More to life

The kids have Thursday and Friday off school, so they're all here with their crowd of friends. Husband also had these two days off and wanted to work on his book, but found the noise distracting. He had also collected a group of kids who were threatening to smother him in their attempts to get close enough around him to see what he was doing. He loves our kids dearly, but as he is around multitudes of children in his classroom all day, every day, sometimes he just needs a break. After playing a few rounds of UNO with Child Four, he took off to the bishop's office to be quiet and write.



Child Three went to a friend's house yesterday and came home with her coat pink and beautiful. Apparently, her friend's mom had asked if she could throw her very dirty coat into the wash. I don't know whether to feel more intensely embarrassed or grateful. I know this mom and she is a wonderful person who keeps a very, very clean house. I find it somewhat of a superwoman thing for her to be able to do, but I quit comparing my house to hers a long time ago. My house is what it is. I simply can not be bothered to spend all my time running cleaning defense, especially in the kitchen. I quickly turn into the Mom Witch, yelling at the kids for every mess no matter how small, stressed to the point of heart failure. I knew a woman in a former ward who told me that when her kids were small she used to follow them around all day, cleaning up behind them. She was fanatical about it, to the point where she actually suffered a nervous breakdown. Her doctor warned her to quit worrying so much about it or she would literally die. There are other things in life than a house so clean at all times that you could invite photographers in to take pictures of the living room for a magazine spread.

Here is Child Three with her clean coat. She's in the kitchen, where I've been baking bread today.

Here is the coat closet just moments ago. I have tried and tried. The kids seem to be allergic to hangers.


One of the other things in life: I went to the music store from which we rent a trumpet (Child Two) and a saxophone (Husband) and tried out the cellos. (My own cello is no more. I opened the case one day and found that the neck had exploded off the body, the wood literally shredded. It was a shock, to say the least.) I had Two, Five and Six with me, so it was fairly irresponsible of me to even think it, but I asked the nice lady if I could sit down and play a cello or two. Two took charge of Six, who would have ruined absolutely everything in the store in five seconds, and I tuned up a cello and pulled the bow across the strings. Ohhhh, it was like butter. I knew in that instant how horrible my old cello had been and that it was better that it had destroyed itself, to inflict pain no more on the ear of man. You don't buy a cheap cello off the Internet and get a butter-soft, mellow smooth sound like the cello I played at the music store. The old one sure was shiny and pretty, though, and I was desperate to get my hands on a cello. It seemed like a good idea at the time.


I still have a grand piano to play on, and that is a big consolation. Now I just need a constant stream of money for both a cello and endless piano and cello music. That's all. I don't ask much.





Child Four's scars are healing nicely. This is a picture (taken and posted with her permission) of the large scar. The smaller one is higher up on her thigh. Note the paint spatters on the wood floor. Remember that I did not put those there.