Superman, Four Years Old

April is going out like a sopping, shivering lion here in Minnesota. But we refuse to kowtow to drenching doldrums. Here, we party. Especially when we've got a birthday to celebrate! 

So yesterday Superman and Little Professor helped make Starlight Yellow Cupcakes (no, I don't know why Betty Crocker named 'em that way. They're kinda sparkly once baked, I suppose). Superman picked Papa's apron to wear. Hence "The Rev" and the emblem of the Greatest Football Team Ever.

"Cheeeeeeese!" A.k.a. The normal posed Superman face.

The "Nice for Mommy" posed face.

 My helpers were stellar. They moved a little quick with the ingredients (and for the camera), but didn't spill much and really, really, REALLY enjoyed helping with the mixer on high-seven-speed. (Little Professor kept whispering for Superman to "make it go faster!")

I told them to help me take some selfies. "What's a selfie?" asked Little Professor. Because he spends time reading The Magic Treehouse series instead of Facebook (or analyses of media culture). Anyway, per usual silly boys, they kept making silly faces. So I finally did, too. If you can't beat 'em, silly with 'em!

 

As usual, I forgot to take a picture of the cupcakes going in the oven, coming out of the oven, pre-iced, or even iced. Suffice it to say homemade cake and icing are mucho better than the boxed kind. And green food coloring makes a mess. But a bright, cheerful one.

So the big day came. We like to spread out birthdays here, so there's still presents and cards waiting to be opened in the next few days. Superman had fun playing with stamps this morning, building a monstrous tent house with four blankets and an American flag (disguised as a blue handkerchief), and reading birthday books. His sibs, especially the Little Professor, were so excited! LP even made him a second card, complete with its own envelope and label, that he placed by Superman's pillow during his nap so he'd find it when he woke up. 

Papa came home to pick up Superman to take him to get some eggs--one of his favorite foods--and to give us a little time to do some decorating and last-minute wrapping.  Little Professor hand selected four cars--significance in numbers here--to give to Superman. He wrapped each one in tissue paper. And Superman LOVED them. Brotherly love on display! Then he came home to a little surprise, some gifts, a lot of screeching excitement, and bacon.

Only the really excited kids stand on chairs!

 

I love it!

 And the little sibs didn't want to miss out, either. Pearly Girl kept a close watch. And Small Dude bounced up and down with excitement.

Did someone say "PARTY?!"

We celebrate birthdays with simple things--cake, icing, a few gifts, lots of love. Maybe someday we'll have a no-holds-barred birthday bash, but for now, it's a happy day to spend together, share some squeezes, thank God for His good gift of life.

He wanted eggs and sausage and toast with jam for his birthday dinner. Who wouldn't grin?

 A year is no time and a year is a lot of time. Here's Superman last year with his green cake, and here he is this year with his green cupcake. May you be blessed with many more, our dear son!

By Your Agony and Bloody Sweat

I originally wrote this post on Good Friday two years ago (for reference, Pearly Girl was a few months old, Superman was almost two, and Little Professor was three and a half). Here it is for you on this Good Friday.

On this Good Friday, the title above is both fitting and--I'll admit it--a deliberate attention-getter (that's Comp 101 on "Attracting an Audience" right there). I don't actually like to think about what Christ went through on this day. I don't even like to use the proper language to describe it. Thanks to the Litany (again!) for the right words when my sinful flesh cringes at the truth.

Today the kids and I went up to church at noon for an informal prayer service. I told Papa I could walk there, no problem--he needed to take a few boxes of books earlier so he drove the not-quite-two blocks with our one vehicle. But after strapping on Pearly Girl (roughly fourteen pounds) into the sling and pulling the boys (roughly sixty pounds) into a twenty-mile-per-hour wind for about one hundred yards, I realized I was tackling more than I thought. By the time I got to church, my back and arms were aching-sore and I was totally out of breath. But no big deal, I told myself. Jesus hung on the cross for three hours and endured hours of torment and torture before that, so a little sweat pulling my kids isn't anything to complain about.

