Gratefully

Gratefully, we ate a bunch of turkey, and I was so thrilled to bring home a bunch of leftover turkey and ham for my thoroughly carnivorous husband.

Not so gratefully, I dropped the turkey, ham, and a Pyrex at the same time, and thus had to throw it away because it was embedded with glass.

Gratefully, I took sweet potatoes and green bean casserole to my aunt's for Thanksgiving dinner.

Not so gratefully, no one but Rhett and I ate them. Not even my kids would brave them to save my feelings.

Gratefully, I have finished most of my Christmas shopping and so I don't have to brave the crowds at the store today in search of the best bargains ever.

Not so gratefully, I really have an itch to go spend some money on the best bargains ever.

Gratefully, Spe's fever has come down and his cough is getting better.

Not so gratefully, this happened after I spent the whole night sleeping on his floor. I shouldn't complain, though, as Rhett took the two nights before last night.

Gratefully, I have the most thoughtful, loving husband and the sweetest children.

There's no down side to that!

Hope your Thanksgiving was fabulous!

How to Ruin a Book . . .

Just a note: if you ever want to ruin a book, I know how. It's really easy, actually. You just give it to Spe, my two-year old. He is wickedly destructive with books.

Just so you know, I'm the mom who used to look at nasty chewed on books at the library and shake my head with disdain. Who, I would think self-righteously, lets their children chew on books? I'm the mom who used to about have a mental breakdown when my oldest daughter would accidentally rip a page. "Oh, honey!" I would say gravely, in the same tone that I would use if she were to take permanent marker to our couch or piano, "Books are VERY special. We NEVER treat books this way." She learned very quickly to take excellent care of her books. She doesn't even lose the pieces to those puzzle books. I'm the mom who used to congratulate myself on raising a careful, enthusiastic reader.

And then Spe came along. Spe LOVES to read, which I'm thrilled about. However, I'm not so thrilled with his utter disregard for the proper care of books. Now I'm the mother who stops at the library desk and furtively looks over my shoulder before saying quietly, "Umm. . . my son chewed on this book. I don't think he meant to, but . . ." I endure the withering glare of the librarian, and worry that she will take my library card away. Now I'm the mother who sets aside a few hours every month to repair all the books that Spe has torn. Now I'm the mom who's thinking that Veevs has my book genes and Spe must have Rhett's.

I really don't think Spe means any harm to his books. He's just SO enthusiastic about turning pages and seeing the next picture. When I give him my grave, sad little "shame on all book destroyers" talk, he kind of looks at me blankly, like he's trying to figure out who I'm talking about.

For now, he's on a strict diet of BOARD books only. I still find myself taping and repairing (board books are NOT indestructible, oh no, they aren't!) but at least the shreds are in tact so I can repair them. The other day, I heard the sound of ripping coming from Spe's room and then I heard Ivy say, "Oh, Spe! Books are VERY special. We NEVER treat books like that."

At least I've gotten through to one of them.

In the foreground of this picture is my nephew Drew, who was completely book safe by the age of one. In the background is me and Spe, who received all board books for his one year old (and for that matter his two year old) birthday. Sweet little Spe . . .

When Mama Ain't Happy . . .

I really have the most wonderful mother. She raised eight kids with a lot of love, hardly any gourmet cooking, and a HUGE amount of patience. However, like all of us, she has her quirks. And since I really believe my mission in life is to out the world's quirky people one blog at a time, I'll tell you one of my favorite "Mare-mares" (Rhett's nickname for her) stories.

Once a month, we fast. When I was little this was a serious hardship. When I was a teenager, it was cause for some serious crankiness. And now that I'm a nursing mom, well, I don't do it! One Sunday we were fasting, and we came home from church to get our "break-the-fast" meal ready. Well, it wasn't just the teenagers who got a little cranky.

Granted, we were all complaining. Granted, we were all bickering. Granted, it was generally an unpleasant day to be the mother of eight children. In the middle of all of our bickering, fighting, complaining, whining, swearing (that's me!), and unpleasantness, Mare-mares had enough.

"Enough!" yelled Mare-mares. She grabbed the defrosted poppy-seed chicken casserole that was to be our dinner, stormed into her bedroom and locked the door behind her. What? (Or, as my four-year old would say, "What the??")

We all laughed kind of nervously at Mare-mares little temper tantrum, and waited for her to come back with our dinner. Except this wasn't just a little temper tantrum. She stayed in there for a long time! We all crept to her door and apologized under the crack in the door (well, except for Josh who made himself saltine cracker, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in an effort to prove that Mare-mares wasn't the boss of him--he's so like that), but she wasn't budging.

