Spare time

My dad always used to say “the mark of a true genius is what he does in his spare time.” Of course, he always said this to us to lecture us when we were in high school. No high schooler wants to hear this at 8am on a Saturday morning. He also used this quote to get us motivated to work in the garden.

About a month ago, I needed something for Sage’s urgent ear infection. My sis, Danielle, was nice enough to watch all the kids while I took off with the prescription and a good book. I was planning on reading while they filled it, but I got a little sidetracked. I drifted over to the spices aisle and spent 20 minutes examining McCormick’s new line (and by “new” I mean developed within the last 3 ½ years…the time I’ve been a mother. Who has time to look at new spices with kids in tow at the store?) The reason my time on the spice aisle is limited is that I know for a fact that there are no spices with Dora’s face on them, to tempt younger children into interest while I examine McCormick’s “garlic herb” “garden herb” “garlic pepper” and other variations. [By the way, what in the world are cardamom seeds, and why do they cost $15? Maybe I need some.]

So, there you go. In my “free time” at the grocery store, I look at spices. Does that make me a true genius? Probably not. I guess I'm just a true eater at heart.

Gold's Gym

Tonight Mark and I decided to make use of some free 24-hour passes to Gold’s Gym that we had. When we arrived at the gym, we were welcomed by a guy with a hairdo that should be called “mohawk meets mullet.” I was scared.

I had a hard time paying attention to the representative’s descriptions of the many plans and their features, partly because I couldn’t imagine how hair like that could be socially acceptable under any circumstance, and partly because I’d never seen so many TVs going at the same time in one room.

Mullet-mohawk man kept our driver’s licenses--no doubt to copy down our address and phone numbers for future harassment purposes--and let us in. I don’t remember the last time I got to spend over an hour working out without kids in tow!

As luck would have it, I had packed a white shirt and black shorts to exercise in. Little did I know, 95% of Gold’s Gym’s patrons tonight were wearing some variation of white shirt, black shorts. Luckily, no one else had chosen to sport the mohawk-mullet, otherwise, I might have ditched the free pass and run right home.

I logged time on the elliptical and spent more energy trying to keep my eyes away from the subtitles on a cartoon I found highly offensive, and ill-deserving of the word “family” in its title, than I probably spent on the exercise itself. Then I tried out the treadmill (all the while wondering if I did buy a pass, and brought some friends, if Gold’s Gym would let us practice the amazing treadmill dance on their equipment).

Not to be outdone by Mark, who was still going strong on the weights, I jumped on a stationary bike and tried to pretend like I was not trying to keep up with my neighboring biker. Ten minutes later, when my self-esteem and thighs were shot, I left my neighbor to continue his training for the Tour de France, and went to check out the hot tub.

The hot tub was great, and luckily there was a sauna to dry off in afterwards, because I had convinced Mark that surely the gym supplied towels for its patrons. Oops.

The last feat of the night consisted of trying to get our driver’s licenses back without wasting half an hour explaining why we weren’t willing to make a 3 year commitment, even if mullet-mohawk man dropped the exorbitant joining fee “because it’s a slow Friday night.” Sensing we were staunch in our determination to not be made suckers, he desperately asked us if there was anything he could do to change our minds and get us to commit to a 3-year-plan tonight. Mark told him our idea of an acceptable price range, and mullet-mohawk man shook his head with what almost looked like anger and said “No way!” before sliding our licenses across the table.

I won’t deny that I looked longingly at the childcare center as we left Gold’s Gym. But, let’s face it. I’m better off running on the streets around my home. Then I won’t have to look at ginormous posters of women with 6-packs, wearing sports bras, and I can wear whatever color shirt and shorts I want!

It's a girl!

Congratulations to Danielle, and her new baby girl, Cindy Rose Woodbury!

Mom and baby are both doing great after a 1 hour labor and no epidural!

click here for more details

Let it snow

Utah is a beautiful place in the wintertime

A rock and a hard place

While trying to cook broccoli in the microwave today, I blew the breaker three times. A trip to the apartment upstairs assured me that I was the only one accessing electricity from that breaker. Further investigation brought the terrible realization that I was basically only running my Christmas tree lights, computer and microwave.

One of the benefits of living in a college town is that there are bound to be dozens of discarded Christmas trees in students' front yards the week before Christmas (but after finals). My brothers-in-law recycled a beautiful tree, and even gave it a little trimming to accommodate our ceiling, leaving a bit of a platform on top that was perfect for perching a big, tacky gift bow. Although our Christmas tree has only been with us a few days, I am extraordinarily attached to it. It smells fabulous, and has surprising Febreze-like capabilities for overriding residual dirty diaper smells. I have made a pact to never water it, because the scent of dry pine needles being vacuumed up always reminds me of Christmas.

Even the distinctive odors of cooked broccoli tonight were lessened by our majestic Christmas tree--lessened by the strong pine scent, as well as the tragic fact that the microwave and our sparkling Christmas lights refused to coexist.

And thus begins the battle of microwave v. Christmas lights v. computer. I find myself between a rock and a hard place. Or two rocks and a hard place. Or whatever. Sage's biggest beef with the power outage was definitely the loss of her progress on her "Playhouse Disney" game. I know my brother-in-law Adam would be more than happy to boot the microwave. Little Jacob would too, knowing his "love" for broccoli.

As for myself, I think I can even sacrifice the convenience of 30-second zapped hot dogs for lunch to keep the Christmas mood alive for a few more fragrant and happy days of December. Happy holidays!

Pictures

Yep, I'd say we definitely have some holiday confusion.
But she sure makes a cute Christmas witch.

The princesses
Cinderella (Eliza), Belle (Sage), Rapunzel (Karin), Snow White (Rachel)

Thanks, Debra and John.

Christmas confusion

Today is the penultimate day of our very successful and happy vacation. We drove to Colorado the day after Mark's LAST FINAL (insert chorus of hallelujahs here), flew to Chicago, drove to Indiana, spent a wonderful weekend with South Bend friends, flew back to Colorado, and have jumped around, staying with 3 of Mark's siblings and dad.

Poor Sage--she can't even remember which house is "home." On the other hand, "Poor Sage" also has been pampered with Christmas gifts at each location. If you count the 7 of 12 days of Christmas we got before we left Utah prematurely, Sage has had almost 3 weeks of Christmas gifts. Poor Santa is more like it.

In the confusion that accompanies life when you're living out of 3 big duffel bags, I must have neglected Sage's instruction on typical Christmas traditions. How do I know? Because of a conversation we had this morning.

Last night, my sister-in-law bought adorable princess dresses for my girls. I told Sage this morning that there was a present under the tree for her. She got very excited, and leaped to her feet almost immediately, surely planning to seek out the 21st day of Christmas present. Then she stopped abruptly and earnestly asked me "Which tree?"

