mask I painted – and we all had a good time.

I didn’t know all of the people who came. I couldn’t tell you half of their names. But my heart has a special place for each of them.

For each person who came to our social last night has lost a little one.

I look forward to the Utah Share Summer Social each year. My kids love the prizes they win and the treats they can snag.

I love being around other parents, grandparents, sibling and aunts of angel babies. Their strength and kindness buoys me up.

I am forever grateful for the friendships I have made through Utah Share. I would never want any of my friends – or my worst enemies – to go through the loss of a child, but I’m grateful that there are those out there who know how it feels. And I’m grateful that we get together occasionally.

Playing games and painting faces doesn’t remove the pain we each have felt or the longing we have to see our angel babies again, but supporting each other and remembering our angels helps.

It helps me heal.

Last Thursday night after my blog on “What If I Hate Being A Mom?” posted, we went to the movie Cinderella at the dollar theater. I’ve wanted to see it for months but my boys didn’t want to go.

I tried to make them go Wednesday night but because they didn’t get their chores done and one of them threw a giant fit, we had to stay home.

I drug them there Thursday and we loved the movie. But afterwards I lied in my bed and cried.

I don’t know if all of you have seen it, but the theme struck me to the core – Have Courage and Be Kind.

I have definitely not had courage and have not been kind.

My new goal is to try a little harder to be a little better.

This week I’m still tired and overwhelmed, but I’m looking for the silver lining.

Last night I whipped out our Good Things Jar. It’s been half a year since we started adding “good things” strips into the glass vase that sits on my husband’s dresser.

I smiled and teared up as I read some of the entries. There aren’t many – we’ve kind of forgotten to document the good – but the ones we have are priceless.

Baseball, basketball and electronics both have their own strips. (Actually electronics has two strips.)

Both my oldest two boys wrote a strip about their school and education. One of them showcased their smarts by spelling supercalagragilisicexbeadlidotios on his strip.

I wrote about when we were able to crawl out onto our backyard ice rink to fill in the snowy holes, when our baby girl was blessed and when we got new kitchen cabinets.

Someone wrote strips each for food, money, and dad’s job.

There are strips for our 3-year-old finally learning to go potty on the toilet and for our baby girl starting to sing.

But there were two strips that tugged at my heartstrings and helped me put my life and my motherhood calling back into perspective.

One strip read – “Such nice parents.”

After all we go through together as a family, after all the nagging, the yelling, the homework time and the chores we make them do, one of my boys still thinks we are nice parents.

I’m going to cherish this strip and pull it out again on a dark day when my kids and I are butting heads.

Finally, the other strip said – A kind Savior.

One of my two oldest boys listed his eldest brother as a good thing. Boy how I felt the impact of that strip when I pulled it out of the jar last night.

Because even if I haven’t had courage or I haven’t been kind, I have hope. Because of that kind Savior I can start over. Because of him I can make it through the “I hates” of motherhood.

He knows how overwhelmed and tired I feel. He knows how inadequate and unworthy I feel. And he knows how to help me make it through. The dirty dishes are not going to magically melt away and I’m not going to suddenly start remembering all the things I need to buy at the grocery store, but through that kind Savior the burden I bear can be made light.

Now I just need to turn to him more often so I can live worthy of the “such nice parents” title.

Here’s to having more courage and being more kind. Here’s to adding more good things into our family jar.

I made a major confession to my husband last week at the end of another long summer day.

“I think I hate being a mom,” I said.

Then I followed up with, “What is wrong with me?”

One of my kids is going through some serious stress and anxiety problems, another keeps peeing on the floor and a third one won’t eat any food. The summer days keep getting longer and my breaks keep getting shorter.

I have officially been a mom for nine years now. While there are countless reasons why I love it, the weight of the things I hate about motherhood is crushing my spirit.

I hate that my oldest two can’t go a day without beating up on each other.

I hate that my three-year-old won’t listen when I call his name.

I hate when my kids complain or argue every time I ask them to do something.

I hate when I find piles of stuff shoved in the bottom of their closet – stuff that I asked them to put away.

I hate clipping fingernails and toenails. Do they ever stop growing? And how can I get my kids to clean dirt from under them? Impossible!

I hate that I always have to have a mental catalog of the exact location of every single item we own so that when someone asks me where it is I’ll know the answer.

I hate always having to think about what we’re going to eat for dinner.

I hate that there is always a sink full of dishes waiting for me.

I hate trying to remember the list of things we have run out of that I need to add to the grocery list.

Aside from vacuuming (which I actually find therapeutic), I hate nearly every major cleaning ritual – dusting, mopping, scrubbing, wiping, you name it!

I hate that my kids keep stepping on my toes. Ouch!

