Hadleyesque

A Not So Miraculous Christmas

2012-01-08T13:54:00.001-08:00

If you have been reading long enough (congratulations for sticking through the last two years--lean times!) you will remember that several Christmases ago, I lived through a miracle of the toenail kind. Ever since I have felt a sort of benevolence toward that toenail, although it turned out not to be perfectly formed, nor particularly miraculous since it stopped growing immediately after I posted about it. So again, to recap: one of my big toenails has not grown since Christmas 1999, the other has not grown since I posted about it at Christmas in 2007. They are gross, sure, but they are are all I've got. And I never have to repaint them unless I want to.

Except this Christmas, my Christmas miracle (circa 2007) turned into Christmas tragedy. I went outside to feed our dog, and on my way back in the dog tried to force an entry, at the same time that Logan tried to force an exit, and in the chaos of dog, door, child, yelling, etc., somehow I lost the Christmas miracle toenail. And this time, it's just skin underneath. (Is this too much information? Remember, I don't even mind having my buttocks massaged, so it's hard for me to judge.) And there was a tiny dot of blood. BLOOD! From my miracle toe! I felt so . . . well, forsaken.

Fortunately my father, the foot doctor, was here to lend his support (although his original intention was visiting Alabama to support me after my C-section, this turned out much, much better). I didn't cry, because please. I am not a crier. But I did scream, complain, and to hear Rhett tell it, fixate dramatically on my pain. Also, I might have made my dad wrap it up in gauze although he assured me several times that a simple band-aid would suffice. Better safe than sorry, I always say.

I am dealing with the disappointment of losing my miraculous toenail by ignoring it completely. Rhett keeps trying to secretly stroke the newly exposed skin (maybe he has graduated beyond simply quirky, no?) and I keep kicking him in the face. Not really. But almost.

Dear ones, how will I ever have faith in Christmas miracles again?

Aaaand . . . Scene

2011-12-07T18:14:00.001-08:00

So. I had this baby, and let me tell you he is delicious. Also a fabulous sleeper, eater and every other desirable quality in a six-day old. We named him Caleb. Boys names are getting harder and harder for us to find, not only because we have so many boys ourselves, but also because I have dozens of nephews. Every time we would go through the baby name book, invariably I would say, "Oh, I love that name." And Rhett would say, "Yeah, and so does your sister because, remember, you have a nephew named that?" Oh, right.

Anyway. Caleb is a doll. I don't want to brag or anything, but some of y'all have awesome cooking skills, or amazing decorating skills, or whatever. I used to think I didn't really have any skills that were useful in the homemaking arena, but people--I have a gift with babies. Here are some of my secrets:

1. If you and that baby are sleeping at the same time, baby will sleep better on your chest. You might not be able to sleep very well, in which case I have to mention that you can sleep really well in uncomfortable positions if you add a Percocet or two to the mix. Some people (ahem, lady in my ward who scolded me for extended period of time on this topic) say that this is dangerous, but if you've had a C-section, you can't really even scratch your nose without deliberate movement planning, so it's not like you're going to roll over your baby. At least not without thinking about it first.

2. Burping. Don't underestimate the importance of good burp performance. If you're having problems getting a burp, try lifting your baby up (under the armpits) and slowly raising them up and down three times. Then burp again. This always works for me, so if it doesn't work for you, you're probably defective. Kidding! Sort of.

3. Breastfeeding/bottlefeeding/pumping. I have a lot of experience in almost all of these categories due to wacky genetic conditions. Anyway. Do what you have to in order for your baby to eat. If that means pumping, great. If that means bottlefeeding, okay. If your baby is getting fatter, you are doing it right. I've personally kept lactation specialists in business in an attempt to get the latch right when it turned out it wasn't the latch at all. So then I end up pumping, which is inconvenient but works. Also, a little Percocet taken before breastfeeding? Totally helps you push through the initial latch pain. I'm just saying.

4. Have awesome babies. My mom swears that some of why my babies are paragons is because I hold them almost constantly, sleep with them on my chest, and spoil them miserably (I don't believe you can spoil a baby, by the way). But to be honest, I think it's more genetic. I don't have babies with tummy problems, which makes a big difference. But if you have to listen to your baby cry all night long because of colic? You know the answer here--Percocet.

In review, the secret to post-partum joy and happiness is clearly Percocet. And that darling baby, of course.

What You Will Miss

2011-11-23T05:50:00.000-08:00

I won't be telling this baby's birth story here, mostly because I'm lazy, but also because I have C-sections and so the story is quite short: and then I got sliced open and the doctor pulled the baby out and set him on my chest with a warning not to touch him until . . .

But also, birth stories are slightly disturbing to me. I'm not opposed to other people sharing their birth stories, they are often touching, and lovely, and precious. But I do worry that all this introspection and fascination with how we give birth maybe overshadows the simple miracle of the fact that we do.

Ivy's was a normal birth (do you want to hear the story?), but Spencer's descended so quickly into chaos and birthing anarchy that ever after, I don't really mind that my birthing stories are short: the stitching up took longer than the birth. Because in my head, I'm just so grateful that this baby isn't dangerously quiet or blue in the face, or rushed immediately to NICU with talk of Flight for Life coming in to move him to a more advanced facility. I'm just so glad that Rhett is peering over the surgical drape saying inane things like, "Heids, your guts are all pushed up on to your belly right now!" or "This is awesome. I can totally see your fibroid cyst!" instead of being too late (I had sent him to dinner when I was in labor because there was plenty of time still, plenty!) to be there at all. I'm just so grateful that when they wheel me out of surgery, it's not into an empty recovery room with no husband and no baby.

I'm just so grateful to have a baby who breathes and eats and cries, that I can't be bothered to think to myself, this would have been much more poignant in a birthing tub. Maybe it would, I don't know.

I have a friend who also has C-sections for medical reasons, but every birth is like a big tragedy--like her body has failed her and she mourns the loss of the midwife and doula who could have attended her birth and hypnotized her into only half-feeling the pain. She feels cheated by her own body, like she's lost the opportunity to truly be a mother because the baby doesn't travel the birthing canal in the prescribed, traditional fashion. I don't have this kind of introspection in me--to worry about whether this is the right way to give birth--I'm just so damn grateful to have a baby. Because if there is one thing that Spencer's birth story taught me, it was that none of that is guaranteed. No one guarantees you that when you get to the end of the ten month pregnancy, there will be a cozy, bubbling birthing tub, a brush with the kind of pain that makes you more self-reflective and less selfish for the next three months, a final gasp and push and flash of joy. No one guarantees that there will even be a baby there to hold.

So, my point here, is that you won't get all the details of the slice and dice that is my birth story. (Do you really want those details? Because I fear I'm often too drugged up to actually get them right anyway.) I'll be too busy (hopefully! God willing!) being grateful for the miracle of birth. Even when it happens the wrong way.

In Two Weeks There Will Be So Many Children Here They Will Surely Be Neglected

2011-11-16T12:29:00.000-08:00

I am not a good blogger. Let us establish that immediately, and then please feel free to leave comments to the effect of how much you've missed me. Those kind of things do wonders for my sense of self-importance. (Rhett will wonder how much more self-importance I could possibly acquire, but I think we have also established that Rhett is not a reliable source for insight into my character. Except one time he did say to me that even though we have always maintained that we could split amicably for the children's sake if the need ever arose, he personally believed I would maliciously key his car and destroy his reputation, which quite frankly, was very astute of him. Because in the recesses of my soul, I think I might be pretty vindictive. Especially if our split were due to cheating on his part. I'm just saying.)

Anyway. I am having this fifth baby in two weeks. Did I mention it is a boy? Another boy? Like, my fourth boy? At first this was a source of bitterness for me, but then I remembered how I did this to myself by claiming repeatedly during childhood that I wanted to open a school for boys just like Jo March in Little Women (and sequels, of course). And so, here I am--living my childhood dreams. Lucky, lucky, lucky me.

But honestly, I just found out that my insurance here gives me FIVE days in the hospital for a C-section instead of the standard four I usually get. Quite frankly, I'd give birth to an elephant calf for that extra day.

Also on the bright side, (I'm trying to avoid complaining, as Rhett prefers me to save all my complaints for his ears only) the kids and I saved the life of a loon the other day, that had become entangled in mesh landscaping netting. Actually, I'm not sure if we saved it or not, since we free released it into the pond behind our house and hoped for the best, but I did cut off all the mesh stuff before we did that. I was going to take it to the Alabama Bird Sanctuary (or something like that) but that was an hour and a half drive away, and I'm not that committed to loon preservation. I'm not even sure they are endangered, actually. Probably they are super common.

If there were a topic to this post, this paragraph would be off-topic, but it's been making me smile for weeks now, and should really be documented somewhere. Spencer has been receiving love letters from a girl we know through school and church. He told me he wanted to write her one back. I glanced at it after he was finished and it read like this: "Audre--please don't try to ciss me. Also you should know that my name is spelled SPENCER--not SPINSER!" He looked at me knowingly and explained, "I think she spells it Southern." If you have ever heard his very Alabamian teacher say his name, I think you would have to agree.

I have so many more BRIGHT SPOTS in this pregnancy to document for you, but alas, it is time for school pick up. Just living my childhood dreams over here. You understand.

The List

2011-09-14T21:47:00.000-07:00

A few items you should know about:

1. I have fallen in love with our John Deere lawn tractor/mower/whatever-thing. To be honest, I could count on one hand (maybe even one finger) the times that I have previously mowed a lawn, but now, Rhett can't get on that John Deere lawn tractor/mower/whatever-thing except to retrieve Jakers from the neighborhood. I think I present a pretty awesome picture of life in the South when I'm out on that thing, more than six months pregnant and also toting a less than two-year-old child on my knee, all while bouncing happily along and cutting the grass, too. Y'all. I am awesome. (Sometimes I wear my denim skirt because modesty? What?)

2. I am getting a new couch. It will almost be sad to say good-bye to the old one (if you consider good-bye moving it to a different room), but then I remind myself of the numerous pen marks, marker marks, frequent urinations, etc. that make up my old couch, and hmmm . . . not so sad at all.

3. Our dog. She is darling, and I love her, and if it were she and I living alone in a house, we would, of course, be in paradise. However. She jumps on the children (but only when I'm not present). So I keep hauling the kids out there to do "training sessions" with me and the dog. It is family fun for all, as you can only imagine. The dog, by the way, loves me with the kind of devotion that all the world should learn from. My devotion to her comes nowhere close.

4. Rhett announced tonight that he is sick. I am half-annoyed, because I announced this morning that I was getting sick. Now he has preempted me and I'm going to have to take care of him and pretend to be super sympathetic instead of the other way around. I have not much of the nurturer in me for adult illness.

5. Veevs has called home four times this school year with fake illnesses (shortness of breath! which magically disappears as soon as an interesting book is being read! and stomach pains! which also disappear as soon as we get home!). I have not much of the nurturer in me for fake childhood illness, either, because I told her the school was much better equipped to deal with any fainting spells or asthma attacks than I was. So tough it out, sister. There is an irony in this situation because I spent probably twenty percent of every school year faking sick.

6. I'm pretty sure four kids was the limit for what I could handle without falling into a malaise of Mrs. Bennett proportions. I will now, with the impending addition of number five, be spending the rest of my life uttering fluttering statements like, "Oh, my nerves!" and "How can you have so little compassion for your mother?" It shall be epic.

2011-09-05T13:50:00.001-07:00

Rhett and I have a new deal going: we're going to start assuming that neither of us are very good mind readers. When I put it like that, it seems stupid, like, of course, neither of you are talented enough to be mind readers, but when you've been married for elevenish years you start to think that you can stop actually telling your spouse what you're thinking because shouldn't they know by now? If they loved you? Really?

Turns out, no, Rhett still can't read my mind. And vice versa. This has become exceptionally apparent because we are making a final push to get everything organized (read: unpacked) in this house (it's only been four months!) and our priorities are clearly different. Because I am roughly the size and usefulness of a beached whale, a lot of what needs to get done (hauling heavy stuff, hanging pictures, transforming closets with shelving, etc.) is firmly on Rhett's to-do list.

Unfortunately I assume he knows what is on his to-do list. He does not. So I get mad. He gets frustrated. The kids run wild (That's not actually related, just regular Hadley madness). Finally he turned to me the other day and said, "So why don't you just tell me exactly what you want me to do today?"

It's totally solved our problems. Mostly. I mean, there's still the problem of me being a crazy, bossy wife, but that can wait for another elevenish years.

Laidback Parenting

2011-08-29T08:41:00.000-07:00

I have a friend who is maybe slightly neurotic (her words, not mine--because you know I use tactful phrasing like "careful parenting" to describe her actions). The other night we were visiting and she shared the story (I don't think she'll mind me sharing this with you) about the time her children were found playing with a dead bird and she freaked out a little bit and called the Center for Disease Control, informed them that her children probably had bird flu, and then saved the bird in a Ziploc bag so that appropriate testing could be done should her children suddenly be struck down.

(This sounds extreme, but I am reminded that she and her family were single-handedly responsible for introducing swine flu to the state of Idaho, so maybe she's justified?)

I think the difference in our parenting styles could best be expressed by the fact that my reaction to finding my children playing with a dead bird would probably be, "Okay, guys, two more minutes with that dead bird and then we need to throw it away."

And you?

Summer? Bah.

2011-08-07T13:58:00.001-07:00

Yesterday we took a day trip down to the beach. Despite spending the majority of the time under the beach tent thing, I am still sunburned. Unfortunately, I also am a pretty crappy sunscreen application specialist, because Logan has a giant red blotch around his left eye. In my defense, do you know how long it takes kids to stop crying after you accidentally get sunscreen in their eyes? HOURS! I know because once my sister got it in my nephew's eye at the zoo and we all heard the resulting misery. For hours.

It was a calm ocean, I must say, although the flag was yellow. Even Logan could go safely out in the surf without fear of being knocked over. Veevs came up to me midway through the afternoon and said, "I hope next time we come the waves will be a little more promising for body boarding." Um, okay?

I am not depressed, exactly, but I am not exactly functioning on full capacity, either. I blame pregnancy, of course. Everything that goes wrong in my life for these nine months gets blamed directly on pregnancy. Lost shopping list? Pregnancy. Lost child? Pregnancy. Lost mind? Pregnancy.

On the lost child thing, Rhett came home the other day and the kids were out riding their bikes all over the neighborhood. "So what," he asked, "We just let our kids run wild outside now?"

Well, yes. I do. And I call it childhood. (Rhett will probably want me to tell you that Logan, who is only 19 months old was running around on the street, and that was a small oversight, but really: pregnancy!) I am trying to let go of some of the anxiety I have about letting my children play outside by themselves and instead give them the gift of the kind of childhood that I had where we ran wild through the neighborhood--riding bikes, playing hide and seek, digging through trash (once I discovered a disposable razor in the neighbor's trash and amused myself for nearly half an hour running my fingers along the blades. I was nothing if not safety-minded.)--and no one really cared as long as we got home in time for dinner. I am quite a bit removed from that kind of nonchalance about my children's whereabouts, but it's a goal to work towards, no?

Also for the record, Rhett had this kind of childhood, too, which makes me wonder why my generation is so much more uptight about having our children in our line of sight for every waking moment than the previous generation? Rhett and I both loved being able to explore and wander, but freak out when we don't know exactly where our children are.

The other day as my friends in my book club were arriving at my house, we (and by we, I really mean Rhett) suddenly discovered that we (again, the we is generous, here) didn't know exactly where Jakers was. I had a good guess, as he has a penchant for the construction lots in the cul de sac across from ours. However, the ladies in my book club good-naturedly joined in the search, and then to my everlasting amusement, Rhett pulled out of the garage on his lawn tractor to go and search for him. He tooled that thing down the cul de sac and came back moments later with Jakers perched triumphantly on his knee. Who in their right mind thinks that their lawn tractor is the best tool for that particular job? His car was right there. So was mine. And his legs, also, they are not broken. But Rhett pulled out the lawn tractor. I was secretly chuckling all night.

I don't want to admit this, because most of the blogosphere is extolling the virtues of having their darling dears with them at every moment and discussing what a joy it has been to be spending time with their sweet, precious angels, but I'm ready for school to start. First, of course, the structure. I always pretend that I want summer to end because the structure of school and bed time and such is good for my children (which I think is true, of course). But in my heart, it's really because, hello, they are driving me crazy. I love them, it's fun for a little while, this constant togetherness thing, but then, oy vey, let's move on, shall we?

