My Misadventures

The Delightful Side of Wells

2012-01-30T12:13:00.001-08:00

What Those Other Bloggers Won't Tell You

2012-01-24T07:29:00.000-08:00

I have discovered that after four children and ten years of being a mom, I know absolutely nothing at all. Wells is an enigma to me. One day I am positively certain he has reflux. The next day he's colicky for sure. The next day, sleep deprived.

I need to nurse him more often because he's not getting enough food--no, I'm nursing too much and he's gained too much weight and now he'll be obese for life. Maybe I should just switch to bottles? But then I'm a quitter, and what would the nurses at the hospital say if they knew??

The goal is motionless sleep, so says Dr. Weissbluth, but I'll be darned if he doesn't sleep better in the swing. Plus, it plugs into the wall and therefore never stops. When I put him in his crib he wakes up two minutes later, but at least he is having motionless sleep, right? I mean, what is the priority? I exist in a constant state of questioning every move I make. He's finally asleep! Now where the dickens am I going to put him? Do I risk the crib, or do I succumb to laziness and the need to survive and put him in the swing?

I also exist in constant state of guilt: guilt for being mildly to extremely annoyed with my other children on a daily basis and for no legitimate reason, guilt for using the swing and over feeding and doing all these things that I know will create waking problems and bad habits. Guilt for not having time to devote to my spouse, or an interested ear for the latest news in the world of dog sledding. And especially guilt for "not enjoying every minute." Thankfully, someone just addressed that very issue quite nicely. Still, I get those comments all the time from well-meaning people who haven't had a newborn in decades, and it does make me feel guilty.

I see these young, new mothers at church. They have their lives so together! Their babies sleep at night! Their babies eat every three hours! They do baby massage! They just can't believe how wonderful and easy it is to have kids! I can't even last through one church meeting without having to get up and leave with my fidgety, grunty, groany, rashy, thrashy, hungry, angry, gassy, refluxy baby. I am bouncing up and down the halls while these young moms sit quietly in Sunday School with their babies swaddled perfectly, sucking on their pacifiers, angelically asleep. "Sister B's baby is so easy-going," someone whispers to me. Well, bully for her!

At night I think about all the people in the world who are just going about their business, brushing their teeth, putting on their pjs, doing their nightly bedtime ritual with a sense of surety that they will, indeed, get into their beds and stay there for six to eight hours. I envy these people. I sort of hate them, too. I want to say "ha! Look at you, getting ready for bed as if you have hope in a peaceful night! Just who do you think you are, exactly?" I see my husband flossing and it sends me into a spiral of depression: "what do you think you are doing? This day isn't over!"

Is Wells adorable, sweet, a blessing from heaven? Of course. Squishy, kissy, smiley, and happy? Yes. Wells is a delight and a half. He's the tops and all, but it's also just really hard, okay?

Nursing Hallucination #8

2012-01-19T08:46:00.000-08:00

I am Mr. Bates, and I cradle Anna's tender feelings (i.e., my infant son,Wells) in my arms. Every move I make affects her, and it is a very heavy responsibility. Ah, Downton Abbey! If you are not watching, you really should get a move on. It's the best show for hallucinating while nursing EVER. And it has its other uses, too.

Nursing Hallucinations

2012-01-09T14:35:00.000-08:00

I am not one of those people who enjoy nursing their babies. I do it because a) the La Leche League has me scared witless (they have a pretty nasty goon squad), b) the hospital staff really push it on you and make you feel super guilty if you don't, c) it is easier and cheaper in a lot of ways, and d) because I can. Believe me, if it was at all hard or complicated, if a pump or a feeding tube had to be involved, if there were any special steps to take to make it work, I would NEVER do it.

So lately I've noticed that while I am nursing Wells ALL. NIGHT. LONG. I have been hallucinating about whatever TV show I have been watching. For a while, I literally believed that I was Jerry from Parks and Rec and everybody was tricking me into nursing Wells again and again. Then, I kept thinking that I was Randy from Say Yes to the Dress and every time I rolled over to change positions, I was offering a new dress to a very picky bride (my male infant). I keep pulling dress after dress off the rack but she (Wells) is not satisfied. And then, because I watched Sister Wives in its entirety this weekend, I hallucinated that I was Kody and I was running around, trying to pay equal attention to each of my four wives, who were really just my one male infant.

Then there are the times when I think my baby has been replaced by another baby. Like, somebody just slips their baby in there for me to feed since I'm already doing it CONSTANTLY. Wells is almost 7 weeks old. He wears size 3-6 months and shows no sign of stopping with the constant nursing.

So, what other shows can I watch to fuel my hallucinations? I have clearly been into ridiculous reality TV because it is never so engrossing that I can't turn it off to change a diaper or get a snack. I' love some suggestions.

Over and out.

Wishing You Well(s) in 2012

2011-12-31T10:22:00.001-08:00

Sorry so late. Here are some pics of Wells Michael Paul, our new baby boy. We chose his name because it was my awesome Grandpa's name. It's also Holden's middle name, which I thought was kind of a cool way to connect these two brothers who are 9 years apart. The middle name Michael is because Michael is so vain. You know how he is...

I'm Also Thankful

2011-11-23T10:33:00.000-08:00

I just read Kacy's gratitude post and it actually made me cry, nude fishnets (which are the best alternative to bare legs or white tights around), Clinique Happy, Ben's compliance, Sam's valor, and all. I loved it! I'm thankful for those things, too.

I'm thankful for friends who invite us over for Thanksgiving dinner and are thoughtful enough to ask what our stance on raisins is.

I'm thankful for all the people who have offered to come our house in the middle of the night if (I ever have this baby) even though they themselves have five children who need them.

I'm thankful for meat and cheese.

I'm thankful for people who give Hickory Farms beef sticks as a baby gift.

And I'm also thankful for midwives who make fun of hynpo-birthing and willingly induce you if you are ready to have a baby. Here's to you, midwife, and my scheduled induction at the hospital on Monday!

Birth Plan

2011-11-15T10:41:00.000-08:00

It seems very important to people these days to write up a detailed birth plan. I guess it could be a real disaster if things aren't written down and you forget what your birth music is. I mean, how can you give birth to a baby without a soft lullaby playing in the background??? Also, if you don't write these things down, you might forget to bring your tiara. I'm just saying, like, sometimes if you are in labor and suffering a lot and trying to pack up for the hospital, you might neglect a tiara. You could also forget the fondu fountain, champagne/sparkling cider, or felt banner that says "welcome baby." Better safe than sorry: write it down. Furthermore, if you aren't careful, you could forget to wear your sexy camisole/handmade hospital gown/spaghetti strap body-shaper slip. And THEN what the heck are you going to do? Not wear a--gasp--hospital gown?! What are you, a barbarian?

Of course, this is all assuming you plan to go to the hospital at all. Still, even if you are staying home, you need a plan in place. What if you lose your mind because of the pain, and you neglect to fill the birthing tub in time?? If it's not written down, believe me, your sweetheart may not remember it, and then it might be 106 degrees instead of the usual 98.6! And if you choose not to use a tub, you need to know where you'll be squatting and how your hubby will be positioned to catch the baby. Will you use a stool? Bricks? A bed? How about the kitchen table? This is important stuff.

And forget about scheduling childcare if you have other children--have you booked that professional photographer yet? And if he is busy, do you have another one lined up as a back-up? And have you written out a list of photos you want? What is your policy on crotch-shots? How many photos of yourself in agonizing pain will be sufficient, and how many are too many? If you don't know this yet, you need to figure it out, because this is the stuff that matters. Who will write down the play-by-play so you can blog about it later? Who will make sure you have makeup and hair done for all the after-the-delivery photos?

I guess I can see why people need to have such clearly-articulated birth plans. Otherwise, how can you possibly make it the experience you want it to be--i.e., one that is totally all about you?

I'd better get cracking right now. The last thing I want is to be lying in a hospital bed, pain free, comfortable, wearing a hospital gown, with an IV sticking out of my hand, and surrounded by medical professionals who know what they are doing!

P.S. do you think a lacy half tee would look okay under a hospital gown, just in case I don't get my own gown sewn in time?

"A Parent is a Person Who Has Children"

2011-11-08T11:40:00.000-08:00

I know Kacy says the best things about being a parent, and I don't really have anything to add or improve upon what she has already pointed out, but I've just been thinking about "parenting" lately as my oldest son approaches the double digits (he'll be ten in January) and suddenly seems to be turning into a surly teenager (puberty is thankfully not part of the equation yet). I love Nora Ephron's chapter, "Parenting in Three Stages" in I Feel Bad About My Neck. She makes such good points about how "parenting" has sort of become this new phenomenon, this new obsession, and that when she had her kids a parent was simply "a person who has children."

"Here's what's involved in being a parent," Ephron says, " You love your children, you hang out with them from time to time, you throw balls, you read stories, . . . you teach them to say please and thank you, you see that they have an occasional haircut, and you ask if they did their homework."

But then "parenting" became a thing, and suddenly it meant "playing Mozart CDs while you were pregnant, doing without the epidural, and breast-feeding your child until it was old enough to unbutton your blouse" (shudder). Parenting right now seems based upon the assumption that children come to us as a lump of clay that we are supposed to mold into the perfect person (through lessons, tutoring, planned activities, and complete involvement in their lives from the minute they wake up to the minute they go to sleep, at which time you break out the Love and Logic, or whatever the current popular parenting strategy is, and study up, while grinding wheat to make the bread for their organic lunches the next day). The job of a parent, then, is not just to love, and be there, and to teach good principles, but to also form and shape and mold and pound a kid into an "accomplished" person.

I think this is going on in with a lot of intensity right now. I'm not saying it's all bad. There are a lot of great things about reading parenting books and being involved in your kids' lives. Extracurricular activities are not inherently evil or anything. It just seems like maybe the pendulum is swinging too far to the extreme of parental orchestration.

Trick or treating always gets me thinking about this, and I think it's the perfect example: when I was growing up, we went trick or treating around the neighborhood on Halloween night. We walked for what felt like miles, unless there was a blizzard and then someone's highly reluctant mom drove us from house to house. We took big pillow cases. We usually waited until dark to leave, and came home hours later, then dumped out our candy and ate it.

These days, we have "trunk or treats," where everything is in a controlled environment, parents walk around with their kids, the entire event is over in half an hour, and when our kids dump out their candy at home, we engage in an elaborate system of buying back the candy, confiscating it, or melting it in the oven as an experiment. Parents worry about how they will "handle" all that candy in the house, and how their child will cope with the sugar. We worry about our kids being out on their own (not saying that isn't valid in many places). We worry about their teeth rotting, or their ADHD acting up, or their stomachs hurting. We worry, worry, worry, so we just decide to take control of Halloween so that nothing bad will happen to our children. They won't get a stomach ache, or have to walk by a scary house. It's all under control.

Why can't we just relax a little? I don't know. I think because if we relax, then we must be bad parents. Good parents, who engage in "parenting" don't relax. They plan, they prepare, they control, they study. Like I said, there is a lot of good in this, but I think we forget that our kids need to learn lessons on their own sometimes, no matter how painful.

Like Holden. He is in 4th grade right now and had to turn in a power point presentation on a book. It was supposed to be a book trailer. His presentation was 3 slides long and not adequate. I told him this. He disagreed. It took every ounce of integrity I had to say "ok, well, it's your choice to turn it in like that, but you will have to live with the grade you receive." He missed ten points and his teacher said "you need more information." I hope with all my heart that this made an impression on him.

I could have easily taken over the project and added more information, myself. I could have hovered over his shoulder until the project was adequate. But I remembered the time when I lied on a biology project and then had to tell my teacher about it and it was completely horrible, and from then on I vowed to be a really good student and I ended up taking AP Biology and getting a 4/5 on the test (brag alert!) That moment of accountability really turned my life around, and I don't even think my mom knew about it. However, it was her example and her non-pushy teaching and influence that probably led me to tell the truth and do the right thing. Was she hiring biology tutors, helping me with projects, and looking over my shoulder the entire time? No way. But she was being a parent to me in the original Nora Ephron definition. She loved me, spent time with me sometimes, asked about school. She taught me correct principles and showed me a good example. She did not take it upon herself to mold me into a biology star (I did that all on my own, bwahahaha). She let me be who I was, and helped me along the way.

I think about all this and feel conflicted every time I have to sign off on my Kindergartner's reading, or I get a tentative email saying 'Is it okay if I show your child a John Wayne movie for our cowboy unit?' or I get a homework assignment forcing me to make invisible ink with my 5 year old. There is so much pressure to be "parenting" all the time! I find that the times when I am feeling that pressure the most are the times when I make the worst mistakes and ruin my kids' and my own days. Maybe if I stopped trying be a parent in the modern definition of the term, things would be lighter, happier, and freer.

This wonderful lady at church gave the best "parenting" advice I have ever received. She said "the small things we do with our kids are always magnified." And she told how her grown son said "remember when we used to walk to Albertsons, buy twinkies, and then go to the park? That was so great." In reality, they did this ONCE, and the mom hated it because the walk was too long and it was a huge pain. Somehow in her son's mind, though, this small thing (that had no hidden agenda, ulterior motive, or molding purpose at all) became this wonderful, legendary memory. This gives me more hope than I can express! I am going to try to stop "parenting" and start just having fun with my kids a little more often. I wonder if that means they won't get into college???

This is Halloween

2011-11-01T07:53:00.000-07:00

Dear BYU-Idaho,

Please don't punish my husband if he submits his mid-term grades just a titchy bit late today. You see, in a fit of Halloween enthusiasm, fueled by guilt over my diminished capacity at 9 months pregnant (and not helped at all by the utopian bloggers who document every moment of their blissful Halloween family togetherness with professional photography), I sort of got mad and made my husband come home from work early to carve some dang pumpkins with the kids. Because that's IMPORTANT. And we WILL have family together time, even if it sets us all on edge. I may or may not have behaved slightly less than rationally about the importance of a carved pumpkin on Halloween. I also may have been a bit of a tyrant about trick or treating ("You aren't finished yet! Get back out there! I want those buckets overflowing with candy and I don't care how cold it is!" etc.) So please don't punish him for it. And please bring steak back to the all-faculty banquet. Oh, and please stop making professors submit mid-term grades around Halloween (or, ever).

Sincerely,
Carly Paul
Halloween enthusiast, lunatic.

What I Wish I'd Known: The High School Edition

2011-10-28T11:35:00.000-07:00

Oversize sweatshirts are ugly.

Oversize t shirts with the sleeves rolled up: also ugly.

The popular people of today are the pathetic has-beens/self-absorbed bloggers of tomorrow.

This whole internet thing? It's going to catch on in a big way.

A boy that is nice to you and with whom you are friends does not a life-long soul mate make.

Most people won't understand if you get a "Meg Ryan in French Kiss" haircut.

A little bit of blush, mascara, and eye shadow look okay with a whole lot of concealer and powder.

You don't have to be in love with every remotely likeable male teacher you meet.

Don't go to Disneyland: stay home and go to the Valentine's Day dance with that cute, curly-haired boy who is a year younger than you.

Don't under-do Prom.

Don't over-do Senior Dinner Dance with a shawl, gloves, and a rhinestone anklet worn OVER your sheer black pantyhose and strappy sandals.

Don't feel too bad if you aren't on the Seminary Council. Seminary Council is for kiss-ups and cheeseballs.

Don't participate in girls' choice dances if you want to maintain a modicum of dignity.

Weezer and Beck have staying power; Blind Melon: not so much.

Those black boots you bought at DI thinking they were combat boots are actually cowboy roping boots. You can tell because they have fringe on them. They can be found in the Wrangler section of Cal-Ranch. Don't wear them and think you are pulling off a Delores O'riordan look.

People will tell you that the "real world" is better than high school. And it sort of is, except once you become a mom in the real world, you will start having to deal with a lot of other jerky moms and jerky people and it will sort of feel like high school all over again. But when you are a mom, at least you can use your kids as an excuse, so look forward to that.

99.9% of the things that are causing you pain and suffering are all in your head.

Some day there will be plenty of boys out there who want to kiss you, especially once you stop wearing your retainer with the fake tooth on it.

Don't buy a fake leather, seventies style jacket.

Don't make Bono your style icon. You are a girl. He is a man. So you have the same forehead! That isn't something you should embrace!

A shared love of Neil Diamond with a teacher does not guarantee a good letter of recommendation from him. You'd be surprised!

On Visiting Teaching

2011-10-27T11:48:00.000-07:00

I totally believe in the theory and principle behind visiting teaching. Really, I do. But here's a secret: visiting teaching pretty much makes me feel bad all the time. If I'm not feeling anxious and guilty about not going yet, then I am feeling guilty while I sit in my visiting teachee's house and thinking to myself "she can see right through me."

I genuinely like my visiting teachees and I want to be there for them, but does that come across at all? Because I just feel like a big phony every time I call them to schedule an appointment (which inevitably is couched with four hundred apologies and excuses for why I am not calling until the last week of the month). It's like I am sorry for calling them at all, but I'm also sorry for not visiting them earlier, and I am sorry for not just knowing what they need and then giving it to them.

I am sorry when I run into them at church. I am sorry when I run into them at the store. I am sorry when I see their husband. I'm sorry when I see their kids. I'm sorry when all I can think of to say is "how are you?" because that just seems so trite and cliche. I am basically just sorry that I exist at all when it comes to my visiting teachees. I am so sorry that when they allow me to come visit them I gush and say thank you so much over and over again like a little sycophantic fool.

And then when I am not feeling sorry about either not doing it yet, or doing it, but possibly coming across as insincere (last day of the month, anyone?), then I am feeling horrified by something my companion has just said. You can't always keep your companion from saying things like the following:

"Your child is just average, but my daughter is advanced"

"I would never let my kids have a play date this late"

"Who would want to live in this apartment?"

What does one do in this situation? Sit in silence, try to catch the other person's eye and perform a discreet eye roll? Look down and act like you didn't hear or aren't in the room at all? What?

I'm not really asking for advice, here. Just giving my thoughts. I'd talk about hating my neck or my purse or something, but Nora Ephron already did that. So all I have left is visiting teaching.

Or parenting, but you should really just read Kacy for that.

Or being pregnant, but you already know how I feel about that.

Once I went to some sort of training for people in Relief Society presidencies and Sister Beck told this extremely horrible story about a poor woman who had recently had a baby, and whose husband had two broken legs, and whose kitchen was covered with cheerios and milk, and whose kids were not being attended to, and whose newborn was wailing in another room of the house . . . all while her visiting teachers were sitting in her living room delivering the monthly message, completely unaware of what was happening. I shudder when I think of this story. Because that is probably how thick-headed I come across as a visiting teacher.

"Thank you SO much for letting me come," I say, grabbing my purse for a fast get-away. "If you need anything, please let me know. I really mean that. I do."

I do, really. Really!

Just Checking In (With Myself)

2011-10-18T19:12:00.000-07:00

I was getting so sick of seeing my PhD in Rudeness post all the time. I mean, there is so much more to me than an uncanny ability to point out when other people are being rude. So, I thought I'd just check in.

Am I still pregnant?
check.

Do I wish it were over because I'm super uncomfortable, irritable, and bored with it?
check, check, check, and CHECK.

Did I cut my hair EVEN SHORTER?
check.

Did people comment on my new haircut using the ever-popular back-handed insult "oh, you chopped your hair"?
checkity check check.

Am I taking hypno-birthing classes and preparing for a home birth in a big plastic tub full of tepid water, my husband standing by to catch the baby, nary a medical expert, IV, or epidural in sight?
No.

Am I finding Facebook an easier forum for my drastically reduced insights?
check.

Did I promise my husband I would not buy, sew, or think about getting new curtains for a minimum of two years in order to finally buy some curtains that I like for my living room?
check.

Do the new curtains make me wish I had a new rug?
checko.

Do I try to ease my pregnancy-induced self-pity with lots and lots of shopping ?
check!

Is there a dogsled still sitting in my living room?
check.

Okay. I feel so much better now that I have reconnected with myself. Everything is as it should be. I'll let you know when I have the baby(5 more weeks--bleh). You can count on a full description of the entire gory process. Maybe I'll even do a blog as I labor and deliver. I mean, what's the point of doing it if it doesn't go up on my blog, right? It's like it never happened!

Car-car out.

A PhD in the Study of Rudeness

2011-09-23T14:00:00.000-07:00

I am overly interested in/appalled by/obsessed with the rudeness of people. I honestly wish that advanced degrees were offered in the study of rudeness because I believe it is my true calling in life. Let it go! normal people say to me. That's just his/her personality. HOGWASH, I say. Let it go? And waste a lifetime of collecting, filing, and cataloging the rudeness of people? All those agonizing hours just flushed down the toilet? I don't think so. No, I would much rather file that rude remark in the enlarged portion of my brain designated as "The Rudeness Center" to be recalled at a future, beneficial date. And can I just say that I am so tired of hearing the "that's just the way she is" excuse all the time? If we all just went around acting like ourselves, following our primal instincts, then almost everyone would be rude! If rude is "just the way you are" then you need to change the way you are. No more excuses!

But anyway. I'm really into the rudeness of other people. You can imagine that this--character flaw, super-human sensitivity, or 6th sense, whatever you'd like to call it--makes it hard to be married to me. Especially for a person like my husband, who is so good at letting things go and forgetting the past. I mean, the man hardly remembers my birthday (but, that is filed away for a future, beneficial date). I hear myself saying "but don't you think that was so rude?" to him all the time--particularly after church. My husband really is a saint for just saying "YES! Can you believe it?" to me when I am on a rudeness rampage.

I know we aren't supposed to be easily offended. But I feel that most of my interest in rudeness stems from genuine, detached fascination, rather than personal offense (unless the rudeness was directed right at me from a person who ought to know better--I'm looking at you, family). I just wonder, how can people be like this? Why do they think it's okay? I ask a lot of deep, probing rudeness-related questions, which is why I am such an expert.

Observe:
Did you know that clicking over to call waiting while you are talking to someone, unless it is a serious emergency, is rude? Well, it is.

Did you know that making someone feel bad because they were half an hour late to a preschool parents meeting is rude? It is!

(This is just off the top of my head!)

Asking someone if they fed the dog or gave the chickens water in a certain tone: rude.

Dumping on somebody by name on your blog: also rude.

Inundating people with forwarded emails: rude.

Using a negative-sounding term to describe someone's Christmas present (i.e. "Oh, you got a big green pot"): rude.

Ah me. I could go on. But you've probably seen my other blog posts, and the rudeness of others is a running theme.

P.S. In case you are ready to tell me that people in glass houses shouldn't throw stones, I ought to let you know that a comment like that is so rude.

The "Mommy" Code of Ethics

2011-09-14T15:14:00.000-07:00

When you become a mom, you are initiated into a club with other moms. This club has a strict code of ethics. You know, basic rules that are unspoken that all moms follow--or SHOULD follow. More moms ought to know these unspoken rules, so I am going to speak them here:

1. Moms don't show up at another mom's door with their adorable 4 year old and tell her that the 4 year old has been "begging to play," and then ask if they can leave that (yes, adorable) 4 year old at that mom's house for a while so they can go get their nails done or whatever it is they need to do. Moms need notice. Just a few minutes will do. They at least need a phone call, in an apologetic tone, with a good explanation. You see, moms sometimes might not want another child at their house, no matter how much that child wants to play or how cute he/she is. Sometimes a mom just doesn't feel like it unless she has some notice. Sometimes a mom is, oh, I don't know, making ricotta and not in the mood. Or sometimes she just wants to read blogs and look at facebook without interruption. (Exceptions to this rule are extreme emergencies wherein no phone could be accessed and the offending mom is desperate).