We went into the dark church where Papa had covered the cross with a black veil and lit a few candles. A few women from church were there, and we sat in front of them in the first pew. The sanctuary was very dark and quiet. But not for long. Pearly Girl wanted out of the carrier. Badly. My muck sweat from the walk doubled as I wrestled the now-squirming, flailing, wailing girly out of the Baby Bjorn. Then Superman got ants in his pants and would not hold still. After trying unsuccessfully to rock our Pearl and shush Superman, Papa stopped his prayers so I could hand Superman over to him. Then I took PG and left the sanctuary, mere minutes after we first had walked in.

I sat down on the pew in the narthex with the door to the sanctuary closed and began to feed PG. And I couldn't help it; the tears started pooling in my eyes and running down my cheeks. Why, I thought, why can't I just go into church and be able to sit quietly and hear your Word without interruption? All I wanted was to hear and remember your Passion. 

I could hear the quiet murmurs of Papa and the women praying the Litany. The soft, muffled cadence of their voices calmed me down, and I gradually just sat still and tried to remember the parts where I thought they were. After a few minutes, they came out of the church and stood by me for a few minutes. The boys, now quiet, went with Papa to the van.


"How is she?" one of the women asked gently, gesturing to PG.

"She's almost asleep now," I said. "I'm sorry about all the noise."

Before I could say anything else, all three of them shook their heads and started talking at once.

"They're no trouble--"

"No, don't you worry--"

But one of them spoke most firmly.

"Don't ever apologize for your children. They are a gift to us, and we are so, so happy to see them here. Always remember what a joy they, and you, are to us."

I was touched by her words and the obvious agreement all of them had for this woman's sentiments. In fact, I was overwhelmed. What I saw as burden and interruption, they saw as gift, total gift. What I saw as irritation and distraction, they saw as reminders of the abundance of God's grace.

That afternoon, I got an email from the same woman with the comment. She wrote:

Thank you both so much for taking the time today to worship with us.  It was a special service and I appreciate the focus during this time, especially as the work day passes, it’s wonderful to break away and focus on what matters in this life – salvation through Jesus Christ our Lord and the new life He brings!!

 I also want you both to understand, please never feel the need to say “I’m sorry” for those 3 blessings that you have in your children.  You cannot imagine the feeling of joy that I had when I heard Paul’s voice join in on the Lord’s Prayer.  Hands down, highlight of my day.  It’s always wonderful to have them there.  Both Nancy and I were so thrilled to see the wagon outside of the church when we arrived, and we were so thrilled to spend that time with your family – our church family!!  It speaks to the kind people that you are that you apologize, but I want you to know that you don’t have to.  There is absolutely no apology necessary, ever.  Children are to be in church, and we are SO GLAD that they can be at Our Saviours!!

Love, because of Him,

Linda

The subject of her email was "This was truly a Good Friday."

So often I forget what's important in this life. Yet in the midst of sweat (literally) and tears (literally, all around, everybody join in!), Christ comes. My agony might seem terrible, but it's nothing compared to what He bore for me. He came to bleed and sweat and cry and die on the cross for us so that we won't always. I thought I'd missed His Passion. But He brought it to me anyway, just in a way I hadn't expected. And His word, that does for me what I can't do for myself, keeps me always. For this I am eternally grateful, just as I am so incredibly grateful for the love He gives through women at our church who remind me of Him so steadfastly.

Happy Good Friday.

Three years is long, fast time

Just about three years ago...

 

Now, our little boys are our "big" boys!

Far as the curse is found

Every year on Christmas Eve night, our church's Sunday School presents a pageant. The pageant includes lessons and carols, with some shepherds' robes, microphone feedback, candlelight, and the usual-yet-unexpected poignancy whenever children are involved in public confessions of faith. This year, the Sunday School teachers did an exceptional job preparing our youngsters to read and sing of Christ's coming. And despite a last-minute rash of kids getting the flu and a snowy, blowy Eve, Our Saviour's Sunday School did a wonderful job. Here they are right before the service.

Our small group is blessed to include Ali, a lovely, energetic girl who is developmentally disabled. She cannot walk without help and she cannot speak with words that we understand. But she smiles often, participates vigorously, and shows us how God makes beauty out of brokenness.

