Family Life

Yesterday began with a productive carpet cleaning session, laundry, playing on the floor with the baby and a bit of sewing. It ended with baby vomiting at the pinewood derby, a broken toilet, and 9-year-old boy grumpiness & attitude.

In between were some regular family-life moments: cooking and feeding dinner, encouraging/nagging homework to be done, hugs, kisses, daily battle with managing electronic time, yada, yada, yada.

I received some pretty direct counsel/chastising from heaven about how better to deal with the good and the bad of family life; mostly about how to deal with the bad & frustrating without making everyone's life miserable. It came in the form of Jacob 6:7 :For behold, after ye have been nourished by the good word of God all the day long, will ye bring forth evil fruit? . . .

It is my tendency to become a bit hot-tempered, and grumpy when things don't run smoothly. Since family life has a tendency to not run smoothly at least once per day, this isn't a great equation for peace in the home. Fortunately I'm married to someone who already recognizes the benefit of handling problems in a calm, even-tempered manner and he is my best example of that each day. I am a slow learner, but this divine instruction has me looking at my grumpiness in a different way. I don't want to be the bringer of evil fruit in my home, especially because I truly do feel nourished all day long by the good word of God.

Wage a war against discouragement

Six hours into this work day and I'm feeling like I chose the wrong career. This feeling is not new--evidenced by the pages of frustrations recorded over the years in my journal, this feeling is a frequent visitor. Potty training failures, trying to dry laundry with a dryer held together by duct tape, hearing my name spoken a minimum of 100 times just this morning, and rushing the three littles into their clothes and to the school to cheer on the oldest in a battle of books competition, only to hear "why did you even come, mom?" are just a few of the items contributing to this today.

I know that discouragement is a strategy of He who wishes to see us fail, and sadly, it is effective in accomplishing what He desires: that is, to make us feel angry, depressed, selfish and irritable and like our lives are horrible.

I also know that this is just not true. My life is wonderful, and I am thrilled and blessed each day with the family and things that surround me. So, today and in the days to come, in my moments of selfishness, when all I want to do is lace up my Sauconys, turn up my ipod and run away, I will remember that I did not choose this job to bask in my selfishness and wish for more moments to do only what I want. I chose it, though I didn't know it at the time, to learn about that essential attribute of godliness: UN-selfishness.

Today and everyday I will wage a war on discouragement. I will choose to believe the words and feelings poured into my soul during my moments of scripture reading and meditation that this work is so important, that I am loved, that I am forgiven, and that my failures will be made strengths. I will choose to believe the words of living prophets when they tell me to "be thankful for all the small successes in your home, your family relationships, your education and livelihood, your Church participation and personal improvement. . .these successes may seem tiny to you and they may go unnoticed by others, but God notices them and they are not small to Him."

I will accept that many more days like this are up ahead, but I will dig deep, pray hard and win.

This little guy

is officially 6, almost 7 months old. His cute little mug hasn't been seen a lot on this blog, since his arrival has made my life so much more full and busy than even I imagined, but he has been growing and is loved on every single day by all of his big brothers in their own special ways.

Around here, he is mostly just called baby, as Thomas just seems like a big name for such a little person. He'll eventually grow into his name, but for now, we like baby.

I'm discovering the joy of having older children and young children growing up in the same house, and the love and concern the older ones have for the little ones. It brings me so much happiness to watch their interactions and expressions of love and adoration.

Every so often

The older boys are home from school today. Every so often, we have a day where they are all home together and they actually play, use their imaginations, and get along like I always hoped my kids would and should.

Today, while eating lunch, they were playing the "quiet game". Apparently their bus driver has them play this often on the bus ride home and rewards them with starburst and suckers. I can see why. The loser in this particular game had to be the student, and winner would be the teacher in a future game of school, to be played once lunch was finished. In between bites I overheard, "pause the game! you can talk to mom only", "pause the game! it doesn't count against you if you laugh at bubba", "pause the game, gotta go to the bathroom!" Until one final statement from the big brother himself, "Okay, NO more pause the games, laughs, or this doesn't counts--next one to make a noise really loses". To which middle brother burst into giggles and thus, became the student.

