Restoration

Springtime has been a time for grandma visits. Here is Grandma Grover with her arms full.

And here's Grandma Hollie with her arms full. How is it that when grandmas' arms are full of babies, it is a beautiful thing, but when my arms are full of the same babies, they are both usually crying and pooping at the same time?

My last blog post was called "Resolution," and detailed my goal to reflect more here this year. My good sister-in-law Jen reminds me that I haven't been so sharp on this resolve. So, on this Easter Sunday evening, I will follow up my last post with one titled "Restoration," and see if I can't restore some of my reflective energy from earlier in the year. After a quick spill of my guts, I'll post of bunch of pictures so friends and family can see what our kids look like these days.

I taught a Sunday school lesson to the group of teenage girls in my church today. I based the lesson around a favorite scripture of mine that comes from a Book of Mormon story in which an ancient prophet, Alma, is talking to a disbelieving man named Korihor who demands that if God exists, and if Alma is really meant to speak on His behalf, then God should show him a sign to prove it. I've always been fascinated with this story because I don't think that asking for proof is generally a bad thing in most life situations. I love this story because Alma agrees with him: evidence is essential for knowing where to put your trust. He basically tells Korihor to just look around—that there are signs all over the place. Alma 30:44 reads, in part, "Thou hast had signs enough; will ye tempt your God? Will ye say, Show unto me a sign, when ye have the testimony of all these thy brethren, and also all the holy prophets? The scriptures are laid before thee, yea, and all things denote there is a God; yea, even the earth, and all things that are upon the face of it, yea, and its motion, yea, and also all the planets which move in their regular form do witness that there is a Supreme Creator."

I love spiritual texts because I think the possibility of multiple interpretations are very empowering for personal revelation. A teacher of mine from the Missionary Training Center in Provo, Utah, once pointed out to a group of us new missionary recruits that he always liked to think of the seasons when he read this scripture, because they testify of a cycle of birth, life, death, and rebirth. The planets moving "in their regular form" testify every year of the Atonement and resurrection of Christ.

I had the girls at church today help me brainstorm other "signs" on earth that testify of this rebirth cycle. We talked about daily rotations of the earth bringing night and day, sunsets and sunrises; we noticed how humans and other living creatures lie down to sleep as if we were dead only to rise refreshed the next day. Someone mentioned moon phases and butterfly cocoons. We considered what it meant for something to be "restored," particularly in the case of the butterfly, whose transformation is not only restorative but an amazing improvement in terms of beauty and mobility. As a kid, I always wondered if the caterpillar entered the cocoon knowing what it would turn into. Perhaps it spins its cocoon merely because instinct tells it that this must be so. Perhaps it wonders if the cocoon it is spinning is a place for its death. I never liked the idea of being stuck inside such cramped quarters in dark, suffocating heat. I continue even as an adult to feel anxious about the vulnerability of a chrysalis—just hanging there so precariously, where a bird or something could fly over without even bothering to sneak up on it and snatch it up in its beak. And yet, every year, I see butterflies and moths who have somehow made it through their journey. I wonder if they can appreciate the difference in themselves the same way that we human observers think we do.

Anyway, the idea of restoration was already on my mind this morning when I found out I had made an unfortunate purchase from a spurious internet site yesterday and lost a good deal of money by not doing more research. Don't worry—it's not terrible, and we weren't really robbed. I just spent a considerable (on the verge of obscene) amount of money on Paul McCartney concert tickets that I could have purchased for a fraction of the price by a proper ticket seller this next week. We'll still likely get the tickets, and no one is robbing us blind, but I keep thinking about those old-timey movies where bristly old men are biting into gold coins only to curse when they fold in half, or that Arrested Development episode when Michael makes a large land investment on Uncle Oscar's lemon orchards only to find out it is covered in land mines or something. Duped! Had! Hoodwinked! And for a good twenty minutes this morning, I was obsessed at restoring what had been lost. 

But here's what else happened: nothing. And by that I mean, we didn't fume, we didn't cuss beneath our breaths, we didn't shout at anyone over the phone. Dave never said, "How could you let this happen? Why didn't you look more carefully at the site's credentials?" In fact, the only thing Dave said was, "I'm sorry, Em. Don't be so worried. The important thing is that we'll get to see Paul McCartney IN CONCERT!" I worried that I had ruined Easter, but, instead, I think it forced me to reflect carefully about what is really worth restoring. It made me pay attention to the restorations that really count, the promises worth making covenants to obtain, worth sacrificing for. 