This summer my kids went to little day camps, which was delightful for everyone. They are sponsored by our local university, and I will pay hundreds more dollars than I actually did pay for the service, because it would still be cheaper than a psychiatrist for me. The camps kept me sane, and were really fun. My kids went to these camps: Lego camp, Nature Art camp, Under the Sea camp, Fishing for Fun camp, and CSI camp (I had no idea my sensitive, delicate little flower Veevs would show such a powerful interest in blood spatter). Next year I will probably double the number of camps we go to, because it was like paying for sanity. MY sanity.

Two Bits

2011-07-28T15:22:00.000-07:00

Veevs has just decided to set up a lemonade stand. The street on which we live has not-so-much traffic, and I was tempted to tell her that, but then I remembered the many hours I spent peddling lemonade to uninterested passers-by, and thought, Oh, what the hell. Go to it, girl.

I'm always amazed at how much I want her to not experience disappointment. I am constantly having to argue myself out of thwarting all her desires just to save her the sting of failure. Silly.

She has recruited her brothers: Spe gets to hold the sign, Jakers gets to hold the cups (manly, really). In just a minute, I will have to go out and fake a devastating thirst and buy three cups so that they can each pocket a quarter. Although knowing Veevs, those boys have been less employed and more conscripted.

Another one of her projects that I was tempted to quash was her desire to write a book based on the Warriors series about feral cats living in the forest with strange clan names and apprentices and all sorts of wacky stuff. I wanted to tell her it has all been done, to find her own story and write that, but then again, I convinced myself to file it in the What the hell, girl, go to it place in my mind. Why do I care, really, when it means forty minutes more of quiet?

The thirst. It is unbearable. Off to quench.

PS--I went out to find that they were selling lemonade for a dollar a glass. It seemed like highway robbery to me, so I gave them all a short lecture on market forces. They ignored me, and I returned twenty minutes later to find that they had sold seven glasses. Market forces, my foot.

Untitled

2011-07-26T15:25:00.000-07:00

I can't think of a title, most likely because I have no idea what I'll be blogging about. It's the same spontaneity that makes me Rhett's nightmare in a dollar store.

There was a period (which may have coincided with the depression mentioned previously) where we were living in The Residence Inn while our new Alabama house was being finished. I have determined that it is impossible to be cheerful while living in The Residence Inn with four children, a husband, and morning sickness. But our house is finished now, and the kids are loving being able to play. Outdoors. Of course, we do miss the complimentary breakfasts and "manager's receptions" (read: dinner), but the return of my humanity cannot be dismissed.

Right now it's fixing to rain (see how Southern I've become?) and I can hear Spe yelling at Jake who is continuing to ride his scooter despite the downpour, "Jacob, do you want to get killed? Then come inside! You will DIE!" I am unsure where this bent to the dramatic comes from, but I'd better blame my dad. (If you knew my dad, the most taciturn, unflappable man possible, you would get the joke.)

We got a dog from the humane society, a beautiful terrier mix kind of thing. She is half black and half white, and so of course, my children have named her Oreo. I can only comfort myself that it is better than their first choices, which were "Blackie" and "Whitey". It is only their naivete that makes that okay.

We had some awesome visitors last week, our old best friends from Texas. It was like Christmas and spring time and a four-day hospital stay all wrapped up in one. And then, as if that weren't enough to make me happy, I left all my children behind with their father and went to visit my brother in Baltimore. It was seriously like a four-day hospital stay (joy!) because I read books all day, stayed in bed for as long as I wanted, and had delightful conversations (hospital nurses are rather delightful once you get them talking, you know?).

If I were a horse, I would imagine that I would be described as getting fat and glossy with this pregnancy, but as I'm a human, I can only say that we are well on our way to breaking a total weight record with this baby. Since I always look about like I've swallowed a small car with every pregnancy, one can only imagine the beauty that will be mine shortly when it looks instead as if I've swallowed a Suburban. Some people say every pregnant woman is beautiful, and I can only say that they have clearly never seen me. I don't say this in the spirit of self-denigration, but rather just to be honest. I don't hate myself when I'm pregnant, because it's totally temporary and quite frankly, I don't have enough iron in my pregnant blood stream to allow for any extra emotions during pregnancy. It's just, you know, I can acknowledge the truth: I look disturbingly large.

Well, the baby has woken up from his nap and Jake has come inside (fortunately he escaped death from rain) and the children are building a fort, and something tells me my presence will shortly be required. I know this because it is quite peaceful for a few moments, and I know what that means: impending chaos.

And now I am proved right by the shrieks of discord. Until next time?

2011-06-30T09:05:00.000-07:00

Some random conversations between my children and me over the past little bit:

Jakers: So, when we have our new baby, can we still keep Logan?

Me: Yes, of course.

Jakers: So we'll give away our new baby?

Me: No, we'll keep Logan and the new baby.

Jakers: What? We keep all our babies?

Me: Yes, yes, we do.

*****

Spe: Mom. I have a secret to tell you.

Me: Okay.

Spe: I really love Barbies, but I'm afraid everyone will think I'm a jerk.

Me: (Insert ten minute conversation about how he can like whatever he wants, and if he wants me to buy some Barbies to play with, I will buy them for him, and no one will think he's a jerk, because girls and boys are allowed to play with whatever they want . . . ad nauseum)

Spe: Oh. I was just kidding. I really hate Barbies.

Me: (weakly) Oh. Ha ha. That was really a funny joke.

*****

Veevs (in the car): Mom, can you turn it to NPR?

Me (secretly proud of my news-loving, urbane child): Of course.

She listens for a little bit.

Veevs: Geez, I just wish they'd talk some more about Anthony Weiner!

Totally urbane, that one.

Is There Anybody Out There?

2011-06-12T20:40:00.000-07:00

Heidi is on hiatus...for now. She's fallen back in love with 200 books that were in storage for the last 4 months. This is her husband...don't expect anything substantive from her anytime soon related to keeping her blog current...I'm not...

Number 5

2011-04-24T02:07:00.000-07:00

I am pregnant again.

The news is fabulous, exciting and wonderful (more so because this is definitely the last one).

The timing leaves something to be desired.

The sickness has already hit and the accompanying grumpiness is in full-swing.

However. A new baby. So sweet.

I keep reminding myself that nine months of misery equals four days of hospital bliss.

This is how I get through pregnancies.

I can read a lot of books in four days (all while holding a new baby).

Happy Days Are Here Again

2011-04-12T10:12:00.001-07:00

Well. For the last three weeks I have suffered (suffered!) with a state of depression. But depression really seems like too mild of a phrase for the way I felt. It is more like I was sucked into a black hole of helplessness, hopelessness and anxiety, and then someone had the nerve to also pull out all my toenails and fingernails, too. Just to add to the misery.

I did not answer my phone, no matter how much I love you. Because at that moment, you were a weight around my neck and I was really trying hard not to drown in this black hole of crappiness, so I couldn't be bothered to, you know, exchange pleasantries and say stuff like, "Oh, hey. How are you?"

I did get my kids to school. I got them dressed. I fed them breakfast, lunch, and dinner. All without ever really looking at them! I fed my baby a bottle while staring off into space instead of looking into his truly gorgeous face like I usually do.

(On the funnier side, my mother-in-law, on hearing that I was feeling "a little bit down" asked, "Is it because all your friends are South Korean?")

But, I turned a corner last week. This morning I fed my baby his bottle and looked into his eyes the whole time. I drove my kids to school without having to pull over to cry. I fed them breakfast without having to retreat to my room because why are they talking to me?

Anyway. There's not a real point to this story, except to omit this period in my life makes me feel a little bit dishonest (not that I am against a little dishonesty in life--sorry, Mel! Remind me sometime to tell you all about Mel. She's amazing. And she's one of my former students, so I take complete credit for her life. That's pretty much how I work. How dare you bring up my drug dealing former students! How rude!)

So anyway. The point, which is not a point, not even close to a point, is that I was depressed. I feel better now, but I thought you should know it's not all Barbie sing-alongs (hmm, maybe the origin of depression? Must consider.) and beach trips. Also, my house is a disaster.

And I am still awesome.

The Essence of Jakers

2011-03-25T11:10:00.000-07:00

Last week Rhett had Friday off work (one of the numerous perks of working for a company which produces enough missiles to destroy the whole world fifty times over is that he gets every other Friday off--Hooray for Missile Proliferation!), so we hucked the kids in the car and took off. We told them we were going to Atlanta (two hours away) to shop for furniture (they are innocent and will believe anything obviously).

Instead, we drove to the beach in Florida. It was, as my Korean friends said, very much excitement trickery.

We played on the beach, ran away from waves, and went out to eat at our favorite seaside taco bar. It was, quite frankly, super fun.

When we got back in the car after a whole day of merriment and splashing and sand castle building, Jakers said, So now are we going to furniture shopping?

Oh, sweetie, I said, We just said that to trick you so that you wouldn't know we were really coming to the beach. Wasn't that a fun surprise?

He screwed his little face up. He wailed, Why would you trick us? I really wanted to go furniture shopping!

And that is what it is like to be Jakers mom.

Oh, Barbie Sing-Along.

2011-03-20T22:44:00.001-07:00

Today I found myself singing along to a Barbie movie with my daughter. Not just singing along as the movie played, because Veevs had gone to that sing-along section under the extras where they put the words across the bottom for you. Thanks, Barbie. I needed that.

We were singing to The Princess and the Pauper and if you're wondering how it is that my daughter has a Barbie DVD, well, so am I. But there I was, laying down vocals with my seven year old. Vocals like this: "If I want eggs, I snap my fingers, and the maid comes running in." I sang with joy.

After a particularly moving duet, Veevs put her little arms around my neck. Thanks, Mom, she said, I really love singing with you.

And suddenly, it really was joyful to be singing Barbie duets with my daughter.

UPDATE: Lest you think it is all joy and love and singing and Barbie at our house, this morning Veevs wailed to me upon completion of her hair, "Maaaa-uuumm. You braided it!" Like I am the village idiot. So, that's normal.

A Do-Nothing Morning

2011-03-17T11:50:00.001-07:00

This morning I woke up, and instead of taking on all my full responsibilities (breakfast, chores, blah) I felt like reading.

So I did. I read Haven Kimmel's new book She Got Up Off the Couch, and I loved it. I stayed in bed, leisurely reading. I got up off my bed whenever a child's voice got so strident that it interfered with my concentration. I got up off my bed to get everyone breakfast (cereal in a bag and an offer of a Go-gurt). I got up off my bed to wipe Logan's nose (a dozen times), and I got up off my bed to fetch some toys that would keep Logan happy until nap time. Here's the problem with my love of reading: once Momma starts reading, Momma can't stop reading until the book is finished. So, yes, I neglected my kids until I finished the book.

It was totally worth it.

My kids will look back on days like this (which I cheerfully named a "Do-Nothing Morning" and advocated liberal amounts of television) with fondness (I hope). Maybe they won't. That's okay, too. Modern motherhood, I'm convinced, would be so much more freeing and fulfilling if we would all just admit we're kind of crappy at this, save up money for our children's future therapy, and let it go.

Token

2011-03-11T22:37:00.000-08:00

I have not mentioned before (primarily because blog writing has been paralyzed lately by my desire to be both funny and completely inoffensive to every person on the planet--don't worry, I'm over that now.) but almost all my friends here in Montgomery are Korean women. They are all here because Hyundai has a plant here and their husbands have come to work in some related way to the Hyundai plant.

Some of the awesome things about this:

1) They make me Korean food. All the time. Seriously, my calendar is filled up with lunch dates to taste a different Korean delicacy. I like most of the food. They never want me to cook, which is kind of a slam to my cooking, yes? Also, to American food in general. I invited one of my friends to eat lunch ("lunchee!" as she says it) here, and she said, "I cook? I bring food? No, you not cook. I not eat food."). I have to say, it doesn't make me feel like my cooking is valued in the way it should be. In fact, it is just like having my own kids react to my cooking every night at the dinner table.

2) They don't really speak English, so our communication is limited. But also, very, very enlightening. For example, today my friend told me that she no understand heads of foreigns because they no think Korea people and Korea people very difficult understand. I am not sure what this means exactly but I liked the thought, and I nodded wisely as if I understood.

3) I am the token white girl. I never knew this would happen to me, but yet, here I am. And I am reveling in it.

4) They find my little red-headed baby to be the most delightful piece of human flesh ever. But then again, so do I. Do you?

That's pretty much the high points. I like my new Korean friends, and not just because they're my only friends. They are also awesome. You should try the pork. It is delicious.

Giraffes and Such

2011-03-11T22:14:00.001-08:00

I am sure that I am the only person still visiting this page, and even I only use it for the links to blogs, but still.

Tonight I was snuggling in my bed with sweet Veevs, who likes to have what we call "Talky Time" with me before she goes to bed. It is, in fact, time wherein we talk. Not much symbolic there.

Anyway. She had a few questions about mating, specifically, how it related to dogs. How, she wondered, could a dog get out of its own, safe, platonic backyard, pair up with a philandering mutt, and then come back pregnant with mongrel puppies? I never shy away from these questions, if I can help it, and while I am also expert at vague and not-so-informational answers ("When two people love each other very much . . ."), tonight it was clear that she wanted science, not platitudes.

So in two or three sentences I bequeathed upon Veevs sexual information that, if used in the right way, could make her queen of the playground (also, hated by other parents).

She thought about that for a minute. Wait, she said, is that the way all animals mate?

Yes, I said.

Another pause. That, she said, must be hard for giraffes.

I laughed until my sides hurt (but did not explain the finer details of the animal kingdom's prowess. Like National Geographic can't do it's share of sex education?).

The Indigenous People

2011-02-21T10:06:00.000-08:00

A few days ago we were talking with someone in our church, and he was saying how much the congregation has grown in the last few years. I was half-listening (because this is how I go through much of life), when he dropped this little gem:

"Now the church is really taking off with the indigenous people in the area, which is really neat."

Just whom do you think the indigenous people are in Montgomery, Alabama? Muscogee Indians? Choctaw? Chickasaw? You guys. He was talking about African Americans.

If it weren't so disrespectful of the atrocities of slavery, I might have laughed at the awesome misuse of a word. Instead, I poked Rhett in the back, so he would know I was stupefied by the whole conversation.

SERIOUSLY?

Hog Wild

2011-02-02T19:59:00.000-08:00

One of the strange things about living in this corporate housing arrangement thing is that for the first time in both of our lives we have access in our home to more channels than the basic three. Holy, holy, holy. We are so enamored with it. Why didn't you tell me there were ghost hunting shows? Shows about home improvements (WITH VANILLA ICE!)? Shows about abandoned storage lockers? Shows about Big Foot? This is amazing!

The other night we watched a couple of shows called "Hogs Gone Wild". I was mildly interested in this show, what with the plight of neighborhoods overrun with wild hogs and the night hunting with dogs. Basically the show follows three sets of hog hunters (Texas, Florida, and Hawaii) and shows their struggles as they try to trap the pigs. But when Crystal, a cowgirl in tight wranglers from Texas, launched herself on to the back of a wild hog her dog had pinned by the ear, I was fascinated. And then, y'all, I'm not kidding, it got crazy. Crystal thought that pig was fixing to put the hurt on her dog, and she reached for her hip knife (sheathed in hot pink leather, of course). She knifed that thing in the heart. It was the most primal thing I've ever seen. And I am totally hooked.

Rhett has his dirty secret (The Bachelor) and this is mine: I am hog wild about "Hogs Gone Wild." And I don't even like hunting. Or the outdoors.

Alabamans

2011-01-20T07:26:00.001-08:00

I am now an Alabaman. Actually I think officially, I have to live here for a year to be considered a resident, but anyway. I am here. (And, unlike the governor of this fair state, I will consider you my brother or sister even if you aren't Christian. It's this kind of liberalism that gets me in trouble.)

The truth is that I like it here. When I first moved to Texas, I thought the people there were super nice and friendly (as compared to the people in Utah and Las Vegas, my previous places of residence). Holy crap, people, Alabamans make Texans look misanthropic sociopaths. Seriously, these people are so nice. (But maybe only because I'm Christian?)