Immediately following lunch, the game of school proceeded, which included teacher making flash cards for student, and helping him learn his addition facts. Just a fun memory that I hope will be etched in my mind forever.

June baby

Having a baby in June is great for so many reasons. Warm weather (well, warm-ish weather in Oregon so far this summer) makes it okay for baby's wardrobe to consist solely of onesies and bare feet. Baby doesn't have to be quarantined in the house for fear of catching terrible viruses that are all around in the winter months, and I daresay sunshine and summer can definitely chase away any post-baby blues that might creep up here and there.

But one reason that it might not be so great? When older brothers come to mom wanting her to ride bikes, play basketball, and jump on the new trampoline they just earned after saving up since January and her postpartum body causes her, sadly, to say no over and over and over again.

These older brothers think that baby is pretty great, but also just think all their mom ever does anymore is sit on the couch and nurse him. And they're mostly right.

Thoughts on becoming a MOB

***MOB=mother of boys. I just learned this acronym, and quite like it.

Most of you probably already read the news on Facebook, that come June, the Fullers will officially be that family, you know the one that when out in public all together, strangers feel the need to comment, "wow--four boys? are you going to try for one more, just to see if you can get a girl?" No. The answer to that is no. We are done, we will be a family of all boys, I will be a MOB and lead the mob of boys and I will enjoy it.

Just so you know, there is only a 1/16 chance of having your children be all the same sex, born four in a row like this. That figures out to be about 6ish percent. We seem to be on a lucky streak of beating the odds--we're heading to Vegas.

No, but honestly, I am feeling lucky and actually thrilled. I did have that moment, a similar disappointed moment to this one, and I took some time to mourn the buying of dolls, baby strollers, the sewing of cute dresses and meeting of a son-in-law. But the moment was less disappointing than I expected it to be. And the joy and excitement I've felt since that moment passed is actually quite amazing to me. This is a special baby boy--the child that completes our family, the child that almost wasn't, the child that helped effect amazing, big changes in our life so we could welcome him with peace of mind.

I am more thrilled than ever to know that being past the awful sickie , now I can just experience those fun milestones--the kicks that make your stomach look like aliens have invaded, thinking of a name (well, actually only medium fun), and those last weeks when you just can't wait to see the little babe in person and hold him in your arms.

Halfway there!

Reservoirs

Occasionally I find myself in moments of fear and panic about the world my children are growing up in. It's hard to imagine how any child can wade through the garbage that surrounds them and eventually turn into faithful, respectful, responsible, honest adults.

Equal to these moments of fear and panic are little moments where I glimpse how important my role as their mother is. I recognize that I have the opportunity every single day, in small ways, to teach them to work hard, to be honest, and to respect others and themselves.

The book I'm reading right now, Faith Precedes the Miracle, written by Spencer W. Kimball (one of the past prophets of our church) offers an interesting perspective on how we can be truly effective in this daily teaching. He suggests that within our homes we focus on building "reservoirs of righteousness & truth" that will carry our children through the dark days of temptation and desire, of drought and skepticism. He offers some great insight on how to do this:

Some years ago we visited a country where strange ideologies were taught and"pernicious doctrines" were promulgated every day in the schools and in the captive press. Every day the children listened to the doctrines, philosophies, and ideals their teachers related.

Someone said that "constant dripping will wear away the hardest stone." This I knew, so I asked about the children. "Do they retain their faith? Are they not overcome by the constant pressure of their teachers? How can you be sure they will not leave the simple faith in God?"

The answer amounted to saying, "We mend the damaged reservoir each night. We teach our children positive righteousness so that the false philosophies do not take hold. Our children are growing up in faith and righteousness in spite of the almost overwhelming pressures from outside.

Even cracked dams can be mended and saved, and sandbags can hold back the flood. And reiterated truth, renewed prayer, gospel teachings, expression of love, and parental interest, can save the child and keep him on the right path.

