Four Years

From just hours old...

...to such a big girl in just moments

(at least it feels that way).

Because I promised...

I promised Ruth I would post pictures of Tessa's Birthday cake. It is a sad one for sure, one of my worst, but that's what you get when you don't start baking til 4PM and the mold you choose unexpectedly takes over an hour to bake.

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I got going on the decor at (choke) six, and so Tinker Bell (the painted hussy) looks quite like an accident victim before reconstructive surgery (and before Weight Watcher's). But now I know how to make my own fondant that tastes WAY better than the store bought kind, and Tessa didn't seem to care!

For the fondant, melt 16 oz of marshmallows with about a teaspoon or two of water in the micro, and then stir in 2 pounds of SIFTED powdered sugar a cup at a time. By the end you will need to use WELL greased hands (in fact, just grease EVERYTHING before you start), and knead till smooth and not sticky. Store in plastic. Add a few drops of water if it gets dry while you work with it.

Then enjoy!

I can't bear to show the "after". It was too gross.

I often write of Tessa, because she is my little pal, shadow and companion while the kids are away at school. I appreciate her tender heart and her unabashed adoration of me. She is suddenly growing up so fast, and I feel her moving away from me into the big world that extends beyond my little kingdom of dust bunnies and laundry piles. She wants to be with friends more often these days. She wants to be a big girl, independent and grown up. I will soon miss the days of her endless cuddles and spontanous hugs, as they are replaced by other interests that don't include me.

I am grateful to be her mom. The day she was born was a blessed day, as is each day she is in my life.

Tervetuloa Voileipäpöytään!

For our wedding, Guy and I received (count ‘em) 15 platters. It was my fault. When we went to register for gifts (back in the day before you could register at cheep-o places like Wal-mart and Home Depot... heck, I would have LOVED to register at Home Depot! Who needs potholders and pillowcases when you can get power tools?), I had a melt down over having to pick my own gifts. I mean, $150 for ONE china place setting? Seriously? So we called my mom from a pay phone at Macy’s (also before cell phones… and electricity) and I blubbered that I couldn’t be so materialistic.

So, instead of getting what we needed, we got platters.

Oh, and no toaster.

It turns out, we needed them - the platters. We like to entertain.

In fact, Guy’s ability to host a great evening of entertainment was one of the things that set the hook in this little fish. He asked me out to dinner for our first date. I didn’t catch on that he was asking me out on an actual date, and sort of ended up laughing at him. It took a whole month for me to work him into asking me out a second time. This time, he invited me to a homemade Finnish dinner. It was amazing. It was the start of something wonderful (read that post here).

Last month we planned dinner with our friends Dave and Steph, Kathy and Bishop J. Dave made us a fabulous French dinner (ever heard of Raspberry Butter? Yum!). This month was our turn, and for only the second time since that wonderful first date, Guy broke out the cardamom and rye flour and created culinary magic like only he can.

Now, I am a really rotten friend. I was so excited about the food, from the moment the first tray of Pulla came out of the oven, that I ran for the camera and lost all sense of decorum.

I took pictures of food. Yup, only the food. I did not, however, take any pictures of our friends, Kathy, Wayne (affectionately known as "Bishop"), David and Stephanie. (Bad, bad friend!)

I hope the meal was so wonderful that they will
forgive me for it.

How all delicious things begin... Guy started preparations for this dinner days before making Sima, a fizzy drink.
Next came the pastries...

Guy making Riisipiirakat (or Rice Moccasins, as I call them, because when I try to say that other crazy thing he laughs at me. Every time. So mean).

But isn't he cute?

You have no idea how wonderful the kitchen smells when Pulla comes out of the oven.

Rice Moccasins are made of a rye dough stuffed with savory rice, milk and butter, baked and served with egg butter (hard boiled eggs and butter, blended). Heaven. But the best part is their artistry. Aren't they gorgeous?

A warmly lit table set with the makings for Voileipä, sandwiches on rye bread or Finncrisp crackers, served with butter, sweet dill cucumbers, tomatoes, red peppers and amazing cheeses.

He made Kalakeitto (fish and potato chowder) that

I am told was lovely.

It had butter and cream in it. I don't do fish,

so I'll take their word for it.

Clockwise, starting with food you recognize: boiled potatoes, Punajuurisalaatti (beet salad with cream), Porkkanalaatikko (rice and carrot casserole), Rice Moccasins with egg butter, and finally Lihapyörykät (meat balls made with...drum roll... cream!).

And finally, dessert. Kiisseli, also known as Sekahedelmäkeitto (kind of a cold fruit soup with, of course, cream) and Laskiaispullat -Pulla buns stuffed with creamed almond paste, butter and... whipped cream!

We had to call 911 right after dinner.

OK, Kathy and Bishop, it's you're turn next.

We'll bring the butter and cream.

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Special thanks to my Sweetie for the meal and all the impossibly long Finnish words in this post!

Voi Että!

(an exclamation which I just learned ironically translates (get this) directly to: "Butter that!")

Finding the meaning in Easter

My mom loved Easter.