We are living in temporary corporate housing (a furnished three-bedroom apartment), which is awesome, except for the kitchen, which is tiny. I am not complaining, however, because we are lucky, yes? Lots of people right here in this country would love to have our set-up, and don't even get me started on people in Africa. My point is: no complaints.

Veevs and Spe have been enrolled in the appropriate school. It is supposedly one of the best in Montgomery (and if the amount of homework Veevs came home with is any indication, it is certainly the most rigorous), so that's awesome.

Jakers and I are going to look at a preschool for him in just an hour or two (as soon as baby wakes up from his nap) and then my life will be that much easier.

I am still straightening and organizing and cramming things in nooks and crannies, but the big stuff is done and so I'm off to take a nap.

See, nothing to complain about here.

Moving is More Than Just Initialing Papers. Who Knew?

2011-01-09T18:42:00.000-08:00

Dear ones, I want to post on this blog, I really, really do. It turns out, however, that contrary to my previous post, my part of this whole moving business has expanded far beyond simply initialing papers.

Rhett said (rather dreamily), "You know, when we leave this house, I want people who are walking through here to think it could be a new home."

I can only tell you that this translates into a lot of work.

And also, why didn't you tell me that I had to practically preview every item in every room so that the movers don't end up moving empty bottles of hairspray and the like?

Also (there are a lot of alsos in this post, no?) because we are living in temporary corporate housing for about two months (or so), I have to pack for that, too.

There is a lot of unanticipated work going on here, and I have successfully sneaked away for the last five minutes, but Rhett's going to figure out that he's flying solo soon and then it's back to the grindstone for me. Good heavens, people. It's like moving is the worst thing ever!

Giving the Business

2011-01-04T06:53:00.000-08:00

"Giving someone the business" is one of my favorite phrases. I actually never use it because it's not really one of my favorite phrases, but in the past 24 hours it has caught my fancy, probably because so much business has been given out over here, how could I not suddenly love it?

A recap of business-giving:

Rhett gave me the business because I had not found my cell phone charger from our trip and I didn't pull my laptop out because it was in my laptop bag (this makes perfect sense when you know how lazy I felt yesterday), so I was basically incommunicado. I sat thinking for a few minutes about how this could possibly be Rhett's fault (I am very good at this game, you know), and discarded several possibilities that even I felt were far-fetched ("You were, you know, the one who canceled the home phone over a year ago" and "If you need to talk to me every minute of every day, perhaps you are too attached?"). I finally owned responsibility and apologized, but only as a last resort.

I gave Spe the business because yesterday I specifically told him to go and hang his backpack up on the hook where it goes in the closet where it goes and make sure, sweet son, that you put it, you know, WHERE IT GOES. Of course, this morning there was a mad hunt for a missing backpack which was eventually found in the toy room, which I'm pretty sure is NOT where it goes. The business was given, and then all was forgiven. Until tomorrow's mad hunt.

Baby Logan, who is now a one-year old, gave me the business because I wiped his nose for the fourth time this morning. Apparently, four is the breaking point. I'm trembling because he really needs another nose wipe, but if the business is given at four, how will he escalate at five? Hopefully after a nap we can start the tally over.

I am giving myself the business because I am SO tired, and yet there is a whole room full of things to unpack and toys to find homes for (post-Christmas organization). And THEN I need to start working on getting ready to move. Although Rhett's company is technically moving us, my part of the deal is full of hard work like signing my name to lots of documents! And initialing! Deciding what we need for the next three months! Like clothes! And toys!

I just discovered I must go give a nameless one-year old the business for pulling all the toilet roll off the roll, and a nameless three-year old who just told that same one-year old to "Get your butt out of here!" I'm so busy! Don't feel bad for me!

Come January

2010-11-30T22:21:00.000-08:00

Come January we will be moving to Alabama.

It kind of makes me wish that when Rhett had that chipped out tooth, I had just let him keep it. I bet we would feel like we fit in better if I had.

Sigh.

I have never lived in the Deep South before. It will be an adventure.

This post makes it sound like I'm reluctant to move, but to be honest, I'm laid back about it all. When your world is the four walls of your home, it's so much easier to be fine with switching one set of four walls for another set of four walls.

As Rhett says, "If they sell chocolate in Alabama, you'll be just fine."

And really, isn't that the truth?

Ahem.

2010-11-03T21:54:00.000-07:00

I know I should be modest and retiring about this and pretend that I'm only telling you this because my husband is making me (yes, Pioneer Woman, I am looking at you). But I don't mind self-promotion.

Also, I've already told you I think I'm awesome. Despite the almost overwhelming evidence to the contrary.

So. There's this new blog magazine thing. It is pretty cool because it reviews all these blogs (You know how you never have enough blogs to read to completely avoid housework? This will solve your problem!) and it looks pretty slick, too.

This month I am a featured blogger. Hooray for me! Actually, I should really be groveling and thanking them for taking me despite the fact that I have blogged only like four times in the last year. But, whatever. I'm awesome.

Here is the link if you would like to take a look. I am on page 20ish, but look around. Have fun. Ignore your kids. Don't do the laundry. Heaven knows I'm not.

How I Will Get Famous and Stuff

2010-11-03T21:19:00.001-07:00

In the last four days, I have eaten almost 100% candy. Breakfast? A fun-size Kit-Kat, a banana flavored Laffy-Taffy (banana flavor=fruit), and two Reese's peanut butter cups. Lunch? Three fun-size Nestle Crunches, a Fun Dip sugary stick, some candy corn, and again, a fruit-flavored Laffy-Taffy. Dinner? Snickers, M&Ms, Tootsie Rolls, and Milky Ways.

I should warn you off of this kind of diet, because just imagine the caloric intake here. And also, the lack of vitamins.

But, I'm going to make millions off of this because I've lost three pounds by eating nothing but candy.

I'm a freaking diet genius!

Oh, Halloween.

2010-10-31T20:55:00.000-07:00

Contrary to family tradition, I did not throw a Hadley Halloween party. This is primarily because I am too busy, but secondarily, I didn't want to clean my house just to have it destroyed again. Also, Halloween sugar cookies? Doesn't that just sound exhausting?

I am working on numerous things for school which are neither interesting nor pertinent to most people. However, I don't let this deter me from doing my craptastic best. I have suddenly (and to the surprise of anyone who knew me as a student) achieved a reputation as an overachiever. My AT teacher would be shocked, surely, as would my mother.

Whenever I get my grades Rhett wants to know what my exact percentage was. Whether it is a 93% or a 98%, Rhett is always disappointed in me. This is because Rhett views any percentage over a 90% as wasted effort. If, for example, I were to get a 98%, Rhett will tell me that I worked 8% too hard. This is because Rhett is awesome, and I have decided that I need to adopt more of his life attitudes.

Anyway. Back to Halloween. Veevs dressed up as the great Kate Wetherall (from The Mysterious Benedict Society books), and yes, she had to explain that all night long. Spe wanted to be a skeleton. I had previously bought him some skeleton pajamas, and he was insistent that instead of a real costume, he just wanted to wear those pajamas. AWESOME! Jakers wanted to be a spider, but changed his mind, seventy million times, so he ended up being a lion. We had that from three years ago. Baby Logan was a rooster, which is also a tried and true costume.

We had a trunk or treat at our church, and one of our children who shall not remain anonymous in any way whatsoever (Jakers) pulled down his lion trousers and started urinating into the tall grasses in front of the church. I bet only a hundred people saw him. Because he is awesome.

That was our Halloween. A small recap:

1) I did not have a party.
2) No one got a new costume.
3) My child urinated in public.
4) I am awesome. So awesome it is almost embarrassing.

MI-5

2010-10-23T21:30:00.000-07:00

I can't stop watching MI-5. It's phenomenal. Not just because of Richard Armitage, although I love him, too. The show is on my local public broadcasting station, and we're off season now, so we're watching reruns. But I'm dying to know: ROZ? ALIVE OR DEAD?

I love the action, the Britishness, the awesomeness of the plots. But the real reason I love it is because Lucas has/had this American girlfriend who worked for the CIA, and lawsie mercy, is her American accent awful. I love it. For some reason, it makes me postively gleeful.

It's payback for all the times Americans slaughter the British accent and pretend they're doing it just fine.

Whenever Americans find out I lived in England for a year and a half, they almost always give me their best British accent. And by best, I mean, holy crap, what accent are you even trying for?

If you have it in your area, you should be watching MI-5. And if you're one of my British friends who is going to see the next season a whole five months before I am, ANSWER ME! ROZ? ALIVE OR DEAD? I must know.

Dying, dying, dead

2010-10-09T20:00:00.000-07:00

So, I'm pretty sick right now. Not just the polite, slight-headache "I am not feeling quite the thing" of the Regency romances (God bless you, Georgette Heyer.), but more of the kind of sick where I just turned to Rhett and said in my hoarse-almost-dying-voice, "Look, if I die, please don't marry so and so." Rhett rolled his eyes, went upstairs to watch football, and left me with a sink of dirty dishes. I agreed to put off dying until the dishes were done, for the sake of my family.

Rhett hates it when I talk about my death as if it were impending (probably because the death rate in his family is seventeen thousand times higher than the death rate in mine), but I just like to know that my wishes will be respected, even when I'm dead.

When we were driving across Louisiana last year, we passed a mausoleum retailer (I have no idea what this line of work is officially called, but just roll with me here) off the freeway, in the middle of nowhere. It put me in mind of a few matters that I needed to discuss with Rhett. Just in case.

"I'd like to be cremated when I die, Rhett." It's true. I would rather be cremated than experience the indignities of embalming. Most Mormons prefer embalming, but I have never been overly concerned with conformity.

"No." Rhett was driving, and he didn't even bother to look over at me.

"No, I'm serious. I want to be cremated."

"No."

"But why? It would be cheaper." I believe that the bottom line is the way to Rhett's heart in almost every instance.

"No."

"But it's what I want." I also believe that Rhett wants to give me my way, all the time.

"So what? You'll be dead. I'll do what I want, for once."

"C'mon, Rhett. You can carry my ashes all over the place with you. You can have them mixed with paint and have an artist draw my portrait with paint that is made of me. So cool!"

"No."

"Why won't you let me be cremated?"

"Fine. I want to be buried in a mausoleum."

"Fine. I'll be cremated, you can have a mausoleum."

"No, wait, I want a crypt."

Sigh. "Okay, Rhett. You can have a crypt."

"Can I have a crypt keeper?"

"NEVER MIND! FINE! EMBALM ME! PUT POKY THINGS UNDERNEATH MY EYELIDS TO KEEP THEM SHUT! DRAIN ALL MY BLOOD AND REPLACE IT WITH EMBALMING FLUID! PUT BAD MAKEUP ALL OVER MY FACE AND LET PEOPLE KISS MY COLD, WAXY CHEEKS! FINE! SEE IF I CARE!"

"No, but really, I want a crypt keeper."

I have decided to put off dying until we can work this matter out. For the sake of my family.

Has Been A While, No?

2010-10-05T05:48:00.001-07:00

Should I even bother anymore? (Not, of course, that I have been overbothered with this blog, obviously).

Anyway--a few random things that should have received their own posts, but were swept aside in a rush of other more important things like feeding kids, laundry, schoolwork, etc. Life has never been so busy around here as it is this semester.

1) On the second day of school, Spe sat at my kitchen table, drinking a Capri-Sun and having a cookie. "Mom," he said to me (so sincerely!), "How do you even play boys versus girls anyway?"

I hid a grin, and responded, "I don't know, bud. I think I've forgotten the rules. What do you think?"

"I don't know. They're chasing us, but it's not tag!"

My sweet boy.

2) My parents came and we all trekked to San Antonio to visit Sea World. It was a cold and rainy day, and my children discovered that I am the world's biggest baby when it comes to roller coasters. But aside from that, we had a great time. While we were there, Rhett, in an effort to shore up his position as my mom's favorite, asked her to show him how to find his genealogy.

A summation: My genealogy runs through the simple, hardworking folk of the Derbyshire Dales, Shropshire, and other various English places (there are also some Danish folk mixed in for good measure). One of Rhett's lines, on the other hand, runs straight into royalty, tracing back to the Plantagenet line, William the Conquerer, Roman emperors, etc.

It has been a trying time in our marriage. He is wont to say things like, "I'll just leave these dishes here for the peasants to take care of," or "I would say something crass, but my royal breeding won't permit me." (Funny how it never stopped him before.) I am trying to keep him humble by reminding him that his pedigree is really a history of inbreeding, conquest, and oppression, but nothing works.

I may not be impressed, but my mom was, and for Rhett, that's the most important thing.

3) I am now working as a "temporary staff" member at my university. I am grading papers. This is farcical, because I despise grading papers. It was the only part of teaching that I hated. Yay! I get to do it again! Actually, I got on the computer to grade papers. Is anyone surprised that I wandered over here and decided that I simply MUST post before I grade papers? Procrastination is key to who I am as a person.

2010-09-06T19:26:00.000-07:00

What Rhett says: Kids wouldn't it be fun to live in China?

What the kids hear: Pack up, kids! We're moving to China within the month!

What I hear from friends and acquaintances for the next three weeks: I hear you guys are moving to China.

At Thirty-Three

2010-08-21T21:52:00.001-07:00

Since I have turned thirty-three, Rhett has reminded me several times that if I were Jesus, I would currently be atoning for the world's sins and resurrecting myself in miraculous fashion. I encourage this kind of talk, because Rhett's penchant for irreverence is going to get him thrust into hell, which I think we've already established is the place that I have the best chance of landing a permanent home.

After Logan was born, I suddenly noticed, why no, it wasn't pregnancy making me look a little old, it was just that I am, in fact, starting to look a little old.

I'm not old, really. I know that. I'm young! I'm totally young. I'm too young, in fact, to have four kids, but here I am, pretending I know what I'm doing, trying to remember that they want to buy school lunches on Friday, that Veevs prefers her sandwiches with plain peanut butter, that Spe likes his tortillas rolled up with ranch, and that Jakers won't eat anything except yogurt and granola bars.

But if I look closely in the mirror, I can see that my skin no longer thinks it's very young. I have a little wrinkle in my forehead, where I have raised my eyebrows in disbelief one too many times. I have the beginnings of crows feet around my eyes. I have a spot on my face where the pigment is just gone. (Hello, Michael Jackson, I no longer think you are quite as ridiculous with your pigment-erasing excuses.)

So I'm trying all sorts of creams and lotions, which has had the effect of plumping up my pre-wrinkled skin, but has also made me break out like a teenager all over again. My choices are awesome: acne or wrinkles. WIN-WIN! I have tried to compromise by using the fancy creams and lotions only above my chin (which is the breakout central), but then I worry that I look like a complete freak: plump youthful skin above the chin, haggish wrinkly skin on the chin, one albino spot on one cheek, and a small wart (I didn't mention this previously, but hey, why not? What pride is left to me now?) on my lip from this last pregnancy (my doctor quasi-promised it would go away after birth, but he was wrong, wrong, wrong).

It's hard being this glamorous, guys.

Suppress Your Kinder Side--For Your Own Sake

2010-07-27T22:23:00.000-07:00

May I suggest that the next time you wake up in a really cheerful, happy, loving mood, you suppress your desire to deviate from your normal morning routine in any way? Even if your desire is to provide your children with "a special treat" to show them how much you love them?

Because I've been having to make toast with sprinkles on it (like a cupcake) pretty much every morning for the last sixteen months. It's the new morning routine, and it makes me grumpy.

In Which I Project My Anger Toward Ma Ingalls

2010-06-30T22:00:00.000-07:00

Two weeks ago our dishwasher broke, which was not okay, not even close to okay, for two major reasons:

1) Rhett, as the person who does not actually DO the dishes, decided to wait until the July4th weekend to replace it so that there was the possibility that a sale would be occurring.

2) For some reason, this absence of a dishwasher made me so angry (furious even) at that smug Caroline "Ma" Ingalls from the Little House book series (not the show, which I never liked because Melissa Gilbert was never what I imagined Laura looking like, and don't even get me started on the plot liberties they took with that show--pfft).