From the trenches

Every so often, when I find myself deep in the trenches of parenting, I get a gentle, amazing reminder that all the teaching, reminding, and attempts to be firm & consistent really are paying off and producing boys who are worthy of, and listening to, the influence of "that spirit which leadeth to do good--yea, to do justly, to walk humbly, to judge righteously." (Doctrine & Covenants 11:12)

Teaching them how to recognize, listen to, and obey that spirit is what I consider to be my most important responsibility as their mother. Heaven knows they need it in the tumultuous, crazy world in which we live--a world that starts, even in 2nd grade, to bombard our children with things we would never choose for them to hear or see.

My gentle, amazing reminder came this morning, and it went like this:

James: "Mom, the book we're reading in reading group already had four bad words in it. Two d words, one h word and. . .(dramatic pause) even the f word."

Me: (horrified, ready to call the school immediately) "What kind of book is this?!!"

James: "It's called Shilo. It's a western, mom, those guys didn't have any churches back then"

Not sure what to do, but ready to call someone and complain, I found out that James had already done the work for me.

James: "Don't worry, mom. I told my teacher we couldn't keep reading this book. There were just too many bad words. Three kids agreed with me, two kids wanted to keep reading."

Come to find out, after a little hesitation on the reading group teacher's part (her initial reaction? "oh, just keep reading") James kept insisting, and finally, "James you're right."

They were six chapters in, and there were nine more to go, but they stopped right away and are now reading a different book.

James: "Mom, it felt so good."

It was a small yet extremely significant moment in his and my life and I am grateful he shared it with me.

Buddies

Yesterday I had one of those parenting moments I'm not proud of. Soon after it happened, I tweeted my sisters: sometimes I get so mad at my kids I scare myself.

I am aware that every parent is allowed a few of these without totally screwing up their kids. In fact, often they prompt a powerful teaching moment about how sometimes mommies are wrong, sometimes they do things they shouldn't, and can you please forgive.

I sometimes wonder what kind of legacy I'm leaving for my boys. And by legacy I mean what am I doing, cooking, wearing, and saying that is sticking with them for more than their few-minutes-long attention spans. Will they remember me as a grumpy, yelling nag? Will they remember that we had any fun together? I will. But will they?

Later on, a bit after my not-so-proud-moment which included a tearful apology, I said to James, "can we always be best buddies?"

"Sure," he said.

"Because pretty soon it's not going to be the cool thing for you to be best buddies with your mom."

But he reassured me that he still would.

Now it has been documented. I just need to remember to quit yelling and do what it takes to deserve it.

Confession

Notice the clutter covering the kitchen counters. ugh

My mom is an organized, orderly person. She keeps a clean, generally clutter-free house and although it drove me crazy as a child trying to meet her standards, I now greatly admire her ability to do so.

So during her visit last month, when she was admiring my creativity and various sewing projects and said to me, "grandma and I just wonder where you find time to do it all," I laughed and told her the way I "do it all" is by being a terrible housekeeper.

"I will walk past piles of toys and clutter on my way to the sewing table," I said.

And she responded with something like, "but that's okay. I think it's better to be making things and creating than cleaning up all the time. I wish I was more like that--able to ignore the messes and be creative. You can always clean, but you can't always sew."

Here is where I pause so that all my siblings can shut their dropped jaws. I know, right? Who knew our mother favored creativity over cleanliness. Who knew?

Up until that conversation I have always thought of this as a major weakness for me. I love to make things and hate to clean up afterward. I will step over toys and piles of laundry and full of dirty dishes and (heaven help me), I will even clear off a little spot on the kitchen counter just big enough for cooking dinner. I am not one of those who can't cook a meal until the kitchen is clean. No way.

More than I care to admit, I've been mortified when someone stops by unexpectedly and they get a glimpse into my cluttered life.

But, hey, mom says its okay. So, at least today I feel a little less pressure to make a major overhaul of my housekeeping skills. Like that will ever happen.