I hate not EVER being alone.

I hate feeling stressed, anxious and worried most of the time.

But above of all, I hate that I hate these things. And that there are many more things I didn’t even mention.

I look at this list and my mom guilt takes over. Why do I hate these things? What is wrong with me? Other moms seem to relish each and every aspect of motherhood. Why can’t I?

I should be grateful for my role. Grateful for the joy I have in being a mother. And deep down I really am.

But right now I’m wallowing in my hates. I’m giving myself a chance to vent – get them all out – then I’ll force myself to get over them.

Because like I mentioned earlier, there are countless things that I love about being a mom. The “loves” list is far longer than the “hates” one. Otherwise my spirit would have been crushed long ago.

I hate the slimy scales, the muddy worms and the stinky powerbait. I hate getting out the hook and worrying that we’ve taken too long tossing it back in. I hate standing on the shore, casting for hours without a bite.

But I love seeing my 8-year-old fish. And so I bear through all the things I hate, because I know he loves it – muddy worms and all.

My oldest son is a natural fisherman. I can’t remember when we started going, but I’ve been taking him fishing since he was a tiny boy. We’ve tried most of the local community fisheries. We’ve caught some big ones, we’ve caught some little ones and sometimes we haven’t caught any.

I’ve taught him all he knows about fishing, and now he’s starting to teach me. During the past year he has really started to get good.

Last week he caught five fish within one hour simply by tossing the line out in the muddy water, holding onto the string and yanking the fish ashore the second they bit.

He can sense where they are and what it will take to snatch them.

It was almost frustrating to be fishing next to him. The other family members would barely get our lines out and he’d be reeling in another one. He caught a bunch and we caught none.

But then again, he’s earned it. He’s made himself somewhat of an expert.

When he was little he would stand for hours at the top of our front-yard hill casting into the street. He could make it all the way across to our neighbor’s yard by the time he was three.

Now that he’s older he watches fishing tutorials online. He’s learned from dozens of YouTube videos how to make minnow traps or design his own lures.

Earlier this summer he spent several days trying to catch something in the sewer drain in the center of our culdesac (I didn’t have the heart to tell him there weren’t any fish down there). Then he set up a fishing pole fix it business. He also tried to sell a couple of our neighbors some fresh worm bait.

Last month he took part in a fishing club at the ponds a few blocks from our house. It was so fun to see his eyes light up when he told us about the fish he caught with his club – especially the Koi that got away. I think he told everyone in our entire neighborhood, family and church about that one.

For $20 he got to do a workshop and then go fishing two nights a week with the club. He learned what type of bait to use, how to clean the fish, etc. Then he got to fish with his friends.

At the end of the club session he won a new pole for catching the longest fish. He was on cloud nine.

It’s so fun to see him passionate about something. Something wholesome. Something he’s good at.

I only wish I felt like he was old enough to fish on his own – Not that I don’t want to go with him, but I don’t always have the time and I’m definitely not patient enough to take him fishing alone with his three other siblings. We have to wait until dad can come too.

When we do go together I get to see him at his best and I love it. He smiles and laughs easily. He jumps up and down and shouts, “I’ve got another one.” And there’s no other place he’d rather be.

So bring on the stinky powerbait and the slimy scales, my son’s got talent and passion and I’m not going to stop him.

My 9-month-old refuses to eat. Solids, that is.

Applesauce. Baby cereal. Yogurt. Ice cream. Whipped Cream. Mashed Potatoes.

You name it, we’ve tried it.

She clamps her lips shut and jerks her head back. She doesn’t want anything to do with real food. She shies away from it like it’s the most disgusting thing she’s ever seen.

At first I was flattered. “She loves my milk!,” I thought.

But it’s been three months since we started spoon feeding her and now I’m starting to get worried.

We’ve tried squeezing her cheeks to part her lips. We’ve tried every helicopter, say, “ahh” trick in the book.

I even had my grandma (aka the baby expert) try to trick her into opening her mouth wide enough to sneak in a bite. But nothing has worked.

Last week she opened her mouth a slit and I shoved in three whole bites of rice cereal. She gagged them down while I cheered.

On Tuesday I squeezed eight tiny sips of Go-Go strawberry applesauce into the tiny crack of her mouth. That was a true victory.

But I’ve got to get her to eat more than eight bites.

It’s not like she won’t open her mouth for other things. She’s happy to chew on the remote control or her brother’s shoe. But put something edible near her and she’s appalled.

My husband thinks it’s a learned defense mechanism. He’s certain she’s started doing it to protect herself from all of the gross, weird things her brothers try to shove into her mouth.