You guys, washing dishes by hand for a family of six takes a long time. And in the Little House on the Prairie, Ma Ingalls makes it look super easy. Like Laura says things like (I'm paraphrasing here because I'm too lazy--no, scratch that--I'm too worn out from doing all the dishes around here to go and look it up--but I just read this book a week or two ago, so it's close), "After breakfast, Ma cleaned up the dishes and put away the iron spider and let the curtain fall over the opening of the covered wagon and so then the camp was tidy and clean again." Uhhh, Laura? You forgot to mention that this took her THREE hours and then it was time to cook lunch. And then THREE more hours and then dinner time. In fact, Laura, you forgot to mention that Ma spent her entire life washing dishes. AND MADE IT LOOK EASY, and NEVER COMPLAINED.

Please don't think that this is the first time I've ever had to do dishes. My grandmother, to this day, still doesn't have a dishwasher, and so when we went to visit her we always did the dinner dishes by hands. But seriously, doing them by yourself (without a dish rack) takes much longer than when your mother enlists her team of eight to whip the kitchen into shape. And you know, if that got too boring, I could always pretend I needed to use the bathroom while everyone else finished up.

Here at my house, if I pretend I need to use the bathroom, I come out and the dishes are still there.

And that is why I hate Caroline Ingalls. And Laura Ingalls, too, for that matter. Smug overachievers always rub me the wrong way.

Confessional

2010-06-28T22:14:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow I will be heading to the movie theater for the "Summer Movie Fun Package of Old Movies Which Have Been Out of the Theaters for Over Two Years Now But We Will Still Play Them for You Anyway Just So You Can Get Out of the Heat (And Buy Candy)". My kids love going to the movies, mostly because we usually never do, so it's a real treat.

As usual, I will be sneaking candy in so I don't buy the overpriced junk there. This is a sin. I know it and you know it. It's dishonest. So is charging $4.00 for a pack of Bottlecaps, though.

I'm hoping that when I get to Judgement, in whatever form it takes, God will look over my list of sins and be all like, "I've got bigger fish to fry, sweetcheeks, so let's make this quick." In these visions I always imagine God as a district attorney or something, and I'm just like the little pawn in a bigger game: the drug mule for the ultra-violent cartel or maybe the victim-prostitute who informs on her pimp. And when the DA (God) offers a deal, I'll take it. I'll squeal on my neighbors who aren't married but are living together. I'll squeal on my other neighbor who lets her kids endanger themselves like on a daily basis. Why, just tonight I noticed that my neighbors had not yet brought in the garbage cans and the HOA rules clearly state that they have to be in by sundown on garbage collecting night.

But then I imagine that God will be like, "Fine, thanks for that information. I appreciate your cooperation. But I'm still going to nail you for swearing. And for believing in evolution. That's fifteen to twenty in the brimstone, baby. With all the people you informed on."

Oh, crap. I'm going to hell, right?

On Capitalism

2010-06-13T09:12:00.000-07:00

Saturday is our kids' payday at our house (It is also the day wherein you can hear Rhett say, "Dollah, dollah bills, y'all" over and over and over. No, that's not annoying at all, but thanks for asking.).

We love our money (or monies, if you ask Jakers). So much so that we like to raise monuments to capitalism.
In this photo, Jakers shows how, with a little help from taxpayers everywhere, risky assets can be managed effectively. It'll turn out fine, don't worry!

Spe wants you to know that banking can be very, very sexy.
Veevs, true to form, is using a more conservative model of banking. See, you can still build and expand with some funds, but keep most of your capital in reserve. Who knows what will happen tomorrow?Dammit, Jakers! Your shady schemes have caused this house of cards to fall down. There's a run on the bank! Quick, call the FDIC!

Don't blame Logan for this whole mess. He's a socialist.

A naked, chubby, happy socialist.

On Hair Loss and Humor

2010-06-10T21:44:00.000-07:00

Because I am losing my hair from nursing (and don't tell me this would stop if I would take my vitamins--NOT TRUE) I am finding my hair absolutely everywhere. On the floor. Clutched tightly in baby's fist. In cracks. (And yes, I mean cracks.) Just yesterday I found one wrapped around baby's neck. Which of course, reminded me that with just a few more hairs I could be living this poem, one of my favorites from Browning, whom I love for his fascination with mental psychosis. You wouldn't guess that about me, would you? Oh, you would. Well. Hmmm.

In other news, this blog entry here has been cracking me up lately. I keep revisiting and revisiting it to laugh. Thank you, Azucar, for this beautifully written satiric piece. Is it disrespectful to Swift (or Azucar depending on your outlook, I suppose) to say that it quite reminded me of "A Modest Proposal" in that it starts out sounding almost plausible and then gradually builds to sheer ridiculousness? Love it. (And only sort of because it burns Skousenites.)

Turning the Corner

2010-06-07T20:52:00.000-07:00

For a while, I suspected that this son of mine might have a personality disorder:

I mentally checked off all the bad behaviors every day: hitting, kicking, pushing, headbutting, whining, yelling, screaming, whining more, yelling, screaming, demanding chocolate milk every three minutes, whining, whining, and oh, did I mention the whining? If this were someone else's blog and I were feeling particularly sanctimonious, I might leave a comment to the effect that he's only three, be patient, he's just being a normal three-year-old.

But this is my third three-year-old, and while undoubtedly my test group is not large enough to impress any researcher worth her salt, it is large enough for me to remember that my other children did not struggle with such wild emotions so frequently and for so long.

Quite frankly, I have been at my wit's end with Jake. I tried giving him more love. I tried giving him more attention. I tried being more patient. I tried being less patient. I tried being more strict. I tried a devil-may-care attitude (I'm naturally good at that one).

I can even go so far as to say that if it were not for his beautiful blue eyes and his winning smile, we may not have survived. And by we, I so clearly mean him.

I would rack my brains for reasons: Middle child syndrome? Terrible twos/threes? Rhett's genetics?

Last week it came to me like a flash from the heavens (and perhaps it was): this little boy is simply exhausted. So our new rule has been that if Jake wakes up before 7:30, he takes a nap. At age two, he stopped taking naps, flatly refused to lay down with me, and made the whole process so miserable and awful and painful that I gave it up. It was, I thought, not worth the fight. But having weighed personality disorder-like behavior with a little resistance to the nap, I have decided why yes, it is worth the fight. (Admittedly, he gives much less misery on nap days than he used to.)

He is much, much, much, much, much improved. I hate to jinx it, but I daresay we have turned a corner.

And now I can go back to my devil-may-care attitude to parenting. Thank goodness. The mental energy required in good parenting is, quite frankly, exhausting.

I might need a nap of my own.

Open Letters

2010-05-30T20:32:00.000-07:00

Dear Mom--

You know how I used to use my pacifier to go to sleep? Yeah, I don't want to do that anymore. I would rather suck on a blanket. Or sometimes I like to use your pointer finger like a pacifier, but it's way more natural.

Also, since I'm opening up here, remember how I used to lay on your left arm to go to sleep? Could you switch it to your right? Cool. Thanks.

Not to be pushy, but remember how for like a week I really didn't want to nurse, and then I changed my mind and I wanted to nurse ALL the time, and then I decided I only wanted my bottle again? Well, I'd like to get back to basics again. Boobs, please.

Thanks--

Baby Logan

Dear Son--

Hey, I've got a friend, Dr. Ferber. I'm going to force an introduction here. Kisses!

Mom

Dear Dr. Ferber--

I'm such a fan of your "let's get these babies sleeping" method, but really? Do you really think you pioneered this method? You think cave women weren't like, "Wow, this kid's driving me crazy, but I HAVE NO CLUE WHAT TO DO!" Don't you think women have been letting babies cry themselves to sleep for eons without involving you whatsoever?

I'm just saying.

Heidi

Dear Son--

Forget my last letter to you. I will now be employing a method of sleep training called common freaking sense. It is exactly like Ferberization. You will love it just as much as Ferberization, I hope. I know I will.

Love, Mom

They Do?

2010-05-13T11:22:00.000-07:00

Sometimes when I'm in public with my four kids, people will look at me and my herd. Generally, the two boys will be trying to slip things into the shopping cart, Veevs will be engrossed in a book (my daughter, that one) and Logan is probably fussing (because it's been like an HOUR since he's eaten and he is STARVING).

As I'm trying to move the whole herd ("Boys! Don't touch ANYTHING, okay? EVER AGAIN, you hear me?" "Veevs, watch where you're going, please. Veevs? Veevs? Veevs? LISTEN TO ME!"), invariably someone will say to me,

"Oh, enjoy this time. It goes by so fast! They grow up so quickly!"

While I politely fight down the urge to fling my cart at them and say, "Then they're all yours, sister!" I usually respond with a very weary, "They do?"

Because I feel like I've been doing this for the past twenty-seven years (technically that would mean I had my first baby at . . . oh, forget technically. I'm too tired to do the math.). Diaper, feed, nap. Diaper, feed, nap. Temper tantrum, time out, screaming. Temper tantrum, time out screaming. Directive, no response, WHY WON'T YOU LISTEN? Directive, no response, WHY WON'T YOU LISTEN? For years.

I'm sure some day it will feel like my kids grew up so quickly. Just not today. Or tomorrow. Or the next day . . .

In Which I Officially Am OLD

2010-05-09T14:42:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, a little girl called me "Ma'am". Now, we live in the South, where it's acceptable to do that to anyone over the age of fourteen, but for me, it was weird. She passed me on the roller rink and blithely yelled, "Excuse me, ma'am!" or it might have been, "Coming through, ma'am!" but either way the message was clear--youth and vitality passing age and exhaustion on the left.

So I sped up (I am quite amazing on a pair of quads, you know) and passed her, just to show her that I still "had it". I am sure she had been wondering. And I said, "Excuse me, sweetie!" as I passed so that she would feel the same level of acceptable Southern condescension that I had been subjected to. Because I'm like that.

I've been called worse, so I'm not sure why I was so annoyed by being called Ma'am. One time one of my students said something to me like, "I'm not sitting down, you bitch." (I'm not adding the italics for fun, here. I can't convey the way this student said it without italics. Or maybe all-caps. Yes, he said, "I'm not sitting down, you BITCH.") He was in a fit of pique and as someone who often suffered from fits of pique during my high school years, I knew just how to handle it. I think I said (in the sweetest, most well-modulated tone I could manage) "Yes, I am a BITCH (or bitch if you prefer). How sweet of you to finally notice. Now sit down before I really get bitchy." He sat. We moved on.

He wasn't one of my honors students, by the way, and this is how you can tell: Honors students are always like, "Oh, Mrs. Hadley, you're so funny." "You're so cute, Mrs. Hadley." "Can we please read another poem by Robert Browning, Mrs. Hadley?" and "Why, yes, Mrs. Hadley, you do look better when you gain sixty pounds during pregnancy!" Because honors students? Three-quarters of their smarts can be attributed to the fact that they have figured out that teachers love to reward sweetheart students with good grades (By the way, I loved teaching Honors classes. It was like being served up a side of self-esteem every morning.).

So, anyway. The point of that post must be recapped, since it was so convoluted:

1) I do not like being called "Ma'am"
2) I will retaliate with "Sweetheart"
3) I don't mind being called "Bitch" but you have to really mean it.
4) I love Honors students (and all other students who loved me first).
5) I am really a great roller-skater.

At the Beach: A Photo Frenzy

2010-04-27T10:46:00.000-07:00

Something very funky is happening with my font, but I'm too lazy to fix it, so just read and pretend everything is normal. Borrow this coping mechanism from me, if you must.

We recently pulled Veevs out of school for a week and vacationed on the beach in Florida (yes, the same beach that is now imperiled by the oil spill--damn you, BP!) It was on this trip that I discovered Rhett had never taken a real beach vacation--the kind where you stay at the beach for hours, every day. He was quite taken with the beach.

Unfortunately, he was not so taken with the beach that he tried to dress attractively for the occasion. When he came out sporting these shorts, knee-high socks and brown tennis shoes, I raised my eyebrows and said, "Really?" He reminded me it was his vacation, too. Whatever.
We rented bikes and rode around on the bike trails. The kids sat on the back. Spe made the time pass by pinching his driver's bum. Jakers made the time pass by dragging his feet on the wheel, and baby Logan passed the time by vomiting all over himself (but he loved it!).

I could eat this baby. And quite honestly, I think I could eat two pounds off of him, and he'd be no worse for the wear. So chubby!

We vacationed with some of our best friends who moved away recently, whom we still miss fiercely. Jacob and their son were all up in each other's business pretty much the whole time just to prove that a two-year-old and a three-year-old don't know how to share, be friends, or use soft voices. As if we needed that theory tested.

Fun was had by all. You will note that there are no pictures of me here. This is because this is my blog, and I just had a baby four months ago, and back off, OKAY? Imagine me tall, willowy, and tan. Because reality bites.

No-Talent Talents

2010-04-27T07:21:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking lately about talents (not in a church way) and I've come to the conclusion that the working definition of talents is seriously short (and also, by the working definition of talented, I'm so not talented). So, here's a list of skills that are really talents. Some of these I say are talents because I'm good at them. Others, like housekeeping, I say are talents because I'm not one bit good at them (see, it's not my fault! I'm just not talented).

1) Reading--I think this should be considered a talent, and not just a time-waster, and here's why: I read a lot. So quit thinking I'm lazy. I'm just extremely, extremely talented. When we first got married, Rhett asked me to teach him how to speed read. I laughed in his face, because here's the secret recipe: Read for six hours every day of your whole childhood, embracing the faux friendship of fictional characters like Anne of Avonlea, Jo March, and Nancy Drew to assuage the pain of the fact that you have no friends in the real world. Repeat, repeat, repeat. FOR YEARS. YEARS, I SAY!

2) Housekeeping--Most people think that if you're not good at this you are just lazy. But that's not really it. You're just not talented. Some people (Mom, I'm looking at you!) have a natural gift for organization and cleaning and stuff, and they really find joy in being all clean and on top of the laundry. These are the GT (gifted and talented) homemakers. Then, there's people like me who think, "I unloaded and loaded the dishwasher today. What more do you want from me?" These are the LD (learning disabled) homemakers.* One of the ladies in my book club has wrinkled fingers from using Windex like twenty-seven times a day. She swears it's a curse, and I'm all like "Windex? I think I have a bottle in the garage. Rhett uses it on the van windows." See the difference between the talented and the untalented? It's pretty obvious.

3) Scheduling--I have a friend who keeps her whole life in her head: hair appointments, doctor appointments, car maintenance, everything. That girl has talents, no? I have another friend who keeps her schedule on her calendar and never misses anything because she is religious about checking her calendar. She is performing at grade-level, methinks. And then there's me: I keep a meticulous calendar and forget to check it, therefore missing probably 30% of my appointments. I wish I were kidding, but a couple of weeks ago I forgot Spe had school in the morning until the carpool showed up. Because we've only been doing this for eight months now.

I had a few more, but when the baby cries, I answer (well, after five to ten minutes, anyway). Talentless, I tell you!

* Don't get all nasty at me thinking I'm making fun of kids with these labels. The real shame is that we have these labels in the first place for kids. THAT'S what I'm making fun of, okay?

The Bling Factor

2010-04-07T20:18:00.001-07:00

The other day we went to Costco as a family. As always, Veevs started lingering around the diamond display.

I immediately started my "How many legs do you think were cut off for this particular 2-carat diamond?" spiel. Veevs has heard it many times before and on an intellectual level she agrees with our anti-diamond stance.

"Oh, Mom," she sighs. "I know. It's just that they are so shiny." And then she lingered a little longer, looking at the sparkly diamonds.

I wanted to tell her it was just fancy lighting that made them look so shiny, but the way she looked at them (so longingly!) broke my will to teach her social responsibility.

I held her hand and we looked at them together for a few minutes.

"They are pretty, aren't they?" I said. She nodded. "C'mon," I said, "Let's go look at the toy aisle."

On the Campaign Trail

2010-03-23T21:42:00.000-07:00

Veevs decided this week that we needed a House President. She decreed, with dictator-like certainty, that our House President should be determined via a democratic vote. Shortly after her decree, these campaign posters were found on the refrigerator.

She is very cute. And also, quite the bike rider.

She is not above a little bit of dirty politics, however. Does Spe know how to read? I think she's implying a general unfitness for duty based on a lack of literacy.

This strategy may have backfired on her. When I saw this, I pledged my vote to Spe. Spe, by the way, was completely uninterested in the outcome of the election. He may have to watch out for a coup d'etat. The delicious taste of power is still in Veev's mouth. There's no telling what she'll do.