What a difference a year makes

My parents were recently here for their annual Halloween visit. They've been coming to Oregon for Halloween the past few years, as our G&G Troxler did when we were little. Halloween is definitely a holiday better spent with children, and we love visitors.

Last week, while waiting for them to arrive, I couldn't help but think about last year's visit. Mom came alone to rescue me from weeks of pregnancy-induced sickness and serious neglect of my children and my home. Also, Jeff was out of town and the thought of making three meals a day for children in my current state overwhelmed me to tears.

She came and stayed longer than her usual three days (because she lives by the adage that guests and fish stink after 3 days), cooked delicious bland meals that soothed this pregnant lady's sick stomach, sewed a vampire cape, cleaned my house every single day, did all our laundry, let me sleep in, transported James to and from school, and listened to me complain about feeling crummy and how I would never, ever have any more children.

I cried after she left. However, I also found within myself a renewed energy to face the difficult weeks full of nausea that were still ahead.

This year Mom and Dad came together once again, and we had great food, watched some great football (go Ducks!) and baseball, and even enjoyed a rare sunny Oregon fall day.

Needless to say, I am so, so happy to be here in 2009 with Henry making me smile and fall more in love with him everyday as opposed to there in 2008 when he mostly just made me run to the toilet.

wah, wah, wah, wah, wah

To all those people who told me that third children are more calm, sleep through the night quicker, lay there and entertain themselves amidst the chaos of the household more than the first two did: thanks for the warning, but Henry didn't get the memo.

My first two children were pretty fussy. Especially Owen. One of the memories I have of him as a baby is a 2-year-old James yelling in his face, "STOP CRYING!!"and me not even reprimanding the yelling because I felt the same way. The poor kid cried all the time and we just learned to deal with it.

The other night I heard Jeff say to Henry in the middle of a major crying meltdown, "you sure aren't a very easy third baby", and I would have to agree. Luckily, we are 3-for-3 on fussy babies so we sort of know how to deal with it. It's exhausting, but we'll look back on it soon enough and realize what a short time it really was. And the smiles we get in between the crying are precious and sweet, so we can't really complain too much.

**the picture above is of Henry with his cousin, Bradley, only two weeks older, and thankfully for his parents, my brother and sis-in-law, NOT such a fussy baby.

Embrace the chaos

I almost had a mental breakdown today.

Life with any children is difficult, but I'll tell you--life with these three children of mine is really throwing me for a loop.

My plan this morning was organized and simple. Or so it seemed. Wake up, eat a good breakfast, read scriptures, spend twenty minutes with Jillian Michaels, get the kids ready and take them to the free admission before noon day at the Lane County fair where could see animals, get cotton candy, have lunch at a nearby park and head home for naptime and quiet time.

That was how the morning went in my head. Here's how it really went:

While nursing Henry, I noticed his diaper had leaked all over my sheets, requiring me to strip the bed down to throw in the wash. While I was giving him a bath (much needed due to the leakage), the boys decided to make a "tent" in the living room which was really just a giant pile of all the couch cushions and every pillow in our house for them to jump into.

With the bath done and Henry tired, I figured I could get him to sleep, fit in a workout and shower while the boys were playing in their tent and we could leave just after 11 to make sure we got there by noon.

BUT putting Henry to sleep took way longer than usual and the boys had a couple of fighting meltdowns in the meantime--usually screaming for me just as baby had drowsy eyes, therefore waking him up again, which is of course why it took longer than usual.

AND of course on this day when I needed him to take a short nap, Henry decided to sleep for a long time and I decided to ditch the fair idea, except that the boys were already so excited about seeing all the animals and getting cotton candy.

SO after a pitiful little workout(Jillian would be disappointed), I find myself yelling at Owen from inside my frantic shower to get his clothes on by the time I get out or we wouldn't go, and James yelling back how that wasn't fair because HIS clothes were on and why should he not be able to go just because Owen wasn't listening and my empty threats that if everyone didn't stop crying and screaming we wouldn't go at all, I threw on a wrinkled outfit and snatched Henry from his peaceful slumber to have his arms wrangled into the freaking car seat buckles and ran out the house.