Which tree? I could just see the wheels in her brain turning. Is it the tree in the front yard or back yard, or maybe the fake one upstairs?

Which tree? Now the wheels are turning in my head. If I haven't taught her that most people (without curious one-year-olds) put presents under their Christmas trees, we probably haven't done justice to the discussion of "Santa" either. Which explains why she refuses to sit on Santa's lap. She must be thinking, "Who the heck is this big guy in funny clothes that's always doling out gross candy canes?"

On the other hand, after today, maybe Santa won't be a problem any more. This morning, at her cousin's preschool Christmas party, Sage refused to sit on Santa's lap, but asked me to relay the message (almost identical to her cousin's before her) that she wanted a "Belle" dress [that's the first I'd heard of that] and lipstick [meaning lip smackers]. We returned home shortly after the party and there was a Belle dress under the tree. The Christmas tree, that is.

I think Sage just might be a believer now, in spite of her lack of training. Let's just hope Santa knows which tree to put the presents under. Assuming he hasn't run out for presents for Sage by then.

[Many thanks to all the Santas that have been so generous to us. We feel grateful and humbled to have such good friends and family.]

Christmas wishes

For Sage's naptime song a few days ago, she chose "We Wish You a Merry Christmas," and she sang away merrily:

We wish you a Merry Christmas
We wish you a Merry Christmas
We wish you a Merry Christmas
and a happy new day.

Why not? Hope you're having a happy day.

Worthy investements

It took me a couple of Halloweens as a mother to realize that some costumes are a big fat waste of $15. (Example: the ladybug costume that got worn for 1/2 an hour before a certain 2-year-old boycotted the antennae hood, and all the rest, for that matter.)

One of my nephews, Evan, earned himself the near-permanent nickname of Buzz for wearing his Toy Story-inspired Halloween costume approximately every day for two years. It has been passed through two of his younger siblings and is definitely worse for the wear, but is probably the best $30 investment his parents could have made to further the entertainment and creative play of their kids. I saw Evan yesterday and today and both times he was sporting a full-body Spiderman costume for a significant part of each day (beginning the second he got home from church till bedtime on Sunday and from the second he got off the bus till bedtime today, I think). I laughed at Buzz, but now I'm beginning to wise up.

Allow me a small contrast about toy investments. Today, Evan's mom watched my girls while I got some shopping done (THIS is a Christmas gift in and of itself). Do you know how many aisles are devoted to toys at Walmart? They comprise an area approximately equal to the city block I live on. And how many of these toys are worth their cost? I have no idea, but from my personal experience, it's not many. I want to learn how to choose the best toys--the ones that encourage creative play, instead of merely logging time as the toy bucket "benchwarmers." Couldn't someone write a book explaining why the ladybug costume was going to be a failure and why the pig costume was going to last, and how that applies to cooking sets, princess costumes, trains, and stuffed animals?

Here's my little Christmas pig, living it up in her favorite dress up. And if anyone tells her that Santa's sleigh isn't pulled by pigs, they're in big trouble.

The costume's a little tight now (it is 3-6 month size after all), but Eliza's content to just wear the hood over her head, and let the rest hang.

I hope Santa checks his list twice and informs his elves which toys are going to be the good ones [and I really hope they don't make noise], and maybe the elves can somehow get the word out to Walmart and Target. Because I've got too many boxes of ladybug-costume-like-toys and not enough of Buzz Lightyear and the pigs.

Help an Elf

This Christmas elf is needing a little help with a gift idea.

In Mark's family, there is a Christmas gift rotation each year, and we have Mark's dad this year. We want to do something special with the eulogy that Mark wrote for his mom's funeral in February, but I can't think of anything in specific. It's about 2 1/2 pages, so it would be too small to bind (right?), and it would be too long to hang in a frame.

Does anyone have any good ideas?

See some real Christmas elves (Sage and Eliza) dancing it up here and check out Mr. Mark Scrooge here. (Although after Tuesday, when he finishes his last final exam EVER, I'm sure we'll see him do a happy elf dance, at the very least!)

Time out

Somehow Sage convinced Eliza to share a chair with her. Eliza was content for a while. A short while. But Eliza (inevitably) got sick of having a book smashed into her face by "the librarian" or "mommy" or whatever Sage was pretending to be. Unfortunately, "the mommy" wasn't ready to relinquish her child. [Note the gritted teeth in the second picture.]

__

When I realized what was going on, I pulled the chair out, causing Eliza to fall lightly to the floor.

Sage, still fully immersed in her role play, wasted no time in flexing her mommy muscles and lecturing me:

"Don’t do that. Don’t bonk Eliza off. That was a problem. Go to time out.”

There was a problem, but I don't think it was my rescuing Eliza. I think the problem might be the three-year-old dictator. [Do I sound like that when I issue time outs?]

On second thought, maybe next time I'll accept the punishment, and flee to the time out for a little respite from the dictator. I could use 3 minutes of banishment here and there throughout the day.

Things We Like About Mark

The world would be a better place if everyone got a list like this for their birthday. [And if everyone knew the Mark that Krista does.]

Things We Like About Mark

by Krista and Bryce

edited by Janel [with brackets], on the assumption that not everyone can handle reading the word "pannus" in a blog

1. He’s nice.
2. He doesn’t hit other cars too often.
3. He likes to “love you tender.”
4. He has big calves.
5. He does a mean shoulder roll. [He credits Danielle for this move.]
6. The nutcracker, Mark, a bathrobe. [If you don’t know, don’t ask. It was a late night.]
7. There’s usually whole milk in his fridge. [Uh, Bryce, I think that’s for the 1-year-old, not the 100-pound-birthday boy…Maybe the 100-pounder should drink the whole milk.]
8. He reads blogs.
9. He has purple eyelids [as does his posterity…mostly daughter #2, who looks a lot like his mom].
10. He taught Eliza to say “adios” [and other things in Spanish].
11. He listens to late night woes from in-laws [and his spouse].
12. Two words: big nicey [which is somehow different from #1, I guess].
13. White and delightsome [in the words of my mom for the times she exchanged her usual pants for shorts].
14. He puts up with Wilson cat jokes and presents. [It’s true. As proof I offer the fact that Becca and Jordan gave him a Christmas cat potholder. And I thought those were only available on the black market…I mean Big Lots.]
15. [Okay, I won't deprive you of Krista's warped sense of humor:] He doesn't have a pannus. [Look it up if you want, but don't say I didn't warn you.]

Happy birthday, Mark.

It's not easy being three

Today I was reading a national geographic book called “The Big Cats” about lions, tigers, cougars, etc., to Sage. I turned to the jaguar page and asked if she knew what the animal was. She barely hesitated before responding “Dorito.”

“Dorito?” I repeated with confusion, wondering if she was serious. Her earnest face assured me that she wasn’t joking. Before I could decipher her response, Sage recognized her mistake and quickly corrected herself. “Cheeto.”

