Jeffy Poo

December 1st is significant; it's my daddy's birthday. We went fishing together a couple of months ago at the River. It was early in the morning, and the world and water around us were quiet and still except for the occasional splash of a fish. After being out there for a while, I put my rod down and sat and watched him for a few minutes. I was looking up at his profile, lean, tall, and strong, cap perched a little too high on his head, watching the familiar motions of his casting and reeling, and participating in the familiar smart-aleck banter we always engage in while fishing. I would have given my right arm to have had a camera. It would have been such a perfect picture, representative of a million similar moments with him in the outdoors, moments when I felt almost perfectly safe, and perfectly happy. As quiet and unassuming as he is, his presence and influence in my life are gigantic, and all the moments I'm with him have a way of filling me up to the brim.

When I was young, as many little girls do, I thought he was the perfect man. As I got older, I realized he's as imperfect as all of us. He has a bad temper, is a sore loser at games, can't/won't say he's sorry, and this isn't an exhaustive list of his imperfections. But can an imperfect man still be a perfect dad? I think so. My whole life, I never remember being with him and wondering if he'd rather be somewhere else. He gave up his dreams of making music as a career to provide for his family, but I've never heard him mention that, or act like he minded. He's worked hard, every day, at work and at home, my whole life. He's almost never idle. He carefully and conservatively weighed decisions concerning me, and all of us, and I'm sure he made poor ones, but I can't think of any. He took me and Brent along and taught us about the things he loved, hunting and fishing, and music. He spent countless hours playing his guitar with me, and singing, and he always let me pick the songs if I wanted to. He still does. He listens when I ramble, and though his responses are incredibly brief, I know he cares about what I've said. Any gift he's ever bought me, whether I like it much or not, I've treasured and guarded with my life, just because it's from him, or at least, because mom said it was from him.

I've tried before to write a tribute to him, but my songwriting skills are pitiful, and my songs always sound something like, "I had a shoe. It was blue. I love my dad. He's what I have." I want a way to capture who he is to me, but my words come up short. But in spite of my lame skills and the humiliation I'm likely to feel an hour after I post this, here's the chorus of a song I wrote for him a few years ago. I want the whole world, or at least the handful of people who read this blog, to know what a special day this is, and what a special man Jeff Botsford is.

You gave up the band but I hope you can see-
the best song you wrote is the one about me.
A song about family, a song about sacrifice,
I can't sing the tune, but I hear it inside.

Miller quotes and caramel cake

Last night, I asked Miller if she would rub my feet.
"No", she said.
In an embarrassing effort to manipulate her, I said, "If you asked me to rub your feet, I would do it for you."
"Okay, here," she said. And she kicked off her pink crocs, pulled off her sweaty socks, and stuck her little feet right in my lap.

The kids were playing in the front yard today, so I carried some chicken out that I had just cooked and needed to shred. Miller came right over to sit by me, and I began telling her that I had cooked it too long, it was a little dry, I was a little disappointed, etc. Then, in reference to the dry chicken, I said, "Oh well, what are you gonna do?" She proceeded to tell me just what she was gonna do. "Robert and I are going to go pick some berries and take them in our little house....." I guess I won't use the "no use crying over spilled milk" line with her anytime soon.

I just finished making a caramel cake for Thanksgiving weekend. My JJ made caramel cakes my whole life, and baking mine today made my heart and mind swell with remembrances of her, as many things do - her hands: I can picture her hands exactly, the way they shook a little bit as she measured out the ingredients when she cooked; her face: I can vividly remember the way she looked when she dipped her fingertip in for a taste, brow furrowed as she discerned whether it was exceptional or only really good. I saw her stand in her kitchen or ours one hundred times making this cake, and in her last years with us, I asked her to show me how to make it. We only made it once, and I wrote down the directions as we went along, trying to be true to her exact method. My recipe, therefore, is vague and slightly hard to follow, and says many things like: Stir the sugar until it's brown, not too brown. Add a good teaspoon of vanilla. Stir HARD until the icing gets thick, not too thick. Apparently, there are lots of ways to mess up a caramel cake, and it's an unspoken rule among the women in my family who make it that you can never admit it's perfect. You have to say it's sticky, or the icing is cracked, even though everyone knows that icing made from butter, sugar, and evaporated milk is good no matter what.

