Weight

This weekend we visited our friends in Sheboygan. I enjoyed every moment of being with them. Friday night, after the kids were in bed, I went grocery shopping with Ben, and on a whim we watched a really funny movie (Knight and Day). Perfect.

Saturday, I traveled to the Chicago temple with Ben, the ward's seminary students, and some other ward leaders. I spent two quiet hours alone in the waiting room while they did baptisms, and I read a book (the latest Joseph Smith biography) studying each page. It was a peaceful day. That night Ben, Suzanne, Mirjam, and I went out for dinner together at a small Mexican place as thick fog rolled in from Lake Michigan.

The next morning we went to church together, and Ben delivered a wonderful, calm, thoughtful sermon on the atonement. "In the temple rests the power and the means to achieve the consummate purpose of the atonement": to just get back home to God and Jesus Christ. They just want us to be with them. He ended by noting that as each of us becomes one with Jesus Christ, we also grow closer to each other, becoming unified among ourselves. We all have our weaknesses, we all have our faults and our problems, he said, and we need to help each other and support each other, not criticize each other, and become unified and one with each other (specifically referring to his ward family). It was very well put, and a great little twist on the end of the sermon.

Ben was recently called to be bishop of his ward (he's only my age, with four small kids). I noticed he was generally calmer and full of thought. I noticed how other people automatically (subconsciously) looked to him for direction and decisions. (And he also mentioned the burden of criticism if someone didn't agree with something.) At least once during the weekend I heard him say, "This calling is really hard," exhaling as he did it, almost in exasperation.

When Ben came home after church on Sunday, after interviewing some people in the ward, I noticed his head hanging low from the weight of his calling. It reminded my of the mental image I had from a Truman Madsen talk, about the fullest, heaviest heads of wheat hanging the lowest. I mentioned to Ben about how someone once chided the prophet Joseph Smith for looking down and that he should cheer up. Joseph's reply was that if he had as much weighing on his mind as the prophet did (the weight of the entire church), is head would hang low, too. Ben mentioned the hardest part is not being able to talk to his wife about some of the more difficult parts of the job (when people confess things to him).

I tried to lift his spirits, talking to him, as much as I could, while not getting in the way. I felt like they sincerely enjoyed our company, and we certainly enjoyed being there with them. Mirjam and our kids didn't want to leave. Their kids asked when they could come visit us. It was a good weekend with our friends. We just hung out, let the kids play together (they all had a lot of fun together, and not a single fight), spent time talking and catching up, went out to dinner, played guitar together, watched Lost and a movie together, and just generally enjoyed each others' company.

No (and pop-ups)

One of Johanna's favorite words is "no." And it's pretty cute. Sometimes she draws it out in a long, playful "niaaooooo." Sometimes it's upset (when she's tired). Sometimes its in response to a question she doesn't understand.

For example, driving back in the car from Wisconsin this weekend, Evie started asking Johanna (while her car seat was still facing backward so she could see the kids), "Do you want to ride on a horse?" And Johanna answered with a simple "no." It went on and on:

"Do you want to ride on a house?" "No."
"Do you want to ride on a book?" "No."
"Do you want to ride on a pony?" "No."
"Do you want to ride on a car?" "No."
"Do you want to ride on a pillow?" "No."
"Do you want to ride on a puppy?" "No."
"Do you want to ride on a blanket?" "No."
"Do you want to ride on a cracker?" "No."
"Do you want to ride on a sandwich?" "No."
"Do you want to ride on a cheek?" "No."

Evie was cracking up, and Johanna enjoyed the attention.

Meanwhile, William created his own pop-up book of "the four heads, the ones in the rock" (Mount Rushmore). I helped him spell each president's name, and he did the rest, carefully cutting little tabs out of the paper and bending them back the opposite way, and drawing in pen four heads, with arrows point to each of them, next to the words "This is" and the explanation at the bottom "These are the presidents."

It was a good road trip.