I blame Frito-Lay's Chester the Cheetah for this. After all, it's not easy being cheesy. Or being three.

Post birthday letdown

A few thoughts. [Incoherence likely due to overconsumption of sugar.]

…must not eat another piece of chocolate cake, or my stomach might explode…

...must not think about the comprehensive health reform goals required to counteract the birthday sugar binging...

…must not stack another dirty dish by the sink, or the counter might implode…[Even worse than a big pile of Sunday night dishes is a big pile of Sunday night dishes in a sink that needs to be fixed using a tool outside in the garage in the 27 degree weather.]

…must not receive any more birthday pampering, or my ego might explode, and I might decide to never do another chore again. Such nice birthday messages, partying, and babysitting of the kiddos are enough to make me feel like queen for a day, though they certainly do make life seem severely dull the next.

...must remember to thank the husband again for letting me cancel our ritzy birthday dinner date in order to relax and watch hairspray over some tasty grilled cheese sandwiches.

...must wear my new socks to bed. Ahhhhh, bed. I'm old enough now to go to bed at 9pm without shame, right? Buenas noches.

One day more

Danielle, you know what today is. The last day of the year that we are both the same age...a whopping 25 years old. I know you love it, so live it up. I'll see you at 26 next October. Those eleven months will give me a chance to work on perfecting the flaming eyes ghost cake.

Grandparents

How do grandparents learn how to be grandparents?

I'm just wondering, because my mom and dad have got it totally figured out. They always seem to know when to step in when I am going crazy over the stubbornness of a 3-year-old, the recklessness of a 1-year-old, and the short-sightedness and tiredness of a young mother. How do they know when having to change one more poopy diaper is going to turn me into a raving lunatic? Because it's always then that they grab my diaper bag and say "I'll take care of this one."

Is there a book? Are there formulas? Are there explicit instructions that make it possible for my parents to win over the hearts of their three grandchildren, even as they discipline, tease, play with, teach, and love them?

Or maybe, could their love for their grandkids be a mere reflection of what they feel for the parents of their grandkids?

Have they read and memorized a book called "How to get your kids to never move away"? If not, my mom and dad should probably write that book, because it's working!!!

Nursery gossip

Sage thrives on the local nursery gossip. Before we arrived home after church, I had already been well informed about Sage’s classmates.

“Banner got a little boo boo.”

“Lindsey had a cold, and Sister Weeks had a cold.”

“Taylor was wearing a green sweater.”

“Izzy was gone.”

"Abigail had gum in this side of her cheek and she chewed, chewed, chewed at church. It was from her dad."

Now I don’t claim to have been any different than Sage is when I was three. [I can tell you I was at least that gossipy in my journal from 5^th grade on through all of high school]. But I hoped Sage would remember as much about the nursery lesson as she did about everyone’s ailments. So I gave her a little prompt in the spiritual direction.

“What was your lesson about, Sage?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was it about…” [as I read directly off the paper she brought home] “…things to taste or smell?”

“I don’t know.”

Interesting. It looks like someone’s got a selective memory. Then again, how could the body’s sense of smell stand a chance against juicy information about Banner’s boo boo? I’m sure Sage will keep us posted.

I'm thankful for food

I'm thankful for pie.

I'm thankful for the special times I had learning to make pie and bread with Grandma Wilson.

I'm thankful for a mom who never let it be known that she disliked cooking (Dad spilled the beans when I was in high school)--something you would never guess from the great food we always ate [crab fettucine excluded] and the very few times we ever went out to eat.

I'm thankful for a dad who forgave my disinterest in sports, and found a way to compliment me by supporting my love of cooking. I owe much adolescent self-esteem and my Bosch mixer to him. (Even if he never actually followed through with those promises to do my Saturday job if I made bread! At least I got out of doing it.)

I'm thankful for a husband who generously lets me experiment with cooking, enjoys dark chocolate as much as I do, and made me the "What's for dinner" list of 75 possible dinner entrees, 18 sides, 20 breads, and 23 fruit/veggie suggestions.

I'm thankful for neighbors (past and present) who accept our leftovers and extras, who forgive me for calling them my personal "garbage disposal," who form dinner groups with me, and who share their favorite recipes, including "The Cake Mix Doctor" cookbook, which has revolutionized our FHE treats.

I'm thankful for the cute cooking movie, Ratatouille, and other clean and uplifting films.

I'm thankful for AllRecipes.com.

I'm thankful for all our cooking-related wedding presents that seemed superfluous to a college student, and now seem indulgent to a young mother who loves to cook. [Except the turkey roasting pan, which I regifted, to Mark's displeasure.]

I'm thankful for an abundance of food, in quantity and variety. I'm grateful for the choices I have among 75+ possible dinner ideas.

I'm thankful for a refrigerator, freezer, and sanitary cooking and eating spaces.

I'm thankful for a sense of taste and smell.

I'm thankful for my body which, for all it's lumps and stretch marks, is truly a temple and a gift from God.

Thanks for toilets

Good news: Our toilet has been fixed for the fifth time this month, and things are working much better. [Bless Costco for carrying an $80 toilet set.]

Bad news: Sage was present when Grandpa came over to help take off the old toilet and install the new one. Seeing the naked hole in the bathroom floor that opened into the pipes that go into the sewer reminded Sage of her goldfish that went [and I quote] “down the drain, down into the pipes, and down into the sewer.” Difficult questions surfaced, such as “Is my orange fish down there?” and “Can we ask Heavenly Father and Jesus to get our fish back?”

Good news (sort of): Sage and Eliza were fascinated for well over an hour while they played in the new toilet (and I literally mean IN it) before it made its transition from the living room to the bathroom.

Bad news: Today after Thanksgiving dinner, I heard Eliza’s muffled cries. I ran upstairs [not the first time that night] and found the door closed to the bathroom in the master bedroom [obviously not in my house]. Eliza and her 18-month-old cousin, Bryn, had apparently decided to stop picking on each other (which consisted of stealing each other’s rolls and toys and pushing or tackling each other all night) and join forces in making some mischief. (Either that or Eliza was trying to give Bryn a swirlie.) In addition to the toilet stirring that had taken place by both red-handed (I mean wet-handed) one-year-olds, the curtain on the vanity was ripped down, bottles were on the floor, and the light was off. I am still at a loss as to how they worked their magic in the dark, and how long they were there, and how this made them friends. But sure enough, their picking on each other was over after the toilet incident. Whatever works.

Since this entry seems to be destined to focus on toilet talk, I’ll take advantage and mention a few related quotes and thoughts from this week:

A conversation with Sage when she was trying to get out of doing something: S: "I'm the mommy." Me: "Then you have to clean the toilet." S: "You can be the mommy."