My cake turned out okay, not quite brown enough, but the memories were delectable.

Play-Doh Pancakes

I have a friend who keeps her play-doh neat and separated; it drives her crazy when different colors get mashed together. At the risk of giving her a heart attack, I'm posting a picture of play-doh playtime at our house. Miller makes meals out of mashed together play-doh, and clean up takes about 2 hours. A few minutes before I took this picture, I let the kids play unsupervised while I jumped in the shower. Apparently, Miller made play-doh pancakes, and apparently, Robert messed them up. She came running back into the bathroom, yelling, "Mama! Robert tore my pancake! That is unacceptable, because I don't want him to do that." Instead of feeling sorry about the pancake, all I could think was - did my daughter just say, "unacceptable"? I wonder who uses that word for her behavior way, WAY too often?

One little, two little, three little cutie pies

This morning, Andrew and I experienced a rite of passage for parents of preschoolers: the school program. The three-year-old classes from Miller's Mother's Day Out performed a short Thanksgiving musical this morning. I thought it would be really cute. As it turns out, it was totally freaking adorable, and Andrew and I beamed with as much pride as if Miller had won an Olympic gold medal. While watching my sweetie pie sing and do hand motions for songs like "If I were a Butterfly", which I sang as a preschooler, it occurred to me that four might be the most unique age we've been through with her. As she walked up on stage, Miller still looked like such a little girl, but also like a big girl, and she's doing such big girl things now; the juxtaposition of little and big keeps me constantly surprised and on my toes. She's funny and smart and interested in cooking, music, and getting dressed by herself. She notices if I'm more dressed up than usual, and comments on it. We look at each other and laugh many times a day at the hilarious or outrageous things Robert does. On the other hand, she still wants me to hold her a lot, she still gets hurt all the time, and she's likely to burst into tears when things don't go her way, or when she's tired. I have to be careful not to assume I know what's coming next, or I begin to expect her to act older than she can. She's four. Some cute four-year-old quotes from the past week:

She brought me a little Christmas box that plays "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" and said: Can you turn on, "Mary had a little Christmas"?

I asked if she had eaten all of her toast, and she replied, "I ate a LOT of ton."

This last one is my favorite. I always worry that Miller will only remember the negative things about me, the words I spoke in impatience or anger, etc., but today she came in the kitchen and said to me, in her own little way and wording, some of the things I communicate to her often. "I love you, mommy. I'm thankful for you. God made you."

A confusing bedtime story

Excerpts from "Baby Farm Animals"

Baby Cats are called kittens...At night the farmer gives them cow's milk...

R: Where da cow go? Where da cow go?

L: There's no cow in this picture, bud. It's just talking about the cow's milk.

Baby Rabbit...sniffs noses with the kittens and puppies...

R: Where da puppy go? Where da puppy go?

L: There's no puppy on this page. It's just telling us that the Rabbit and puppy are friends.

M: Libba has a puppy. It's brown.

Baby Chickens are called chicks. "Mother says we must look for worms and..."

R: Where da worms? Where da worms?

Baby Dogs are called puppies. They pretend that a shoe is a big cat. They...

R: Where da cat?

M: Do you know what Libba's puppy's name is? Ginavese.

In addition to having birthdays all the time, Libba gets hurt all the time. Not just scraped and bruised, but really hurt, as though Miller is constantly thinking of the worst case scenario and applying it to Libba's poor imaginary body. Tonight's injury topped all its predecessors:

"Do you know what happened to Libba's bottom? It busted open."

Torn

Several people close to me are being affected in gigantic ways by this economy. It's as though they've had a photograph in their minds of what life is going to look like, and that picture is being torn down the middle. It's sad, overwhelming, stressful, and scary, and seeing them go through it is...sad, overwhelming, stressful, and scary. I've been in a study this fall in which a recent topic has been God's immutability. He doesn't change, ever. He never changes. He's the same yesterday, today, and forever. And though this world changes all the time, and is changing in huge ways for many, the One who made it, and them, is as He has been from all eternity: good. merciful. loving. And these changes he's allowing, even the tearing of their pictures, and maybe especially the tearing of their pictures, and mine, are mysteriously good, merciful, and loving. But my heart is still heavy tonight as I weep with those who weep, and worry with those who worry. I love knowing that He's not worrying.