The Irish Holiday

2010-03-18T20:53:00.000-07:00

I love St. Patrick's Day as much as the next non-Irish person. Rhett always claims Irish, but I'm not sure how, since his family history stalled out in Boston with a woman of loose morals (read: prostitute). But he claims his beard can't be that red (his hair is dark brown, but his beard really is Irish red) without a little bit of Irish somewhere in him.

We celebrated in the way that we always do: green milk, courtesy of those naughty, mischievous leprechauns. We also usually have a treasure hunt for a pot of gold (read: golden wrapped Rolos and peanut butter cups) but I forgot to get those at the store, so we did that the day after. I told my kids the leprechauns were too drunk the day before to stop by, but that they would be sure to come by after their hangovers wore off (kidding!).

So today was the day of the treasure hunt. The kids were thrilled to find the candies in the bottom of my laundry hamper, wrapped in cellophane and tied up with a green ribbon. Jakers was so thrilled that he ate all of his candy right then, before breakfast. You guys, I gave them a lot of candy, too. Like a cantaloupe-sized package of golden chocolates. That kid has my genetic disposition for chocolate, and I couldn't help but respect him a little more for his ability to pound it down with no stomach ache.

It ended in disaster, however, as all my good mothering intentions do, when Jakers then proceeded to sneak into Veev's room and eat all the candy that she had. Drama, tears, wild accusations, and a call to the leprechauns to deliver some more candy (read: Rhett, who had taken the extra candy to work with him so as not to derail my why-the-hell-do-I-still-look-six-months-pregnant-diet and who also laughed and laughed and laughed when I told him of the not-funny-at-all incident) ensued.

When Rhett returned home, Veevs shared out a piece of candy to Spe, but I forbade Jakers from having any more as he had probably eaten his weight worth in candy already. More tears, drama, wild accusations, etc.

Happy freaking St. Patrick's Day everyone. Erin Go Bragh and all that stuff. Somehow it seemed a lot like every other day around here.

I'd like to say I'm back, but . . .

2010-03-07T20:17:00.001-08:00

A long time ago, when my dad was serving as the bishop in our home ward, a young man came back from his mission and came to our house to visit my dad. One of my wise, post-mission siblings (or maybe it was me?) advised him that he would want to give himself some time before he started dating. (Do you know how awkward just-returned LDS missionaries are around the opposite sex? Trust me. It's not pretty.)

The young man said, "Oh, I'm back!" with so much confidence we just had to laugh.

He had been home for less than 24 hours.

I'd like to be able to say that I'm back in terms of my blogging, but the honest truth is that life is busy around here. So I'm here. Now. That's all I can say about it.

Here's our latest baby, Logan. He is fat, fat, fat and hey, so am I, so it works great!

Not fat enough for you? Try this one, although there's a gormless look to him in this shot that I can't approve of. And red eyes. Because I'm too lazy to edit this picture. I'm here now, okay?

He has proved to be the most delightful baby--a great sleeper, a laid-back soul, a sweet-tempered fourth baby. I don't know why I get so lucky with sleeping babies, but I know better than to question it. The reason I know better is because when Veevs was sleeping twelve-hour stints at three weeks, Rhett made me call the pediatrician and ask what was wrong with her.

And then they laughed at me.

While I'm working pictures (unedited, of course), here are some of the other kids, too. This is mostly for Grandmas, but you can look if you want:

Christmas pajamas. Rhett and I also have a pair, but I'll spare you the glory of that spectacle.

This one I could just eat. I really could.

And now, I am no longer here. Maybe I will be back soon. Who knows?

Flux Capacitor

2010-02-05T17:49:00.001-08:00

Rhett, as you know, has some quirks. But you guys, he just makes me laugh. And laugh. And laugh.

At his work the other day the copier was broken. He was trying to help get the jam out of the paper path (probably whilst cursing), but it was hopeless. The copier was just broken.

Andria, the administrative assistant, said, "Oh, let's just call the maintenance department." She dialed up the number and started putting in the request for repair. Rhett said, "Hey, tell them we think the flux capacitor is broken." (You remember the flux capacitor, yes? From the Back to the Future movie?)

So poor Andria. She says to the maintenance person, "We think it's the flux capacitor that's causing the problem." And then Rhett starts laughing. And so does the maintenance person, but the maintenance person says around her laughter, "Okay, I'll mark that down."

I don't know why, but I've laughed about that for weeks now. It doesn't hurt that someone from his work gave Rhett this shirt that he's been wearing around.

Not Hyperbole

2009-12-15T07:05:00.000-08:00

So, you probably thought I was being, you know, dramatic when I announced that I look like I'm carrying a Volkswagen instead of a baby. I'll agree there's precedence. But just so you know that I'm not exaggerating, consider this:

This weekend Veevs attended a birthday party at a beauty salon (gag--don't get me started). I drove her there, and just for the record, I was actually dressed (Well, I had on pants AND a coat! You couldn't really tell I was wearing one of Rhett's old shirts, promise!). When we pulled up, she looked at me with cool appraisal and said, "Um, Mom, is it okay if you just drop me off at the front of the store?"

"Why?"

"Well, it's just since you're so big now, it's kind of embarrassing."

Oy vey.

Wouldn't It Be Funny?

2009-12-05T10:18:00.000-08:00

Wouldn't it be funny if I started writing on my blog every day again?

I KNOW!

But I'm in the middle of finals, have a baby due in two and a half weeks, and am so large that it looks more like I'm carrying a Volkswagen around in my belly instead of a baby.

So don't hold your breath.

Minivan Music

2009-11-17T20:43:00.000-08:00

When we get into the minivan, everyone has a request.

Veevs wants to listen to High School Musical (don't ask why we own this--long story).

If I turn on High School Musical, Spe will unfailingly say, "This is junk. Let's listen to some rock and roll!" And by rock and roll, he means The Doors. Particularly the song "Whiskey Bar". It is his dad's influence, I promise.

Veevs doesn't mind The Doors, either. She said to me the other day, after I confessed that no, I don't love The Doors, "I don't want to like The Doors, either, Mom, but their songs just get stuck in my head." Her current favorite is "Hello, I Love You".

But Jakers is my kid. When we get into the minivan, he says, "Mom, can we listen to some disco?" I think it's quite discerning for a two year old.

And then he sings along to "Shake, Shake, Shake (Shake Your Booty)", because if I've taught him one thing in this world, it's that if you've got it, you should shake it.

Celebrations! and Others . . .

2009-11-12T10:02:00.000-08:00

I don't know if you've noticed, but pregnancy, as a state of being makes me turn decidedly inward. I just don't feel the need to connect with other human beings as I do when I am not lugging around another human being inside of me. I remember when we first moved here to Texas, I found out the week before we moved that I was pregnant. I remember sitting in church on Sundays thinking, No, don't sit by me. Keep walking. I don't really want a friend right now. The idea of making small talk and being chipper and upbeat is just too much work for me. As a sidenote, these negative vibes worked pretty much throughout my whole pregnancy. I didn't make a single friend until after I had given birth.

But today there are a number of things to celebrate:

1) I finished my most pressing item of homework with time to spare for a nap before I go and fetch the kids from school. Sure, sure, I could complete less pressing items of homework and get ahead of the game. But that would mean that I would have to completely change my personality.

2) I also remembered that I had hidden a package of Grasshopper Fudge cookies in my cupboard. They aren't all gone yet, but thanks for thinking that might be a possibility (it really is a possibility, you know).

3) Veevs is reading Little House in the Big Woods. This gives me all sorts of nostalgic joy that I can't even begin to express.

4) I am starting to nest. If you think this means that my house is clean, you would be wrong. What it means is that I pull out all the contents of random cupboards, half organize them, lose the energy that I had, and leave half of the contents on the floor/counter. You're welcome, Rhett. But I like nesting because it leaves me feeling like I've accomplished something.

HOWEVER, there are also a number of non-celebrations that we can just file under "Other" in an attempt to be positive and chipper (I'm not):

1) I am large with this pregnancy. REALLY LARGE. So large, in fact, that my hips go to sleep after fifteen minutes of resting. So I'm up constantly at night.

2) My house. Oy vey. My house. (And it's only partly because of the half-organized cupboards that have found themselves emptied on to the floor/counter.)

3) My sense of humor. Where has it gone? Seriously, I can't imagine why I ever thought I had one in the first place. This brings me back to why my postings have been so infrequent and so frequently unfunny--I just don't have it in me to be funny these days. I'm not even sure I can muster mildly amusing.

4) This baby is an iron-sucking monster. I have been more anemically challenged by this child than any other child, and quite frankly, some days I feel good if I only take two naps. Because three naps a day is not an unheard of phenomenon around here. My doctor called me to let me know I was iron-deficient after my last blood test. I was so relieved! I just thought that my inherent laziness was overcoming all my other good qualities.

So now, having done my duty by my blog, I'm off to nap/celebrate/other.

And now you know what I mean by unfunny blogging.

How We're Making It Through . . .

2009-10-14T21:32:00.000-07:00

I'm not going to lie. I'm still a little bit disturbed by the fact that Rhett and I have been happily married for almost ten years and I just barely found out about our divergent evolution opinions. Obviously, we're talking about the wrong things over the dinner table.

So lately we've had a lot of conversations like this one:

Me: So when you see representations of early hominids in the museum, what do you think they are? Like some giant hoax against humanity perpetrated by evil scientists?

Rhett: (pursed lips, vague air of disapproval) You are going to hell.

But I've finally figured out how to keep this difference of opinion (or total disregard of scientific evidence, depending on how you look at it) from ruining our marriage.

Every so often, Rhett will try to explain to me about how the streaks of white cloud-looking material trailing behind jet planes is not, in actuality, a jet's exhaust, which is what I always claim that it is.

"Heids, it's actually . . . blah, blah blah." I wish I could tell you what it actually is, but I always tune out at this point, because hey, look at that plane's EXHAUST! We've had this conversation several times and I always tune Rhett out. Not because I don't believe him (I sort of don't) but mostly because I don't want to be bothered to learn something new about something that interests me so not at all.

For Rhett, this fascination with airplane exhaust systems (please, please imagine the eye rolling that he's going to do when he reads that phrase) is in his blood. He and his dad (and now my kids, too) are jet fanatics. His dad has been known to sit on the porch with a pair of binoculars to better identify the military aircraft flying overhead (how fortuitous that he lives so close to an air base!). Rhett takes our kids every year to the local airshow, and has embarrassingly been known to tell me the manufacturer and make of anything that moves in the sky. I went with Rhett one year to the air show and discovered hey! Rhett actually wanted to look at planes. And hey! he also wanted to stay for longer than an hour, so ever since then it's been one of those things that I let him enjoy in peace. I think it's good for him to have his own interests.

So, my point here, and I do have one surprisingly, is that if evolution is Rhett's equivalent of my airplane exhaust, more power to him. I won't even bother talking about it any more, because I know he'll just tune me out.

But just for the record--I still don't think I'm going to hell.

Something Serious

2009-09-24T11:34:00.000-07:00

I have all these serious thoughts in my head today, but my brain won't quite let me release them to my blog in an unedited fashion (Did you know that I hardly ever edit my stuff for my blog? First drafts, that's what you're reading here. I know some bloggers work on certain posts for weeks or days at a time, and I admire them for that. I just don't have it in me.).

Some of these serious thoughts have to do with:

Religion and Faith

Divisive politics

The Intersection of Religion and Politics

Why Rhett Doesn't Believe in Evolution

If I'm Going to Hell for Believing in Evolution (Rhett says yes! I am going to hell for believing in evolution! He also says he'll stop by with his five replacement wives to say hi [That's a bad Mormon joke, of course]. I only found out two days ago that we disagree on this issue. Obviously we should have gone to pre-marital counseling. This issue could destroy our happy home!)

Parenting (This is only on my mind because all my children are away at school today. If they were here I wouldn't have the leisure of self-reflection.)

Selflessness

Gender Roles in Developing Countries

There's more roiling around up there, but no wonder I can't get any laundry done. In the big scheme of things, what's my laundry? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Now I sound like a nihilist. Add that to the list.

2009-09-19T19:06:00.000-07:00

I'm trying to raise an independent, strong-minded, feisty girl over here (heavy on the feisty).

So on a feminist scale, how bad is it that she knows (and belts) all the words to "It's Raining Men"?

It's okay because the song objectifies men instead of women, right?

Right?

Tales from the AT Room

2009-09-17T11:12:00.000-07:00

When I was in elementary school, I qualified for a program called "Academically Talented" (the old 80s equivalent to the current Gifted and Talented program, wherein they pretend that if your child plays the saxophone well they could hypothetically be included in this program, but which in reality still functions in the exact same way as the old Academically Talented program did: you have to take a test to see how "smart" you are to get in). Back in those days, those of us who were "smart" enough to be in the pull-out program called it "AT", because even then we were hipsters with our own special language.

My brothers called it Animal Training (which AT could also stand for, get it?). I don't want to say they were motivated by jealousy, but . . .

The most awesome thing about this is that I almost got kicked out of AT in the fifth grade, because I couldn't remember to do the big projects we were supposed to do (this refrain would follow me throughout all my schooling years), and apparently when they named the class Academically Talented? What they really meant was Academically Responsible. After a rather serious meeting with my mother, Mrs. Bealls decided I could stay. But only if I made up that special project on ancient Egyptian makeup that I had failed to complete satisfactorily. Because, dammit, how was I supposed to become a well-informed, responsible, intelligent human being if I didn't know the ingredients used in ancient Egyptian cosmetics? It's still a quandary I wrestle with, let me tell you.

Anyway. My point is this: in sixth grade, one of our super-awesome, this-will-keep-you-engaged-in-schoolwork-so-you-don't-become-bored-and-act-out-project was to create a comic book that showed a new superhero dealing with a current social problem in a fresh and innovative way.

My superhero?

Prostitution Pam. She took on illegal prostitution while wearing a teal green miniskirt and fishnet stockings. Her teased and ratted hair and heavy rouge was just her way of letting the girls know she "got them"--she herself had gotten out of that racket years ago and had now dedicated her life to changing the shadowy world of prostitution. Her novel solution to this pressing social problem? Well, she passed out condoms like they were candy, as well as informing the girls of the counties in Nevada to which they should move. You know, counties where prostitution was legal.

And despite the fact that like most of my other AT projects, this one was completed almost entirely on the school bus on the morning it was due, I think it turned out very well. I think the teacher might have had another opinion, however. I got a 'C'. Maybe for chlamydia?

Insult to Injury

2009-09-01T08:57:00.000-07:00

We don't have cable. First, Rhett is too cheap to get cable, but also really? Like we can't waste enough time on our own? This means that when the big digital switchover came it totally doubled the number of channels we received. My kids previously only had PBSKids to watch, but now they have Qubo (?). The only drawback is that Qubo has commercials.

The other day I was flat-ironing my hair and Veevs said, "Why are you using that flat iron? It just crushes and burns your hair. You need the Instastyler--it locks moisture into your hair."

Right.

Bump-its (Bumpitz? Bumpits? Bump-itz? I clearly have not been paying enough attention!) have become kind of a family joke.

The other day Rhett said jokingly to me, "Hey, Heids, I saw they are selling Bump-its at the Wal-Mart now. I was going to pick you up some."

Spe asked, "Why does Mom want Bump-its?"

Veevs replied confidently, "Because she has flat hair, Spe."

Apparently I'm now lazy and flat-haired. What else is that girl thinking about me?

The One Bad Thing About School Starting . . .

2009-08-25T14:15:00.000-07:00

In my haste to kick my kids out of my house for a good portion of every day, I forgot the down side to releasing your children into the world.

Today Veevs came home and we sat at the table eating a cookie together, talking about her day. I noticed her fingernails were getting long. Okay, actually not getting long. They were like already Elvira long. I'd like to blame this motherly oversight on pregnancy but let's be honest: how much can I get away with here in the pregnancy-blame department? I've probably used up my quota.

Anyway, I said, "Wow, sis, we really need to cut those nails."

She said, "I know. Someone asked me today how come I get to keep my nails so long."

"Did you tell them it's because your mom is neglectful?" I asked.

She swallowed her cookie and shook her head. "No. I told them you were too lazy." You guys. She was serious.

I laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed. Because what else do you do when the truth about your lackadaisical parenting is broadcast out loud like that?

