stepper was here

Picture By Numbers

2012-01-18T23:15:00.003-07:00

8 - the number of pictures Daph took of herself when she wrestled my phone from me.

23 - the number of bobby pins holding my hair in place last Sunday.

2 - the number of Dr. Who episodes we watched, tonight.

6 - the number of times between two and three o'clock this afternoon I told the kids to stop screaming, the baby was asleep.

6 - the number of times they apologized and promised they would use their quiet voices.

2 - the number of minutes before they'd forget again.

1 - the number of cavities the good Dentist discovered in my mouth this morning.

0 - the number he found in Bill's. Again.

2 - the number of times Bill usually brushes his teeth per day.

at least 4 - the number of times I usually brush my teeth per day.

4 - the number of new toothbrushes we walked out of the Dentists office, with.

8 - the number of minutes I spent ogling and discussing in depth our new toothbrushes, travel toothbrush cases, floss and etc. before I remembered that most people don't get as excited about the implements of dental hygiene as I do.

0 - the number of times Bill laughed at me 'cause of the weird toothbrush thing.

22 - the number of post-baby pounds that I STILL have to lose.

49 - the number of days I have to lose it all in order to reach my goal.

49 - the number of days until Hank turns 1.

3 - the number of loads of laundry I've pushed through the washer/dryer today.

3 - the number of loads of laundry I have yet to push through the washer/dryer before bed in order to be caught up.

0 - the number of loads of laundry I will likely be pushing through the washer/dryer before bed.

1 - the number of times I've logged on to the internet today, including now. Probably a new record. Someone write Guiness. But no the beer company. They don't care.

3 - the number of times I thought about my friend Sasha P. today; randomly and out of the blue.

4 - the number of times today that I've felt guilt.

3 - the number of times today that I've felt fat.

14 - the number of times today that I've fallen in love with my children.

4 - the number of times (so far) that I've kissed my husband today.

1.67 - the amount of money I have in my wallet (all in coins. The bills went toward Bill's long-day-at-the-office/school-might-need-to-eat-something-at-some-point fund).

1 - the number of wife-lunches Bill took to work with him, just in case the aforementioned made you all feel sorry for him.

9 - the number of separate meals I've prepared, today.

2 - the number of said meals I enjoyed.

2 - the number of times this week I've left the house without my ring on.

2 - the number of times this completely threw off my groove.

3 - the number of days in a row that I've worn this particular pair of jeans.

1 - the number of miniature cars Wyatt got from the prize box at the Dentist, this morning. His new obsession.

6 - the number of times the miniature car has been misplaced.

6 - the number of times said misplacement caused utter panic and complete despair.

6 - the number of times Mom pulled said misplaced car from her pocket, having picked it up off the carpet before she vacuumed/Henry ate it/it got lost in the long carpet forever.

0 - the number of times Wyatt thought Mom was incredibly cool for pulling through for him so immediately with the whole lost miniature car thing.

0 - the number of superpowers my kids think I possess.

8 - the number of superpowers I actually possess.

3 - the number of times Daphne spontaneously glomped me, today, saying, "I love YOU, Mom!"

3 - the amount of times those glomps completely made my day.

4 - the amount of poopy diapers I had to clean up.

89% - the amount of improvement this is over last week.

1 - how many boys I am altogether in love with.

898498560298304980934858670293845 - how talented the boy I am in love with is.

10 - how many minutes before I should be in bed.

70 - how many minutes it will likely be before I climb into bed due to being greedy about a book I'm currently involved with.

Reading. Not writing.

Aw, crap.

5 - the number of times today that I've felt guilt.

We Will Not Be Satisfied

2012-01-16T22:26:00.002-07:00

This morning began in a panic. Meaning to get up early enough to pack a husband lunch, a diaper bag of snacks and sippy cups, and - indulgent me! - have a chance to straighten my hair before we had to take daddy to work this morning, I was jerked by my subconsciousness from a pleasant dream into the unprepared morning. Red lighted numbers glared at me from the clock at the window. Not enough time.

Incidentally, I profess it is a gross error - a gross and annoying error - of my internal clock to ignore waking me up when its supposed to and instead wakes me up in a disorienting panic when it's too late. What is the point of keeping that sort of thing around? I ask you.

Morning scramble. I managed a shower thanks to my mother's willigness to keep the kids at home while I take the husband to work. She had the day off. Still, my man and I dart out the door with my hair unbrushed and soggy, no breakfast, and no husband-lunch.

Race home. Overturn children's clothing drawers in a frantic search for something picture-worthy. Curse myself for not having planned this out the night before. Snatch things that strike my senses as being crisp and colorful. Iron a shirt for Wyatt. Curse the fact that Hank owns only one pair of nice-ish jeans.

Try to pull wriggling, unwilling children into clothing and out of jammies. Scrub faces. Brush hair. Change diapers. Threaten. Pant. Insist that Henry is the ONLY child who legitimately can't walk themselves to the car. 60lb Henry-in-carseat over one arm, diaper bag, purse, coats, and bag of sippy cups and snacks in the other, knee scooting the two- and four-year-old out the door.

Turn on kids songs as I pull out of the driveway in an attempt to drown out/cure the wailing from the backseat ("No, Mommy, I will NEVER!"). Glance in the mirror and cringe - my hair still undone, my makeup a sad story that would make anyone weep. 5 minutes to make the 15 minute drive to our appointment. Familiar internal rant about how ludicrous it is that we can NEVER seem to be on time to ANYTHING. And why is this car so freaking MESSY all the dang time?

Park the van. Wrangle three protesting children into one shopping cart, frigid wind biting us through our clothing. I beg them to hurry so we can get inside where its warm. The more I beg, the more they turn into heavy bags of soggy noodles. That whine.

Meet Grandma and Ali inside. Juggle two children and try to get one to smile. No, just smile normal! What is that? I've never seen that face before. Just...just smile like you're happy! What do you mean you don't know how?

Try to choose pictures from a computer (Which do you like better? 23 or 24? 24 or 25?) while children alternate between throwing funions on the floor and stepping on them to make a cool sound, driving cars all over the photographers equipment, and escaping.

Two and a half hours later, the kids have had it. They're bored, tired, hungry and annoyed. I don't blame them. I feel the same way. We decide to treat them to lunch at one of their favorite places: Chic-fil-a! A sure cure for the most exasperating of mornings.

But it's a holiday. The crowd is daunting. So daunting, in fact, that there's a crowd that has formed at the entrance of people just staring blankly out across the packed restaurant, bitterly mumbling things like, "Well, there's nowhere for me to sit. Might as well just not even eat here."

But I'm carrying this rather heavy baby in his rather heavy car seat. Standing around in hopelessness is not an option. I decide to just start moving, see what happens. Progress through the crowd is slow enough that maybe by the time we reach the back of the restaurant, it'll be dinner time and all these people will go home.

Then - a chick-fil-a miracle! Just ahead of us, two tables clear. In our favorite spot, no less! I shamelessly yell for Wyatt to use his small-ness to manipulate through the crowd and throw himself on those tables! I wasn't going to make it - the car-seat was acting as an anchor in a heavy current going the wrong way. It's up to you, Wyatt! Only YOU can save lunch!

He looks at me, uncomprehending. Panic begins at the edges of his eyes.

"NEVERMIND!" I holler, and heft the car seat in front of me, plowing ahead. I throw Henry on one table and my diaper bag on the other. I sit Daphne at one table and Wyatt at the other. I stand between, daring anyone to question my legitimacy. I felt a little like a feral seagull. Mine. Mine!

Mom and Ali arrive. Mom plops Oliver in his car seat next to Hank. "I can't believe you found tables!" she says. Wyatt and I give each other a knowing look.

But our tables are, admittedly, two tables and not one all-together. Ali somehow secures a booth at the other end of the restaurant. Less trafficked area. Much better locale for hiding her five-week-old away from all the elbows and knees we'd been encountering in our spot of victory. She motions for us to join her. Reluctantly, we abandon our post.

Only this proves to be too much for Wyatt.

He was quite attached to his spot at the first table.

There was a window.

I try to order food while consoling a crying Wyatt (who feels that if you are going to cry, you might as well cry GOOD and LOUD, thank you very much). I'm so agitated I try to walk away without paying. Embarrassed, I take my change and my table number and my wailing child and go back into the crowds.

We are visited by the Cow. In a dress. This improves moods greatly.

The food is good, and my kids seem to be calming. Ah, the wonder of stabilized blood-sugar!

There is ice cream.

Then there is the play area. My children - bless them! - refuse to play until lunch is done. A good practice, but today this threatened to cut their play-time drastically short. I encouraged them to hurry, abandon the last fry, go and climb! Slide! Crawl through, you know, tunnel thingies!

But too soon after disappearing into the joyous fray, Wyatt returns. "Mom," he says. "There is some yucky black stuff on the stair."

Yucky black stuff? It's probably noth -

...

No. It's a largely unsupervised play area. It could be anything.

I followed him back in to inspect.

Sure enough.

Barf.

My mind shuts down in utter panicked horror for exactly .4 milliseconds. Then I grab my children, one under each arm, and run to warn the village!

The management evacuates the play area while they clean and sanitize and (because my imagination begs it) burn things.

We don't wait for hazmat.

We brave the snow-flurrying winds again, and I force the flailing limbs of three defiant children into carseat harnesses, imagining a glorious day when all of my children are old enough to get themselves into the car, buckle themselves, and have intelligent and civilized conversation with each other on the drive home instead of...of...

I again crank on the tunes.

The radio doesn't have much to offer. I left my phone at home, and with it trusty iTunes and Spotify. I flip through channels, attempting to sing along comedically when there is a song I recognized, trying to distract. The back seat begins to calm.

Then - flip! - and on this random station, a man's voice speaks. Deep, resonating. Powerful.

I had never heard Martin Luther King Jr. Speak, before - but there is no doubt in my mind this was him. There is instant electricity there inside my messy, chaotic van. My heart catches in my throat. I let out a slow breath...turned up the volume.

He says, "We cannot walk alone," and in my mind, I was there, walking.

"We can never be satisfied as long as our bodies, heavy with fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and hotels of the cities." I think of my own weary travels - how easy it has been for me to drive into a city and be allowed a clean bed and a hot breakfast.

"We can never be satisfied as long as our children are stripped of their self-hood and robbed of their dignity by signs stating: For Whites Only." I think of how my children and I were allowed, just moments before, to eat a meal together in a restaurant. How earlier Wyatt helped himself to a drink from the fountain at a store, and nobody batted an eye.

How - even though today was hectic and demanding - I and my children were allowed to do so many things. So many little, overlook-able things that other children not so long ago would not be permitted.

Ordering an ice cream cone.
Going to the neighborhood public school.
Crossing through a park.

"I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character."

Oh, heart!

Hearing his mighty words - in his own mighty voice! They pound through me, and I am overwhelmed with feeling.

"Mom?" Daphne asks from the back seat. "Okay, Mommy? Matter?"

I look back at her through the rear view mirror, tears streaming down my face, a sob in my throat, and in a broken voice proclaim to my daughter, "I am okay, sweet girl. Mommy's happy. I'm just..." I can't think of the word to describe..."I'm amazed."

I am ashamed to admit that while I remembered that today was a holiday - banks closed, no school, crowded restaurants, my Mom's day off, etc. - I didn't bother to remember.

For the rest of the day, I watch my children. Wondering - what would I have done if they had been born black in the South in 1963? Would I have been strong enough to act on my own dream on behalf of my children?

To change the world?

Hear the man himself here.

Worth Sharing

2011-12-27T15:16:00.002-07:00

With a big, heart-felt AMEN from Stepper!

From the Hatrack River site weekly article: Uncle Orson Reviews Everything
by Orson Scott Card
December 29, 2011

(Yes, you're reading it before it's been officially published on the site. No, I didn't get official permission from him to do so. Perhaps you should all comment on how much you enjoyed the article so that I don't get into trouble?)

Thank you, all you crazy people who put up Christmas lights. The wacky palm trees on Westridge, the whole neighborhoods of globes of lights hanging from all the trees, the little cul-de-sacs that are ablaze with Christmas decorations -- that's right! Let our celebration be seen from space. Let astronomers on other worlds try to figure out what astronomical anomaly is causing the fluctuations in the light levels from planet Earth every December.

Thank you also to the people whose decorations use no electricity -- you who put out banners, or sculptures, or statues, or creches, or big air-filled Santas and Frostys.

Thank you to those who put out candles in sand-ballasted paper bags, lighting the road for passersby. Thank you to those who sing, who play instruments, who broadcast holiday music. Thank you to those who tell stories, who carry out family traditions, who go visiting the sick, who share with the needy, who bring cheer to the lonely.

Thank you to those who care nothing for Christmas, but are nevertheless patient with those of us to whom it means much: Thank you for your tolerance, for not trying to put a stop to other people's joy.

Thank you to the stores that commercialize Christmas: Imagine this, a great nation whose retail year is powered by a holiday in which people buy gifts for others. I hope you all made boatloads of money from the generosity of your customers -- stay in business for another year, my friends.

Thank you to those who understand that the lights and decorations and celebrations are not competitive; they are cumulative. So what if your neighbor's house is flooded with lights, and yours is not?

If all you can afford, or all you wish to display is a simple decoration -- a string of lights wound around your porch railing, a candle in a window, your Christmas tree showing between the open curtains, a simple wreath or ribbon on your door -- then your contribution to the festive season is enough; it is gratefully received; I thank you for it.

If you believe in Christ, then it is the birth of the Messiah we celebrate together. If you do not believe, but you enjoy the public celebration and gift-giving, the Santa Clausification of the world, the pleasure in the change of seasons, then we celebrate together as Americans fulfilling a long American tradition, and I'm as glad for your contribution as I am for that of fellow Christians.

The next year is one in which history will be made. Elections, weddings, births and deaths, wars and times of peace and good will, graduations and birthdays, sorrows and disappointments, all will come, as they come every year.

This much we each control: How we will respond to the good and bad things that happen to us, and those that happen to others.

May we hold our tongues when tempted to criticize, and instead celebrate what we approve of.

When we see a need, let us do what is within our power to mend what's wrong or supply what's lacking.

Let our words to those who need us most be filled with love and kindness, gentleness and mercy. Let us be as courteous to our spouses and children as we are to our employers or to total strangers.

Each day is just a day -- the sun rising, the sun setting, some kind of weather -- until we make it something more, a day that lives in someone's memory, a little brighter because we made it so. That is within our power, every one of us.

Happy New Year!

We Will Make it Work.

2011-12-22T16:04:00.000-07:00

I happen to be the visiting teacher of my former piano teacher. Tuesday, my companion and I paid her a visit, baring homemade chocolates and a shared relief for a brief break from a busy week, a chance to sit together and just talk. About family. About faith. About Christmas traditions.
About the rocky merging of family Christmas traditions during a newlywed's first Christmas. I laughingly told of how Bill and I had our first argument as a married couple about just that. He thought I had an impossible number of traditions to keep up with. I thought he had an impossibly few.

It was the good-spirited kind of argument. The kind you have while shaking your head, laughing. Most of our arguments are like that. Bill and I aren't fighters - which I am grateful for.

That was our first argument as a married couple, but it wasn't our first argument. It was the second.

The first was when we were engaged. Being engaged to Bill was wonderfully easy - just like being married to him is. Things with Bill were comfortable. Natural. That was a first for me - I liked to tell him that being with him felt as calm as being by myself, and he understood. That was another miracle of Bill - he understood me. Another first.

Yet there was this one day. I remember it so clearly - the way you remember a vivid nightmare. In surround sound and saturated color.

We were driving - leaving his house that he shared with roommates in Bellevue, driving down that long, tree-lined road toward I-405.

I remember that I was crying. I felt so desperate - so panicked and heart-wrung. I was suddenly so sure that it was impossible for us to marry. It wasn't for any change of heart or uneasy feeling about us - I had never been so sure of anything in my life. This wasn't cold feet. This was cold reality, chewing at my spine. We simply couldn't afford it.

Reality told me: You will marry, and then what? You want to have children - but that's impractical. You are the major source of income. Bill has to finish school. You can't quit your job to have children, there will be no money. You can't afford daycare (even if the idea of sending your newborn to strangers didn't make you flinch) *and* rent in this town on the money you earn. There's no solution. You're stuck.

No solution. Stuck.

That is how I felt.

Ever calm, Bill asked me what was wrong? "We can't afford to get married!" I blurted out.

Bill was quiet for a moment, then surprised me. "Are you saying you don't want to get married any more?"

"NO!" I wailed. What a horrible thought! I hated that I might have made him feel that way - that I was having doubts about us. Absolutely not. But..."No, I just mean we can't afford it."

Bill looked at me, puzzled.

"Afford what?"

Well - we hadn't had the kid discussion. At least, not in depth. We knew we wanted a family, knew there would be children, talked about what kind of parents we wanted to be - but he didn't know how I ached in my very bones to hold those children in my arms. How those spirits were in my constant thoughts. How I missed them, even though I had not met them, yet.

How, aside from Bill himself, there was nothing in this world that I wanted more.

For some reason, I was very shy of discussing this part of myself with him. I think I was worried it might come off as desperate. Might scare him. I didn't want to seem like I was just some biological timb-bomb when to me, this was something so important and so personal. Sacred, even.

So that night, after much fretting, he finally coaxed it out of me. He listened patiently, and with gentle understanding. But he was also firm against my fears.

He told me there was nothing to be afraid of. I wanted to be a Mother - it was obviously a big part of who I was. We would make it work.

I learned something of what real Faith means that night. And I learned something of what it means to really be a partnership. We were in this, together. The desires of my heart were the desires of his as well. They were righteous. Sure, we had no money, but who does?? That night, I got my first taste of what it would be like to be Bill's wife. We would be unstoppable. Nothing would be impossible. We would make it work.

And we did.

And we've been making it work ever since.

5:10 PM

2011-12-21T17:13:00.001-07:00

On the fourth day before Christmas, we are...

Reading classic literature in clean pressed clothing...

Watching favorite shows with hair emaculately done...

Performing feats of architectural mastry.

And...taking pictures.

Have you seen this?

"Silent Night" by genius Liz Lemon Swindle

When I saw this in the Ensign, today, my heart caught in my throat.

Joseph looks just like Bill - and that is exactly how Bill looked when he held Wyatt for the first time.

Oh. I love this painting.

The saddest party of all...

2011-12-20T20:34:00.001-07:00

...is the party that never happened.

Especially the party that never happened after you already bought all the food and prizes and etc and the reason it's now not happening is 'cause your daughter threw up all over the floor of Smiths Grocery Store (and all down her daddy's shirt) and it's now ten o'clock at night, and the party you now have to cancel is in the morning and so you have to frantically try to get ahold of everyone so they don't show up expecting a delightful brunch and all they get is germs.

And now you have two sick kids and an overabundance of donut holes.

But - on the upshot? Total pajama day.

Thinking About all the Parents

2011-12-19T13:36:00.000-07:00

I tend to think a lot about parents as Christmas approaches. About being a parent, about my parents, about my parents-in-law that I never really got to know, but still feel like I know.

But mostly, about the Father of us all. And the unthinkable gift he gave us because he loved us that much.

Christmas time seems to be a time of deeper feeling. Deeper sadness for some, or loneliness. Or a deeper feeling of gratitude, or of deeper love and affection for those we care for. There is something about this time of year that seems to magnify and intensify - a gift of the season that we receive sometimes unknowingly. I think it's because Christmas is a celebration of the beginning of the most important thing that has ever happened EVER in the entire history of the universe.

Salvation was created. Humbly. The greatest King the world would ever know. Born in a cave full of smelly animals, resting in their feeding trough. Not an ideal place to have a baby; but it could not have been more perfect - this Man who would show us all the Way, to be born in such lowly circumstances, making Him accessible to every single one of us - from the mighty King who offered up all his sins just to know Him to the ostracized woman who wanted simply to touch His garment. This thing that people had been waiting for, watching for, praying for their entire lives. This thing that was so huge, yet happened in a way so small.

And tender.

Father in Heaven had to let Him go. Had to say, Okay. I am going to send my Only Begotten - my precious boy - to a life of relentless trial and suffering. There would be great joy, He knew, but there would also be agony. There would be Gethsemane. There would be a cross.

He knew this. They both knew this. But they did it anyway.

Because of love.

That is what it means to give a gift.

That is what it means to be a parent.

Sacrifice.

I think a lot this time of year of my own parents and the great gifts of sacrifice they gave for me and my sisters. The magnitude of what it means to be a parent is something that I'm learning as I have my own children and recognize the pure and oh-so powerful love behind each gesture of sacrifice and of giving - something I had no capacity to recognize as the child receiving.

My dad spending countless hours trying to teach me Long Division - ever patient, kindly spoken, yet determined. I would get it, or we would both die trying (and I'm not convinced we didn't come close)!

My mom who managed to keep an organized and clean home with meals on the table every night in the hours that surrounded her full time (and then some) job. This is something I marvel at, now, as I am a stay-at-home mother and still can't manage to keep an organized home with a meal on the table each night. How tired she must have been. How desperately she must have wanted a break - just a small portion of her day spent taking care of everyone and everything else - just a chance to put her feet up or have a moment of quiet reflection or - heaven forbid - use the bathroom without someone knocking on the door, pulling on her skirt, calling on the phone demanding one more thing from her for the LOVE!

I think of my sweet mother-in-law whom I never knew in life, but come to know more and more as i watch her influence on my husband and his siblings, and think, 'That must have been something of Martha." The imprint of her influence is strong in them. The gift of a Mother who could not remain in body, but absolutely still remains.

I think of my wonderful father-in-law who spent his entire life taking care of everyone else. What a noble life. What a noble cause.

What a noble calling.

It is very tender, to me, to reflect on parents as we celebrate the biggest sacrifice - and the greatest of gifts - that Parents have ever given and that we could ever receive.

Knowing the incredible love I feel for my children, and the increasing understanding of the love my parents feel for me makes the Gift of Christ's Birth feel so much more personal - and the relationship I have with my heavenly Father feel so much more immediate and real.

It was His Christmas Present just for me.

And it was just for you, too.

I hope I can use this life to give Him something really great in return.

Jell-O - A Tale in Three Parts

2011-12-17T23:17:00.001-07:00

One time, I had on a very brand new dress and we were leaving the house for some extended family function and Mom asked me to grab the Jell-O. I spotted it in the fridge on the bottom shelf, so I crouch/squatted (dress style) and pulled it into my lap. It was in a stainless steel 13x9 with a lid - so I didn't see that it wasn't actually Jell-O quite yet, just red soup. You guessed it - big red gush right into my lap. And my new dress.