WELL, in the end, we didn't make it to the fair before noon because we hit every single red light on the way and the free parking lot was full by the time we arrived. Since wandering around looking at stinky animals is only worth it to me if it is free and not when it costs $7/person entry fee and $5 parking fee, our morning ended about one block from the fair where I had to pull over to feed a screaming Henry, passing snacks to the boys in the back seat, all the while telling them I knew it was pretty annoying that we came all the way down here to turn around and go back home.

We did end up having a consolation black bottom cupcake and caramel brownie from the best bakery in town, and so while I completely negated my pitiful workout with chocolate, I came to the conclusion that making plans in this phase of my life just makes it more stressful, and that I need to just embrace the chaos and have no expectations. It is definitely easier said than done. I'm sure there will be many more days like this in the meantime, and I will try not to go completely crazy.

As I buckled all the kids into the van outside the bakery, I looked over and saw a couple in a very expensive BMW with two expensively groomed dogs parked next to us. I watched them back out and drive away and wondered how their morning went compared to mine.

Embrace the chaos. I'll keep telling myself that.

The battle of the bulge

Here I find myself, seven weeks postpartum and generally feeling pretty great. Henry and I have figured out a nursing routine that seems to work, and we've reached that awesome milestone where we can get through a night with no diaper changes.

So now I turn my attention to my flabby gut. I spend a lot of time with my shirt up these days, hence, there is too much time spent wishing that simply staring at the flab would make it magically go away.I've come to the place where all the weight that one can lose simply by giving birth and then subsequently breastfeeding for seven weeks is off and the rest of it is now up to me. Ugh.

With my other two boys I reached this point and just sort of stayed there for months and years. I wouldn't say it was a terrible weight to be, but it definitely didn't allow me to fit into many of the pants I've kept in the size I keep thinking I really am.

This time around I want it to be different. I want to actually get rid of that extra 15 lbs. and keep it off. I'm setting my goal there because it is big enough to keep me focused but not so big that I feel totally overwhelmed. Sure, I would probably be even happier getting rid of 20, 25 even 30 pounds, but I just like food too much to commit myself to that.

I asked Jeff at dinner last night, "how does a person even lose weight, anyway?"

His answer: "exercise and eat less."

Easier said than done.

I'll admit that I'm actually kind of excited about the exercise part because apart from a couple months in the middle of the pregnancy, I really never felt much like exercising, so for nine months I just didn't. So I'm getting back into running again, and it really does feel great.

But eating less is very difficult for me. Especially considering I'm still in my post-pregnancy feeding frenzy and also have an unquenchable nursing appetite.

Perhaps just making this public confession will make it easier this time around. We'll see. I'm going to do my best. But don't worry, I'm not going to involve you, my readers, in every pound I've lost. This is probably all you'll hear about it just in case I fail miserably.

PPE

Today Tara asked me if I was having any post-partum depression. I told her no. In fact, I think I'm having whatever the opposite of that happens to be. Post-partum elation, perhaps. I absolutely believe that PPD is a real thing that many women experience. But for me, the pure joy of not being pregnant is what fuels my PPE, if you will.

For the past two weeks, I have thought over and over of how much better I feel after eating certain foods that made me sick for weeks and weeks, how happy I am to be able to take a really deep breath, to roll over comfortably in bed, and not to have to visit the toilet 18 times a day. For some reason my messy house doesn't overwhelm me to tears like it did my entire pregnancy--I can only attribute this to actually being able to bend over comfortably to pick up clutter and put it away.

Even the regular labor and delivery recovery-related pains and discomfort, as well as the early pain of nursing that have been around since Henry arrived AND the exhaustion of waking up every 2-3 hours in the night haven't bothered me like the whole 9 months of pregnancy bothered me. Go figure.

I'm mostly writing this for all my pregnant friends (and there are many!) out there who are in every stage of gestation, feeling all levels of nausea, heartburn, insomnia, backaches, and anxiety. All I can say is hang on, and hopefully PPE is on its way to you very soon.