In my defense, the cookies were homemade.

It sounds good, but . . .

2009-07-28T15:13:00.000-07:00

I just read another blog somewhere wherein the author made a lovely list of things she wanted to do in the course of her life.

For the most part, I was nodding along: yes, yes, I would love to visit Australia, too, yes, yes, I agree . . . and then I read this one:

Make my home the kind of place where everyone else's kids want to hang out.

What? Honey? Do you know how crazy that is? I have a hard enough time keeping it together with just the three who I actually have some semblance of control over hanging around here, underfoot, always asking for food, or snacks, or spilling drinks, or whatever. And you seriously, seriously want to increase that to include all your kids' friends?

I'm just saying, I think I would rather die. I'm not saying I don't want my kids' friends to come over. But seriously, I would rather have my house be the place where just my kids want to hang out all the time.

Because I'm mean and antisocial like that.

Things Are Looking Up

2009-07-27T22:17:00.000-07:00

You know, I have to say, life is looking much, much rosier around here. There are one hundred reasons why I shouldn't say that (Hello, summer. I hate you after two weeks. I hope fall, most specifically school's opening, comes soon.) but I'm feeling so much better. Finally.

I'm sure that during my absence you would think I stored up all sorts of little gems to write about, but no, I'm sitting here just as clueless about what the real topic of this post will be as I always am. So I'll give into random blathering in the usual fashion. My literary standards are very high.

Right this instant, I'm a little ticked about something someone said to me, so Rhett is trying to help me feel better by playing me an entire playlist of music full of revenge and hateful feelings. He has gone to this extreme because when I first told him about what happened, he tried to convince me I was being too sensitive and that it didn't matter. Of course, this is true, and this is the conclusion I will come to within a half an hour, but for half an hour, I'd really like him to join in my indignation. So after I told him he sucked at being sympathetic, he played me "I Hate Everything About You" by Ugly Kid Joe, "Stupid Girl" by Garbage and Carrie Underwood's "Before He Cheats" (which has nothing to do with the incident but which was accompanied by a suggestion that we go key this person's car). He also tried to play me some song by a heavy metal band, but I couldn't understand what they were saying, so he gave up in exasperation. Rhett clearly has a difficult time with moderation. It's all extremes or nothing. Thank goodness this marriage has me to keep us on an even keel. I don't want to say I'm Rhett's emotional rock, but . . .

Clearly, next time this happens, I will know to call one of my girl friends or one of my sisters, instead of telling Rhett about it.

I cannot, for the life of me, find my wallet. It is somewhere in my house, and I even have a vague, hazy memory of seeing it someplace weird and thinking Wow, I'll have to remember where that is or that could end in disaster, but now of course, I can't remember where that weird place is and so I'm driving illegally and stiffing my babysitters with the promise of future payment. They love it.

I keep sending my kids out to collect our chickens' eggs (because I think I have mentioned before that I am scared of our chickens, since they like to peck human beings). Don't think I'm being careless with my kids' safety, though. I equip each of them with a plastic cup to throw at the chickens in case they attack. It's the same system I use when I'm forced to go out myself, and trust me, it works. But then, of course, my yard gets littered with plastic cups and we don't have anything to drink out of. I think it's a small price to pay for safe passage.

Well, this is a most glorious return to blogging. One of my students emailed me recently and we talked about how all this technology allows us to think that our mundane thoughts are important enough for the world to hear about, and boy, Justin, is this post a fabulous example of that or what?

Anyone else have any world-shattering mundane thoughts they would like to share?

Why Rhett Can't Win

2009-06-24T13:16:00.000-07:00

Rhett has it bad these days.

I am not a suffer-in-silence kind of person. (You knew this already, yes?) I am really a complain--moan-whine-and-then-blame-it-on-the-person-who-donated-half-the-genetic-material kind of person. Because it just seems so UNFAIR that he feels nothing (except for my wrath, of course) for nine months whilst I deal with nausea, sharp, stabbing abdominal pain and exhaustion. And then he kind of wants to hold the baby at the end of my misery. Mitts off, little man, you did NOTHING!

Anyway, some days Rhett just ignores me (this makes me more crazy). Other days he tries to sympathize without actually having idea what I'm going through (my male OB/GYN makes this same mistake, and it's not just annoying--it's condescending).

A few days ago I said something like this: "I hate being pregnant! I HATE IT! I HATE IT! I HATE IT!" Because I've told you I'm trying to be more positive about life these days, right? I know this kind of attitude is really annoying to people who can't get pregnant, and I'm so sorry. But I'm still allowed to feel how I feel, and what I feel right now is miserable.

He responded, "You know, maybe if you want more kids after this, we should think about adoption."

What he meant for me to hear from this was that he loves me so much that he doesn't want me to have to suffer through pregnancy anymore.

What I heard, of course, was that I'm such a miserable human being when I'm pregnant that there is no way in HELL he is going to endure this one more time.

And then he said, "And then maybe we could adopt a little Hispanic baby because they have such beautiful black hair and are so cute."

And then I said, "What, because the babies I make aren't cute enough for you?"

Poor Rhett. He just can't win.

What? I Have A Blog?

2009-06-23T14:32:00.000-07:00

It's been so long since I've posted that I actually forgot my username and password for Blogger, which is surely a sign that I'm a loser of a special kind (especially since I use the same variations of the same usernames and passwords for almost everything).

As always (or not), I've got a great excuse for not posting: the nastiest, most vile first trimester of pregnancy. It's not that I couldn't post because I am too physically ill, but instead, all I've felt like doing is complaining. And really, do you want to hear about how much I hate being pregnant? Do you really want to hear about how big I'm getting?

I know I should be writing down these beautiful milestones of pregnancy for posterity and to treasure up in my heart in later years, but this is my fourth pregnancy, people. The wonders of my expanding waistline and shrinking bladder are just not as amusing this time around. (Were they ever amusing? Really?)

So anyway. On the bright side, we invested in a four-CD disco set and I don't care what people say: I LOVE DISCO!

On Wishing

2009-05-23T18:12:00.000-07:00

Remember my one wish? The one about having confidence about this really being Rhett's last degree?

Today he told me that the thought he would probably, at some point, you know, when the time is right, go for a degree in employment law, because, you know, it just seems like a natural progression for his career.

I didn't tell him that because of all the schooling he's done, he doesn't really have a career at this point.

Because one wish dying (MINE)? That's surely enough for today.

What I Wish

2009-05-14T20:01:00.001-07:00

I wish I had posted recently so that the blogging guilt cloud would stop raining on my parade.

I wish I had confidence that this really, really, really is Rhett's last degree.

I wish I didn't have to threaten my kids with extra chores to make them listen to me. But I do, and it works, so now I'll write a book advising all the other mothers in the world how to use my crap philosophy on raising obedient children and then I will sign your copy of my book for you, because even amidst all that fame, deep down, I'm still just Jenny from the block. Or Heidi. Whatever.

I wish some of my favorite authors weren't dead.

I wish I weren't so tired tonight. How was it possible that I used to stay up past midnight every night when I was in college? Seriously, how was that even physiologically possible? (Was that too hyperbolic? It was, wasn't it?)

I wish I slept so deeply I didn't wake up to snoring. This would make it possible for my husband and I to sleep together in blissful peace every night. Or, alternately, I wish my husband didn't snore. Yeah. It's his fault.

I wish I had a child old enough to load the dishwasher. Seriously, grow up, kids. Mom's got some chores with your names all over them.

I'm Back . . .

2009-05-06T07:19:00.001-07:00

I'm back. I survived my trip to the land of alligators (but not without several panic attacks). We had a wonderful time. I got sunburned, because hey, when you expose your bare legs for the first time in a year, you're bound to get a little crisp.

I'll write more later. Unfortunately, these bags don't unpack themselves.

Here with Heidi (figuratively) OR Keeping Kenny Away (literally)

2009-04-25T09:57:00.001-07:00

So Heidi left with the kids for the week to head to the fun and sun of oceanfront property. Again, I’m not joining them for beach fun and sun due to work and school commitments. No, no—I will not accept your pity because sometimes it’s nice to work until 8pm and not feel that nagging sense of needing to get home to spend time with your family. It makes it easy when your family doesn’t want to spend time with you.

I’m going to let you in on some little gems from living with Heidi day-to-day. I know Heidi is trying to run a family show on this blog, but she’s not here anymore. If this blog post were a TV show, it would have a rating of HYTGTBE for “Hell yes there’s going to be expletives!” and PKRSC for “Possible Kenny Rogers sexual content” and OSYWC for “Obama says ‘Yes we can!’ ”. If you are offended by expletives, talk of possible sexual conduct, or Obama, then go to Hell!

Let’s discuss Kenny Rogers......although I know that Heidi loves me dearly because I’m such a wonderful husband, I also know that Kenny Rogers is the only man that Heidi would leave me for. In fact, every day when I arrive home from work, I put my keys in the lock in the front door and try to jiggle the keys just enough for fair warning to produce the, “Hey, I’ve got my key in the lock and I’m coming inside in a split second so Heidi if you are in here in the heat of passion with Kenny you better cover up or run away naked” noise. You can imagine my relief when I walk in and find Heidi sitting alone, reading quietly, on the couch, without Kenny—no passion, no infidelity, no home wrecking. Upon finding Heidi not in the heat of passion with Kenny, I can immediately wipe away the moist beads of sweat forming on my brow with relief and thank God for another successful day keeping Kenny away.

Let’s discuss the, “It’s upstairs”……..Come on Heidi! We’ve been married long enough that if you don’t know where something is located, then just say it. I’m certain that every misplaced child or possession that we own is not upstairs. I bought this crap for the first couple of years but now I know that you are just feeding me a line. For the sake of all that is holy and dear, if you’ve lost something, then just say it. Let us practice—“It’s lost!” There—that wasn’t too bad was it? One more time now, all together—“My wedding ring is lost!” See that wasn’t too difficult was it? One last time because good things come in threes (like the trinity or the Back to the Future trilogy or the number of dollars in our checking account)—“My cell phone is lost!” I feel better already, don’t you?

And last but certainly not least by any statistically significant measure (gotta love the p-value. Wait, maybe it’s the f-value? Both maybe?……I was never very good at statistics anyway)…

Let’s discuss you Piles…..oops! Sorry Heidi—I let your little secret slip!!! I know that this might be a little embarrassing for you, and not the best forum to reveal this little secret, but I figure that there might be others who are suffering with the same issues. It’s not easy to discuss such a private matter in public, but it’s not right to have to suffer with hemorrhoids alone either. I’m not talking about hemorrhoids people, but the little piles of stuff or junk or garbage or clothes or kids that Heidi loves to leave lying around the house. In fact, I’ve spent the better part of this morning de-piling. Much like Preparation H Cream sooths real rhoids, I am the balm for Heidi’s piles. I don’t know how all these little landmines pop up but it is really starting to make me uncomfortable and sweaty….I don’t want to talk about it anymore.

Despite these little (and by little I mean major) idiosyncrasies, I’m still here with Heidi. In fact, we recently celebrated our nine-year wedding anniversary. What did we do to celebrate you ask? Olive Garden? The Cheesecake Factory? Oh, no—much too romantic and clearly not expensive enough considering the $3 in our checking account. To celebrate properly I sat at home, alone, on the couch, in my underwear, watching PBS. Where was Heidi you ask? Heidi had class that night and was on campus until late. She did however bring me home a new 3-piece set of anniversary luggage! Who knew that the nine-year anniversary is the luggage anniversary? I can’t wait for the thirteenth-year anniversary when I’ll get new tires on my car! Oh, wait—the new-tires-on-car anniversary is actually the first-year anniversary—sorry Heidi! However, I digress……

Despite these little (and by little I mean major) character flaws, I still love Heidi. After nine years of marriage it is clear to me, now more than ever before, that I love Heidi because of these character traits. They are not simply endearing quirks but represent who Heidi is—and I love who Heidi is. As our lives become more and more connected and intertwined, I can’t think of anyone who I would rather be with (go to Hell Kenny!). Heidi is a strong, dynamic, and intelligent woman who has much to offer those around her and especially me. I have been fortunate to participate in her kindness, grace, humor, and lack of humility when it comes to her profession—I think you’re the best damn teacher as well Heidi! You don’t have to keep telling me—I agree with you! Heidi, I don’t care that you twice tried to break my neck a week ago—first by sitting on me and wrenching my head back—and then by karate chopping my windpipe when I wasn’t looking. I’m still here loving you, vacuuming around your piles, and waiting for your return from the beach. Please don’t let our children drown in the ocean.

Going, going, gone

2009-04-23T07:17:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the blog neglect, but get used it, because I'm leaving town for like two weeks.

If the stars align, maybe Rhett will guest post again. Because that was awesome, wasn't it?

On Romance

2009-04-13T18:21:00.000-07:00

For Julie, with whom I go way back. We taught at PG High School together, she in a urine-smelling trailer, and me in a hallway that reeked of guano. She always makes me laugh.

Julie had three choices for a topical blog and her choices were: On Romance, On Lost (the TV show), and On the OctoMom. On Lost (the TV show), I have to say the title perfectly describes how I feel when I watch. I only started watching halfway through this season, and I don't get anything that's going on, but yet I'm still strangely fascinated by it. So, I'm not that qualified to discuss. On the OctoMom, I've stayed out of this melee (surprising when you consider the kind of power I yield to change the situation, I know). Should she have had eight babies? No, probably not. But she did. Is she crazy? Yes, probably. But I'll leave the judgement call to the authorities.

So that brings me to the topic that I chose to really address: ROMANCE!

You might wonder about my qualifications, and I have to say, I understand your concerns. But you guys, you must have forgotten that I'm one of the founders of the Tingling Touches club. So I'm totally over-qualified.

Here's the thing about romance. There are all sorts of definitions, and when I talk about romance (in italics) I'm talking about what I consider a (basically false) idea that a man has to treat a woman in a ridiculous way to show how much he loves her. Historically, this has taken several forms:

1. Kissing every stone step the woman walks on directly after verbally reprimanding her so that she flees in tears (The Scarlet Pimpernel).

2. Don't get me started on Wuthering Heights. That's all I'm going to say about that.

3. Also, if you are really romantic (historically), you might want to act like you totally hate the girl and her family, while secretly falling in love with her. And hey, make sure that disdain shows when you propose against your better sense (Pride and Prejudice).

Then there's the modern romance literature, by which of course, I mean this:

In this genre, a romantic man seems to generally be moody, mysterious, and has a strong tendency to walk around with no shirt (or worse) on. But in the end? All those rude comments he made? All the times that he seemed to snub the heroine? They actually were demonstrations of love. He had to act that way so that he didn't crush her in his arms. And those times that he did crush her in his arms? Weakness, for which he is sorry. Because he should stay away from her because she has a bright future ahead of her/has lost her memory/deserves someone better than him/has gonorrhea. I'm just kidding about that last one. I just threw it in for Rhett, who's fascinated by STDs.

My point here is this: Romance, in italics, is ridiculous.

Because for me, the real romance of our marriage occurs when things are tough. It occurs when we choose to support each other when we don't really want to. It occurred when Rhett took such tender care of me after the birth of my babies. It occurs when he calls me from work to see how I'm doing. It occurs when we forgive each other for the stupid things we do when it would be easier to stay mad.

So, romance? Eh, not so much. But real romance? I'm such a fan.

Oh, who am I kidding? I love me a romantic story as much as the next person. But let's pretend I'm not that shallow, okay?

My Newest, Cleverest, Interactive Idea

2009-04-10T12:22:00.000-07:00

So, here's what I'm thinking. I'm thinking it's time for you to be a little more interactive with the content of this blog.

So, you know my ongoing series of topical blogs? What? You didn't know I had an ongoing series of topical blogs? Well, actually neither did I, but then I noticed that when I'm lazy I just title a blog "On _________," and it's turned out pretty awesome. For example, this series includes On Chickens, On Rain, and of course the previous post, On Barbie.

Maybe it's not exactly awesome, but it's all I've got, people. So here's what I'm thinking: in the comment section give me your top three choices for the next "On ______" blog that I should write. I plan on doing a bunch of these, because really, have you seen my life? Not exactly rich writing material these days.

Here's what you'll get in return: I will visit your blog and comment! (I know I'm not so good at that lately) And I will write honestly about my opinion/experience with your topic and I'll link to you at the beginning/end of the post. So make 'em good, okay? The prizes available here rival any giveaway I've seen anywhere. Right?