I burst into tears (I was in my young teenage years, not five, but I burst anyway), certain that I had ruined my new dress AND dinner, because our contribution was in my lap. I was sure my mother would be furious on both counts.

I've never seen her so calm and serene. She took the pan from me, helped me out of my dress, told me everything was fine in a way that allowed me to believe it completely, and disappeared. She came back ten minutes later with my new dress, stain free.

I still have no idea how she did that. I'm pretty sure it was either magic or a miracle.

This other time as a young adult, I was asked to make the Jell-O. I did, and it was a thing of beauty. Fruit chunks and everything. I moved to put the pan into the fridge, caught my hip on the edge of the table (those things are always bigger than I think) and tumbled forward.

Again, you guessed it! Jell-O on the floor! This time, my parents were sitting on the couch in the family room, which is openly connected to the kitchen. They heard my gasp, but thinking quickly, I said, "Don't look over here!"

They looked anyway.

Another time (this time married with a kid) I decided to make Jell-O for dinner because we were having friends over, and I happened to know that the husband adored Jell-O. So I made it. And it never set. I guess I added a forbidden-to-Jell-O type of fruit that prevents the freaky chemistry that turns Jell-O from soup to gelatin from happening.

My friends were gracious about it, but when slopped onto the plate, it pretty much coated the underside of everything else on the plate with sticky-sweet orange.

So I guess the lesson in this is to keep Stepper away from Jell-O making.

Except all this talk of Jell-O has convinced me to make it for dinner tomorrow. So. I guess the really lesson is: You have been warned.

Inversion

2011-12-16T23:55:00.000-07:00

Inversion means that I can't sing along to Christmas songs on the car radio without getting a sore throat.

Displeased.

Dad's Great Idea

2011-12-15T23:51:00.000-07:00

Dad called late this afternoon. He said, "I know you were wondering who'd be home for dinner, but I didn't want to answer that question until I asked one of my own. I was wondering if you could find a last-minute sitter so Mom and I can take you and Bill to a Lower Lights concert?"

Okay - now let me just say how amazing Lizzie is. She'd already watched my 2 older kids while I took Hank to his doctor's appointment this afternoon, but she volunteered to watch them tonight so Bill and I could go to the concert, and insisted that it would be her pleasure and that she genuinely wanted to. My little soul is constantly bursting with an overabundance of gratitude for that girl.

And so we hopped into my dad's big blue truck and braved the Salt Lake City Northbound traffic (The Tabernacle Choir was also doing their concert tonight, so everyone was trying to get into the city) and found ourselves in the Masonic Temple with hundreds of other Lower Lights fans.

And oh, the concert was wonderful. I laughed. I cried. I clapped, I sang. I wished once again the old wish that I could be in a band. Especially one that makes such joyous music!

There was this part where Ryan Shupe (yeah! Of Ryan Shupe and the Rubberbands!) played his violin in a music-war with the guy with the red guitar. (Sorry, I love the Lower Lights, but there's like - fifteen members in their band, and I don't know them all, yet). It was inspired - I've never seen a jam session like that before - spontaneously combusting in the middle of a song. All the singers and other musicians sort of pulled away to the sidelines so that the violin and guitar could have at it. It looked like so. much. fun.

Afterward, dinner together at Hires Big H - one of the last genuine hamburger joints.

Our waitress was surly, but our burger-buns were sourdough, which more than made up for anything lacking. I may have indulged in a root-beer freeze.

It was a wonderful night. Full of Christmas, full of music and creativity, and full of really cool people.

Thanks, Mom and Dad! (Lets double again, soon!)

On Wishing You a Merry Christmas

2011-12-14T23:30:00.001-07:00

hen I worked at the front desk at Amaze Entertainment, we would celebrate the joy of the season as only a video game company could. There was a HUGE tree an arm's reach from where I sat. Bushy green garlands decked with bright red ribbons and lights adorned the mantle of my desk. Christmas music played from my Mac. And when guests or employees walked through the front door, I would greet them with a sincere "Merry Christmas!"

My "Merry Christmas" had gusto.

Until one of my fellow employees, after hearing me bequeath my good cheer, approached my desk in an attitude much vexed.

"Happy Holidays," she said, but didn't seem too happy.

"To you, too!" I said.

"No," she said. "You should say, 'Happy Holidays', not 'Merry Christmas.' Not everyone celebrates Christmas. I'm Jewish. You should be more sensitive to others' religious preferences."

I nodded, a bit of the gleam gone out of my tinsel, and she went on her way.

After that, I tried to wish everyone a 'happy holidays' instead, but sometimes a Merry Christmas just burst out of me.

I've thought of that exchange many times since then, trying to decide why it doesn't seem to sit well with me; and I've decided that I think that being offended by someone wishing you a Merry Christmas is silly. Even if you aren't Christian.

Merry Christmas is an exclamation of goodwill. It is a happy offering of shared joy in something bigger than the menial day-to-day. It is meant in the spirit of friendship. Not of passive-aggressiveness or loaded implications.

And, more to the point, I am Christian. So how can my saying Merry Christmas be interpreted as inappropriate or closed minded? I wouldn't be offended if someone were to wish me a Happy Hanukkah. I wouldn't mind wishing the wisher a Happy Hanukkah right back.

And if this fear is derived from bringing religion into the workplace, may I just say? relax. By wishing you a Merry Christmas, I'm not suggesting that my beliefs are superior to yours or that I assume everyone believes the way I do. I'm just wishing you a Merry Christmas.

Because I'm feeling it.

It's a sweet feeling.

One that I think should be shared.

So.

Merry Christmas!

Eleven days.

Are you ready?

Celebration Turned Creepy

2011-12-13T23:55:00.000-07:00

Bill turned in his last final of the semester, today. We planned to celebrate when he got home from work, but he ended up working late - so the kids were already in bed when he got home. Instead, we got take-out and hunkered down for a dinner-and-a-show from the couch kind of evening.

We watched the new animated Christmas Carol with Jim Carrey. We think it is WONDERFUL - but definitely not a kids show, as the previews tried to convince us all of when it came out a few years back. By the end of the movie, even though it ends well with Scrooge saving Christmas, we were all a bit freaked out.

Okay, maybe it was just me and Lizzie.

But, come on. Those ghosts Scrooge encounters? Terrifying! And so convincing in this film. Wonderful stuff! But intense!

So afterward, Bill was cleaning out our Netflix cue of all the movies he had put in there for his film class (now over! Woot woot!) and when the cursor skimmed over Peter and the Woolf, I told Bill that he had to watch at least the very beginning. I had turned it on a few months prior with Wyatt - but quickly decided it was too visually intense for him. It was clay-mation but stop-motion. What do you call that? Besides awesome?

Anyway, the beginning sequence was so beautiful - even though it was dark - that I have been wanting to watch it ever since. But without impressionable kids. So I told Bill to watch just the beginning - just as far as I had seen - and we ended up watching the entire thing.

Again - totally amazing, incredible animation, loved every second - but a bit freaked out!

We ended the evening with Lizzie and I trying to defend the merits of the Snuggie to Bill, and now we are off to bed.

And I've a few little trepidations about what dreams might come.

Ah, Weekend.

2011-12-12T21:48:00.002-07:00

Turns out we weren't staying in Park City for our anniversary. We were staying in Sundance - at the Sundance Resort - in a little personal cabin. There was a fireplace right next to the bed. The whole weekend was such a great experience.

When we arrived, we dashed into the main office of the Resort (we were still feeling the effects of the lightness of not having to haul kids to and fro). The man at the desk gave us our key (an actual house key) and gestured to a man who had just appeared from a secret room beyond the desk. "This will be your bellman, he'll take you to your room."

The bellman, who was dressed head to toe in snow gear, proceeded to lead us to our cars. No elevators here, no sir! We drove in tandem up the mountain to where our little cabin was secluded. He showed us around the cabin, making sure we knew where the firewood and matches were - and that we could have more any time (even mid-night!) if we ran out.

We hung out in our little cabin for a while, musing on whether or not Robert Redford would show up at our door, tipping his hat with a howdy. Then we ventured (only getting lost, like, twice) down to where William's company party was being held.

The party was great! Turns out I really like this company My Man works for. They had heard it was our anniversary, so when we won the chance to be contestants in a minute-to-win-it game, they gave us a 30 second head start. We didn't win, 'cause it turns out that wrapping yourself in toilet paper without breaking it while spinning is harder than it sounds. But they did give William his choice of the consolation prizes.

We fell asleep to an episode of Psych. We slept through the night - no kid-sized interruptions. We slept in until very close to eight o'clock!

Then we got ready and dashed into Park City, where we found My Man a very smashing orange sweater and sports coat combination that I pretty much LOVE.

We were sad to head back into the valley because our little anniversary getaway was over WAY too soon - but we were also excited because the fun was really just beginning. Next was the Card Family Christmas Party, where my dad played bass guitar with 'the band'. I loved it. I loved loved it.

Then we dashed to Spanish Fork for the Terry's annual Christmas shindig. This year, it was a kids-invited pajama party. Such a great idea - because then we could haul our tuckered kids home and just PUT THEM IN THEIR BEDS! No fuss with the changing of the clothes! And I got to get myself a brand new pair of jammies, because I pretty much sleep in my exercise clothes. Purple thermals, anyone? And - there was a Santa letter writing station. So - finally - I got to see what Wy-Guy would ask the Big Guy for for Christmas.

An airplane and a rocket.

Check.

If that weren't enough, Sunday was Second Sunday, so the entire family came over and ejoyed dinner togethere. Ali and Steve even brought their newest little Oliver bundle over. You forget how small a newborn is, you know? How fresh from Heaven.

My house is a disaster - but I have been replenished. That is a trade I can live with.

To be fair I began this post before midnight...

2011-12-11T23:56:00.001-07:00

Hello dear readers,

Stepper was here. But right now she is over there, asleep on the couch with a bean. She unconsciously wishes me to tell you it was a wonderful weekend, but you're just going to have to wait until tomorrow for more details. In the mean time, here s a reminder that trains are always a good idea.

Love,
Husband.

My Daddy is in a Band...

2011-12-10T21:47:00.001-07:00

I adore being related to freakishly talented individuals.

This was at the annual Christmas Party this afternoon (we got a band? No...we *are* the band!). Can you pick out my dad?

5

2011-12-09T12:08:00.001-07:00

Our First Trip Together - Honeymoon 2006
(yes, that is a giant pickle)

Today marks the fifth anniversary of my marriage to William.

Five years sounds like a long time, sometimes. Other times - more often times - it feels like a blink. I can't believe it's ONLY been five years.

I am dying to tell our love story, here. It is one wrought with miracles. And oh, OH how I love that man of mine.

But my sweetheart is whisking me away on a getaway to Park City (which I've never done before!), and I have just finished the chores and am still un-showered, let alone primped and pressed! And I just got a phone call from Prince Charming himself, telling me he's on his way home. And so that story will once again have to wait.

Also - Ali is having a baby, today! I am beside myself to meet that sweet little Oliver - and whether or not he will have red hair. Send happy thoughts her way, will you?

I'll give you the scoop on all these delicious events when I return.

Ja Matta!

Don't look now!

2011-12-09T10:02:00.001-07:00

...but there's a monster under the bed!

Saved By a Twinkie

2011-12-08T16:43:00.001-07:00

Most kids love pizza, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and chocolate. As a child, I hated all three. Also: caramel, butterscotch, tuna fish and...Twinkies.

But I'm convinced that a Twinkie is responsible for my survival of the fifth grade.

As you can imagine, figuring out what to send me in my brown sack lunch each day was a challenge for my mother. I didn't like peanut butter, I didn't like bologna, I didn't like tuna fish, I despised honey. (Now, lest you suppose I was a terribly picky eater, I also had some strange things on my LIKE list. What other kid do you know that loved Lima beans, Brussels sprouts and - yes - broccoli?) When my mother would make peanut butter - I would request that she simply put jam between two slices of bread for me. Or - better yet - just send the plain bread!

She was certain someone would call Child Protection Services on her.

Mom tried to be inventive with our lunches - as much as me and my sister would allow with our varying tastes. Mom refused to be a short-order cook - something I have always respected her for - and the menu was (and is) always: Take it or leave it.

So she would slip other goodies into the sack to make up for my two slices of wonder bread nonsense. an extra string-cheese. Chips *and* crackers. One tie she even sent me a few radishes because she knew I loved them. I'd peel the red skin off with my teeth in neat strips, and then slowly munch the spicy white inside, feeling it prickle on my tongue. There were always the notes on our napkins, which I admit I often took courage from. School can be Mount Everest, at times, to the shy and awkward. I always checked the napkins. And - joy of joys! - sometimes a treat! I always loved it when she'd send an airhead, cut neatly in half (the other half presumably in my sister's brown bag across the lunch room. In my grade school, you were dismissed for lunch by class). I could make that airhead last forever, pulling it as thin as it would go before tearing, nibbling off tiny pieces and savoring the flavor as it dissolved. I was pleased with myself for having enough control to refrain from chewing it.

I was definitely a slow eater. I'd eat ruffle potato chips one line at a time, like a cob of corn, infuriating my friends who were eager to get out onto the playground.

One afternoon, I opened my bag to find a Twinkie. I knew - even though I didn't like them - that I had struck gold. This was bartering material. This was a high-stakes bid! This was quite possibly a taste of that intriguing but ever illusive popularity that seemed to be all the rage.

But then I remembered Mr. F.

Mr F. was a teacher with a personality as big and overwhelming as his frame. He played this game with his class called "Triple R T", which was just a nickname for his original invention: Red Rubber Round Thing. The game went like this. We sat on top of our desks, and he would throw a red rubber ball at us (not to us, at us!). The challenge was to catch it. That alone was terrifying for me - but if we DID manage to catch it, we would have to answer a question correctly. The question usually had something to do with what we were covering in class - but with Mr. F, nothing was off limits.

He once hit a kid in the face with his infamous Triple R T.

He also once broke my classmate's finger while giving her an 'attitude adjustment', but that's another story.

This makes Mr. F sound like a nightmare - and he could be terrifying. But mostly, he was just larger than life. He never meant any harm - he just often forgot how big and loud he was - and how small we were. He tended to treat us as his peers - and for that, we loved him.

I happened to know that Twinkies were Mr. F's very very very most favorite.

I may have been a bit odd, but I was no dummy. I knew that if I gave Mr. F. my Twinkie, I would make an ally of him for life! Surely securing my safety from the dreaded Triple R T, broken fingers, and even - dare I hope? - having to memorize all the state capitols.

I was terrible at memorizing.

And...I sincerely wanted him to have it. The only trouble was that giving the small golden offering to this Giant felt impossibly foreboding. How would I approach him? When?

I knew that if I delayed, I would never do it. So when the after-lunch bell rang, I stopped thinking about it and, before class started, walked up to his desk and thrust the crinkling package toward him.

"Here!" I said. It was all I could manage.

I'm sure my eyes were wide as I watched him. He looked at the Twinkie, and looked at me. At first, he seemed a bit confused. There was a look of earnestness on his face when he said, "I can't take your Twinkie! You should have it."

"Oh, no," I said. "I don't like them, and I know you do."

"You don't like Twinkies? You can't be serious."

I sighed and shrugged. I got that a lot.

He smiled at me and took the small thing from my small hand into his giant one. "Thank you," he said, his eyes crinkling around the edges a bit. I hadn't seen this side of him, before. And never so close-up. He wasn't putting on a show for me - a teacher performing for his appreciating class. He was just a guy, accepting his favorite treat from a friend, who had thought of him when she pulled it out of her lunch sack.

"My wife packed me a lunch, today," he said, "But I forgot to grab it from the fridge. I'm starving!"

I grinned. Really? I had saved lunch? He tore into the package, and I turned to go back to my seat. I felt like a million bucks as he began post-lunch class, his mouth still full of Twinkie.

That afternoon, we went outside to play capture the flag as a class. There was an academic point to it, though I can't remember now what it was. I suspected (and still do) that Mr. F. liked to invent any opportunity to bring sports into science and history.

It was rainy, and I had no coat.

I stood on the sidelines, shivering a little and watching the game that I would never understand - sports were such Greek to me - and I felt a very warm and VERY large jacket slip over my shoulders. I looked up, and Mr. F. winked at me before he turned back to the game, hollering in his booming voice that we all had two gangly, adolescent left feet.

I still had to memorize all the state capitols - but he was patient with me as I fumbled through them. And I never did get hit in the face with a red rubber ball - or get the dreaded attitude adjustment. I survived fifth grade - a feat that sometimes I doubted would be possible - thanks to that Twinkie.

I Must Have Sisters

2011-12-07T19:00:00.001-07:00

I've always thought that I would have very much liked to have had an older brother. I tend to wax sentimental about how much I love my brothers-in-law...but I tell you what. I would not survive without my sisters.

Jamie lets my kids take dance at her studio. For free. They adore Wednesdays, now, and I can tell you - having something like that mid-week is just the ticket! Now, whenever I say, "guess where we're going?" They squeal "JAMIE'S HOUSE!!" and if it's NOT Wednesday, I'd better have a pretty darn good alternative. And I'm pretty sure my Daphne is completely enamored of Jamie. Every time she sees her, she runs straight into her arms and is perfectly content to park there.

Ali lets me do art projects on her wall - and doesn't say anything when she asked me to do said project months ago, and I only got around to doing it, oh, ONE WEEK before D-Day for her newest little. She's always down for a midnight coupon fest, midnight movie, midnight ANYTHING, Ali's my gal.

Megan and her hubby show up randomly for game nights - and everyone is always significantly happier when we see them walk through the door. That's a pretty cool superpower. She's amazing with my kids. She doesn't mind the impromptu nature of most of my invitations to her (Women's Expo - mere hours. Shopping trip Monday Night - mere minutes. Though it helped that we both happened to be at Costco when we began texting each other). And she loves my cooking. :)

Lizzie has been my saving grace these past weeks since her heralded return from ~~Hogwarts~~ Portugal. She instinctively jumps in when the kids need more than my two hands. She is ever willing to run errands for me (even Christmas shopping!...I know!). She shares my passion for throwing parties, cooking cool stuff, and sneaking away to movies. And Hank is completely in love with her. We will all miss her terribly when she goes to school in January - but I am very excited to see where her life is about to take her. Because it's somewhere amazing.

Amy (Brian's wife) and I like to facebook vent at each other into the wee hours of the morning, and then pretend to be shocked at the hour. It's fun to talk about our kids - especially the kids that are the same age and therefore doing the same things.

Elisabeth (Clinton's wife) is constantly amazing me with her inside knowledge of all the cool stuff that I'm always just discovering. Like Dr. Who. And she knows how to cook intricately ('member how she whipped out those scones that one time like it was nothing?). And I'm pretty sure she's unstoppable. I've never seen her be stopped. Anyone else?

So - okay, brothers. I still love you.

But sisters?

Ladies - you rock my world.

(Speaking of - Lizzie and I are about to hit the gym and a movie. Sista style!)

For Want of Constancy

2011-12-06T19:58:00.001-07:00

I remember a seminary lesson taught by Brother Kauffman when I was a senior in High School. He spoke of being Steadfast and immovable. He was talking about being firm in our faith - but I remember deciding that I wanted to be steady just as a person. I had this vision of me in my adult years - a confident and assured young woman who was consistently calm. Unflappable.

I don't mean that I didn't want to change. We are meant to change - to progress, to grow, to learn and to change our minds.

If I had been stuck with being the girl I was when I was in, say, third grade - I would have been doomed. I can't imagine anything more awful! To be trapped in that ever vulnerable state of unrealized potential - an entire tree stuck inside a tiny seed!

But I wanted to be steady inside myself. I wanted to be able to stand in the center of myself, get a real good handful of my own inner resolve and come what may! I would not bend.

So, now, here I am. Swiftly approaching the undeniably-adult age of 32. And I find that throughout the day, I am not so much a mighty solid oak in the wind as I am a cattail reed, whipping this way and that.

I can't count how many times today I thought "This is going to be such a great day!" only to be followed shortly by, "I can't wait for this day to be over!"

Times I felt I was on top of my little world, best Mother Award goes to...! Followed so quickly by the aching desire to simply be known - to exist as something other than she-who-wipes-noses-and-makes-snacks.

Times of immense patience...followed by times of inner tantrum.

And It makes me wonder: will I ever grow up? In all my changing, will I ever become that steady person I imagined?

Will I ever be a tree?

The Wanton Hair Gene...

2011-12-05T23:59:00.000-07:00

...has been passed.

On the Third Day of December, I Went Back and Finished the Projeeeccctttt!

2011-12-03T20:18:00.001-07:00

Got up.

Picked up my produce basket.

Cleaned the church with William (and others).

Then off to Eagle Mountain to finish the tree project (this time without my Man. Sigh).

The tree was dry - time to add leaves.

Then start the monkey while the first round of leaves is drying...

Turning into a real charmer!

Add the rest of the leaves while the Monkey dries...add monkey face, and...VOILA!

The little guy needs a friend in the room, dontcha think? Perching above the nursery door, perhaps?

Put the furniture back...

Alright, Ali. You can have your baby, now.

I'm ready.

(just kidding, I love you!)

On the Second Day of December, my True Love Painted With Me...

2011-12-02T22:57:00.001-07:00

...a Tree for a Baby Nursery!

I was painting, too, I swear. I was just the one who'd stop to take a picture - secretly because I think Bill is really cute when he's painting.

Tomorrow: Leaves and Monkeys!

And then in just over a week...NEW BABY! And I shall be the greatest aunt ever - just like always.

'Cause Here I Go Agaaaaaain!

2011-12-01T19:27:00.001-07:00

I was sitting in the Atlanta, GA airport with my parents during our three hour layover this past Monday, playing with my new toy (My man and I finally joined the technological age and traded our ancient push-button phones for iPhones) when my dad leaned over and said to me:

"So when are you going to do another 100 days on your blog?"

Well, the truth is, I've been toying with the idea of doing another challenge like that. But my dad's query made me feel both guilty for my negligence and flattered that he missed reading, here. Plus, my dad is my most faithful reader - so, for you, Dad! I bring you:

The 31 Posts of December

Getting Older

2011-11-17T13:44:00.001-07:00

How does this keep happening?

I pull the Bean's favorite shirt from his drawer, tug it on over his head, and - BAM! The shirt that fit like a glove last week is now too small. Not just a little tight around the edges, either. I'm talking now-that-we've-forced-it-on-we-may-never-get-you-out-of-this-shirt-again-hope-you-like-red-trucks-on-your-wedding-day unwearably small.

They're growing.

Nacky is nearly too tall to nap in the pack-and-play; a problem I'm not mentally equipped to deal with right now. Lets not even talk about how fast her vocabulary is growing, and how she told me the other night: "No, no WANT come, sit rocking chair Grandma STORY read! I will NEVER!"