The winner

Finally, Finally, James and Owen would like to announce the arrival of their baby brother:

Henry William Fuller

Born May 21, 2009; 10:11 a.m.

8 lbs. 2 oz.; 20 inches long

And the lucky winner of the contest is Tara! Her exact quote: "I'm guessing May 21st at 3:47 p.m. Weight 7 lbs 11 oz. Good luck Kristine! I am jealous you are so close!!" She's jealous because she has 3 more weeks to go until her own little sweetie boy is born. Hang in there, girl. (Brittany and Emily, you were both so close. It came down to hours--Tara's guess was a few hours less off the actual time. But how fun that Henry will share a birthday with both of you)

It was so fun to read all the guesses. Trust me, I was wishing that some of you who guessed Saturday and Sunday were right, but I guess this little guy wanted to take his time and then make a seriously quick, intense trip out when he was good and ready.

I'll try spare the nitty gritty, sometimes gory, and TMI details that make up mother-to-mother birth stories, and just sum it up like this: Monday afternoon we went to the doctor for the final checkup, and found that I was about as far along as you can be without actually being in active labor. I had some pretty regular contractions that night, but nothing that could actually be called painful, and eventually those sort of fizzled out. Doctor agreed that if baby wasn't here by Wednesday, he would break my water on Thursday morning at the hospital. So on Thursday morning, it went like this:

7:00 am: got to the hospital

7:40: broken water

8:00 ish: regular, painful contractions set in

9:15: really hard, intense contractions set in

9:20ish: asked for some kind of drug to take the edge off, found out it was too late, baby was about to make his entrance

9:40ish: had some serious doubts about being able to do this drug-free

10:11: Henry is in my arms.

It was a crazy, awesome and truly amazing experience. Jeff was such a helpful, positive coach through it all, and the two nurses and my Doctor were also so incredibly helpful and encouraging that I can honestly say it was one of the most spiritual and even pleasant experiences I've ever had.

Now that I can sit back and compare a non-epidural experience with an epidural experience (which I had with both of my other boys), I don't anymore think that people who do it drug-free are crazy. I went into the birth without a specific decision on whether I would use pain medication or not, but knowing my low pain tolerance, was leaning more toward medicating. Because I wasn't decided either way, I just wanted to let my body and my mind make that decision for me during the actual delivery so that I wouldn't be disappointed no matter what happened.

I just realized that up in that paragraph I called the experience pleasant. It seems like a ridiculous word to use to describe such an intense, painful thing. But honestly, with supportive people who encouraged me all the way through, (trust me, I had some serious, serious moments of doubt and terror) I guess the word pleasant could describe the environment around me, and not the actual pain and intensity. Henry was lucky enough to be born into a room full of peaceful, helpful, loving people on a sunny, blue-skied morning.

That said, it was extremely fast, and had it been longer, it most likely would have been a completely different experience. I wouldn't say it would have been a worse experience, just different.

As I sit here typing with Henry in the sling (I think he likes it!), it is overwhelming and amazing that someone such as myself is allowed to fall completely in love for the third time with a precious little person. I am so incredibly thankful that he is here and healthy and for all the love and support that brought him and us to this point.

***(Tara, leave me your address in the comments, and I promise your prize will be there sometime in the next few weeks.)

Stuck in the middle

Sunday morning I was laying in bed listening to the boys play together in their room. It was going as it usually does: older brother tells younger brother what they are playing, how he must act while playing it, and takes license to change his mind whenever he chooses. Younger brother willingly goes along with most suggestions: dying when he is told he has just been shot, trading guys when older brother decides he wants what younger has, and trying his best to come up with new ideas for play only to be told that no, they can't play like that, or that isn't how it works.

As the mother of them both, I often want to step in and tell older brother that he is being a big bully and needs to "play nicer", which in this case means take the suggestions of younger brother even when they don't seem as cool or fun. And certainly, sometimes I do just that.

But on this particular morning, I remembered that I was once the younger; most likely following the older around like she could do no wrong, doing and playing whatever she told me, thinking maybe she would like me the best if I never disagreed. Like Owen, I am also the second born in the family.

