Funny kid things

Earlier this week, I made a 10 minute attempt to commence potty-training with little Bud. When I trained Miller, I followed the advice of a book that advised parents to keep the emphasis on the child staying CLEAN and DRY, and to this end had the parent and child pick a specific baby doll to simultaneously train in staying clean and dry. Well, Robert and I put a pair of his big-boy undies on a blue puppy dog, one of several animals and toys that sleep with him. After two back-to-back episodes of not clean and oh-not-so-dry, I decided to throw in the towel. So much for perseverance, and anyway, he's only two and a half. Well, I took the undies off the blue dog before nap time, and Robert strongly objected, so I put them back on. When I went in to get him after his nap, he had transferred the underwear to... his new Batman helicopter.

A few days ago, Robert walked up to me and announced, "Miller born...stable."

Miller had to climb down from her chair at dinner to tell me a secret. She needs to tell me about three secrets during every meal, and they almost always involve Libba's upcoming birthday. Tonight, she whispered, "Libba is going to have a birthday next week and she's going to be 61. For her birthday, one of her friends is going to come over to her house. Her friend's name is Caroline. Sometimes they call her: Carolina...North."

A major difference between Miller and Robert: Anytime Miller gets hurt, even if it's the slightest boo-boo imaginable, her answer to, "Are you okay?" is always, "NO." Robert can come very close to busting his head open, and will immediately jump up and say, "I'm okay! I'm okay!" I relate more to Miller, and milk situations for all they're worth, but I really admire Robert's optimism. All day long, I hear him walking into doors, banging his head, falling off beds, slip-sliding into walls as he rounds corners too quickly, and then, "I'm okay!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Christmas Highlights

Santa Claus, or Anna Claus as Robert calls him, brought my kids great gifts this year: Miller a play kitchen and Robert a train table. I thought they'd go nuts over them. I thought they'd be over-the-top excited when they followed the familiar path down Janny and Jeffy's stairs into the den, a path trodden by Brent and me until we were WAY too old to still be getting visits from Santa. Andrew and I, Bubba and Chicky, and Janny and Jeffy filed in ahead of them and waited in anticipation for the moment when they would lay eyes on the gifts of their dreams. And when they did...neither acknowledged them. They casually walked over to their stockings and began to look through those instead. Robert immediately found a pack of M&M's and some orange tic tacs, and spent a majority of the next hour either eating, dropping, looking for, or crying because he couldn't find, his tic tacs. Many people have asked him the last few days, "What did Santa bring you?" His answer - "Tandy. And a twain table." OR "Tick Tocks. And a twain table." I was a little disappointed. Andrew spent every bit of 4.5 hours assembling the kitchen, and the logistics of getting it, the twain table, and all the rest of the gifts and luggage to Montgomery were mind-boggling. Thankfully, though, the kids have enjoyed their big gifts, and small gifts, and even more, the memories of opening everyone else's gifts.

I've been thinking a lot about my Christmas memories. It's been such a perfect time of year, my whole life, complete with many nights cuddled up reading by the twinkling tree and toasty fireplace, nice gifts, nativity sets, Christmas carols, trips to see Christmas lights and decorations, and a mother who made the whole month...perfect. Every time she called me during December, she said in her trademark cheerful voice, "HO HO HO!!!" She made her house lovely, made the tree and gifts look like something out of a magazine, and made my favorite things to eat. She made it as warm and memorable as it could be. The torch has now passed to her domestically-challenged daughter to make warm memories. Hmmmm...

My highlights of the week:
- Snuggling with Robert in the early morning, since we shared a room with him for a few nights. He'd wake up, realize he wasn't alone, and climb out of his bed to come snuggle/kiss/tackle/kick me. It was blissful.
- Andrew letting me sleep late at his parents' house Saturday morning. When I woke up and walked in the kitchen, Miller appeared and said, "Mom, get you some coffee. Come on in the den. Everyone is so excited you're awake!"
- Having Bubbba and Chicky arrive first thing Christmas morning, and hearing Brent read the gospel account of Jesus' birth. He reads it every year, and it's pretty special to remember how he sounded reading it as a little boy (pronouncing Caesar Augustus "Say-zi-ar Au-goose-tus") and hearing him now, as a man.
- Eating/drinking my mom's custard, Mana's recipe
- Seeing my kids and their sweet cousins together, especially their miked performances of Christmas songs in the lodge. Reminded me of a million fun times with my own cousins.
- Spending time with the Murray clan, and realizing Andrew's family has truly become like my own through the years
- Discovering Wii. Andrew and I rocked Guitar Hero.