(The last she learned from The Bean - one of his many gifts to his little sister that she keeps at the ready in her sass-arsenal.)

They're growing.

These past few weeks as their birthday ticks closer, my heart keeps finding all these little ways to explode. Moments in awe of how beautiful my children are. moments of immense pride in what wonderful people they are becoming, and how I genuinely LIKE them. Moments of aching sorrow that this is all happening so unbelievably fast. And the devastation that I am about to lose my sweet little 3 year old boy to an older and wiser 4 year old; and my familiar and cuddly 1 year old daughter to some mysterious 2 year old creature.

Even Hank bewilders me as I am certain he is a 28 year old man tucked into an 8 month old body - but his birthday isn't until March, and so the fevered whirlwind of emotion for his sake is 4 months out.

My Monkeyfish and the Daphernacle are turning a year older on Monday.

Four days.

I only have four days left with my three-year old boy and my one-year-old girl.

Maybe it's the fact that their birthdays are on the same day that causes it to feel so concentrated - but I can't help but marvel at how permanent the passing of time is.

And I marvel, too, at the fact that on Monday, Daphne will be the exact age Wyatt was when we brought his little sister home. That foreign little thing that he didn't understand and wasn't sure he liked very much - and that is now his very best friend.

I am excited. I am so excited! Their aunts and uncles and cousins and etc. are coming over Sunday night to share ice cream and cake, and William is taking a half-day on Monday so we can take them out to celebrate their big day!

I am excited for them to open their gifts from us! Because I know they will love them. We got Wy the BIG one this year. I can't tell you what it is, yet, but it may or may not rhyme with RIKE.

I love Birthdays, especially the birthdays of my favorite people. But this week, I can't help but also feel a meloncholy nostalgia for these children that I hold in my arms each night, that give me spontaneous hugs and announce unprovoked, 'Mommy, I love you!' - knowing that one day much too soon, Wyatt won't think I'm the coolest person in the world, anymore. Daphne will prefer to play with her friends than with me. And when they have homes and families of their own, it will become much, much harder to get my daily dose of hugs.

That Smell of Pie

2011-11-14T10:56:00.001-07:00

his day began like most - with the Bean alternately pressing his knees into my spine, draping his legs over my neck, or snatching at my arm to wrap both of his around and snuggle into his chest, burrowing his face into my shoulder. The last makes the restless hour before waking (and the ensuing soreness) worth it.

Then came the hectic half-hour of the retrieving waking children/changing diapers/feeding children/preparing husband's lunch; a delicate dance that - if not performed with exact precision - can result in grumpy children or a late husband. This morning's dance was a master performance.

Which is probably 50% of the reason today has been going so well, despite it being a Monday.

The other 50%, I attribute to a wonderful weekend with a Grand Finale Sunday.

The weekend wasn't all smooth waters - there was a slight malfunction on Saturday afternoon when I was running late, resulting in a family ravenous for their mid-day meal (which we enjoyed at Texas Roadhouse - wonderful food. Not very kid-friendly arrangements). And let's not talk about my mental breakdown when we were running late - AGAIN - for church Sunday morning.

Instead, let's talk about how Friday was my parent's anniversary - a special one, considering it was 11-11-11. The kids and I went flower shopping, finding the plumpest Sunflowers available. We cleaned the house top to bottom (freeing up everyone's Saturday) and Lizzie spent the whole morning baking pies. From scratch.

So Grandma and Grandpa came home to a clean, amazing-smelling house after a long work-week - and Grandpa whisked Grandma away on a surprise weekend-getaway.

Those two crazy kids, I tell you what.

So Saturday - we awoke to a day spread before us. No chores to be done. No errands to be run. A day completely ours. So we made a breakfast Grandpa Mac would be proud of. German Pancakes. Muffins. Blueberry apple juice. If there had been bacon in the house, it would have joined the feast. I considered running out for some - but this was a Lazy Saturday. Not a run-for-bacon one.

After breakfast, we danced around the living room to some lively tunes. We stayed in our pajamas as long as possible.

I went to the temple. William bathed the kids. I liked this arrangement very much.

Enter our adventure at Texas Roadhouse. The Bean consumed an entire steak. The Hummingbird was utterly disinterested in the food on her plate, and instead kept stealing mine. She ate all my broccoli, and I once again felt lucky that my daughter was such a great eater. I couldn't force a 'little tree' on the Bean if it came with sixteen shiny new matchbox cars.

Our kind and patient waitress (score!) brought out 'The Saddle', and the kids took turns sitting on it separately, and then together, feeling pretty sure that they would save the West with their faithful steed, whom The Bean named Lenore.

Saturday evening, I treated myself to a movie while William did homework.

Sunday was ward choir, church, and then Second Sunday's big dinner with my siblings and their families. The boys did the dishes. Bob came, and we celebrated her birthday with pie and an evening of Mafia. The Bean danced around our circled chairs, yelling hi-yah! and karate chopping the air before us, exclaiming that he was the Mafia Ninja! Or smiling placidly and flapping his arms, declaring that he was the angel, and would save us all from the Mafia.

My husband, father, and brothers (in-law shmin-law) helped us move a huge and heavy riser out of the basement (so that I could move my desk into that corner). Cleve, Steve and William all received bodily injury doing me this favor - which I so appreciate! - and once again, I was struck by how awesome it is to have brothers. Especially to have brothers who are so WILLING!

There is something so wonderful to me about a willing attitude.

Sunday evening drizzled lazily by - like the rain outside the window - as we all talked, laughed, and accused each other of murder. William had a Matlock moment when he appealed to the ladies and gentlemen of the court - the highlight of my evening. I love that man of mine.

And so here we are. Monday. Laundry to do, a basement to re-arrange (after the removal of the riser), birthday party invitations to create, and an FHE lesson to prepare.

And me. Just kinda happy. With that jumpy feeling in my stomach - the kind you get when you know Christmas is coming.

Colder weather, warm and clean homes, that smell of pie, games into the night with family and a feeling of genuine appreciation for those I also count as my closest friends. Ladies and Gentlemen - for me? The holiday season has begun.

Friday Fact (on Monday): Apple Juice vs. Apple Cider vs. Apple Beer

2011-10-31T12:10:00.000-06:00

Welcome to a special episode of Friday Fact, brought to you on Monday.

We are nothing if not unpredictable.

Reader Victoria wrote in with this question: What is the difference between apple juice, apple cider, and apple beer?

Well, Victoria, I have often wondered that myself. But, unlike you, I settled for my own guesses as to the answer. Thanks to your curious ambitions, I discovered that research into your query proved to be a treasure trove of facts that promise to send even the most Halloween candy buzzed brain to tingling!

Yes, Victoria. There is a difference.

APPLE JUICE
Apple juice, the most commonly consumed of the three varieties, is what you'll find bottled, jugged, boxed and jarred on your grocer's shelves. It is, quite simply, the juice derived from pressed apples that is then filtered free of sediment (giving it that pure amber-colored clarity) and pasteurized.

It's also William's favorite.

APPLE CIDER
Cider's story is a bit more complex. It begins the same way as apple juice - with raw apples. The apples are cut and ground into an apple-sauce like mash. The mash is then wrapped in cloth and placed on wooden racks. The racks are layered, then pressed, squeezing the juice down into refrigerated vats.


Cider Press

The particles and sediment that flow into the juice are invited to stay, adding to the quality of the flavor. And - if you know a Cider Maker - you know that the flavor is an art. Cider Makers pride themselves on finding the right blend of different varieties of apples that will create a balance between sweet and tart in their cider.

Cider - unlike it's pasteurized cousin Apple Juice - must be refrigerated. It can ferment (which for some Cider Makers is the goal) and become alcoholic. Usually in about two weeks.

So how do you know if what you're buying at the store is juice or cider? I'll let you in on a little secret. Apple Juice companies re-label their product around the holidays as a marketing strategy to increase sales. Cider just feels more romantic during the colder months. This is why around this time of year, you can pick up a bottle of your favorite brand apple juice and your favorite brand of apple cider and they will look and taste exactly the same, and even list the exact same ingredients on the bottle.

Sediment rich Cider vs. Pure and Clear Juice

So, if you want to give honest-to-goodness cider a go, there are a few tells: It will either be homemade, or in the refrigerated section. Though, I should warn you - if you go to a party and your host brags up the homemade cider, be sure to learn when it was made. Because - remember? It could be alcoholic!

APPLE BEER
I was delighted to find that Apple Beer is a good deal more than simple carbonated apple juice. It was originally developed a century ago by Bavarian biermeisters as an alternative to beer. Perhaps the Bavarian ladyfolk tired of their men coming home drunk? The drink was called Fassbrause and was made from sicilian apples that were blended with natural herbs and spices. It was prepared, packaged and even delivered much like beer - in wooden barrels in the back of horse-drawn wagons.

In 1960, the drink was brought to the Rockeys and named "Apple Beer." The company is family owned (cool!) and hails from my neighbor, Salt Lake City! You can find it in some grocery stores, some deli's, and even on tap in some restaurants.

So there you have it, Victoria. An age-old question finally answered. For those, like myself, who take our beverages very seriously, we thank you.

And now you can impress all your friends at your Halloween party, tonight. You're welcome.

So which is your favorite?

(Facts Found Here and Here.)

3 Things that Make Me Happy...

2011-10-21T10:58:00.000-06:00

I know, right?

A Natural Pause

2011-10-20T19:12:00.001-06:00

Things are at a natural pause with the other project while I wait for feedback from my editor - so I sneaked over here. I feel a bit like I'm snitching a cookie hot off the rack! So delicious. So scandalous.

So...uhm. What's going on, guys?

WHOLELATTA stuff going on, here.

Firstly - Lizzie has returned from her 18 month mission to Portugal, and is currently living in the bedroom upstairs! I have just been basking in her glow - which is bright and beautiful. Oh, how I have missed her. And...awkward post-mission phase? Not so much. I mean - she doesn't know who Jimmer is and forgets how to say things in English, but that's just charming. She still reads her scriptures religiously and has no interest in watching TV - but that's just admirable (and not something I'd want to change). Oh - and Henry is completely in love with her. He thinks she's his. I kinda think she agrees. It's been a wonderful week having her with us. I am spoiled by the great conversation - and the help! As we speak, she is off to the store for me, picking up the fixins for a round of Gyoza for tonight.

Less cool - Daphne has learned how to take off her pants AND her diaper in the middle of the night. You can imagine - only try not to. So we wized up and she's now in footie pajamas with a safety pin securing the zipper against her shenanigans. So far so good.

Henry is my first to mind teething. And he does mind. Poor thing.

I have lost over half of my post-babies weight (yeah, I gotta lose BOTH Henry AND Daphne), and people are beginning to notice, which is validating.

I am not going to be home for Thanksgiving. Neither is my family - but I am not going to be with my family. I will be in North Carolina, seeing my cousin get married. They will be in Washington, eating Turkey with our family up there. If there were ever a time to invent a way to be in two places at once...

Anyone have any pointers for a dad who's doing a 16 hour roadtrip with 3 small kids and no wife?

Anyone have any pointers for a wife who is going to miss her husband and kids, terribly?

...and off to Gyoza-making I go!

I know, but...

2011-09-27T23:11:00.004-06:00

I find it a wee bit difficult to post, tonight, because I feel as though I am typing under the vigilant eyes of scrutiny.

"Just where do you think you've been?" the eyes seem to be asking. "And why should we care what you think you have to say after you've abandoned your poor blog for so long like that?"

And...they're right. I have been writing - just not here. I'm finding the other thing to be taking up all my word energy. In a good way. But...this other project and my blog...it's not unlike being forced to choose between brushing my teeth and washing my hair. I can't comfortably ignore either!

So I feel you, eyes of scrutiny. I feel you, my own abandonment. I just...I gotta go with the teeth, this time.

But I had to pop by to remind the two of you who still read, here, that THIS is coming!

I am going. I am excited.

See you there?

Everyone Wants a Tiny Jessica Hische in their Pocket

2011-09-23T14:47:00.001-06:00

essica Hische came to Utah. Jessica Hische. I can only assume there were promises of cake involved because the girl does a crazy lot of traveling to places like Oslo and Australia, and she came to relatively obscure Utah Valley University to shake us all up a bit.

William was a part of the chosen few who took part in the behind-the-scenes glory of her visit. I basically sneaked in. Well - secretly and with my $10 registration. But I'm not a designer or a typographer or even a student, so I felt very stowaway. When I took my front-row seat next to William in the Grand Ballroom, he was bouncing in his seat. Not physically - but, you know. I'm the wife. I could see it. He said, "Hibabehowwasyourday-" (breath!) "-THIS is Jessica Hische!"

I turned, and two seats down from me was this fresh and natural looking, gorgeous slip-of-a-girl with long, dark hair, wearing a simple yet quirky sleeveless black dress and cowboy boots. She held out her hand to me, grinned, and said, "Pleased to meet you."

"Likewise," I said, shaking her hand, thinking two thoughts simultaneously: "Wow, she's even prettier in person than in her picture" and "I assumed someone with her presence, influence and body of work in the field would be a heckuvalot older!" I love it when reality obliterates my naive preconceptions and rocks my world. Already, I decided that I loved Jessica Hische.

But I had no idea what we were in for. She stood at the podium and basically caused uncontrollable laughter and tears for two hours straight while her audience ate out of her hand, indulged in her expressive wit, feared her immense talent, delighted in her failed attempts to refrain from swearing, and basically fell in love with her.

To whet your appetite:

(to view more of her portfolio, or to send her a letter mad-libs style, visit her site here)

After her presentation, a lucky handful took her to dinner at Communal. William was one of the lucky, and I got to tag along.

Okay, quick plug, because Communal? Amazing. I thought I was a fan of garden fresh green beans before, but I haint never had nothin' like I had last night, folks. And I ate my entire steak. It wasn't small.

It was great fun to sit and listen to all the designers laugh together, and the conversation was genuinely funny. Jessica even created a monacle by drawing on her fingers with a pen, making the universal OK sign, then flipping them upside down against her face in cat-mask style. I wish I had a picture of that, because even she had to admit, "I am a genius!"

As we regretfully ended the evening and got into our cars, I decided that it was cool that William probably had a tiny crush on Jessica Hische - because I probably had one, too.

But we'll always have the internet...

2011-09-07T10:15:00.000-06:00

An email I received from my one-and-only last week, posted here for your immense enjoyment.

Tho' fones and fuel they both shall fail,
yet our love shall yet prevail.
For in the darkest hour of morn'
I will email you and say, um... I ran out of gas (almost), and I need you to bring me some cash after your errand. Sorry to be a bother.

BUT I LOVE YOU!!!!!!!!!!!

Love,
husband.

PS I'll try to text or call, but my phone is blinking red already. I'll check this email again before I go up to my car. I am located in the attached visual aid. BYE!!!!!

Favorite Child

2011-08-29T09:58:00.000-06:00

Years from now, when my children ask me, "Mom? Who is your favorite?" I will answer, "None of you."

And when they ask, "So you love us all the same?" I will say, "I didn't say that!"

I know the diplomatic answer is that I love each of my children equally - but it's just not true. To say that I love one of my children exactly the same as I love another of my children is to say that I have the exact same relationship with the one child as I do with the other.

I don't.

Each of my three (so far) children is beautiful beyond reckoning. Seriously - have you seen my kids? They are definitely gifted with good looks that their father and I can't reconcile with our own limited-by-comparison genetic makeup. Except their eyes. Those are definitely their father's.

(Except maybe Henry. Too early to tell - but he may get my hazel-green peepers!)

Each of my children is smart. Clever. Creative. Hilarious. Each of them is a joy to spend time with.

And they all have the same nose.

But I do not have the same relationship with all of them. We have a groove that works when we're all together - but during those precious moments when I have one of them one-on-one, we are different with one another. Our individual relationship has a chance to stretch and run around a bit, and it becomes wonderfully obvious.

And so my answer will be: I do not love one of you more than the others. I do not love one of you less than the others, either. But I do not love you the same.

And that is pretty darn cool.

Friday Fact: Judging Mary Murphy

2011-08-19T12:33:00.000-06:00

Confession: I have never watched So You Think You Can Dance until this year.

I know, you're thinking, "Are you an American or what?"

I had seen dances, even an episode here and there - but I had never followed the show until now. The reason I started? My Mom and Dad's simple suggestion that they would like to get us as hooked and obsessed as they are.

I became intrigued. I watched. I was delighted. I am blown away by the talent - and have experienced the turmoil as the judges irrevocably cut my favorite dancers from the show. SNIP!

But even more than the incredible dancing, I am intrigued by these judges. I think their job is heartbreakingly difficult. I was amazed that they were able to glean just 20 dancers from the thousands that auditioned. An impossible feat! And when they were done in Vegas, it seemed to me that they indulged in far more lighthearted banter with the dancers. In my ignorance of the show, it seemed to me that the hard part for them was over, and now they could just enjoy the show and offer critique/praise as warranted.

Boy, I was a fool.

Sure, America is responsible for which couples end up in the dangerous 'bottom three' bracket - but those poor judges are responsible for which of those three will go home.

After all the work they have seen it take those dancers to get to there. After they have developed relationships with the dancers. Friendships.

And even when they believe that America's choice was wrong wrong wrong.

All 20 dancers will go on to do something great with their talent thanks to their exposure on the show. Getting cut is not the end of their career - in a lot of ways it's just the beginning! So, to me, the judges are the real tragic heroes, here.

So I've been doing some reading about Nigel and Mary, indulging in my intrigue. Which brings me to:

Today's Friday Fact: Just Who Is Mary Murphy?

Or: Did You Think She Was From Texas, Too?

I must admit - at first I wasn't a big fan of Mary. She was loud.

She was goofy.

She wore giant carnations on her shoulder.

But I have seen Mary in her more quiet moments. I have seen her weep for the beauty of the dances or the anguish of the stories they tell that hit a bit too close to home - and I suspect she may be one of those secret wells.

Allow me to introduce you.

Mary wasn't born in Texas (where everything is bigger and louder). No, she was born in Ohio. And she didn't grow up with an affinity for the rinestones and glitter of the ballroom world. No. She grew up the only girl in an Irish family of boys. She didn't salsa, she soft-balled. She didn't waltz, she wrestled.

After Mary graduated from Ohio University (with a degree in Physical Education and a minor in Modern Dance) she followed her family in their move to Washington DC. She was just looking for a summer job when she answered that ad in the paper - a local studio was recruiting trainees to become instructors - but the owner of the studio invited her to attend the US Ballroom Championship in New York, and that was the turning point for Mary.

Mary's ballroom career is impressive. She opened an academy in southern California, danced several professional competitions, won the National Open Nine Dance (The 9-dance division consists of American-style smooth waltz, tango, foxtrot, Viennese waltz and rhythm cha cha, rumba, East Coast swing, bolero, and mambo). After that, she quetily left the competitive world and focused on her academy (which she adores!) and her summer work as a judge on So You Think You Can Dance.

Mary has been married 3 times. She was a victim of abuse with her first husband, and has come forward in an effort to help other women in similar situations find the strength to move beyond such an ordeal. Her second husband succumbed to cancer just last month. On her blog, Mary said, "As we said goodbye to the [SYTYCD] contestants, I’m also saying goodbye to my ex-husband today, as cancer has taken another special person from my life. Even though our marriage did not work out, we became good friends. I will miss him and I will always love him." Mary divorced amicably with her third husband, who still works at her studio.

Mary herself is a victim of cancer. Just this year, when it was announced that she would be returning as a permanent judge for this season of SYTYCD, it was revealed that she had undergone treatments for Thyroid cancer. There was a chance she would never be able to speak again (which if you watch the show or know Mary at all - you know is a very big deal!) - but today she is cancer-free, with vocal chords intact.

And I'm glad - because the SYTYCD experience would not be the same without her laughter, her tears, and all her screaming!

Day 10 of the Dreaded "Next Ten Days"

2011-08-13T15:09:00.000-06:00

It has officially been 10 days since Wyatt's T&A.

When I was retrieved from the waiting room after his surgery, I was met in the hospital hallway by his doctor. She grinned at me, thrust a stack of papers stapled to a Ziploc bag of post-surgery 'goodies' into my hands and said, "Are you ready for the next ten days?"

Something in her eyes told me that my answer was definitely 'no'.

"It's brutal," she confided. "Pure misery," she said with a consoling grimace. "But if you can get through it, it will be so worth it."

So I steeled myself for two weeks of brutal, pure misery. I'd have to amp up the patience. I'd have to ignore all other responsibilities and just be Mom of Recovering Monkeyfish (and siblings). I tried to mentally prep for sleep deprivation and the exhaustion that would come with two weeks of fighting to get a very unhappy 3-year old to take his medicine (and cope with the unpleasant side-effects), drink something, eat something, sleep!

Day 10 rested on the other side of the ordeal; my beacon through the pressing madness that I was assured I was in for. If I could just make it to day 10!

And so - this morning as I was marking his morning glass of milk on his drink chart (who knew getting a recovering T&A kid to drink 8oz of liquid 8x/day was such an impossible feat?! I mean, we tried everything - it was like we had CHOCOLATE MILK ON TAP, for heaven's sake!) and made an X in the first box next to the 'Day 10' label - I did a little congratulatory dance in my head.

But it was a much different dance than I had been expecting to do ten days ago. This was the dance of reaching day 10 with no sign of the brutality. No hint of the pure misery that I was so enthusiastically guaranteed by his doctor, friends, the Internet.

Rough patches, but no desperation.
Stubbornness, but no grisly battles.
mole hills, but no mountains.

He would even check with me, "Is it time to take my medicine, mom?" And I would simply fill the syringe with the sticky red stuff, and he would take it from there. He has become a pro at pushing the medicine through the syringe into his own mouth.

He hasn't wanted to eat or drink as much (except for fruit snacks, turkey and raisins, which I have been keeping in steady supply for him), and has been a bit clumsy - falling off of stuff, tripping over things, crashing into doorways and the like - but when the side effects of the codeine should have been extreme dizziness, nausea and constipation - I can't help but feel like the bruises on his legs are lucky.

In the middle of the night, he sometimes wakes up crying from the pain in is throat - usually about the time for his next dose of drugs - and it's a battle to get him to take his medicine (or do anything, really) when it's 3am and he's tired and hurting. But I've read that the pain IS the worst at night when you've been sleeping, and your throat dries out. I read that it feels like you have broken glass jammed back there. I would cry, too.

Well, let's be honest. I'd cry a lot more and behave a lot worse than my little Monkeyfish has.

I'm very proud of him.

And I've been enjoying the surplus of Popsicles, too.