2. Moms just understand that other moms need to blog, and they don't ask each other "how do you have time?" when they darn well know that moms make time for things like that if it's important to them.

3. Mormon moms don't act self-righteous to other Mormon moms about how often they have prayer, family home evening, and scripture study. Mormon moms, instead, uplift and help each other. No bragging or self-aggrandizing, please.

4. Moms don't ask other moms to leave their house in the evening and come over to their house to babysit for them. Nothing is more demoralizing than spending a day taking care of children, slaving to put dinner on the table, then having to leave home and go watch someone else's kids. (again, extreme emergencies are an exception).

5. Moms don't make trouble for other moms re: television intake, sugar intake, epidural intake, formula intake, and birth control intake.

6. Moms don't yell at another mom's kid when that mom is right there watching. Moms respect the fact that another mom might have a different discipline philosophy and so they keep their mouths shut. (Exceptions include extreme cases where maybe the one mom doesn't notice that her child is about to fall into an abyss and so the other mom yells "Connor, get away from the abyss!" etc.)

7. Moms should reduce, rather than increase, each others' anxiety.

8. Moms don't make other moms feel guilty if they spend more money and time on their own wardrobe than on their kids' wardrobes. And on the other side, moms don't give moms grief about not looking their best when they are just trying to get a handle on this "mom" business.

9. Older moms, i.e., grandmothers, don't give new moms grief about the following: nap times, eating habits, potty training, crawling, walking, and behavior problems.

10. Moms know how to read between the lines. For example,
A) No, I don't need dinner. Really, I'm fine means "please bring me dinner."
B) I could do the fundraiser, but I'm not sure who I can ask to donate means "I don't want to do the fundraiser."
C) If you need anything, let me know means "I don't really plan on helping you. Ever."

So, there it is. The secret's out! Sorry, but once you're in the club, these are the rules.

Even More Deep Thoughts (The music, canning, and devil edition)

2011-09-08T12:42:00.000-07:00

A lot of people don't know this, but the best music to listen to while you are canning tomatoes is The White Stripes--please don't bring up the fact that they have split up. I'm not ready to discuss it yet.

Once I went to a haunted house and they played "Sympathy for the Devil" by the Rolling Stones as background music. I know Mick Jagger is no saint, but is that song supposed to be terrifying? Because I like it. And it really ruined the scary effect of the strobe lights and chain saws.

I bought an "eyebrow tamer" and cut the devil out of my eyebrow today. Awesome. How long will it take to heal before I can get them waxed? Now they are just hairy AND bloody.

Beck is best for canning peaches.

It makes me really nervous when people remember me from my high school days.

I know this is embarrassing, but I really would take an adult ballet class.

Doctors can really lay the guilt on thick when you find out (via x ray) that your 3 year old is super constipated. It's like, "Okay, I get it! No more string cheese and chocolate milk!" Sheesh.

If you want to make the cashier at Walgreens smile, make a joke about suppositories, preferably something like "we already put a treat in the cart, Ruby, some nice suppositories."

I'm starting to relax my "No Halloween Stuff Until October" and my "No Christmas Stuff Until December" rules. Nothing could be more freeing.

I'm not going to complain about being pregnant. I'm not going to gnash my teeth and wail and rant and stuff. This is what I have to tell myself every day, while I am stuffing myself into some stretchy pants.

Contrary to popular belief, the best Led Zeppelin song is NOT "Stairway to Heaven" (gag), but is actually "Over the Hills and Far Away." Enough with "Stairway" already! "Stairway" only gets good once the drums start, but then it's too late, and you are too preoccupied contemplating the rumor that the whole song is based on the members of the band selling their souls to the devil. I don't believe they did, but I do believe Jimmy Page is a weirdo.

Sometimes cupcakes at trendy cupcakeries just put too much frosting on. That's all I'm sayin.'

A really awesome song is "The Devil's Right Hand" by Johnny Cash.

Even Deeper Thoughts (I'm on a roll)

2011-08-29T16:43:00.000-07:00

I bet I can eat a Kit Kat (any size) faster than you.

A potato masher makes a great orange juice-stirrer. Sorry, Pampered Chef. You can keep your fancy pitcher-with-stirrer-in-the-lid contraption.

The house is so peaceful and calm when the children are downstairs watching Phineas and Ferb. Why would I disturb that peace?

Sometimes my baking sheets remind me of better days. Days when I baked.

Remember how I said I had this pregnancy style thing down? Well, scratch that from the record. I hate my clothes, my hair, my face.

I had an epiphany about dinner when I heard a really good dad say to his children: "what should we have for dinner? How 'bout baked potatoes?" You can do that? I thought. So now I just make chocolate chip pancakes with whipped cream for dinner, cause it doesn't have to be so complicated.

I had another epiphany at church when a woman told us about praying to find something good at a yard sale. You can do that? I thought. This opens a whole new world of divinely inspired shopping for me.

Good neighbors bring you a plate of vegetables from their garden even though they are the ones who just had a baby and you haven't gotten around to doing anything for them yet.

At the risk of sounding cheesy, my days goes a lot better when I can talk to my husband at least twice, even if it costs $1.50 per minute because he's in China.

Shows that are instant mood-lifters: Arrested Development, the Office, and Project Runway.

I hated the book Atonement like Elaine Benes hated the movie "The English Patient."

I think someone should do a blog dedicated just to the outlandish things you can find on craigslist, particularly the craigslist for southeast Idaho.

Utah/Idaho Mormon stereotypes have never been, are not currently, and will never be appropriate, true, or funny. Come up with some new material, people from Oregon and California!

I love Provo in the fall. Rexburg in the fall is awesome, too, but Provo is the absolute best.

I'm tired of pretending to like summer and be bummed that it's ending. Here's the truth: I HATE heat, summer is fun for one month max, and I love it when things start to cool down. The first snow of the year is magical to me, and I love winter right up until March. There. I said it.

Some Really Deep Thoughts

2011-08-29T07:33:00.000-07:00

The kids have been back to school since last Wednesday. I have been trying to be a more "nurturing" mother and have been waking up "early" to actually prepare breakfast for them. This is nearly KILLING me. How can I keep this up for 9 months???

How does one become adored? I'd so love to be adored.

Being in the Relief Society presidency has jaded me. I now realize that most women are needy, demanding, and immature (like, they want to be ADORED by everyone).

I had a dream that I had to help someone pick out a shirt so he could go on a date with his "girlfriend." It was really uncomfortable because it was an older man who has been a family friend forever, and whose wife I love.

I really resent having to play pretend with Hazel all the time.

I also really resent half day kindergarten.

Another thing I resent is China.

Does blogging remind anyone else of being in high school? It's starting to feel like high school to me, which is fine, because my first high school experience was wasted on Botany Club.

I felt great freedom by NOT doing the following things this summer: planting a garden, attending the daily free lunch at the park, and waking up before 9.

I don't really care to correct Hazel, Holden, and Ruby when they say "DARK Vader" instead of Darth Vader. It's cute and harmless. I do, however, make sure they realize that Han Solo is way better than Luke Skywalker, Jedi status notwithstanding.

The other day someone said "you always change your house around." And that made me really mad. It's none of your business what I do with my house!

Just a Note to Say

2011-08-20T09:52:00.000-07:00

By watching every old episode of Family Ties, I am discovering a lot of things about myself. But the best part is, nearly EVERY famous 80s actor has been on that show: Tom Hanks (alcoholic/fugitive Uncle Ned), Gina Davis (Karen the inept housekeeper), River Phoenix (Alex's brilliant 13-year-old geometry tutor), Cory Feldman (Jennifer's rival in a speech competition), Martha Plimpton (abused shoplifter whom Mallory befriends in season 5), Scott Valentine (Mallory's Rambo-esque boyfriend, Nick), of course Tracy Pollan (Alex's girlfriend, Ellen, and real-life wife!!), and in later episodes Courtney Cox (Alex's later girlfriend, Lauren). I'm sure there will be more to come. It's fascinating.

Blogging: A Day in the Life

2011-08-18T09:14:00.001-07:00

I thought I'd give you a run-down of what my daily blog-checking looks like:

Usually I like to start my day here. It's nice to get a hearty dose of reality, and this week has not disappointed: WHAT!? Slab pizza decided NOT to name a pizza after Cjane!?

Then, sticking with my theme of the Provo gliterati, I head over here. Shooh!! The Sweet Tooth Fairy still has a cupcake named after Nienie.

After getting my fix of Provo royalty, I check out this. Because in my mind, the intersection between motherhood and design is little more than the pattern left on my shirt after my baby throws up on me. So I need all the help I can get. In fact, I am considering a move to Europe as a publicity stunt for my blog and a way to improve my design aesthetic. Would that increase my number of comments????

After a healthy helping of painfully adorable, and woefully pricey design-y items, I like to read Kacy. Currently she has a rip-roaring discussion on Harry Potter going on. She's my go-to source for all things media and motherhood. In fact, you might say she blogs on the intersection of media and motherhood, which is an intersection I feel totally comfortable with. Two movies in row at the movie theater? 126 ounces of soda? I'm in.

At this point I am a little blogged out and am starting to feel bad about myself (I mean, I don't have any food named after me, nor do I live in a French cottage, nor do I get free movie tickets because I am a rad blogger. Booo!). So I take a break and check out the Garnet Hill sale of the day, or the Lands End overstock.

After my break I check out the eye candy at No Big Dill. She makes such pretty things. Sigh.

And you wonder why I have self-esteem issues! Better get some ice cream, lie in bed, and watch old episodes of Family Ties. Until tomorrow....

I Had to Bite My Hand!

2011-07-18T18:43:00.000-07:00

I just saw Harry Potter. I knew there would be some tears, but I did not expect to be so close to audible sobs that I had to bite my hand to keep myself under control. And it wasn't during the part you probably THINK it was. But I don't want to give anything away.

Usually, when I am trying not to cry in public, my go-to image is G.O.B. Bluth doing his magic show on Arrested Development. I start singing "The Final Countdown" in my head and imagine him flinging cards into the audience and I don't feel like crying anymore. But this was a moment that even "The Final Countdown" could not brighten. Ah me. People who think they are "above" Harry Potter, or who just aren't "into it" or whatever have missed out on more than ten years of a rollicking good time. But I guess some people just don't believe in the whole "good vs. evil" idea. They don't enjoy awesome wizards' duels, or wands that act of their own accord, or complex characters whose affiliation with dark overlords may or may not be genuine. They aren't into people who can turn into animals at will. They don't care much for the triumph of the underdog. Or the protection of love. Or the importance of friendship. Or, you, know, kindness. But there's no accounting for taste!

The only reason I am not mourning Harry Potter is that I have three and almost four kids with whom I can rediscover it. I have years of Harry Potter ahead of me. And I am very grateful for that.

New baby name consideration: Albus Severus Sirius Remus. Too much?

It's a.....

2011-06-30T12:10:00.000-07:00

BOY!!!

How soon is too soon to give away our 4 boxes of baby girl clothes? Also, when should I start painting the pink girls' room a boy-friendly color? When can I break out the vintage cowboy fabric I bought at the antique store with the hope of sewing a blanket for a baby boy some day? I am so thrilled to have another boy! I love my girls, of course, but I was ready for a little dude again. It will remind me of the good old days when Holden was a baby and life made sense (except for at night time, when he didn't sleep). But anyway. I'm super happy, Holden is on cloud nine, and Mike is thrilled. The girls, well, they still have each other!

P.S. Because I have finally learned my lesson, there will be no name polls on my blog this time.

Happy Birthday, Ruby!

2011-06-23T10:51:00.000-07:00

Here is Ruby today at 3 years old
Ruby loves to make beds out of laundry baskets.
Ruby in Harry Potter glasses, complete with runny nose.
Swinging with Hazel.
Ruby at age two.
Ruby on her first birthday.
Some time between birth and age one.
An early smile, during the days of the 100th percentile.
Days after she was born.

Happy birthday, RJ! You really are the life of the party!

Pregnant Style

2011-06-23T09:25:00.000-07:00

I feel like I am finally getting a handle on my pregnant style this fourth (and probably final) time around. Don't get me wrong, I am no expert, but I asked Katy for her best advice (she is prego, too, and she looks really good), and that set me on path away from "Tweedle-dee-hood" and towards some semblance of style. Here are some things she told me, along with some things I picked up all by myself:

1. Get some maternity t-shirts from Molly Me in black and white. These are inexpensive but they are thick and sturdy and flattering. Wear them in the summer, and put a cardigan over them in the winter. This was my favorite tip from Katy. I love my Molly Me shirts.

2. Get some elastic-waist skirts in several lengths and colors. You'll get a lot of wear out of them while pregnant and afterward. Target has some good options right now.

3. Accessorize. Katy told me this, too. Wear simple clothes in a monochromatic scheme (like a black t-shirt with a black skirt), then add pops of color with jewelry, scarves, and/or shoes. A good place to go for cheap accessories is Forever 21. Some of their necklaces only cost $1.50! It's a good place for trendy pieces and big, chunky necklaces/bracelets that you don't want to spend a fortune on. Also, there are so many inexpensive, cute flat shoes that you have no need to replace your high heels with nurse's shoes for church.

4. Don't confine yourself to maternity clothes. Other people have said this before. This is not big news. But honestly, I have only recently learned to follow this advice. A lot of tunic style shirts can be worn during the first two trimesters and you can also go up a size in regular shirts for part of your pregnancy, too. You can even get away with pants a size or two bigger for the first little while. A lot of dresses in stretchy fabric with an empire waist will work for a long time during your pregnancy. Downeast Outfitters has dresses like this. Maxi dresses are another really good option. These will come in handy post-pregnancy, too, when you don't want maternity clothes but your old clothes don't fit anymore.

5. Pool your resources. Trade maternity clothes with a friend, if you can. I currently have two huge boxes of maternity clothes that are a combination of my own and my friend, Tricia's. Everything that I think is cute and want to wear belongs to Tricia. It's nice to have something new to wear that I didn't have to pay for. And I think she felt the same way when she was pregnant and wore my things.

6. Having said that, don't feel obligated to wear maternity hand-me-downs from well-meaning relatives who were pregnant in 1989. Don't compromise your taste just because you are desperate. This is coming from someone who wore stretchy pants and polyester striped shirts for half of her pregnancy when she was desperate and living in Taiwan.

7. Go to thrift stores. It's so hard when you are between your regular clothes and full-fledged maternity clothes. You need to get some bigger sizes, but who can afford a whole new wardrobe in one or two sizes up? Enter Deseret Industries. This is a good resource for in-between pants and other clothes.

8. Get a good hair cut. I'm not necessarily advocating a short extreme hair cut, but something with a style, something with structure, that is easy to do, will make you feel good about yourself.

9. Pantyhose getting you down? Just wear leggings! I have spent many a Sunday morning crying over nylons that don't work while pregnant (this is not an issue in warmer months, obviously). If only leggings had been in style back then! Now they are back and I plan on wearing them to church every Sunday in October and November. Some people will tell you to try thigh highs or knee highs. I have also spent many Sundays hiding behind a dumpster pulling up thigh highs that kept falling down while Mike acted as lookout (this happened a lot in Taiwan because we had to walk several blocks to church). Knee highs are fine if your dress or skirt is long enough, but if anyone sees the top, and sees your flabby flesh poking out over the top of your knee-high, there goes your street cred!

10. Proportion is important. Basically, if your pants are baggy and full, you would look better with a more fitted top. Alternatively, if you are wearing a flowy top, a slimmer bottom is a good match. Just because you are pregnant doesn't mean you have to wear baggy clothes all over. Slim fitting shirts can be very flattering. You might as well accentuate your belly and try to draw attention away from other parts of your body that are also expanding (I am talking about my own problem with my legs, arms, face, and back side here. Maybe you are lucky enough to not get big in those areas while pregnant). Anyway, don't lose sight of proportion when you are prego.

What are your favorite pregnancy style tips?

Remember?

2011-06-09T19:47:00.001-07:00

This?

Top Ten Rude Comments People Make When You Get a Haircut (and the appropriate responses)

2011-06-06T15:18:00.000-07:00

10. OH! You cut your hair . . . (response: no, my son did it while I was sleeping! Can you believe it?)

9. You cut your hair . . . WOW (with raised eyebrows) (response: you're wearing socks with sandals . . . WOW)

8. Wow, I could never have my hair that short . . . but it's good on you. (response: I know! It must be a real challenge to have that kind of bone structure. Your style is so restricted!)

7. How did you ever have the courage to cut your hair? You are so brave. (response: yeah, those hair stylists are real bastards)

6. Look what you did to your hair! (touching it and looking mournful) (response: you can send your condolences to www.yourafool.com)

5. Oh, good, you cut your hair. I never liked it the way it was before. (response: really? Well, as long as we are being honest, I never liked your ex husband/wife/boyfriend/girlfriend, either!)

4. Your hair must be so easy to do now! (response: yeah, and combined with the sweatpants I plan on wearing every day, my "I give up" look is complete!)

3. Sometimes people don't say anything. This can only mean that they follow the old adage "if you can't say anything nice don't say anything at all." However their pointed silence on the subject speaks VOLUMES more than an insincere "your hair looks nice" would. Just lie, people. It takes nothing away from you to give a compliment, even if it isn't 100% how you feel inside. God wants you to uplift people. (response: there is no response, only righteous indignation).

2. I prefer your sister/cousin/friend's hair cut. It has fewer layers in the back. (response: Really? Well, shoot. I prefer your sister/cousin/friend since she is actually a lot nicer than you.)

1. You chopped/butched your hair! (response: Oh, and you left your nice person words at home today, didn't you?)

I got a hair cut this weekend, and I love it. And I only got two comments from the list above (although I have experienced each one of them at other times). Picture soon to follow....

Update!

2011-05-31T14:39:00.001-07:00

So, I want to blog. But, as I mentioned on facebook and on googletalk to Melissa, my brand of blog is just not in style anymore. Sometimes I just don't know what to write about: the things that I hate, or the things that I love, or food, or the time that I yelled at my kids, or embarrassed myself in public, or what. Being mediocre or below-average at pretty much everything, particularly in the domestic art realm, makes beautifully photographed tutorials rather impossible for me. I could definitely do a tutorial on how to use a semi colon in a sentence, but does anyone want to read that?

So, anyway, I'm just in my usual blog identity crisis. I have one every few months. It coincides with a hairdentity crisis, too. Like right now: I'm a fat prego lady, but I really want to cut my hair. But will I regret it? Will a stylist even take that on (the last time I tried to get a cut while preg, the stylist wouldn't do it). I love shorter, chin-length hair with a bit of structure. But will that result in a feeling of mannishness as my thighs, arms, and face continue to thicken?

With all this going on, I decided to go with the old stand-by blog topic, my children. They are always my built-in excuse for everything (one of the major perks of having kids, by the way), so why not use them when I am out of blog inspiration? Here's an update of what they have been up to, because I know you want to know:

Holden: finished third grade with a bang, has come a long way from the first day of first grade, when I made a point to walk him to class, and said "this is Holden...he's a little behind on his reading" to his teacher. WHY DID I DO THAT? I felt so frantic at that time, so worried about the results of the disastrous bout of homeschooling we did for half of kindergarten that I felt a need to apologize in advance to his bewildered teacher. Ah me. . . . Now he reads at a ninth grade level and it turns out he's totally gifted, probably in part because I have kept my mouth shut and generally stayed out of things since that first day of first grade. There's an important lesson in this experience, but I am not cut out for advice-giving via blog posts. Holden is planning to be in the dogsled races this winter and is pretty much just biding his time until then. We bought a used dogsled for him, along with some military-strength mittens. He learned to make scrambled eggs this morning and wants to learn to cook more meals and do his own laundry this summer (score!!). He is fully prepared to become the primary care giver of Ruby when the baby is born. He hopes the baby is a boy. He also starting reading all the Harry Potter books, which fills my heart with more joy than can possibly be expressed. I can't wait for him to finish them so we can talk about them.

Hazel : graduated from preschool in an adorable ceremony, during which her teacher said that Hazel is "my little smarty-pants who really thinks about thinking." She didn't say that about all the kids, you know. Just Hazel. But bragging on a blog is distasteful. Hazel is excited for kindergarten and is totally stoked for a princess camp that she's participating in this summer. She talks about it every day: "Mom, I can't stop thinking about that princess camp." "Well, it's in one week," I respond. "You mean the day after this one?" she asks. This goes on and on. Hazel has no concept of time, for being a "smarty pants." When Ruby is throwing a fit, Hazel says "leave her to me" and sings to her. It sometimes works. She wants the baby to be a girl, because she currently feels outnumbered (wha???) Hazel plans to be my number one assistant with the new baby. She is always mad when she has to go to bed without any dessert. She loves dessert as only I do. Hazel needs a hair cut.

Ruby: is fully potty trained and almost accident-free, except for fifteen minutes ago when she had an accident on the rug. Dang. Seriously, she WAS accident-free for a long time. Ruby is in a thing called "Toddler Lab" at BYU-I. It sounds like they do experiments on her, but really it's just a precursor to preschool where they have a snack, play with toys, and blow bubbles. I am all about pre-preschool. And, when possible, pre-pre-preschool. Ruby's hair is getting longer and is heading into dangerous Steve Perry territory. The question is: do I cut it to avoid the 80s rock star mullet, or do I wait just a bit longer and see if it evens out. Her hair would easily go into a ponytail or pig tails, but she won't allow that. Ruby likes to look in the mirror when she eats, and her latest favorite phrase is "whew, that was close!" She is aware of the new baby on the way, but mainly because her mother is "sick and tired" all the time. (Ruby's other favorite phrase is "sick and tired.") Ruby knows her colors like a pro, but not because I use flashcards, sign language, or any other sort of formal teaching (remember, I learned to stay out of these things). Ruby's favorites are her dad and Holden: "I just love Holden," she often says, while hugging him. So tender.

There you have it. I am lucky that my kids are as awesome as they are. I mean, really. I often think about that while I am lying in bed listening to Holden get everyone breakfast in the morning. And I sometimes think it when I can hear them in the basement, watching TV, while I am lying on the couch.

Mood Boosters

2011-05-21T11:35:00.000-07:00

I wish I had the energy or desire to share this news with creativity and pizazz, but I don't, so here goes:

I've got a 13 week old bun in the oven.

We are super excited and everything. This has actually been sort of a long time coming, with a set-back or two along the way. So this is great news and I should be on cloud nine, right? Unfortunately, the day after I discovered I was pregnant, I plunged into a mild but unpleasant feeling of depression that has been hard to shake. I feel alternately spiritless and guilty for not being happier and more grateful. But, things are starting to look up as I near the end of the first trimester. Plus, I have discovered some real mood boosters to help me:

1. Jimmy Johns BLTs with no mayo. Did you know Jimmy Johns will deliver just one sandwich? I mean, it costs extra, but who cares when the idea of getting in the car and doing the drive through is more than one can handle?

2. Having good food delivered to my door.

3. The sound of birds chirping. I used to hate birds, I think, because they used to fly into my house, come into the basement where my childhood bedroom was, and flap around my head. Also, Juan R. once knocked on my door, and threw a bird into my house when I answered. Shudder....Not to mention "The Birds" by Alfred Hitchcock. But, the sound of birds chirping (safely outside and away from my head) really lifts my spirits.

4. Going outside also lifts my spirits, unless it starts to make me feel guilty and wistful about not planting a garden this year (we will be gone for almost all of August, okay?)