It was probably an hour later that she emerged, poppy-seed chicken casserole in hand, ready to make dinner. What?

Now I know where I get the drama queen gene from . . .


This is Mare-mares and my dad, on a less dramatic day.

Fire!

I used to be a really great sleeper. You know, before I had kids and had to sleep lightly so that I could hear my kids if they woke up. When I was a teenager, I could take naps like nobody's business.

So one afternoon, I took my nap on my parents' waterbed (remember those?) as usual. I slept peacefully, and woke up fully refreshed.

I felt much less refreshed when I discovered the following:

While I was sleeping, the fire alarm had gone off. This wasn't one of those wussy fire alarms that just beeps--this was a fire alarm that was set up with my parents' alarm system, and so when it sensed smoke or carbon monoxide or whatever, an EXTREMELY LOUD man's voice would come out of the speaker and YELL "FIRE! PLEASE EVACUATE IMMEDIATELY! HELP IS ON THE WAY!" It would do this over and over and over and over. It was so loud, you wanted to cover your ears, no matter where you were in the house.

When this occurred, all my younger siblings (Dan, Josh, Linz, and Bucky) evacuated (if only to escape the yelling fire alarm man) to the trampoline in our backyard, which was our designated "meeting spot" should any of us ever survive a natural disaster. While they were merrily evacuated on the trampoline, I continued to sleep.

It turned out to be a false alarm, but I still can't believe that everyone evacuated without me. Even fifteen years later, I'm still surprised by my siblings' treachery--I COULD HAVE BURNED! (oh, okay, I'm not surprised at all--they are totally like that!) Let me just remind you, I COULD HAVE BURNED!

We're a very close family.

A Little Too Much Rhett . . .

Anyone who knows my husband knows that he loves being socially quirky. You may not know, however, that he is, quite frankly, bizarre. Let me give you just one example:

One night, Rhett and I were driving to visit his parents who lived about an hour away from where we lived. For some reason, which I don't recall, I was driving, which is extremely unusual, as Rhett usually drives everywhere we go, as he cannot stand my driving, which, by the way, is uncommonly good.

We were driving on a dark mini-highway, when I reached over to give Rhett's leg a little love pat. Strangely, instead of denim, my hand met with his bare skin. Somehow, without me knowing it, he had stripped completely, shirt, pants, and everything underneath.

I believe my reaction was a mortified shriek, which I think is what he was going for. (Well, he probably had something different in mind, but I have my standards!) I'm pretty sure that my mind wasn't on my driving at that point.

I had more important things to worry about, like how did he get those pants off without me noticing? And more importantly, what did I get myself into in this marriage? And even more importantly, will the trucker we are going to pass be able to see him nude from his elevated cab? I'm sure I don't need to tell you what I did next. I sped up, just to find out.

And then it was Rhett's turn to shriek. . .

Where is the Mother?

So yesterday I was looking through some pictures that our Uncle Jordy sent us a long time ago. They were taken when he and Aunt Linz came to visit us around Easter time. And seriously, they made me ashamed. Because I don't think there's a single picture where any of my kids are dressed completely or not completely homely. The shame is, I really do have cute kids. If only they had a mother who took care of them . . .

Exhibit A:
Seriously, what is with the hair? Do I not know how to do a simple ponytail? Obviously not. . .

Exhibit B:


I can't even put words to my shame here.

Exhibit C:In this one, I managed to put a shirt on, but no pants. My favorite is that he's wearing his Sunday shoes with this beautiful ensemble.

My only excuse is . . . okay there's no excuse. I also feel obligated to disclose that my kids are watching TV right now. I'm probably not going to shower today, and my bed isn't made. My kids, however, do have pants on!

Social Services

My oldest brother and his wife (bless her, she's so much more patient than I would ever be!) homeschool their children. She's really good at it, and has taught her children to be self-educators and to thirst for knowledge. I admire her dedication while firmly believing that I would go absolutely stark, raving mad if I tried to homeschool my children myself.

I recall one vacation that we all spent together, my brother Josh (who has no children of his own) kindly offered to take on the task of teaching my two nephews some social skills (this being a common complaint that is offered up against homeschooling). Alas, there must have been a communication breakdown, because I think what he was teaching wasn't quite what my sister-in-law had in mind.

Josh decided to teach the boys all the fun things that they missed from not going to public school. This is Jared, just one of the boys who benefited from Josh's extensive social training . . .


Things like:

"1-2-3, Coffee, Soda Pop, Pee" (he used the glasses at the table for this little countdown, as we have no row of drinking fountains to label) I think you can imagine how pleased my sister-in-law was with this . . .

