This Mother's Day found me content and very blessed. I couldn't help contrasting from a year before:

• Baby coming out of NICU
• Whooping cough in my kids schools
• Me hiding from the world and Whooping Cough (in Idaho)
• Plus a deep underlying stress about paying an intensive care bill without insurance. 

This year I have 4 healthy beautiful kids, no hospitals, not even hospital bills! The Mister of the House made me a---what 6? egg omelet with cheese and ham. There were flowers, cards, earrings, back rubs, and texts and messages from family and friends in general celebrating Mothers! There was also intermittent gun shots coming from the backyard throughout the day.

  Come children! Let's practice your songs you will sing during church today... (I'm now the Primary Music Lady...aahh!)
 {Background: Crank. Crank. POP!}



Oh Rainbow Girl. You are such a gooood back-rubber. Thank you!
{Backbround: Crank. Crank. POP!}


  You see, I'm not the only mom feeling relief this spring.  Remember this gal?

She proved to be the ultimate symbol of Mother's Day.

But her nest wasn't fully hatched.  So her outdoor escort was short-lived as she rushed back to sit on the eggs still left.  We went about our business, and then:

The Mister was doing chores and saw a Magpie pecking the baby duckling and flinging it in the air!

Peck! Peck! Fling!

So that was met with our pellet gun and a:
{Crank. Crank.  POP!}

And wouldn't you know those damn magpies won.

So I thought of my Mother's Day last year, the stress and worry, and this year feeling blessed and holy.  And my heart yearned for Mothers dealing with loss this year: be it an empty nest, a cancer scare (Wendy? Prayers for you!), or a teenage punk not giving away free kisses anymore.

Thankfully, for now, I have none of these worries.  But the Olsen's are thinking of all the mothers that do (Wendy? Prayers for you!) and are crankin' our pellet guns in your honor.

** The biggest irony of our Muscovy Duck Saga is that with my new music calling in church, I came across this song that came through the children's magazine back in 1979.  It's called "Don't Kill the Birds" and I laughed and thought about how these are different times.   Or are they?

So in honor of what makes me a mother, here's a quick update on the mutts:




Leif is showing tell-tale signs of being a boy.  Ninjago Lego's, Spiderman, and Star Wars.  I found this little gem on my phone recently and thought it was adorable.

 Don't hit your brother!

Soccer!  He's doing so good and The Mister is having fun living vicariously through his son.

Isaac never stops talking.  Even while I was brushing his teeth, he was yak yak yakking away.  And yet, he will shrivel up and die before getting up and talking in front of an audience.


And Gideon can swallow a......fly? cat? dog? horse?  That's quite the gape going on old lady.

With the anxiety of A) getting this pregnancy over; and B) seeing this gestating kid and whether or not your DNA lapped The Mister's in the gene pool, means that you can get sidetracked from the actual moment of things. The state of your family unit.

Right now, I have two little boys that are just over 2 years apart (a pregnancy milestone for me, but pretty standard for most Mormon Mommies). They share bunk beds, they play, wrestle, and are Jedis and Spidermen together. Older brother sounds out words and little brother copies and exclaims that he can read too!



Here's evidence of some father-son weakness. Dad played soccer as a kid. He takes older brother to buy soccer clothes because he is finally old enough to play on a city team. Dad decides to purchase two of everything (including shoes!) so these two little boys can practice together in the backyard. Little brother can't even sign up for another two years, but daddio is making sure Team Olsen is covered for now.

When yet another little brother shows up ANY DAY NOW! *hint* there will still be matching uniforms to giggle into, kicks back and forth, and the sharing of deep slumbering breaths from the other bunk.

But how about when older brother is 16 and middle brother is a crummy 14? Will 14 be buddies with new baby brother (who would be 11)? And will older brother feel the transition and get his feelings hurt (because he is my cautious and sensitive kid)? Will the bunks end up being for the two youngest boys down the road to solidify the new union? Or will baby brother always share a room with oldest sweetest sister?

When I hold this new baby can I finally admit that The Buddha Baby is growing up? Will he despise the loss of his cherished title, or will the satisfaction of being on Team Olsen suffice him instead (since baby just sits there and sleeps)?

This is the evolution of childhood, of families, and of motherhood (as you manage new sibling alliances and/or try to restore lost ones). This is the evolution that is felt in the bones, not viewed through a microscope.