So - we've reached day 10. We're out of the woods. We're not 100%, yet. He is not completely healed - but will be within another week.

And life goes back to normal.

(whatever that means)

Hi, Ali!

2011-08-12T22:19:00.000-06:00

Dear Ali,

With a grand nod to the fact that you are having another boy in December, I give you: The Delightful Silliness of Sons. Please note that for each of these pictures, the Monkeyfish was instructed to display a different emotion.

Nice, huh?

Sincerely,

Your sister.

We Hurt Them Because We Love Them

2011-08-02T10:38:00.050-06:00

I am sitting in the waiting room at the hospital.

Alone.

The room is full of chairs, and those chairs are full of people. Strangers - waiting to go in to surgery, or waiting with someone who is waiting to go into surgery. Lots of people. But I feel acutely alone.

Half an hour ago, I was in this same waiting room with Wyatt. He was making all the people in the chairs laugh with his hilarious dialogue as he explored the waiting room fish tank, bouncing on feet clad in his 'fast shoes', peeking out below his pajamas.

He was making the nurses laugh when they took him back to change into his funny hospital gown and take his stats. How he thought everything was funny and wonderful and new. How he was so excited to take a ride on the 'driving bed'. How he thought the nurse was simply hilarious for suggesting he wear that funny looking hat. No thanks, lady. I'm onto you.

And then, after the nurses assured me that they would take really good care of him - and I believe them - they wheeled him away from me, and sent me back here. To this waiting room. To these chairs and these people.

Alone.

My mind is panicked, my heart is breaking, my Wyatt is in hands that are not my own - and I am asked to sit here calmly? To read magazines?

I know that a tonsillectomy (and even more so the accompanying adenoidectomy) is a very standard procedure. I know it's supposed to be no big deal. The doctor does dozens per day. Wyatt's tonsils were optimal for the surgery. No reason to fear.

And yet - I cannot help that I am a mother. And that this mother's heart is irrevocably linked to her children. To their well-being. To their happiness.

And that even though they go over the procedure a hundred times with me, tell me exactly what is going to happen to Wyatt while he is in their capable hands (but so far away from mine) - they cannot tell me what Wyatt will be thinking. What he'll be feeling.

If he'll be scared?

If he'll wonder why I'm not there next to him in that bed with the 'elephant nose' that smells like strawberries and makes him sleepy?

Or if he'll just think everything is funny, and not miss me at all?

Wyatt's tonsils are healthy. Pink, round, and too big. The problem is not that Wyatt gets sick. The problem is that Wyatt can't sleep.

It began when we moved, and when my pregnancy with Henry began to be turbulent. Wyatt is an empathizer, and so after the hundreds and hundreds of concerned conversations William and I had about our boy who was not sleeping - we decided to wait. Wait and see. Soon the baby would be here. Things would calm down.

Then Hank was born.

And things calmed down, and Wyatt calmed down - but still did not sleep.

Every night, several times a night, he would wake up sobbing, running to find us in any direction that his sleepy mind could take him. Sometimes we had to chase him up the stairs.

Nightmares.

I have had nightmares for as long as I can remember, also. Hereditary? Was this a gift I gave my sweet, feeling, empathetic son?

But then, one afternoon, after a particularly bad nightmare (there was a dark man with bad eyes that was growing along his wall), I snuggled in next to him in his bed. His brother and sister were also miraculously asleep - and so I rested there, stroking his hair while he fell back asleep.

That's when I noticed it.

The gasping. The startling. The jerking, fidgeting, snoring.

The breathing. Then stopping. The waiting for his chest to rise, again. The gasp.

I knew what that was. I had seen that, before. That was sleep Apnea - and had no business tormenting my three-year old!

Doctor Glade agreed. No business. So we did the sleep study.

Wyatt was diagnosed. Surgery was scheduled. Tonsillectomy. Adenoidectomy. The date for surgery was scheduled six weeks out. So I had a month and a half to fret. And fret. And fret!

Friends tried to comfort me - it's no big deal, he'll do great! - but I had the anguish of soul of a mother who was willingly and deliberately subjecting her sweet boy to the pains of the scalpel and the ensuing weeks of recovery. I was going to have to drive him to the hospital - him chatting innocently about the diggers and construction trucks he saw along the way - fully knowing what he was going to be going through, while he really couldn't have any real idea.

We tried to prepare him. Be completely upfront and honest about what was coming. But with all our attempts to explain, he only had a vague idea of what his tonsils were; let alone what losing them would mean.

And so while my sweet boy is entrusted to hands that are capable, but nevertheless those of strangers who can't know him as I do - who can't love him as I do - I sit, and wait, and wonder and worry.

The nurse just called my name.

* * *

2 HOURS LATER

Would you allow me a moment to brag?

Dr. Herras and all the nurses were flabbergasted by how calm and polite my boy was after surgery. They said that when the kids come out of anaesthesia, they scream and cry.

Not my Wyatt.

No. My Wyatt was pleasant and polite when he woke up. He hasn't complained once - except to tell me that he was sad that they took his tonsils out. He hasn't bothered the IV in his arm, he hasn't tried to take off the monitor clipped to his finger.

It took minimal coaxing to get him to eat - but now he's had two Popsicles and a slushy. He's being more snuggly, but not whiny. He's being quiet, but not obstinate. He's not laughing - but he's not crying, either. He's just sort of sitting here on the bed with me, being pleasantly serene.

Word has already spread among the nurses. Wyatt is the angel boy. The one who's not freaking out. The one who is calm and funny. With all that thick hair.

And I.
I get to be his mommy!

I know this isn't necessarily how recovery will be. I know that he's probably still drugged and numb. I know there will most likely be rough days over the next two weeks. There will be crying and whining and being obstinate. But I went shopping last night - so when there are those things, there will also be Popsicles, pudding, and chocolate milk (that may or may not secretly be a protein-rich health drink).

I can't help it. I'm sitting on this bed, looking at my beautiful blue-eyed boy with those heavy lashes as he's watching Tom and Jerry go at it on the TV, and I am overcome by how proud I am. Proud of him. Proud to be his Mom.

Proud that TONSILLECTOMY: CHECK!

If there was another emotion that could possibly rival Proud, right now, it would be RELIEVED.

Plus, on top of all the free Popsicles and slushies, check out his LOOT!

That's a yellow fleece blanket with firetrucks and police cars on it (do they know him or what?!)
A homemade pillow case that he gets to keep.
His hospital buddy that he got on his hospital tour last week
a teddy bear
a wooden car (that he got to take into the operating room with him)
and Buzz and Big Baby. This is the one that impresses me the most. When the cute Family Nurse brought him the car before they wheeled him back to surgery, she asked him what his favorite movie was. He said "Toy Story Three!" So she must have logged that away, and found this little toy set just for him. This is especially impressive to me because she had no idea who Big Baby was. She hadn't seen the movie herself. So she was really listening to him to have brought him Toy Story 3 characters, specifically.

And he hasn't even opened the present his dad and I got for him!

We have to stay overnight for observation, but so far? Wyatt and I have both survived the trauma!

Delivered

2011-07-29T00:29:00.001-06:00

'Member how Tooz won the 100days giveaway?

'Member how I asked Tooz to send a pic of her boy wearing the paper moustache?

She done delivered.

Thanks for that fun post, Tooz!

Exhilerating to Infuriating in a mere 24 hours!

2011-07-20T21:58:00.000-06:00

This morning unfolded with promises of a good day.

Liar.

It began with optimistic signs. The kids all slept well and long, and politely played together while I made us a more healthy breakfast of eggs and berries.

They ate their entire breakfast. That hardly ever happens.

After breakfast, they politely played together (even including Hank in their games, making him laugh from the floor where he rolled onto his stomach and promptly got stuck) while I cleaned up the breakfast mess.

Daphne went down for an early nap, Hank dozed in his swing, and Wyatt entertained himself while I got some laundry going, did some research on cribs on KSL (Hank has officially outgrown Grandpa's cradle. Always a sad day for me.), and - gasp! - SHOWERED.

Things were going so well and hiccup-free that I decided we'd celebrate with a picnic lunch in the back yard. We spread a blanket and I and my three partners-in-crime feasted on sandwiches, apples, craisins, and chips - and then galavanted about the backyard, which my parents have turned into a wonderland complete with trampoline, play-house with swings, a slide, and three different types of climbing walls, a ride-on airplane, and a rocking horse.

Wyatt calls it "Grandpa's park".

All three went down for naps after lunch and playing hard in the hot sun. I had a chance to begin a letter to Lizzie in anticipation of sending her a missionary care package later this week.

And that, friends, is when Wednesday turned on me.

Wyatt woke up with nightmares and refused to be consoled. He wanted to snuggle, didn't want to snuggle, wanted to be on me, didn't want me to touch him, didn't want me to say anything at all - just wanted to be irrationally upset, but in my face.

Which woke up Henry.

Which began a juggling act - my two upset boys wanting/needing me at the same time.

But, okay. We were going to get Henry a new crib - I found one on KSL that was within the price-range I liked - and so we also needed to go to Ikea to get a crib mattress and bedding.

The plan was for Bill to pick up the crib on his way home from work, and the Kids and I would go to Ikea to get the rest of it.

After too long wrestling the kids to get out the door (and waking poor Daphne from her slumber so we could go), I finally got on the road. Which was when I remembered that Ikea doesn't take checks.

I don't have any cash.
I don't have a debit card.
I don't believe in credit cards, so even though I technically have one, it hasn't had a balance on it in over a year, and to use it felt like a curse, a sin, and a death-trap all in one. But that's another post. Basically, it wasn't an option.

so I called Bill, to see if we could meet up and trade his debit card for my check-book, because he was going to need something to pay the crib-people with, too. Right?

Simple, right?

Riiiiiiiight.

Bill's debit card was warped by the sun, so he wasn't feeling too optimistic about using it in an ATM. He suggested I rush to the nearest bank to see if they were open later - he'd heard a rumor that banks were starting to do that - to see if I could make a withdrawal with the evidence of my checkbook and my shiny new license.

The nearest bank was not very near, and by the time I got there, they had been closed for half-an-hour. The crib people were waiting for us, so I called and begged Bill to at least try his card in the ATM before we gave everything up as lost.

It takes WAY too much time and energy to get the kids into the car brushed, washed, clothed, socked, shoed, and with reinforcements (diaper bag) for it to have been for NOTHING.

Bill was just leaving the office, so we had some time on our hands.

The kids were starving.

So I caved, and got them Happy Meals.

Misnomer of the CENTURY this time.

After getting their food, Hank decided to fill his pants. So we pulled into a parking lot so I could sit on the floor of the van in the back with them and change Hank and supervise 'dinner'.

Wyatt dropped his full bottle of chocolate milk, which immediately seeped into the van carpets. I mentally cursed Mc D's for being so stingy with their napkin allotments - seriously? One napkin per happy meal? Have you MET kids? - and frantically searched the car for any means to sop it up before it became a permanent stain and, later (and far more frightening), a permanent smell.

And while I tried to sop up the wet mess with - you guessed it - wet wet-wipes, Daphne dismembered her hamburger and began shoving bits of hamburger down the side of her car-seat.

I vowed I would NEVER let the kids eat in the car, again - a vow I knew I'd break, because really, the only time they DO is when we're in a pickle.

And then Daphne began throwing fries at Henry.

Fries are evil.

Evil.

So finally, I get everything and everyone cleaned up and in some semblance of 'under control', and Bill calls. He's there - and we follow him to the ATM.

IT WORKS!

Hallelujah!

So we go and get the crib - I get lost on the way, of course - and after we shove the thing into Bill's car, he looks at me and says, "why don't I take the kids home, and you can take my car and just relax with some tunes on the ipod?"

Bless that man of mine!

So I drive the 15 minutes it takes to get home by myself. In utter and complete silence. I thought about the ipod - but silence was just so delicious. I felt the tension begin to unwind from that spot between my shoulder blades.

When I got home, the house was empty. I got an entire load of laundry going before I heard the van arrive in the garage.

Bill and I unloaded the kids, and he went to go mow the lawn (which he's been trying to do for DAYS, but things kept getting in the way) and I went to put the kids to bed.

Which was when the craziness began all over again.

So, after two hours of wrangling the kids into bed, we are relaxing now on OUR bed with some bad-for-you food and an episode of Battlestar Galactica.

Only two more hours before Wednesday is officially over, and I can be sure that it hasn't defeated me.

A lot can happen in two hours.

Legal

2011-07-19T18:02:00.000-06:00

Well, folks.

After a year and a half (and a little), I finally did it.

I got a current drivers license.

Murphy's law says that now I'll get a ticket, right?

Well - I *did* outrun a cop yesterday.

(only a little)

Anyway. It's good to be legal.

Friday Fact: The Q-Tip

2011-07-15T13:18:00.001-06:00

Have you ever noticed on your box of q-tips the warning on the label, "FOR PETE'S SAKE, DON'T STICK THESE IN YOUR EARS!"

I always snort when I see that warning label, because we all know that's exactly what q-tips were invented for, right?

When I was headed to bed last night in the wee hours of the morning (after the kids were in bed, there was laundry to fold, Lego's to sort into Billy' brand new organizing bins, and Harry Potter 7 part 1 to watch), I noticed my phone flashing a friendly pink light, saying, "Hey! Hey, there, Stepper! Remember me? Your phone? I know our relationship is volatile, but - and please don't be angry with me - you have received a text."

It was from Risch.

"V was wondering how Q-tips got their name since they don't look like a Q. Sounds like a good Friday Fact to me."

I laughed, shared the message with Bill who grinned, and then went to go brush my teeth. Sounded like the perfect thing to come out of my bloggy-absence with. Q-tips.

I planned to do some research in the morning, but as I went about my bed-prep business, I became more and more intrigued. Why did they call them Q-tips? If not for ears - what are they for?

And so I stayed up waaaaay too late learning all sorts of fascinating facts about that little toiletry icon. I bring you today's FRIDAY FACT: THE Q-TIP!(tip, tip, tip)

(Hey, V! This one's for you!)

It all started in 1923, when Leo Gerstenzang saw his wife sticking wads of cotton to toothpicks.

This is how I imagine it went down:

Leo: Honey? Listen - I know it's meatloaf night, but some of the fellas are getting together for a game of Poker, and I wondered if I might - hang on, what are you doing?

Wife: (pushing her feathered boa out of the way in frustration) What does it look like I'm doing?

Leo: It looks like you're trying to stick those wads of cotton to those toothpicks.

Wife: Well, that's what I'm doing.

Leo: What on earth for?!

Wife: I have an inner ear-canal itch that is driving me BATTY!

Leo: So?

Wife: Well, I'm not about to stick a TOOTHPICK into my ear, am I?

Leo: (restraining a laugh) Well, carry on, then. So listen, about Poker - hang on!

Wife: What is it now?

Leo: I've just had an idea. Wife, you're BRILLIANT!

Wife: NOW he realizes.

And that (not historically accurate banter) is how the idea was born.

The correct term for a Q-tip is "cotton swab". Just ask any manufacturer of the cotton swab who *isn't* affiliated with the Q-tip brand. They're swabs, see?

Kinda like how a Kleenex is really a tissue.

But if you ask someone to pass you a kleenex, they know what you mean. And when your significant other says, "dear, we seem to be out of Q-tips", you know what they are referring to.

That's what I call effective branding! But that's another post.

But the Q-tip didn't begin as such. Originally, Leo called his little invention Baby Gays. Then he got smarter and called them Baby Gays Q-Tips. Then he really wised up and called them simply Q-tips.

They instantly took off - everyone needed these little 100% cotton beauties! And soon Q-tip became a household name. Ads boasted that they were 'so useful to have around the house' - and for such a variety of reasons! Clean pets ears, eyes, paws! Clean hard-to-reach places in the house! apply antibiotic ointments directly to little cuts and scrapes! Make-up applicator! Tiny paint-brush! A craft-room staple!

And the Q?

The Q stands quite simply for Quality.

I Cannot Sample Sarah Sample.

2011-06-22T20:17:00.000-06:00

I want to go to this one, but sadly - I will be out of town (shhh...it's a secret!).

Will you go and tell me how it was?

Also, my friends, my brief and enjoyable hiatus is over. Expect more, more often.

Stepper out.

WINNER - brought to you in a rambling announcement. You were warned.

2011-06-13T22:15:00.001-06:00

Oy, the day I've had today!

But never mind - because I have been looking forward to el aviso magnífico! il grande annuncio! die großartige Ansage!

(I love that Babelfish allows me to pretend to be multi-lingual.)

Blog drumroll! (Is that like a blog-roll?) (Snort!)

The OHSOLUCKY winner of

STEPPER WAS HERE'S

100 DAYS PROJECT

READER APPRECIATION GIVEAWAY!

is...

...

........

THAT GIRL!

Chosen by the hand of providence. Which is also the hand of Wyatt. I had to wait for him to wake up from his nap to pull a name out of the bowl because I wanted you all to win so darn bad that I knew I would be unreliable and a total cheater and keep pulling names until I had pulled ALL the names from the bowl and ended up in an agonized confusion.

CONGRATULATIONS, TOOZ!

(wow - look at that. Another nickname is born.)

Tooz, I wonder if I could persuade you to snap a shot of your adorable prodigy sporting the French Paper moustache? Because that is a ridiculously adorable image in my head right now.

Thanks again to all of you for coming along for the ride during those crazy 100 days.

Now.

Who wants a doughnut?

To Mikelle, on her Birthday,

2011-06-07T11:26:00.003-06:00

Dude!

I'm so glad you were born y'know, ahem, a certain number of years ago today, 'cause if you hadn't been, we wouldn't have met in 10th grade and survived a truly boring and pointless health class by competing with not-so-boring but still pointless Guinness World Records trivia.

And we wouldn't have become inseparable in High School and skipped class that one time to hang out with your mom. And I wouldn't have had OJ and an old-fashioned donut at the end of math class for an entire week that one time.

I wouldn't have known about Country Music.

And NOBODY would have known about my devastating crush on that boy.

We wouldn't have had that crazy trip to Seattle after we graduated - a trip that will live in infamy.

And we wouldn't have been roommates in college, and had that one crazy afternoon when we drove to our crappy little apartment in Gonzo with the windows rolled down in the POURING RAIN, and then ran and spun on the grass with our arms flung wide and our hair flinging water and our faces hollering toward the heavens, daring the world to try us.

Or walked to Maceys in our flip-flops at midnight because we had a craving for banana creamies.

Or had dinner up the canyon more often than not.

Or been so obsessed with Buffy.

And we wouldn't have written letters for two years when you went to the DR on your mission and I went to Logan to USU - two very different worlds than we were used to.

I wouldn't know how to make your famous chimichangas.

Bill wouldn't have worked at the courthouse.

And I wouldn't have you, now - my lifelong friend who is still ever present and so supportive of me and my life - and by extension, my family.

We all love you, you know.

So, y'know, thanks. Thanks for being born.

And Happy Birthday.

100 Days: a summation, a musing, a GIVEAWAY.

2011-06-06T14:39:00.002-06:00

Post Edit: To be clear - out of town readers can definitely enter to win the giveaway! Readers outside of Utah would win everything except the tickets to see the Kid History Episode 5 Premier, simply because it would be hard for readers outside of Utah to attend that event. So if a non-local reader wins the pot, we'll just pull the tickets and do another random drawing from the local entries to win the tickets. Good?

I didn't post, yesterday. I had to fight the urge; had to remind myself as my fingers kept finding themselves at the keyboard that I was not going to post, not going to post, not going to post! It felt like sweet relief and guilt at the same time.

It was at times a very difficult thing for me to force myself to do each day - sometimes I simply had nothing to say. Have you ever tried to write something at least marginally interesting when you have simply nothing to say? Tricky, tricky. But yesterday's deliberate non-posting helped me realize - and I am gratified to know that - I am going to miss this project.

Bill asked me toward the middle and again toward the end of my 100 days whether I felt that my writing has improved as a result. My answer in short form? No. There were some posts that I was pleased with. But there were also many evenings when the clock was ticking on toward midnight, and I sat trapped at my computer having no blessed idea what I would write about, and the resulting post ended up being some convoluted musing on one trivial thing or another that I wouldn't normally force anyone to read.

I'm no better at grammatics. I'm no closer to fine tuning metaphors. I am not suddenly a writer who's work is compelling and heart-breaking and inspiring all at the same time. So, no. I don't think that my writing has improved as a result of this project.

But my writing habit? Now there's an improvement worth its weight in gold. For 100 days, I have written something every single day. I've proven to myself that I can do it - write every day, I mean - and not allow even big things to get in the way and break me of that glorious habit. I mean, I did have a baby during this adventure. I didn't allow that to be my excuse.

So will I continue to post every day? No. Because sometimes, not having anything to say is a good thing. And sometimes your readers need a break, too. And sometimes, a great post needs a few days to breathe before being trampled on by the next thing. But I do think I will post far more often than I was before this experiment. And I do think I have a clearer idea of what I want my little space to accomplish. And I do think that you are all incredibly wonderful for sticking with me through these past 100 days. Which brings me to...

STEPPER WAS HERE'S

100 DAYS PROJECT

READER APPRECIATION GIVEAWAY!

This Giveaway has a life of its own. As I continue to comb through the past 100 posts and think of related giveaway goodies, the pot will continue to grow. But as it stands right now, this is what you'll win!

This giveaway features:

NOTE CARD SAMPLING - Remember this? Now its your turn to make sure the opportunity to let someone know how you feel doesn't sneak away.
TWO NOTEBOOKS - For two reasons. 1 - I have a sneaking suspicion that planning posts ahead of time could make things easier/improve things. So an attractive little notebook to jot down post ideas and inspirations when they hit strikes me as a pretty groovy idea. 2. I love doodling, and a doodler can never have too many little notebooks. Agreed?
CD - from this post. This is a sampling of my current favorites, including the songs from that post. Listen loud, and listen alone. Let it bowl you over. Then you can share.
KEY CHAIN LIGHT - you'd think this was to make finding your car key-hole easier to find in a dark parking-lot, wouldn't you? You'd be wrong, though. Really, this is a take-along distraction for small children. Trust me, it works.
FRENCH PAPER SWAG - Since you all helped Bill's video get recognized, we want to share the incredibly sweet loot. The French Paper glasses and paper mustache are singular delights that will make anyone jealous, and the cute buttons/magnets will make you happy every time you see 'em.
SPRING FRESH EARRINGS/RING - because even though I've been really enjoying all the rain this spring/early summer thus far - I know some of you are eager for colorful and blossoming gardens.
TICKETS TO SEE KID HISTORY EP. 5 (not pictured). Yes, that's right. The winner** of this giveaway will receive two tickets to join us at the Kid History premier of Episode 5!