"Me Chinese, me play joke, me go pee-pee in your coke!" Somehow I don't think that these are the socialization skills my sister appreciates. You know, as if the potty humor weren't enough, I think the racial comments might just have put her over the edge.

We're really good with social skills in my family.

It Runs In the Family

My little Spe (two years old) had ear tubes in yesterday. It was amazingly easy and fast. The entire surgery took about ten minutes, and Spe did great.

We did discover, however, that he does share some of my genes. In so many ways, he is like Rhett (he has reddish hair, he's a big fan of Queen and The Beatles, he's all torso and no leg). I've finally found one way that he is just like me: he reacts to anesthesia just how I do. And it's funny.

To start off with they gave him a sweet dosage of nostril anesthesia (gross, right?) which was supposed to "make him act like he's had a few too many beers" (these are the nurse's exact words, not mine). Two minutes later, he had his head down on his dad's shoulder, when suddenly he perked up. "Hey!" he yells and points, "Garbage can!" Then he laughs as if he is the most hilarious person on the planet. Then he says, "Go see garbage can!" So Rhett carries him over to the object of his fixation, and he yells, "Garbage can!" and laughs, once more the most hilarious two year old on the planet.

Rhett finally manages to pry him away from his one true love, the garbage can, and Spe sits on Rhett's lap. He starts stroking his dad's face. "Blue!" he says wonderingly, in a voice not unlike Cheech's or Chong's. He giggles again. He strokes again. "Blue!" Another giggle. It is at this point that Rhett starts singing "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds" and Spe joins in. Fortunately, Spe is saved from further embarrassment by being taken back to surgery. He had not one bit of anxiety about going with the strange lady.

When Spe comes out of it, he is moody for a little while. But then, he gets loud and aggressive. He keeps smacking everyone around him, but he doesn't seem to be doing it to be mean. He is also showering everyone around him with kisses, headbutts, and loves. It's like he's supercharged. Oh, how I remember the feeling . . .

Rewind ten years to when I got my wisdom teeth removed. I went all the way under, and from that one experience, I'd be okay with being put under again, even for childbirth. Because I'm a happy, happy woman when I wake up from anesthesia. And then I'm also not. It looked something like this:

Me (upon first waking up): WAAAAAH! WAAAAAH! WAAAAAH! (In case you can't tell, this is uncontrollable wailing.)

Nurse (talking to my dad): Uh, maybe you could take her out the back door. We don't want the other patients to be scared.

Dad: Okay, honey, let's go. (He touches my knee, and the wailing stops suddenly.)

Me: (the only way to describe my voice is childish--seriously I sounded like a four-year old) Can we get me a Frosty on the way home, Dad?

Dad: Uh, okay.

He leads me out to car, while I continue trying to talk like a four-year old around all the gauze in my mouth. We hit Wendy's for a Frosty, but they aren't open yet, and I start to wail again. My dad promises he'll make me a shake when I get home. Wailing ceases again, as quickly as it began.

At home:

Me: I love ice cream. Ice cream is my favorite. But don't let Heather see me eat this!

Heather is one of my older sisters and at the time we were working out to Jane Fonda together. I whispered this in a stage whisper so as to keep Heather from hearing me, although she did, because apparently I don't know how to do anything but a stage whisper when I am recovering from anesthesia.

Me: I hate that Jane Fonda! And you know what, I bet all of the people who work with her hate her too. (This in a perfect four-year old pout.)

Mom: (Trying to find a topic that I'm not so passionate about) So how are you feeling?

Me: Well, I didn't die.

Mom: Did you think you were going to die?

Me: YEEEEEEEES! WAAAAAAAH! WAAAAAAAH! (Again, the uncontrollable wailing.)

My mother looks startled. My dad, who has had some experience with the uncontrollable wailing, puts his hand on my knee. I stop immediately.

Me: I think I'll go the bookstore. Where are my keys? I really want to read a Truman Capote novel. I need to go to the bookstore. Who has my keys?

Mom: Honey, you can't drive. You've just had major surgery.

Me: Yes, I can. (Had I been listening carefully, I would have heard the jingling of every single key in the house being hastily hidden by my sister.) Oh, fine, I won't drive.

I pause dramatically. My mother breathes a sigh of relief.

Me: But I can walk!

At this point my mother, my father and all of my brothers and sisters are eagerly watching me to see what weird thing I will say next. Although I can register that they think I'm crazy, it bothers me not one little bit. In fact, I have to say I enjoy the audience. I turn my wit to my pet bird.