Does this mean I think this kid will come into our home and be a hell-raiser and disrupt the family unity we have? Well, of course not!

But change is in the air.

The trees are starting to turn colors.

And my autumn is so beautiful right now.

This past Christmas, my mother-in-law gave me a full-length, embroidered on the edges, flowing nightgown.


To be honest, I had NEVER worn a nightgown. I'm more of a workout pants and t-shirt kindof girl when it comes to bedtime. But I noticed the tag had a Dillard's sticker, and felt the soft brushed cotton, and took it home to wear to bed.

Enter Mrs. Olsen in nightgown. Rainbow Girl stops and stares. She says, "That's pretty" and the next day asks if I'll buy her a nightgown. The Mister of the House comments how cute it is. I wonder if they are serious.

The thing is, when I was a newlywed, I heard a tale (supposedly true) of a Hawaiian woman that ran on the beach every day for exercise. Once she became pregnant, she continued her daily jog. She jogged every week of her pregnancy, and even ran 3 miles the day she gave birth.

She was woman! Nothing would hold her back! She stayed in charge of her body and worked through the discomforts of pregnancy to provide good health to her new addition!

This was the woman I was determined to be. Tough. Resilient. In shape. Fitting into her skinny jeans 4 weeks postpartum. This is the woman who would have thought nightgowns were for grannies and not tough young mothers who jog the day before and the day after giving birth.



But then when I became pregnant, I felt like I was being overtaken by Alien Body-snatchers. Why does my favorite food make me ill? What's with the leg cramps? Why am I so freaking tired?

There's a beautiful (and necessary) loss of control when you incubate another human life. Because no matter how hard I try (and let's be honest, I have NOT tried as hard as the "Hawaii Lady") I can never seem to not get pregnant in my arms, butt, and sides.

This reality has been disheartening at times, and has later served as ammunition for victim-hood that only chocolate cake could understand.

But now, I am older and wiser. Offspring #4 is coming to earth soon, and while I am determined to skip church the next couple of weeks if I haven't gone into labor, there's a letting go that I am trying to embrace...A letting go without a grudge.

In my crunchy hippy birthing center, I am happy to announce that there exists the pregnant women apparently friends with the Hawaii Women. They usually have blogs and have gorgeous black and white photos of their bare tummies, sans stretch marks, showing thoughtful and/or exuberant images of their blossoming motherhood. I snuck this photo at my last appointment, check it:



La La La! Three, maybe even one pregnancy ago, this picture would have ticked me off just a bit. Now? It's just slightly annoying. Yay!



I am woman. Hear me roar!

I am 35 and love my nightgown!

My arse is a rectangle starting in my middle back, but I grow 'em gorgeous and strong. So it's okay.

And even though I'm going to skip church the next two weeks if I haven't gone into labor, God loves me and I think He's awesome. I recognize my blossoming as a blessing from Him.

Signed,
Thirty-five is the new 50 and it feels good...

Back in December, before I became an inflatable raft, The Olsen Gals had a little beebee party for the expecting Olsen Mommies. We ate great food, had a contest to see who could suck the water out of a bottle the fastest, and pretended to be fortune tellers stringing crystals above Mandy's belly to find out if she's having a boy or girl.


It was at this party that my creative sister-in-law talked about a cool birthing tradition from the Navajo Indians. It's called "The Blessing Way".

Boils down to this:
* Circle of women find a bead for the expecting mommy.
* With the bead, they include a "blessing" for the mother and child.
* All of the beads are strung together in a beautiful necklace.
* When it's GO TIME, screaming women in labor somehow texts, facebooks, or sends primitive indian vibes to her ladies that she needs their energy/prayers/love.
* Circle of women respond to labor vibes by lighting a candle, and keeping it lit during labor and delivery.
* Beautiful happy baby arrives and has loving and caring women already invested in his future.
* Mrs. Olsen is kicking herself in the pants because she forgot to send this request to all the women on the other side of the family (i.e. her side), as well as to her close friends.



But here is the finished product, waiting to go in my birthing bag, and asking for continued energy/prayers/blessing/love because that will have to be my epidural and I desperately hope it will work!

Thanks beautiful Olsen Family. Love the necklace!

Signed,
38 weeks + 2 days prego and wishing I had this kid yesterday...