Favorite gifts:
Robert: Tick Tocks, a Batman helicopter with which he's now sleeping, sock monkey, hand-me-down Dinsoaur, and a sticky Boots.
Miller: kitchen, ballerina costume, Cinderella doll, light-up princess skirt, and a cheerleader doll that talks (gifted by Anderson. The actual cheer, no kidding, is:
I stomp my feet,
I boogie to the beat,
I turn around,
I touch the ground,
I wiggle it,
just a little bit.
Thankfully, she doesn't know what "it" is, though she certainly knows how to wiggle IT.)

Christmas Eve

"Come to earth to taste our sadness, He whose glories knew no end.
By his life he brings us gladness, our Redeemer, Shepherd, Friend.
Leaving riches without number, born within a cattle stall
This the everlasting wonder: Christ was born the Lord of all."

(verse 3, "Come, thou Long Expected Jesus")

I've sung this hymn for many years, and I know I must have sung this verse before, but it seems brand new to me this year. I'm finding that I think of the night Jesus was born in a way that is likely nothing like the night he was born. My reflections mirror book illustrations I've seen so long of the silent night. The wonder and mystery of God's plan of redemption are starting to seep through my calloused mind full of images of Mary clean and smiling, baby cooing, an illuminated stable that actually looks warm and cozy. I've been thinking this year about my own experience giving birth, in a sterile hospital, and marveling that God sent our King from Glory, from "riches without number", to be born of a woman in time and history, in a dirty stable with no bed, to "taste our sadness" on earth, to suffer and die to win us. I heard someone the other night say what a humble place the stable in Bethlehem was. The God of all creation sent his Son in the most humble way imaginable. I can't believe this was His plan. His love for us must be unimaginable.

We took Miller and Robert to a communion/candlelight service at Frazer church tonight. Robert made it about 15 minutes before being escorted out. I gave the kids a sucker shortly into the service, my great idea for keeping them from talking the whole time. Well, they didn't suck their suckers. They chomped on them so loudly that it seemed the sanctuary was filled with the sound of hard sugar ruining teeth, until the louder noise of Robert saying, "AW MAN...AW MAN!" drowned out the crunching sound as he realized his sucker was nearing the end. Miller enjoyed singing familiar hymns and seeing the dark room fill with candlelight. I hope one day she'll begin to understand the immense love of the Light of the World, and the wonder of the words we believe to be true: "Christ was born the Lord of all!"

Addiction

I've had no internet access at my house for a week and a half, and I've been in serious withdrawal, almost to the point of tremors and nausea. Besides not being able to email, or blog, I couldn't mapquest directions to a birthday party this past Saturday, check the weekend forecast on weather.com, look up a phone number on whitepages.com, search my gmail for a recipe stored there, shop for Christmas gifts online, search for our Advent coloring pictures stored in gmail, check craigslist.com for newly listed tacky junk, or play animal noises for Robert from nationalgeographic.com. Andrew brought his computer home last night for the first time for me to use, and I finally got my fix after about two hours. I wish I wasn't so dependent on the internet. I wish I was relieved at being forced to withdraw from it for a time. But, relief has only come as I glide my fingertips over this little keyboard once more and type in addresses that begin with w....w....w.

My kids see me on the computer way too much. A couple of nights ago, Miller called me back into her room for about the fifth time of the evening and said, "Could you send Libba an email for me?"

I keep trying to take a 2008 Christmas picture, even though I'm not sending out cards this year. Robert is making things very difficult during every photo op. See above.

Jesus and Santa Claus

While the primary emphasis at our house right now is the birth of Christ, all the Christmas traditions of the USA make our focus a little fuzzy for Millie. A mother-daughter conversation from yesterday:

M: Guess what Jesus turned into when he grew up? A christmas tree!
L: I don't think so.
M: Yes, he did.
L: Okay.

Miller made up a song about Christmas this morning and told me Libba had taught it to her. She sang of Jesus, Bethlehem, and Santa Claus, and the chorus went:

Mine was pregnant
Mine was pregnant
Mine was pregnant
Mine was pregnant

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.