After Sage used the toilet at the doctor's office: "This toilet needs a closer so Eliza and Jacob can't get in it."

On Sunday, in Senior Primary, I let the kids make up new words to a short Thanksgiving song “For Health and Strength.” They chose three things (two one-syllables and one three-syllables) that they were grateful for and substituted them in for health, strength, and daily food in the song “For health and strength and daily food we praise thy name, O Lord.” Perhaps next time I will specify no blasphemy. Oops.

Some were fun, some were silly, and some were ridiculous.

Fun: For clothes and shoes and pumpkin pie we praise thy name, O Lord.

Silly: For love and home and toilets we praise thy name, O Lord.

Ridiculous: For sports and cheese and hamburgers we praise thy name, O Lord. [This was not the only one about cheese, believe it or not. And Danielle wasn’t even there to influence the vote.]

The kids got the biggest kick out of the toilet one (in spite of its syllabic inaccuracies). I’m sure the wise guy (girl, actually) who penned this version had no idea what she was getting herself in to. Had she any idea that her primary chorister had spent six months in a VERY rural part of Mexico without a toilet, she might have changed her tune. As it was, the damage was done. They were destined for a lecture on true appreciation for toilets, bathrooms, and running water. My Primary lecture was more condensed and less graphic than what you're about to read. But here's what's at the heart of my thoughts in Primary.

When I first arrived in Mexico (2001), I was instructed in the processes of excretion by the natives at my “home.” My instructions were to urinate in the dry riverbed, defecate in a small room with a cement floor (and walk away), and deposit used feminine hygiene products in a crack in the stone wall that surrounded the house.

I have written and rejected three drafts of this next paragraph, because it is so tempting to give detailed information about an issue that caused me much concern, planning and adaptation. However, I realize it is likely an issue that laymen will find repulsive, even though any Mexico Literacy Program participant can attest to the importance of this issue. Let me put it this way-- when you have to think so carefully and often about how to excrete waste without being seen, soiling yourself, tipping over (in the poo room, this could be considered suicide…literally), you begin to wonder if diapers or catheters might not be a good idea for adults after all, and you certainly don’t shrink to discuss the latest developments on tricks for “using the bathroom” (a term used loosely), or fecal patterns related to three straight months of bean and tortilla consumption.

I was blessed with a roofless, walled “bathroom” area during my second three months in Mexico. The urine soaked into the dirt and fecal matter was to be shoveled up and flung over the wall. I don’t know which part I liked the most about this “bathroom”--the privacy, the legitimate, acknowledged bathroom spot, or the prospect of not having to see others' business.

With this background, I feel quite qualified to say that I am extremely grateful for bathrooms and toilets. I’m grateful to not have to pay 20 cents to obtain 4 squares of coarse toilet paper and access to the only bathroom in a public place. I’m grateful that in most public bathrooms in the U.S., while I’m sitting, my knees don’t touch the door; the stall is usually much higher than my neck; and employees regularly empty trash cans, repair (or at least label) defective toilets, and clean stalls. I feel overjoyed that most bathroom doors have free toilet paper, soap, paper towels, toilet seats and lids, working locks, feminine products dispensers, air fresheners, trash cans for feminine products. Even basic bathrooms often feature hanging artwork, baby stations, music, and automatic devices for flushing and dispensing water, soap and paper towels. In my own home, cleaning the toilet once every two weeks is a small price to pay in exchange for the disappearance of our excretions one second after that little lever is pushed. I am blessed.

I hope I remember not to complain when Ronald McDonald is low on paper towels, or when the library's bathroom has some trash on the floor. Or even when I have to wait in line at the airport to drag my kids and luggage into the spacious “Family bathroom” for diaper changes and potty stops. Maybe I can just use those opportunities to compose my own thankful song for all the many luxuries that I do have. “For soap and locks and free bathrooms I praise thy name, O Lord.” And for much, much more.

Doctrines of a three-year-old

Today Sage got out the microphone and narrated about ten of her favorite scripture stories for me---all spoken directly and importantly into her mircrophone (the same one I used to get her attention in a past FHE lesson).

I had to jot down some of the doctrine she preached:

NOAH: "It rained for forty days and forty nights and forty mornings."

JESUS: "Jesus had a problem. He was dead. And he was hanging on a cross."

CREATION: "God made the earth, and he made light and dark, water, animals, plants, trees, flowers, leaves, bushes,..." [A little botanist in the making?]

NEPHI TO LAMAN & LEMUEL: "Don't touch me, or you'll have to get a shot." [shocked]

MOSES: "Moses had a lamb. Because lambs are for eating. [breaking into song:] 'The lambs give us clothes, the lambs give us clothes. Hi-ho the dairy-o, the lambs give us clothes.' And Moses had one because there were so many yummy lambs to eat. And he eat and eat and eat...."
[Sage was obsessed with her stuffed lamb for at least 2 years. Naturally, she was traumatized to learn of the importance of the lamb in Old Testament sacrifices, and especially at the first Passover. (Thanks, Becca.) Becca and Mark did some quick talking to convince her that lambs were good for food and sacrifices and wool for clothes...and we decided not to revisit the Passover events until she's older, or less attached. I think some of the Moses story got lost in the whole lamb fiasco, as demonstrated by her narrative about Moses tonight.]

CLOSING SONG: [This one's for Danielle, who loves all of Mark's songs:] After Sage went to bed, Mark and I were laughing about her understanding of the scripture stories. Mark sang to the tune of "Follow the Prophet": "Now we're in a world where Sagers is confused..."

Follow in faith

It is inevitable that the daughter of the ward primary chorister (me) and ward primary pianist (Mark) and older sister of the ward primary mascot/cheerleader (Eliza) will pick up the year's 8 primary songs whether she's trying to or not. This year's theme is "I'll Follow Him in Faith," and one of the year's songs was titled just that. I was flattered on Sunday when Sage's nursery music leader told Mark that she can tell which children are exposed to music in the home--and it was clear to her that Sage was. But, as they say, pride goeth before a fall. Today came the fall.

I was washing dishes in the kitchen when I heard Eliza begin screeching in the living room. I rushed to the scene of the crime, having recognized Eliza's "I've been wronged" cry, where I naturally found Sage. I confronted Sage, who is amazingly truthful, even when it comes to incriminating herself.

"What happened, Sage? Why is Eliza sad?"

" Eliza was trying to get the Desitin, so I told her to 'follow me in faith'."

I think I know what next week's family home evening lesson will be about.