5. Glee. I started watching the first season on a whim the other day and I am hooked. Talk about a show I can't watch with Mike, though! I don't think he could handle the way they burst into song so much. But I love it.

6. Talking to Melissa and other friends/siblings on googletalk all day long.

7. Sitting on the couch all day, staring out the window (or talking on googletalk), and then spontaneously lying on the couch and falling asleep. Basically, I am just really into my couch lately.

8. Cadbury milk chocolate and roasted almond candy bars, blue twin pops, and red powerade.

9. I'd like to say "my children," but actually they do not usually boost my mood, except maybe when they say something funny, or bring me some water, and then go away for a while.

10. Reading blogs, with the following exceptions:
a.blogs written by super moms who talk about how awesome and "crazy busy" they are
b.blogs with self-indulgent "vlogs," and self-indulgent professional photographs of the blogger.
c.blogs with pictures of people's houses that look like the inside of an Anthropologie store
d.blogs that contain graphic birth stories. When did telling your "birth story" in lurid detail become a thing?
e.blogs with really poor grammar, spelling, and sentence structure.
f.blogs about weight loss and exercise.

I guess I am just in a fragile emotional state right now, and these blogs really set me off, man.

We find out the gender on June 30th. The baby is due the week of Thanksgiving, thus dashing my hopes to participate in the Rexburg Turkey Choir. Maybe next year, Turkey Choir!

PS: don't waste money on an "Intelligender" test. You will be sorely tempted (unless you are one of those people who don't want to know the gender until the birth), but please mark my words: you won't learn anything new other than the fact that you are a sucker. Sadly, the fact that I am a sucker wasn't even news to me. So really, I lost $30 and I gained nothing. Don't do it.

Allow Me to be a Prude for a Moment

2011-05-04T12:32:00.001-07:00

I LOVE "Friday Night Lights," as well as "Parenthood." I think every grown up person should watch these shows and I think they teach good values, generally speaking. But I would never let my kids see them, because, have you noticed all the teenage promiscuity going on on? And it's not just the fact that it's going on, it's the way all the adults respond to it on the show!! The only time anybody ever gets in trouble or is involved in scandal is when a pregnancy is involved--and then somebody just gets an abortion, cries for a day, and in a few months they are right back on the beauty pageant circuit as if nothing happened at all. Their parents tease them: "hey, be sure to use protection next time, you fools!" I mean, what the what??? It's the reason why I hated Juno, even though it has a cool soundtrack and has likable characters or whatever: it teaches kids that it's okay to be promiscuous, even get pregnant, because in the end you will have a really sweet boyfriend who loves you for who you are.

Is this for real!!!???

Is this a reflection of reality, a gross exaggeration of it, or a pernicious suggestion to our youth? I was hoping that "Parenthood" would handle it differently, but of course they didn't. When faced with the fact that their daughter was you-know-whatting, the usually conscientious parents did this: "Oh, man. I wish she had waited!! Oh, well, let's get her over to the gyno for a birth control prescription!" Hello??? What has happened to this world? Can't anybody say "NO! Don't do that! Don't do it ever again! And let me tell you why not to do it..." anymore? Or do we just have to roll over and accept that kind of behavior? I don't get it. Remember the sitcoms in the 80's? Remember how it was such a SCANDAL and such a HUGE DEAL if there was ever a suggestion of promiscuity in the teenage kids of Cliff and Claire Huxtable? Those were the days....

Happy Easter!

2011-04-26T13:04:00.000-07:00

No, I didn't take a picture of my children in matching poofy pastel dresses and light yellow sweater vests with baby blue bow ties. Nor did I blow out and dye eggs, affixing ribbons and flowers to them and creating a charming centerpiece for our Easter dinner table. I didn't "hide eggs," unless you count the two dozen or so that Mike and I put in our backyard as an afterthought. I didn't "make ham" or a bunny-shaped Easter cake. There were no signs saying "Welcome Spring!", paper mache nests filled with candy eggs, parties with children and charming bunny-shaped favors, or straw hats with ribbons. I did not even make an Easter egg banner from paint samples!

And guess what? We all lived to tell the tale of the Easter that wasn't, the year Mom dropped the ball. Of course, the things that really matter--Hershey's chocolate eggs--were in our home in abundance.

Ten Things I Will Never Buy

2011-04-11T08:33:00.000-07:00

10. The "Clapper." Do I want to resemble a grumpy old person, wearing a bonnet, lying in bed, then clapping my hands really loud to the tune of "clap on, clap off...the clapper--clap clap" rolling over and going to sleep? No. Not yet, anyway. I'm going to aim high, and believe that I can still get out of bed when I need to turn off a light.

9. Custom-made mugs with photos of my children on them. There are better ways to show my devotion to my children than plastering their faces all over common, every day objects that I drink cocoa out of.

8. A jacket for my dog, unless he really needs it. Oh, fine. I admit it! I already have three. But I have to have something to match the booties and bow ties.

7. Anything from Motherhood Maternity. Everything I have bought from that store in the past has been a mistake, from the morning sickness-curing lollipops (newsflash: they're just regular candy. Buy some jolly ranchers instead, why don't you?) to the ombre died silk pink tunic, to the bright coral floral old lady dress, to the long black dress made out of sweater material. You catch my drift. I lose my style compass when I go in there. It's hard enough to have style while pregnant, anyway.

6. Anything for children or babies with the word "Einstein" in its name. I feel like it is deceptive to put that name on a video to assuage parents' guilt for allowing their little ones to watch television. A paranoid, guilt-ridden parent sees the word "Einstein" and thinks, "oh, this will actually be really great for my baby, and make him smart, which is all that matters." Ick. It's such a lie. And so cruel to exploit the guilt and good intentions of young parents. I hate. I mean, the real, not baby or little, Einstein is rolling over in his grave right now.

5. Any sort of wooden sign with a message on it, like "all because two people fell in love," or even a one-word message like "DREAM." I don't need my walls telling me what to do all day long. Why don't YOU dream, you stupid old wooden sign. I'm trying to watch TV right now!

4. Fake flower arrangements, which include, but are not limited to, grasses, and ivy that sits on top of a tall ledge or kitchen cabinets.

3. Children's shoes with Disney characters on them, though this is getting harder and harder to enforce.

2. Ankle bracelets. That ship has sailed for me.

1. Spam.

Now We Are 34

2011-04-07T08:48:00.000-07:00

Dear Mike,
Happy birthday! You're a real upstanding guy. I like how you are into mushing right now. It seems like it might outlast your pack goat phase, and maybe even your tear drop camp trailer phase, too. Whatever floats your boat! Just don't ask me to scoop poop every day when you finally get your team of 6 dogs.

I'm glad you are a professor with a PhD. I know a lot of people wanted you to "work for the government" using your Chinese, but I'm glad you didn't go that route (no offense, government). Remember how you finished your dissertation in one year even though you were also teaching 12 credits per semester and had three small children, not to mention a super needy and demanding wife? You rule. I hope some day I can start teaching again and we can share an office and be like a super couple for students to look up to, just like I always looked up to Tom and Louise Plummer and dreamed of marrying a German professor. A Chinese professor is close enough, though. Probably even better, since we all know nobody studies German anymore.

Oh, and thanks for building that Shaker peg rail for me, and for fixing the carport, and doing wallpaper with me, and building a chicken coop, and making a fence in our backyard, and organizing closets all the time. You're good at that stuff. You also did a great job when you put the windshield wipers on our car. And thanks for getting up with Ruby last night when she had a bad dream about Holden destroying one of her paintings. Yes, I was awake and heard the details of her sadness. But I decided to lie still and let you take care of it. Thanks again. You did an awesome job.

So, here's to a great day. I will do my best to get you your traditional birthday hamburger. And possibly a slice of cheesecake? We don't want to get too crazy, though! Oh, why not?

Love,
Carly

PS Sorry I didn't refer to you as either my "best friend" or my "love" or my "sweetheart." But I mean, gag.

Toddlerhood 101: Unwanted Public Behavior, or Ruby Threw A Hamburger at Somebody in Five Guys

2011-04-06T09:53:00.000-07:00

This is my last set of toddler tips, I assure you. I just thought I might talk about unwanted behavior in public because last Friday I had a horrible shopping experience with Ruby that culminated in her throwing a hamburger at an innocent bystander in Five Guys (!!!). I had to wipe ketchup off this poor woman's shirt and everything. I think it was one of the lowest moments of my life as a parent. But of course these low moments make us smarter and better for next time, right? I mean, we sort of have to pass beneath all things (food throwing, vomiting on a 14 hour flight to Taiwan, swearing in front of a Nursery leader, fits on a dirty bathroom floor, etc) so we can emerge better and more refined on the other side. I hope so, anyway.

So here's what I learned after I emerged from the hamburger-ketchup wiping-screaming on the floor incident last Friday (this pertains to public naughtiness only. For at-home difficulties, I refer you to the book "The First Three Years of Life", which has really helped me. It suggests that you not allow behavior from your two-year-old that you would not allow from an eight-year-old. That was very interesting to me. I get sick of the whole "well, he's only three" excuse for things that should not be tolerated). When it comes to dealing with bad behavior in public, I suggest three lines of defense before you abandon that shopping cart full of items and rush out the door:

1. Avoidance. If you can avoid taking your toddler to the grocery store, DO IT. Go shopping in the evening or on Saturday when your spouse can stay with the kids. That might not be an option for everyone, but babysitters or babysitting trades can also work. If you absolutely must take your toddler to the store, avoid going when your toddler is tired, hungry, sick, or in a grumpy mood. My mistake with Ruby on Friday was that I forgot she had been up really late the night before. I also took her to four different stores before we stopped to eat. Avoidance also means staying away from hot-button issues and areas. Like don't go to the toy section of the store, and try to preempt any sort of meltdown. You have to plan ahead, perhaps choosing the longer route to the store that doesn't take you past Chuck E Cheese. It also helps to think like a cave man, because that's how your toddler thinks. It's true; I saw it in a parenting video once. Toddlers are cave men, developmentally speaking. Anyway, avoidance doesn't make you a wimp or an inadequate parent, by the way. It actually means you are in tune with your child.

2. Distraction. If your attempt at avoidance fails, your next line of defense is distraction. Keep toys in your purse. Open a box of Goldfish and pay for it at the counter. Ask your toddler to help you find a certain item, or play "I Spy" or whatever. Punishing, threatening, and even yelling will not work in public. How can you give a toddler a time-out at Target? Instead, try to distract your child when things start to go south. I probably could have avoided my whole hamburger fiasco if I had let Ruby cut it in half (she freaked out when I cut the hamburger in half to give some to Hazel), or if I had cut it in half before she started eating it (duh), or maybe I could have waited till she was looking the other direction, the whole bait-and-switch technique. Whatever it takes, try to distract.

3. Bribery. When all else fails, just bribe your child. "If you can be good, I'll let you choose a candy bar in the check out line/we'll go to the park after/I'll give you a popsicle in the car" etc. Bribery can sometimes lead to spending too much money, though, which is why it is a last resort. For example, I have bought stupid things for my toddlers to bribe them to be good when I was really desperate. But that's what I get for not being smart enough to avoid the situation in the first place! Every time I look at Ruby's Buzz Lightyear "slanket" I am reminded of just how much I need to avoid taking her out in public.

A word about yelling: I yell at my kids at home. I try not to, but sometimes I do lose my temper and yell. But yelling in public is so embarrassing and undignified. It really makes the people around you uncomfortable, and it also makes them sympathize with you much less than they normally would. I was at McDonalds today, rewarding Hazel for being brave during her Kindergarten shots, and there were a few moms there yelling, snapping, breathing hard through their noses, getting red in the face, and counting to three really loud. It made me so uncomfortable and it also made me feel bad for their kids. This is funny because I yell, snap, get red in the face, breathe hard, and count to three really loud at home quite frequently. This makes me realize how ugly I must seem at home, so maybe it will help me stop.

Finally, don't sweat it if your toddler throws a huge tantrum in public. Let people stare. Let them judge and gawk. You can't stop them from doing it, anyway. All you can do is maintain some dignity by not matching the intensity of the fit. Keep your cool at all costs. If your three lines of defense fail, and you have really had it, just walk away. Come back later and start over again without your little cave man in tow. Life is too short to spend it being humiliated at the grocery store.
So, that's all I got. Good luck with your toddler. Peace out.

My Son the Musher

2011-04-03T15:18:00.000-07:00

To watch Holden driving a three-dog team, click here.

New Mud Area

2011-04-02T11:53:00.000-07:00

We have a long hallway in our kitchen that serves as a sort of mudroom. It was always a disaster, with only five hooks and a messy shoe cubby that collected bags, papers, tools intended to go to the garage, etc. I decided to make a change, so we wallpapered the wall (which was horrifyingly hard), and then with the help of a friend Mike made a Shaker peg rail. I wanted to buy two from www.theperiodhouse.com, but it would have cost $150. Instead, we spent about $30. We bought a long board, cut it to length and used a router saw to make the edges nice, drilled holes, painted the board and peg separately, assembled it, then screwed it to the wall. I was skeptical about the whole process, and just wanted to buy something already finished, but this was a cinch and I am so happy that this rail runs the entire length of the wall. Now we have 20+ hooks and there's no excuse for clutter. I sort of want a different bench for this space, but that's another blog.

Toddlerhood 101: Dress and Grooming

2011-03-31T07:44:00.001-07:00

I continue to shamelessly copy Kacy and Lisa with my own feeble attempt at a series. This time I want to talk about dress and grooming. Maybe it's not a problem for you. Maybe your 2-4 year old just puts on whatever clothes you throw at him without complaint. If that is the case, then you are very blessed. Unfortunately for me, each of my children has been very particular about what they will and will not wear. This particularity seems endless and horrifying at the time, but it is usually let go of at some point when you least expect it, and certainly not when you are in the middle of fighting over it.

I guess what goes around comes around because when I was a toddler I wouldn't wear pants. Not necessarily because I wanted to be frilly all the time, but because, I would wail while having a huge struggle with my mother with five minutes to go before we had to be at preschool, "they have PLEATS!" What did I mean by pleats? I don't know. Sometimes I would wear knit pants, referred to simply as "my knits." This was before the days of sweats for children and soft jersey yoga pants, I guess, because they were literally made of knit wool. They were navy blue as I recall, with a matching fair isle top. But I digress. Anyway, by the time I made it to kindergarten, pleats were no longer an issue and I even wore jeans on my first day. See? Everything was all right (until I decided to pretend an old, plastic, black typewriter case was a brief case and take it to school to try to be like Alex P. Keaton on "Family Ties.")

My children's weird clothing quirks include but are not limited to wearing a ratty old baseball cap 24 hours a day, even to bed; insisting on wearing extremely tight skinny wranglers; only wearing fuzzy footed pajamas, even in summer; only wearing sweat pants and zip up tennis shoes; wearing skirts over jeans; favoring only those things that blatantly do not match; wearing a single shirt over and over again; and insisting on Carhartt brand EVERYTHING.

And then there are the dreadlocks forming on the back of Ruby's head because she won't let me comb it. Won't LET you comb it? Yeah, that's right. She won't. I see these little girls with elaborate braids and perfectly matching, painfully adorable outfits with detachable fur collars, and I wonder how their moms do it. And then I have the equally unsettling thought that those same moms are looking at me and wondering why I allow my children to look so unkempt. Once someone even said this to me: "Your daughters don't need to wear cute clothes and have their hair done cute to be adorable." hmmmm. Was that supposed to be a compliment?

Which leads me to my dress and grooming tips. I only have two because the whole dress and grooming issue is actually way simpler than it seems.

1. This is your new standard: are your toddlers' clothes clean? Are they seasonally appropriate? Has your toddler bathed recently? Is he relatively clean? Does she have lice? No? See! You are an awesome mom!

2. Remember this: your toddler is not an extension of you, but an individual human being who needs to express herself (especially in weird ways). Kids are not accessories (although when they wear a multi-pocketed jacket they can make a great purse, ala Ahn Yeong and Lucille Bluth)

I have only recently discovered the concept that my children are not an extension of me. I am just now starting to realize that the reason I fight with my kids over their hair and clothing is a selfish one. I don't want to look bad. If Holden wears a ratty old baseball cap everywhere he goes, what will those mothers of boys who wear seersucker suits and bow ties to church think of me? It's really all about me when my kids don't look right. If we could somehow let go of that need to look good through our children, dress and grooming wouldn't be such a problem. We'd realize that these phases will eventually pass and we would never feel the need to say out loud, to any judgmental mother listening in the check out line, "Geez, Ruby, we need to brush your hair, don't we?" or "who chose your outfit today, Hazel?!" etc. (For an excellent treatise on mothers judging mothers, please go here.)

You can always make suggestions, buy the cutest clothes you can that coordinate, persuade, bribe, and model cute dress and grooming habits, but remember: when you force your kid to look a certain way, you are really just doing it for yourself.

Toddlerhood 101: Food

2011-03-29T08:40:00.000-07:00

I have been enjoying Kacy's "Momness" series and Lisa's "How to Hate Cleaning LESS" series so much that I wanted to join in with my own series. It's hard to choose just ONE thing I am an expert on, so I decided to talk about something that is completely consuming my every waking (and often sleeping) moment: Toddlerhood. You see, I have been dealing with toddlers for several years. Hazel is 5, and is just now "out of the woods," while Ruby is 2 1/2 and is in the thick of the forest, so to speak. Holden was a toddler 7 years ago, but the scars from his antics remain. So, I have some ideas about how to navigate the toddler years (and they are YEARS) without wanting to die (too often).

I'd like to start by discussing food, because it seems like such a difficult issue when you have a two-year-old. The one rule you should live by is NEVER MAKE FOOD A BATTLE. Toddlers can smell your fear. They can sense tension and struggle very powerfully; therefore, the minute you choose food as your battle, you have already lost. They will win every time, because can you really force a toddler to eat something? Do you really want to? Don't ever make a big deal out of food. Food should never be an issue between you and your loved ones.

Another food concern is the lack thereof in a toddler's diet. You wonder how your two-year-old can stay alive on her diet of detritus from the kitchen floor and chocolate chips. A doctor once reassured me to look at my child's diet in terms of weeks rather than days. So, if your little one is getting some regular meals in each week, then you are golden. Let go of your fear that your toddler is starving.

Here are some other food-related tips to help you cope with your toddler:

1. Don't buy sippy cups with complicated valves that you have to take out of the lid and clean. These get lost, get gunked up with chocolate milk, and are a huge pain. Instead, buy inexpensive take-along cups like this:

These are actually meant to be thrown away, so you don't have to feel too guilty when you find one under the couch that has curdled milk in it. Just toss it in the trash! Also, encourage your toddler to use normal cups so they won't be judged harshly by judgmental nursery leaders, but if you want your life to be easier, use sippies most of the time.

2. Allow snacking. I know you're not supposed to snack between meals, but toddlers usually won't be interested in whatever "meal" you have in mind--chicken piccata, coconut curry, beef stroganoff, etc. So just allow them to snack. Put relatively healthy snacks within their reach and allow them to get their own. One thing Kacy taught me is to have a "snack basket" in the fridge. You can fill it with grapes, string cheese, apples, fruit snacks, crackers, whatever your little dude likes. Control is so important to your toddler. This gives it to them. You control what goes in the basket, but they control what they eat from it and when. At least this way they are getting some food. Also, if they want the red cup but you gave them the blue cup, just pour the stuff from the red cup into the blue cup. It's important to them and it doesn't really cost you that much. It takes more energy to have a "what difference does the color of the cup make!" argument than to just switch cups.

3. Never let a well-meaning but judgmental person make you feel bad about your child's eating habits. Comments like "she didn't drink all her milk!" or "all he's had today is fruit snacks" should roll right off your back. These people don't understand what it's like. Generally, it's been too long since they had a toddler and they raised their toddler in the era of spanking and brute force. So, let it go.

4. Chocolate milk is okay if your toddler won't drink normal milk. But don't suggest chocolate milk unless you HAVE to. Put it off as long as possible, because once your two-year-old discovers chocolate milk, there is NO TURNING BACK. Same with juice. Crystal Light can be a good juice substitute but I had to stop giving it because it turned Ruby's poo astro-turf green. What's up with that?

5. When you make dinner, make whatever you and your spouse and older children like. Don't be at the mercy of the picky eaters in your family (I have three of them). Instead, try to have one element of the meal that everyone will enjoy. Oddly, my kids all love green beans (canned) cooked with a cube of beef bouillon. I just gave away my best cooking secret! In fact, we used to call beef bouillon "secret ingredient" when I was growing up. But anyway, have something like that, rice, apple slices, cheese, plain noodles, whatever, that everyone can eat. Keep exposing your kids to different foods, encouraging but not forcing them to try, and maybe eventually they will come around. It will take years. Be ready for that.

6. Don't forbid any food. Again, this causes battles and tantrums. Instead, if there is a food you feel like your toddler should never eat, never buy it. Avoid taking your two-year-old to the grocery store so they can't see it and beg for it. But if they ever do eat a Hostess Fruit Pie, don't make a huge deal out of it. Whatever you do, don't tell a toddler that a food is forbidden to them. That's just asking for trouble.

7. If you are really worried about vitamins and minerals, buy gummy vitamins for your toddler. These also work wonders for pregnant women who are too sick to take a normal prenatal vitamin. But that's another series.

8. Freeze gogurt and give it to your toddler as a popsicle. But it's also okay to give regular popsicles, too.

9. Remember that ice cream has calcium in it and there are worse things a toddler could eat.

10. Chicken nuggets and hot dogs have protein. Something like 1/4 a cup of craisins is the same as two servings of fruit. Pretzels are healthier than potato chips. Popcorn is a whole grain. Carrots dipped in ranch are a perfectly good way to eat vegetables.

The key is acting nonchalant about food. Believe me, it is not a battle you want to take on. Remember that tastes change and mature. And stick to the principle of moderation. And that is my best advice for feeding a toddler. Maybe I have so many ideas because I have rather toddler-like taste in food myself. What toddler tips do you have?

Me, a Role Model???

2011-03-23T15:28:00.000-07:00

Recently, in her acclaimed "Momness" series, my sister Kacy put me on her list of mom role models. I think she was just trying to make me feel good, because look at what I've already done this week:

Yesterday I pulled my pectoral muscle while pushing my dog, Leo, away. Then later I pulled another muscle in my arm while driving and trying to reach the bucket of popcorn in the seat directly behind me. The other part of this story is that while I was trying to reach for the popcorn, I was yelling at Holden and throwing my hands in the air wildly, like a stereotypical Italian, and then I noticed the guy in the car next to me was completely staring at me. I mean, we made eye contact and everything. It was like looking into my conscience. I yelled "I'm yelling at my son!" through the window, but I don't know if he heard. Curse you, tinted back seat windows and short children!

I also signed Holden up for baseball because he said he wanted to do it. Visions of him in a cute uniform, making friends, getting exercise, and having success in the world of sports (a situation quite foreign to me, unfortunately) were dancing through my head so loudly that I forgot to listen when Holden later said "nevermind I don't want to do it." One hysterical fit, a fifty dollar check (torn up), 6 emails, and many embarrassing explanations about the "dates just not working out" later, we are back to where we started: no baseball. But wouldn't Holden have made a handsome baseball player? I think baseball players are the most handsome of all sports-dudes. Holden would have totally fit in. But I digress.