Does that sound super bossy, or what? Well, now you know how Rhett feels.

On Barbie

2009-04-08T07:58:00.000-07:00

Most people think I would be opposed to letting my daughter have a Barbie (because apparently, in this blog I come across as a raving-borderline-bra-burning-feminist). But, I'm not opposed to my daughter having a Barbie, because you know me. I look at all this stuff as just another opportunity to have deep, meaningful conversations about society's unrealistic expectations for women and their bodies.

Veevs has actually never asked for a Barbie. When we went to the store to pick out her toy that she "earned" for completing her good girl sticker chart, I held my breath as we went down the Barbie aisle. She paused for a minute in front of Pediatrician-who-apparently-practices-medicine-on-the-beach-because-look-at-that-killer-tan-Barbie.

"You can pick that if you want." I said off-handedly. Because secretly, I was only glad it wasn't Cheerleader-who-got-a-boob-job-in-high-school-Barbie.

She picked Littlest Pet Shop Hamster Wheel of Death instead.

But you guys, I have great memories of playing Barbie. And sure, my Barbie was a little bit slutty, passing out her phone number to random men on the street and going on three dates a night with different men. For someone who did this every night, she didn't have a very good grasp on logistics. She got caught every time. See, sluttiness doesn't pay off. Even then I knew it.

I had two Barbie-playing phases. When I was little, I played Barbie with my older sisters, Ginnie and Heather. Back then my Barbie was a secretary named Linda by profession, and she liked to go to the disco and do fantastic splits.

But then when I got a little older (okay, thirteen) I was playing Barbies with my two younger brothers, Dan and Josh (and while I can't imagine them having any problem whatsoever with my outting their Barbie habit in this forum, maybe I should apologize in advance?), and my two younger sisters, Lindsey and Courtney. It was during this time that my Barbie, now named Trixie, became such a slut.

But compared to everyone else, my Barbie was living the conservative Christian lifestyle. My brother Dan commandeered the old Barbie-sized GI Joe (remember those?), who would accost the girl Barbies constantly. He was always drunk, and he always thought every girl Barbie wanted to be with him. Trixie hated how he would always follow her around when she went jogging.

Josh, on the other hand, created Deedee. She was an old Barbie whose glam hair had been cut off into a flat top. She wore Rocker Ken's jumpsuit with an elastic around the waist to accentuate her tiny waist. She had an annoying desire to move in with Trixie. Also, she tried to steal Trixie's boyfriends, and if you think that's appropriate Barbie behavior, then you've obviously played Barbies before. Deedee was a stalker, and worse! she always tried to borrow all of the other Barbies' outfits. If you did loan her a dress, she would find some way to make it tacky. We all hated Deedee.

See? Why wouldn't I want my daughter to play with Barbies? I can't imagine there's anything unhealthy in that kind of creative play, can you? Guess who's getting a Barbie for Christmas!

The Loveliest Thing

2009-04-06T22:45:00.000-07:00

I don't cry very often anymore. I mean, sure, I was a passionate, moody, stormy adolescent and I cried all the time as a teenager. Usually when I cried then, I did it in the bathroom looking at myself sadly in the mirror, because the tears really made my eyes pop. I believe I thought I actually was prettier when I was crying than any other way, which is probably good, since a good 70% of my adolescence was probably spent crying in the bathroom. Nothing like a little self-esteem!

But these days, I just don't see much to cry about. My laundry pile will still be just as big whether I cry about it or not. My dishes still have to be done whether I cry about it or not. I just don't have the energy to give to a good cry.

But today I went and took my kids to McDonald's because our McDonald's has kids' meals for a dollar on Monday nights, and hey, why not? (Don't mention childhood obesity, or the inhumane slaughtering of cattle or anything, please)

The line around the McDonald's was forever long, you have to circle around and then come at it from the right angle. A lady pulled in from the other direction and I let her in ahead of me, which was no big deal, because our McDonald's is an assembly line and they move us through fast.

So I order my kids' meals and pull forward to the first window and hold out my card to pay.

"I don't need that," the guy says, "The lady in front of you just paid for you. She said to thank you for letting her in."

And just like that, I was in tears. How simply lovely.

I felt kinder all day.

Talk About Overwhelming

2009-04-04T13:48:00.000-07:00

Wow. You guys really hate Kid Rock.

I understand, really I do. That's why I called him "strangely attractive".

I imagine it's the same feeling that Julia Roberts had about Lyle Lovett.

Except, of course, I would never actually marry Kid Rock.

But that's mostly out of respect to my soulmate, Pammy.

Can You Settle This for Me?

2009-04-01T17:42:00.000-07:00

Rhett and I have a small disagreement.

I find Kid Rock strangely attractive.

Rhett thinks I'm crazy.

With whom do you side?

What I THOUGHT I Taught My Kids

2009-03-27T19:03:00.000-07:00

For the most part I think I work pretty hard to teach my kids good things. You know, they say "pardon" when they let it rip, they (usually) say thank you if you do something nice for them, and they believe we are all family in God's eyes (Veevs loves to remind me that in God's family I'm just her sister, not her mommy.)

But every once in a while they do things that make me wonder if I have actually been raising them in a barn without somehow knowing it.

Last week we went to Spe's soccer game. He loves soccer, and has started throwing elbows to keep the other kids away from the ball. Anyway, at the end of the game, Rhett and I were chasing our other kids (oh, fine, I was talking to some of the other moms) when we realized Spe was gone. I assumed he was in the video arcade, but no.

You guys.

He was just outside of the front door. Peeing. On the ground. Shamelessly peeing in full view of, well, just about anyone.

WHA? Imagine our deep shame when the front desk guy at the soccer club was all like, "Hey, is this your kid? Because he was outside taking a whiz."

Imagine, too, my embarrassment when we had to walk past the still visible puddle of urine on our way out.

Obviously, we've still got some work to do.

Am I Weird?

2009-03-25T17:27:00.000-07:00

I don't want to implant negative thoughts in your head about me (hey, too late, Heids--should've thought about that about 240 posts ago), but lately I think I might be weird (lately? What's taken so long?). And also that I might overuse parenthetical expressions (this one's just for illustrative purposes).

A few things:

My favorite piece of punctuation is the semi-colon. All that sentence-connecting power in one little symbol gets me a little excited. Should any sane person even have a favorite piece of punctuation?

I went to my friend's house who just had surgery and had to sit down because I saw some bloody gauze. I got all light-headed and woozy. Obviously, I'm still regretting the fact that I chose teaching over nursing.

I can't seem to stop singing the soundtrack to Magic Tree House: The Musical--and I don't want to brag but I switch back and forth between the man's part and the woman's part with great skill. I mean, if staying on tune isn't really important, of course.

I have a lot more to say, but I'm getting a migraine, and I promised myself that I would post tonight. Must. Pound. Caffeine. Pills. Immediately.

But really, weird, right?

Try Waking Your Spouse Up This Way

2009-03-19T19:56:00.000-07:00

Every summer, my mom would pack all eight of us in the Suburban and drive us to Utah to visit her family. The drive was about six or seven hours, and we generally covered all the luggage with sleeping bags and slept for at least four hours.

Except for when we didn't and then we fought like feral cats.

One time my little sister Lindsey was asleep and everyone else was awake. So my brother Josh started stroking her face gently with his fingertips.

In a falsetto voice, he said, "Child. Sweet, prophetic child. You're in heaven now."

Because his goal here was to convince her that she had died and gone to heaven.

"Shut up, Josh!"

Apparently, she wasn't convinced.

Either that, or she thought Jesus wouldn't mind that kind of talk in heaven.

Breaking Silence

2009-03-18T20:33:00.001-07:00

Hey! Long break, right? I know I should have a good excuse like pregnancy or divorce or menopause, but I don't. Wait. Is laziness a good excuse? Because if it is, that's my excuse. For everything.

While I was gone, did anybody do anything awesome?

Here's what I did:

Laundry
Dishes
Crafts with kids (Oh, you guys, I have budding artists! If you saw what my kids can do with cupcake liners, you'd be SOOOO jealous. You get the sarcasm, right?)
Nap
Girls' Retreat to Las Vegas with my sisters
Doctor Appointments

Jakers broke his leg today? yesterday? a week ago? It's hard to pinpoint the exact moment, but the splint went on today. I'm sure CPS will be calling any time. The doctor looked at me a little funny when I couldn't tell him how it happened. In my defense, it's a teeny tiny fracture.

Rhett chipped his front tooth and he now looks like his name should be Abner. Either that or Jeb. Also, maybe we should plant corn in the backyard and leave a car in the front yard to rot. But don't think I don't find him as attractive as the day I married him, because man, what's not to love about jagged teeth?

Veevs announced that she would like to have a birthday party themed entirely around unicorns. Unicorns that fly and are purple. And then I puked (but not in a pregnancy way).

Spe announced that he would no longer like to wear any kind of underwear, whatsoever. I purposely misunderstood and said that I would buy him a larger size since he is feeling uncomfortable in his current underwear. He insists it's commando or nothing. Wait, that's the same thing, isn't it? Commando? Nothing? Get it?

Wow. I bet you thought I saved up all this great material for my triumphant return to blogging, didn't you? Were you wrong or what! I'm still dishing out the kind of subpar family crap that I'm famous for! Or not famous for, at all, in any way.

Anyway. What's new with you?

Break

2009-02-25T10:38:00.000-08:00

I'm taking a little blog break. I almost said "well-deserved" there, but that's pushing the realms of believability, even for me.

So, I'm on break for like a week. Email me if you are just dying to keep the ties that bind us together in place.

The Sell Pile

2009-02-15T19:11:00.000-08:00

We're doing a little bit of pre-Spring cleaning around here. Veevs was in cleaning her room, which is always an adventure, and I could hear her making piles.

"Keep. Keep. Keep. Keep. Keep. Keep. Keep. Sell. Keep. Keep. Keep. Keep."

After I was done with what I was doing, I went in to check on her.

"So, where's this sell pile I heard about?" I asked her.

She pointed proudly to a pile on her dresser.

I kid you not, this is what was in it: two cardboard wrappers to ballet tights, two blank shopping lists, and a little scrap of paper with a hole in it.

"I thought people might want that to look through like a peephole," she explains.

She started crying when I suggested that her "sell pile" could also be a "garbage pile".

"Mom," she sniffs sadly, "you always say my treasures are junk."

Yes, yes, I do.

Sprechen Sie Deutsch?

2009-02-13T12:36:00.000-08:00

Spe and I were discussing the Berlin Wall this morning. I explained how it was a wall that had been built to keep people from being free. He looked at me and said, "That's really bad." I agreed and told him that when I was a little girl (sort of) the Berlin Wall got taken down and people were allowed to be free again. He grinned really big and said, "And then you escaped to Texas!" Apparently I have all the markings of an East Berlin refugee.

I knew my three years of high school German would pay off some day.

2009-02-07T19:28:00.000-08:00

Well, hello there, little blog. Are you feeling neglected? Join the club, honey. Get in line.

Get in line behind Spe and Veevs who both need decorated! beautiful! romantic! Valentine's boxes for class this week.

Get behind Jakers who wants me to build the most fabulous Geotrax train track ever, complete with overpasses, tunnels, and straightaways.

Get behind Rhett, who for some reason, thinks that he needs to eat every night.

So, unfortunately, little blog, you're probably not going to get my undivided attention this week. Next week, maybe?

Restart

2009-02-02T18:50:00.001-08:00

I've started this post about twenty times, but I just don't have anything to say. You want to hear about my kids' eye colds? Yeah, me neither.

You want to hear about how I'm watching The Bachelor, Rhett's favorite show, without him? Yeah, it's not that thrilling. He'll be disappointed because there aren't any totally crazy ladies left. Oh, wait--the hometown dates next week do look awesome! Unexpected craziness!

You want to hear about what I did today? Let's see, I did laundry. I played games with my kids. I did the dishes. I made dinner. I read books to my kids and sent them to bed at 7:00.

You guys, I live a glamorous life. Don't be jealous.

Take That, Crappy Disney Princess Franchise

2009-01-28T16:53:00.001-08:00

I've got all sorts of conflicted feelings about raising an emotionally healthy daughter, which feelings generally lead to situations like this one, where I try to convince Veevs the Disney princesses aren't God's gift to womanhood, or thi s one, where I try to help her see the problematic gender portrayal in Swiss Family Robinson. Thank heavens for Disney, or we might never have anything to discuss.

The other day Veevs said, "Mom, I think I'm fat."

I say carefully, "Really? Is that a problem?"

She sighs and says, "I don't want to be fat, Mom."

And insert here the crazy diatribe wherein I talk ad nauseum about how society tries to tell women that they have to look a certain way to be happy or to fall in love or whatever, but that it's just not true.

And then insert here the look that Veevs gives me whenever I go off in the above manner. Oh, fine it looks like this:

So then I conclude by totally undercutting my whole message. "And plus, Veevs, you're not fat."

She perks right up. "I'm not? I thought I was." And then she pranced off, probably to dress up as Jasmine, since she knows she has the belly to pull it off now.

Anyway. I'm not going to lie. Sometimes I despair that anything I say is getting in past the Disney media filter. Although, obviously not enough to stop showing her the Disney media. You guys, I have to nap.

So today I was getting her ready for dance class. "Mom," she said, "Last week Hannah kept following me around and trying to do the dance exactly like I was doing."

I wasn't fully focused on what she was saying because I was trying to hike those pink tights up so she didn't get those bunches around her ankles. There's nothing worse than a bunchy-ankled ballerina.

"Uh-huh." I said, "So what did you do?"

"Well, I told her, I said, 'Hannah, you don't have to try to be like me. You can be your own kind of beautiful.'" She wriggles around a little bit, because I have accidentally wedged those pink tights between her butt cheeks.

I smile at her. I've only told her this about fifteen times.

Now that is my girl.

Rhett's Birthday

2009-01-26T17:55:00.000-08:00

The kids have been trying to figure out the perfect way to celebrate Rhett's birthday. They are trying to get Rhett to relive his last birthday, where I convinced him to celebrate it as a family at Chuck E. Cheese.

Rhett, on the other hand, is not amused.

Spe came downstairs today and said, "I want to go to Chuck E. Cheese."

I said, "Well, Dad said we can go in a couple of weeks on his day off. We're just going to go somewhere else for his birthday."

Spe said, "Chuck E. Cheese sucks. But I like it."

I'm pretty sure Rhett has something to do with that . . .

The Flibbertigibbet

2009-01-24T17:10:00.000-08:00

I've suspected it before, but now I'm sure. I'm totally a flibbertigibbet. I've resisted this label previously out of a healthy respect for the practical, sensible heroines of Louisa May Alcott, whose books I read when I was younger until the pages fell out. I was properly shocked when Tom got engaged to that fast Trixie in An Old-Fashioned Girl. She might as well have been a whore, compared to angelic Polly. She was, well, a flibbertigibbet. She even painted, and I'm not talking about beautiful paintings. I'm talking about her face. Shocking. I rejoiced with the rest of Alcott's readership when Trix dumped Tom and he was free to realize that sweet, pragmatic Polly was his one true love. I kind of thought, "Hey, I'm more like Polly than Trixie."

Except, my true nature prevailed. I'm a flibbertigibbet. I just don't have the brain for responsibility. I volunteer at Veev's school every other Monday. I mean, I'm scheduled to volunteer. I've actually only ever done it twice. I keep forgetting.

Through my church, I have two ladies who come to visit me every month. I mean, they're scheduled to visit me. Actually, I've stood them up twice in the last three months. I keep forgetting.

I've been like this my whole life. I just can't keep things in my head. I can already hear you saying, "Trix, I mean, Heidi, seriously, you just need to write stuff down on a calendar." I already do. The problem is I forget to look at my calendar.

So whatever. I'm a flibbertigibbet. Thanks to F. Scott Fitzgerald it's not the curse it once was. I mean, who doesn't admire and love Daisy from The Great Gatsby? Hey, wait. Don't answer that.

And seriously, if you want to set an appointment with me? Let's make it at a restaurant. Some things I make a point not to forget.

What You Do When You Are Lazy . . .