**This particular portion of the prize can only be won by local readers (unless you want to fly in for the show?) - so if you win the booty and you don't hail from Utah Valley, we'll separate this from the rest and have two winners - one for the tix and one for everything else. Mm-kay?

As mentioned, there may be more to win! I'll let you know how the pot grows at the end of the Giveaway - which will close at midnight on Sunday.

TO ENTER:
Leave a comment here naming your favorite of the 100 day posts.
Easy?
Yes, I thought so, too.

Good Luck!

And guys? Thanks again. Really.

Well, this is it, folks.

2011-06-04T22:07:00.000-06:00

My last post of my 100 day project.

I thought and thought about what I could say on this post - the grand 100th - that could move, inspire, embody the essence of this entire challenge.

Instead, I spent the day celebrating.

This morning found our little family at a parade. (A parade with four bagpipe bands. That's how you know a parade is serious.) The kids gathered goodies tossed from floats (yes, floats!). We scored handfuls of candy, miniature beach balls, samples, fliers, coupons and 2 t-shirts.

Then we headed to the park where a carnival was in residence. We walked the booths and scored tiny water bottles, stickers, more coupons/fliers and a 2 week Karate Lesson trial for Wyatt. And a brochure for Zion's Bank - because I may or may not be interested in switching.

"What's your name?" Tony, the bank rep, asked me - offering his hand.
"Stepper," I said with a smile and a hand-shake.
"Stepper?" He asked, and received points for getting it right the first time even in the noise of the crowds.
"Yes, Stepper!" I said. I don't delve into THAT story unless asked.
"Wow. That's a beautiful name." he said.

First time anyone's ever said that to me. "interesting", sure. "unique" yes. "different" all the time! But beautiful? That guy really wants my business.

I pressed on through the crowd with my gigantor double-stroller bouncing along the un-even grassy terrain, trying not to lose any of the many things we piled on top, underneath, tucked into sides, etc. Ali sidled up to me as I pushed forward.

"Well," she said in mock tone, "My parents actually named me Leper, but I changed it."
I laughed. "I finally came of age," I said.
"Yes. It's so unfair. They named my sister 'Pretty'."
"HA!" I said. 'I love it!"

And then I had the story of Leper and her sister Pretty running through my head. Such a great relationship they had, but boy - their parents sure did favor the one!

At some point, we all got a bit sun-toasted. Wyatt's ears were the only thing that suffered on him because for some reason I did a much better job on him with the sunblock stick (never used one before, I could claim as my excuse, but somehow that falls hallow as it was ALI'S sunblock stick because I completely forgot sunblock altogether). Daphne, poor thing, has random streaks all over her face from where I sticked, but didn't smudge. But my little Henry is now a cherry-face. All except where his binky formed a nice barrier around his mouth. It looks painful. It's hilarious when he smiles. I feel terrible.

Bill and I got crispy, too, but like I was telling Bill. I was running a bit low on freckles, anyway.

After the carnival, we came home to feed small faces and force naps. Bill mowed the lawn and I sat in the air conditioning, eating chips and folding laundry.

Then at five thirty-one, our babysitter arrived.

Now - this was momentous. Because this is the first time (very, very first time) we've hired an actual babysitter that wasn't family and wasn't a family friend and who was a fifteen or so year old girl who lived in the neighborhood. We're branching out!

And, of course, I fretted about it through the whole movie. We brought our little cherry-face with us (peace offering for the damage to his countenance) and together with Mom, Dad, Ali and Steve enjoyed the heck out of X-Men First Class.

Henry has decided he'd like to be a superhero when he grows up. They get to fly the coolest jet planes!

So that's it. The unceremonious - yet very adventure-filled - end to my 100 day project.

Stay tuned (Monday) for a summation of lessons learned (or new curse words I learned) as a result, and - of course - the thanks-for-stickin-it-out-with-me Reader Appreciation Giveaway!

(Cheryl, don't laugh)

Songs on Rooftops

2011-06-03T23:23:00.001-06:00

Tonight was the Rooftop Concert featuring Mindy Gledhill and Meaghan Smith. Were you there? Because I thought I saw you there.

Open sky above, my mountains behind - perfect setting
for the sounds of Meaghan and Mindy.

These two came with us. Double the fun!

It was a lovely evening.

Our view. No - really! That really *is* Mindy Gledhill singing to us
from behind that giant speaker!

See?

The crowd to the front...

and the crowd to the back...

It was a beautiful evening filled with beautiful music.
And beautiful stories about x-boyfriends who just got out of jail.

New Things

2011-06-02T14:13:00.000-06:00

Things I had never tried until Bill:

Nutella
Tunafish Sandwiches the Bill Way (i.e. - with lettuce, tomato, cheese instead of just pickles)
Peanut-butter BLT's
jerky made from deer
raisin bran cereal
Radiohead

Things Bill had never tried until me:

Sushi

SUSHI vs. LOVE

2011-06-01T11:13:00.002-06:00

My Bill committed another all-nighter to make the final push to finish his video. He was already graded on the unfinished version last semester, and so finishing it now was a personal conquest. I love that.

This is a glimpse into the beginnings of our relationship. From his perspective.
(click here to get a larger version)

Love Will Conquer the Rawest of Seafood from William McCrery on Vimeo.

Okay, now feel free to tell him how much you loved it.

And you should know that he created every single element of this film from scratch - every grain of rice. Every bounce, slide, tilt, swing and stutter. Every sketch. Every octopus.

The only two partial exceptions are the sound of the film projector and the projector film-like scratches, hairs, blips and bloops which were taken from actual old home movies of Bill's dad as a teenager - recorded on an 8milimeter camera that Bill had converted into digital format to use in this video. The music is by the Magnetic Fields, which Bill edited and looped himself.

I'm quite taken with it.

It all started because we were out of milk...

2011-05-31T23:58:00.001-06:00

I decided on Costco, because I still prefer the over-sized carts for hauling 3 little beasties through the isles, and having Costco-amounts of milk on hand is never a bad idea at our house.

I thought to go before lunch and the afternoon nap - but Henry had a long nap this morning, and I wasn't about to wake him! So noon came and went, and by the time Henry woke up - I had three very hungry caterpillars; the older two more grumpily so.

So we did lunch. And naps.

And when the older two awoke from their naps, Henry was asleep again. So again, we waited for him to wake.

Finally, fed and changed, Henry was ready. So I began the Great Gathering In that must take place any time we leave the house. It usually takes me at least fifteen minutes to get all my kids and all their gear together and into the car.

This time, it took a whopping HOUR and fifteen minutes! There were meltdowns, great escapes, missing shoes that were found and then inexplicably lost again, socks that were put on feet only to promptly be removed again, a squirmy girl's hair to do, a very stubborn and independence asserting boy, and a little tiny that happens to hate his car seat with a very special kind of loathing.

Finally, with Daphne in one arm, Henry's car seat in the other, and a Wyatt attached to our little caravan with the tenuous threats of his mother, we made it to the garage.

I didn't have the keys.

There was no way I was bringing all kids back into the house with me where they could begin the antics once again - so I put Wyatt in charge of Henry (can you be such a grown-up big brother and stay here with Henry for a second?) and hauled Daphne back inside and into the basement with me where I did the where's-mah-keys dance until I remembered - I had asked Bill to put them in the basket in the window earlier when Daphne had set off our car alarm with the panic button on the keyring and he had dashed out to save the day.

Keys snatched. Back out to the garage. 3 struggling kids wrangled into car seats and latched into place. Sunglasses on. Ignition. Set into reverse gear.

Big sigh.

I looked at the clock - and almost gave up. Really? An hour and a half? And now it was so close to dinner time, I was about to have a grumpy boycott on my hands. Again.

So we were extremely naughty and went through the drive-through. I allowed myself some inner-loathing as I ordered nuggets and fries for my poor children, and a diet coke for myself.

Things were calming down, I thought. Then the gas light went on.

We drove to the nearest Costco and into their fueling station. Henry was screaming. Daphne was on "mommy, mommy, mommy" repeat.

Membership approved, card slid, pump ignited. I put the gas nozzle into my car, and pushed the handle in to begin fueling - ahhh! A full tank! I love that feeling! - and began the song/dance to attempt to calm Henry down.

"Mom?" Wyatt asked. "I need to go potty."

"Oh, okay! Can you hang on? We're just getting gas, and then we'll go in and you can use the bathroom."

"Okay."

The nozzle wouldn't catch. I kept pushing, wouldn't catch. wouldn't catch. I looked - tiny river of fuel down the side of my car, and a puddle on the ground.

Weird.

I pulled the nozzle out and there was a little puddle of fuel remaining along the rim of the hole, and it was bubbling. Not fizzy soda bubbling. Rolling boil bubbling.

"Do you need help?" asked the Costco gas attendant. He came over, saw what my car was doing, and said, "well, that's definitely weird," and began to check my car. I don't know if this is a common Costco courtesy, or if this guy was just extra kind and helpful, or if he had a 2 month old at home and so could empathize with the sounds coming from my car - but I was very grateful. And his accent was adorable. Is it offensive to those with accents that I find them charming?

He tried to explain to me that sometimes there's air in the tank if there's a crack or a leak in the fuel line - but that he had checked and everything looked fine - and that he'd never seen anything like what my car was doing, before.

He kept saying that. "I've never seen a car do this, before."

Me neither!

He kept checking my car, trying things, and I kept checking Wyatt - who was holding out like a pro.

Finally, my Costco Gas Attendant Hero told me he felt that my best option was to take it to one of the two car shops in the near area. It had to be close, because - you know - I was out of gas and everything. he said, "Show them what it's doing and see what they say!"

I think he wished he could be there to see their faces.

I thanked him - but I had a matter more pressing than even my crazy-behavin' car!

I loaded 3 kids into a delightfully over-sized cart and rushed my boy into the bathroom. We then wandered Costco while I tried to reach Bill on my cell. We read books, looked at camping tents, watched the fork-lifts in the back haul pallets for a while...ever-treading that delicate balance between being entertained and having a meltdown.

I was grateful at this point that we had been naughty and had visited the drive-through. It was getting on toward the kids' bedtimes.

Finally got ahold of Bill - help was on the way! - and we hurried and did our grocery shopping while he (borrowing my mom's car) drove to get us.

We loaded the kids' car seats into my mom's car - with a once-again screaming Henry - a juggling act that took nearly twenty minutes. I fed Henry in the front seat while Bill ran in to Costco to get himself some diner - poor guy.

We took the van to a nearby shop. Transmission only. They recommended a place up the street. We took it there - overnight drop. We noted the open time and left our crazy van to fend for itself while we began the trek home.

I was wound so tight by this point that everything was making me jittery.

Which was when Bill said, "So...want to hear my bad news for the day?"

He had been pulled over.

After recovering from the blow of that news (and the $47 ticket), we laughed hysterically the whole way home. Everything was just so darn funny.

Except, perhaps, for Daphne in the back seat on "mommy, mommy, mommy" repeat.

The Final Five

2011-05-30T22:36:00.000-06:00

This is it, folks. The final week of my 100 Days project.

This post is number 95.

What a journey this has been for me. I have learned a lot - about blogging, about how I write, about how brutally boring I am capable of being...

I don't want to go into the details now - this journey is not over, yet! But I wanted to give you a heads up. Because I know that many of you have stayed with me through this whole experiment - and that is no small thing. I'd like to thank you. Giveaway style. Stop by Monday for the debriefing?

And now, as it is late(ish) and my eyes are burning from tiny onion particles in the air (which has something to do with an amazing tomato basil soup), I shall leave you with but one small thing to ponder.

Wyatt's favorite joke:

Q: What is the difference between roast beef and pea soup?
A: Anyone can roast beef.

A Story of Choice

2011-05-29T20:12:00.000-06:00

When I was a student at USU, I took a Social Sciences class. It was one of those
auditorium classes where you and 300 of your closest classmates sat in a lecture
theater and listened to the professor. It was very easy to remain anonymous. But
during our unit on the social impact of abuse, one young man raised his hand,
stood up and told his story to the class.

He had an abusive father and was angry about the unfairness of the situation. He
spent most of his teenage years working out and getting strong enough so that one
day, he would be bigger than his father. So his father wouldn’t be strong enough
to beat him up anymore. So he could one day teach his father a lesson.

He told us about the day he realized he was finally stronger than his father. He had done some little thing that had made his father angry, and his father grabbed him to beat him. But he
instead grabbed his father and pushed him against the wall. He remembered the
look on his father’s face - of surprise and of fear - and it struck him that this was
what he must have looked like all the times his father had beaten him.

In that moment, he realized that he had a choice. He realized he could give in to
his intense feeling of anger and could beat his father in retribution for all the
times that he had been beaten; and his Father would be afraid and never be able to
touch him again.

Or he could walk away.

He knew that because abuse is a cycle, he had a much greater chance of being abusive to his future son. So he looked at his Father and said, “Dad, I forgive you. But you will not touch me again.”

His father broke down weeping, and said, ‘Son, I am so sorry. You are so much stronger than I ever was.”

With tears in his eyes, my fellow student told us that his father never touched him
again. That they have managed to salvage a relationship. That he had a beautiful
wife and two small sons, and that he has never laid a hand on any of them. He
broke the cycle of abuse in his life because in one moment, he made the decision
to be different. He decided to change the course his life was taking. He told
us that we all have the power to decide who we will be.

What Rain?

2011-05-28T20:16:00.000-06:00

Can't post today...

...too busy having dinner by campfire. In the rain.

Happy Memorial Weekend, all!

What are You Doing June 3rd?

2011-05-27T17:44:00.001-06:00

Is it this?

And if it isn't, shouldn't it be?

Let's break it down.

Ryan Innes (+) Mindy Gledhill (+) Meaghan Smith (=) a Family Friendly and Romantic Evening (what, the two aren't mutually exclusive!) hosted by (Provo pride personified) CJane and the Rooftop Concert Series!

I mentioned it's free, right?

And that it's literally on the rooftop of the parking terrace of Provo Town Square?

And as if that weren't incentive enough, Meaghan would like to personally invite you to join the fun:

Adorable, right?

Right.
(I love how she says 'husband')

So. See you there.

The G(L)ORY of Motherhood...

2011-05-26T21:29:00.001-06:00

I had just fed Henry and had placed him on the floor-blanket I had just pulled from the dryer to change his diaper when I discovered it.

Blow-out.

The up-the-back soiling the shirt and - yes - the freshly laundered blanket type of blow-out. And yes, I discovered it the fun way.

5 diapers (truly) and some serious hand-washing later, I had Henry perched in my lap, leaning over one arm as I attempted to spread a fresh blanket and burp-cloth out for him to lie on while I ran for some fresh clothes for him.

Which was when he decided that the other thing had been so fun, he should probably lose his lunch from the top end, also.

Basically, by the time I had Henry down to a CLEAN diaper and resting on a CLEAN blanket, I myself was covered in...well, let's not go into that.

He created an entire load of laundry just from that one ten-minute stretch of his day.

And oh, did he look pleased with himself!

After his resulting bath, I held that little man in close, smelling his hair and his naked skin wrapped so snuggly in his blanket. I put him in some clean, white jammies - and I was completely undone. I nibbled on cheeks, stroked soft hair-sprouts, kissed tiny nose - I was completely in love.

Which was when I realized - that impressive mess that he had created for me twenty minutes before? It hadn't phased me at all.

I mean - I am sitting here, now, completely exhausted from all the messes of the day (Henry wasn't the only one today with adventurous 'potty' moments). I told Bill when he walked in, tonight, that "I am so done." But being pooped and puked on?

Please.

That is my mantle, and I wear it with pride. This - I realized - is a pretty significant signal that I am truly a Mother. I - who curtle at the site of someone spitting in the parking lot - don't flinch in the least when it is my child who poops/wets/vomits/wipes his/her nose on me.

My mother told me this would happen - I think I didn't really believe her.

But I look at myself in the mirror - with my frizzy hair that I didn't have time to do anything with but wash today, with my ill-fitting shirt with the spit-up stain, with those circles under my eyes - and I see that these are but the jewels adorning my Crown of Motherhood. My battles scars that label me as - in spite of it all - glorious.

I believe that cleanliness is next to godliness. But I also now believe that sacrificing that cleanliness can also be next to godliness. Because sometimes? Holding your crying daughter close, knowing full well that your blouse is being saturated by her runny nose and stained by her graham cracker drool, is actually cleansing for the soul.

A soul bubble-bath, those peanut-butter jelly fingers on your trousers.

Don't Punch...Our Car.

2011-05-25T20:42:00.000-06:00

Scuttlebutt on the street says that Kid History is going to release Episode 5...

(...wait for it...)

(...wait for it...)

...IN THE THEATER!

This is going to be a 2 hour event, featuring the pre-release of Epsiode 5, a new 'cinematic version' of Episode 1, and episodes 2 through 4.

BUT!

You also get some inside information, unseen footage, outtakes (maybe?), etc.

FACT!

The cast will be there. There will be T-shirts.

June 23 (Thursday) - showing at 5 and 8. Get the deets HERE.

Will I see you there?

(Tickets go on sale tomorrow morning at 10 a.m. - but if you all could wait to sign on until 10:05 a.m. so that I can for sure get my tickets, you'd all be peaches.)

(I'm kidding)

(But not about seeing you there.)

In other news...

Bill and I have finished watching Life on Mars (five stars!) and are now watching Flash Forward (I am terrified!) - and, of course, Dr. Who whenever Netflix sends us the anticipated DVD - and we've come to conclude something very important.

Never deliver a briefcase.

Flowers! Chocolates! Even one of those cookie bouquet thingies! But a briefcase? Don't deliver it. Just don't.

Duffels, either. Just walk away, man.

And while Bill and I were cleaning up after the day, we were locked in our usual post-kid-bedtime banter, and I moved to put the blanket in Henry's swing. Bill flinched.

"I thought you were going to attack me" he said.

I laughed at him, then clicked on the pen I had just picked up from the console table and made to attack his face with it. He moved to block, but I dropped my arm in disappointment.

"I was going to draw a mustache on your face, but that would have just been redundant."

He nodded resolutely. "You can't improve perfection," he said.

"No..." I said, thinking I dropped the pen too soon after all. "But you can copy perfection. Repeatedly. On your face."

He said nothing to that.

I think that means I won, don't you?

The AIGA's AIG-Ugh

2011-05-24T22:11:00.000-06:00

Finally, the evening of the AIGA 100 show had arrived. The weeks that led up to this event were a culmination of frustrations and excitements - and this evening was to be the big payoff.

Recall - Bill and his partner-in-creativity Lauren had spent countless hours animating, voice recording, synchronizing and tweaking this video into as close to perfection as they could get in the time they were allowed in one short semester. There were sleepless nights. There were dinners sponsored by the hall vending machine. There was blood, there was sweat, and there were tears (okay, the tears were mostly mine).

After the video was turned in for a grade, it sort of took off and took on a life of its own. It became a popular Vimeo video, getting hits that grew exponentially in number as the weeks went on. Soon enough the President of UVU took notice and commented on it. It was discussed in a newspaper article. Bill and Lauren were hired by UVU to fine tune it further into something that could be used professionally.

And they submitted it for consideration in the UVU 100 show.

The Judges passed on the video, but thanks to its popularity and the votes of friends and family (thank you!) it was a definite candidate for the People's Choice award.

I don't know about you, but I think that the favor of the general public is just as important as the favor of a small group of judges.

Which brings us to Saturday Night. Bill was ever cool about the whole thing, reminding me that they may or may not win - but it was good experience either way. I, on the other hand, wanted to win. I wanted so desperately to see my hard-workin' man get recognized by the community of Graphic Designers. I wanted to see him validated and no-excuses pleased with his work. I wanted an award - something physical that I could point to and say, "See? SEE?"

We weren't even going to attend the 100 Show this year. Too expensive, too busy a weekend, family in town, etc. etc. But then it looked like Bill might win - and we decided it would be good to go. You know. Just in case someone needed to be there to accept an award. Or at the very least, stand and wave.

So we bought ourselves and Shirley and Garry tickets. I was excited. Last year I really enjoyed it. It would be fun to share such an event with the Walkers, and it would be so great to have them there when - I mean if - Bill won.

So we arrive at the venue - the Museum of Fine Arts - and check in. We are issued our 3D glasses (the theme for this year) and peruse the offerings of the silent auction. Shirley and I are curious about a 'quilt' that turns out to be a blanket made from remnants of the 2002 Olympics banner.

We are ushered into the auditorium for the awards presentation.

The presentation is nice. Funny. Well-done, with a creatively designed video to accompany each presenter. Awards were handed out. Sponsors were applauded. Efforts were thanked.

No People's Choice award. Not even a mention.

After the presentation, we were all invited to go to the back gallery, where all 100 pieces of the show were on display for closer look. Savories were being catered at the front. Drink bar at the back. While we wandered through the 100 best tokens of design for the year, Bill kept his eye out for someone to ask about the overlooked award.

Finally, on our way to refill our water glasses, he caught up with the president of the SLC AIGA chapter. I stood next to him during the conversation. I don't know what my face was doing while the boys talked. I hope I kept it stoic, because inside I was anything but calm. I was infuriated, grossly disappointed, extremely proud, impressed, and hurt all at the same time.

I was infuriated because the Prez said that the People's Choice had been such a hassle - lots of technical difficulties with the website and etc. - that it sort of lost its charm to the powers that be, and as a result was, in fact, overlooked. Bill kindly reminded him that the website made it seem like it was a big deal, that it would be announced at the awards ceremony, and that it was something far too legitimate to be 'overlooked'. This was where my being impressed came in. Bill explained that it meant something to him, and to everyone who helped us out with the votes - and that he brought his Aunt and Uncle tonight, for goodness sake. I was very proud of him for sticking up for himself - and the People's Choice!

The Prez apologized, said that he would go find the guy who was in charge of the website to get the final tally, and that he'd see what he could do.

I felt so disappointed. This had been a big deal to us. It was a big deal to my man, and to have his efforts just...overlooked...because it was a hassle? I know it wasn't personal. I know that with big events, things slip through the cracks.

It's just that nobody slips William McCrery through the cracks. Nobody!

Pretty soon, a voice came over the loud speaker and very animatedly announced that Bill had won the People's Choice award - and asked him to please meet them at the bottom of the stairs to receive some award-type goodies.

Everyone at the event clapped and cheered for him - even though most of the guests had gone by that point - and he put on a show of waving to his adoring fans.

The prize? Not a Copper Ingot - though Bill tells me that the Ingots were reserved for the 10 judged winners, so we wouldn't have received one, anyway. But our prize? A poster from the event, and a promotional booklet featuring the all 100 pieces that were judged for this year's win.

They told him that they'd have to print the certificate and get it to him, later.