Me: I named this bird the wrong name. I named this bird Othello, but I shouldn't have because Othello kills his wife. I should have named this bird King Lear, after you, Dad. (I'm really waxing sentimental here.) Do you know why, Dad?

Dad: Uh, no. Why?

Me: Because he had three daughters, too! (Just for the record, my dad has five daughters, but that hardly seemed pertinent at the time.)

Dad: Oh. That's a good idea.

Me: Waaaaaah! Waaaaaaah!

I think you get the picture. However, let me say that this lasted at least an hour. My younger brother reports that a good two hours later, he thought I was peacefully sleeping when I lifted up my head and said in my little four-year old voice (although I was twenty-one at the time), "You thought I was sleeping, but I fooled you!"

My sister, Heather, who had her wisdom teeth out a few days later, said only this when she came home: "I'm not acting as weird as Heidi did, am I?" Then she went to sleep. You know, like normal people do.

But not me and Spe. We're not normal. I'm so glad to find something that I've passed on to him. I'm sure he'll thank me later. Because to be honest with you, I remember that day as the best day of my life. Even better than my wedding day. It felt like I was a giant party. And who doesn't love a giant party?

Divorced Technology

My computer is seriously struggling. Or else my camera is. Whichever one is to blame, this once happy couple can no longer work together. So sadly, all photos right now are simply old, archival photos (I know old and archival are redundant, but what are you? An English teacher or something? Lighten up, okay?). So sorry about the old pictures. . .

When Veevs isn't being an alligator scientist (grrrr.) or a mermaid or a cowgirl, she would also like to be a pirate.
Is it bad that I find this career choice infinitely more acceptable than an alligator scientist?

This is our Uncle Jordy. We love him for so many reasons. Here are just a few:

He never complains when the kids jump on him.
He held my baby for like an hour at my sister's wedding while I just chatted away with old friends.
He looks like he's sixteen. (Really, don't you think?)
He's a fellow Financial Fascist (this is the reason Rhett loves him, me, not so much).




Our baby Wristy. He's such a happy little man. If it were socially acceptable for me to have this many rolls of fat, I'd be pretty happy, too. Seriously, think of all the candy you could eat. Mmmm.

Blanket

My kids have blankets. Irreplaceable, heirloom quality (at least in their eyes) blankets. I have to admit these blankets are pretty nice. My mom made them for each baby when they were born, and they are made of the softest tricot fabric (which is a kind of silky feeling fabric for those, who like me, are not seamstresses), and they have their names stitched into the corner. They have soft triangles for the binding, and my kids love to put their fingers in the triangles and just play with the material.

But here's my point: shouldn't their MOTHER be more comforting than a blanket? Of course. I nurse them! I feed them! I cook for them! I dress them! I drive them to really, really fun places (sometimes)! I tickle them! I let them paint! I nurture their creativity! I teach them fun songs! I read to them! So keeping all of this in mind, how is that when my kids are hurt or sad, MOMMY is NO GOOD? All they want is that blanket. I put it in their hands, and INSTANT happiness occurs.

Even my seven-month old finds his blanket (which is navy blue with white ties) to be more comforting than his mother. Today my two year old went to have tubes put in his ears, and you can bet we packed along his blanket (slate blue with matching ties). And my four year old can no more sleep without her blanket (originally light yellow with yellow ties--currently pastel blue due to a laundering disaster that involved me, Wristy's blanket, and Veev's blanket) than I can sleep through a fire alarm. (Except I can sleep through a fire alarm. Remind me to tell you the story some day . . . I could have died!) Is it too much to ask that they find me equally comforting, if not more so?

Their poor dad is even farther down the list. So far the comfort list goes as follows: blanket, a Band-Aid, a promise that they can watch a TV show, Mom, and THEN Dad. I guess I shouldn't feel so bad. I mean, I am ahead of Rhett on the list. And sometimes, that's all that matters to me.

A Day Late . . .

Well, I missed writing in my blog yesterday, and it was Halloween which should have been a thrilling blog, indeed. Except I was so dog tired that I couldn't write and still keep my eyes open. And that was what I thought at noon, so imagine me seven hours later . . . not a pretty picture, I promise.

But, here I am today! My mother-in-law and her two sisters have been visiting us for the past four days. It was so pleasant to have a child to adult ratio that was in MY favor, for once. We went to the zoo, we had a Halloween party, and they took my oldest to the park every day, and I felt completely stress-free the entire time. Well, not really. The Halloween party was still pretty stressful, but not as stressful as it would have been without "the ladies" (as my husband calls them).