Ruby has learned passive resistance and is using it with much success at the store now. If she wants something--Nemo hand sanitizer, a second pillow pet, a second Toy Story "slanket"--and I say no, she just lies down in the middle of the aisle. No screaming, grabbing, kicking, etc. Just lying there in everyone's way with a very forlorn look on her face. This behavior earned her some cheetos today. I like to be sure to teach my children that if they cry and whine hard and long enough--or, in this case, lie on the floor of Wal-mart long enough--they will always get their way, even if it means ripping up a $50 baseball registration check.

Speaking of which, I bribed Holden with a lot of money to take piano lessons. This has been quite successful but I bet a lot of "good" moms would frown upon bribery.

Today, as we were rushing out the door and while I was frantically trying to print out my Downeast Outfitters coupon, Ruby opened a container of applesauce and spilled it all over the floor and herself. In like the 20 seconds it took me to print my coupon! I came upstairs, yelling for girls to put shoes on, only to see a disgusting applesauce mess all over the floor. The point I am trying to make here is that I stamped my foot like a small child and yelled "NEVER DO THAT AGAIN!" which made Ruby cry.

I bought COLORED BUBBLES. "Oh, this looks like a little harmless fun," I said cheerfully at the store to Ruby (who was lying on the floor). The girls played with it for one minute and returned with indigo blue spots all over their hair, faces, mouths, clothes, and shoes. I put them in the tub and the water turned dark blue. Oh, it's washable. But at what a cost!

The Pinewood Derby was last week. Here's where I stand on the pinewood derby: I don't want to be involved. I think Holden should do it all, but I am also conflicted because all the dads take it as a serious competition between themselves. Mike and I really don't think it should be about the dads, so we let Holden do whatever he wants, which this year was to glue an empty sprite can to the top of a block of wood. Oh, we gave him suggestions and ideas, but he really wanted a sprite can car. So we went with it. At the weigh in, the dads were talking trash to each other while the boys ran around oblivious to the amount of graphite on their wheels and the number of ounces their cars weighed. "This is messed up," I thought smugly. Guess whose car came in last? Guess who won the award for "Most Refreshing"? And guess who wanted to throw his car away when the night was over? That's right. I guess I better bring my "A" game next year.

I've been sleeping in lately, and poor Holden has had to make his own breakfast and lunch. Once he just took pudding and a spoon for lunch. I gave him a good talk about making a sandwich for himself next time. Today he asked me to make him toast after school and said I make the best toast in the world. Aim high, buddy. Aim high.

More 3rd Grade Journal (Thanks for Indulging Me)

2011-03-16T10:36:00.000-07:00

I think my writing ability peaked between ages 8 and 9. Here are some quotes:

"I'ev been intrested in boys cince I was a little girl, that is when I was three or two or one! Because I'm still eight. "

"But one I used to love was "T," but he's mean now. We'ev practicly gone to school with each other and it's awful! I practicly hate it because he's so rude!"

"It's September again. I'm in third Grade and I seem every day abit depressed because poorness is what everyday is. "

This one is dedicated to all latch-key kids everywhere: "I tried to amagine Mom meeting me half way and milk and cookies for a snak, fresh milk and cookies. But it seems to always make me go soft."

"I feel sort of let down [about my 9th birthday] not like I don't apresyate my presents but I wish I had more family members."

"I have a hard time in school because I love G now and every day seems like a strugle to keep my mind on my work."

This one is for my mother: "I went to the mall and had a fit over something small why do I do this! Why can't I just controll myself."

"I'm learning to hate Miss H more and more. We have sort of a mutual agreement, we both don't like each other!"

This is for Kacy and Chris Clark: "Kacy has asked me to ask dates to Morp for her and her friends. I had to dress up in my dance outfit and sit on the boys lap! The night came, I was ready and on my way! I had buterflies in my stummek! First we went to Criss Clarks. I was shaking in my boots, I wasn't wearing boots, but I was shaking."

On attending my grandmother's funeral: "I knew that there was going to be a funeral, but I didn't think I should go. I had to. Seeing the rest of the family was weird. They weren't happy, but most of them hid that. We were going to the viewing. The air was cold and sent chills down my spine. The room had big chandeleirs and deep plush carpeting, two men were very nice and helped us to our seats. the white cascet was over on the other side. I couldn't look, I just couldn't. I sat down and my cosoun came up to me, there was nothing wrong with her! She was jolly and cheery and glad, it seemed so. I sat there for a moment and started crying, I couldn't help it! No one else seemed as upset as I did and I thought the night would never end."

Okay, okay, I will stop. I could go on. I guess I am a little bit obsessed with my 9 year-old self. That is a nice break from being obsessed with my 32-year-old self. What a sad, strange little person I was. But look at those details! Why can't I write like this anymore? Maybe I'm too happy? Maybe the best writing happens when "poorness is what every day is." ?? Maybe I have lost the ability to "go soft"? Maybe I have learned that it's possible for other people to be as upset as me? Whatever has happened, I am nowhere near as unself-conscious a writer as I was back then. I miss myself dearly.

"I Went Home and Died!" An Excerpt From my Third Grade Journal

2011-03-14T09:37:00.001-07:00

The following is a journal entry from 3rd grade. All spelling and grammatical errors and possible racist remarks have been left in for effect (remember, I was 9):

Well, it started out a normal day. I went to school, went to reading, went to writing, did PE, went to lunch, and went out for recess. I was playing "pop" and my side stated to hurt evry move. I had an accedent on a tree, see. I was climbing the rope, or hanging onto it just at the right time it broke, evry thing went blank, then I noticed I landed on a log on my side. [Back to the swing situation] I got off the swing and didn't see where I was going and.....BANG i hit Debbie, a girl I hate!! She didnt even care! I fell angry. cried a little and looked up, all theese feet and people looking over me, then someone picked meup, a hawaiian to be accact, and took me to the office. there I was, in a completely clean room, wich by they way smelled awful! so many people were hurt! Stetson was lying on the couch, people were coming in-and-out of there! getting bandadgis, ice, and many more! Here's the Ice Bag [empty ziplock bag still taped in journal.]

I went home and died!!!

This describes the day that my nemesis, Debbie T. kicked me in the head while she was swinging. Now that I am a grown up, I easily forget the drama that takes place in elementary school. I militantly pound the idea of being kind to everyone into Holden's little psyche every day. Then he goes to school and one of the adult recess duties calls him an idiot! I look through my journal from when I was Holden's same age, and read about all the people I hate (and even more boys that I love). The point is, there's a lot more going on in third grade than we think.

Tune in for my next third grade journal installment wherein I will reveal that my sister Heidi calls me fat and says I have bad teeth and my sister Kacy is pushy and bossy, but nice....most of the time.

This is Your Life

2011-02-27T19:02:00.000-08:00

The following chain of events has occurred in the past 2 hours:

We shove dinner down our gullets as quickly as possible in order to make it to a "Couples' Fireside" at church.

We send the kids down the church hallway in the direction of the nursery, assuming they will find the way.

After the fireside, Mike has to rush to a meeting for scouts, so he gets a ride with a friend and I lug the kids to the car, during which time Hazel points out that the nursery "smells like women's feet." Her keen awareness of woman foot smell is, to me, a loss of innocence. Pretty soon she'll be having to put deodorant on the bottoms of her feet before she puts on her sandals, too.

We get in the car, only to realize that I don't have the car keys. It's snowing. It's freezing.

We really have no choice but to walk home from church. It's only a few blocks, but entirely uphill and there is a thick sheet of ice covering most of the sidewalk.

I hobble along as best as I can in my maxi dress and 3 inch suede wedges, holding a 30 pound two-year-old in one arm, my purse in the other.

Holden has to actually hold my hand and prop me up so I don't fall down on the ice. "This is what you'll have to do for me all the time when I get old," I tell him. He responds "I'm only 9 years old, and already I am escorting my mother home." I take his arm and Hazel holds my other hand, Ruby meanders in and out of snow drifts behind us.

Hazel runs ahead to scope out the ice situation. One hoot for ice, two hoots for no ice. Holden sticks his face into the fresh snow and takes big, indulgent bites. A small dog barks and barks at us. Ruby yells "get back!" I encourage Holden not to eat snow near the dog's yard. We find a single black sock on the sidewalk.

Hazel informs me that she has to use the bathroom really bad. A truck waits for us at a stop sign; I scoop Ruby into my arms and walk as fast as I can across the road while she kicks and flails and screams into my ear. My only thought is "please don't get my dress dirty."

We arrive home just in time for Hazel to wet her pants. It has gone all the way down her footed fleece polar bear pajamas and into her fur-lined ugg boots. Anyone know how to get urine out of fur-lined ugg boots?

"Do you know what it feels like to have an accident, Mom?" Hazel asks. I remember the last time I had an accident quite clearly: it was yesterday when I coughed really hard while I was shoveling snow off our deck. I tell her, "I have an accident every time I sneeze." She thinks this is the most hilarious thing she has ever heard. At least she is still innocent in that regard.

We get her into the tub for the second time today, and Ruby immediately wants to take part in the bath. Both girls scream and laugh in the tub while I clean up the dinner dishes left on the table, my toes burning as they defrost from our icy walk.

In an astonishing break from the norm, Holden asks "what can I do to help?" My mind is blank. This is my one moment of unsolicited help from him and all I can ask him to do is get his pajamas on.

He returns in 30 seconds, wearing only his underwear.

Hoping to get more mileage out of the opportunity, I ask him to help the girls out of the tub. Holden enters the bathroom, and moments later I hear him yell "Awww, man! Now my underwear are all wet!" I take note of the cute use of the plural to describe his underwear.

He changes into his blue, grey, and black striped undies and I have to lay down the law with Hazel about not splashing water on people's underwear.

There is another incident with an electric toothbrush and Holden's underwear, which leaves Hazel with this ultimatum: either stop touching underwear, or no movies for a week!

Ruby says "I wanna wock, okay?" in a commanding voice. I take her to the chair and rock her, but as soon as we get a good rhythm going, she says "I want Holdie, okay?" and gets down to play in the nylon Playhut tunnel with Holden.

We pray. We tuck in. Holden asks Ruby over and over "will you be warm enough?"

Ruby requests the following: fruit snacks, cheese, crackers, juice, and cookies. Since when did bed time become snack time and since when did I become something like a stewardess in the eyes of my children? I guess part of my job is to make their flight in life as comfortable as possible. Hazel just requests "anything" as she is unused to the level of spoiling I do with Ruby (e.g. you want a little creme brulee in order to stay in your bed? No problem! Whatever it takes.)

Finally, the girls are asleep and Holden is lying in his bed downstairs, waiting for me to tuck him in. When Mike returns, I'll ask him to walk back to the church to pick up the Jeep and don't go thinking I won't milk this night for all it's worth. I won't be taking any high roads, here!

In the morning I will wake up much earlier than I really want to, stumble into the kitchen, and begin taking drink orders.

Unsolicited Advice from a 10 Year Marriage Veteran

2011-02-17T09:57:00.000-08:00

Ten years ago right now I was marrying Michael. Actually, I may have been hyperventilating in the car speeding to the temple because I was late due to a major hair mishap, but that's not really relevant here. All you need to know is we got married. The photographer, a really good family friend, teased Mike about his 5 o'clock shadow at 11:00 am; we weren't organized with our photos because nobody took charge; we had our reception in the gym of our church(along with all the basketball hoops and foul lines) and nobody could dim the lights, and the tablecloths were too short for the tables, and I served ice cream sundaes in February (?!), and the line was boring, exhausting, and long, and Mike's feet were blistered and bleeding, and we almost completely forgot to cut the cake and do the whole "toss the bouquet/garter thing" and when we did I was in a bad mood because of exhaustion and it showed on my face in the pictures, and then when it was time for us to leave the reception (2 hours later than planned), I hugged my sister and burst into tears because I knew I would be moving to China for a year and this was goodbye. My hair, however, remained perfect the entire day.

Were I to plan my wedding again, I would get married at 3 or 4 pm, have a nice dinner, and maybe an open house at home. I would write down exactly what I wanted out of each photo, and I would probably not serve ice cream in winter. Hair would be less of a priority. But alas, I didn't know my own taste back when I was 22. Now all I can do is hope to take complete control over my daughters' weddings, and force them to fulfill my unfulfilled dreams. (My poor mother did her best to guide me while giving me creative control, bless her heart.)

I am glad, however, that I chose to marry Mike, who is totally awesome. And I think it's a good sign that things have only gone uphill since our less-then-perfect wedding day. What if that had been the high point of our lives? I mean, a wedding is just one day, but a marriage is your whole life and then some, so it really isn't too important if you have a basketball hoop hanging over your head in your wedding pictures as long as you marry the right person. How's that for a golden nugget of advice? See? I am so seasoned! Here are some more nuggets that I have to share, roughly in the order that I learned them:

1. Bring a change of clothes and shoes on your honeymoon. You don't want to have to wear a dress and high heels the next day. It's also a good idea to bring a toothbrush and toothpaste, deoderant, and other sundries of personal grooming. Sometimes your mind is on other things!

2. Make sure to move away with your new spouse immediately, preferably to a foreign country. This may seem like a hardship, but it will teach you to really turn to each other. Moving into an apartment in the same town you grew up in may encourage you to continue relying on your mom or family members when you need something. You need to create a sense of family with your spouse in those formative months.

3. If you get called to be nursery leaders right away, try to get out of it.

4. If your husband works a twelve hour night shift and doesn't do well on inadequate sleep and has a penchant for sleep walking/talking, try to make him switch to the day shift.

5. Never sneak up on your spouse while they are in the shower and throw a small dog in there with them. It scares them and they won't let you forget it.

6. Plan on not having a baby for 2+ years, but then accidentally have one within the first year of your marriage. There's no better way to get to know each other than during an emotionally draining pregnancy and a horrifying labor/delivery!

7. This will seem like parenting advice, but actually it is marriage advice: sleep train your baby. Never think that he or she will magically start sleeping through the night at 6 months. Use a book (I recommend Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child). If you do this, you won't be resentful towards your spouse when you are the only one getting up with the baby at night. Also, give a bottle to your newborn asap so your husband can feed the baby sometimes when you can't be there to nurse. This will greatly increase peace, harmony, and equality in your marriage, and one bottle now and then isn't going to kill your baby (take that, La Leche League!)

8. Don't try to get your spouse to quit school and become a mailman. Sometimes it's tempting because mailmen have good benefits and a steady income. But graduate school pays off in the end. And education is something you take with you forever. The mail, well, it just gets shredded and thrown away.

9. Don't get everything you want the minute you want it. Work towards something, save for it. Make goals and try to reach them. You will hate struggling in the moment, but you will look back at it with tremendous fondness and it will make you a better person and make your marriage better.

10. Try to live in a foreign country again once you have two kids. It will suck and be hard, but it will bring you all closer and give you collective memories ( as in "Remember the stinky tofu!?" "OH MAN! That stuff was sick." "How about that chicken and rice plate!?" etc.)

10. Go on dates often, but please don't refer to every Friday as "date night." That is SO college.

11. Don't use your blog to validate your happy marriage. There's just something fishy about it. Some things should be kept private.

12. Make it a rule not to "friend" ex boyfriends/girlfriends on Facebook. Again, this is just fishy.

13. Cook authentic Italian food with really good ingredients. Because even dinner should be a work of art.

14. Never compare your marriage with anybody else's. What worked for Paul and Linda McCartney may not work for you.

15. Make fun of people together.

Don't you think I should write a book? I wonder what nuggets I'll have in another ten years? Stay tuned to find out. Happy anniversay, Mike!

Seriously?

2011-02-10T14:47:00.000-08:00

Are all these bloggers serious about this Valentine's Day malarkey? Decorations in their houses, special desserts and elaborate dinners, coconut scented oils and balms, intricate hand made cards, over-use of the word "sweetheart," nudges and winks and smiley faces . . . I mean, really? Is this for real, or another stunt to maintain that charmed life image that seems to prevail in the blogosphere these days?

Can I be honest for a moment? If I read the words "I married my best friend"on a blog just one more time, I might have to gag myself with my vintage heart-shaped cupcake pick.

Please don't think this blog comes from a place of bitterness about Valentines Day. I am not the biggest fan of the holiday, but it's not like I hate it or am anti or anything. This blog comes from a place of exhaustion. I am exhausted just reading all these blogs*. It makes me wonder, can't anybody just "be" anymore? Can't we go buy some Spongebob cards for our kids' class and go out to dinner on Valentine's Day? Why does it have to be a big production, each year getting more and more charming, each year's idea having to be more clever and unique than last year's, and each photo on the blog painstakingly staged to maximize adorableness?

What is all of this for? Because if it's for your "sweetheart" (just threw up in mouth), then why is it plastered all over a blog? Why not keep it a private affair, just between the two of you? It seems like this is for showing off. It seems like blogging in general is about showing off these days. It's not real anymore, just the The Real World isn't real anymore, either (see Chuck Klosterman). I guess that's fine and all. I guess these charmed life blogs are a legitimate genre. But I'm just saying that it exhausts me. Sometimes it inspires me, but mostly it exhausts me.

So, I just got through an intensely busy Christmas season, a rather depressing January, and now I am supposed to be making fancy cupcakes with expensive liners and creating custom stamps for my children's class cards? Honestly, just being forced to even think about these things beyond the usual night-before emergency run to Walgreens is extremely off-putting to me. It's right up there with being told I am supposed to be teaching my three-year-old to read. Really? Okay. I'll get right on that.

*Yes, I realize that I can just not read them. And I promise, I am trying. But sometimes I can't look away. You know how it is.

And Now: A New Year's Resolution Update:

2011-01-20T12:39:00.000-08:00

Ummmmmmm, what were those again??? Oh yeah. Well, those didn't really pan out like I thought they would.

If You're Not Into The White Stripes You Probably Shouldn't Read This

2011-01-19T15:11:00.000-08:00

Have you seen this?

I'm BUSTING! I watched it last night with Mike while we folded laundry. Ah. Where do I begin?? Here are just a few thoughts right off the top of my head:

1. You know how Jack White came across as weird and eccentric and sort of like he had something to prove in "It Might Get Loud"? Well, he doesn't seem as weird in this movie. I have a feeling that he is weird, but more normal in real life than "It Might Get Loud" editors gave him credit for. So if you watched that and thought "Whoa, Jack White=eccentric out to prove himself, blech!" You might want to consider giving him another shot.

2.You know how in "It Might Get Loud" they only showed one small clip of Jack White performing and it happened to be a moment when he screeched into some sort of voice distortion mic and it sounded really weird? And you may have thought "what's all the fuss about? He's just a weirdo with black hair and pasty skin who screeches into voice distortion microphones." Well, that was a very bad representation of Jack White in concert--he screeches, yes. But he plays a mean guitar, my friend, and he is gracious and humble. Please see it.

3. And you know how in "It Might Get Loud" Jack said that he likes to make things harder for himself, play an old out of tune guitar, move the piano just out of reach? That really bothered me because my general rule of thumb is that life is hard enough, so why go out of your way to make it harder for yourself when you don't have to (I'm talking to you, "natural birth" fanatics!) But in this new documentary, Jack talks a lot more about why he does that, and the reason is to encourage his creativity and to keep things fresh and real. They never have a set list. They just play whatever they feel like when they perform so that something exciting happens. While Jack was explaining all this, Mike told me that he does the same thing as a teacher. He forces himself to improvise in order to keep things interesting for himself and his students. Now I get it! Now I can respect it. And you should, too. (Sorry, "natural birth" fanatics. I guess all this time you were just keepin' it real.)

4. Something happens at the end of the movie. Just so you know, it made me cry. Not fanatical, hysterical crying because of how much I love the White Stripes. This wasn't the kind of crying that happens at an emotionally overwrought U2 concert. Instead, it was deeply moving. I don't really want to give it away because you should just watch it. But it was a little embarrassing to cry that much over a movie in front of Mike.

5. Jack and Meg are divorced. They say they are brother and sister, but it's not true. He took her last name when they got married. Isn't that chivalrous and forward-thinking? I love that idea. So, anyway, I guess they got a divorce right as they starting making it big as the White Stripes. They have been making records and playing live for 10 years. I always think a lot about this. It's sad. I wish they still loved each other, but maybe they love each other in a different way now. They have both remarried and are probably happy, but I still want them to get married to each other again. I can't help it. This is probably why they didn't want anyone to know they are divorced: so people like me wouldn't obsessively watch for any tender moment between them.

6. Meg is so quiet that they have to use subtitles for her. I find this sort of rude, and I feel bad for Meg. She seems like a very tender person (see the ending!). I am sort of a quiet person (believe it or not), and it gets really annoying having to repeat yourself for loud people.

7. Near the end of the movie they play their tenth anniversary concert. This made me think a lot about how Mike and I are celebrating our tenth anniversary next month. We are sort of like Jack and Meg. Not that we are a divorced couple posing as brother and sister and playing insanely great music. But just that we are two people trying to make something great out of what we've got. Mostly it's hard work, but sometimes it's really fantastic, which makes it worth all that effort, just like Jack White says (so, from now on, I'll be putting my proverbial piano just out of reach to make things more interesting). That was the cheesiest thing I have ever written on this blog!!! Tenth anniversaries will do that to even the most sardonic of people.

Thanks for indulging me. See the movie. Cry at the end.

On Snow and Cold

2011-01-13T10:39:00.001-08:00

You know what I hate? When people who live in Rexburg act put upon and shocked by snow. Hello? It's REXBURG. What do you expect? These days, when I ask someone how they are doing, I just brace myself for a loooong complaint session about the weather:
"Well, I WOULD be all right, if there weren't aNOTHER layer of snow on my driveway."
"I THINK I am okay, except for the snow and cold."
"It's nasty outside."
"Just barely holding on till Spring."

Etc., etc., etc. I have learned to just go along with it. I nod my head in concern, utter some "mmhmm"s and try to change the subject. I never tell them the truth, that I LOVE snow. That what they consider "nasty" I consider a winter wonderland. That snow=more water for farmers=more potatoes come fall=bags of free potatoes given out at church=mounds of velvety mashed potatoes. Next time someone complains about snow, they should consider the direct connection between snow and mashed potatoes and keep their mouths shut (if they can keep their mouths from watering at the thought of mashed potatoes, that is, mwaha).

It's really weird, you know, because, what do they expect? It's Idaho! It's Rexburg! Allow me to let you in on a little secret: it snows in Rexburg. A lot. And the other thing? It's super cold here. But you know what I love about cold? Layers! Get yourself a balaclava, a pair of insulated Carhartt coveralls, and a sturdy pair of Sorrels. Learn to knit hats and scarves on a loom and completely outfit yourself. Then maybe you will be ready for the cold, and don't be surprised when it comes. Because it will.

I can understand a little shock and awe from a person in Florida who is suddenly grappling with sub zero weather and 3 feet of snow outside. That is justified, because you don't expect that from Florida. But dudes, get a clue! You live in a cold place. Stop fighting it and get yourself a big, beefy SUV with four wheel drive and studded snow tires. Will it cost $100 to fill it up? Yes. But will it keep you safe on the frozen, icy roads? Yes. And then maybe you won't have to be sad about going places in the snow.

You could also stay inside. Last year at this time I had a broken foot and was obsessed with Battlestar Galactica. I stayed inside watching my show for over a month. And you know what? I loved it. Because every time the heater kicked in to combat the single-digit temps outside, it sounded a little like the whooshing sound of the radar aboard the Galactica and when I heard it, I smiled to myself, thinking about Lee Adama and Cylons and the final five, et al. You could do that, too. You could be creative and make the best of the snow and cold. Because it ain't going away. No matter how much you call it nasty and hate it.