Of course, I eventually got the best of both worlds, (as Owen will) when another sister was born, and instantly I added older sister to my previous status of younger sister, and perhaps I learned the joy of bossing around a little admirer who was willing to be bossed and mostly thought I could do no wrong.

Soon enough, Owen might be looked upon with pity as the "middle child". Poor, poor middle children. But I think that being stuck in the middle might have its hidden advantages. I'm not the middle child in our family, but I am in the middle of two. This same sister born after me is the true middle (two siblings on both sides of her) and is now the most independent and opinionated of us all, taking no bossing from me, or anyone else, for that matter. Perhaps these qualities developed as a result of being in the middle?

Eventually, the aforementioned playtime ended in older brother grabbing something unneccesarily out of younger brother's hand, and younger brother tattling to me with tears in his eyes. I'm sure he has figured out that, although we don't mean to, mothers generally side with the younger when tears are involved because we know what damage the olders can really inflict when it was "just an accident".

So really, it might just be best to be older brother and younger brother all at the same time. Lucky, lucky Owen.

What's in a name?

It's 3:30 in the morning, baby boy is playing wallyball with my insides, and I am wide awake with too much on my mind. I have always heard that third trimester pregnancy insomnia exists to prepare a mom for the sleepless nights that are ahead with a newborn. But seriously? What a cruel form of preparation.

I think that baby woke me up on this early morning because he is wondering, like many inquiring minds, when he will know his name. Now, I'm not a fan of "officially" naming a child in utero, calling the embryo and my belly by his name before he is born and whatnot, but this time around when it feels like we should really be settling in on one, we're not quite there yet.

Naming a child is a bit of a daunting task. A 40-week gestation is difficult enough without slapping on the added burden of choosing the perfect name, not to mention being responsible to make sure the first name flows with the last, forseeing what bad nicknames may be in the future, and wondering if the child will someday file an official name change with the government due to what he deems was a very poor choice made by his parents. (I'm exaggerating a bit here, I know that it's not THAT big of a deal, people)

For Christmas, as kind of a joke, Alisa gave me a book titled, 50,001 Best Baby Names, which, it turns out, I was actually pretty excited to receive. After reading through almost the entire thing, here are the official numbers:

50,000 to begin
-25,000 : out because they are suited for the female gender (but we sure loved some of them)
-100-200(ish) : that although we might like, are out simply due to their association with an annoying student that has come through Jeff's classroom over the past years. (For you people with non-teacher spouses, this number is much smaller and limited to annoying co-workers, roommates and acquaintances)
-50-100(ish) : out because they have already been selected by close friends or family members (not that we're against naming our children after people we like, or carrying on family names; this mostly includes cousins, etc. that are currently alive and don't want their name poached simply because we like it too)
-24,696 : out because they sound bad with Fuller, are too popular, or are just plain ridiculous.

Okay, so what do your awesome math skills tell you is left over after that complicated equation?

That would be FOUR(ish) possible names. And even a couple of those are still questionable.

I had no idea I was this picky. The psychology of why we like/hate certain names is too complicated to delve into, and, frankly, I don't really understand it, so I'll refrain from analyzing it here.

So we just can't decide. Well, I should say I can't decide--Jeff has somewhat of a more decisive opinion this time around. I'm the one dragging this whole process down.

Therefore, when the question is posed, "what are you going to name the baby?", the answer really is we don't know. It's not that we're keeping it a secret, we just don't know. (And in case you're wondering, Swampfire has remained on the short list, at Owen's insistence)

For now, Baby Boy Fuller might just be the name he comes home with (hmmm, that has a simple, organic quality to it. It can be changed to Boy Fuller, Teen Fuller, and Man Fuller as he grows up. Like calling a thing what it is--a spade is a spade is a spade).

All we can do is try

This morning I woke up grumpy. The culprit? A restless night full of leg cramps, charlie horses, and hoisting my big belly from side-to-side in search of comfort. (Man, it's amazing what pregnancy can do to your body. . . but I digress).