Repetition is the mother of learning...or insanity

Some things about motherhood are very repetitive. Do kids get sick of hearing many of the same things over and over, because I sure get sick of saying the same things over and over. Kelly M. wrote about this inevitable symptom of motherhood, and said she felt like a doll with a string in her back. When someone pulls the string, out comes what may as well be a pre-recorded response. Here’s a sampling of my most common ones:

1. Just a minute
2. Just one more minute
3. I’m almost done
4. Please put on your shoes, Sage.
5. We don’t throw food, Eliza.
6. Where’s Liza Lu?
7. Have you wiped yet, Sage?
8. Then go back to the bathroom, please.
9. Have you washed your hands, Sage?
10. Then go back to the bathroom, please.
11. [Aunt] Krista’s just teasing you, Sage.
12. I love it how you share with Eliza, Sage. [Actually, I just practice saying this one a lot, so I'll be ready when the time actually comes for me to say it.]
    
13. We don’t pull Sage’s hair.
14. We don't pick Eliza up.
15. Jacob, we don't put remotes/pencils/flashlights/cell phones in the VCR.
16. Let's go get in the stroller/car.
17. We're almost there.
    
18. I love my cute girls.
19. I...love...YOU!

Obviously kids can keep up their fair share of repetition. I just downloaded some of Danielle’s pictures from our trip to Southern Utah, and one of the most often-repeated daily cycle of events was captured clearly on film.

1. Sage and Jacob [or Eliza] play happily together.


2. Jacob pulls Sage's hair. Sometimes he does this out of boredom, sometimes out of curiosity, sometimes because her hair got in his face and bothered him.


3. Jacob gets a time out. [Sometimes Sage, too, depending on whether or not the moms were able to break the kids up before Sage initiates vigilante justice.]



4. The sweet taste of justice for Sage is lessened by the rapid arrival of boredom. Sage takes the side of mercy, and pleads for Jacob's release.



5. The friends are reunited with joy--as if they had been apart a long time--and play together happily. (Until the next round starts.) And for a few minutes, life is very, very sweet.


So, repetition is the mother of learning...or, as wise Kelly M. says, "Motherhood is the learning of repetition."

Five star fashion

Today, after eating a little humble pie, I’ve changed my mind about Mark’s sea green tie being tacky. What is truly, officially tacky is that I had an iridescent little star sticker stuck to my bum for who knows how long today. Not cool at all.

Reasons someone might be wearing a star sticker on their bum:

1. They’re a Wemmick with a warped sense of humor
2. They are three years old and had a successful potty training day
3. I can’t think of any more ideas, and the first two were not even totally legitimate.

Since my three year old failed three miserable times in the potty-training department today, and I’m definitely not a Wemmick, I can see no reason why I should wear a star sticker anywhere. That being said, I am confiscating all stickers in our house so as to preserve a semblance of dignity. And it certainly can’t hurt to be seen with a good looking guy in a nice suit...even if his tie does have a few sea green stripes.

Fit to be tied?

Sea green is not my favorite color...at all. It’s the color of my bedroom carpet (that also happens to be stained and very old). It’s also the color of Mark’s newest tie. He hasn’t taken the tags off yet, because I have a hard time not making retching noises when I see it. Totally involuntary, I assure you.

In his defense, the tie cost a mere $5 on clearance at JCPenney. In my defense, why would I want to look at my husband and throw up? It’s a nice looking tie…minus the sea green.

Who wears sea green anyway? The only other sea green thing in our house is a pair of Sage’s Dora underwear. Would Mark wear a Dora tie? I think not. And, as such, sea green ties should also be banned.

Thus, at this impasse, I make an appeal to a higher source…or at least an outside source. What do you say? Should we go green (sea green, that is), or return it and enjoy lunch at Wendy’s on the way home?

FYI: Another undesirable purchase made yesterday was Betty Crocker's Oatmeal Chocolate Chip lip balm. Trust me. It's nothing like the real thing. And it probably violates "Comprehensive Health Reform."

Embarrassing business

One of the most humiliating things that can strike anyone anytime is having the misfortune to clog a toilet.

And it only gets worse if your husband has to help you take a turn at the plunger.

But the ignominy really reaches a pinnacle when you have to call your dad to come down at 11pm to help. And he doesn’t leave your house until 1:00am.

This is a humiliating thing. Hypothetically speaking, that is. Not that I know from experience or anything. I would never admit to such an embarrassing thing online.

But if I did, then I would also say that I have never been so grateful to have a husband who’s willing to plunge away at someone else’s "business," without even moaning at his misfortune (I did enough of that for both of us), then cleans up after it’s all taken care of. And I’m really grateful to have a dad who cheerfully (can you believe it?) works on someone else’s toilet until the wee hours of the morning. I’m hypothetically grateful, that is.

And I am eternally grateful that the kids were in bed when this hypothetical scenario took place. Because how do you explain to a three-year-old why the toilet is sitting in the tub?

I am beginning my Thanksgiving celebrations right now. Hypothetically speaking, that is.

Pavlovian Responses

If there’s one thing I’ll never have to explicitly teach Eliza, it’s how to count to 3. She has undoubtedly learned it from living with a three-year-old who gets the count-off 30 times a day. In English and Spanish. Maybe I could enhance Eliza’s learning by changing the traditional countdown to involve a little multiplication. “Sage, I’m counting to 9 by multiples of three, ‘3-6-9’…” and if she hadn’t stopped crying by 9, then she’d get a time out. Or “Sage, I’m counting to 1 by fractions: “¼, ½, ¾, 1.” If she didn’t get to the bathroom by 1, then she’d have a longer time out. [Perhaps I could teach the girls to use different number-base counting systems by counting with binary numbers. "0, 1, 10, 11, 100, 101[*],..." No, it would take too many numbers to get a pattern going, and it would give Sage too much time, and I would have to think too hard and probably forget why I was counting off in the first place. Binary numbers definitely wouldn’t work.]

But, if I were to start using multiples to count off the time Sage had to shape up before she landed herself in time out, Eliza would no doubt absorb enough multiplication figures to be able to begin doing long division in about two weeks. Sage probably detests the sequence “1-2-3.” I can just see Sage in her first day of kindergarten, when the teacher decides to count to three, then Sage would probably try to hustle to the nearest time out area or burst into tears in a Pavlovian response to the numbers that involuntarily recall thoughts of discipline.

I have my own Pavlovian reaction to hearing my dad whistle. Following any single-toned whistle, I inevitably tense up, and wait to hear if the number one will follow. If so, it’s time to drop everything and hightail it to the living room, before he gets to ten. As we learned well, it behooved us to make good time and even arrive early, because there may likely have been a small stampede of eight kids trying to get up the stairs at the same time to make family prayer. I honestly don’t remember what the punishment was if you didn’t arrive in time. Dad’s whistle wasn’t a Captain von Trapp kind of whistle, but it meant meant business.

A few of my other Pavlovian reactions:

1. Hearing a dog bark (I tense, then run, then look.)

2. Thinking of chocolate (I begin rummaging through my discipline cupboard or freezer or cookbook. Comprehensive Health Reform is trying to decondition me to this response.)

