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?