Coming up next..a Red Rider BB Gun

I have become the mother in "A Christmas Story". Because of the rather inclement (insert the phrase "ridiculously freakin' cold") weather we've been having, I am obsessed with my children being warm.

Yesterday, I watched Ethan walk across the alley to my friend Nikki's house (she takes him to school). Seriously, he was Randy. He could not put his arms down. In addition to his regular clothes, he was bedecked in a puffy red jacket, ski pants, Sorrel boots, those therma-whatever gloves from REI, a scarf and heavens only knows what else. For the first time since he started kindergarten, his backpack didn't look enormous on him.

Today he begged not to wear his ski pants, so I did relent. But I can't help but think I should run home, grab the pants, take them to his school and demand that he put them on. Just in case a snowstorm breaks out in his classroom.

I need help.

Time goes by...

Yesterday my baby turned two, complete with a Fairytopia birthday cake, a trike and two--count them--two Barbies. I have to say that I didn't much care for the whole thing, because it once again reminded me that my children are growing up way too fast for my taste. And here's the worst part: there is absolutely nothing I can do about it.

This week we're going to be putting away the high chair for the last time because Eme is demanding that she be allowed a big chair like her brother. She's given up her pacifier, if somewhat unwillingly. We're giving away all of the baby toys to her cousin. Soon the crib will go, too, to be replaced by a big girl bed, and onesies and diapers will eventually be gone as well.

I've been through this once before, but this time it's tougher. Because I know that it's the last time.

This is when having my kids "later in life" is catching up with me. I mean, for people who have them in their twenties, it's not too late to add a third--or in many of my friends' cases--a fourth or more. But adding one when you're past 40 and your hubby is 45? Not such an easy thing.

So for now, I guess I will treasure the footie pajamas and the sippy cups, the words that I can't quite make out, the baby belly laughs and the sloppy kisses. Because I know all too well that they won't last forever.

My Little Holy Roller

So have I mentioned that I've raised a pentecostal?

Emerson, who will be two tomorrow (I seriously can't stand it) loves praying. She doesn't actually do it herself; but she is quick to remind us if we haven't said the blessing the moment that our bums hit the chairs for any meal. Then, as Ethan just gets towards the end, she yells "amen!", throws up her arms and then claps. (We're clappers in our family.)

All fine and well within the confines of the Casa de Verde, right? Right. Or not. You see, we have a tendency to go to church on Sundays where, perhaps unsurprisingly, they say a number of prayers. See where I'm headed?

A couple of weeks ago, we'd had a great Sacrament Meeting, and the closing prayer was being said. There we were, our little family sitting right up front looking all sorts of righteous and not a little disheveled after having gone through the hour and a half battle of fruit loops, crayons, coloring books and trips to the potty. We folded our arms, bowed our heads and began to listen while the proverbial prayer was said.

I'm not sure whether Emerson was just feeling great about the talks that had been given or was a little antsy to get off the bench and head to nursery. Whatever the reason, however, my little Bible Thumper decided to express her agreement with the sentiments of the prayer.

The man quietly offering the prayer: "In the name of Jesus Christ, am--"

Eme, throwing up her hands: "AMEN!!!!!!!!!!" Then "YAY!!!!!!!!" and clapping, much to the startled surprise of the brother offering the benediction.

I've never heard a congregation laugh at the end of a prayer before.

I'm glad that Heavenly Father has a sense of humor.

Why Motherhood is Worthwhile

Last night I was getting ready to run out the door when Ethan stopped me.

"Wait, Mom," he said, "I want to give you something."

I must admit that I felt a glimmer of irritation, wondering why he couldn't have given it to me an hour before, why he couldn't give it to me when I got back, or why it otherwise needed to be right this minute. After all, I thought, it's probably just another picture that he colored or a rock that he found or one of the other many things that kids like to collect and then show off to moms and grandmas.

He went in his room and brought back a folded paper.

"Here," he said, handing it to me. "I had Miss Cindy write this so I could give it to you."

I unfolded the notebook paper, on which was written the following note:

"Dear Mom, I wanted to give you a note because I love you. Thanks for cooking for me. I love your chocolate chip cookies. I like you and your smile. Love,"

And at the bottom he'd carefully written his name, making sure to add the cursive "swoops" to the "h" and the "a".

Imagine how I felt at reading this note. Pride in that my son was so kind-hearted. Touched because of the simplicity and sweetness of its sentiment. And humbled, for having thought even for a moment that taking that extra time with my son wouldn't be important.

How grateful I am for that note and what it means. It is now and will always be one of my favorite things.

Bill Gates and Me

Could I possibly be any prouder of myself? I have actually found some cool templates for my site and added one. I'm fairly sure this is how Bill Gates felt when he invented Windows.

And so it begins...

Welcome to Greens Gone Wild--my first official blogging site. I have put off creating such a thing for quite some time, preferring to stay quite firmly in the email age. However, so many of my friends have started their own blogs, I am feeling quite a) left out and b) behind the times. And so, the blog begins.