"...Who does not change like shifting shadows." James 1:17

Mr. Independent's New Line

Don't ever try to help Robert open anything or put on anything, or tie anything, or untie anything, or get down from or up to anywhere, or you will hear the line:

I do it my byself. I do it my bySELF!!!!!!!!!!

"Am I Four?"

It's official. The birthday Milller has been talking about since she turned three has come and gone, and I now have a four-year-old. I kept feeling very emotional about her birthday in the day or two leading up to it, remembering the night before and the day she was born, thinking about how much she's grown, how rich our lives are because of her, and how beautiful, wonderful, delightful, and perfect she is.

As God would have it, her birthday falls the day after Halloween, and she had not gone to sleep until after 10 the night before. So a little of the wonderful-ness and delightful-ness was not present on birthday morning. Just as well for this weeper as I got ready to host Miller's first ever real, away from the house, birthday party.

I'm not good at event planning, and though this party involved nothing more than cupcakes, balloons, and a candy hunt at our church's pavilion and playground, one would have thought I was planning her wedding. I had Andrew picking up balloons and mom bringing the birthday girl and brother while I arrived early at the church to set up. We could have almost filled the parking lot with just our cars. My wonderful mother-in-law, sister-in-law, and brother-in-law all arrived early, and instead of welcoming them with a smile and hug like a good little hostess, I began barking orders like a drill sergeant. Ben and Maria! Hide the candy!! Betsy! Put out the cupcakes! No! Not there! On the cake plate! Andrew! You're here! Hold the balloons! Grab the drinks! Wipe the dew off the slides! Stop talking to your family and help me!!!!

In spite of me, the party actually ended up being fun, thanks to all the precious friends who made the effort to come. The birthday girl seemed to enjoy herself, though she refused most photo op's and sat in a trance-like state eating a KitKat while we sang "Happy Birthday" to her. Today, several people asked her what she did for her birthday. Her answer? "I don't know." So, I can't say for sure that it was memorable, but I can say I learned one important and profound thing: Next year, I should rent out a place where all I have to do is bring a cake.

Robert, by the way, LOVED the party and definitely remembers it. The word "party" encompasses many things for him, and he referred to the cupcakes as "party", as in, "I need my party!! I need my party!!", while reaching his grimy hand for yet another party.

Comparisons

I read an article recently suggesting that parents should give their children praise that's realistic. The author recounted seeing a couple with their toddler at a park. Each time the child went down the slide, the parents said, "You're the best little slider in the whole wide world!", or something to that effect. The author commented that the parents were setting the child up for disappointment in school, when a teacher would no longer tell him that he was the "best little" anything; it would be better to say, "We love seeing you go down the slide." "Going down the slide looks like so much fun when you do it, " etc..

I saw some merit in this advice from Dr. Expert, so I've tried to implement it. If Robert shows me some purple scribble, I'll sometimes say, "Wow, bud, that's really purple." It seems to satisfy my kids, and I've felt like I was smart in saying these things, preparing them for a world that will likely never be filled with the highest remarks of praise for everything they do. Well, the other night, Miller and I had a little dance party in our den/computer room, which has glass doors and windows along one wall. We were dancing our little hearts out when she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glass and stopped moving. "I'm not very good at dancing."

EXCUSE ME????? My heart sank. How does an almost four-year-old even know what counts as good dancing? Is she already comparing herself to others? How does she know she's not good at it? To be honest, to say that she's not a good dancer would be an understatement. Robert seems to have both the rhythm and the coordination in the family.

So, did I follow the advice of that silly Dr. Expert? Bleep no! I lied through my teeth! And I'm glad I did. "You're a GREAT dancer," I said, and we kept shaking what our mama's gave us.

This pic is of Miller and her friend, Lainey, pretending to sing at church. Thankfully, as you can see, Miller has full confidence in her ability to sing in a pretend choir.