Ali's mother is one of our Sunday School teachers, and one of the ways Ali participated in the pageant was to light candles during one of the readings. Her mother helped her walk up to the Advent wreath. Then, she carefully wrapped Ali's fingers around the acolyte's brass lighter and lifted the flickering end bravely toward the candles. It took some doing, for it was difficult for Ali and her mother to get the lighter wick lined up just so against each candle wick. But as we watched Ali's rapt face glow in the soft light she lit and listened to the Old Testament prophecies and New Testament narratives of Christ's coming, we saw exactly why Christ came: to give light to darkness and to give hope to the weak. Later, while Pastor read of joyful noises and praise for God's good gifts, Ali lifted her voice to share her excitement. Her timing was perfect. She literally made a joyful noise as we heard about all of creation rejoicing in God's greatest gift.

One of my favorite Christmastime readings is Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol. In the story, Bob Cratchit tells his wife about taking their son, the saintly Tiny Tim, to church. "He told me, coming home," Bob says, "that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember upon Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk, and blind men see." 

Parents of disabled children, including Ali's mom and dad, will tell you that their children are not perfect. They know, just as parents of able-bodied children know, that despite glimpses of sweet innocence and selflessness, children act in savage, selfish, sinful ways, ways that belie their angelic appearances. That's one reason why Lutherans baptize babies--we know our months-, days-, or even hours-old children have been infected with the sin of Adam. Their behavior shows this, but their bodies show it, too. Children scrape knees, break limbs, get infections, battle cancer. Some of the scars heal, but none of them disappear forever. And even the most saintly kid can't fix himself. Tiny Tim recognized this. Even at young ages, we see our children marked for death.

Papa and I witnessed this firsthand in our own home this week. Superman developed a low-grade fever a few days after Christmas. I kept him home, snuggled him, gave him lots of 7-Up and regular doses of bubble-gum Tylenol. But he still felt badly, and his body suddenly reacted to its illness by triggering a seizure. We took him to the Emergency Room within ten minutes of his seizure, and he revived, especially when the nurses prepared his hand for an IV. (Oh, the great patience of pediatric nurses!) He spent the night at Sanford Children's in Sioux Falls, at what we call the Castle (it looks like the Cinderella castle at Disney World). And we were relieved when his temperature disappeared after a night and the doctors concluded that Superman is one of about five percent of kids who experience febrile seizures, or seizures causes by a fever. He might have another one, but he might not. It's most likely that he will grow out of them. And we are very thankful that he is well now, asking for candy at every meal, and asking us, "Do you remember when I got to spend the night at the children's doctor?" Yes, Superman. We remember. And we always will.

In a feeling-apple-eatin'-good moment.

Few things are as terrifying to parents, I think, than when their children become physically unresponsive. Right after his seizure, Papa scooped up Superman and held him like a baby. Our son was helpless, and so were we. All we could physically do was to rock him and place him in the care of people who know how little bodies work and what they need. The experience with Superman was a mighty, visceral shock to remember that our son is not ours, that we did not make him, and that we cannot keep him well, or even keep him at all. His days on this earth are numbered. And this knowledge can cripple us with fear and anger.

Too often, I think the world manipulates the weakest among us. Many are manipulated because they are small or voiceless. Many are exploited as powerful political or religious examples that we thoughtlessly or knowingly parade in a voyeuristic show of pity to achieve other ends--our own selfish ends. But Christ came as a weak Babe precisely to show us that He loves each little one unto death. Because that's where Ali and Sam and every child, from the red-faced newborn to strongest Olympian to the frailest centenarian, is headed. And the Child gifted with myrrh, the embalming spice and funeral incense, reached for Death and struck it away, for us, forever.

