Eliza's Birthday Luau

Our oldest girl turned seven this weekend. We celebrated in St. George. Spent a whole week together, hiking, swimming, recovering and reconnecting. It was a mighty nice week.

One afternoon, instead of splashing with her brothers and sisters in the wading pool, Eliza said she'd rather draw a picture inside. I heard the slightest hint of growing up in her voice. Saw it in her long legs as she turned on her heel and confidently smiled. A few strands of hair escaped her pony tail, framed her face, and for one split second I saw her at 13 and it made my head spin.

She hasn't outgrown wading pools and giggles and all the innocence of her siblings. Fifteen minutes later, she joined them in the water. But I'm noticing it. She's getting older.

These photos have been lying dormant on my mac for months. Hidden gems waiting to be posted. And I can't let Eliza's birthday come and go without writing about her party last year. Yes, I said last year. The one we had several weeks late. But around here, we live the mantra "better late than never" - be it birthdays or blogging.

Michelle took these photos (check out her new photography blog here.)

She texted that morning to say she was coming to take pictures. It was the best gift of the day. Unsolicited and generous. And they're so delicious I had to post a stack of them, give you a taste of all the color and fun we had that Saturday afternoon.

A whole chorus-line of darling girls from the neigborhood.

We welcomed each girl with a hula skirt and the makings for her own lei.

Eliza, age 6

Two-layer cake with pink frosting and fresh flowers.

Miss Mary (Michelle's daughter), stringing foam flowers. I love the way her grass skirt splays out like rays of sunshine.

And this is baby Michael. Isn't he the cutest thing? He belongs to my sister Deb and was content to hang out with the beach balls she and my parents dutifully blew up.

We played "musical beach balls." The girls paraded in a circle until the Hawaiian slack-key guitar music stopped, then rushed to sit on a beach ball. I don't recommend this game for adults (insert sheepish grin). If you miss, it's a long way down, and the ground isn't very forgiving.

A little more Michael.

Mmmm... I miss those baby cheeks.

The water balloon games were a huge hit. Here's Eliza throwing her balloon at the cement. The girl who made the biggest splash won. We marked each girls' throw with a circle of chalk.

The wading pool was full of water balloons. We played balloon toss and balloon splat. But my favorite game was the relay race. Each team tried to stuff a pair of sweatpants full of water balloons and carry them to the finish line without popping a single balloon. It was a hoot.

An angle I never see that reminds me how much I love being a mom.

Despite much cohersion, Sami refused to give Michelle a smile. But Michelle doesn't give up easily.

Cousin Lizzie.

Refreshments were light. Cut fruit, potato chips, and piña coladas with an assortment of rainbow-colored umbrellas.

For gift-opening, we played "Pass the Pineapple" - a variation on "Hot Potato." When the music paused, whoever was holding the pineapple passed their present to Eliza.

Sami kept guard over the cake. And look... there's a restrained sort-of-smile.

Eliza wasted no time sampling the frosting after she blew out candles.

A few more happy faces.

Party favor bags held hawaiian fans, fruity lip gloss, a sandal necklace, and mamba candies.

Ali, sitting pretty.

My favorite moment? Dancing the hula while we waited for Moms to arrive. I didn't know if the girls would take to the footwork and hip-swinging, but they loved it. They gracefully followed every lilt I made with my wrist, every position, every step. From "the little brown girl in a little grass hut" to "all the fishies in the ocean."

And that elusive smile? Well, there it is. A balloon after the party can work wonders.

Happy 7th (and 6th) Birthday Eliza. You have an ebullient spirit, a brave heart, and a creative energy that blesses our family. It's exciting to watch you discover your gifts. I'm looking forward to your Fairy Garden Party in June. To more years of celebrating your beautiful life. I love you.

New Old Love

I'm sharing a favorite love poem at Segullah today. Come read and leave a comment. Tell us about a new love, old love, or what I like to call new-old love.



Photo courtesy of Michelle Lehnardt

Snowball Fight

We call it Snowball Bush. It is also known as Whitsun-Boss, Elder-Rose, Pincushion Tree, or for the scientific agrarian, Viburnum Opulus.

Two bushes grow next door in our neighbor's backyard. And last week the snowballs were tipping boughs heavy, tempting tiny hands.

The boys and I ventured over the wall to swing. Spencer and Gordon flew like Superman, tummy-down on the swings, content to twist chains and tap-twirl their feet against the ground.

So I plunked down on a brick wall and opened a book. I had finished one paragraph when Gordon lobbed a snowball right into my face. It hit me between the eyes and I was so surprised, I dropped my book. What startled me most, however, was the non-impact of those soft, fluttery blossoms. Hmmmm, I thought. This could be fun.

I looked Gordon square in the eyes, saw a tease sparkle in his browns, a jest curve upward on his lips. Then I grabbed a snowball, and lobbed it right back.

Within seconds the boys and I were in an all out war, reusing the ammo against each other, white tufts flying. I couldn't stop laughing.

Whooo-eee, did we make a mess.

When our neighbor, Marilyn, came home from work I confessed our charade. Told her about our little snowball fight. How we had plucked a fair number of her blossoms.

True to her practical, personal way, she didn't mind a bit. In fact, she said we ought to pick more and have a snowball fight with the entire family.

So we did.