There's something to be said about using your childhood years, even into college, to developing your talents. There's no other time to be quite so focused, and even a little selfish. My ma and pa paid for me to take lessons in piano, clogging, gymnastics, and skiing. Later when I played athletics, they paid for volleyball and basketball camps, which weren't cheap. They also watched every single boring game I ever played in (I think my high scoring game in basketball was 6 points. Woo!)



The lessons and hard work during those years helped me play the piano for congregations throughout The South during my missionary service. The tinkering of a few guitar cords from my buddy Kristi helped me woo The Mister of the House with a simple song. The dad as a wise coach, plus the cost of volleyball camps helped me to play with a State Championship Winning Volleyball Team in High School.

So I remember having the very clear thought when I became a wife and mother, that it was now the time to be the beneficiary of those lessons and that season of "developing talents", and that my progression had ceased. Yet I was to be grateful at the same time. Why would I spend $50 a month on guitar lessons when I could use that money for diapers?

I had a good season of talent building, but the transition to mother would mean all resources would now be poured into my offspring.

This was my take on it for many years. But then my little sissy, a mother of three kids and the wife of an overworked medical student, composed a hymn!

She sent it to me to look at and play through. I was blown away! How dare she progress in the piano department when I had become a martyr to my own kids development!

Yet this hymn was the first of many songs she has composed. I love that she is disciplined enough to sit down and do this. I love the creativity she channels, and I love the message of her music.

Recently, her oh-so-proud mother entered her hymn into a showcase event at BYU-Idaho. Though little sis was thousands of miles away, an auditorium of people sang along to the hymn she composed. It's based on Helaman's Stripling Warriors, and is called "Warrior Families".

Anyone wanting a copy of this music, make a comment here and I'll see if the sis can oblige.

A couple weeks ago my one and only female child walked up to me while I was doing dishes and commented that she had a little bump in her shirt. Just one side, right on her chest. She thought it was funny. My eyes turned to googly-pies and I remembered the horror of coming onto puberty unawares. Jumping on the trampoline one minute, finding a surprise in my pants and quietly telling my mom...only to be lovingly thrown in the tub while a giant maxi pad gets taped inside a fresh pair of panties and the talk of how this will happen to me every month for the rest of my life.

Trampolines and popsicles one minute. Walking around with a crinkly diaper butt the next. So scratch that. Trampoline one minute, crying in the corner the next so no one will have to hear you walk across the room.



Please dad, I hope you aren't reading this. Mom? Don't take this personal. You told me what was up even if it was a day late. I get it that we come from different generations and that there's a good chance no amount of pep-talking would have kept me from crying in the corner...but this is real stuff ya know? It was exciting, weird, and traumatic (for me). So when Rainbow Girl came up to me unawares, all I could think of was my own naive dive into puberty and how it sucked. How would you respond?

Mrs. Olsen: Rainbow Girl! You are getting little boobies! You know what this means? This means you are starting to go through puberty!

Rainbow Girl: [places hands on her face and looks at me with a shocked and slightly happy look on her face]

Mrs. Olsen: First little bumps, then it will swell and pop! (hands flowering over chest). Then you get hair here, and here (more air flowers). You will start to stink under your arms and roll your eyes at me. Please don't roll your eyes at me okay? Your legs will get hairy too and you'll probably want to shave them. Unless you got the hairless Olsen gene. That would be lucky...

Rainbow Girl: (tentatively) Is puberty when....you know....bleed?

Mrs. Olsen: Oh yes. That too! Yes you will bleed. These are all of the changes that you will have to go through to become a woman! (pause) I can't believe you're getting little boobies. You probably won't need a bra for a year or so, but we might need to wear a tanktop under your shirt to smooth things out.

You get the idea. We have talked about all of this before, but I felt compelled to expound a crash course right there in the kitchen. Then Rainbow Girl went to her room to finish her homework and I immediately texted The Mister of the House:

ME: Rainbow Girl's getting boobies.
HIM: What?! How old were you? Isn't this a little early?
ME: She won't need a bra for a while. Maybe not so early.

So I went about doing dishes and making dinner, and thinking of how quick my little girl is growing up and how she was just a baby. She never knew I told her dad, but when he came home from work he popped his head in her room and said hi.

Then the cutest thing happened. She turned to him and said: "Dad, did you hear? I'm starting to go through puberty."

He said that yes he heard. She commented how scary it would be to go through puberty and...."you know...bleed."