On Christmas Day, we sing joy. We sing, "Joy to the world, the Lord is come." But even more, we sing healing. "He comes to make His blessings flow/ far as the curse is found." In the Christmas season, and for the rest of this year and every year, we need joy. But we also need to know that His blessings flow even into the very crevices of our sinful lives, into every dark and putrid corner, into every broken heart and annihilated hope that we suffer due to our terrible physical and emotional and spiritual frailty and that of those we love. We need to know that He, the mightiest and the greatest, made Himself the smallest and weakest and most nothing of men to save us, the ones who so desperately need Him. As this Christmas season closes, I pray you know and remember that He comes to defeat every curse that haunts and plagues you. He comes as the lowliest to lift you lowly ones up, to hold you like babies, to heal your brokenness. And he comes still to make His blessings flow.

Thankful for His times given

Today, I give thanks for many things.

Mostly, I give thanks for my family--my messy, loud, amazing, ever-changing family. 

God knows the worth of what He gives far more than I ever could. 

So, take and use Thy work, 

Amend what flaws may lurk, 

What strain o' the stuff, what warpings past the aim! 

My times be in Thy hand! 

Perfect the cup as planned! 

Let age approve of youth, and death complete the same!

~From "Rabbi Ben Ezra" by Robert Browning

Sweet Quiet

What sweet quiet

is soft rain

through open windows

and the flutter of an evening breeze

and a few nesting birds

and the wordless murmurs of a young boy

quickly wakened, and relaxed,

drifting back to sleep.

Love That Never Sleeps

So Superman is just a super, nearly-three bundle of energy. He also can go to the bathroom on demand. Doesn't matter if he's just gone fourteen times in the last hour. He can always, always, always squeeze something out.

So I've been annoyed in the last few months when he gets out of bed at least once right after going down for quiet time or bedtime. "Mommy?" his little voice murmurs down the hall from the doorway. "I gotta go potty." And I roll my eyes and go into the bathroom, get him all situated, and try not to sigh in exasperation (usually because I just want to nap or get things done, and I can't until he's asleep).

This happened the other day, just as it's happened hundreds of times before. Except Superman, who is incredibly sensitive and insightful, looked me in the face. When I caught his gaze, he said, "Mommy, I love you." My heart melted. I said, "I love you, too, Superman." And then he said, "Even when I'm sleeping, I love you."

In all of his little boy innocence, Superman spoke a sanctified truth. Love, real love, never sleeps. My boy might relax into slumber with his arms stretched and mouth open, his mind and body deep in nocturnal rest, but he understands that love extends beyond wakeful conscientiousness. I can't love my own children with eternal care, but Christ can. He loves all of us with a love that never sleeps. And thanks be for His undying charity that extends even to sinful moms and restless little boys.

 

Budding Builder

In the recent vein of posts about my kids (since I haven't posted pictures of them in so ridiculously long), here's some snaps of our Superman, who loves monster trucks so much that he decided to "build" some out of wooden blocks. Mama did the "wheels" and he did the top parts. He got a little shy (?!) when I was taking pictures, but maybe he just wanted the lens to focus on his "twucks." He's such a huggable, loveable guy, our little S. I can't believe he's coming up on the big 3 in a few months!

Micellaneous Milestones

Since my last post, we've had some busy times! Here's a brief update.

Papa attended a Doxology seminar in Nebraska, where he learned about the devil and his wily ways from Dr. John Kleinig. He, and several pastors from our circuit, greatly enjoyed their time together (scrumptious food enhanced their experience, I've heard) learning about how to beat down the Evil One. The boys are into superheroes and "getting bad guys," so I'm still stewing about how to make a connection for them with this.

We celebrated my birthday with my lovely mother here (who also enormously helped out with the kids while Papa was away)! Turning 31 feels great, in a very achieving gravitas kind of way (especially when you leave sentences like this dangling for a week on your blog. I am FULL OF GRAVITAS. :)) And thanks for the "Happy '29th' Birthday" card from my brother, who's unofficially moved me into the "older person" stage. :) The boys spontaneously sang me "Happy Birthday," which brought me to tears. Little C shrieked and grinned, which brought me joy. Papa bought me a beautiful card and some pretty earrings--and the boys helped with both! I'm very thankful for all the wishes and cards and gifts; truly, my cup overfloweth.