I was very impressed with Bill's demeanor. He was very gracious, was pleased with his gifts, and determined to enjoy the rest of our evening.

Which we all did! The highlight (aside from Bill's win) was the photo booth. Even Aunt Grammie and Oompa got in on that action!

So that was our evening. But that is not the end of the story. Because the next day was Sunday. And we spoke in church. And in Bills talk, he spoke a little about the disappointing evening. He compared it to his Saturday one week before, when he went to the Temple. He said that at the temple, he was treated so kindly. Everyone was happy to see him there. At the temple, he never felt overlooked.

He said that at the AIGA thing, he was seeking after the glory of the world, and he was disappointed. At the temple, he was uplifted and filled with joy. Isn't that cool?

Yes, I married that boy. Yes I did.

And Sunday evening, after the post-blessing get-together began to die down, my mom presented Bill with a silver box. Inside was a chocolate gold nugget. She said, "It's not a Copper Ingot, but this Gold Nugget is to show you that WE think you are a winner."

And you know? Copper Ingot Shmopper Ingot.

Daphne Playing

2011-05-23T21:41:00.000-06:00

Henry's Blessing

2011-05-22T23:32:00.003-06:00

What a Sunday.

Henry was blessed, today. As I sat up on the stand (Bill and I also spoke in Sacrament Meeting) and looked out over the congregation, I was overwhelmed with gratitude for the support of so many friends and family members that came to help make the day special for our family.

Shirley and Garry, of course, who came from Clarkston, Washington to share the joy of this day with us - and sat with Wyatt while Bill and I were up on the stand.
Pam and Mike - whom I haven't seen in over a year - surprised us by attending. I got to see their son for the first time.
Kolby and Kristie with their two kiddo's, who made the 45 minute drive from Spanish Fork in a gesture of friendship and support.
Mikelle - who kept grinning at me whenever we made eye contact during the meeting. Thanks, dude.
My sister Jamie, her husband Jeff and their family - even though their youngest was sick, they came so that Jeff could participate in the circle. It wouldn't have been the same without him.
My grandparents - both sets - for whom the journey out to Highland is not easy.
The Mikkelsons and their gang - who always emanate loving support to our little family, and who kept my daughter all loved and entertained during the meeting.
Ali and Steve - when we finally made it back to the house after the meeting, Ali was in the kitchen getting everything set out for lunch. I really appreciate that.And Steve for doing some folding-chair heavy lifting.
Meg and Cleve - for all their help with wrangling my kids at the church (and out to the car in the rain, thanks Cleve!) and all the help at the house to get lunch going.
Bill and Laura - who have been to EVERY family event they have been able to come to. That's dedication. And Bill tends to dote on my kids - which, of course, I love.
Ben and Stacie - their time together is precious as a newly engaged couple living in separate states. But they chose to spend their Sunday afternoon with us.
Rebekah Kaylor, for taking over on my Primary Class, and for making it a point to return my Primary Bag to me after church.

My dad - who as a member of the Stake High Council always has very busy Sundays - but he made us know in no uncertain terms that Henry's Blessing event was today's very big deal. And for all the yard work to make things 'guest ready' and mowing the lawn yesterday so Bill wouldn't have to this week, and could focus on all the other stuff.

And my mother - who slaved all day in the yard, just in case the weather cooperated and we could all be outside. Who was with me in the kitchen last night, and met me again in the kitchen early this morning. Who allowed me to sneak a load of Henry's laundry through the wash even though it was her day. Who made cookies and brownies 'just in case'. Who cleaned the entire house without a lick of help from me this week. Who made sure I had thought of everything. Whose understanding smile I looked for whenever I fell apart, overcome with emotion, while giving my talk. Who carefully bathed and dressed my little Henry this morning in preparation for his big day while I frantically ran around assembling all the last-minutes.

We could not have pulled it off without you, Mom.

And my dear, sweet husband, who gave Henry a beautiful blessing - and gave a beautiful talk filled with his personal testimony and conviction about the truthfulness of this work.

I am so grateful for this Gospel, and I am so grateful for my Family. And I am learning more and more how deeply related the two things are.

Cheaty update

2011-05-21T23:45:00.000-06:00

I know many of you are eager to hear about tonight's AIGA event and whether or not my man won People's Choice, but I am going to have to fill you in on all the fiasco-filled details when I have time to sit down and delve into the deets.

Because we were stuck in traffic for over an hour.

Which meant we got home at 11:30pm.

I still have a talk to finish writing for tomorrow, along with the rest of the night-before prep work I need to do for Henry's baby blessing event. Because I want to be at church fifteen minutes early.

Think we can do it?

What do Pirates Have To Do With Pizza?

2011-05-20T23:44:00.000-06:00

This afternoon, Aunt Grammie and Oompa took us to Pirate Island Pizza, where I was unexpectedly impressed by the ambiance and the food.

I was expecting a Showbiz Pizza kind of deal - but it was more like a Disneyland attraction. Wyatt and Daphne were on cloud 9 and were so fun to watch. Henry slept through the whole thing.

We spent the early evening talking about, you know, life, love and change while the kids napped (pirates are EXHAUSTING!).

Then we spent the late evening playing cards around the dining room table - the Walkers, the Cards, the McCrerys. We kept score - but I have no idea who won. I think we sort of forgot about that part.

I wish I could say more - I truly do - but I am so tired I'm falling asleep at the computer, and tomorrow is another big day!

Henry is being blessed on Sunday. Did I mention?

I haven't come up with any nicknames for him, yet. Shouldn't I have, like, twelve by now? I voiced this concern to Bill, who told me he calls him 'Hank' on occasion, and that's a nickname. I said it didn't count, because it's an actual name - like how you can call William Bill. And then everyone at the table told me that Bill is also a nickname. And I said, "Oh, you know what I mean!"

Grammie and Oompa are in the House!

2011-05-19T23:15:00.000-06:00

And that is big news.

Just ask Daphne, who warmed immediately to Oompa and ran in circles laughing with pure joy for twenty minutes straight. She has never done that, before.

And Wyatt, who immediately became an airplane with detachable wings - an old set and a new set - that only Grammie or Oompa had the power to repair for him.

Or you could ask Stepper, who received inspired gifts of Trader Joes cornbread and rice crackers; and a beautiful quilt and burp clothes for Henry, homemade by Aunt Maim before she passed away. Bless that woman.

Not to mention the three doll beds and high chair that are currently rocking my world (more on those, later, because - you guys gotta see these).

Or you could ask my parents, who received a birdhouse that Garry made for them himself. It is beautiful. Beautiful.

I didn't know he could do that.

It doesn't surprise me.

After we put the kids down, we sat in our family room and watched the videos Bill made. Then some old home movies, featuring Shirley when she was in High School through when she married Garry (Oh, how I wish we had footage of their wedding!). She pointed out who was who - and so I got to see Bill's grandmother and grandfather.

And Bill's dad, who was a teenager in these movies, and - as Bill said - was always being "a bit of a dickens."

Then we talked about life, love, and change until we were all yawning, and decided to pick up where we left off tomorrow.

c'mon, tomorrow!

c'mon!

What would you-a-done?

2011-05-18T22:38:00.000-06:00

Sometimes when Bill gets really jazzed about something at school, he comes home all animated and fast-talky and he says some really zany things.

Like "Hey, Stepper - what is your gut reaction to the idea of me going to New York for six weeks next summer to study design in this amazing workshop opportunity?"

Well. I had so many gut reactions to that question that I knew if I opened my mouth, a sound akin to a dying ostrich would probably come out. Continuously. For several minutes.

So I just stood there looking at him.

He started guessing at my possible reservations, and began offering possible solutions.

"What if we could raise the money through the AIGA to send a group of us there?"

"...Such a great opportunity."

"...after my Summer Block of classes was over."

"...would really benefit my portfolio."

"...work overtime beforehand to make up what I'd miss at work."

I wanted to just say yes. I wanted to be the cool wife and I wanted to say, Dude! Go for it! I didn't want to be thinking, Oh. Sure. Leave your wife and children for SIX WEEKS to go on some great adventure (that involves hotels!) and have this amazing artistic experience while I'm home having an amazing laundry experience.

...Mostly, I just want to come, too. I love New York.

But me and the kids? We spell DISTRACTION. On account of our awesomeness.

The idea isn't out. It's not in, but it's not out.

But it got me thinking. Ladies? What would you a-done?

water is tricky

2011-05-17T19:09:00.001-06:00

One week of reconstruction and $650 later, our Spanish Fork home will be good as new - or so we have been promised. Thank you for your concern!

"Water is tricky," said Camille, our stellar insurance agent. "It can look like nothing, and be a big deal - or it can look like a big deal, and be nothing."

I have decided that I really, really, reallyreally like insurance.

Who knew that a clogged toilet could be so disastrous?
(Or is it: who knew that a 9 year old boy could be so disastrous?)

But thank heaven for professionals and masters of their trade, because if I lived in the olden-days and had to rely on my own devices to fix up my log-cabin home, that thing would last as long as Eeyore's house.
(Or is it: if I lived in the olden days, we would all know how to build and fix our own houses?)

Speaking of how water is tricky...did you know that there are 7 properties that are unique only to water?

Got your Geek on? Here they are:

Water sticks to itself (cohesive) AND sticks to other stuff (adhesive)!
Water weighs less as a solid than it does as a liquid. This is why ice floats!
Water carries an electric current
It is a universal solvent (it'll dissolve your alka-seltzer and the grand canyon, yo!)
It is found naturally on the earth in 3 forms - solid, liquid, gas.
It boils faster if you put cold water into the pot than if you put hot water into the pot
And the last one, which I can't remember. What? Chemistry was, like, twelve years ago!

weeds and floods

2011-05-16T23:37:00.000-06:00

This evening found us at my grandmother's house. With all my aunts, uncles, cousins, siblings, parents, etc. We all arrived for the annual 'yard blitz', wherein we - with trowels and buckets in hand - attack Grandma's yard with a year's worth of zeal and transform it into a clean, weeded, planted, edged and hedged wonderland.

Grandma moved about us, offering gifts of beverage and pizza. The kids played around us, altering between a huge green bouncy ball, bikes and trikes (discovered in Grandma's garage), and just simple and lovely tag.

The work was good, the company was great, and the yard was left in satisfactory order.

When we got home, we received an email that our home in Spanish Fork was flooding. No - not river type flooding. According to our tenants, it was clogged-toilet-now-leaking-through-the-light-fixture-in-the-ceiling type flooding.

Ah, Monday. You've done it again.

My Noble Son

2011-05-15T19:33:00.001-06:00

Wyatt fell asleep with his head on my lap today during Sacrament Meeting. I sat and stroked his hair, and it was very tender. He didn't wake up when Sacrament Meeting was over, though - which meant I would have to wake him up and he'd be really precarious for Primary for the next two hours. I woke him up as gently as I could, and he didn't cry or go all grumpy-face, but he did cling to me as he worked through is confusion. So during the second hour of sharing and singing time, Wyatt sat in my lap while I sat with my primary class. i kept offering to let him go sit with his class, and he'd snuggle into me further and say, "not yet'.

I was really enjoying his cuddles.

But then, my problem child (I hate calling him that. It's not his fault! There's obviously something going on with him that causes him to behave the way he does. By 'problem child', I mean 'the child that tends to cause problems', not 'the child I have a problem with') began to act out. He will be the sweetest, most well behaved boy one second and fly completely out of control the next. So it happened that while I was sitting with my class with Wyatt on my lap, this boy was sitting next to me. He turned backward in his chair and started bucking it back and forth like a horse, laughing maniacally. I couldn't get him to stop with my best persuasion skills, so I resorted to holding down the corner of his chair so it wouldn't fold up and collapse on him. So this boy sees my hand on his chair, and begins punching and hitting it and laughing.

My Wyatt sees this, he looks this kid in the eye, grabs the hand that keeps smashing mine, pries it off of me. Then - still looking hard at this kid - he takes my hand in his, and pulls it in to his chest protectively.

I. just. melted.

My son was protecting me! I hugged him tight, and barely even noticed the boy next to me biting my shoulder. My sweet and noble Wyatt was there to defend me!

My whole family is falling asleep - it's only 7:30! - so I better sign off and put some kids to bed and a husband on the couch for a nap.

Charms...Lucky Charms...

2011-05-14T09:44:00.001-06:00

Charami (aka Charms) is an island girl living in a desert. She has some pretty intense struggles with pregnancy (has to give herself a shot every day! Incredibly sick the whole way through!), yet feels entirely blessed to be expecting her second, due to arrive late October.

I met Charami when we both worked at New Haven. I would sneak away to her English Room after the girls had gone back to the houses for lunch, and we would dish about the joys of pregnancy (she was expecting her first, I my second), our incredible spouses, and the world of books.

We still plan to get together for that back yard barbeque. Maybe this summer, Charms?

Anyway, she was kind enough to allow me to guest over in her bloggy-space.

Care to visit?

Random Stepper Trivia - Impress Your Friends!

2011-05-13T12:06:00.001-06:00

I usually don't like salad dressing on my salads. I use cottage cheese instead, or some lemon.

I don't own a gun. Bill owns a few - inherited from his dad - but they're being stored right now at his brother's house in WA. Bill says eventually we'll get a safe and they will live with us. I still don't know how I feel about that.

I have a thing for Izzie sodas. I used to have a thing for Cranberry Snapple.

I have never tasted coffee. I've never smoked anything. In fact, I get a little too high on Cold Medicine for my liking.

I get nervous at doctors appointments. Not because doctors scare me, but because I stress that I won't remember to ask all the questions I've thought of before the appointment. Or that I'll chicken out.

I am a dog person. I love dogs. But now that I have kids, I'm not sure I want one as a pet.

Hot dogs, on the other hand, make me morbidly curious. Because - what is that thing?

My favorite traditional Christmas Carol is O Holy Night.

My favorite kind of juice is grapefruit. But if I can have grapefruit and cranberry juice mixed? It's going to be a good morning.

I can do push-ups, but I try not to.

My favorite piece of jewelry is my wedding ring. It's like a little friend that always tags along. I haven't been able to wear it, now, for about six months. It's driving me crazy. I also love my pearl earrings my hubby gave me on our first anniv, and I have an antique-ish heart box necklace that I adore. Of course, I don't wear jewelry right now. Too many little yanking fingers.

I love to cook. I love to bake. But I can't stand the daily 'what's for dinner' bo-jiz. Weird, right?

Jamie is my oldest friend. I've known her for, like, my ENTIRE LIFE!

I wish I had a job that paid me to travel. Even if I only ever got to see the hotel room, because - have you heard? - I love hotels.

I own three different kinds of slippers. My cute around-the-house crocheted slippers, my fuzzy black my-feet-are-fuh-reezing slippers, and my grey slippers that can pass as regular shoes when my feet are pregnant.

My sister Soup has identical pairs of the last two kinds of slippers I mentioned.

I still sometimes put on a red t-shirt on Fridays out of habit, even though Steve has been home for months.

I can whistle - but I can't do the warbly whistle thingy that my dad and uncles can do. I try, and it just sounds like I'm choking.

My favorite color of all time is green.

My current seasonal favorite right now is Orange.

I would be the most famous pirate on the high seas - but I'd earn this reputation by rumor alone. I wouldn't pillage or plunder. I'd be too busy appearing fearsome and mysteriously attractive at the same time.

I don't like satin. I don't like silk. I don't like fleece. But give me cool, crisp cotton, and I'm a happy girl.

I used to sing in the shower. Now I am as quiet as possible so that hopefully nobody will remember I'm there, and I can shower uninterrupted.

I get a little thrill every time I hear my husband's full name. To me, it just screams tall dark and handsome leading love-interest in an edwardian spy novel.

I always lose my keys.

I've only broken one bone. My leg. When I was 2. I remember falling, and I remember the cast, and I remember having itchy chicken pox under the cast. But mostly, I remember how terrified I was when the doctor was going to remove it with what looked to me like a giant electric pizza cutter.

I love Utah. I love Washington. I miss the other when I am living in one.

We have one TV - not a flat-screen - and I sometimes feel like we have one too many.

It's not that I hate it when people talk in the movie theater, because I like it when Bill leans in and whispers something he noticed in my ear. It's that I don't like it when people say pointless or obvious things in the movie theater. Loudly. Kills the mood.

My very favorite candy in the whole world? Haribo Grapefruit Gummies. Slightly stale.

At 1:00am last night, I was secretly sitting out on our orange couch, reading my book. The rest of the family was in bed - where I should have been - but dang. I was at a really good part.

I have decided that I am going to read every book that Orson Scott Card has written. Because people ask me my opinion on his books a lot - and I recently became aware that there are several of his earlier books that I haven't read, yet. Plus - I love his stories.

I love playing with my hair. I mean - I love changing it up. A lot. When I worked in an office, my co-workers admitted that when I first started working there, for the first few months they thought there were a few different receptionists, because my hair was constantly changing. I also love my hair to be played with, but I like it best when Bill does the playing. And I'm lying on the couch with my head in his lap. And we're watching a really great movie.

I love my freckles.

Help a Stepper Out?

2011-05-12T11:18:00.001-06:00

Post Edit: Blogger was on the fritz yesterday and deleted this post, entirely. Luckily, I had a copy of it in my Reader, so I was able to salvage it. However - someone made a comment on the original post that was lost - and I was unable to access my comments yesterday while Blogger was on the fritz. If you made the comment, would you be so kind as to re-comment? Much obliged!


2010 AIGA Copper Ingot Award. Isn't it purty?

Hi, friends.

Remember how my sweet and talented husband and his team created a video that is competing to win the coveted People's Choice award at the AIGA 100 show? Remember how I already asked you all to go vote for his video? (Thank you!)

The situation is this:

The UVU Parking Classic (that's Bill's video) is neck and neck with a magazine spread for the win. They each have four and a half-ish out of five stars - and it could go either way.

The voting ends tomorrow.

I really want Bill to take home that Ingot.

Listen - that video was the product of a LOT of sweat, tears, sleepless nights, and runs to the vending machine. For Bill and his teammate. It is very deserving of recognition for both of them. Not to mention how much attention the video has received from the higher-ups at the University the video features.

Not to also mention how great an AIGA award-winning piece would be in his portfolio arsenal.

Not to also mention how much I really really really want to go to the 100 show - and if the good MC at the event might honor my husband, there's no way I'm missing it. Expense and babysitter hassles be darned!

Not to also mention how much I dearly love my husband, and how big-deal this project has been for him - both the creation of it and the response it's received thus far. I really want him to win.

(Not to also mention how nice I think that Ingot would look displayed on our shelf.)

So I think that we should all rally our collective forces (for good!) and make one last push for Bill's video, don't you? Don't you like that plan?

If you haven't voted already, can I persuade you to donate a moment of your time to do so? I thought of making everyone cookies in trade, but Bill said that smacks of bribery. (You like chocolate chip?)

And here's the other thing - do you have more than one computer at home? A laptop, perhaps? Or do you have friends who have computers? Because each IP address gets a vote, so even if you have voted you could, you know, vote again.

Five stars for the win!

So, what do you think? Will you help a couple of big-dreaming (slightly-scheming) artists out?

Go here to vote - the video is first row, fourth over. It's called "UVU Parking Classic." You can't watch the video from the site, because that would be too convenient. If you want to watch it again, go here (or here).

Thanks, friends.

Thanks.

Letters

2011-05-11T13:29:00.000-06:00

Dear Bill,

Thanks for admitting that you like that I can sometimes be a bit of a clean-freak. I thought of that while I was vacuuming the kitchen floor after the kids ate lunch, today, and it made the chore much more enjoyable. I think Wyatt was wondering what I was smiling at (while he stat at the counter stubbornly refusing to eat his bananas).

Love Squeet

Dear Mikks,

Thanks for coming over last night for dinner and games - even though it was a school night. Risch - I like what you said as you were rounding up your troops to head home at the slightly late hour: You'd rather live your lives doing what you enjoy rather than around a school schedule. Shawn, you are hilarious as always. Had - thank you for playing with Daphne. She seriously loves you, and it makes this mother's heart happy to see her enjoy her evening so much. Ann - I love those hugs! I count on them. Vik - you are one charming lady. K - Wyatt is still playing with the track you guys built. Grandpa said he could leave it up overnight - such a treat!

Let's play again soon, yeah?

Love Step

Dear Wyatt,

Seriously, dude. Just eat the bananas.

Love Mom

Dear CraftyAshley,

I read somewhere that a mother of twins is stronger. Not because the act of having twins makes a woman stronger, but because a woman who has twins is stronger in the first place. When I read that, I thought of you.

Love Stepper

Dear That Girl,

I'm sending you something in the mail. Just as soon as I can make it to the post office.

Which will be this month, if I'm lucky.

Love, Stepper

Dear Mom,

Thanks for folding the towels I left in the dryer. Seriously. That was such a treat!

Love, Sunni

Dear Wyatt,

Thanks for finally eating those bananas! Now - it's time for a nap. Lets see if we can accomplish this task without tears and an hour of protesting, eh? And when Daddy gets home and you and Daphne wake up from your naps, we can all go on a walk. Deal?

Love, Mom

Dear Daphne,

Thanks for always falling right to sleep. Bless you.

Love, Mom

Culprit

2011-05-10T16:02:00.002-06:00

Miyazaki, How I Love You

2011-05-09T20:10:00.000-06:00

Are you familiar with the awesomeness of Hayao Miyazaki?

He's most recognized for this movie:

But every single one of his projects has the same dedication to detail, to the patient exploration of character, to - well - honest storytelling.

I am a story junkie. Therefore I am a Miyazaki fan.

I highly recommend you check him out. I could lend you one of his stories if you like.

Bill's favorite:

My favorite:

Wyatt's favorite:

Daphne's favorite: TBD

Henry's favorite: TBD

Hey, Ma. This Song's for You.

2011-05-08T21:02:00.000-06:00

I always cry when the Primary sings during Sacrament Meeting on Mother's Day. But today was the first time one of my own children's faces beamed at me from the stand. I don't think I ever grinned so big while I laugh/cried, watching that sweet face with those huge blue eyes and that little brown suit-coat that was still just slightly too big.

He mostly looked around with 'Well - I have no idea what we're all doing up here, but cool!" face. And when the sweet song heralding a mother's love was over and all the children began shuffling off the stage, I watched my son's little Sunbeam face say, 'okay, so what's going on now?'

For a moment, I worried he wouldn't know to follow the kids back to us. "Should I go get him?" asked Bill, thinking the same thing. We do that a lot, what with being so married and all. I nodded.

But then Wyatt fell in at the end of the line, and my little heart burst once again with glowy maternal pride.

He made it to the edge of the stage and stopped. Right before the stairs. He just stood in the corner and looked out at the congregation with eyes wide and wondering.