Stumbling out to the kitchen I found myself met with multiple demands: for food, drink and more than anything, my attention to comments such as:

"Look how fast I can chew my bagel, mom"

"Elijah at school can crack his wrists like this, mom"

"Mommy, did you know that spiderman can fly by shooting his webs?"

What did I expect? This was nothing new. Anyone who spends time with young children knows that from the moment their eyes open in the morning to the time they close at night they demand presence and attention of no less than one hundred percent.

It really is easy to become resentful, to tune the children out, to wish for things such as waking up to a quiet house where breakfast is eaten in relative silence and a shower is taken without a minimum of three interuptions and fighting going on outside the door.

It is also easy to wish ourselves to a different phase of life. We look at others and think their situations are so much easier and that we would manage better if only we had their lives.

But, at the end of the day, as you've probably read in previous posts, (musings of this sort seem to be a recurring theme for me) I do have every desire to live in the moment with my young children. I really do wish to appreciate every stage the boys are in, and I want to have no regrets. I look at my friend who is about to send her oldest son to college and although she is delighted at his independence and ambition, she also finds herself heartbroken that his short time at home is over. I think of this time, 12ish years in the future for me, and get teary-eyed at the mere thought. Every time I drop James off at school, I still think he's too small to walk in that big building all alone, all day long, for heavens sake.

And so, today, again, I'll recommit to being patient, kind, and try take advantage of teaching moments. I'll try to yell less; I will sit down and play in a messy room instead of get stressed out about the toys that "should have been put away", and I'll really listen to what the boys have to say instead of just nodding and saying "mmm hmmm".

I really will try. And now I have to go. I have a date with my 3-year-old and his choo-choo track.

The mother of boys is the mother of men

Praise to the High One for giving me joys
Peculiarly sweet, I'm the mother of boys!
Mud puddles, torn blue jeans, toads, whistles and worms.
The furred and feathered and whatever squirms.

Black knuckles, bats, arrows and thundering noise.
They're all in a day for the mothers of boys.
But, ah, 'tis a dear joy to turn the blue eyes
To the manifold wonder of earth, sea and skies.

And, ah, 'tis a dear joy to watch a small hand seize
The hand of God in the knowledge of these.
Spare me, oh High One, to praise Thee more when
This mother of boys is the mother of men.

--author unknown

Upon hearing the news that we will indeed be adding a third boy to our family, I'll admit I had my tiny moment of disappointment (I thought my boys needed a sister). But once the news is delivered, all one can do is be happy, be thankful, and consider all the good things that will come with having three boys.

So after considering it for the past few days, here are my thoughts:

• It is now guaranteed that for at least the next five years I will continue to hear the words, "there's more bad guys, I'll get them!," and ,"watch out, the (insert any word --doesn't even have to be a real word)-asaurus is about to eat you!
• It is also guaranteed that the car noises, shooting noises, diesel truck noises, and the driving of cars up and down the walls and the halls in my house with the volume increasing ten-fold as soon as I get on the phone will not go away anytime soon. (As a girl, I will attest that girls do not come with ability to make such noises with their mouths. I've tried and my boys are not impressed--so now I will have another one who will also not be impressed, but will be born with this natural ability)
• Now that James is 5 years old and refuses to go into the women's bathroom with me, I've learned that as long as Jeff is around, this will actually be quite a bonus of having three boys. About five years from now I will never have to take any child into the bathroom when traveling or out and about. (I know, this one is really a stretch, but I HATE public bathrooms, so for me, this is good news)

I have had a couple of teary-eyed moments as well. The first came yesterday when I walked into the living room and almost stepped on this:

I know, blame it mostly on hormones, but I was just overwhelmed with how cute it was to imagine Owen lining up all the cars, each one talking to each other. It made me glad that another one is coming along to line up the cars once Owen decides he's too big for them anymore.

Mostly I have been reminded of the blessing it is and will continue to be, having three future holders of the priesthood in my home everyday for the next 18+ years. It is an awesome privilege and we're excited to welcome this little guy into our family.