2009-01-21T18:57:00.000-08:00

You know, I'm kind of feeling lazy. So please, please, please, enjoy this reprinted patriotic post in honor of our newest presidential inauguration. I don't want to brag, but I'm pretty sure people have cried from the beauty of my patriotic past. I'm just saying.

It's come to my attention that my last post on patriotism (sort of) caused no feelings of inspiration whatsoever. I can't imagine why. What could be more patriotic than "Freedom's Pitter-Patter"? (And yes, I'll work on getting a clip of it for you. It will change your life.)

To right this travesty against patriotic people everywhere, I'll pull another inspiring story from my own life that is related to Our Country's Great Heritage. What could be more representative of Our Great Heritage than the monument that spans an entire mountain? You know, the one that singlehandedly brings more people to South Dakota each year than the number of people who actually live in South Dakota.

Yes, I'm talking about Mt. Rushmore. I have always loved this monument for several reasons:

1) It's so American to have a monument that is made out of a mountain. I love the hubris of the whole deal.

2) Who doesn't love a monument that is dedicated to George Washington (the father of our nation), Thomas Jefferson (the primary author of the Declaration of Independence), Abraham Lincoln (who freed the slaves and kept the Union together), and Teddy Roosevelt (who is primarily famous for taking a staid name like Theodore and making it cute by shortening it to 'Teddy'. Oh, and the teddy bear is named after him. Why is he on the monument, anyway?)? What's not to love?

3) Until I was in the EIGHTH GRADE, I believed the sculptor of this monument was GOD.

I really believed God loved these presidents (and yes, even then I was confused as to why he loved Teddy, but whatever. Some things you just have to take on faith.), and made the wind sculpt their faces on to the mountains.

Imagine my deep disappointment when I took US History in the eighth grade and stumbled across a picture like the following in my textbook:

The sculpting of Mt. Rushmore involved blasting dynamite, followed by the process of honeycombing.
(Yeah, I don't know what that means, either.)

WHA? That certainly wasn't how I pictured God. Did this mean God didn't love those Presidents? Did this mean God didn't care how the teddy bear got its name? Did this mean he loved the people in Holland as much as he loved the people in America? How could that be? Did this mean God didn't love me enough to let the Holy Spirit whisper in my ear (before I made a fool of myself in JUNIOR HIGH) that maybe, just maybe, there had been some other force (like dynamite, for example) at work here beside divine providence?

Shattered that day: Faith. Patriotism. Self-esteem. (Because, really, only an idiot wouldn't have figured that out on their own.)

But don't worry. I rebounded quickly.

The Best Thing About This Card

2009-01-20T07:19:00.000-08:00

We went to my parents' house in Vegas for Christmas, which was fabulous, as I think I've mentioned. Because, you know, I could neglect my kids without actually endangering them. Sweet freedom.

A few days after Christmas, my dad brought in a Christmas card that he'd just pulled out of the mail. It's one that we wait for every year, because this family really takes their Christmas cards seriously. I'm sure you know what I'm talking about. There are six kids in the family, with an overachiever set of parents, and so the whole card is all about how awesome their two-year-old is for learning to read, and how studly their fourteen-year-old is because he plays three! sports! and he's great! at all of them! Also, their twelve-year-old has been asked to join their city's professional ballet corps. Every child has an amazing accomplishment, and don't get me started on the parents. Mom has written a book this past year, started a doctoral degree, teaches at the university, and has nurtured her children waaaaaay better than you and I. Plus, all of this was presented in verse. Seriously, awesome.

My dad, after reading it and passing it around for all of our enjoyment (see, now you know where I get this mean streak from) raised one eyebrow and said, "You know what the best thing about this card is?"

"The awful rhymed verse?" I guessed.

"Nope." He grinned. "The best thing about this card is that it got here four days late."

Sometimes my dad just puts everything in perspective.

Something Cleverish

2009-01-16T13:54:00.000-08:00

You know, when Nie's plane crashed and cjane started writing all those beautiful, reflective blogs about her sister, her sister's family, and the experiences that their families were sharing, I was so enthralled by the story. I didn't blog about it, primarily because so many of my blogging friends did such an excellent job blogging about it that I felt anything I had to say was just, you know, redundant.

But also I didn't want to write about it because I had such a strong, terrifying sense that it could have been me. I mean, of course, my husband doesn't fly, and of course, I'm not on Nie's sphere of homemaking (What? You mean I'm supposed to make a big deal about the first day of school? Damn.), but still, it brought home the tenuous nature of life (hang on, I might have some Nietzsche to drop on you here in a minute, as well) and quite frankly, that's something that's better for me not to reflect too deeply about.

Anyway, the point is that Sue (whom, as you know, I have an unrequited girl crush on), actually did something about Nie's plight, whereas I didn't even blog about it. So imagine how honored I feel to be included in Sue's fundraising book for Nie Nie. Click on the link above and buy it. It's for a good cause, and it has some of the funniest bloggers in Mormon blogdom included.

It's Time

2009-01-15T17:35:00.000-08:00

I just came home from the store and I hand Spe a box of bum wipes (you know, the FLUSHABLE kind) and say, "Hey, it's time for you to learn to wipe your own bum after you poop."

He looks at me with a grin. He likes this kind of independence.

I immediately add, "Dad is going to teach you. Take this to Dad."

Rhett looks at me strangely.

I wave my hand dismissively, "I have work to do on the computer."

Thank goodness no one mentioned that I don't actually have a paying job. Sometimes the joys of motherhood are payment enough, I guess.

On Chickens

2009-01-13T10:46:00.000-08:00

You know, I kind of thought it was a great idea to get chickens. I had them as pets growing up (thanks to a third-grade hatching program) and I loved them. What's not to love about a pet that also produces something edible?

I'm not thinking it's so great anymore. The problems are these:

1) Chickens, while not birds capable of flight, are birds capable of half-flight. This half-flight is just enough to allow them to clear my fence. It's awesome to constantly be shooing your chickens back in to your yard.

2) I clearly did not remember how large chicken . . . erm . . . waste . . . is. Seriously, my whole backyard is like a minefield of nastiness.

3) My chickens scare me. Man, those things are vile. If I even stand at my window, they look at me. I'm not paranoid, but I'm not kidding, those chickens are looking at me. Like weird. Like they are planning an Animal Farm-esque takeover of the house. And it won't be the pigs in charge this time around. It will be the chickens.

4) My chickens peck me when I go outside. They meander over to where I am, all casual like, and then they strike. I wear my pointiest shoes to collect eggs now. Because two can play at that game.

5) My chickens were named by my children and I hate their names. Princess? Superman? (And yes, they are both female) How generic! I wanted to name them after my great-aunts, Afton and Isabelle, but nobody ever listens to me anymore.

Does anyone else think it might be time for chicken dinner?

Ahem.

2009-01-10T09:25:00.000-08:00

I probably should have mentioned that Azucar (I'm sorry, I'm too lazy to figure out how to use the "special" letters) refers to herself as pretentious. Otherwise I just sound kind of rude. Not that I'm not. I just wasn't trying to be rude in this instance.

Places I Like

2009-01-09T14:09:00.001-08:00

I hesitate to link up because what if you don't like the same blogs that I do and then you think I'm a total tool and then you hate me forever? Also, most of you blog more than I do so you probably know all these blogs already. But whatever.

The Jet Set--I always love her blogs. She's pretentious (in a good way--she makes cuisine my kids have never even dreamed of. It might be the Marshmallow Mateys-induced stupor that makes them incapable of dreaming of normal food. I'm just saying.) but also a total realist. Is that possible?

Claire and Carol--Across the pond, you just can't beat these two ladies. Claire is rather edgy for the conservative among us, what with her talk of bra fittings and her obsession for Kenny G. And Carol, well, she always makes me laugh. I don't think it's just because I know her. She might never admit this, but she also has the longest and skinniest fingers I've ever seen. Think Jafar.

Navel Gazing--I love Sue. I worship Sue. And, hey, sure she took me off her sidebar, but I don't care. I don't need requitement (not a word!) to make me love someone. I'm totally fine with one-sided love affairs. Because she makes me laugh, and that is usually better than requited love. Requited love is overrated. SUE! I LOVE YOU!

Honesty Bites

2009-01-07T19:51:00.000-08:00

Spe loves hair. He likes to rub it between his fingers and feel the texture of it. He likes to twist it around and around until his hand is encased in a giant hair knot. Specifically, Spe loves my hair. Nobody around here really likes my new haircut, but Spe cried when he saw how short it was.

"Mama," he said between sobs, "I just like your hair long!" I'm pretty sure that's what everyone, including Rhett, wanted to say but didn't. Sometimes Spe says the things that everyone else is thinking but is too afraid to say.

The other night he was restless, so I went in and snuggled up next to him, and of course, his little hand reached right up and started caressing my hair. He pinched it, pulled it, twisted it, smoothed it, rolled it, yanked it, and generally just did whatever it is he always does when he gets a fistful of my hair.

"Spe, do you just love me for my hair?" I asked teasingly.

"Yes," he said, his voice mournful as though I had discovered his darkest secret. "I do." He heaved a great sigh and kept rolling my hair between his fingers.

I might shave my head next time . . .

Vacation in Vegas

2008-12-27T09:58:00.000-08:00

I'm on vacation at my parents' house in Vegas. This basically means that I'm neglecting my children while reading novels here not at home.

My brothers and sisters are neglecting their children whilst playing the Wii. It's all just another way that we impose on my parents.

Up today: a hike! This sounds exciting if you don't know that on the hike we went on a few days ago we got snowed on. In Vegas. It's pretty cold here.

Aside from that, I probably collected thirty-five dirty looks on the plane on the way here. Jakers was inconsolable from Albuquerque to Las Vegas (even M&Ms didn't work!) and so I just smiled beatifically at the people who were looking at me like I was the worst mother in the world. I always act like I don't care that much, because hey, I don't. Seriously, I haven't slept well for five years, and you want to give me a dirty look for interrupting your hour-long nap? Give me a break and buck up, campers. And if the crying is so bothersome? Here, help me out. Jakers would love a new friend.

I'm here for three weeks, so if my posting is even more sporadic than normal, forgive me. I'm probably just reading a teenage romance novel.

Just to Make You Feel Better

2008-12-14T19:46:00.000-08:00

You know, sometimes I feel like I'm a degenerate, lazy, all-around-sucky kind of mom. Mostly after I read blogs that read like this: "Today I woke up and decided to do something special for my kids. So I made pancakes, eggs, toast, cut grapefruit and sprinkled it with sugar and then decorated it all with frosting so that it would look like a silly face. My kids loved it! Then we went to the library for story time, and it was so funny, because my little two-year old was reading the words to the book before the librarian would say them. Those flashcards I bought when he was born are really paying off! After story time, I decided we should go play in the park, so I made a quick picnic . . . yadda, yadda, yadda"--you get the point.

If you're like me, you can feel pretty crappy about yourself when, by comparison, your kids ate Marshmallow Mateys (but only the marshmallows) for breakfast and spent the morning in time out, instead of at the library.

I'm not saying we don't have our good days around here, too, but here are a few things that are going on around here to make you feel better about pretty much anything:

I have dishes that are two days old in my sink. I have no immediate plans to clean them. Maybe if I label it "a test" for my husband, I can stall doing the dishes indefinitely.

My butt is getting bigger all the time. It will soon catch Rhode Island, sizewise.

I don't care that my butt is getting bigger.

I like to read teenage romance novels. I will ignore my children and give them raw hot dogs for dinner when I am reading something I really like.

Veevs doesn't know how to read. She is five. I don't care that she doesn't know how to read.

Rhett called me "Jerkface" the other day, and I just laughed. I know I should get indignant, but really? Jerkface? That's the best insult he can come up with? Hey, Rhett, fifth grade called and they want their insults back. . .

Instead of taking my recyclables out to the recyling bin in the garage, I just pile them on my counter. When they overflow on to my oven, I know it's time to make a trip to the garage.

My twenty-month old knows how to count to three because I count when my kids aren't listening. And then I send them to time out. Maybe I do this too frequently?

I have a batch of wash upstairs that I have had to run through the washer three times because I keep forgetting to move it over to the dryer. Awesome.

Feel better?

Just Testing

2008-12-13T19:26:00.000-08:00

Every so often, Rhett will say something like this, "Hey did you notice that the trash can in the bathroom has been overflowing for the last week?"

And I'll look up from the book that I'm reading and be like, "Uh, yeah. Don't worry about it." Because, quite frankly, emptying the trash can has historically been his job.

"No, no, no," he'll say, "I left it on purpose to test how long it would take before you would take it out yourself."

"Oh." I'll think for a minute. "You know that the pile could spill out of the bathroom door and I'd still be okay with that, right?"

He sighs. This is not what he wanted to hear. I'm not sure what exactly he wants to hear-- perhaps profuse apologies? Sometimes I get mad at him for his condescending "I'm testing you because I'm so much better than you are" approach to cleaning the house, but most of the time I'm just a little confused as to why he thinks this time I'll cave before the garbage spills out of the can. There's no historical precedence to suggest that will ever happen. But yet, he still tests me.

So the other day I took Jakers to the doctor's and put Rhett in charge of picking up the kindergarten carpool.

After the appointment, I pulled up to our house about five minutes before 11:00. Rhett's car was still in the driveway. Meaning, undoubtedly, that he had forgotten the kids.

So did I call his cell phone and say, "I'll just pick them up for you, honey."? Hell, no. (Did you know that I swear occasionally? My apologies if you are shocked, except I'm not one bit sorry because I get a lot of pleasure out of my occasional swear words.)

Instead, I turned around and went and picked up the kids myself. And when I went to drop off the little boy who lives just down the street from us and saw Rhett driving like a bat out of hell down the street, I half-heartedly tried to wave him down. Because, I was kind of laughing too hard to wave very vigorously.

My friend was like, "Oh, you're going to be in trouble!"

And I was like, "Oh, no, I'm not! I'm not the one who forgot our child today. I'm the responsible party here."

When Rhett walked through the door (thirty minutes later) all wild-eyed and crazy, I just laughed.

It was the best test ever.

I Don't Want to Say I'm Paranoid, But I Might Be Paranoid

2008-12-08T09:37:00.000-08:00

I don't think I'm paranoid, really. Except sometimes I wonder.

Like the other night I pulled into my subdivision and the car that was behind me on the main road pulled into my subdivision, too. Instead of thinking, "Hey, neighbor!" I immediately assumed it was a stalker.

Especially when it turned on to the road that leads to my road right after I did.

I was all like, "Quit following me, you freak!"

So of course, I passed my street so that freak wouldn't know where I lived. Or at least so they would think I lived in a different house from my real house, because I'm not above pulling into someone else's driveway and acting like I'm home. I might even check the mailbox, just to complete the facade.

Except that person wasn't really following me. They turned off at the next street.

So I sheepishly did a U-turn and drove back to my real house with my real children. I don't tell Rhett about these things. I think they might worry him.

So, Yeah.

2008-11-30T20:36:00.000-08:00

I hit the sales, and I hit them hard.

Christmas shopping--DONE.

And that's as much as anyone can expect from me.

Please don't ask me about the status of my Christmas cards.

And don't ask me about the status of the pie leftovers at my house.

Because they currently reside on my thighs.

Dropping It On Thanksgiving

2008-11-28T16:43:00.000-08:00

We spent our first Thanksgiving on our own, and in my new spirit of self-aggrandizement, man, we rocked it. We had awesome food, good company (our own and some friends), and more pies than people eating at the table. That makes for the best Thanksgiving ever.

Here are the name place cards that Rhett made with the kids (with absolutely no prompting from me, honest!).

Spe's awesome plate setting features rock star feathers.

Rhett's features an 80s like visor. I have no explanation for this, however, he made this himself, so that may be explanation enough.

Jaker's has a frog. Probably because with his recent sinus infection, he has been a little toad most of the time.

Veevs is sporting some kind of Picasso like turkey. I always knew that girl had genius buried deep inside.

For the piece de resistance, here's mine, which Rhett was kind enough to make for me (I was at the doctor's getting antibiotics for my sinus infection. I'm pretty sure I have also been a toad for a good portion of the time.). I think the sexy legs really capture the spirit of the season, don't you?

Basically, we spent the morning cooking, the afternoon eating, and the evening eating more pies. And then, the night ended with Rhett singing, "Drop it like it's hot!" while dancing around the kitchen slapping his own butt.

That's when I knew it was time to go to bed.