Poor snow. All these complainers remind me of deadbeat dads. They like their kids during Christmastime and when they are a novelty, but the minute that excitement wears off, it's back to your mother's house. How can we pray for snow, dream of a white Christmas, race outside to revel in the first snowstorm of the year, and then turn our backs as soon as Christmas is over? Winter lasts a lot longer than the month of December around here, people. Let's have some compassion and take responsibility for our seasons.

So next time I hear someone start ranting about the injustice of snow in January, I am just going to tell them to hold that thought till March, when things really start to suck around here.

Happy Birthday, Holden!

2011-01-01T16:32:00.001-08:00

Happy birthday, Holden. You are nine, and very handsome.

Saying No in 2011

2010-12-31T13:19:00.000-08:00

Here are my resolutions for 2011:

1. Eliminate unnecessary activities/stresses in my life.

2. Do not participate in too many babysitting trades (worth it for the adorable, mild mannered 2 year old named Rocky; not worth it for three kids who always cry, get stung by bees, and fall down the stairs on my watch. Who needs that kind of hassle?)

3. Create an atmosphere of peace and calm in my home by never taking on extra responsibilities that will make me mad, stressed out, or have to do a craft.

4. Do the minimum requirements (cooking, cleaning, nurturing) really, really well by not doing anything extra.

5. Allow the gospel and my religious beliefs to be enough for my completion and happiness (because they really ARE), rather than seeking for completion and happiness in other sources that will inevitably let me down (number of blog comments).

6. Eat fruit and veg at every meal.

7. Do not keep soda in the house.

I think you may have noticed my theme for 2011: doing less and saying no. It's not that I am a super multi-tasking dynamo or anything, but I saw this National Geographic special on stress and it changed my life. I don't need my chromosomes unraveling. Happy New Year! Here's hoping we all do a lot less next year.

Yeah, Yeah His Name is Leo/Give Her Some Chocolate Milk

2010-12-21T13:33:00.000-08:00

Holden has been a rather prolific singer/songwriter these past few weeks. He's always coming up with a little ditty. The only thing that never changes is his signature delivery. (Sorry for the poor quality. Our camera is on the fritz).

Dear Deseret Industries,

2010-12-14T14:02:00.001-08:00

Please tell the man who accepts donations at your drive through that he doesn't need to turn a simple donation of toys (albeit 4-5 bags full) into a social commentary about excess, hedonism, and greed. No need to say "I can't BELIEVE the amount of toys parents are buying for their kids these days!" or "What I don't understand is, where are people getting the money to buy all this junk?" and "Would you believe that in twenty years as a father I never once brought home a toy for my children?" Comments like these do nothing to inspire more donations (which may be coming soon, since only one room of the house has been cleared of excess toys at this point). Comments like these do not make parents like me feel any worse for being excessive/indulgent/materialistic/bad because parents like me CAN'T FEEL WORSE. We KNOW. Okay? That's why we are turning over a new leaf and bringing in 4-5 bags of toys (some of which were originally purchased at DI). That's why we have a five year old girl in hysterics over a pink and purple carriage that was never played with but that has suddenly become a necessity of life. That's why we have come to you. So please, don't twist the knife.

Also, please limit the number of over-sized wooden beaded bracelets worn by men at your store to ONE.
Yours in excess,
Carly

Technology and Me: The Ebay Edition

2010-12-02T09:26:00.000-08:00

So, recently I discovered ebay. Did you know that it's totally awesome? I haven't sold anything, so I can't really speak for that, but buying stuff on ebay rocks my world. If you haven't heard of it, just go to www.ebay.com and do a search for pottery barn quilts, vintage Christmas ornaments, mid century typewriters, or whatever it is you're interested in. You won't be sorry. And when you do end up purchasing something--especially if you actually WIN an AUCTION (which rarely happens to me)--then you get the pleasure of occasionally interacting with people from all over the country.

For example, I bought something on ebay and unfortunately there was a little shipping glitch, i.e., my order got sent to someone else and their order got sent to me. Well, the seller was extremely decent about it, calling me immediately to report the problem. We were chatting on the phone for quite some time. I learned that he lives in Arkansas. I learned that he'd recently experienced a winter storm, that he was in the process of cleaning out his gutters, and that he may also have been drinking too much or have suffered a stroke. It was hard to tell from his voice, which was very slurred and slow. Normally I wouldn't bring up such a tacky detail, but you have to know how he sounded for effect. Listen, I'll probably have a stroke some time, so I am not judging in any way, okay?

Anywho, so we're chatting and all of a sudden, he says "I am a cat . . . owner. And these d#$% Canadian geese have figured out the . . . cat . . . door!"
"Oh," I say, chuckling, "that's funny."
"No, it is NOT funny," says he. "I . . . mean it's sort of . . . funny. But it's also--oh, d#$%! OH--!"

He dropped the phone and, I couldn't believe my ears, but in the background I heard a goose honking. Honking. And in addition to all the honking, there was a general sound of chaos: pots and pans banging, slurred cursing, etc. I sat there with the phone to my ear listening and laughing for a while, until I finally shouted into the phone "well, I guess I'd better let you go so you can take care of all that. Um, bye."

Two minutes later, he called me back. "I a. . . pologize for . . . that. These Canadian geese are just so . . . ." The phone dropped again, and again there was the honking, swearing, banging and chaos in the background.

Does it get more interesting and funny than that? Would a transaction at Walmart generate that same result? No way. And that is why I love ebay.

Tune in next time for when I talk about another recent and awesome discovery: Facebook. Did you know Facebook let's you complain about all your problems and then you get nice comments like "I'm sorry your toes hurt and you can't find a babysitter." ? Isn't that wicked?

Hello, My Dears!

2010-11-11T19:45:00.000-08:00

As you are all aware, I lead a charmed and sophisticated life. Sometimes I am just bursting with so much adorable charm and sophistication that I think I might explode. One day I said to myself, "why, Carly, you should be SHARING all this charm and sophistication with the world!" So that is what I have done in this blog post. Here are just a few adorably charming and sophisticated things I have been into recently. Please enjoy:

Snyders of Hanover milk chocolate pretzel dips: they take a humble whole grain pretzel and cover it in none other than Hersheys chocolate. The result is very sophisticated. Note: this is a seasonal item, so stock up while you can.

Scrubbing Bubbles: Oh my gosh! These are taking the stains and rings off my bath tub without any scrubbing on my part at all. I spray after every bath now. The result is a charming white foam that disappears a little while later and reveals a new absence of dirt and grime.

Original Ricola Cough Drops: Make sure to get the brownish square original flavored ones. They leave a nice herby film all over your mouth and will burn your tongue and throat if you leave them in there all night. In the morning, you will feel this dull sensation where you used to have taste buds. No taste buds=fewer cravings=less eating=losing weight. Charming, indeed!

Ped Liner: Ever feel ashamed to take off your shoes because you are wearing ballet flats with no socks and your shoes and feet really, really, stink? Well, these sophisticated and attractive ped liners--formerly known in my mind as "non-socks"--will keep that stinky feet smell at bay while allowing you to wear the latest fashionable footwear. How cool is that?

Chocodiles: The lesser known of the Hostess snacks, the chocodile is not sold at any old convenience store you see. You have to do some serious searching, but it's worth it. Look around: you won't find a snack cake composed of yellow sponge, luscious white cream, and thin chocolate glaze anywhere else but in the chocodile. I may just order two boxes (assuming my sense of taste returns).

That's all for now, darlings. I'm sure there will be more charming and sophisticated things soon. Until then,
XOXOxxxxxxooo
Carly

November Fools!

2010-11-01T09:48:00.000-07:00

Here's a good joke to play on your family for November Fools Day: tell everyone it is daylight savings when they wake up in the morning. Encourage them all to go back to sleep for one hour. Set the clocks back, too. Then send your husband and children off to work and school an hour late! When they arrive, they will be embarrassed, confused, and will have missed out on important stuff. Ha ha! That's the last time they trust their wife/mother on November Fools day!

Happy Birthday, Hazel!

2010-10-22T09:11:00.000-07:00

Today you are five. You are kind, funny, helpful, and very empathetic, not to mention . . . a ham. Love you, doll face!

Some Truths I'm Trying to Come to Grips With

2010-10-18T19:49:00.000-07:00

1. Some people are just mean. They don't care if it's wrong to be mean. They don't care if they reduce you to tears in the church parking lot. They don't care if they look like a demon when they squint their eyes and shake their heads at you.

2. Apparently my beloved home town of Provo is now a fantasy land full of felt flowers, freebies, and frosted cupcakes. This Provo doesn't extend farther west than BYU, and is being taken over by a small group of people who paint a picture of life that suggests everyone has their own personal professional photographer/filmmaker. Sigh. I know this is a controversial thing to say, but I don't know what's happened to the old sleepy town I grew up in. Where are my humble orchards and peculiar, salt-of-the-earth people? Where is my auto shop/Mormon art store, not to mention Norton's, D&B Woods, GRANDVIEW ELEMENTARY, and all that they embody? I know everyone means well, but what has happened to normal Provo? I guess elite Provo is replacing it.

3. Kids make horrifying messes and break things, no matter what you do, or how hard you try to prevent/avoid it.

4. Whatever happens, there will be urine to clean up.

5. I can't dance.

6. I am going to have to toughen up and crack down on people that I hate, including some children and some of the elderly.

It's been a rough couple of weeks.

I Painted (and other home pursuits)

2010-09-20T09:25:00.000-07:00

Never Take Me Anywhere

2010-09-04T13:03:00.000-07:00

The following is what happens when I try to throw off my natural tendencies to be a grumpy stick-in-the-mud and actually go somewhere and do something fun:

1. I jump into Rigby Lake with my clothes on.
2. My face looks like a melted scoop of neapolitan ice cream after being submerged in the icy lake water in full makeup.
3. I get stranded in my canoe in the middle of the lake and have to be rescued by my friends.
4. I irritate my husband because I take too long to get back to the shore and he is already late for an appointment.
5. I say "of course I know where the car title is!" huffily, only to come home and find it necessary to tear the house apart searching for it, while wearing my soaking wet clothes from the lake.
6. I lock our car and house keys inside the house.
7. Finally able to change into something dry, I head straight to bed to warm up for a while, keeping close tabs on Ruby playing in the tub.
8. I discover Ruby has pooped in the tub.
9. Ruby refuses to put her diaper back on, and I throw up my hands in exasperation, returning to bed to calm down.
10. Ruby goes #1 on the kitchen floor.

And it's only 2:00. I think I shouldn't ever try to be fun again. Hopefully the friends who had to rescue me in the middle of the lake will interpret my antics as "party animalism" and not as "complete ineptitude," which is what they really were.

Don't Judge Me

2010-07-01T12:22:00.000-07:00

Would you ever buy something from a door-to-door salesman? Probably not, because you are way more savvy and able to say no than I am. But what if that product came from a place called "Yummy Meats"? What if you needed to buy some chicken but didn't want to go to the store? What if the salesman kept going "shooh, it's HOT out there!" and you sort of felt sorry for him? And what if that chicken was free-range and raised by Mennonites and you had recently watched the movie "Food, Inc." and you were really upset by it? Would that change your mind? Actually, don't answer.

Ruby turned two last week and I can't believe this, but, I didn't have a catered, lady-bug-themed party for her at a hotel. I didn't even bake. I just bought an ice cream cake and a bag of rubber duckies. Does that make me a bad mom? And then yesterday after she cried and screamed at me all day (molars and canines are coming in), I finally yelled "fine, have a stupid popsicle!" I felt really bad afterward, and said I was sorry, but does this make me a bad mother also? Maybe don't answer that one, either.

I'm really sick of blogging. Is it bad to quit altogether? Is it okay to just give in and do a scrapbook/family type blog? Do I need to start posting tutorials? That seems to be the most popular way to blog these days. I'm not sure that I do anything EVER that anyone would EVER want to copy (see above). Wait! Here's a really helpful tutorial:

If you have hard water and it leaves lots of spots on your glassware, put a generous amount of vinegar in your dishwasher along with a good quality dish soap every time you do a load.

Isn't that an awesome tidbit? It's like having a new dishwasher! Maybe I SHOULD keep blogging. Just to be sure I fit in with other blogs that have lots of pictures on them:

What I Love (not an exhaustive list)

2010-05-15T14:19:00.000-07:00

I love Cesar Milan.
I love rock stars who happen to also be Mormon (or deeply religious--except for Creed).
I love chocolate but not like those cliche people who wear t shirts about it. My love for chocolate is much deeper than that.
I love summer in Rexburg (when it finally comes around).
I love a man who can be an academic and also be humble and hard-working, and who also knows how to weld, but can also sew, and (if called upon) could twirl a baton.
I love Lost even though sometimes I wish I could just see them all stop running through the jungle, sit down, and eat a sandwich once in awhile.
I love Battlestar Galactica, particularly Admiral Adama, but also Lee, Helo, Sharon, Starbuck, Caprica Six....I love, love, love.
I love awesome shows that transcend genre so you don't have to feel like a sci-fi nerd when you watch them.
I love cute short haircuts (and want one).
I love Coach Taylor, but I admire Tammy Taylor even more.
I love robots that start out hating human beings, but then have a change of heart and start to love human beings.
I love a little boy who helped me cut and haul sod for three hours, and who sometimes likes to breathe tuna fish breath on me just to creep me out.
I love skinny jeans. I never thought I would say it, but I'm a convert.
I love the people in my ward, who are fascinating, kind, hilarious, humble, and good.
I love cooking on a gas stove.
I love giant baking sheets.
I love pizza and gelato in Italy (and elsewhere).
I love a little girl who says "it's really occupied in here" when she gets into bed with us at 6:00 am.
I love another little girl who says "oh, saw-ee" whenever she bumps into me.
I love my chickens, especially Babs, who has gone broody. Poor Babs.
I love mail.
I love packages.
I love Christmas.
I love yellow, blue, green, and red. But also orange and teal, and especially black.
I love the curtains in my bathroom.
I love reading your blogs.
I love people who read my blog.
I love blog comments.
I love blogs that aren't always all about crafts and projects, or the cuteness of children.
I love delicious food.
I love it when people I admire accidentally swear (like with the "D" word, not an F bomb or something).
I love the idea of having a nice garden.
I love Mondays because it's pizza day at school, so I don't have to make a lunch for Holden.
I love post-church gossip with my husband.
I love having a well-behaved, trained dog.*
I love taking my dog on a daily walk.
I love things that look good but didn't cost a lot.
I love cute clothes and shopping.
I love old things.
I love short, sweet blogs full of lots of pictures and very few words.
Woops.

*Although even a well-behaved, trained dog will still roll in poo and bring it into your home. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Home Improvements (Or, Carly's OCD is flaring up again)

2010-05-01T11:27:00.000-07:00

My OCD has been flaring up and this time, it's causing me to do a lot of furniture rearranging/tweaking/reupholstering/purchasing/selling, etc. It has also influenced me to paint my bathroom. Above you'll see the antique books I just got. The one with the girls singing is called "Arts and Music" and the one with the sheep is called "Science and Industry." They are from 1939 and they are supposed to instruct children about art, music, science, and industry. It seems clear that girls are intended for art and music, while sheep are intended for science and industry--sexism!
Here's where I put the yellow antique cupboard that used to be our overflow pantry. Now it is our telephone/message station. What do you do to hide ugly modems and phones and wires? besides spend ridiculous amounts of money for attractive phones from Pottery Barn? Thoughts? Also, you will see one of the original paintings I bought from an artist in the Piazza Navona. It looks like Hazel, no?
The view of my mantle. I feel like everything looks makeshift and haphazard. I think I will always feel this way about the things I do. Question: would a fresh coat of golden yellow paint (Benjamin Moore's Golden Honey to be exact) look good on my walls? And if so, what accent color should I use on my fireplace wall? Dark blue? Gray? Green? Red? Orange? What what what?
We finally got an armoire to store our dishes so we can have more cupboard space for food in our kitchen (no pantry). I've been dreaming of this thing for one year.

I recovered this bench. It took ten minutes and wasn't hard at all but I thought I was the coolest person ever when it was finished because it seemed like such a big deal.
Our basement stairs were inspired by the internet and were painted by me but taped by Mike (he's the expert at precision measuring).
I stenciled numbers on the risers. Sorry about the glare. You can't see them very well, which is good because they are not very well done. Can you see two eyes at the top of our stairs? Those belong to our new dog, Leopold. He's awesome. I'll post about him soon, but right now I am too obsessed with my home decorating to do him justice. Suffice it to say, he came trained, he's a black lab, he never barks, and it's fun saying "Leo" the way Bill Cosby used to say "Theo" on the Cosby show. Try it: "LEO! You need to stop listening to the rap music and get into the jazzzzz"
We still need to do some touching up and trim.

Tune in next time for when I post pics of my bathroom and the totally retro lima bean couches I bought off craigslist for our basement. I bet you can't wait.

University Challenge - The Young Ones

2010-04-23T08:53:00.000-07:00

Once in Every Life Time Comes a Love Like This

2010-04-23T08:32:00.000-07:00

WARNING: if you are not familiar with the British TV show "The Young Ones" which gained a large cult following back in the 80s, you may not really understand this post. You should read it anyway, because my ego is fragile right now.

I've gone ahead and Netflixed every episode of "The Young Ones" ever made. I grew up watching "The Young Ones" on MTV and the show has left an indelible impression on me. I remember it being so hilarious. It's typical British humor--silly, slap-stickish, irrreverent, full of talking rodents--and now that I watch it as an adult it's not really quite as hilarious as I once thought. It's sort of like Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Junior high is the peak age of finding that the most hilarious and quotable movie on earth. I still like it, though, it's just not the same. But I digress.

What I've noticed as I've watched Neil, Rick, Vyvyan, and Mike yuk it up is that they are a chillingly accurate representation of each member of my family at his or her worst. Observe:

Rick:
Is just like Holden. Constantly lecturing someone about SOMETHING, in need of enormous amounts of attention, an activist for the sake of being an activist(don't get Holden started on the evils of land development), and completely full of himself. (Hey I said they reflect us on our worst days.)

Vyvyan:
Is just like Hazel: he loves violence and destruction (usually choosing Rick as his primary target), yells everything he says, has a special understanding with machinery, and spends his time bossing the others around.

Neil:
Is an amalgam of Michael and me: usually downtrodden and depressed, thanklessly serving everyone else, and complaining all the time. The words "heavy," "guys, you're really bringing me down," and "oh no!" are the most frequently used by Neil. Poor Neil. Poor us, too.

Mike:
Is like Ruby. He's the shortest, the cool guy, the one who stays above all the squabbles, and the one with the worst jokes.

You should watch "The Young Ones." At least don't miss the episode called "Bambi" where the guys go on University Challenge and compete against a young Emma Thompson. See clip....

What I Hate

2010-04-17T06:51:00.000-07:00

I hate the term "random" used for EVERYTHING. When someone describes something as "random" it seems like the lazy way to do it. The easy way out. Come up with a more clear and descriptive way to talk about events, people. Random is so nineties!

I hate those tin stars that people hang on the outside of their houses. In and of themselves, they are cute and charming. Here in Idaho, they are ubiquitous. They are EVERYWHERE. On EVERY house--even on apartment buildings. They look like an attempt to update outdated houses.

I hate it when I write something for the paper, it gets all blown out of proportion, and then I receive a lot of nasty emails full of really nasty, untrue, and ridiculous accusations.

I hate it when the newspaper editor has to write a formal apology for the things I write in the newspaper.

I hate the intolerance for different ideas that seems to be a part of Rexburg culture. I love Rexburg and always will, but this newspaper thing has left me a little jaded.

I hate snow in April.

I hate blogs that make me feel like a loser.

I hate maroon and it's more sophisticated cousin, burgundy.

I hate home decor that is pretending to be country and old fashioned but really isn't.

I hate plaques that say "and all because two people fell in love..."

I hate rabbits.

I hate lava rock used in home construction.

I hate making breakfast.

I hate "Friends." I know how controversial that will sound, but I really do. It used to be funny, but then Ross and Rachel got together and broke up etc. Boring. Contrived. Stupid. Let's have a baby and never ever ever be around her or show her at all!

I hate Oprah.

I hate misunderstandings caused by people's inability to decipher a sarcastic tone.

I hate the unnaturally high prices at Anthropologie and the way we all buy into it because it seems unique. Anthropologie is the new Pottery Barn.

I hate it when I ruin bed by lying in it to watch TV for hours before I go to sleep and then I can't sleep because I've been in bed too long.

I hate Frank Burns.

And I REALLY hate those people who are just negative and hateful all the time. Sheesh. Jerks!

Happiness is a Rump Roast and Ten Pounds of Pressure

2010-03-22T15:35:00.000-07:00

My grandfather was a cowboy. I still remember the sturdy brown shirt, slate blue levis, and perpetually dusty cowboy boots he wore every day, occasionally with a white cowboy hat. Because of his trade, we always had an abundance of beef in our freezer while I was growing up. I took them for granted, the mounds of roasts, steaks, and ground beef encased in clean white butcher paper sitting in our freezer. I thought that was perfectly normal. You can imagine the rude awakening that occurred when he retired and we started having to buy our beef from the store like normal people. The thing I missed most was that white butcher paper.

Sometimes the things that bring us comfort make no sense at all. And they are so specific that others don't understand them. Like me and my love of butcher paper-wrapped beef, particularly cooked in an old fashioned pressure cooker. To me, nothing tastes better than a roast cooked in a pressure cooker. My husband has no concept of this. He grew up with crock pots and feels that the jiggle of a pressure cooker indicates that an explosion is eminent. A roast in a crock pot is comfort to him, but to me, that periodic jiggle from a pressure gauge on an old fashioned pressure cooker says home. I love that periodic jiggle.

Recently I borrowed a pressure cooker and made my first roast. I called my mother for instructions. Then I called her later just to tell her it was jiggling. I called again when it stopped jiggling because I turned the temperature down too much. Then I called one more time to tell her that everything turned out great.

She probably doesn't understand the impact her pressure cooker had on me growing up. But the sound of that pressure cooker, combined with the sound of her sliding around the kitchen in her nylons, a white apron covering her Sunday clothes, and the occasional outburst of an Elvis song, is the ultimate in comfort for me. In my opinion, that is what a Sunday afternoon should be like.

I try to recreate that for my children, but I have a feeling that their comfort sounds, smells, and sights are far different from mine. Perhaps for them, comfort is the gentle click-clack of the computer keys as I type, ignoring their requests to play some insipid board game or get them a snack. Or maybe it's the sight of me sleeping in my bed while they wait for me to get up and make their breakfast. Perhaps the scent of diet coke and chocolate on my breath says "home" to them. A perfect Sunday for my kids? Mom refusing to get out of the car after church because she dreads the mess she will find at home, because when they left for church three hours earlier, they didn't have time to clean up. Perhaps there is some intangible comforting quality in that? I hope so. I sure do hope so....

Fairy Tale Ball

2010-03-19T13:56:00.001-07:00

Please indulge me in putting up a short video of Holden dancing with a girl for the first time at the annual second grade Fairy Tale Ball. Please also note that the kids were supposed to be in costume. Holden's costume was the woodcutter from Hansel and Gretel. In other words, he went as himself. Note the mud on the seat of his pants and the fuzzy hair. Also note the fact that he won't look at the camera.

A Beard and a Mustache

2010-03-08T08:46:00.000-08:00

Hazel has created an entire persona for her brain. According to Hazel, her brain is a woman, but the woman has a beard and a mustache. Occasionally, her side-show act of a brain is too intimidating to ask a question, as in "I wanted to use the bathroom, but I was too scared to ask my brain, so I just went on the desk chair instead." Sometimes, Hazel wants to be good, and tries so hard, but her brain prohibits her from controlling her urge to bite Holden's leg. And today I found out that drinking orange juice not only hurts Hazel's stomach, but it hurts her brain, as well. This disconnect between Hazel and her brain is disconcerting, to say the least, but would you want to be in continual contact with a bearded woman? I don't think so. It's little wonder that Hazel tries to avoid her brain as much as possible.