Sheboygan! (Road trip)

We spent the long Memorial Day weekend in Sheboygan, WI, visiting our friends the Holmeses. At the end of the car trip back, William and Evie said it was just a short car ride. (We've taken much longer trips to Utah and Texas.)

Right before we entered Minnesota, we stopped and turned Johanna's car seat around to face forward. She could now see Mama much better. (She had been freeing both arms from the straps and grabbing the side of the car seat with her two hands and wrenching her neck around to look forward before we turned it around.)

She was very excited about this new development. She stopped whining and crying (she was tired, it was late), and instead she happily waved her legs and feet now that they were free. She kept asking for books (saying "buu, buu" while clapping her hands together to make the book sign). She also held her feet in her hands and slapped them together while saying "sh, sh" the sign and sound for shoes. (Before, her feet didn't have nearly the same freedom, as they were up against the seat-back that her previously backwards-facing car seat was facing.)

In the Subway at the gas station, she saw a rack full of stuffed bears and puppies. While we were eating at the table, she made the sign for bear (fingers scratching at your chest) while making the uuuh-uuuh "I want" whine. She can communicate so well now, with her signs. She can also make the sign (and panting noise) for puppy. Any time she sees or hears a dog (stuffed or real), she pats her leg and starts panting. It's adorable. She also looked out the window and saw flags and banners for a fireworks store across the street, and she kept saying "woooow!"

When we got home, William and Evie helped clean up everything out of the minivan. They were great travelers, fun play-friends for the other kids, and good helpers. It was a good road trip.

Honey crab

Johanna took a while to start walking on her feet. She's still not quite confident with her balance all the time, but she's learning well. Up until now she's been "walking" on her knees. It's adorable to watch, and she can really move on those little legs!

She seemed to not crawl very much, instead opting for the knees as a sort of halfway point between crawling and walking. I'd try to show her how to crawl by modeling it for her myself, and occasionally she would crawl with me (and she still does crawl sometimes) but mostly it was knees, even though it wasn't quite as fast.

Last week she did something different though. She was up on her feet, then bended over at the waist and touched her hands and head to the ground without bending her knees. I can't remember why she did it that way, but she thought it was funny, so I joined her. Then we started "walking" around like that on our hands and feet, and she thought it was so fun she started laughing. Every time she collapsed to her knees, she got back up again. And so I chased her around on the carpet on hands and feet.

Danke

This morning before I left for work, I decided to say a quick prayer for the day. I asked Evie if she wanted to pray with me, and she enthusiastically agreed. (One of her favorite affirmative words is "sure!")

She said "come here!" and led me into the kids' room, where she previously placed a few pieces of colorful fabric on the carpet, for a picnic. We kneeled down between the picnic spots, and I asked her if I should say the prayer, or if she wanted to. She said she wanted to.

She folded her arms, closed her eyes, and in her three-year-old voice, offered this up: "Heavenly Father, danke für Arbeit (work), danke für Target und Post (Mirjam and Evie and Johanna were going to run errands this morning), im Namen Jesu Christi, amen."

Perfect. She was very happy with her prayer, and I couldn't have thought of anything better myself. She gave me a big hug, and I kissed her on the cheek, and rode off to work.

Summer girl

Yesterday afternoon we all went for a long walk around the lake, in the sunshine and melting snow that alternately covered the path. We took two strollers, so Evie and William could switch off resting their legs. (Johanna got to stay in her stroller the whole time.)

As we came home, I pointed out the snow tunnel they had built early this winter, on the side of driveway/parking area. The snow was melting quickly in the warm weather, and part of the top had already caved in.

Inside our garage, and still in the stroller, Evie got a sad look on her face, and pitifully said she wanted to have more snow. I tried to console her as I unbuckled her from the stroller. I asked her in German if she liked the snow ("Magst du den Schnee?"). She nodded, her lower lip starting to droop.