Papa presented on "Family Matters" at an LWML Fall Rally at our church, which I was able to attend (thanks, Mom!). It was great visiting with many women, singing for the group, and even participating in a skit without knowing what I'd have to say or do ahead of time. Let me just say that Mrs. L.E. is hilarious and utterly trustworthy! Papa's presentation was fantastic, too--as he's prepared for this, he's helped me prioritize our children's spiritual care (more on this in another post). That's always a "win, win, win," as I teasingly tell the kids.

P's reading. I mean really reading. While he phonetically sounds out words sometimes, many times he just looks at them now and just says 'em. No help. Just the other day, he brought me a baseball thing and said, "Does this say, 'Get in the game'?" Yep. You read that right, buddy. So his "Letter Lessons" have been really fun! We just started Section Eight of The Ordinary Parent's Guide to Teaching Reading, so we're about halfway through that book. He's been practicing holding a pencil correctly with the help of a gripper, and we'll start a formal writing program soon, mostly because he keeps bugging me about learning how to write more than just his name. Hey--I'm not complaining!

P and I have also been doing "Math" (or what he sometimes calls "Number Math"), where he practices counting to 100 on the abacus or I write simple addition on our white board and he figures them out by counting dots. The first time we tried this a week or so ago, he literally quivered with excitement. "Mom, I just love this!" he said at least three times. I had to quell thoughts of him, at nine, performing complicated equations with a dry-erase pen on a window (I saw some news segment on a young math whiz years ago who'd do that). So far, I'm just glad he thinks it's all fun. We'll be starting weekly science and history lessons in the next month, too.

S has developed into a tackling machine. Not out of any desire to hurt stems his sudden pouncing; he's just a really physical kid. He's been giving hugs a lot, which is fantastic! I just find myself bruised more frequently. We're working on his gentleness around C, because while she laughs and grins every time he "hugs" (see: pushes, sits on, drags) her, we don't want any trips to the ER. He also is still our little singer. Last week, while he and P played in the leaves, we caught him yelling--YELLING--the Stephen Starke version of the Lord's Prayer. He also randomly bursts into song, sometimes mid-sentence. He also regales us with random comments, like the one just recently when I was helping him in the bathroom: "Mommy, I won't poop on you." I was so relieved to hear that! :) Yesterday we heard him walk into the living room and see something P had done, and he goes, "WOW! A-MAAAAAZ-ING!" His enthusiasm is contagious!

C is testing the waters with walking! She'll pull herself up by a chair or something and then let go--and stand for a second or two by herself. She's definitely thinking about letting go and taking steps (believe us, we can see that look on her face). She's also starting this cheesy-grin/grimace thing. It's so big, it looks like it hurts her face, and we can't help smiling every time she does it! She's a happy little girl. She's eating table food all the time now, and in a month or so we'll start introducing whole milk already. *Sigh.* My baby's not really a baby anymore! P will play with her by himself, and he just loves her, and she him. It's great to see their sibling relationship develop. S and C are still at the "NO, C! That's MINE!" or the sitting-on-her stage. S loves her; he just doesn't want her in his stuff. I admit I dream that someday S and C will have a Jackson/Johannah relationship (that's a Duggar reference, for those of you who don't know).

We've enjoyed jumping in the leaves! And tracking them inside. :)

And a decluttering update: I've cleaned out the laundry room (!!!) and gone through about five bins of micellany besides. I've still got about ten to go, but it's all consolidated, and I've just been plugging away at it whenever we're watching something at night, like the St. Louis Cardinals play during this postseason. Between a clean and not-cluttered laundry room and the Cards, life is good right there.

Autumn, Indoors: Puzzle-Solving, Cookie-Baking, Mess-Making Kids

I wish you could smell the chocolate-chip cookies in here.

I know that we're still hours away from the official beginning of fall, but we here at the Olson homestead have been soaking in the burnished, haunting, twirling, dancing, corn-stalked, melancholy vibes of the season that William Cullen Bryant (absolutely no relation to that vampire clan) called "the year's last, loveliest smile."  I know; my enthusiasm for autumn is a little hard to read. I'll try to kick it up a notch.