I’m not sure why she’s doing it but I know I’ve got to get her to stop. I’ve never seen anything like this. I keep thinking that someday she’ll be ready. She has a check up next week and I’m going to grill the doctor for get-my-baby-to-eat tips.

Hopefully something will work soon. Otherwise I’ll end up nursing a 10-year-old.

We are all tough and brave at our house until someone spots a snake. That’s when my fearless tough guys scream like girls and run terrified.

My boys are snake experts, they think. The first week of summer we checked out a book on reptiles so they could study different species. They devoured the book, memorizing sizes, scale designs, slither patterns and who know what else.

Then they started making big plans for tricks and traps. We went down to the local ponds and they put their designs to work.

My oldest and his friend built a trap out of old plastic wire. They dug a hole, put in the trap and filled it with sticky weeds and dead worms. They left it on the pond’s edge and we headed down the trail, watchful for snakes.

My boys wandered through the tall grass and plants near the trail scrambling to find a snake. They looked near logs. They looked near rocks. And they looked near a tiny pond we found in the middle of the trail.

They were ready. One of them wore a baseball helmet, the other a fake raccoon skin hat. Both slung packs over their shoulders with snake hunting equipment like -pocket knives and the reptile book – inside.

But no matter how ready they were, and no matter how much they wanted to spot a snake, they were disappointed when we left the ponds empty handed.

I secretly was thrilled. What were we going to do if we found one anyway?

While, we were about to find out. It ended up being a completely different experience than my oldest two boys imagined.

My husband and I were working in the yard when we heard frantic screams coming from the front of our house. Quickly my oldest ran to find us, shouting that he had found a snake in our front yard.

He was winded and he was terrified. Through his sobs, he could barely tell us what was going on. Based on all he had read in his reptile book, he was certain he had found a baby rattlesnake.

We ran to the snake-spotting site and found the small reptile curled under the green power box in the corner of our yard. My husband helped my boys and their two cousins crouch on the ground to see if they could snatch in from the box.

But none of the kids were reaching inside. They were still terrified that the baby rattler would get them.

I’ll never forget my boys and their cousins flat on their tummies scanning that electrical box for the snake. Occasionally one of them would scream and dart away, certain the snake was heading straight for them.

Thank heavens dad was home.

He pulled the snake out with a shovel and we tossed it in a big orange bucket. But it started snaking its way out.

That’s when my oldest son’s snake hunting instincts finally kicked in. He grabbed the slimy guy with his gloved hand and held it close to its head (so it couldn’t bite him;) ).

We didn’t keep it in a cage and feed it worms. We didn’t kill it. We didn’t do any of things my boys planned to do to a snake before that afternoon we went hunting at the ponds.

With the snake held proudly at arms length, my 8-year-old marched it down to the ponds and set it free.

Right before its release, my six-year-old mustered up enough courage to touch and hold the snake too. But no one else wanted anything to do with it.

We all cheered as it slowly slithered away.

So now we know what might really happen if we catch a snake at the ponds. We probably won’t toss it in a plastic wire cage. We probably won’t snatch it up with our bare hands. And you know we won’t go anywhere near it if it’s a rattlesnake.

I’m guessing we’ll all scramble the other way while screaming like little girls – my boys included.

Oh and for the record, our snake friend wasn’t a baby rattler – just a small garter.

I am giving up on something I have clung to for most of my life.

Sleeping in.

Why?

Because the first two weeks of summer break nearly killed me. I stressed, I yelled and I wore myself out trying to balance all the chaos in my life.

With my two oldest boys home during the day I had virtually NO time alone. I daydreamed of cloning myself or growing a few more sets of arms.

Between keeping my littles busy and my house from looking like a tornado swept through it I had very little time and energy to spare.

So I started something new. I actually crawled out of bed BEFORE my kids. I have seen the 6 a.m. hour each day this week.

And I have loved it.

No, I haven’t loved missing out on some much-needed extra sleep (especially on the days following sleepless, multiple nursing-session nights) but I have loved the time I have spent to myself.

I have worked on pulling weeds in my backyard.

I have listened to the news.

I read a little and I studied some Italian.

Things I used to only wish I had time to do.

The extra hour or so I have had in the morning has given me time to do things I love but always push aside when other things seem more pressing.

I have been able to better enjoy my time with my kids because I have already spent time to myself before they ever awake.

I don’t know how long I’ll keep this early-bird thing up. (If you know me at all, you know that I LOVE sleeping in.) Getting up early may be a fluke thing that lasts only a few more days. And I may sleep in again in the fall when school is back in session and I have afternoon naptime to be alone.

But then again I maybe I’ll stay this way. So far, giving myself time alone to do things I enjoy has been more important than the few extra zzzs I’m missing out on.