Betsy Enters Girlhood

Betsy has grown into a full-fledged girl, now, with one of her favorite words "shus, shus," -- being repeated endlessly. Already she's far more of a fashionista than her mother... I knew it would happen some day, but really?!? Already?!? She's also been known to bring me bows she wants in her hair, or clothes she'd like to wear. (Trouble is, she's usually already dressed!) At least once a day, she brings me her shoes and insists I put them on her. More often, though, she'll find my flip-flops, and wander over to my feet, where she attempts to dress me. Oh, how quickly the daughter turns into the mother...

About a week ago, while I was busy putting her shoes on her, I told her we were going to GO. "Doh?" She asked. Yes, go. Well, after her shoes were put on I ran to the computer where I was checking grocery ads on-line. A few minutes later -- me still running through the ads online -- there was the gentle tapping as she tried to get that dang flip-flop on me.

Around her neck? My keys.

These, Whom I Miss

Who? Whom? Why did I always miss out on the really good English teachers?





When you live across the street from both the police and fire stations, sirens are an everyday part of life. From time to time, Liz, Jenny, Erin, Annie, or myself would usually ask one another if we'd been woken up on this day or that by the sirens. A conversation would then ensure about joining the real world, where the police station is "down town" and you live on a nice, quiet residential street. One, preferably, without a four-lane road out front.

Thing is: they've all gone. Joined that legendary real world, more or less. And the uncensored truth is, it kinda bites being the one left behind. I am thrilled for the experiences each are having -- but I won't be sad when it's my turn.

I will get a turn, right? Okay. I was just checking.

The Mickelle of Past Tense

In passing the other day, my mom mentioned how talented a couple of my cousins are in communication. My (weak and silly) inner-Kell threw a minor (but very mature) tantrum over this conversation.

I was a speechie through all of high school. I placed at our 5A state competition in Oratory, took 2nd at Districts and thus qualified for Nationals, and placed in numerous other competitions. I'm really not too shabby. Then, after four years without any practice, I competed for and was chosen to deliver the commencement address for the university-wide graduation ceremony.

Back when I started college, I didn't have any strong feelings about what to declare as my major; I'd loved history, communications, psychology, education, and one or two other subjects. After plenty of thinking and pondering, I knew I wanted these four years to be something that would help me and my little family for the rest of our lives -- not just a degree I achieved but that never really did much good after having kids.

So, I chose education. I fell further in love with it along the way and never regretted my choice. I just never felt total fulfillment with it, either. There was an academic drive in other subjects that education never really afforded.

Now, as the momma I'm trying to be, I'm grateful for my education degree. But having been absent so long from a world of mental exertion, I find my identity changing, old parts of me further buried and forsaken. ...I'll probably never give another speech again. And, trust me, I'm very okay with that.

It just bites that, in our small Provo world, with its emphasis on housekeeping, cooking, exercise, and popping out children one per year, I'm a little bit lacking. I miss feeling competent, content, and capable because of my skills. I miss feeling like I have skills. (Hobbies abound. Skills? Not so much.) The few I have -- they're just not much use in this season of life. ...I can't see them really being needed in the future, but I've decided to withhold worry. The Lord knows and loves me; he's blessed me too richly thus far to doubt him now.

It just makes me a little gloomy every once in a while.

flicker

Every once in a while, I get a flicker of a more grown-up version of Betsy, a version that employs a full set of teeth and doesn't have the "boo" tacked on to the end of her name. Those moments are a melding of delight and ...nostalgia? For the present? Can you have nostalgia for the present? Never mind.

• She loves animals. I'd imagine most every kid does, but Betsy seems a bit obsessive. It kind of scares me, since I'm not really interested in owning any. She particularly adores cats, which is quite unfortunate as her mother is a decided dog person.
  
  
• Mary Elizabeth Shea is not scared, a trait obviously inherited from her father. I suppose it could easily change, but for the present, you can toss that girl as high as you'd like and push that swing for all it's worth -- my baby just giggles and squeals all the more.
  
  
• She is a girl of routine. Don't mess with it.
  
  
• She's outgoing. No, really outgoing. I still don't think you're getting it: really, really, really outgoing. Deena-esque outgoing. Considering her parents, Memaw is the only possible biological source. (She asks strangers in the supermarket to pick her up. She wants the stewardesses in airplanes to hold her. She wanders off with anyone who'll take her. This, too, is scary.)
  
  
• Betsy is snuggly and lovey. She likes to cuddle, especially while you read to her, and throughout the day will randomly walks up to give you a hug. ...Kisses, however, are an entirely separate story.
  
  
• She has an insatiable appetite for language. She loves to have books read to her, and she is always anxious to increase that little vocabulary of hers. Any one or two-syllable word made up of the right consonants is fair game. (My current favorite is "Oh, Geez!")
  

Of course, the truth is, I have no real assurances of who she'll become. But I certainly enjoy who she is.

a loss for words

I am not a woman with a vocabulary. I used to be, once. But alas, fifth grade sucked it from me - or so I tell myself. So what exactly is that emotion on his face? It's love -- but there's got to be a more precise description than that, right? Do help me out.
Whatever it is, I like it.

Reasons I Love Motherhood

...Because of her. Her smiles, her words, her changes ...her naps.

Don't you think Betsy looks just like me in one of these pictures? Isn't one of them is just SCREAMING "Costantino baby" at the top of its little lungs? So piercingly you want to beg for mercy? Okay, maybe not that loudly. But still.

Guess which one.

Hint: I may have provided a hint.*




*

planning our traditions

I am not, shall we say, a seamstress. Or a sewing woman of any kind. (I originally typed "sewer woman." For the record, I'm not one of those, either.)

But Scott is a Christmas Man. He and his thousands of Christmas lights, his special Christmas flatware, his dozens of Christmas storybooks, his Sunday Christmas sing-alongs -- yes, Christmas is a big deal 'round these parts.

Which is why I gave in and decided to make Bucilla stockings: I knew it would make him happy. And I'm a sucker for a happy husband. His mom handmade each of her children (and in-laws) their own Bucilla stockings so there's plenty of syrupy, delicious sentiment in them.

Now, let me totally distract you from all that Bucilla-ness and take you somewhere else entirely: Back in the days when Scott and I were in the same ward, our YW/YM did a Christmas activity every year called Gift of the Christchild. The gist: you thought about what gift you could give Christ this year -- usually the setting of a new spiritual goal -- and gave away a sort of physical representation of said goal to another kid in the ward.

When my family moved away, we kept up the tradition for several years, and I've always wanted to make it a part of our little family's tradition, too. What with all the seasonal decor Scott puts up, I decided we should have at least one decocration that had to do with Gift of the Christchild -- something that would remind the kids it was coming up, and to be thinking.

Enter: Prettiest Bucilla Stocking Ever. Note Mary's face. Beautiful, no? Also note the angel's awesome hairdo and trumpet. I want to look just like that when I'm an angel.

So now, at our house, I guess Jesus will have his very own stocking.