In German again, I asked if she likes winter, and if she's a winter child ("Magst du den Winter? Bist du ein Winterkind?"). She thought about it for just a split moment, and answered, in English, "No, I'm a summer girl!"

I was surprised to hear her quick understanding of the German phrase and the immediate, appropriate, and mirrored response in a different language. I laughed out loud and gave her a big hug, and we went inside.

Olympics at home

William and Evie had fun watching the Vancouver Olympics with us the past two weeks, and reenacting many of the events.

They have chased each other around the living room, pretending to be on ice skates, pushing each other from behind, just like the team short-track events. Once, he told Evie to stand a few feet in front of him before they started, just like the long-distance speed skaters do, because of the curves in the oval track.

And every time he lined up, William would stretch his fingers straight out and held tightly together, lift one arm behind him and bent at the elbows, crouch over slightly and bend his knees. Then he would utter in a low, long tone, "Rrready..." (just like the voice at the starting line always did on TV), and then "pschew!" -- at the sound of his home-made gunshot noise, he and Evie would take off, scampering around the living room at top speed. A couple times, William kept running/skating along the carpet as long as the speed skaters on TV were still circling the large oval. That really got his heart going, but I let him go, because it was going to tire him out for bedtime.

Earlier last week, William set up a track of pillows across the floor, recreating the moguls ski event. He and Evie would start near the couches, then go sliding/running along the carpet, and hop over each of the "jumps" in front of them, past the kitchen, toward their bedroom door.

After watching the end of the Canada/USA hockey game, William pulled out his red plastic fireman's helmet, the big red plastic baseball bat (holding it down on the floor), his little baseball glove, and a round red wood block as the puck. He cleared the chair away from the kitchen table, and stood in front of the two metal legs, as he played "Canada hockey" -- he looked just like the goalie. I got out my old walking cane and turned it upside down to send the "puck" toward him across the carpet, using the crook of the cane as my hockey stick. Evie also shot a couple goals with my help.

Even William's favorite online video games gave way to some new Olympic favorites: bobsled, snowboarding, and "ski and shoot."

Last night, as the party came to a close, I told them the next Winter Olympics were in four years, and they would be 9 and 7 years old. As I said that out loud, I realized how quickly those four years will go, and how different they will be. I quickly rehearsed in my mind all the fun we've had with them this time, and hoped we could recreate some of it next time.

As I put them to bed, William said he was sad that the Olympics were over. "I love the Winter Olympics," he said. "Me too," I told him. I kissed their heads as I sent them off to sleep, to dream of all the events they had participated in.

First night

Tonight was the first night home for our new baby, Johanna. William and Evie were very excited to see her. They've been waiting for months, and asking for the past few days/weeks when she's going to finally arrive.

So after church, I loaded William and Evie into our new green minivan, and we drove through the city to the hospital. As we pulled around the parking ramp to the patient pick-up spot, Mirjam, the baby, and the nurse stepped outside into the bitter cold. I kept the engine running, quickly loaded Mama and Baby into the car, and we started our trip home.

Late that night, after Mirjam and I had put William and Evie to bed, we were sitting on the couch, trying to get Johanna to stop crying and fall asleep. From behind us, we heard the kids' door open -- I was about to stand up and send whomever it was straight back to bed.

But when we turned around, we saw a squinty-eyed William quietly but quickly scooting across the carpet on the red PlasmaCar that aunt Karen gave the kids for Christmas, pushing every few feet with his two legs stroking in tandem. He had heard his new baby sister crying, and he wanted to come see her and help her.

We let him say hello and good night, and give her a kiss, and he scooted back into his bedroom on the red plastic car, closed the door behind him, and climbed back up into his bunk bed again.

Good morning

Act 1. All of a sudden, William walked into the bathroom this morning, right as I was getting in the shower. He opened the mirrored door on the small wooden cabinet that holds all my toiletries and grabbed the brown plastic canister of my American Crew pomade. "Was machst du?" I asked. "Ich mache mein hair spikey," he answered, quite matter-of-factly. And with my pomade in hand, he left.