I remember her taking her ancient singer sewing machine and, though she wasn’t a seamstress, figuring out how to make matching Easter dresses for us little girls in a light blue scratchy fabric. I couldn’t wait till mine was done.

I remember her helping us to make Easter baskets. One year we wrapped tons of embroidery floss around balloons and then dipped them in starch. When they dried we popped the balloons and trimmed the shell to become a basket. Another year we made cotton ball bunny baskets out of a ½ gallon milk carton, and another year we made edible baskets out of meringue. She even made Jello Easter eggs.

Once I got up in the night from a bad dream while she was “helping” the Easter Bunny fill our baskets. When she saw me she told me “he” had heard me coming and was hiding behind the big chair. He was running late and she had needed to help him, but I must hurry to bed so that he could get on his way. I am sure I saw the tips of his ears poking out over the top of the chair.

I have wanted to create for my children some of these sweet memories, but I somehow always fall behind. I tell myself next year things won’t be so hectic, but they always are. Last year we didn’t even dye eggs. I was determined this year would be different.

My favorite memory, Mom's Jello eggs, was first on my list. It was the only time in my childhood when someone was ever jealous of something in my school lunch. I drilled open the tops of plastic eggs, made the mix according to the jigglers directions on the box, and was feeling very proud. Till the eggs began leaking. I wanted to call mom and ask what she did to get hers to work, but she is gone. I decided to tape the seams of the eggs, but because I have four children I HAVE NO TAPE. Ever. Unless you count painters tape. Which I used, unsuccessfully.

Next I set up our egg dyeing. I tried to create the happy family in Martha Stewart Living magzine - making beautiful, ornate and perfect eggs. I planned for four eggs each, but even with extras, several cracked, leaving us short. The colors got mixed. Some didn’t really work. The kids got frustrated. A few eggs got dropped, bringing tears. Don’t get me wrong; there were moments when things were happy and fun, but it certainly wasn’t perfect.

Undaunted, though very tired, I kissed Guy goodbye as he and Ethan headed to a church men’s conference, and set out to make cupcakes. I threw sprinkles in to the batter to make it look Eastery. I planned to make the cupcakes look like little baskets. I would top them with green frosting and little candy eggs. Oh, dang. I forgot the candy, not just for the cupcakes, but for the baskets for the kids as well.

Not to worry, there must be a way to make something, I told myself. I got out my mother’s tattered Betty Crocker cookbook and found the perfect recipe, made the dough, and had the kids rolling tiny little colored eggs in no time. The five children we were to babysit that night arrived and soon all eight kids were washed and helping. I was fading, but trying to remain idealistic.

8PM. Cupcakes done. Eggs dyed. Jello setting (in a pool, under the shells).

Oh, yeah, dinner. I kinda forgot about that.

8:30 PM. Leftovers. I settled the cupcakes nostalgically on my mother’s china platter. Guy finally came home (thankfully, with Easter candy) at nine. The cupcakes were gone before he even saw them.

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Mom seemed so good at these things. But maybe my memory is foggy, and maybe she didn’t try to do them all in one day. And perhaps I am not remembering the most important things about mom. Mom loved other things about Easter. She loved the stories of Easter, and the pages of her bible that held them were as worn as her old cookbook. She opened our minds to the possibilities of things greater than ourselves, of worlds beyond this world, and to eternal reasons for goodness that transcend those that compel us when we focus only on ideals or moments.

Today was Easter. As a family we gathered for church conference and listened to lessons on faith and charity. Later we tried the failed Jello eggs, and laughed, slurping jello chunks out of the plastic shell halves. We celebrated a belated birthday for Guy by giving him the presents we had not had means to finish the week before. We shared dinner with dear friends and hunted for eggs indoors to the sound of the rain. At dinner we played a game which had us ask each other questions. One question asked, “Who is someone that you sorely miss?”

“My mom,” I said. “She loved Easter.”

“I miss her, too.” Guy agreed, a little teary. “She was a fun mother-in-law.”

I felt closer to her than I have in years.

The message of Easter is one of new life and new beginnings. It is one of renewal. It is a message of hope; that we are still connected to those who have gone before us. I don’t believe that this moment in time, this blink in eternity that we call life is all that there is. I believe the soul is eternal as well.

I look forward to being with my mom again one day, and though it won’t matter by then, (because it really doesn’t even matter now), I can ask her for her secret to perfect jello eggs.

Hi Friday Followers! and "Quote of the Century"

Thanks for stopping by! Have fun looking around. If you enjoy my writing feel free to follow, but please don't feel obligated. I am not into "gathering followers", but sure love to connect with other writer-moms who inspire me!

(Ellie, age 4, with the faint glisten of snot under-nose)
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About 2 years ago, before Ellie discovered the value of selective silence (oh, wait, we are still waiting for that), I found a large, green, crusty booger on the wall outside of her room,

about 18 inches from the ground.

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I called an inquisition.

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"Who's nasty ol' booger is this?" I demanded in my best don't-mess-with-mama voice.