3. Hearing the dinner bell (My mom's orange bell meant it was time to hustle to the table. If you got there first, you could reserve the “best” plate for yourself, which was usually one of the following:

a. The chipped plate (the chipped portion was originally considered a blemish, but later became a coveted decoration. I have no doubt Krista had to do with this turnaround.)

b. The plate containing the largest portion of “good” food (turkey burger, scrambled eggs, hot dog sections in our favorite hot dog casserole, tatertots)

c. The plate containing the least amount of bad foods (mixed vegetables, fish, squash, coleslaw)

4. Hearing the “It’s Family Home Evening Tonight” song from my childhood (If you came fast, you’d be able to link hands with Dad and the “big kids” while mom played the piano. The lucky first person would lead the rest of the group (at reckless speeds and with purposeful disregard for corners) around the house like a snake—inevitably crashing the followers into things until “reverse” was screamed loudly and the caboose took control. This game ended when the song was over, or injuries to some of the younger participants on the chain caused Mom to abandon the piano and come running.)

Is it abusive to use Pavlovian Conditioning on my daughters? I wonder if it would work on myself. I could condition myself to minimize my chocolate eating and dog fearing at the same time. Perhaps I should only allow myself to eat chocolate if I'm listening to a soundtrack of angry dogs. Hmmm.

PS--Thanks to Lupe for summing up exactly what I'm thinking when I'm trying to write a comment.

[*] Thanks to Miriam and math nerd husband for correcting my binary number mistake. Don't tell Dr. Jarvis--he might revoke my diploma.

To comment or not to comment

Dark chocolate has found a friend on my list of addictions. Now blogging ranks a close second (or maybe even first, in light of our effective, guilt-inspiring, tummy-fat-eliminating (I hope) Comprehensive Health Reform plan). I wonder if “time spent blogging” will be a category in the second edition of our Comprehensive Health Reform.

I’m an addicted blogger. Even if I don’t post everyday, I find myself jotting down ideas everyday about subjects deserving of a paragraph or two on my blog--most of which stay tucked away in the “ideas” folder on my computer. Danielle knows exactly where they are, and helps herself to them when she’s bored at my house. Here is one of those that I’ve been wanting to write for a while.

As a nervous, novice blogger, I spent an inordinate amount of time formulating comments. (I'm still a novice, but not so nervous anymore.) It takes me a surprisingly long time to formulate a comment because of my many self-imposed requirements that a comment be all of the following: not too short, not too long, clever, coherent, not too many exclamation marks, correctly use capitals and punctuation and reflect that I HAVE been to college, don’t contain the word agaga, etc.

Especially tricky was the issue of responding to comments made on my blog. I wanted to appear as “clever” in my comments as I had (tried to sound) in my entry. (I spend a lot of time rewriting my words so I don’t sound as dumb as I do rattling off stories in real life….the beauty of the written word.) The reason I started a blog in the first place was to better direct my writing from lots of personal emails to friends to more lasting written thoughts and works that would develop my writing skills and be more descriptive and meaningful to look back on. So I chose to spend my time/energy writing new posts instead of trying to construct clever replies to other people’s already witty and fun comments on mine.

But I’ve been rethinking my decision lately.

Reasons to respond to comments:

1. To publicly acknowledge the funny and complimentary comments that I privately thrive on (I admit that I save all my blog entries (plus reader comments) as part of my journal.)
2. To defend my honor (like when Kim brings up my past obsessions with Saved by the Bell)…or whatever’s left of my honor after I ridicule myself for my 5^th grade fashion and passions.
3. To thank anyone who takes the time to read through my ramblings about chocolate, kids, fish, health goals, aspirations, frustrations, and more.
4. To increase the number of comments on each entry. (My honesty on this one betrays my vanity.) I am so flattered to have readers (lurking or not).

It is with gratitude for my audience (whoever you may be), and in honor of this being Election Week, that I present my first poll at the top of this page. If you leave a comment, do you expect/hope for/appreciate a responding comment from me, or are you merely stroking my ego?

The Inverse Fish Hypothesis

There must be an unwritten law that the lifespan of a pet fish will be inversely proportional to their owner’s interest in and love for them. [Translation: If you like them, they die before you get home from the pet store. If you are totally sick of them, they live forever. From the statistically significant observational study I’ve done of the three times I’ve allowed Sage to have a pet fish, I can say that my fish NEVER die!...without a little...uh...encouragement by me. The current pair have resisted and successfully avoided death by confinement (in a small Mason jar), death by pollution (I really don’t like to make time to clean their jar), death by curiosity (of almost 2-year-old Jacob), death by Green Snow Globe, death by starvation (maybe I forgot to feed them once or twice…), and death by all those natural causes that are supposed to occur to fish!!! We don’t even have dechlorinated water!

So here’s the final ounce of proof for my theory, which I will officially call “The Inverse Fish Hypothesis.” Tonight I asked Mark for permission to give our immortal fish a different watery home (via the sewer pipes). Being the pet-loving, sensitive soul he is, Mark hesitated. It was then that I had the genius thought to let Sage take the fish to a new home in the pond on campus. Mark agreed this plan was not just humane, but also better because we wouldn’t have to explain to Sage where the fish went. I prepared a clean jar for transportation purposes when “The Inverse Fish Hypothesis” kicked into gear. As I was transferring the fish to the clean jar, the pretty orange goldfish flipped right out of the bowl down the drain, leaving the ugly brown fish and it’s owner dumbfounded. There you have it; a fish’s lifespan will be inversely proportional to the owner’s interest in it.

Other, more general, applications of “The Inverse Fish Hypothesis” in our home:

--The speed with which kids perform certain tasks will inevitably be inversely proportional to their parents’ need for haste.

--The healthier a food is, the less kids want to eat it. (And sometimes parents, too. Exception: Sage and broccoli.)

--The lower the countdown gets to a scheduled picture day, the more bruises and scratches the kids will get on their face. (Eliza literally got a sliver in the cheek this week…the week my coupon expires.)

--The less time that remains before bedtime, the more things I think of to do…like blogging about fish.

P.S. Here's Sage enjoying Day 1 with her "Comprehensive Health Reform" plan and chart. Notice the picture in the bottom right corner of a McDonald's Play Place. That's the reward for a successful week. "Successful" is yet to be defined.

Comprehensive Health Reform

Today I noticed Mark scribbling away on his notebook. A few minutes later, he passed over the project he'd been poring over--the solution to all our problems. It was labeled "Comprehensive Health Reform." It was a grand plan, consisting of a plan for us and a different plan for Sage. Each plan had lists of goals, rewards and minor punishments, and included sketches of charts with places for stickers.

Here's a sneak peek. One of the goals was to eat one sweet only per day. This may sound like it's ridiculously simple to achieve, and not worth the ink it takes to list as a goal. For us, well, to make this goal, we might as well be fasting. Especially in the terribly delicious last two months of the year--the ones sandwiched in between Halloween and New Year's and including Thanksgiving and Christmas. See how timely Mark's project is?