Act 2. Evie and William have grown fond of the word "poopie." Instead of fighting a losing battle, I play a long and have fun with them. We call each other "Poopie" as a sort of pet name: "Hi, Poopie" or "Gute Nacht, Poopie." It sounds cuter if you don't think about it. Occasionally William, and sometimes Evie, will call me Papi, which to my ears is very endearing (maybe it's a mix of Papa and puppy?).

Act 3. Somewhere along the line, soap got involved, and at times they just run around saying "poopy soap, poopy soap!" I have no idea where they got it, or what sense it's supposed to make, but they sure think it's funny. So this morning as I'm in the shower, Evie came into the bathroom for a moment, just like William, and then left. As soon as she closed the door behind her, she opened it quickly again, said "poopy soap" and closed it again.

Hello Kitty!

Evie loves Hello Kitty. She loves pink. She loves her dresses and princesses and those Barbie movies with the awful, catchy, melodic songs. But that's another story.

In the last few days, Evie has taken to crawling on top of the couch in front of the big window and laying there on her stomach, across the big back cushion. Sometimes that how she watches a video on TV. Sometimes she stares out the window, following the birds and the squirrels from her perch in the sun.

"Hallo, Evie-Katze," I say as I notice her from the kitchen. She doesn't move, or acknowledge my acknowledgment. Without looking up, she only smirks a little, and resumes whatever else she was doing.

Puzzle

This afternoon, William asked if he could play on the computer. I randomly guessed that he was referring to his new Lego Star Wars game that he got for his birthday. He's allowed to play it once per day, with his sticker chart providing the necessary backup anytime he tries to get in too much screen time.

But when he asked today, I simply pulled out the trump card and calmly explained that we don't play video games on Sunday. He didn't blink. "I mean a church game!"

Of course! What was I thinking?

So I fired up lds.org, clicked on The Friend, and to my amazement saw that the Church is totally rocking this whole online experience thing with it's kids magazines. I clicked on the "Play Games" link. What happened next took my totally by surprise.

"Puzzle" said William. I couldn't believe it. Of the three options to choose from on the screen in front of him, "Puzzles" was the middle one. So I asked him, pointing with the mouse, "Did you read that?"

I then pointed to the other P word, right next to it, slowing moving the mouse under the word from left to right, and he said "Picture."

I couldn't believe it. (Yes, I already wrote that, but I thought it twice, too.) He had read two words, that I had never seen him read before, without prompting of any kind from me. Incredible.

So he clicked on the "Hidden Pictures" button, played with that for at least a half-hour, and totally forgot about Lego Star Wars. For now.

Say "cheese"

William this morning asked his mom for a "boy cheese". After he asked a second time, and clarified "not a girl cheese" I understood. He wasn't making a joke -- he meant it sincerely. He just wanted a boy-cheese sandwich, please.

Neighbors

William is riding his bike outside right now. (It's the green and purple one with white tires that our neighbor Steve gave him last year.) William is wearing his yellow fireman jacket; it's still a bit chilly today. He just rode across the drive to our Steve's house. Steve is in a wheelchair (but still quite active).

William set his bike on the ground in front of Steve's house and walked over to the newspaper that was wrapped in a thin, orange plastic bag and lying on the lawn. William picked up the newspaper from off the grass and stepped back onto Steve's front porch.

He just stood there a minute, facing the door, not moving -- looking at the paper, at the porch, at the tall, thin window next to the front door, thinking about where to put the paper. Then he pulled down on the gold handle of the storm door, opened it a little, placed the newspaper inside, and closed the door against it, making sure it would stay put.

Seeing that it wasn't going to fall down, he pushed the doorbell button with his little finger, then got back on his bike to ride away and help Burt's newspaper find the front door, too.