Ali helped me clip. And together we stuffed, and stuffed, and stuffed the basket full.

We chose our starting positions.

I doled out the snowballs.

Have you ever seen anything so perfectly round and light and lovely?

The kids were patient as I divvied up the basket, stacked their stations with ammunition. The anticipation building.

Finally.... we let 'em fly!

Doug dropped several down the back of my shirt.

"You wanna play like that?" I said.

And I went after him. The girls joined me. We chased, and snagged his shirt, ran and laughed so hard we had to stop to catch our breath. Eventually, I managed to stuff a handful of snowballs down the back of Doug's pants. Part of an all-out attack that disturbed Spencer so much he started hitting me and telling me to stop getting his Daddy.

When all the balls were spent, the kids gathered up the leftovers and placed them in Doug's hands.

On the count of three, he tossed them as high as he could.

And it snowed.

And snowed.

And snowed.

The sun broke through the trees as the last flakes floated down. And we left them there. All those shredded petals, like the stuffing of some poor teddy bear.

Once the kids were down I stood at the kitchen window, washing dishes, surveying the white wreckage that littered the grass.

Fifteen minutes of play. That's all we had. Fifteen minutes of pure play that worked a bit of wonder on my soul. It unified our family, gave us a memory, and left me happily floating into the night.

The kids are still talking about it, wondering if we'll do it again next year.

"We don't stop playing because we grow old. We grow old because we stop playing." - George Bernard Shaw

Some days I realize I haven't just grown up, I've grown old.

Play is an art form. It doesn't come as easily these days, but I ought to do it more. Shed some stuffy old years and remember...what it feels like to lob the first snowball.

Portrait on Mother's Day

They were on the mantle this morning. Resting stately, elegantly. My one request. Because they last. If you trim them right, new buds will sprout just when you think the last petal has fallen. Orchids appear delicate, even fragile, but don't be deceived. They are resilient and hardy. Just like mothers.

I also woke to this fellow, already showered with his yellow tie on, because he had a talk to finish up. Doug spoke in our church meeting today. No pressure, right? A man speaking to a full chapel (that extended into the gymnasium because of a missionary farewell) about motherhood. Doug felt the weight, the need to acknowledge all women on this holiday laden with complicated emotion.

Sometimes we forget those who silently observe all the extolling and lauding because deep in their core they carry a real heartache.

We spoke in the hallway after the meeting with Katrina. Darling granddaughter to our beloved neighbor, Bertha, who will turn 98 this year. Katrina used the same fertility doctors as we did in DC. Only months ago she was happily expecting twin daughters. But at twenty-two weeks her babies were born in a sudden rush of water. Far too early.

Unbeknownst to Katrina and her physicians, she had an incompetent cervix. She showed us pictures today of her Katya and Ruby in the NICU. They looked just like our girls in the NICU. But her babies lived only ten days.

Knowing they would not survive long, Katrina and her husband had to make a difficult choice - when to take their babies off oxygen. The girls lived two and a half hours on room air. After much holding, loving, kissing and tears, at the very same instant, their hearts stopped. Together.

I couldn't stand it. Doug and I stood together with Katrina and looked at the pictures on her phone, four newborn feet cradled in parental hands, tiny footprints engraved on a headstone. We cried with her, saw the ache gnawing in her belly, the wound that reopens on this day when so many of us celebrate.

Yes, there are those for whom Mother's Day resurrects hard memories, feelings of emptiness, and loss. But Doug spoke of the Atonement and how it aids women. How Christ is the only man who can know a woman's heart. How he can enable, lift and succor each of us. He spoke about the tenderness and goodness of women and how they serve humanity. It was beautiful. And I'm so glad his mother was there to hear his sweet tribute to her.

After church, Doug and the girls prepared a treasure hunt to help me find a few of my favorite things. Mostly goodies. Anyone need a sugar fix? Please stop by.

There were cards. And this one (pictured above) sang out Tina Turner's song, "Simply The Best" while the girls danced around the living room. I laughed at their moves, their pursed lips, the stomping, and head-nodding. When I'm having a bad day, and none of my kids like me, I'm going to open this card and listen to Tina blast her lyrics. Positive affirmation.

I love Ali's bubble flowers in assorted colors. A bouquet to treasure.

The girls made cards this afternoon, and as they traced hearts, scribbled and swirled, I thought of Louise Glück's poem, Portrait. It's my gift to you today. Two stanzas. Short, but layered with meaning.

Portrait

By Louise Glück

A child draws the outline of a body.

She draws what she can, but it is white all through,

she cannot fill in what she knows is there.

Within the unsupported line, she knows

that life is missing; she has cut

one background from another.

like a child,

she turns to her mother.

And you draw the heart

against the emptiness she has created.

Sami and Eliza's portraits of Mom. "We worked really hard on your short hair," they said.

Mothers fill the emptiness.

Whether you mother or are a mother, whatever your age, I celebrate your heart. It is the very thing children rely on. It is the steady, pulsing organ that gives life. Real, oxygenated life. As well as spiritual life - the kind that undergirds a person's world, lights hope and drowns fear. You are constantly giving life.

And as the backgrounds change, as children learn to draw new lines, you are there. The one they turn to.

An immanent part of the portrait.

Happy Mother's Day.

p.s. Mom, I still turn to you. Thank you.