Mark's health reform goals are no ordinary goals. They are like "Choose your own adventure" goals. If you choose a different path, there is still an ending (goal) to deal with the situation. For example, the one sweet per day goal is equipped with two possibilities. Number one, I choose to eat my sweet at/after dinner. This is only allowed if I have eaten my required three veggies two fruits already. Never fear, though. If I choose to eat my sweet at lunchtime, Mark has allowed a little leeway: I only have to have eaten one veggie and one fruit to legally consume my daily sweet.

The goals were designed to reach into all areas of our lives where bad habits have developed--balanced eating, exercising, bedtimes, scripture reading, and more. One goal specific to Sage was "No bajar de la cama." [No getting out of bed.] That's my favorite one.

I don't deny that my apple crisp craving, chocolate eating, blog writing/reading, midnight reading, sedentary lifestyle needs a bit of reform. Mark's plan is like the extended Williams version of "Body for Life"...but without the pre- and post- pictures taken in skimpy spandex outfits. In the words of Suzy, "I'm glad someone's being assertive with my life." I like it. More comprehensive details forthcoming.

Not wanted: Chevy Malibu

How low can she go? Last week our Chevy Malibu Lady reported to her insurance company and the police that Mark gave false insurance information and claimed to be not responsible for the accident. (Neither of which are true.) Her insurance company called my mom to inform her that Mark was “threatening” their client. (Mark threaten? I’ll believe that when I see it for the first time.) Later that day Mark got a phone message from the police, threatening to issue him a summons if he didn’t call back very soon.

It took a while to figure out what lies Chevy Malibu lady was telling to get her insurance and the police so riled up at someone whose side of the story they didn’t know and hadn’t asked about before they began doling out angry phone calls. As for Ms. Malibu Wannabe, I wonder if she has a hard time sleeping at night, knowing that she’s improving on the truth and inventing outright lies right and left in an attempt to ruin Mark's credibility and get money. A Chevy Malibu with less than 100,000 miles couldn’t be worth it.

Then again, Ms. Malibu is a nurse who smokes. This must mean she's good at ignoring, avoiding or denying the truth. Too bad Mark had to tap the bumper of the craziest lady in Salt Lake.

Professional Responsibility

Mark’s been studying for tomorrow’s MPRE (Multistate Professional Responsibility Exam), a part of the bar designed to test understanding of ethical standards for lawyers.

Being the interested and informed (ha) wife I am, I wanted to help Mark study. So I wrote him a practice test question. It is based on a true story. From today, in fact.

Background: We got a good phonics movie this week (Leap Frog Letter Factory), and Sage is really into phonics--sounding out letters and determining what letter a word starts with. For example, she loves to go through the letters of the alphabet and say the following chant my mom taught her: letter name (2x), sound the letter makes (6 times), then a word that begins with that letter. Example: S, S, sss, sss, sss; sss, sss, sss, Sage.”

More background: My dear mother was a stickler for good language in our home. And I’m not talking about swearing. (That would have resulted in eviction from the Wilson home, I’m sure.)

“Not nice language,” punishable by time outs according to my mom’s discretion, included the following words: meanie, rude, dumb.

“Bad language,” punishable by time outs and soap on our tongues, included the following: stupid, shut up, jerk.

“Very bad language,” punishable by time outs and cayenne pepper on our tongues, included the following: cra_, suc_ and the alternate words for bum, passing gas, things that collect in people’s noses, and certain nouns related to bathroom activities. [I don’t even have the guts to write them…Back in the day even the written word could incriminate you. I know because once Krista turned in my journal as evidence for my need for cayenne pepper.]

Mark's parents were also very conservative in their language. I hear Mark's dad report one morning that "Max [the dog] did three businesses in the garage.”

I admit that in my independent years away from home, I’ve regressed a tad, and Mark and I use a few of the more common nouns relating to bodily excretions.

So here’s the ethical question I posed to Mark tonight.

Choose the best reaction to the following situation:

You are chatting away with your mother, and your three-year-old daughter comes running in and interrupts you with the following:

“Mommy, I have P-P-puh-puh-puh,puh-puh-puh pee pee undies!”

Do you:

1. Send daughter to time out for saying “pee pee”
2. Time out+wash mouth out with soap
3. Time out+cayenne pepper
4. Laugh, but try to turn your laugh into a snort, and look embarrassed
5. Apologize, and offer your own tongue for cayenne pepper

I suppose such a question could be found on the Professional Responsibility Exam for Mothers, which I would likely fail.

The Day After (Halloween)

I’m trying to decide what to do with all our candy. It doesn’t help that we spent the night trick-or-treating, and didn’t give away a single piece of candy at our house. Why did I buy my favorite candy for our bowl? Next year I'm buying only Payday and Baby Ruth candy bars.

I know some parents who buy their kids' Halloween candy from them. Who will buy ours from me? Here are some other ideas to win our kitchen back from Willy Wonka.

Option 1: Keep only the gross stuff, so I won’t be tempted to eat it.

Option 2: Keep only the good stuff, and try not to eat it all before Mark gets home.

Option 3: Eat all the candy before the end of today, so I won’t have to deal with it anymore.

Option 4: Dispose of the candy…but where?

Option 5: Pack it away, and call it our 72-hour kit (more like year's supply), and hope someone with a year's supply of wheat will want to split with us.

When Eliza groggily tottered into the kitchen this morning, she eyed her pumpkin candy bucket with suspicion. It was like she was thinking, “I remember you…but from what?” I must act quickly before she remembers the sugar haul from last night.

Check out this excellent party food from last night.

Here’s a difference between my girls. We went trick-or-treating last night, then went to an awesome party Krista hosted. Sage loved trick-or-treating, and eyed the contents of her bucket happily, but didn’t complain when Mark told her we weren’t eating any more candy tonight. Eliza also loved trick-or-treating, but she was not content to merely eye the candy. She insisted on clutching a fistful of assorted goods at all times. In the car, between stops, Eliza selected a tootsie roll and sucked her way right through the wrapper. Later at the party, Sage ate one rice-krispy treat, but Eliza spent the whole night begging for sugar in any form off different people’s plates. And the cute little pig was hard to resist. Maybe that’s why she was up at 7am(!!!) today in spite of her 10:15pm bedtime last night. Grrrr.

When I woke up this morning, I found a bike lock under my pillow. Thanks, kiddies. Clearly I'm no princess and the pea because I slept like a rock. (Could there be a connection between the sugar intake and deep sleeping? Interesting.) I don't think this was some malicious attempt to sabotage my sleep. In fact, I regularly find exciting things in my nightstand cupboard, including the bike lock, toothpaste, sippie cups, a Dora bag, a squirt bottle, books, etc. I better keep a close eye to make sure neither of the girls start stashing Halloween candy in the secret cupboard...sounds like something I would have done when I was younger...or older. Mark would probably find it within a month, but Eliza or Jacob would undoubtedly find it within a week.