Snugs as bugs

The past few nights we've put Evie and William to bed around the same time, in the same room, which means they sing and chat and play. Evie especially loves to lie (or sit) in her bed and sing. Sometimes she'll tussle Williams hair if I've wrapped him up tight in his blanket "like a baby, when William was small," he says. (Like a burrito, I say.) Sometimes they'll even climb into each other's beds.

For a while I tried to put a stop to the playing, insisting they lay down and sleep. A couple days ago I was too lazy to go back in, so Mirjam and I just sat there on the couch watching Biggest Loser or something.

Around 8:30 or 9:00 I noticed they were both quiet. I remembered how I would sometimes chat with my brother at night when we were little and shared a room, or on campouts with the other boys in the tent. After a while the conversation would naturally die down and taper off into silence.

So now we've sort of adapted, too. We put the kids to bed around 7:00 p.m., and I let them chat and sing for a while, with the Hello Kitty night-light still glowing. I might go in if it gets too rowdy, but usually I'll just check in around 8:00 to turn the night-light off, give them another kiss on the head, pack them up tight again in their blankets, and let them doze off naturally.

Last night I came home around 9:30 p.m. to find William and Evie snuggled together in her crib. It was so cute -- absolutely adorable to see them together, gently breathing in and out, dreaming about Valentine's candies and Star Wars Legos. They love playing together so much during the day, and especially so when they have to go to bed.

We usually leave the crib's retractable fourth side down so Evie can climb in and out more easily, but it had been pulled up all the way. Williams hand hung between the slats, Evie was facing the other way, two or three stuffed animals had joined them, blankets of many shapes and sizes and colors were drawn across them, or sometimes not, and they had nabbed my big pillow from off my bed for the two of them to share.

While they slept I lowered the side of the crib down again, gently nudging William and jiggering the far corner so it would move. I sorted the blankets out, laid William in his own little bed, on his own red square pillow, and covered him with three or four of the blankets. I set the stuffed animals back in their blue box, retrieved my pillow for myself again (noticing some drool on one spot), and wrapped Evie up in another three or four blankets.

I stroked their hair, kissed them good-night again, and gently closed the door.

Jon

Pullern!

Evie is now completely half-way potty trained. Any time she needs to go Number 1 she suddenly and quickly exclaims "Avoll pullen!" which translated is "Ich will pullern" which loosely translated means "I need to pee."

Whoever is nearest then flies her to the bathroom (or sometimes she just hops or gallops) sets her upon her kiddie-seat throne and she puts her hand to her ear to make sure you're listening, and then lets it go.

When she's done, she hops down the little step we set in front of the toilet, and insists "I do myself!" She pulls up her pants, flushes the toilet, washes her hands, and returns to receive her daily dose of adulation for her great accomplishment. (William on the other hand makes a game of forgetting each step, so I have to remind him -- every time -- to flush and wash when he's done.)

Evie has even made it through naps staying dry. Not long after she wakes, sure enough, she exclaims, "Avoll pullen!" and bounces off again to the bathroom.

Philips

William can write his own name now, in all caps: WILLIAM. He can also write STOP and MAMA and PAPA (which once came out as MPMP) and EVIE (or sometimes EVEI).

A couple days ago he showed me a piece of paper where he had written HARRY POTTER -- no joke -- in all caps, complete with the jagged letters that he copied from the front of the DVD case. It was quite impressive.

Then a day later, he showed me that same paper with the jagged HARRY POTTER, but he had added PHILIPS. It took me a second, then I realized he had copied it off the front of the TV. I started laughing and congratulated him again on his achievement.

Evie

A while ago as I was writing the Milk Teeth post, a favorite bedtime scene played in my mind. I saved it as a draft but never returned to it. I think it might have started out of my realization that I needed to write more about Evie, that I've spent too much time writing just about William. I've forgotten where it was going, but I still like the image it creates. Here are those two lines I saved:

"I covered her with her blankets, plugged in her pacifier ("ga-ga" in her terms), and gently told her to roll over and close her eyes. She did, I caressed her back and hair a couple times, and turned to check back on William."