The other day, as golden rays streamed through our home's west-facing front, the kids and I enjoyed a nice afternoon. Some learning, baking, and growing took place. Learning--as P is doing by leaps and bounds--plus baking--which S lovedy-loves--plus growing--all three spurt up, but little C fastest of all--this all amidst a vivid autumnal palate of scarlet, sunshine, and cerulean. Okay, I'll cut out the overwrought prose (overwrought for a blog post, I mean). Though we were inside, we cherished the brisk wind through the open windows, the fun of matching puzzle pieces, the yummy crunchy-soft cookies, the feel of fuzzy carpet on cool bare toes. Here ya'll go!

P attacked the number puzzle and solved it all by himself. Yeah, he's reading well.

S showing off the mixer tongs he's licking. 'Cause he helped BAKE! Yeeaah!

Too cute for words! Even the ones in the books and magazines C just pulled onto the floor.

And I've got teeth and can crawl, too!

Memorable Lines By a Two-Year-Old

Tonight, as I carried S to bed, I was teasing him, and he matched me.

"You're my big boy."

"I'm a good boy."

"Yes. ... and you're my egg-y boy." [S lovedy-loves eggs, hence...]

"I'm your egg-y boy. I want eggs in the morning."

"We can have eggs in the morning! And maybe we'll have a frittata."

"A fri-zza-za."

"A fri-zza-za? What's a frizzaza?"

"A doke." [BIG smirk.]

"A doke? You mean a joke?!"

[A big giggle!]

"A frizzaza is a joke! Good one, big boy!"

[Hysterical, gleeful, proud laughter!]

A two-year-old with a sense of humor! Who knew?

Early Audition Video for America's Got Talent 2028

During our travels in the last few months, S began channeling his inner singer and regaled us with from-the-gut versions of every two-year-old's favorite tune, "Meet Me in St. Louis." I kept trying to catch him at it, and he finally acquiesced. P wasn't so feeling so hot, so he didn't chime in as he usually does, but S more than made up for him (note especially the "I'M a big boy. I'M a big boy." he throws in at the end). I can't watch this without laughing so hard I cry. And yes, this was unscripted. S is ready for stardom, I think!

Late Summer Moments

Yesterday, I took a few pictures of some sweet summer moments. After the last few weeks of convalescence--somehow I got strep, but luckily, Papa and the kids didn't--the quiet normalcy of watching our sons and our daughter was a gift. P pulled out a great two-fer, completing his first self-portrait and writing his name by himself with no prompting. Then he "framed" it on the refrigerator with letter magnets. I had to capture his dual masterpiece for posterity.

As I snapped that picture, C babbled on the floor next to me. She's sitting up by herself now, balancing very well, and a few times a day she even pulls herself up--to look into the bathtub at her brothers, to try to grab books off of a shelf. I've been telling people that even though she's a baby, she's not a baby anymore. Today, as Papa and I rocked on the front porch with C, watching the boys pedal on tricycles on the walk, C reached for me as Papa held her. She looked directly into my face and said, "Ma-ma." We were both moved. Especially when, with a little prompting, she looked at her father and said, "Pa-pa."

I couldn't pick just one. I mean, could you?

After such great pictures of C on the floor, I just had to run outside and capture the boys in action. Our back deck is finally gone--it was old, with a crimped design, and we've wanted a patio for years. Anyway, as I walked out of the back, this is what I saw.

Then I found the boys in the tomato patch, wearing their swimming trunks. Because where else do boys go in their swimming trunks than in the tomato patch?

P and S told me they were pretending the tomato patch was a forest. So there you go.

Papa's been canning consistently these last few weeks--salsa, medium and super-hot, and tomatoes in their own juice--and yet the tomatoes keep coming. August, particularly late August, is tomatoes, I think. Especially Papa's tomatoes.

The boys finally made it over to their swimming pool. Most of their toys spend more time in their pool than they do. Lately they've enjoyed playing in the dirt where the deck was after they get wet. Ah, the joys of children playing!

Happy end of summer, dear ones. May you enjoy a few lovely moments in these waning warm days.