At Home With Carly

2010-03-02T09:25:00.001-08:00

I call this one "caught in the act." As you can clearly see, I am eating some sort of delicious dessert, and you can also see the effect of that dessert on my stomach. Hello!
Who needs a snuggie?
This is me from my kids' perspective.
This is my "I'm not amused" face.
Here I am in a frightening close up. What am I doing? Typing on the 'puter.

At Home With Hazel

2010-02-15T18:54:00.000-08:00

This is Hazel dancing to our holographic Elvis Christmas ornament that sings "Hunk of Burning Love." (What, y'all don't have one of those?) I think this sums up life with Hazel quite nicely. (Incidentally, when she saw this video of herself, she kept yelling "it's weird!" Sadly, this will probably only be the first time she watches a video of herself and cringes with embarrassment. Like mother like daughter).

At Home With Ruby

2010-02-01T12:51:00.001-08:00

Ruby used to be sweet and innocent. Now she has become the black angel of death, with a license to destroy all she sees. I hope you enjoy seeing her in her sweeter moments....

At Home With Michael

2010-01-22T13:08:00.000-08:00

Mike's pretty good to have around the house--except when he wants me to help him with his welding/roofing/car repair projects. It's like, dude, just hold the girls and let me watch some more TV! Sheesh.

At Home With Holden

2010-01-13T11:39:00.000-08:00

Welcome to the first installment of my five-part series. In this series, I will display a collection of photographs that hopefully capture the essence of daily life with each member of my family. It's a complex life I lead, and it's time you all understood what I'm up against here. So, without further ado, here is "At Home With Holden":

Need I say more?

Just When You Think It Can't Get Worse, You Break Your Foot

2010-01-08T08:40:00.000-08:00

Well, I hope everybody had a wonderful Christmas. I know I did, which only makes the month of January an even harder pill to swallow. Ah, how I long for it to be the week leading up to Christmas again! I admit that it's nice to get the kids back on a schedule, and to get the crispy brown tree out of our house, and to enjoy the nice presents we received. Yet, for all that niceness, Christmastime is nicer. I love to see Main Street twinkling, and the lights from houses shining from the hill. I love the music, and the shopping, and the wrapping, and the busy-ness of it all. Christmastime is an excuse for unnecessary indulgences. Things like tinsel and lights, and snow in a can. We can be silly at Christmas. Think about it: what's sillier than putting a dead tree in your house--undergoing all the physical exertion, and sometimes pain, that it takes just to get the dang thing strapped to the tops of our cars, cut the bottom off, drag it into the house, and wedge it in that cotton-picking tree stand-and then adorning that tree with lights and completely useless balls of glass and handmade ornaments? It's downright insane. But we all do it, and not only that, we love to do it! We'd be shocked if someone didn't do it. Christmas makes us act a little nutty. It's an excuse for absurdity, and I love absurdity. Now, though, when I see the lights still twinkling from a few people's houses, and trees still shining in their windows, I don't think it's a wonderful sight to behold, like I did two weeks ago. Instead, I just feel a little ashamed. Did I really get into that last month? Did I really spray fake snow all over my house and cram a strand of 100 lights into a glass vase simply because I thought it looked pretty? This isn't relevant anymore! It's so two weeks ago. And I have to admit that I feel almost embarrassed to see dried up garlands and trees standing naked right in people's front yards, waiting to be taken away for recycling. It's like we have used them, taken everything we could from them, then left them out in the cold. So the end of Christmas is a bit of a psychological blow for me. But luckily my children are more well-adjusted than I am. They take it all in stride, actually showing excitement about going back to school, and gently telling me that no, I cannot just keep the garland up on my mantle for one more month. They move on with life, while I yearn for something exciting to break up the monotony (where is my free pie day when I need it?) And please don't try to cheer me up with a reminder of the poor excuses for holidays that are coming up. Presidents' Day? Please! does Presidents' Day cause us to upend our lives so much that we are willing to bring something dead into our home and decorate it to look pretty? No. Valentines Day? Give me a break! Valentine's Day is nothing more than a sadistic set-up for disappointment. I could get into St. Patrick's Day (being as Irish as I am), but as I am neither living in Boston, nor a person who drinks alcohol, it's sort of anti-climactic as well. Easter is all right, but the Easter Bunny has NOTHING on Santa when it comes to magicalness and lore. I don't even think my kids know about the Easter Bunny. No, there won't be anything good again until Independence Day at the earliest. Halloween pretty much kicks off the awesomeness, in my opinion. So, what do we do until then? We make ridiculous resolutions about "being better" and "getting thinner." We try really hard in January, and then we forget about our resolutions for the rest of the year. I wish it weren't true, but it is. It's a sad cycle. All of this--the post Christmas let-down, the empty resolutions, the dead trees in the front yards--combines to make January really depressing. So, how do I stave off depression in January? I don't. Instead, I revel in it. I sit by the fire, drinking hot chocolate and feeling sorry for myself. When the urge to make goals strikes, I rearrange my Netflix queue. When I want a holiday, I do some internet shopping, or I search for the lowest airline tickets to far away places like India or Thailand. When I feel guilty about all the food I ate during the holidays, I eat an apple. When I look in the mirror and see the result of my euphoric overconsumption of calories (mainly from chocolate), I put on a scarf. They are very slimming, like a tie is for a man. I lie in bed. I eat thick stews. It's kind of like hibernating. And that is how I get through the bleak stillness of January. If anyone out there is feeling the same as I am, come on over. We can cry into our thick stews together. Have a merry January and a happy Presidents' Day.

The day this appeared in the newspaper I stepped on a toy and broke my foot. Thanks alot, Hazel. I had been stewing all day about how mad I am at my kids for their messiness, contemplating putting all their toys in a locked cabinet, and then I broke my foot. So, now I have January depression and a giant boot.

December Update (or, sorry I haven't blogged in a while, not that anyone cares or anything....or do you care? who knows?)

2010-01-04T10:16:00.000-08:00

I've been engaged in my usual philosophical battle: to blog or not to blog? Sometimes I think my style of blogging is out of touch, but then I think that I don't want to join the ranks of the blog braggers (you know, the people who seem to conduct their lives according to the dictates of what will make excellent photos for their blogs), which is such a fast-growing and huge movement that I feel very much left out in the cold. Maybe you think I already am a blog bragger? I sincerely hope not....

So, then I think, well, instead of being a blog bragger, I could just blog a record of my children and family, which is probably the selfless and proper thing to do. But since when have I ever been selfless and proper? Ummm--hello!--never. I figure that between the hours of 7:00 am and 7:00 pm the world necessarily revolves around my children. Why inflate their heads with a blog dedicated solely to them as well? All of these thoughts inevitably lead me back to where I started: why blog at all unless it is about what a fool I am? So, without further ado, The Stupid Things I Did In December:

1. Came home from church crying 2 out of 4 Sundays because my new calling as Relief Society secretary is inexplicably kicking my trash. (Sometimes ladies can be very cranky about their weekly R.S. bulletins).

2. In an act of total desperation (as a result of aforementioned calling), I asked a lady who I have never seen before to say the opening prayer in Relief Society. The kicker? She wasn't even in our ward, not that I knew the difference.

3. Attempted to dip homemade marshmallows in homemade fudge: the fudge wouldn't stick, I tell you!

4. Threw out the fudge (after eating most of it with my fingers), then gave our neighbors and friends plain homemade marshmallows with no hot chocolate mix, candy canes, or cinnamon sticks. "Merry Christmas. Here, enjoy this ziplock bag of plain amorphous marshmallows courtesy of the Pauls." Classy.

5. Sprayed fake snow on pine cones,and plastic wreaths, and windows, and the floor, and the counter.....

6. Painstakingly wrapped lights and a garland around our porch railing, only to forget to turn the lights on ever again.

7. Made chocolate peanut butter truffles and then ate all of them myself, making myself completely sick every day.

8. Bought Mike a sweater for Christmas. He hates sweaters for Christmas, but every year I succumb to the temptation to dress him like a professor.

9. Went snowmobiling with Mike and screamed and chuckled in a deep, mannish voice the whole time until I almost fell off the back.

10. Bought the makings for a huge Christmas dinner, and then didn't feel like cooking on Christmas day, so just served leftovers.

There. Comment all you like--comments about the amount of calories involved in my adventures are ESPECIALLY appreciated.

We Interrupt This Italy Homage to Bring You....

2009-11-22T14:32:00.000-08:00

THE FIRST TIME I EVER MADE GOOD GRAVY! The kitchen gods were smiling on me today, my friends. You cooks out there will probably scoff at my inability to ever make decent gravy, but I tell you it has been a very real and very serious problem for me for almost a decade. I just can't ever seem to get it right! Until today. Here are some factors that may or may not have helped:

butter
a fat/drippings separator
drippings from a roast cooked overnight in garlic and a packet of Italian dressing seasoning (too simple to be good, you might think, but you are wrong. It IS good, and even better because it is simple)
potato water
flour
a strainer
very low expectations
a two liter of Diet Coke (drunk by the cook, not put in the gravy...although....)
a midday meal instead of an evening meal (could I have been less tired? less fed-up with life in general at 2pm than at 6 pm?)
stake conference
a snowstorm
a new shirt from Forever 21
a broken nail
a bad night's sleep
a single light bulb not working in the lights above my stove

I don't know what it was, exactly. Maybe I'll never know. But something magical happened today, something I will never forget.

I Guess Italy is Okay

2009-11-21T14:44:00.001-08:00

Italy is Pretty Sweet

2009-11-19T14:59:00.001-08:00

Halloween Costume Retrospective

2009-10-16T13:58:00.000-07:00

Well, it’s that time of year again—my favorite time of year. Friends, it’s the season of Halloween. I love Halloween way more than Christmas, even though Christmas is pretty great, too. Halloween is fun because you get to decorate your house for a full month (and for once it is acceptable to have thick, visible cobwebs in your corners), and you get to dress up and eat candy, but you don’t have to spend tons of money on presents and stay up all night assembling various toys that will be loved and played with for two days and then forgotten about. You don’t have to plan a big meal, and then spend your holiday cooking and baking by yourself in the kitchen. Dollar-for-dollar, Halloween is definitely cheaper than Christmas, plus it has a minimum input/maximum reward thing going for it that other holidays just don’t come close to reaching. And, as my sister told her church leaders, Halloween doesn’t have to be about scary, horrifying things, you can really just focus on the devil instead (ha ha! What a jokester).
I wondered a lot about what I could possibly write that would do justice to my love of Halloween. I considered a lengthy treatise on the negative effect of trunk-or-treats and how they are ruining the fabric of our society (come on, unless you live in a drive-by-shooting type of neighborhood or a foreign country, trunk-or-treats are just another way for parents to micromanage their children to the point of suffocation! Have a church Halloween carnival, but don’t mess with the time-honored tradition of trick-or-treating all over the neighborhood, taking the necessary safety precautions, of course).
I also considered a serious reprimand for those parents who don’t actually let their children consume the candy they work so hard to earn. I’ve heard of candy rationing, candy donating, candy experimenting (this one is the worst, in my opinion), and complex systems of withholding candy so that it becomes a burden and a punishment not only for the kids, but for the parents as well. Dude, be a stickler for the rest of the year, but on Halloween, let it all hang out! Your kids will learn from stomachaches and empty candy bowls that they should slow it down (or maybe they won’t, but who cares? It’s once a year!).
But, really, the best part of Halloween is not the trick-or-treating or the candy, it’s the dressing up. So, I hope you won’t mind indulging me in a little costume retrospective, just to put us all in the mood:
The first costumes I remember were, of course, princess costumes. I was a princess two years in a row, and my mother made me two very pretty pale blue dresses with white dots on them, and took photos of me doing angelic poses (my eyes and hands raised to the sky) in our orange family room.
Unfortunately, I outgrew the princess thing pretty quickly and from then on focused on the less attractive, more gritty, aspects of Halloween costumes: spiders, pumpkins, ghosts (that was an uncreative year), witches, and Pee Wee Herman. My friend Robyn once went out as Fergie (as in Sarah Ferguson, Duchess of York). Clearly she was ahead of her time.
My elementary school years were an experiment in Halloween ugliness, and sadly, my high school years continued that trend. I guess I never got the memo that Halloween costumes for teenaged girls were supposed to make them look “hot,” and so I insisted on dressing like a crazy axe murderer with a pot belly, facial hair, a warty nose, and fake blood all over my flannel shirt and torn jeans. I went to the high school Halloween dances dressed in scrubs (you know, like a nurse!) or wearing a grey wig, a cardigan, a tartan skirt, thick tights, black tennis shoes, and reading glasses perched on the tip of my nose. What costume could be hotter than an “old person”? During my sophomore year—or the year of the perm—I could part my hair down the middle, put on a denim vest and a pair of bell bottoms and I was the spitting image of Robert Plant in his early Led Zeppelin years. I took full advantage of this resemblance.
Then of course there was the disco era, wherein I thought it was fine to dress as “a person from the seventies,” complete with bell bottoms, butterfly collars, and feathered hair. You have to remember that this was before the age of Harry Potter and I didn’t have the option to be Minerva McGonagall, Gilderoy Lockhart, Severus Snape, Dumbeldore or Bellatrix Lestrange. I had to work with what was given to me.
In my post high school years, when I was more interested in gaining the attention of the gentlemen, I dressed as Olive Oyle from Popeye. Then I found a charming set of cat ears and a tail, and used them as my emergency costume. Those ears and tail served me well: the first time I wore them was one of the first times I talked to my future husband. So that wasn’t too shabby.
As a married woman, I was thrilled with the costume possibilities: Shrek and Fiona, Lumberjack and Tree, Bumblebee and beekeeper. The options were endless. And once I had children of my own, the options compounded: The Beatles as Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, Shrek and Fiona and their triplets, an ensemble cast of Harry Potter, the Wizard of Oz, etc.
Unfortunately, my oldest son isn’t much for dressing up, and prefers to go trick-or-treating as either a lumberjack (minus the tree) or a welder. Considering his penchant for all things Carhartt, he pretty much dresses like a welder or a lumberjack every day anyway. It’s very disappointing. And my daughter always wants to be some impossible thing, like a bird. So I will have to get a dozen feather boas and sew them onto some footed flannel pajamas and make a beak out of cardboard. If she would let me be a power line or a worm, then we’d be cookin.’
Nowadays, my fall-back costume is an orange and black striped witch’s hat complete with long orange wig. I am hoping to inherit my mother’s inflatable witch costume that has a built in air pump, but for now, she isn’t giving it up. This year I have considered dressing as Michael Jackson in “Thriller,” but I wonder: is it too soon?
I hope you all have a wonderful Halloween season, and that you make the most of whatever celebrity/serial killer/Harry Potter cast member you may resemble. I know I will.
Happy Halloween!

My Political Platform

2009-10-05T12:49:00.001-07:00

This is what I printed in the paper last week. I think Rexburg is about to undergo some exciting changes!

If I Were Mayor

I am no politician. And you probably have noticed that I never talk about politics in these articles. That's because I am scared that Chuck Norris might see what I write and hunt me down like a socialist dog. But, with all this talk about mayors and campaigns and what not, I have been doing a lot of thinking about what I would do to improve our town if I were in charge. I hope that when you read this you won't be so impressed that you write my name in when you vote. Please, make your vote count! I choose not to run! But, here is my highly sophisticated and innovative platform, just FYI:

First and foremost, I think Rexburg needs a free pie day. This day could be held annually in February or March, when everyone is depressed because Christmas is over and the weather is bleak. What better way to cheer up the town than with some free pie? And I am not talking about cheap pie, here. None of this pre-cooked crust with some vanilla pudding slopped in. I want quality. The people of Rexburg deserve nothing less. If not a free pie day, then at least a free pie festival.

Second, Rexburg needs someone to pick up, sort, and drop off our recycling. I am a strong advocate for recycling, but what a pain to drop it off! Case in point: I have been driving around town for one month with a case of pop cans, cardboard, and newspaper in the trunk of my car. I just can't bear to sort them and throw them in those ominous blue bins lurking in the parking lot of Broulims. What we need to do is hire some students (who desperately need jobs right now) to pick up, sort, and drop off our recycling.

Third, Rexburg needs better radio stations. Is it me, or did the eighties end twenty years ago? It's hard to believe that I am the only person who does not enjoy country music or Christian rock. Or hip hop, for that matter. When I first moved to Idaho, I wondered if the entire state was still in love with Billy Idol, or if I was taking crazy pills. Come on. Let's cater to that silent majority out there who would like to hear some alternatives to "White Wedding" and "Freeze Frame," songs which are heard on the radio with an alarming frequency.

Fourth, Rexburg needs to recruit the following businesses: Target, Five Guys, Chick-Fila, Barnes and Noble (or some other big box, secular, all-purpose bookstore). I'm just saying, alternatives are nice . . .

Fifth, Rexburg needs a drugstore that is open 24 hours. Case in point: my husband woke up with stomach pain one -20 degree winter morning. Being the devoted and loving wife that I am, I bundled up and went out to get him some tums. It was 7:00 am and Walgreens was closed. What if it had been a more severe emergency? Longer hours for stores=more jobs=more access to tums for my grumpy husband=me happy.

Sixth: Rexburg loved the Farmers Market, and it should be continued every year. Maybe we should even keep going with it through October. Maybe the Farmers Market could somehow segue into a free pie day. . .

Seventh, Rexburg needs a giant fir tree to be our town Christmas tree and mascot, a symbol of our strength, hardiness, and contunal growth and progress, a sacred Rexburg fir tree, never to be cut down or harmed.

Eighth, two words: snow plow.

Ninth, Rexburg needs more cultural events, like bringing in awesome bands such as U2 and the White Stripes. I mean, how hard can it be to get those guys here?

Tenth, Rexburg needs improved customer service, like people who aknowledge my existence, smile at me, laugh at my jokes, and understand sarcasm (like when I say "just picking up a few essentials" when really I am buying a liter of diet coke, a candybar, a bag of donuts, some chocolate covered pretzels, and a large bag of cheetos).

So, future Rexburg mayor and city council, I implore you to see reason. I implore you to take these suggestions into consideration, and to get our citizens some free pie, some better restaurants, some effective snow removal, some customer service, and some U2 concerts. Afterall, our citizens deserve nothing less.

I Got Soul But I'm Not A Soldier

2009-09-28T08:41:00.000-07:00

Well, the Killers concert last weekend in SLC was completely wonderful. I loved their music before, but now I am a hard-core fan. Did you know the lead singer (Brandon Flowers) is originally from Utah? And was a Mormon, and then wasn't really one, but now is kind of trying to be one again, since he had a baby? I heard that somewhere. Here were some of my thoughts during the concert:

1. The opening band was mariachi. That's cool. I can dig that. It's something new and different, a musical exploration. I liked them until the singer kept swearing and saying the F word. I mean, hello? Does he not know his audience? Plus, he was a total bad-A, and had a real inferiority complex, at one point saying "you got a problem, buddy? Hey, it takes a lot of guts to come up here and play mariachi music in front of all these people!" Hmmmm.....A bad-A mariachi band full of white dudes from LA? Now I've seen everything!

2. I expected Brandon Flowers (whom I had not really seen a lot of photos of prior to the concert) to be....less.....theatrical. Let me put it that way. I also expected him to have long hair. I also did not expect him to wear what may have been spandex jeans, if that is even a possible combination. So, that was a real surprise. But I still loved him, because how could I not?

(photo from the Killers' homepage).

3. I had a total crush on the guitarist (Dave Keuning). He was the quintessential shy genius behind the band. He was Eddie Van Halen, Jimmy Page, Killer Kane, and the Edge all rolled into one tall, long-fluffy-haired drink of water. At one point, Brandon (who is the quintessential charismatic front man--Bono, David Lee Roth, Micheal Stipe,and David Johansen all rolled into one thin, wiry, ball of raw energy) actually pushed Dave out to the front of the stage, both of them laughing because Dave is really just so shy and uncomfortable in the spotlight. It was a sweet moment.

(photo comes from the Killers' homepage)

4. While I appreciated the homage to U2, I didn't feel that they could pull off a segue from "Smile Like You Mean It" into "I Can't Help Falling In Love With You" ala Bono and the Edge. Nice try, though. I feel where you are coming from on that one. Maybe next time?

5. This was like the best show I have ever seen, and that is saying a lot because I have seen U2 four times (not to mention Beck, Bob Dylan twice, Robert Plant twice, Indigo Girls twice, etc.). But the difference here is that the venue was smaller, and the Killers were more accessible, and every second of the show (besides the ill-advised "Can't Help Falling In Love With You" moment) was 100% energetic, loud, fast, and crazy. It was just so good. The show included, but was not limited to, fireworks, explosions, confetti sprayed into the audience, strobe lights, a large "K" hooked onto a piano that lit up (very 80s retro), smoke, synthesizers (very 80s retro), and zebra print.

6. It was super hot in the arena.

7. I worried that our balcony was going to break from all the dancing and bouncing up and down. I really was worried, which I think must be a sign of my old age.

8. I wished that I had dressed more like the teenagers who attended the concert, but I simply cannot pull off skinny jeans, over-sized striped tunics, pink streaked hair, and ballet flats. Luckily the people we sat by were at least our age or older, so I wasn't too embarrassed by my lack of coolness (gray khakis, argyle socks, and sneakers, for comfort).

9. There was an old guy on the very front row acting like a love-sick girl. It was both bizarre and sad to me.

10. We saw an accident in the parking lot afterward.Some long-bearded dude in a truck got all flustered and backed right over the bumper of some pretty boy's nondescript sedan. It was both funny and strange to me.

11. I was very intrigued by the music they played while we waited for the show. I think this play list says a lot about the band. And I am baffled by what this may mean: the "Night Court" theme song! And "Let's Hear it for the Boy"? There were the usual things you might expect, like the Traveling Wilburys and the Cure etc, but I was taken aback by that "Night Court" thing. What up with that? I can only assume that they either a) have a great sense of irony, b) watched the episode of 30 Rock in which part of the cast of "Night Court" reunites, or c) did not know what the song was when it came up on a list after they searched for 80s music. What could it be?

So, to review: the Killers are really really really great. The arena was too hot, "Night Court" theme song, and I am probably getting too old to go to concerts, but that won't stop me. I still want to see Jack White perform, and then I can die.

2009-09-24T13:25:00.000-07:00

So, lately Mike has been trying to finish his dissertation, which apparently has to involve my editing skilz--curse you, editing skilz! Look, if Mike is going to be gone every night and weekend finishing his dissertation for a year and a half, I at least want to be able to watch netflixed Office, Extras, Flight of the Conchords, and 30 Rock episodes while lying in bed eating candybars! But those days are over. Now I have to HELP him. Ugh. So I've been busy with that lately. And in case any of you are prayin' folk, please pray for Mike on October 23, around 1pm. That's his defense date. No pressure or anything, but you know, a shout out on our behalf would be nice.

Anywho, so I also turned 31, which was good. I have no problem with aging. In fact, I welcome it. When you are in your thirties, it matters less whether you are cute and thin. People's expectations of you plummet, and that is a nice feeling. I can wear black sweatpants and no makeup and people just look at me and think "how brave of her to even leave the house AT ALL!" It's very freeing!