William's First Talk

William gave his first talk in Primary at church today. I wrote it for him on the side of a program while I was sitting in Sunday school. He actually wrote his own talk the night before ("I do it myself!") but I thought it might need a little tightening up.

He was very excited all morning about his big day. When it was his turn, he turned around from his small chair in the front row of the Primary room, with eyes wide and a big smile, nodded his head toward me, and quickly marched up to the little podium with the microphone on it. I followed him up and whispered in his ear the words I had written, pausing after every phrase so he could repeat it out loud:

"I love Jesus Christ. I help my mommy, and my daddy, and my sister Evie. I share with my friends, and I love my family. I sing Primary songs, and Christmas songs. I read good stories, and watch scripture movies. I am learning to read, and learning to write. Soon I will read the Bible, and the Book of Mormon, and write my own talks. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen."

(Once or twice he whispered back at me "what you say?", and he muffled a word or two here and there, but overall it was a home-run first talk.) He jumped down and bounded back to his seat with a big, excited grin on his face. He was beaming with "I did it!" enthusiasm.

Carol of the Bells

William has learned how to play the popular Christmas song, "Carol of the Bells," on the piano. Not the whole thing, of course, just the first four notes:

Dum da-da dum, dum da-da dum, dum da-da dum, dum da-da dum, dum da-da dum, dum da-da dum, dum da-da dum, dum da-da dum, dum da-da dum, dum da-da dum, dum da-da dum, dum da-da dum, dum da-da dum, dum da-da dum, dum da-da dum, dum da-da dum, dum da-da dum, dum da-da dum, dum da-da dum, dum da-da dum, dum da-da dum, dum da-da dum, dum da-da dum, dum da-da dum, dum da-da dum, dum da-da dum, dum da-da dum, dum da-da dum, dum da-da dum, dum da-da dum, dum da-da dum, dum da-da dum, dum da-da dum, dum da-da dum, dum da-da dum, dum da-da dum, dum da-da dum, dum da-da dum, dum da-da dum, dum da-da dum, dum da-da dum, dum da-da dum, dum da-da dum, dum da-da dum, dum da-da dum.

It's a wonderful sound. Merry Christmas.

Milk teeth

Last night after William and Evie were both in bed, they called out an order for warm milk. I roller-skated into their bedroom (not really, but I felt like a waiter on wheels), took their order, and reminded them that they would have to both brush their teeth again.

"Okay," they answered.

I skated back to the kitchen, poured some whole milk into a ceramic mug and nuked it for a minute to warm it up. I emptied the mug into a blue-and-green plastic sippy-cup for William, and repeated the process for Evie.

I skated back to the darkened bedroom, handed them their beverages and reminded them about brushing their teeth when they're done. They again agreed, so I stepped out. Two minutes later I returned to their table, I mean, bedsides and asked if they were finished.

William had gulped down the warm milk and handed his bottle to me as he disappeared out the door. Evie hadn't sipped much of hers, so I asked if she wanted more. "No," she said, and handed it off to me. I leaned down and gathered her up in my arms, removing her blankets and baby doll, to go brush her teeth again.

As I left the room with Evie, William cruised past me to hop back into bed. I asked him if he already brushed his teeth again. "Yep," he answered without breaking stride and plopped into bed.

"Really?" I asked. He nodded excitedly, but I still wasn't sure, so I gave him the breathalizer test. He breathed onto my face, and indeed it did smell minty fresh. "Okay," I acknowledged, followed up with an enthusiastic, "good job!"

I scrubbed Evie's mouth and returned her to her crib, and the two drifted off into a plaque-free slumber.

It's pretty cool that they're both able (and willing!) to brush their teeth now, usually by themselves. In fact, most of the time they don't even want to let us help. I'll chalk that up as a victory for good parenting. :)