I love my family so much that I try to live in a blissful denial that I am living in a time of mortality. I know that Dave or I will eventually have to say goodbye to each other, in spite of our pacts to die at the same time in the same place when we are at least 100 years old (and still fit as fiddles!). We will have to say goodbye to family members, and there is no security or safety net that we can rely on perfectly to protect even our own sweet babies. But I live for the faith that what we lose in mortality will be restored again to us someday. And it won't be lost money on concert tickets. It will be my family, my David, my Holls and my Chaz, my parents and my relatives. That is what I see in the signs of spring all around me, the daffodils and the crocuses and the irises—I see hope in restoration.

Anyway, enough guts-spilling. Here's some kid pics (not to be confused with Kid Pix).

The Grover fam are proud new owners of a BOB jogging stroller. I won't lie—it is lovely. Having the kids nap while I exercise? Brilliant. (And, also, now I have zero excuses for not running.)

Cheery Charlie. Happy all times of the day, crying all times of the night. But seriously—he is giddy happy all day long to everyone. Even on planes. One flight attendant was with Charlie and me from Salt Lake to Dallas and then on our connecting flight from Dallas to West Texas and she fell in love with him. The little flirt cooed and grinned and babbled and more than one stranger actually kissed him on the cheek. He was so cute and chubbsy and toodly-doodly that they couldn't help themselves. He's just a charming little dude.

Chaz likes to sit, stand, climb, crawl. He isn't so keen at trying to walk by himself, though this was Hollie's favorite pastime at his age, if I remember correctly. He also has zero teeth, the same as Hollie at 8 months.

This is generally how he looks all the time: on the go, grinning mischievously, and a little bit drooly and poofy-haired.

Do all babies like sitting in high chairs with one foot lounging way up high, or is it just my weird babies?

He loves to bang on this toy xylophone, which always surprises me because it took a long time for Holls to get interested in it when she was younger. Also, Charlie is only in his crib when we are reading books to Hollie. He has never slept in that crib because we can't figure out how to sleep both babies in the same room. He "sleeps" in a pack-n-play in the living room by night and sleeps on either my or Dave's chest by day. We're pretty much the worst parents when it comes to sleep-training. Somebody come fix us, please.

Hollie's latest obsession has been David's guitar. She's learned to strum it pretty efficiently with her thumb, and sometimes she sings along. Other times, she bangs on it until she gets shouted at by us to lay off. She's either a musical genius or just straight up naughty. Probably a bit of both.

Exploring touchy-feely baby books. Those soft little ducklings. He just can't help himself.

Grandmas are the best because they aren't sick of all the baby books yet.

This is generally how we see Holls most of the time: jumping and shouting.

In spite of my personal vendetta against all things pink, Hollie has become obsessed. How? I have no idea. She's never seen a commercial for kids, the only television shows she's ever seen with any consistency are Charlie and Lola, Yo Gabba Gabba, and old Mickey Mouse cartoons on Netflix, but, somehow, pink has become her favorite. Here she is eating edamame and raisins, head to toe PINK.

Holls has never been a good sleeper, but she has been particularly weird lately, refusing to sleep in her bed at all. She has to have things on her own terms, even if that means sleeping in her little purple chair, the glider in her room, or, lately, her floor. (Dave has finally convinced her to sleep on the green rug in her room rather than right on the wood.)

La petite princesse eating goldfish, surrounded by Grovers. Our Craigslist couch started to fall apart, so we have been sewing over the holes with denim patches. It actually has sort of made me like the couch even more, even though I know I should probably be embarrassed to admit that this is our adult living room furniture.

Don't let her fool you. She's after your M&Ms.

Old enough now to pose for pictures. For some reason, every time I look at this picture, I have an absurd desire to introduce her to Full House. She would hate it; she's only two and a half. But this pose just screams T.G.I.F. circa 1992 to me. (She's probably stretching, to be honest. Dave brought home a book about stretches from the library to help with his back pain, and Hollie loves to flip through the pages and try out the poses. She calls it "Shertretching."

Hollie avec superhero cape. Her recent "best" friends have been Muno, GroverMouth, and Foofa. There are different cliques among her stuffed animals. Sloth only runs around with Purple Monkey. Brown monkey is chummy with Blue Robot. "Handy" (Raggedy Andy) has been seen with Minnie Mouse, but Minnie also runs around with Fluffy Grover. GroverMouth and Mama Bunny used to be best friends until Muno and Foofa came to town. Hopkins the frog is a bit promiscuous but tends to accompany one of the Grovers. Lately, Pink Brush has been a best friend and has even been to the grocery store. Holls is very particular about her friends.

H & C have been much friendlier in the past few months. C adores H and follows her everywhere. H has moments of sudden passionate interest in C, other times not. I've seen her take her foot and place it on his forehead to push him away from her purple chair. She does it gently but with an air of irritation that only big sisters truly understand. (It never works—he never tires of wanting to be close to her.)