I've also started teaching my online class. I thought that this class would be a perfect fit for my already jet-set online schedule. But I am realizing that when a class is online, it's hard to set a limit on the amount of time you spend freaking out over student emails and podcasts. Don't get me wrong, I love making podcasts (I've been using the Rushmore soundtrack as background music), but it just never seems to end! At least when I teach in the classroom, I can go a day or two without obsessively checking my email. We'll see how this semester shakes out.

Furthermore, Mike is sending me to ROME. I am so excited I don't know what to do with myself. Unfortunately, I will be gone for Halloween and you never know what may happen when Mike is in charge of Halloween (trick-or-treating to five houses only!) But it's a sacrifice I am willing to make so I can finally see Italy after all those years of studying Italian and buying a special "Italy Dress" and "Italy Passport Case" and then only ever getting to go to China and Taiwan. It will be nice to be in a country that believes in the power of the pastry, and that does not subscribe to the red-beans-as-dessert philosophy.

I would post my last newspaper article, but it may be offensive to some of my readers. So I will post my newest one next week, after it comes out in the paper. Intriguing, eh?

Dat all. Peace out.

Sometimes I Sew

2009-09-16T13:25:00.001-07:00

I took Katy's sewing challenge for the month of September. Too bad I had already sewn curtains and pillows in AUGUST. Oh well. Katy is a true artist and she makes wonderful beautiful things and she sells them on etsy.com so be sure to click on her etsy shop link when you see her blog. Anywho, sometimes I sew, but when I do, I tend to look like this:

How many bloomin' chins can one girl have?

Here I am thinking,"why didn't I buy matching thread for my bias tape?"

This is the finished project:

An apron for Hazel to wear. Thank heavens the pictures are blurry. Please don't click on them to make them bigger, either. And please don't wonder whether there were supposed to be such fancy embellishments as "pockets." There weren't. Nope. No pockets on this pattern. More sewing to come!

OH MY GOSH I HAVE TO SEE THIS IMMEDIATELY

2009-09-10T15:35:00.000-07:00

This is probably old news to people in the know, but . . . woah.

Those three dudes together in the same room? I may pass out from over-exposure to AWESOMENESS.

This Here's My Pad

2009-09-04T09:16:00.000-07:00

I know you all want to see pics of my immaculate house, right? But I have resisted the urge to post them because I really don't want to make you all jealous. Then my friend Melissa kept bugging me and bugging me about seeing my house, so here are a couple of rooms. I will show the rest in installments so as not to overwhelm you with my cleverness and cuteness. So, here goes nothin:
We'll start in the girls' room. This is Ruby's crib and a giant bookshelf that is usually messier than this. Notice the poster taped to the wall. I got tired of waiting around for a frame, so I just stuck it up there. Classy.
Here is Hazel's bed. Notice the embroidery hoops with fabric in them. I stole that idea from Kacy. Also observe the "valence" that I made out of an old tablecloth my Grandma made.
This is my dining room wall and my collection of mirrors. I need to add some more.
This here's the dining room where Ma and Pa chow down. I have a black stool that matches the white one, but it is being used outside on a project. See my canning jars on the counter? I'm so awesome.
This is an old clock that I love but that doesn't work. Once we plugged it in and sparks came shooting out of it!
This is the cluttered table to the left of my fireplace. Notice how cleverly I hide my ugly phone and modem with a stack of antique books! You can't even see the tangle of cords underneath, can you?
This is my mantle. Right now I don't know what the heck I'm doing with it. I have a collection of glass jars in the window, and there appears to be some sort of a bird, pottery,and walmart candles theme going on. Whatev.
Here are the curtains I made all by myself. Can you see the strings and crookedness? Neither can I. They are a light yellow and forest green toile.
Here is the entryway and Hazel. And my cluttered magazine stand.
Here is the hat rack that Mike got me for my birthday last year. It holds an antique purse, hat, and two hats from Taiwan. Don't they go together well?
This is a chair my sister Erin gave me, along with my collection of old aprons and a white tool box thingy that I love but don't know what to do with. Maybe I will take up knitting just so I can store my yarn in it?
This is a hutch I got off Craig's list. Right now it has some of my pitchers and Fiestaware on it.
Notice the laundry baskets and luggage that I am storing for someone because I am so nice, and because they were too heavy to carry down to the basement.
This here's the couch that has pen, candle wax, and some unidentifiable stains on it. I made the polka dot pillows myself! Hanging above the couch is Mike's painting of Lehi's dream that he got on his mission.

Well, that's all for today--mainly because the rest of my house is in such a horrid state of clutter. When I get that cleaned up, you can see the rest. In the mean time, I really hope you don't feel too bad about your own houses. I'm sure some day yours will look as good as mine. (PS, sorry about the crookedness and blurriness of the pics. I think the camera gets like that when it has low batteries or something. Whatev.

Ruby Walks!

2009-09-01T12:16:00.000-07:00

Latest Articles

2009-08-24T08:38:00.000-07:00

Here are a few of my latest newspaper articles:

Mommy Wars: The Battle of the Blog

Mothers have been at war with each other for as long as I can remember. In the eighties, it was the working mother who was under attack by the non-working mother. I know, because my mom worked (she had to) and we got a lot of guff about it. That battle continues between those who work and those who stay home. Not only is there the working/stay at home mom battle, but there is also the battle over breastfeeding and bottle-feeding. Then there’s the lovely epidural vs. non-epidural debate, which I have been a victim of several times (I just want to avoid unnecessary pain so I can have some energy for when the baby is born and needing constant attention—is that so wrong??) These issues are designed to divide us, and make us feel alternately superior and inferior.
And now that kids have so many options, from piano lessons, to Kindermusic, to sports, to play groups, and so on, there’s another battle going on: the battle of the scheduled vs. the unscheduled. I know some moms who have their kids’ entire days packed with various lessons, practices, and classes. This can cause some anxiety in those of us who choose not to force our children into piano prodigy-hood at age 3. And yet those of us who choose not to schedule our children’s lives can be a little judgmental of those who do. It’s a vicious battle.
This is bad enough, but as technology has made us even more connected to each other, the mommy wars are getting much worse, and now the battle has reached us on that most hallowed ground, the blogosphere.
If playgroups in the park have made us compare ourselves to other mothers, then blogs have made us obsessively compare ourselves to other mothers.
Let me preface this by saying that I have a blog, and have been blogging for five years. And I blog for selfish reasons: for validation, for connection, for an outlet. My blog is called My Misadventures, so named because it is about ME. It’s not one of those family blogs with 20-photo entries entitled “ Baby Caden Tries Peas.” Occasionally I post photos of my kids for the benefit of family who live far away, but my blog is primarily about me. So I realize that those moms who blog only about their family and children probably think I am the ultimate self-absorbed loser. But at least I am open about it.
Don’t get me wrong, my blog may be all about me, but it’s not a braggy blog: most of what I talk about are the embarrassing moments, you know like when the gift-wrapper at the BYU Provo bookstore makes me cry, or like when I humiliate myself at church, those kind of things. Self-effacement is the way I roll. But this way of blogging is dying quickly.
See, nowadays, many blog moms choose to blog about how perfect their lives are, rather than the missteps, gaffs, and awful things that can happen on the road of life. For example, I recently read all about a 6-year-old’s “Yoga Birthday Party.” The mother’s Ashram allowed her to use her yoga space, which was decked out with hand-made felt decorations. Each girl was also given a handmade yoga mat, and a special symbol was designed and silk-screened onto organic cotton t-shirts for each of the party guests to wear. I can only imagine what a riot it was for the girls to practice their downward dog and then snack on organic fruit and veggies, followed by soy cupcakes. What the . . . ? And this is not just a freak blog. There are dozens of them, possibly hundreds! I saw another one about a two-year-old’s “Mr. Man Birthday Party” that included chocolate mustaches, organic cotton t-shirts with hand-embroidered ties down the front, and custom-made sugar cookies from a fancy bakery. For a two-year-old? Contrast this with the hideous teddy bear birthday cake I tried to make for my daughter’s birthday, with its ugly brown frosting, haphazard sugar sprinkles, and almond buttons, and you can see why blogging has become a painful experience for me.
And these blogs aren’t all just about birthdays. Some moms blog about all the excruciatingly adorable things they sew, or how cleverly they organize and decorate their homes, or how good they are at putting an outfit together, or how wonderful they are at cooking, etc. etc. etc. And what gets me is that they do it under the guise of “helping others.” I guess the rest of us slouches can’t figure things out on our own, so these supermoms have condescended to share their best tips, like how to line the inside of your drawers with wrapping paper that costs $20 per foot. Really, my life wasn’t complete until I had that choice tidbit. How did I live without adorable liners for the inside of my drawers? HOW?
Two things really annoy me about these “Look How Great And Perfect I Am” blogs: 1. They seem to indicate that blogging is no longer a practice to enhance quality of life, but rather that people may actually be enhancing their quality of life in order to impress other people on their blog. It seems like these moms go to great lengths to document every moment of their enchanting day and then put it all on the internet for the rest of us to see. Whatever happened to just enjoying a moment and not capturing it on camera?
2. They really do make the rest of us look and feel bad. I was reading through the comments on one of the birthday party blogs, and among all the “wows!” and “amazings!” was a very disturbing comment: “I am such a loser mom. All my kid got was a Costco pie with a candle on top.” Since when was that not a perfectly acceptable birthday for a small child? These supermom bloggers may have the best intentions, but they are perpetuating this battle between mothers. In fact, they are making all the problems and issues between mothers much bigger and more complex, not to mention available 24 hours a day.
I suppose I could just stop reading these blogs, and I have--sort of. Sometimes I have to just check in to see what new thing is being done with organic cotton t-shirts. It’s a bit of a sado-masochistic relationship. I look at these blogs, and first I feel horrible about myself. Then I start to get mad and think that this can’t even be real, or that these people must be hiding some deep dark secret. Then I get this nice, satisfied feeling of superiority, cause at least I am not hiding anything. Slouchy moms: 1; supermoms: 0. And the battle rages on.

Cruise + In-Laws = Surprisingly Good Time

Last week I had the rare opportunity to go on a cruise to Alaska with not one, not two, but all of my husband’s brothers and sisters, not to mention his mom and dad. I think congress is still debating whether seven days on a boat with your in-laws is, in fact, torture. Yet despite congress’s uncertainty, I had a great time. Maybe it was the fact that my children were not with me. Maybe it was the copious amount of food available at all hours. Maybe it was the beautiful Alaskan scenery. Whatever it was, I highly recommend going on a cruise, especially if you can go with your in-laws. Here are some reasons why you should go on a cruise with your in-laws:

10. If you go with Holland America, your ship will likely be named something like “Zaandam” or “Rotterdam.” Anything ending in “dam” makes for some Zaandam good jokes, don’t you think?

9. It’s interesting to find out just how intelligent your various in-laws are during the daily trivia quiz. They seem to have known all the right answers even if they wrote down the wrong ones!

8. There’s nothing quite like watching your spouse’s family try to dance to “Billy Jean” in rough seas.

7. Afternoon laziness + kids two thousand miles away = napping for as long as you want.

6. Learn everything you ever needed to know about the following: engines, various types of boats, ventilation, welding, snow loads, glaciers, and “how things work” by sitting next to your husband, his two brothers, and their father at dinner every night.

5. Two words: Lobster Tail.

4. Two more words: Dessert Extravaganza.

3. There’s nothing quite like watching your brother-in-law perform Simon and Garfunkel’s “Kodachrome” on stage for a huge audience of people in an American Idolesque superstar competition.

2. Relive/redeem a very bad prom on formal night.

1. Get a glimpse of what your spouse will be like in ten, twenty, and forty years by observing his brothers and father. If you don’t like what you see, escaping is as easy as jumping off the starboard side.

So, reserve your cruise, and call your in-laws today. You won’t be sorry.

The Best Laid Plans . . .

Well, it’s that time of year again: back to school time. There is very little I love more than back to school time. I love school supplies: pencils, folders, notebooks, systems of organization for various school projects and papers. I love going school clothes shopping, although my son would rather die than try on clothes. I love that different, crisp feeling in the air as school approaches, and the way things smell on the morning of the first day of school. It’s a smell of excitement, new asphalt, new clothes with the tags just cut off, and the impending autumn leaves. There’s also a palpable sense of relief in the air, as mothers congratulate themselves for surviving another summer and get together to compare their battle scars. Back to school time is the one time of year when I really do a lot of planning and hoping. I plan and hope for a school year that is organized, healthy, rewarding, and fun.
I picture making creative and nutritious lunches in a tidy little lunch box with a blue ice pack to keep organic veggies and dip cool throughout the morning. I imagine volunteering in the classroom, and discovering that I really am a great artist. I envision a perfect little mudroom, complete with well-appointed cubbies for each child’s hand-knit mittens, scarves, and hats. I plan out the ways in which I will display my children’s artwork: laminated placemats, rotating museum-quality exhibitions, a wall painted with magnetic paint to stick them on. I even imagine the nutritious snacks and strict homework-first rule for after school time. Ahhh, it’s a wonderful vision.
And then of course reality sets in about a month into the school year. Remember those nutritious and creative lunches? Half of their contents get thrown into the garbage before they are even consumed. That classroom “art mom” gig I volunteered for? Much more involved than I thought, and the only thing I discovered is that I am not good at art and I know nothing about the color wheel. Those organized cubbies and fancy artwork displays? The sheer volume of papers, jackets, backpacks, and shoes coming into my home in a steady stream has buried me, along with all of my intentions for making a place for them in my already brimming-with-clutter home. The after school snack and routine falls by the wayside as I simply try to keep my head above water.
By the end of the school year, a lunch consists of a granola bar and a box of juice thrown into a Ziploc bag. Papers that come home are glanced at, then immediately thrown into the garbage. I’ve alienated the entire PTO by crashing a special teachers and staff dinner that I would have known wasn’t for me if I had carefully read the letter that came home with my son before tossing it into the garbage (sorry, PTO. I owe you a piece of Fried Chicken and some potato chips!) The portfolio of artwork brought home at the end of the year, though it should be considered a great piece of history, a great artistic accomplishment, is viewed merely as a huge piece of junk that I must somehow find a place for, which happens to be behind the couch.
Why does this happen every year? I can’t decide if the problem is with my high expectations and lofty goals, or if the problem is just that I am too lazy to maintain this level of efficiency. Since my natural instinct is to avoid hard work, I am going to go with the first option: my expectations are too high. So this year I am going to do the opposite of all my urges for organization and efficiency. First, I am going to buy ten giant boxes of granola bars and juice boxes from Sam’s Club and have them at the ready, right next to the Ziploc bags. Then, I am going to resist the temptation to volunteer. Let someone who is qualified be the art mom this year! My absence in the classroom can only help those kids. Next, I’ll place a shredder and a recycling bin next to the door so incoming papers (homework excepted) can immediately be disposed of in a guilt-free manner, and hopefully by my kids themselves. I think it’s about time my son learned the use a shredder responsibly.
Here’s the after school drill I have planned for my son: come home, shred non-essential papers, throw backpack and shoes anywhere, grab a bag of chips and a sugar-filled can of soda, retire to couch, watch cartoons while wiping greasy hands right on the cushions, maybe get some homework done sometime before dinner (which consists of frozen tater tots and chicken nuggets), throw clothes on floor while putting on pajamas, crawl into unmade bed (taking care not to step on toys littering the bedroom floor), go to sleep.
And the wake-up routine is similar: wake up, crawl into rumpled, dirty clothes from the day before, eat a breakfast of pop tarts, frozen waffles, or donuts, brush teeth, assemble lunch in bag, walk to school.
Maybe if I plan on this routine, I will be pleasantly surprised when something goes better than expected. It’s a new way to live! And I’m hoping for the least organized, least nutritious, least rewarding, and least fun school year ever.

The Latest From Holden

2009-08-04T14:14:00.000-07:00

I have just returned from a cruise to Alaska. When my kids have stopped punishing me for leaving them for a week (I'm talking about you, Ruby, who somehow had a piece of poo in your hand this morning and cried when I took it away, and you, Hazel, who has been through twelve different mood swings since 6:00 am), I will post some pics and thoughts. In the meantime, here are Holden's latest thoughts on life.

I've Created a Monster

2009-07-17T10:05:00.000-07:00

My summer plans for Holden this year included a crash course in comedy. This has required me to Netflix a series of "best-of" Saturday Night Live dvd's--the best of Chris Farley, Mike Meyers, Dana Carvey, and David Spade are the ones I have carefully screened, edited, and shown Holden so far. He already loves the "Best of John Belushi" from a few months ago. We've had a great time watching these shows, and Holden's sense of humor is blossoming, but, now he thinks he has to act like Matt Foley whenever he is around other people. And I don't know if you've noticed, but a lot of people don't know what you're talking about when you tell them they'll have plenty of time to be a writer when they're living in a van down by the river. I have to tell him "no Chris Farley" before I take him out in public, and don't get me started on how much he embarrassed me during my visiting teaching excursions yesterday. He tells me he can't help it. I tell him he'll have plenty of time to act like Chris Farley when....HE'S LIVING IN A VAN DOWN BY THE RIVER. I hope someday he amounts to more than JACK SQUAT.

As a side note, I still cry real tears when I think about Chris Farley's death, but it has been a good cautionary tale for Holden to avoid rolling those doobies.

Since When Did the Book of Mormon Become a J.R.R. Tolkien Novel?

2009-07-08T21:28:00.000-07:00

Has anyone noticed that you can now buy a replica of the sword of Laban at Deseret Book? Presumably it should be placed right next to "Harry's Wand," "Gimli's Axe" and the "Sword of Aragorn" in our curio cabinets. What next? Will we be able to buy a replica of the golden plates? Or a Urim and Thumim to wear around the house? I mean, sheesh! If it gets you interested in the Book of Mormon, I guess that's good. But isn't it a little, I don't know, weird? I mean let's not confuse scripture with fantastical lore, here. It's not Lord of the Rings, although it does have some awesome war passages and some very conflicted characters. It has some cool prophecies and some betrayal and a lot of heroism. It certainly ends with a bang. I guess it is a bit Tolkien-esque. Next thing you know, they'll be making a movie of it!

Oops. I guess I am the weird one now.

Newspaper Article Catch Up

2009-07-06T15:52:00.001-07:00

I have been lazy about posting my articles on my blog. But here are the latest two (one of them came from a blog I wrote a while ago, so if it seems familiar, that's why. Sometimes life imitates blog.)

Summer Magic

This is my son’s first REAL summer. He just finished first grade, and so he can now officially appreciate having his days blissfully empty of any sort of plan or schedule. I’m so excited for him, although on day one at 10:25 a.m. he’s already said “what should we do now?” three times. All this summer-talk has made me very nostalgic for the summers of my youth.
I grew up in Provo, Utah, in the eighties, in an old turn-of-the-century house surrounded by cherry orchards, ditches (from which we would flood-irrigate our yard), and the most exotic and interesting junkyard imaginable. Combine those conditions with the advent of MTV, cable, the VCR, twin pops, and Kool Aid, and you’ve got a recipe for the best summers ever. This was the era when penny candy still cost a penny, when a sun burn was a beginning-of-summer rite of passage that slowly turned into a dark brown tan till September, and mosquito bites were battle scars we wore with pride.
We slept outside most nights, but not in fancy rainproof single-walled Gortex tents. Instead, we spread towels over a picnic table and climbed underneath. Often we just put our sleeping bags and thick foam pads right on the ground. We’d awake to dew on our faces, the sound of birds chirping, and a morning so bright and crisp that I would declare it a “nature morning” and sit outside in my pajamas basking in it until the sun got too hot and I needed to go inside for a blue popsicle.
I remember our secret clubs in my parents’ basement, and the ramshackle hut we built ourselves at the base of a huge tree. I remember playing “Indians” out on the mysterious cement pads near the junkyard and making my own special trail mix (cheerios, chocolate chips, and raisins) to take outside and enjoy all afternoon.
We roamed free in the summer, walking down to the nearest gas station (called “Minute Man”) for a treat and a soda (called “pop”), climbing trees and eating cherries till we were sick, playing night games in other people’s backyards, and trying to follow the ditch all the way to its beginning. We never worried, nor did our parents, about where we were going.
To balance our tree climbing, fort building, and ditch playing, we watched an inordinate amount of television, MTV and Days of Our Lives being our favorites. I was the youngest, so I felt lucky just to be invited to watch whatever my older sisters were watching. We’d pore over the music video offerings on MTV, choosing our favorite members of Van Halen (my sisters loved the quiet and cuddly Eddie Van Halen, but I, like my mother, have always been partial to the theatrics of David Lee Roth). Shortsighted as I was, I thought U2 was sort of boring and I preferred Duran Duran to The Police (I have repented for that severe misjudgment many times since then).
We followed the romances of Bo and Hope, Roman and Marlena, and Patch and Kayla faithfully, and then I usually re-enacted each love scene with my Barbies later. Summer was always full of hope for our own romances (which never happened) and a belief that we were as beautiful as the actresses on daytime television (which was also a bit of a stretch).
Summers were also the time when my half-sister would come to stay with us all the way from Arizona. She arrived extremely tan and full of stories so different from my own life that I always assumed she was not just from a different state, but from a different country and race, altogether.
Summers were a time for drive-in movies, trips to Lagoon, and the local swimming pool. I never remember adults being present, but they must have been there.
In the summer, I held and attended a million sleepovers, at which I always stayed up too late and from which I always returned extremely grumpy and miserable. But I was always anxious for the next one.
In the summer, we’d buy a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken (before it was taboo to use the word “fried” and Kentucky Fried Chicken became KFC). We’d take our fried goodness up to my grandmother’s cabin in Lamb’s Canyon and make ice cream and celebrate Independence Day.
Summer was hot back then, like it is now, but the heat didn’t seem as perilous. Nobody was afraid of global warming. No one was concerned about water and food shortages. Instead, we let the sprinkler run for hours while we ran through it. We “layed out” to get tan, our 32 oz. sodas always at our sides.
Our parents weren’t concerned with our laziness or looming obesity. They only put their foot down when I wore the same flip-flops (called “fongs”) every day and my feet, and their immediate surroundings, took on a hideous, other-worldly smell that probably could have taken paint off our house. The “fongs” had to go, but the good times rolled on. You see, my parents did not think we needed all sorts of camps and sports and classes in the summer. Our time was our own, and we were responsible for what we did with it. If that meant lying on the couch with a bag of potato chips until the wee hours of the morning, then so be it.
Those days are now gone. Our ditches have been buried to avoid too much evaporation, because there is always a shortage of water. Our junkyard is now the site of Grandview Farms condominiums, where retired men and women nit-pick at each other and their neighbors for such things as “unruly hedges” and “a car parked on the street over night.” Our orchards have also disappeared, making way for obscenely large McMansions that are too close together, that have no yards to speak of, and that are grouped together under the name “The Estates at Burr Orchards.” (What a touching tribute.) Provo is still a wonderful place, but it isn’t the same.
Still, I won’t forget the magic of those summer days in the eighties. And I hope my son has the same wonderful summer memories. Of course in this age of skin cancer, West Nile virus, Amber alerts, and global warming, I’m not sure that’s possible. He did sleep outside last night, but in a tent, and I spent the entire night wondering if I was a reckless parent for letting him be alone outside all night. Luckily Rexburg still holds a little bit of that same old-school summer magic, which I am hoping to tap into this season. Here’s to a carefree summer for all of us, stinky flip-flops and “nature mornings” included.