Does the food bank accept Halloween candy?

Funny Sage

Today is my sister, Suzy's, birthday. She was the one that inspired me to be diligent about keeping a list of the funny things Sage says. This year I've already got 9 pages of crazy, silly, and hillarious things Sage has said on a document on the desktop of my computer.

In honor of Suzy, here are a few classic one-liners from Sage.

“Eliza did crunchy-crunchies on my potty treat.” Referring to how Eliza smashed Sage’s mini candy bar (intended for a potty treat). 6.4.07

“There’s the statue of liberty of Joseph Smith.” (About the statue of Joseph Smith in the atrium of the JSB at BYU.) 6.5.07

Sage’s prayer over lunch: “Thank you for Mommy, Daddy, Eliza and Sage. Thank you for the yummy food. Thank you that we can keep Eliza so safe from the bitey bitey ants. In the name..” 6.10.07

I gave Sage a piece of bread in the car and she said “you got crumbs on me, mommy, and that makes me so, so sad.” 6.11.07

“I hope they call me on a missionary!” 8.15.07

“Eso es no un treat.” (Sage trying to convince Mark that something didn’t count as dessert.) 9.10.07

“We are happy because we are girls. And we love to eat.” (Sage to Becca) 9.25.07

“When I’m having a sad day, then I’ll use mean voices.” 10.8.07

“If you don’t choose one [marker] for me mommy, you can go lie down on the couch and have a little time out.” 10.8.07

“Jacob needs to take an H-O-T nap.” 10.10.07

I said, “It’s nap time.” Sage promptly responded, “My tummy hurts, so I want to make a piñata now.” 10.17.07

I was making some food in the kitchen when Sage asked what I was doing. I told her, and she said, "Good thinking, mommy.” 10.20.07

I found Sage putting our old address labels on Mark’s Nintendo games. When she saw me looking she admonished, "Leave the stickers on those so they can be important.” 10.20.07

"If that diamond ring goes away, Papa’s gonna buy you a shopping cart. If that shopping cart goes away, Papa’s gonna buy you a telephone.” (Shopping cart...not to be confused with a horse and a cart.) 10.27.07

I'm "It"

I've been tagged. I’m not really a non-conformist, but I don’t have interesting answers to give to the questions I’ve been tagged with, so allow me a little literary license.

4 Jobs I've Had:
1. Manager for my dad’s apartments

2. Math tutor

3. Math research assistant

4. Facilitator for BYU’s Mexico Literacy program

4 Things I Do Instead of Going to Bed:
1. Blog and read other blogs

2. Download, organize, and look at pictures from my camera

3. Think of ways to keep Mark up

4. Read addicting books until the wee hours of the morning

4 Most common cravings for this week:

1. Chinese chicken salad

2. Nachos (a Woodbury special)

3. Apple crisp

4. Chocolate, of course. I wouldn't really call this a craving. It's more a standard. My favorite cookie for the week: Oatmeal chocolate chip--Mark makes them perfectly!
No, I’m not pregnant. Ask any of my family: I’ve always been a cravings person. And I’m always happy to go to any lengths to satisfy them!

4 Special Features of my Apartment:
1. Sea green carpet in my bedroom

2. Shared laundry room (with upstairs guys) in between our two bedrooms

3. The washer bubbles up from the drain two times per load

4. There's a door to the outside in our bedroom.

4+ Books I’ve Read Over 15 Times

1. Dora Loves Boots

2. Moo Moo, Brown Cow

3. Summer of the Monkeys

4. The Giver

5. A Murder for Her Majesty

6. The Lives of Christopher Chant/Charmed Life

4 Projects I Can’t Seem to Finish

1. Putting a doorknob on Eliza's bedroom door

2. Finishing my IOU embroidery for my sister-in-law from last Christmas

3. Organizing my front closet

4. Making my own cloth diapers

4 Silly Things I Did in 4^th Grade

1. Read every Babysitter’s Club and Sweet Valley Twins book I could find

2. Got my really big bangs permed

3. Thought white socks were dumb (and insisted on wearing colored socks to match my shirt each day)

4. Instituted a 1-2-3-up-down competition during recess (who could do the longest handstand) for my class

4 Things That Made me Cry

1. Natural childbirth

2. Leaving Indiana

3. Dealing with my 3-year-old today

4. Reading Les Miserables

Tag: (Now you're it:)
1. Danielle

2. Kelly S.

3. Kim

4. Suzy

Wanted: Chevy Malibu

Today Mark got in a tiny fender bender at a stop sign that gave the car in front of his a 1 ½ inch long scratch. The woman and her daughter in the other car had no complaints at the time of the accident, and the policeman came and wrote a report. An hour later the woman called Mark and complained that she and her daughter were both suffering from whiplash and migraines.

She then asked Mark to buy her a Chevy Malibu (with less than 100,000 miles), with the promise that she wouldn’t report us to our insurance company, and pin us with the inevitable $6000 in doctor’s bills that would come if/when she and her daughter went to the ER the next morning due to their severe pain. She told Mark that she’s a nurse, so she would know about the numbers.

I know we look young, but do we look like IDIOTS?

So, if anyone knows of a Chevy Malibu for sale, there’s a really desperate nurse in Salt Lake that might be interested. And, if you're interested, she might be able to sell you some beachfront property in Montana.

Ghost Cake

For Danielle's birthday today, I decided to surprise her with a cake reminiscent of old times--a ghost cake with flaming eyes (made out flaming sugar cubes in eggshells instead of candles). She had this once for a birthday a long time ago, and I remember being very jealous of her October birthday. [For some reason, my mom wasn’t as keen on making a Santa cake and lighting his eyes on fire for my birthday.]

I made a cake in a 9x13 pan, but decided to cut out a petite little ghost, since there would only be 5 adults at our little lunch party. Happily, the ghost looked...like a ghost, even after being carved out of a sheet of cake. I frosted the cake and soaked the sugar cubes in almond extract (36% alcohol, for their fiery debut), because who has lemon extract anyway?

Unfortunately, I failed to consider the issue of the eyes. Seeing as there is no way to get a half-sized eggshell, Georgie the Ghost Cake was forced to herald in Danielle’s 25^th birthday while sporting eggshell goggles. The other unfortunate was that the sugar cubes refused to take flame, and had to be replaced by candles. And the last unfortunate was that Sage blew out the candles before Danielle even drew a good breath. I guess some memories are not to be relived. And if anyone needs an extra sugar cube or two, I've got 249 extras.

Georgie's Goggles ______ Sage helps with the candles