"Get him!" I whispered to Bill, who was already ducking out of his seat to bolt up to the stage.

Wyatt saw him coming, and ran the other way.

By this time, all the other grinning children had re-joined their families. So it was just my little Wyatt, running across the stage, and my poor husband, chasing him. The speakers and the bishopric chuckled from where they sat on the stand. There was a murmuring laugh that buzzed across the congregation. I stifled my own laughter, face flushing, and wondered with a pang of horror as Bill grabbed Wyatt, picked him up and began to carry him off the stage - would Wyatt protest?

Were we all about to witness a Wyatt Tantrum?

We came close. But then Bill turned to leave the stage, and Wyatt caught a glimpse again of the congregation and his eyes got all wide and thoughtful again. Disaster averted.

Well, all things considered.

I still can't believe sometimes that my precocious little Wyatt is 'that kid.' You know - the one who grabs the singing-time teacher's ankles as she's trying to teach because she has neat shoes, and runs across the stage in the middle of sacrament meeting - but I have to say. I'm beginning to really enjoy it.

Happy Mother's Day!

Legacy of Motherhood

2011-05-07T11:43:00.000-06:00

My paternal grandmother was separated from her siblings when during the Great Depression they were dibbied among aunts and uncles to live until things became more stable at home. Her father had gone to pursue his dream of becoming a film director in Hollywood, leaving her mother to provide as best she could for her family. She and her siblings maintained a strong bond throughout the ordeal, remaining friends into adulthood. Her mother - ever the picture of calm gentility - held that family together. And my grandmother is no less devoted to family (it is evident in every breath she takes), and is no less calm and gentle (though I have it on her authority that she used to be the hot-headed, impulsive spitfire that the red-hair of her youth would suggest).

My maternal grandmother was afflicted with polio as a small child. The nearest hospital to their home was a day's journey - and so she was left there alone, receiving a visit from her family only once a week (as often as they could come) for an entire year. As a result of her illness, she spent her youth, her young adulthood, her adulthood, and now her golden years in a body bent and weakened. Yet she is undeniably beautiful, and exudes a personal strength and conviction of character only compounded by her care and dedication to her personal appearance. I have never seen her without her hair perfectly fixed and her lipstick in place.

Ah, my grandmothers. I could tell such stories.

This is my Legacy of Motherhood; continued in my own great Mother and some day - hopefully - emulated by me.

OH BROTHER said Mother

2011-05-06T14:00:00.000-06:00

How you know not only that a kid lives here, but that this kid has older siblings:

How you know that Mom has chilled over the years: Rather than running to save baby, she runs for camera.

...and doesn't clean spit-up before taking picture.

Also - everyone please appreciate how nicely my baby has chubbed out.

Isn't he a morsel?

(Taking part in the "A Family Lives Here" series.

Stop on by!)

These People I Live With: Mom

2011-05-05T14:42:00.000-06:00

In some sort of bizarre Mother's Day celebration on the radio this morning, callers were discussing ways they are turning into their mother. There was much talk of cankles, hips, and a tendency to nag. I understood the entertainment factor of what the DJs were trying to do, but I grew more and more bothered as I drove. My hand was on my phone ready to dial when one caller finally said, "My mother is incredible! I only wish I were more like her."

Thank you, I thought.

Because like this caller, I also have an incredible Mother - one I am constantly trying to emulate. I also inherited some real gems from her without even trying! Like - great cheekbones. Attractively shaped fingernails. A love for reading. The insatiable urge to hostess.

My mom is just cool. Like, owning two i-pads cool. Like being top dog in her career while also maintaining an orderly home and being a great cook cool.

Everyone should know my mom. Allow me to introduce you!

This is Tammy:


Classy as Ever

She has never been a fan of her name (I quite like it), and has always felt a bit cheated that she didn't get a middle name as a fallback plan.

My mom has always been ridiculously adorable. Proof:

She had the most amazing blonde hair, and in the 70's she and her sisters used to iron their hair straight with a clothes iron to get that sleek, perfectly smooth and flat look that was so coveted at the time.

My mom had lots of suitors - even made a boy or two cry in her day (what can she say? They always tended to grow more serious about her - and more quickly - than she did about them) - but my Mom was no fool. She fell for this guy...


engagement photo-shoot

...who made the smartest move of his life when he asked her to be his, and was the luckiest man alive when she said yes (He reminds us of this fact constantly). Especially because her missionary had just returned home - but that's another story.

Newlyweds Tammy and Russ were just two crazy kids in love - and in school - when...

My beautiful mother, Jamie - 1 years old, Me - a wee howling beastie.

Jamie was born a year later. Stephanie (aka Stepper) was born just 14 months after that. And my angel mother, ever the example of quiet self-sacrifice, pressed pause on school to focus on me and my sister so my Dad could focus on finishing his degree.

I wish we all still dressed like this.

When Dad graduated, my Mom went back to school and finished her Masters degree. This is heroic to me, because it's hard to go back to school after such a long break - let alone with two kids! And now, my beautiful Mother leads in her field of Speech Pathology. She's constantly being recognized and winning awards in her niche and in the community for her work in the school districts.

She has four daughters:

See? cheekbones.

My mom is graceful, has a feminine strength that I so admire, can do anything (seriously) except figure out Facebook (seriously) and has a mean fun streak that has the ability to evoke the biggest giggle-fits in her daughters you'll ever experience.

She used to own/ride actual horses, even after one of them crushed her foot.

On long vacation drives, she brings a tote filled with magazines, books and baby carrots. She rolls up her pant legs, takes off her shoes and puts her feet up on the dash, letting the sun warm her legs while she reads and munches on carrots. This is the ONLY time she puts her feet up in the car.

She wears big-brimmed sun hats and large sunglasses when she works in her garden, and reminds me of a blonde Audrey Hepburn. With tomatoes. Which she turns into her own homemade salsa. Which is the condiment of the gods.

She makes potato rolls from scratch that have won awards. She allows me to make these coveted rolls for family functions, now. But her homemade freezer jam still trumps all as the perfect compliment to said rolls. It's so good, my sister Soup used to poke a hole in her roll, hollow it out and fill it to the brim with the jam. I'm pretty sure my dad would do that too, if he thought he could get away with it. grin.

She has a glorious singing voice.

She makes personal sacrifices for her family every day, and never complains. Like the time she finally had an evening off after a long month of a grueling schedule, and was looking forward to having some down time - but ended up last-minute babysitting my sister's kids instead.

Or that time I forgot to take my laundry out of the dryer when it was her laundry day, and instead of being irritated that she couldn't move her laundry over, she took it out and folded it for me.

Or the time she and my dad completely re-arranged their entire basement in one weekend so that her daughter and her family could move in with them.

My mom is the Queen of her Home, the Love of my dad's Life, a Domestic Goddess, a Successful Career Woman, a Comedian, and a Devoted Daughter of God. She is steadfast and steady. She is classy. She has triumphed over some major life trials (she celebrates her 6th year of being cancer free this June!) and emerged as graceful and strong as ever.

To me, she is the ultimate example of what it means to Endure it Well.

My Angel Mother is nothing less than radiant.

Mom this past Easter - in her element, hostessing the BIG DINNER/EGG HUNT.

Can I turn into her? Pretty please?

Stepper's Mothers Day Gift Guide - the Humble Means Version

2011-05-04T11:33:00.000-06:00

The best gifts in life are free. Especially when they are given to you by your biggest fans: your kids.

My kids are small (3, 1, and almost 2 months), and don't have any kind of income save birthday card money from great grandma and the occasional quarter earned by doing an extra chore - which is spent as soon as possible on a new matchbox car.

Yet, when one of them presents me with a crayola masterpiece, a bite of their granola bar, or an unsolicited kiss on the cheek, I feel I am the most pampered Momma alive. That may sound forced, or cheesy at best - but now I know what all those Mom's who always say stuff like that mean. Because it's true.

So here is Stepper's Wish List of Mothers Day Gifts that Don't Cost a CENT (but are rich in thoughtfulness):

ONE

Dad and the kids - clean the house! Mom does it every week, give her a week off. This is a great gift on many levels. Not only will she appreciate a break from scrubbing those too-familiar floor tiles, your Queen will feel calmer and more clear headed with a tidy castle. And you will all have more time to enjoy the weekend as a family, which - trust me - is a dream come true for Mom. You know how the saying goes, When Momma is happy...

TWO

Give Mom some time to relax. Let her sleep in if that's her thing - and if breakfast in bed is your tradition, try brunch in bed instead. Or send her to bed for a few hours in the afternoon, set her up with some iced juice and her current book and a little bowl of smoked almonds (or something) and tell her she's not allowed to emerge for a few hours unless she hears the smoke alarms. But don't set off the smoke alarms.

THREE

Dinner. Mom comes up with the plan for meals 3 times a day every day. Sometimes the task of coming up with dinner and preparing it for the family is akin to climbing Mount Everest. Bake a salmon and set out the linnes - or send out for Papa Murpheys! Either way, she'll appreciate the break. Especially if Dad and the kids clean up, afterward. Perhaps while she's enjoying her bowl of fresh strawberries for dessert?

FOUR

The Mom Book. I read about this idea in Real Simple magazine, and fell completely in love with it. The idea is that Mom is presented with a blank book - something she can add things to. And then each year, each child creates something for her. A drawing, a painting, a note or a letter - something from the heart. The idea is that Mom will have these little treasures in her book from all the different ages, stages, and relationships she's had with her kids over the years. Read the inspiration here.

Stepper's Mother's Day Gift Guide - the Money Version

2011-05-03T19:13:00.001-06:00

(As usual, none of these recommendations are sponsored. I just like what I like!)

If my kids suddenly found themselves with an expendable income, these gems would be on my Wish List for this Mother's Day.

My kids don't have an expendable income. The 'Humble Means' wish list version, tomorrow!

ONE

Mother and Child Sleeping - by J Kirk Richards.
The first time I saw this painting, it spoke to my soul. It still brings tears to my eyes. See the whole Mother and Child series here. See the amazing transition of this painting here.
Greeting cards and prints available at his shop.

TWO

Wouldn't you (or your mother) love to wear this lovely token of her children's love about her neck?
See The Vintage Pearl's entire line of lovelies here.

THREE

You may always tote all your children along with you - but that doesn't mean you can't do so in style. And a great diaper bag can go a long way toward making the errand feel fresher - not to mention more organized, less chaotic, and more pleasant!

FOUR

Every mother needs a little inspiration every now and then - not to mention a reading break!

FIVE

Yes, friends. Pajama Jeans. I seriously do want some. Seems to me these would be the perfect answer to the tricky wardrobe questions of expecting moms just beginning to expand, recent moms who are still in Deflation Phase (holla!), moms who are traveling with all their kids and need at least one reliable comfort, and moms who have to make a quick run to the store with all their kids and spent all her prep time getting the kids dressed, leaving no time to consider her own outfit - it's running out in sweats, but...not.

Too good to be true?

I'd like to find out.

SIX

It never fails. You have to take your kid's temperature, but they're fast asleep! Or squirmy! Or very, very tiny - and the usual thermometer is simply not ideal. Welcome the Kidz-Med VeraTemp Non-Contact Thermometer! Accurate reading every time, and you don't even have to TOUCH them!

A good time for your inner geek, too. To check it out in action, scroll down to the bottom of the Amazon link to watch a 1.5 minute video. Seriously so cool!

The Mama Bear

2011-05-02T22:26:00.000-06:00

...will emerge with fangs gnashing and claws flashing and will MAIM you if you:

hit/bite/shove my child. I don't care if you are also a child and haven't had your nap. That kind of understanding is reserved for my own children.
ignore my child when he/she is attempting to ask you a question/show you a drawing/hand you a book to read to him/her.
ignore my child or get up and leave when he tentatively approaches to play on the slide with you and your kid-gang at the park.
harshly correct my child of a behavior you deem inappropriate - especially when I am right there (obviously, if my child hits your child you have every right to intervene. And if you are babysitting my child and she is misbehaving, I would hope that you would correct her. But never harshly).
back up without looking in the grocery parking lot.
Talk baby-talk to my child. I'm not talking about a raised inflection and excited facial expressions - that's natural. And actually helpful for development. I'm talking about the demeaning nasal goo with the forced speech impediments. "Who's a widdle fewwa" indeed!
give my child candy without asking. Unless you're grandma. Because there are very real consequences for me as a parent when my kid gets hyped up on sugar - especially at an event with lots of people - and I'm often moving with extremely delicate balance through my kids' schedules every day. Don't tip my scales. Unless you're grandma (who somehow manages to spoil the kids without turning them into hellions. It's a grandma thing, I think).
teach my child a potty-mouth word and make him think it's funny. We don't speak that way in my house.
carelessly expose my child to a scary movie/picture/book, igniting his overactive imagination and giving him terrifying nightmares. I go out of my way to protect my sensitive child from pointless horror.

Mama Bear has grown exponentially with the arrival of each child, and Mama Bear means business!

What gets your bear a-growlin'?

(Welcome to Mother's Week, in honor of Mother's Day this weekend. Tomorrow - Stepper's Mother's Day Gift Giving Guide. What do you give the one who gave you life?)

Still A Mother's Love

2011-05-01T21:32:00.002-06:00

Wyatt loves to sit on my lap and play with the effects on Photo Booth

Our good bishop visited the Primary, today. A new month - a new theme; and Bishop came in to help us introduce it to the kids. Along with the theme for the month, he taught the kids one of the articles of faith.

He was so animated and the kids so responsive, and he was so delighted by how clever they all were. It was a genuine joy to watch him interact with them.

And then he stopped. Looked at all those small, eager faces beaming up at him - so proud because of how proud he was of them - and you could see the signs of the Spirit wash over his face. He swallowed, and with a broken voice, said "Behold our little ones." His voice was quiet, but resonant, and he seemed to be speaking to no-one, though we all knew his words were for every heart in the room. "This is the foundation of our church."

I felt the truth of his words close my own throat tight. I looked over the room, taking in face after open, innocent face, combed and pressed and ribboned especially for church and bouncing in their chairs. Future Bishops, Relief Society Presidents, Apostles, Prophets. Missionaries. Teachers. All sitting here, together, in this room. Free from insecurities, cynicism, all the things that seem to sluff onto us as we grow up. Just willing and wanting for Truth.

And across the room from me, up on the front row near the piano, sat my son. Sitting on his teacher's lap, explaining to her that his tummy felt hungry.

I beheld my little one.

And all the times he elbowed or kicked me, all the times I had to pick him up off the floor, all the times he gave me a rude reply - or ignored me entirely, all the mean looks and the whining and the pouting that I endured with him during Sacrament Meeting one hour before disappeared into utter unimportance. This was my son - who was inherently good. My impatience with him was MY impatience, for he was perfect. I wasn't. But he loved me, anyway.

I beheld my little one, and thought about how God also beholds my little one. How He must also think he has the most beautiful eyes, ever, and how He must also laugh at the funny and clever things he says. How He must rejoice in this boy and his fervent desire to be good - even though sometimes he just gets too frustrated. And I wondered - does God ever watch as Wyatt climbs into bed with me every morning, and I get to snuggle him - sometimes for an entire hour - before we get up for the day - and does He ache to hold His little boy that He sent into my keeping?

I looked over to where Wyatt was singing with the rest of his Sunbeam class, and I wanted to hug him just a little bit tighter, to remember with Heavenly Father to never take a single moment like this for granted.

My love for him in this moment was, I realized, perfect.

And as those little voices sang the chorus to the song we were learning, "For the closest thing to Christ the King is still a mother's love," I thought: Yes, indeed.

10 points...

2011-04-30T21:05:00.002-06:00

If you know who this is:

Celebration

2011-04-29T16:04:00.000-06:00

I know there's a Royal Wedding going on in fair England right now - but that's not what I'm excited about, today. I sincerely wish the Prince and his Bride well, as a stranger would wish any happy couple who ties such a life-changing knot. Heaven knows it would not be easy to begin a life together with the eyes of an entire nation (world?) watching your every move.

But today, I am not a part of that wedding party. Today, I am a part of my own party. Because, today, Bill takes his final final - or, rather, turns in his final project - for this semester. And that is reason for full-on celebration.

This semester has been brutal. Brutal. On all of us - but especially on my poor Bill. And I went and complicated things by having a baby right in the middle of things. We as a family have been in serious survival mode - just hanging on by fraying threads until we made it to the end.

Until we made it to today.

Bill hasn't slept much at all these past few weeks, and last night he didn't come to bed at all. It was strange - kissing him goodnight where he sat at his computer. Getting up twice in the night to feed Henry next to him, still sitting at his computer. Bidding him good-morning - where he sat at his computer - while I gathered the kids for breakfast.

I remember all-nighters spent at the computer lab during my senior year at university. But, admittedly, I didn't care as much as Bill does, and so my anguish was not as great. By the time I was two semesters away from graduation, I was about getting the grade. Bill is admirably about creating work he feels proud to attach his name to.

Sometimes, it would be handy to be more than mortal.

And so on this Friday, while the world turns their attention to the love of a couple, I am turning my attention to my love for my husband. I am watching that door, willing it to deliver my weary husband to me. While an entire country celebrates on cobbled streets, I will be pulling the bedsheets over my husband's fatigue-drooped shoulders, releasing him to sleep off the rest of this day with a "you did it!" whispered in his ear.

And then, I will go upstairs with the children, and have a party in my soul!

It is over. One more hurtle cleared. One more step closer to freedom. One more battle won in our family's war.

Bill? You did it.

A Good Soup, Aged 22 Years

2011-04-28T23:43:00.001-06:00

It's my kid sister's birthday.

I'm feeling very sentimental about it, this year. I love that girl.

This is my beautiful sister, whom I call Soup.

She has these intense ice-blue eyes. Almost grey. Paired with dimples? Forgetaboutit.

She was the cutest little girl.

And even then, she was wise on chocolate.

And elephants.

She is a serious force to be reckoned with.

But she is not serious.

She is adventurous - and is always willing to try new things. I've never even been fishing, let alone caught the rare white stag of fishies that legend tells grants three wishes if you catch it, cook it over an open flame, and eat it.

She let it go, instead. She has the softest heart I know. Just ask all her pets.

She looks good under water.

And she looks good in Rumba.

She is one of my favorite people on this green earth, and one of my best friends. But before you get any ideas, you should probably know. She's taken. By this guy:

She loves him. He takes good care of her. This - above all his other commendable qualities - makes me love him, too.

Happy Birthday, Soup!

I Do

2011-04-27T07:00:00.000-06:00

No, it's not my anniversary. I've just got weddings on my mind.

It's her fault.

Because I'm over here, today.

Like a Brother

2011-04-26T21:22:00.000-06:00

Announcing...

2011-04-25T21:27:00.001-06:00

Get excited.

Fictionist (a Provo band achieving national acclaim and in the running to be on the cover of the Rolling Stone) will be joined by local favorites, Paul Jacobsen and The Madison Arm to kick off this year's Rooftop Concert Series.

For those who may not know - the Rooftop Concert Series takes place on the roof of the Provo Town Square parking terrace. How cool is that??

The kick-off concert will begin at 8:00 p.m. on Friday, May 6, 2011. Admission to the concert is free.

The 2011 Rooftop Concert Series lineup is composed of some of Utah’s up-and-coming musicians as well as those who have already achieved international success including Provo’s own Neon Trees and Warner Brothers signed recording artists, Meaghan Smith. This year’s lineup includes:

May 6 - Fictionist with Paul Jacobsen and the Madison Arm
June 3 - Meaghan Smith with Mindy Gledhill
July 1 - The Abbey Road Show with Sarah Sample
August 5 – Joshua James with Ryan Innes
September 2 - The Neon Trees
October 7 - The Lower Lights

I'll be asking a certain fella to take me to a few of these. Supporting local talent? Proving the coolness of Provo? You bet!

And - did you catch the admission cost, people? Please.

The Barely Detectable Machine-Like Rhythm of a Large Family Making a Large Dinner

2011-04-24T23:17:00.000-06:00

There is a rhythm to large family functions - like Easter Dinner - at my house. It is a smooth machine, and unless you're deliberately watching for it, it is undetectable. There simply comes a point a few hours before the function when everyone in all corners of the house begin to gravitate toward the kitchen, and the cogs begin to turn the wheel.

It is a beautiful thing.

The men begin hauling and setting up tables and chairs while the women chop, stir, and slice in the kitchen, shouting to each other across rooms and over conversations while the children run circles around our legs and get into mischief. It is an organized chaos, wonderful to behold.

The gears turn and wind tighter and tighter as the minutes tick closer and closer to Start Time. All of us moving in tight circles around the Master Cog (my Mother); knives, hot food and hips moving around each other in an impossible dance as she orders us into motion.

And, twenty minutes before Start Time, the thick messy chaos beings to take shape. Haphazard ingredients become completed dishes - a toss of berries finishes a fruit salad, a shake of paprika completes deviled eggs, the large pewter platter houses sugar-glazed ham - while the dishwasher is filled and the sink is emptied.

Sons-in-law and daughters move between each other with quick feet and dodging torsos. Children are football-passed to anyone with open arms. Guests begin to arrive. They, too, feel the pull and gravitate toward the kitchen where they slip in-between the cracks and quick gaps and join their cog to the machine. The kitchen clears, the water is poured, the buffet is set.

And then - just as subtly as we slipped into this rhythm, we slip out. The machine sighs, stops. The work is done. We find ourselves all gathered together in the kitchen, looking and smiling, smiling and looking.

Which is when Dad stands and says, "Well, let's have a prayer," and a whole new machine begins to whir.

Why Dye? Egg-Bot to the RESCUE!

2011-04-23T22:20:00.000-06:00

Does the task of beautifying hard-boiled eggs feel problematic?

Do the little dye-cups filled with vibrant and permanent liquid pigment in the hands of your three-year-old make you anxious?

Tired of the purple and green fingers that result no matter how careful you were in removing the slippery guys from their dye cups?

The solution is simple, my friends. Next time, why not employ a robot to do the job for you? The Egg-Bot is certainly up to the challenge!

Simply put the egg in this thingy:

And watch as this cute little robot turns your usual Easter egg splotchy mess into an impressive work of precision art that will impress your friends, your neighbors, and - most importantly - your kids!

Watch him in action:

Just look at what this little guy can do:

He's great at parties, and look! He's useful around Christmas as well!

(This is the part where I tell you this was not a paid promotion. Egg-bot doesn't know I exist. Though if they wanted to send me one, I would probably play with it obsessively throughout the year.)

How Many McCrery's Does It Take...

2011-04-22T21:33:00.001-06:00

...to replace a lightbulb?