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I was answered with a chorus of "Not me!!!!"s.

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"Now, some one is lying." I divined. "I didn't do it, and daddy didn't do it, so it must have been one of you."

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Above the din of denials, there arose the indignant voice of Miss Ellie.

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"Well, I know it wasn't me," she stated in bold confidence.

"I eat all my boogers!"

Invited

It occurred to me that in my life I have regularly experienced something that to me is quite common place, yet that to others might seem very peculiar. I have had four children, one born by cesarean in a hospital, and three born naturally -at home. Their births are among my most treasured memories.

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We are preparing now for another homebirth. Today we had a prenatal visit with my midwife. Let me paint the picture, first, in contrast.

For a hospital/OB birth, prenatal visits are scheduled with a nurse. You arrive, check in, and pee in a cup. After waiting to be seen, you surrender said cup to a different nurse, and are weighed and have blood pressure taken in the hallway as folks walk by. Then you enter the cool, tile floored exam room, climb up on the exam table (sometimes in a lovely paper frock) and wait a while longer. The OB comes in (one you may or may not have ever met before), and you abandon the AARP magazine you found behind the Dr. Suess books in the rack. Your belly is measured. Your baby’s heart tones are listened to. Perhaps there is some discussion over discomforts and weight gain. If there is time, you might ask a question or two, -that is if the questions are not too embarrassing- or if you are not getting signals that time is up. You sort through your head to the most pressing questions, dismissing others as “silly” or deciding to check on them later online. You are told what tests you need. You get a paper -with a smiling pregnant women eating an apple on it- that tells you all of the things that can possibly go wrong this month in your gestation, and you head to the front desk to make your next appointment with a third nurse for 6 weeks from now.

Now, let me invite you to my prenatal this morning (because I have the capacity for time travel, and so do you).

My midwife, Claudette, calls to say she is on her way. I tidy my room. When she arrives she calls a cheery hello from the porch and the kids run to let her in. Hugs go around. She wishes Ellie a belated happy birthday (she remembers because she was there) and comments that Tessa birthday is coming up (she was there, too, and somehow remembers the date after delivering 1,500 babies). She and Guy hug hello. It is so good to see our friend.

We chat about the crazy weather as she sets up her equipment on the dresser in my room. She hands me the test strips for my urine and sends me off to check it for myself while she and Guy visit. I compare the test strip against the chart, and see that all is mostly-well, but I could stand to be drinking a lot more water. I tell her so. She looks at the strip, agrees, and marks it down on her chart.

Next we take my blood pressure, and discuss the difference from the last visit. "It's a little higher than usual" I remark. "That's because you were running around cleaning up before I got here" she teases. But it's not to high, she assures. She asks about my blood sugar (we know it will go high soon as it has in the past, and she offers to give me the glucometer early so that I can begin monitoring myself). We chat about my diet and excercise. I know the drill, and Claudette knows me well enough to know there isn’t cause to micro-manage me or interrogate me. I have done diabetes four times now. We test my blood sugar and iron, right there on the bed. Things look good.

Then we call in the kids so that they can hear the baby’s heartbeat. As they gather, Claudette measures my belly to check the baby’s growth. 21+ cm. Right on target. The baby’s heartbeat is easy to find, and she listens in several places on my belly. She jokes that there are two or three in there, but then says, no, just one. “Besides,” she says “when you had your ultrasound at 9 weeks, they only saw one.” “Yes,” I reply “but the first time they said they saw no baby at all. I don't put much stock in their track record for accuracy.”

The kids listen to the happy thumps and smile. “That’s our baby in there!” I tell them.

Claudette moves the doplar. “That’s the placenta there” she says, pointing out the difference in the sound. I ask about heart defects, and she tells me how a heart might sound if it had a problem, then compares that to the sounds of a healthy heart. All seems well for now.

The kids trot off, and I share with her my fears of birth defects, risks, or cord problems, and questions of whether I should have further testing. She shares her knowledge and experience. We tell her we plan to pray on it, and she agrees that it is a very good plan. She shares the name of the ultrasound lab she trusts most.

“I know I am panicking over every little thing.” I admit, excusing myself for getting emotional. “Nope. You just sound pregnant, is all,” she assures. I feel more at ease than I have in weeks.

Then we move on to minor concerns. We talk about heartburn and she gives me some tips. “The Amish use a pinch of raw oats” she says. We talk about sciatica and she lays on my bedroom floor to show me exercises that may help. We talk about my heart racing, and emotions racing and I tell her never mind my little worries. She assures me that little worries are ok. I feel so normal.

When our “prenatal visit” is over we sit in my sunny kitchen, share some herb tea and talk about God. We each learn how the other seeks answers to prayers and how we rely on inspiration to make decisions. We talk about parenting and what kids need in order to grow up with values. I tell her what I admire about her. She thanks me for my friendship.

It's time to go. We hug goodbye and she climbs in her car for the 90 minute drive back home. I wave as she pulls away. She’ll be back in four weeks.

I can’t wait.

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Photos by Ellie (accept for the one she is in, Dad took that!)