And The Mister of the House sat down and said, "Yes, lots of changes happen when you go through puberty, but you have to go through them to become an adult. And you know what? Being an adult is my favorite thing so far. If I wasn't an adult I wouldn't have my own little family, with you as my daughter. I love ya. It's a good thing that will happen."

Rainbow Girl didn't say a thing and just went and sat on his lap and he held her like the little girl she still was, and in some ways, always will be (at least to me and her dad).



And when I heard about it after the fact my heart melted, and I thought that's how every puberty talk should be. Okay okay so I was a flibbertigibbet and had diarrhea of the mouth but it turned out just fine because I have back-up. I was glad that Rainbow Girl wasn't afraid to talk about boobies and bleeding with her own dad, and that he could give her a vision of why it all mattered in the end.



And what a beautiful woman she will become! Just look at her!


NOTE TO PARENTS: Apparently crash courses in the kitchen can be soaked in by little brothers as well. Which is why the next day, while carpooling friends in the mini-van, Vanilla Wafer turned to Rainbow Girl's friend and stated: "Guess what? Rainbow Girl's getting boobies!" and then proceeded to giggle.

So we're into crash course number #2 about how we don't really say the word boobies and how we have private parts and don't talk or laugh about them. That's what you get for being a flibbertigibbet.

I think it's somewhat inevitable, what with the merging of your life to another through marriage, the puffing of pregnancy, the retreat from the single life into one of quiet service to your kids...well it's inevitable not to take those kids your investing lessons and dinners into and not live through them a little bit. They are a piece of you after all.

Last week our two goats had their kids. During the month prior, The Mister of the House purchased a goat care book, watched disturbing YouTube videos, and checked on the expectant mothers several times a day. When some experienced farmer friends indicated that the goats could go any day now, The Mister of the House officially shifted into hyperdrive. He turned to me after they left and stated: I don't even have my birthing kit ready yet!

As for me, I generally snored like a lion while The Mister wrested the sheets worrying about the having to turn a baby goat for delivery. When it comes to his paternal-like worry patterns in comparison with my seeming indifference, I'd like to chalk it up to the fact that I have birthed three kids of my own, that I trust the female species to get the job down, and my inner sense of keeping it cool. Yet, I have to admit that my husband is a Man of Action who gets the job done. So I thanked him by nodding off mid-sentence and sleeping like a baby, all the while smiling sweet lover's dream of worried husbands scrambling to assemble a birthing kit.

As for my own part in the bringing of new life to the farm, I was excited! I have sweat, bled, and cried while bringing my kids into the world, and have never been afforded the birds-eye view of the process. To say I was curious is putting it lightly. And to calm The Mister's fears, and because I have smaller hands, I agreed to turn the baby goat if the delivery went amiss.

So last Wednesday I got birth on my hands. Okay just a second, how cool is that sentence: Last Wednesday I got birth on my hands.

Alright alright...I wasn't up to my elbows in the ooey-gooey. As my female senses detected (that's what it was right?) the baby goats arrived without any complication with no mid-birthing canal transitions. But apparently the curse of Eve and the consequential increase of sorrow while bringing life into the world attends all female counterparts, not just the human ones. So as it happened, the mama goat scrambled and jolted with her pains and practically birthed her kid into the wall. So after the crowning, and an exclamation of joy! I pulled the baby onto a towel so we could gargle the guck from his nose and throat.

It was truly precious to see. Mama licked her baby clean, licked my hands clean, then ate her afterbirth.

These things happen in nature people.

And I am left to ponder: Should I really be getting this attached to farm animals? Why does *most* life begin awash in blood and water?



And again and again, this scripture kept tumbling through my brain:

For by the water ye keep the commandment; by the Spirit ye are justified, and by the blood ye are sanctified;

Blood and water keeps working again and again: to bring life, to renew life, to atone.



Ready for some pictures folks?

I know I know! I honestly look like a new mother. Kindof cheesy, but here I am with one of Matilda's twins.



And here's the REAL farmer bob with the goats. To say that this man is finding his purpose in life here on the farm, is to say that everyone loves ice cream. Tis true. Tis true.


Poor little Rainbow Girl is the #1 help on the farm. After watching her second goat birth, she stated: I don't want to be a girl. But with her female-ness comes the innate love and nurturing that is a gift to all daughters of Eve, be they mothers or not.



Behold the seed of Agamemnon!



My poop boots are cooler than your poop boots.



The end.