Or - rather - a basement apartment full of burned out bulbs?

It takes both Bill and I, because apparently we both really enjoy it. We took turns being the one to unscrew the dead bulb, and took turns being the one to hold the new bulb at the ready, and take the dead bulb to its place of infinite rest.

It felt a little like surgery. Only not as messy. Bet definitely as exciting!

"BULB!"

"Right away, doctor!"

And now we have soft, round 40 watt bulbs above the sink in the bathroom. A soft glow perfect for mid-night bottle making or sink-bathing a baby. And we have blazing 100 watters in the main room - perfect major lighting for the most commonly used room in a basement. And we have the cute swirly guys in the sconces on the walls.

And we now have several varieties in inventory. So that we can fix things more immediately. So we don't end up with a basement apartment full of burned out bulbs, again. So the kids' request for 'light under the door' can be granted. So we don't have to hold the flashlight up to the spider on the wall to see if it is the scary kind or not.

Is it weird how exciting I am finding this whole thing?

It is, isn't it?

Crap.

So this one Easter...

2011-04-21T14:16:00.000-06:00

...my Mom put on a big hunt in the back yard for the entire family.

We're talking the ENTIRE FAMILY (now a yearly tradition). Extended variety, Mom's side. Each cousin had their own color of egg to find, and let me tell you. My parents know how to hide eggs.

I was watching my figure. As in - I had just lost 20lb of first-year-of-college-mistakes and was still working on the final five.

So guess what was in my speckled green (of course) eggs?

Beef jerky and money.

Best. Parents. Ever.

The End.

Plus, Free Tiny Shampoo Bottles!

2011-04-20T22:11:00.000-06:00

Some day, I'll be the type of person that travels.

Maybe I'll be on a book tour, or maybe my super-talented and successful husband will take a year's hiatus from his career and we'll take the family out to see the world. Or maybe I'll just be in the position to take a weekend away once in a while - with my best friend Billy or with 'my girls' or by myself. Whatever.

Probably my favorite part of traveling is staying in a hotel. I love staying in a hotel. Isn't that strange? I am a fan of the Hampton Inn and Suites - have you experienced their pillows? The last time we stayed at a Hampton, I forced Bill to call the front desk to ask if I could keep my pillow. No, he said. I'd totally pay for it, I said. You have to buy it from their online store, he said. Sigh. So much for a heavenly 8 hour drive home.

I've stayed in a hotel by myself only once. My one and only taste of what it might be like to live alone. I was attending a writing bootcamp, so my evenings were filled with reading manuscripts and writing my own, sprawled across a huge bed with my borrowed laptop, imagining to my little hearts content that this was what my life was really like. A mysterious red-head coming and going from her hotel room, always carrying an intriguing well-designed satchel, and ordering room service at two o'clock in the morning.

My hotel would have room service at two o'clock in the morning.

The wait staff would discover my affinity for grapefruit.

And probably diet coke.

Now I dream of taking my family interesting places - and staying in interesting hotel rooms. Where we can stay up all night and play games. Or watch old TV show reruns. Or just giggle.

And then in the morning, we'll try to sneak our complimentary breakfast up to our room so we can eat our bacon while watching cartoons.

And later - much later - when all of our children have left our nest, and Bill and I find ourselves with a lot of time and each other to fill our days with, we will celebrate our accomplishments, and we will go to lots of movies and eat lots of sushi and we will TRAVEL. We will go on Senior Mission after Senior Mission - and maybe I'll finally be able to speak Spanish with him - until our bodies tell us we have to stop.

You know, like when we're 90.

And then we'll just hold hands all day long and drink grapefruit juice, and fall asleep on our pillows that we lifted from the Hampton Inn and Suites during our mischievous phase in our 60's.

I like that I'm weird.

2011-04-19T19:57:00.000-06:00

When I moved to Washington on my own, I had a motto. You might even call it a Mantra, were you so boldly inclined. It was, simply: Do Hard Things.

You may recognize that as a direct quote from this man:

And I used that Mantra until it began to curl at its worn out edges. Any time I had a decision to make - and there were many life-altering decisions I was making during this time - I would remember: Do Hard Things. And I would choose to be fearless.

It's amazing how many times a decision becomes easy when you take fear out of the equation, and I blame a lot of truly awesome experiences and adventures on this method of operation.

Then I became We and we moved back to Utah. And, well, I think I lost that saying somewhere in Idaho. Along with my favorite white T-shirt.

I'm taking it back as my personal Mantra. You can have it, too, if you like. There's plenty of it to go around.

And now, in the spirit of doing hard things, I give you:
THREE THINGS THAT STEPPER LOVES ABOUT HERSELF.

I've been feeling down on myself, lately, and so trying to think of three things that I would celebrate about myself proves difficult - and therapeutic. Because hey! I'm not so bad, after all!

ONE
I have always been a 'comes-with-own-drumbeat' kind of gal. I've had many people - friends and enemies alike - flat out tell me I'm odd. (I don't have any enemies. On purpose.) In my dating years, I would go from being mysterious to being intriguing to being frustrating because I just didn't fit the standard way of thinking these boys were used to in their dames. For being a shy goodie-goodie, I was extremely unpredictable. I love this about me. I like that I'm weird. I think it makes me more interesting.

TWO
I love being a red-head. I love playing with the shades - but I love that my natural color is this intense auburn that I get many a compliment on. I love that when I was an infant, someone asked my mom in the grocery store if she dyed my hair, because it was such a brilliant red (it has tamed to auburn). I love that charming old men used to fall in love with my hair and my freckles when I waited their tables during my serving years. They were such flirts! And I love that people automatically assume I'm fiery and hot-tempered just because of my locks. I personally think that my hair - especially the fact that it's red - is my very best feature.

THREE
I love being creative. I like creating stuff - and then I like showing the stuff that I create to people and having them like it. This probably makes me narcissistic - but I love the energy I get from the process. And even when I got stuck with lame teammates for group projects in school, and ended up doing ALL THE WORK because my lame teammates insisted that I was the creative one, I still liked what I came up with, and liked that my skills earned my lame teammates an A. Grade school, high school, university all. I've saved a few ward functions and friends parties with some creative last-minute hostessing, too. I like that I can count on my creativity to come through for me.

Phew! It was a lot harder to come up with three things than it should have been. I invite you to the challenge! What are three things that you love about yourself? No disclaimers. No apologies. Straight up love. Come on - do hard things!

Conquering Sunday pt. II

2011-04-18T21:59:00.001-06:00

Our class was excused to go to our classroom, and my kids hurried ahead while I gathered my gear and the scripture bags and drawings they forgot under their chairs. I watched them from where I was bringing up the rear. Children are taught not to run in the chapel halls - but some of my kids push it as close as they can get.

There was another class gathering at our door. I looked at the teacher - a substitute - and guessed by the look of confusion on his face that he wasn't sure which classroom was theirs. One of his students was insisting that it was the wrong one, but the rest of his class was already inside. He looked down the hall of doors - each one looking exactly like the one before - and sighed. "This is our classroom for today," he said, and ushered the last of his sheep in with a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Still coming down the hall, I saw my students look with confused expressions into their now full classroom. But in the next second, they were lining up with folded arms against the wall of the only remaining empty classroom, and I applauded their adaptability.

I opened the door. They began to take their seats, I began to unload my bags contents onto the teaching table - deciding which awesome thing to hit them with first - and then a small tell-tale voice that pretty much guaranteed things would not go as planned.

"Mom? I want to stay with you today, Mom."

I turned, and Wyatt stood by the door where he had sneaked in with the rest of my group, his huge blue eyes stared up at me in earnest. I sighed. I knew the chances that my little three-year-old would be as engaged in my lesson as the kids twice his age would be were slim. I also knew that with the way things were going today for him, the chances that he would behave in his own class of peers were slimmer. "Okay, buddy" I conceded, and already felt my control of the situation slipping. "But you have to sit in your chair and be good."

"I understand." He said. Which is what he always responds with, and usually means he wasn't really listening. Nevertheless, he hopped into a seat between two of the boys, I took a deep breath and jumped with both feet into the lesson.

The lesson was on how the Book of Mormon came to be - from Mormon transcribing it onto the gold plates to Joseph Smith pulling it from the stone box buried in the Hill Cumorah. It's an amazing story - and a really fun one to tell - and by the time we got to the part where the angel Moroni appeared to Joseph in his room for the THIRD TIME that night, the kids were convinced (as am I) that Moroni and Joseph had a neat friendship.

"So then, Joseph sat in bed, thinking - whoa! There was just an angel in my room again! Okay, so there are plates of gold...history of the people...buried in a hill - and then guess what happens?"

9 voices in chorus, "what?!"

"Here comes a light, starts to fill the room again! Grows brighter than the sun again! And then - guess who shows up?!"

9 voices in chorus: "MORONI!"

After all - if your dad had spent so much of his life transcribing the scrolls onto plates of gold, and then you put forth so much effort in protecting them, writing the last entry on them, and then burying them safely in a hill - wouldn't you feel a strong common bond with the guy who was going to dig them up, risk his life for them and finally share them with the world? And visa versa?

"Mom?"

"...and Joseph works on a farm, and that's hard work! And he didn't have any sleep that night."

"Mom?" (for the umpteenth time)

"...and so he's completely exhausted trying to do his chores, and his dad says, 'Joseph! You don't look so good. Go home and go back to bed'. And so he does, but then on the way home -"

"MOM!"

"Yes! Wyatt! What is it?"

"Mom, can I have a snack?"

"Wyatt, I told you before. We'll have a snack when we get home from church."

"But Mom I feel hungry."

"I know, buddy, but I don't have a snack for you here. But as soon as church is over we can--"

"But Mom, I want the Teddy Grahams in your BAG!"

9 voices in chorus: "You have TEDDY GRAHAMS?!"

...and that was pretty much it for keeping their attention with my storytelling skills alone. Outed by my own son.

Yes, I was going to give them Teddy Grahams, anyway. But I've learned that when you add sugar to the kid equation, they cease to be children and turn into something unholy. So I was going to wait until the END of class...

I held the promise of Teddy Grahams over their head as a bribey attempt to force my way through the end of the story - which worked for only a short time before I noticed they were no longer staring at me with wide eyes and were instead staring at my bag.

So we pulled out the confounded bears and played a game for the remainder of class. Which basically meant I had nine children (plus Wyatt) insisting that it was THEIR turn to go next, and that they NEEDED more bears or would perish! and so-and-so got six bears and I only got five!

At least they all left my classroom knowing Moroni's name.

(outed by my own SON!)

Conquering Sunday

2011-04-17T23:37:00.001-06:00

We braved going to Sacrament Meeting all together for the first time, today. We were even on time, securing ourselves a bench row. This was key for me - wrangling children is much easier on a bench row when mom can sit at the open end, essentially trapping all children (and husband, mwaha!) inside. The rows of folding chairs in the back are not only uncomfortable, they are loud (try driving a toy car on the metal seat) and crowded and are easily escaped.

Wyatt leaned wearily on Bill and drew on his Magna-doodle (11:00 church is hard on the wee ones). Daphne sat triumphant on Grandma's lap and ate the entire stash of cheerios that Grandma keeps hidden in her church bag. Henry slept, and only began to protest at the last ten minutes of the meeting.

As the closing hymn played, I couldn't help but feel that we had conquered something amazing. Sacrament Meeting - check! My face grinned. But I also knew that for me, the real challenge came next. My throat gulped.

This was to be my first time back to Primary since Henry was born, and I would be teaching alone. No biggie - except that we had a class of ten five and six year olds. That's a lot of kids to wrangle and keep entertained for two hours no matter HOW well behaved they are. But there was also that one child - the one that was most often wild beyond my ability to soothe; and wasn't just loud but was physical about it. I remembered well trudging home from church after the third-hour circus, my pregnant frame weary and frazzled and bruised.

Now I wasn't pregnant. I definitely had that going for me. But I was incredibly out of practice - and for the whole second hour of singing time, I stared around at my class - all boys, the girls were absent, again - and tried desperately to remember their names.

I have always been terrible with names. And three of the boys I teach look EXACTLY alike to me - same height/size/haircut/face shape - except for a small (but significant) difference around the eyes. So I struggle, anyway. But now I had post-pregnancy brain-dissolve and seven weeks of absence complicating things for me.

Then I had a flash of genius. They had just finished tracing their hand with crayon on a piece of paper and drawing 'something they could do to follow Christ's example' inside. (I am still not exactly sure what the traced hand had to do with the personal application of following Christ's example - but that's because I sort of missed hearing the directions. I had a certain three-year-old Sunbeam begging me for the Teddy Grahams he happened to know I had hidden in my bag.) The boys all clamored to show me their masterful crayola skills and receive my well-deserved praise, and it hit me. I looked at them all importantly and said, "did you write your name on it?"

They weren't turning them in. They didn't need to put their names on them - but they all excitedly took crayons once again from my stash and began the painstaking scrawl of the recently-learned letters of their names. I watched, and noted. Okay, so this time Brody has the blue tie and the other Dalton has the striped shirt.

By the time second hour was over and we were released to go to our classroom where I would have the privilege of teaching my class on my own for an hour, I was calling them all by name. Back in the saddle? You bet! I was feeling confident. I had this. And I had two big things going for me.

First - the Wild Child had been extremely well-behaved the entire second hour. He got out of his chair only once, retrieved a hymn book, and sat and looked through the pages of song the entire time. Sure, he wasn't paying much attention to the song we were trying to learn, but he may have been the best behaved child, there. I could have hugged him!

Second - the Primary manual came through for me. I had a killer lesson to give (they aren't always); the whole thing was basically the telling of a story - which I happen to know the kids love - and was a subject I am passionate about. This equals passionate storytelling. The last time I presented them with some passionate storytelling, they were riveted. Never mind that my graphically honest account made one girl physically ill. This time, there was no leg surgery involved. And I had Teddy Grahams in my bag.

I had this.

To Be Continued...

(don't hate me! It's too close to midnight for me to finish this post tonight and still make my deadline. It's the deadline's fault!)

Sanity in a Small Package

2011-04-16T23:36:00.000-06:00

This week, my sanity looked like this:

Thanks, Daphne.

How You Know a Boy Lives Here...

2011-04-15T16:00:00.000-06:00

I find them all over the house; and every time I do, I get a little happier.

These pictures were collected as-is, ten minutes ago from all over the house.

The green bus is the newest edition to the family - his reward for being such a good helper to Mommy this week (and for braving Target with her). He was very proud to put the dollar his Dad gave him in his pocket.

He talked all morning and the whole drive there about how he was going to get a sports car. I dunno what happened. But I do like that bus.

This post is taking part in Queen Scarlett's A Family Lives Here project. Click the button to join us over on her mountain top:

Catching the Vision at the Eye Doctor's Office

2011-04-14T13:52:00.000-06:00

I sat down at the receiving desk at the optometrist to fill out my paperwork. The receptionist asked me questions as she plunked away at her keyboard, "current address, phone number" etc.

Then she asked, "so when are you due?"

I resisted the urge to hide my postpartum form behind my cute orange bag, and blinked. Was she referring to something else? The query did seem to come from nowhere - 'who's your emergency contact' to 'when are you due'? - perhaps I misunderstood the question.

"Sorry?" I asked.

She looked up from her monitor and beamed at me. "When are you due?"

I grinned back - no need to make this awkward. "Oh, I already had him. He's a month old." I wondered if they somehow knew I had been expecting - some note on their computer or something, even though I had never been to this doctor, before.

"Oh! How adorable! You know, losing the baby weight was the hardest thing for me, too."

Well - there goes the 'note in my file' theory. I leaned my arm on her desk in a sign of common friendship, and began to dish with her about pregnancy weight gain and stubborn postpartum pounds.

Of course, she was a string bean.

I made a mental note that this would be a good story to share with Bill when I got home. Then I began my all-too-frequent mental war with myself; convincing myself that I wasn't a disgusting frump - that my body had been altered by an amazing event and an amazing little man that I would be snuggling promptly upon my return home.

There was no hiding my, erm, abundant figure. Not this time. The slip of a girl sitting across from me was proof of this. This body - as it is - is mine to inhabit until I change it. This last pregnancy was a bully, constantly beating me up. My physical body bears the scars of the journey I just completed. There is a beauty in that. And there is an even grander beauty in the truth that I am not trapped here in this beaten form. I can change it. And change it I shall!

I've already begun. I can run up the stairs again. I have been known to tackle and tickle a kid or two. I am getting my strength back - and have even lost four pounds after the more significant initial postpartum weight loss.

But even though I will be tracking the pounds as a measure of progress, this time I don't want it to be about the weight. It's just a number on some machine, anyway. It has nothing to do with who I am or what I'm about.

But I do plan on being able to keep up with my kids. To run outside in a game of tag or backyard baseball. To bike to the park. To run and not be weary! To walk and not faint!

Health, people!

I want it. I want it back. And I shall have it, you mark me.

In the meantime, I won't be angry when you ask "when are you due?" Because right now, I do bear the scars. And right now, I'm a physical manifestation of what it means to have the God given gift of the ability to change. To change anything and everything about ourselves to become better, stronger, more complete.

This is one of my very favorite parts about being human.

This is how it goes...

2011-04-13T21:10:00.000-06:00

"Wyatt, time to sit up for breakfast."
"I'm not Wyatt, I'm Astro!"

"Wyatt, can you do me a favor?"
"No."
"Please?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because, I'm not Wyatt, I'm Thomas the Tank Engine!"

"Wyatt, time to sit up for lunch."
...
"Wyatt, right now please."
...
"Wyatt! Lunch! You can draw on your magnadoodle after you're done!"
"No, Mom, just a sec. I hafta finish this engine."

"Wow, it sure is a blustery day."
"No, it's NOT blustery! It's wind!"

"Mom, will you draw me a tractor?"
"Sure." (draws)
"No! That's not the right one. I want a DIGGER!"

"Wyatt, time to go potty and get your jammies on."
"Nonono, I'm a pirate! Aargh!"
"Okay, Pirate, go potty."
(walks in opposite direction)
"Wyatt, right now please."
"Arg!"
"Pirate, I mean it. Potty. Right now. I don't want you to have to be in trouble."
"Yes, I DO be in trouble. I'm a pirate, and that's NAUGHTY!"

"Wyatt, get back in bed."
"But...but...Mooooooom! I need a drink!"
"no more drinks, it's bed time."
"But no Mom, I needed to go potty."
"You already went potty. It's time for bed."
"But I had a bad dream."
"You haven't been asleep yet. Back in bed."
"But, but, I just have to ask you a question."
"Ask me tomorrow, it's time for bed."
etc. etc. etc.

He definitely forces us to be creative. I can't help but respect his willpower. It's on his turf and done his way (which is usually decided based on the opposite of what I suggest) or it's nothing.

And he's awfully cute running around with a pirate patch over one eye all day long.

No Boys/Kids Allowed.

2011-04-12T20:11:00.000-06:00

Dad gave all five of his girls a gift card for a pedicure at an elegant spa in Salt Lake City last Valentines Day. It's become a bit of a tradition, and one I look forward to. This is not only the single time per year I am treated to such decadence, but is also a chance to spend an afternoon with just Mom and my three sisters. The trick has always been getting all five of our crazy schedules to free up at the same time.

Today, the stars aligned - and so did our schedules.

So we left our various children in the hands of Ali's husband, Steve, and my awesome Bill, we piled into mom's cute little SUV, and we spent the next few hours giggling like teenagers and indulging in the best that 'girl time' has to offer.

Lunch at Zupas; where everything on the menu seemed to feature sweet, ripe strawberries. We secured a table in the middle of the busy restaurant, but ultimately opted to squeeze into a booth. We were more interested in intimate conversation than being able to stretch out. My salmon chowder was delicious and satisfying - but not as much as the dialogue between me and my girls.

The spa was lovely. Just lovely. They remembered us from last year - even remembering that last year, Megan was about to tie the knot. Apparently it's fairly rare for five clients to book pedicures at once, that these clients are a mother and her four daughters, and that the whole thing was a gift from an adoring dad.

My feet were scrubbed, buffed, lotioned, waxed, wrapped and painted. I am convinced that what I experienced at that spa added years to my life. But - again - the conversation was the thing. This time, the chat included our pedicurists (is that a thing?). The gal beautifying Soup's feet told us of her long journey of losing 100 pounds, re-defining her beliefs about body image and health, and finding herself in the process. Poor Soup ended up with about 10 coats of color on her toes as her applier lost herself in the telling. We were inspired.

On the ride home, we decided to sneak a frozen-yogurt treat in before returning to reality. We sat around the yogurt parlor with bowls of peach and tart blueberry, giggling again.

I haven't laughed so hard - nor so often - in a long while. We mourned the too-soon ending of our adventure (even though we had been gone for four hours), wished we could do such things more often, expressed how much we needed each other - the women of my family - how we are different when it is just us women, just us mothers and daughters. How lovely was our respite!

I determined that some day - but some tangible day, some real day, just later - we should escape overnight. Perhaps for a weekend! To Park City or Salt Lake or Saint George. We would treat ourselves to a pedicure, we would have good food, we would go shopping. See a movie. Then retire to a comfortable hotel room where we would talk and laugh and talk and TALK.

Help, heal and uplift each other with the power of the shared womanhood of those who have lived together and grown together.

I helped care for Soup when she was a baby. She cares for my babies, now. Isn't that beautiful? I begged for stories of early motherhood from my mother. I gleaned tips for how to lose baby weight from my amazing (marathon running) Jamie. I dished about accidental controversies with Ali.

It is marvelous to me - this tender reminder we were given - that despite the different directions our lives constantly take us - we need each other. My mother, my sisters and me.

Thanks, Dad.

I Haint Got No Skills

2011-04-11T21:21:00.000-06:00

I wish I could play the guitar.

I own a guitar. I've taken classes. I just still can't play.

I also took piano lessons and can't play worth beans (not talking Jack's beans, 'cause those are worth a whole cow!). I guess I only had room in my talent-brain for one instrument, and violin was it.

But there is something so romantic to me about the portable nature of the guitar. To be able to break into accompanied song whenever I desire! Around the camp fire on a lonely mountain top! No more acapella hymns during FHE! Imagine the awesomeness of the good-night lullabye with a guitar hefted on my shoulder!

I still pull out my guitar and attempt to play every now and again. I keep thinking that something will click and I'll just suddenly be able to play. Go spend a year out behind the barn (musician reference. Can wannabe's make 'in crowd' references?). My fingers just won't form the shapes they need to to create those chords!

I think my fingers are too small. I don't have the span.

Do they have kid-sized guitars? They have kid-sized violins.

Or maybe I'll take up the mandolin. Worked really well for Chris Thile.

Has anyone ever found a mandolin in their Easter basket?