And:

The British Reality Invasion

I've noticed lately that we Americans don't have a leg to stand on when it comes to raising our children, running salons, owning successful restaurants, coming up with sophisticated advertisements, and choosing our own pop stars. That's why we rely on mean, outspoken, potty-mouthed, sharply dressed British people to come and whip us into shape. You know who I'm talking about: Gordon Ramsey, Super Nanny, Tabitha, of “Tabitha’s Salon Takeover” fame, those British-accented people who do all the voice-overs on ads for everything from mattresses to collections of encyclopedias, and of course the ubiquitous Simon Cowell, from American Idol.

Honestly, what has happened to us? After all our founding fathers sacrificed to get us some freedom from these people, we are just welcoming them with open arms to come into our homes and places of business and boss us around. There’s nothing more irritating than an ad on the radio with a fancy British person telling me that I should buy a product that I neither want, nor need, but that will presumably cure my subconscious desire to be British, because we Americans are all just a bunch of wanna-be’s, right? Come on!

And who are THEY? Just because they have accents does NOT make them any smarter than us. Oh they sound smart and sophisticated, but I challenge anyone to watch an episode of “Absolutely Fabulous” and come away with the same perception of the British people. They are regular just like us, despite the fact that they have a soft “r.”

Now, don’t get me wrong, I am a huge fan of England and the English, but didn't we establish some clear boundaries back in 1776? Wasn’t there some sort of document, declaring that we are not the same as them? That we choose to be different? But of course they can’t leave well enough alone, so they continue to insinuate their way onto our television shows to mock our love of a good mullet hair cut, an over-indulged child, and a bad eatery. I mean, really, so what if we Americans want to spank our children, refuse to listen to our clients' hair requests, serve leftovers at our restaurants, and sing in ugly falsetto voices? That's our right. We claimed it when we declared independence.

I suggest that we declare a new independence from the British. We could call it a Declaration of Blissful Incompetence. If I want to let my three-year-old hang onto her pacifier for the sake of my own sanity, I call that the right to pursue happiness. If the people at Super Cuts give their clients mullet hair cuts with religious zeal, I call that freedom of religion. Let's dump that English shampoo into the Boston harbor! Let's take those chore charts from Super Nanny and burn them! Let's tell Gordon Ramsey to take his fancy mushroom truffles and shove 'em someplace where the sun don't shine! Let’s boycott all ads for products bought in America but sold with nothing more than a British accent. And someone really needs to take kick Simon Cowell out of our country. Those snarky remarks just aren’t what they used to be. Let's tell them that they can't tread on the sacred right of Americans to ruin their kids' lives, cut ugly hair, sing poorly, and serve mediocre food. Because we're Americans, and that's what we like to do.

Eggstra Eggstra!

2009-07-03T09:41:00.000-07:00

Last night while I was sweating in the kitchen trying to make popcorn on the stove and cookies in the oven at the same time, Mike knocked on the window and showed me this:

At first I was all "how did he find a fake egg in the backyard?" Then I realized it was our FIRST EGG! You know, eggs: the whole reason why we decided to get chickens in the first place. I had sort of forgotten about eggs, because the chickens themselves are so delightful. But this made our whole day. Me and the kids squealed with joy, which in turn woke Ruby up and caused a bit of a meltdown. But the egg is all the matters. The egg is ALL!

Jenna Nelson Photography Session

2009-06-28T10:37:00.000-07:00

Definitely a step or two up from Kiddie Kandids.

http://jennanelsonphotography.typepad.com/my_weblog/

Happy Birthday, Kacy (you think I forgot but I didn't. Yesterday's call during which I said nothing about birthdays was merely a decoy to fool you).

2009-06-18T12:00:00.001-07:00

In honor of my sister, without whose influence I would be nothing more than a Paula Abdul-loving shell, I have written a top ten list. So, sit back and read the "Top Ten Reasons Why Kacy is Awesomer Than You"

10. Her bed is probably much more comfortable than yours. This is because her life's work is to create the perfect combination of down, memory foam, cotton batting, and 500 thread count sheets.

9. Her furniture is arranged in a much cooler way than yours. This is because she is constantly reassessing the most effective and streamlined set up for her chairs, rugs, couches, and lamps.

8. She writes for Parents magazine. Do you?

7. She makes bacon whenever she wants, but I bet you think you have to wait till breakfast or something.

6. She is really good at talking people into buying things and saying no to things they don't really want to do in the first place. Kacy creates a guilt-free zone for friends and family.

5. Her advice is usually much better than yours.

4. She's into cool music, but not embarrassed to admit that she still loves Barry Manilow. Most of us pretend not to like him even though we do.

3. She is inexplicably obsessed with Spiderman. The rest of us may pretend to be into Spiderman, but she's the real deal.

2. Her love of animals is so pure that she was willing to wash cat-urine-soaked towels for free. When was the last time you drove thirty minutes to pick up nasty towels, wash them, and drop them back off again?

1. After five years of blogging, she has never resorted to obnoxious top ten lists, cheesy "I love my husband" entries, alienating "my house is cuter than your house" photo-essays, condescending "my kids are smarter than your kids" delcarations, or self-indulgent "look at how thin and pretty I am" confessions. But she COULD have done those things. Because they are true.

Happy birthday, sis.

Pics 'Round the House (Or, get off my back, DMP!)

2009-06-17T15:44:00.000-07:00

I have been on blog hiatus for a little while, I'm sorry to say. But I have been engaged in some really good causes. First, I made another curtain (see bathroom curtain blog) and this time I added a little pompom border. I am moving up in the sewing world! (Or at least I have discovered the power of liquid stitch to put on pompom borders cause who wants to sew THAT on?) Another thing I did was put bark on our flowerbeds in the front yard. You should have seen me out there in the rain, lying on the bark trying to spread it all out. Good times.
Does that please you, DMP?

I Went on the Slip and Slide in my Bathing Suit (and other goings on): a photo essay

2009-06-01T14:19:00.001-07:00

Hazel, post dance performance.
Holden, as the Candlestick Maker in his first grade play, "Three of a Kind."
Hazel, wearing my shirt for a nightgown and eating something she probably shouldn't be eating, like ice cream for breakfast.
Ruby and me at the Snake River.
My three kids frolicking at the Holden, Utah cemetery. There is no better place for frolicking.
Holden keeping Ruby still during Hazel's dance performance.
Ruby finally pulling herself up, only to be thwarted by the gate.
"Carhart Man."
One of the many moods of Hazel.
Ruby is still in her good-natured phase. I hope it lasts.
Ruby paying homage to her ancestors, Wells and Ramona Kenney.

And, finally, me on the slip and slide in my bathing suit:

What Can I Say? My Daughter is Cute.

2009-05-27T18:57:00.000-07:00

This may have been cooler in real life, but watch as Hazel (third from the right) gets her broom taken away and looks for another one. Everyone in the audience was cheering for her. I love how she just walks off the stage afterward, totally unaware that the whole place was going wild for her. Ah, what a sweetie pie. (Note: if this happened at home, with Holden taking something from her, that sweetie pie would have turned into the devil and Holden would not make it out of the skirmish without a scar.) Sorry this is so long. I thought that interested parties, like grandparents, might like to see the whole thing.

Pig Flu Article

2009-05-18T13:54:00.000-07:00

Swine flu is RIPE for parody, and we all know it! Here's what I wrote for the local newspaper about it:

Revenge of the Pigs

I’ve been dreading this day, the day that the pigs would exact their revenge. It’s been coming for a long time now, so it really should be no surprise. Did we think we could continue to eat the amount of ham we eat without any repercussions? Did we think we could mess with the pig genome, engineering the perfect pork chop, without the pigs getting angry? And what of our excessive consumption of bacon? I currently have three pounds stored in my freezer, and to be honest, I wish that number were higher. And have you seen the filth that pigs are living in? Or worse, the factory-type farms where genetically improved pigs are being kept? Their entire existence is confined to a small crate. It’s like something from “The Matrix,” these pigs living in little cells, being fattened up, only to take the longest walk of their life onto a truck bound for the slaughter house. Let’s face it: when it comes to eating pork and mistreating animals, we humans are a bunch of pigs.

Now it’s payback time. With the swine flu in 30 U.S. states and 19 countries (probably more, by the time this is published), these pigs are taking their revenge in a cold, calculating manner that betrays their seemingly simple-minded existence. Perhaps one or two of them got their hands on a copy of Animal Farm and felt that they should strike while the socialist iron is hot in our country. This begs the question, could liberals somehow be behind the swine flu? A serious investigation may be required. In the meantime, I only hope that our strict adherence to the rules of washing our hands and covering our mouths when we sneeze will be enough of a weapon against this attack of the pigs.

Perhaps a more aggressive approach would be better. Maybe we should be eating MORE pigs to wipe out the disease. If that is the case, then I personally pledge to increase my pork intake by at least thirty percent. It will be a sacrifice, but if the nation needs more committed bacon-eaters, then a committed bacon-eater I shall become.

Then again, perhaps we should try a more diplomatic approach. I’m thinking we could drop pro-human pamphlets onto some pig farms, just to remind those pigs exactly where their slop comes from. Actually, some good diplomatic efforts have already been made in the most unlikely of places: my daughter’s preschool. All this week they are discussing pigs—pig characteristics, pig sounds, pig food, pig behaviors, etc. I’m glad that my daughter is being prepared for the worst. It’s a comfort to know that, should the need arise, she will not only know how to recognize a pig by sight and sound, but also how to oink right back at it. We need more of this specialized education if we are to beat this battle against the boars.

Whatever we do, it better be fast, because the pigs will just keep coming at us, snorting and coughing and sneezing their way across the globe.

I'm not a morning person (or, an apology to my husband for saying "butthead" when he asked me to get out of bed yesterday morning)

2009-05-15T08:07:00.000-07:00

Ever since I was little I have hated waking up in the morning. High school made the problem worse, combining my teenage moodiness with 7:30 a.m. classes. I always dreamed that one day I would become an adult and then I could wake up any time I wanted. This dream was realized briefly in college, when I had the freedom to schedule classes in the afternoon and evening. Those were the good old days: waking up at nine or ten, lying in bed while doing my homework, taking a leisurely shower, then sauntering off to school in no particular hurry. I miss those days.

Now my morning life is really bad because I have children. Luckily, they aren't the type of children who wake up at 5:00, but for me, 6:30 is the new 5:00 a.m. Anything before 7:00 is unearthly and simply immoral.

So the first thing to happen at about 6:00 or 6:30 is I hear Ruby cry. This automatically fills me with rage. I usually lie in bed for a while, pretending to be asleep and hoping that Mike (a total morning person) will go get her first. Then as I am lying there, pretending not to hear my baby crying in her crib, I begin to feel resentment over having to make Holden a lunch. Making Holden a lunch consists of about thirty seconds worth of work: spreading some peanut butter on bread, getting a juice box out of the fridge, putting it all in a bag. Zipping up the bag. It's not hard and it isn't complicated. But at 6:30 in the morning, while I am lying in my bed listening to Ruby cry and wondering when Mike is going to go get her, this is an insurmountable task. How can I be expected to do this?

Then there's Hazel, whose morning whims are as unpleasant and dangerous as they are varied. She'll be crying for ice cream, noodles, mac and cheese, jolly ranchers, skittles. Whatever. She'll want cereal with no milk. She'll want a different spoon. She'll want to eat her shredded cheese out of a ziplock bag instead of a bowl. I tell you it's a NIGHTMARE. Furthermore, I can count on at least one dramatic moment involving her choice of clothing, which, these days, usually consists of pajama bottoms and a mismatched or seasonally inappropriate top. I have completely given up on her hair, which hangs in her face in disgusting, food-ridden tangles. The other girls at preschool arrive in perfectly coordinated outfits with their hair in braids and buns and bows. Hazel inevitably has her shoes on the wrong feet, but insists that they are the right feet. I give up.

If I can get Holden out the door and on his way to open the chicken coop and walk to school without snapping at him, then I consider it a successful morning.

Is there any hope for a hideously non-morning person such as myself? I'm willing to try almost anything. So far I have tried: avoidance, diet coke, going back to bed for short intervals between meal prep and diaper changes, and lying on the couch while the chaos increases around me. I can't believe that none of those things work! I need your suggestions, you morning people. But, please, let's be creative here. What I am trying to say is please don't talk to me about getting up earlier than everyone else to exercise.

What You Should Do This Weekend

2009-05-08T11:30:00.000-07:00

First of all, see this movie. Then get yourself some dang Five Guys.

Chicken Article

2009-05-04T10:57:00.000-07:00

Chicken: Man's Other, Other Best Friend

For the past six months I've been running a futile pro-puppy campaign against my husband. At thirty years old, I still haven't lost that childlike zeal for house pets, and even though the rational adult in me knows that the best dog we could have right now is NO dog, I still try to wear down my husband every chance I get. Hey, I wore him down enough to get a Wii (still working on Rock Band, though). Yet my husband remains steady and stalwart in his assertion that the family just can't handle one more unpredictable, incontinent, wood-floor-scratching, fun-time-ruining, paw-print-leaving, barking, slobbering, animal (our three small children are enough). It would take nothing short of a pre-trained dog sledding team of Alaskan Huskies, a tricked out dog sled, and a five acre farm in the country to convince this man that a dog is a good idea.

So, what's an animal lover like me to do? Cats are NOT an option. Reptiles and fish just don't love you back. Small rodents are an abomination that belong in science labs and/or sewers, not in clear plastic bubbles in people's houses. Naturally, we turned to chickens. I know chickens seem unlikely pets, but they make a lot of sense, especially to the practical-minded, like my husband: they produce eggs, they only require food, water, and lodging. They need absolutely no training, they provide excellent fertilizer for your garden, and they can be quite companionable, though not as companionable as a Golden Retriever. We figured that chickens would require much less money and effort, and would actually contribute to the support of our family. They seemed to be the perfect pets.

With visions of Martha Stewart-like domestic bliss in our minds, we set out to get our first batch of chicks. We found them on Craigslist, sent a rushed email, made an excited phone call, and made the pilgrimage to a small farm in Shelley. The chicks we bought were Buff and Blue Orpingtons, two dollars apiece, and had not been "sexed," therefore we ran the risk that some of them might turn out to be roosters. Knowing that we could only have five hens in town, my husband insisted that we buy ten chicks. After handing over the twenty dollars, we headed to the farm store, where we shelled out about fifty more dollars on a huge bag of "start and grow" feed, a heat lamp, a feeder, and a waterer. At this point I began to realize that the purpose of raising chickens is certainly NOT to save money on eggs.

We brought our chicks home, and took a little while determining the best place to keep them. "I just can't bare to have them in the garage," I said, so we put all ten of them in a shallow tupperware container right in our kitchen. The heat lamp was suspended by a shoelace and some dental floss, and we lovingly spread out four layers of newspaper for our new pets. They really did brighten up the kitchen, the constant chirping and flapping making us feel positively springy, even though it was still the middle of February.

The next two weeks were spent agonizing over what to name the chicks (Susie, Zen, Zoey, Babs, Edwina, Matilda, Happy Feet, Ginger, and then there were two that looked so much alike that we never really named them), and agonizing over the copious amounts of excrement that seemed to come forth with little or no warning, ceremony, or afterthought, and that caused us to change the layers of newspaper in the brooder multiple times a day. (Ten chicks: $20, food, water, and housing: $50, chicken poop sprayed across the walls of your kitchen: priceless.) We wised up about the newspaper, and purchased fancy cedar wood shavings and a chicken wire floor for the chicks to walk on. This greatly improved my quality of life. We also wised up and moved the chicks out of the kitchen, first down to the basement, and finally out to the garage, although we had to buy a sheet of blue foam insulation board to put around their brooder, just to be sure they were warm enough.

In addition to agonizing over names, waste management, warmth, and location, we also read every chicken-related website we could find on the internet, and believe me, there are a lot more of these websites than you might think. www.backyardchickens.com is a favorite, with people posting minute-by-minute chicken updates, chicken photos, and chicken questions. Apparently there is a large underground chicken movement in the United States and the UK, and we're proud to be a part of it.We've also noticed that raising chicks is quite popular here in Rexburg. Two of our close neighbors have chickens in their backyards, our good friends are starting their own chicken adventure, and the Valleywide Farm Cooperative can't seem to keep enough baby chicks in stock. Apparently, raising chickens is the new cool thing to do. We may even join the Orpington club and there has been some talk of turning our little brood into a group of award-winning show chickens. But we'll see, one three-toed step at a time.

After two months, about four of our chicks have turned out to be roosters. There was a brief period of panic when it was suggested that we could kill and eat these roosters. "But that would be a betrayal!" I cried. Luckily, because of this underground chicken movement, we were able to give the roosters a "good home" with kids, where we know they will be treated right and loved. We turned to craigslist, and within twenty minutes had found a suitable home for Babs, Matilda, Edwina, and No-name, now referred to as Barry, Rooster Cogburn, Foghorn Leghorn, and Little Jerry Seinfeld. After giving away these roosters, we decided to buy three more chicks, which are back in our kitchen again, and the circle of life continues.

Two nights ago we were at dinner with some friends, and found ourselves gushing over our chicks. I had sworn I would never be that kind of pet owner--you know, the kind that carries a photo of her dogs in Santa hats with her everywhere she goes? But I guess that's who we are now: chicken people. There are dog people, cat people, no-pet people (don't get me started on them!), and then there are chicken people. We have become insane chicken people, interviewing candidates for a decent chicken sitter when we go out of town, discussing the various benefits of different breeds, rushing to the farm store to see the new batch of chicks. We figure that by the time we build our chicken coop, the total amount of money that first egg will cost will be close to one thousand dollars. The way some dog-owners splurge on sweaters, collars, and vet bills, we splurge on electricity (to run the heat lamp), building supplies (to build a cute coop), poultry vitamins, and organic cracked corn. Is it worth it? I'll have to let you know when we taste our first egg. For now, the little puppy-sized hole in my heart has been filled with a small group of pecking, feathery hens.

Mother's Day Article

2009-05-04T10:56:00.000-07:00

A “Tribute” to my Mother

Mother’s Day is fast approaching, everyone, so you’d better start thinking about an appropriate gift. I was reminded of Mother’s Day when I was standing in line at Porters and saw someone gluing the letters that spell out “MOTHER” onto some painted blocks. I don’t know about you, but I’m not sure that blocks are the most appropriate gift for a mother, even if they do announce to the world what her role in life is. If we are going to be honest about the role of a mother, then perhaps a more fitting message on the blocks could be something like “Urine Cleaning Specialist.” I’d like to get that in vinyl cursive letters and put it on the wall over my bed, just in case I ever forget why I am around. But I digress.

Thinking about Mother’s Day gifts got me thinking about my own mother, who, for as long as I can remember, has loathed Mother’s Day. It’s not that she’s being humble, or shy about all the attention she gets on the day. My mother actually hates it because it makes her feel guilty. She goes to church and must sit patiently as people (who usually are not mothers themselves) go on and on about how fantastically amazing mothers are, and she feels like a big failure. I never understood how she could feel this way, until of course I became a mother myself.

I think the problem is that we honor a fictitious, Donna Reed-type mom on Mother’s Day (the kind who cleans her house in a skirt and high heels, who makes cookies for her children every day after school, and who has dinner—made from scratch--on the table by 5:00 p.m. every day no matter what). The Donna Reed mother never yells, never gets confused about how to raise her children, and never complains about the drudgery of her domesticity. This mother has an endless capacity for love and patience and is never caught in an act of self-indulgence. She sews and cooks perfectly. She irons. She scrubs the baseboards on a regular basis. She does windows! Worst of all, she would rather listen to soft classical music than rock and roll. Does such a mother exist?

We need to start looking at Mothers as the individuals that they are, rather than lumping them all into the same category of angelic perfectness. Who can live up to that? Is there really a mother out there who never raises her voice, never burns dinner, and never makes a terrible mistake? Mother’s Day rhetoric leads us to believe that these perfect mothers exist--indeed, they are everywhere!—and that we are the inadequate mothers who are missing something. We hear the talks in church on Mother’s Day and wonder if there is some secret we are missing out on, or if we are just more depraved than every other mother in the world. It’s a shame, a guilt-inducing shame.

I can’t say I would give up the Mother’s Day presents, but I sure wouldn’t mind giving up the Mother’s Day guilt (there I go, being selfish again!). So this year, instead of giving my mother some tacky reminder that she isn’t as awesome as the Mother’s Day rhetoric says she should be, I am going to write her an Anti-Mother’s Day Tribute right here in the Standard Journal. Thus, without further ado I give you
Ten Reasons Why I Love My Mother

10. She has a raging crush on Van Halen-era David Lee Roth (ripped spandex pants, long, shaggy hair, etc.).

9. She keeps a running list of all the Baldwin Brothers on the white board in her kitchen (“Eric, Alec, Billy,??”).

8. She watches reality TV only to be shocked by how disgusting it is (“I can’t believe that Flavor Flave!! He’s so barfy!”).

7. She can fall asleep at any time, in any place, and in any position.

6. Her idea of a good sled substitute is two layers of garbage bags.

5. She fostered our senses of humor by allowing us to stay up late and watch Saturday Night Live.

4. She concocts the most elaborate, bone-chilling, and exciting Halloween scavenger hunts on earth (just ask the hundreds of 12-18-year-olds who have been accosted by Freddy Kruger on Elm Street in Provo).

3. On an ordinary day, she may burst into the house singing “If you want my body, and you think I’m sexy, come on, baby, let me know!” (She went through a Rod Stewart phase, too).

2. She is never in too big of a hurry to stop for Milano double chocolate cookies.

1. She taught me the value of hard work, humility, kindness, peanut M&M’s, always doing the right thing, mashed potatoes and gravy, humor, and Elvis Presley.

This Mother’s Day I hope we all take a moment to think about our moms as real people, not just the angels we proclaim them to be. Do that, and then buy your mom a glorious five pound bag of peanut M&M’s. I think she will appreciate that.

What I've Been Doing

2009-04-30T12:08:00.000-07:00

I admit that it's been a while since I last posted on this blog. I've been trying to get back on the wagon re: my internet addiction, which according to an article on cnn.com, is a real addiction and could be the result of a mental disorder. A MENTAL DISORDER. So I've been a bit squeamish about blogging lately. But my squeamishness didn't last long and now I realize that if I am going to choose a drug, blogging is not such a bad drug. It's sort of like art. And, according to my son's elementary school anti drug slogan, art is a better choice. So, true to my art form of choice, I present you with

Ten Things I've Done Lately:

10. Cooped and fenced our chickens
Can you believe Mike built this awesome chicken coop from no pattern?

9. Told Holden the truth about the tooth fairy even as we celebrated his milestone loss of a top front tooth.

8. Watched while Holden and Mike prepared our garden spot.

7. Freaked out about Swine Flu.

6. Watched while Mike took down the awful carport and almost cried while he put huge wooden beams into place.

5. Made a curtain for my bathroom window, which was only the result of feeling semi-human again now that our little Ruby is sleeping through the night (knock on wood).

4. Worked on injecting some color and pattern into my serenely beige bathroom color palette. I'm not sure it's working (I plan on painting the walls mint green soon).

3. Wrote two newspaper articles: one about our chickens and one about Mothers Day (articles forthcoming).

2. Humiliated myself at Walmart by providing my unsolicited endorsement of those fancy gama lids that go on five gallon buckets (they really ARE great and they really ARE worth it, whether you want to know that or NOT!)

1. GOT BANGS! I told my stylist that I wanted significant bangs. "Hannah Montana bangs?" she queried. "....yes...." I whispered.

Are they significant enough?