I was so dog tired that I even managed to convince my four-year old that the best part of Halloween evening is handing out candy to all the neighborhood kids. She totally bought it. And, lest you think I am cruel, let me just point out that we have already: participated in the Halloween party at the kids' preschool (2 bags full of candy), trunk or treated with our church (2 bags full of candy), went trick or treating at the zoo (6 bags full of candy, because "the ladies" also joined in the fun), and we had the snack bags from our Halloween party (exquisitely decorated sugar cookies, and 2 bags full of candy). So, I've done my part in ensuring a sugar high that will last clear until Thanksgiving and beyond.

The best part about that is that I didn't even hand out the candy. I just laid on the floor and looked helplessly exhausted and my mother-in-law took pity on me and handed out candy with Veevs. The little boys went to bed at 7:00, so they didn't even know what they were missing. And now we're done! Hooray for Halloween, and double hooray for "the ladies"!

(I do feel obliged to disclose that "exquisitely decorated" may be a little bit of hyperbole. Because, really, we just slapped different colors of frosting on them and then went to town with sprinkles and candy corn and pumpkins, etc. I don't think Martha Stewart will be asking me to join her design team any time soon.)

Revenge is Sweet . . .

Rhett gives the kids their baths at our house, which is great because otherwise my kids would be about as clean and fresh smelling as river otters (I have no idea if this is a good analogy or not). I'm just no good at it. Plus, I figure it's good bonding time for Rhett and the kids. Nothing brings a family together like a little water, some soapsuds, and washcloths. Well, unless the water and soap make their way out of the tub, then Rhett gets a little hot under the collar. It sounds something like this:

Rhett: Spe, don't dump water out of the bath, okay?

Spe: Ko-kay. (At which point, he promptly dumps more water out of the tub.)

Rhett: SPE! I said don't do that anymore! It makes a big mess!

Spe: Ko-kay. (Do I even need to tell you what he does? You already know, don't you? Yes, he dumps more water out of the tub.)

Rhett: SPENCER CARL HADLEY! I have asked you very nicely not to do that! PLEASE STOP! (This is all said in a very firm tone, which makes Spe look a little sad.)

Spe: (Sadly) Ko-kay. (And yet, as if he cannot control himself, his hand reaches out and dumps more water out of the tub.)

There are no more words, because Rhett is a man of action. And he also believes in retribution. So he takes a cup full of water and dumps it over Spe's head. Spe has gotten so used to this that he no longer even splutters. He just closes his eyes, lets the water fall, and then keeps on playing. Spe is a man of action too. And, he'll have his revenge. When Dad's back is turned, you can bet there will be some more water poured over the side of the tub. Or, he might drink the water (another thing Dad doesn't let him do). One way or the other, he'll get his retribution.

I think you can see why I think this bonding time is so good for them. Oh, you can't? Yeah, actually, I don't see it either, but at least I don't have to bathe them. Sometimes, that's all that really matters. . .

Temper Tantrums from a 31 Year Old

You know, you expect temper tantrums from your two year old. Or from your four year old. But I'm kind of past the age where temper tantrums are socially acceptable. Nonetheless, I still throw them. Occasionally. It kind of makes me feel better to let go of all that pent-up anger.

The last couple of nights I've (okay, we've) been up a lot with our kids. Spe has an ear infection and baby Wristy has some bizarre illness that makes him wake up every two hours with a strong desire to eat and eat and eat and eat (okay, it's not really an illness; he's just a trained night feeder who is spiraling out of control). I'm just so tired. I just feel obliged to tell you that at one point baby Wristy was a fabulous sleeper. I mean really fabulous. But then he got a cough/cold and all his wonderful sleeping habits disappeared. And in their place, I got this lovely baby who wakes up all night long.

Last night we went to bed around 11:00. I just got a good sleep going (and trust me, I'm a great sleeper), when Banshee Boy (this is my new nickname for Wristy as he has the loudest cry of any child I've ever heard. Seriously, he hurts my eardrums.) started wailing. I get up, put the pacifier back in, and crawl back into bed. At 12:00, again, Banshee Boy lets it rip. I get up, put the pacifier in, and crawl back into bed. He's not buying it this time, so I kick Rhett (this is my patented move that always gets great results), and make him go give it another go. But Banshee Boy just keeps screaming and screaming and screaming. So I go in his room, nurse him, and put him in bed.

Guess who's up again at 2:30? And guess who wants to eat? And guess who's up again at 3:30? And guess who wants to eat? Finally, I snap.

Rhett: (calmly and casually) So what's up with baby Wristy?

Me: (freakily and nastily) I DON'T KNOW, OKAY? All I know is that I'm NOT going back in that room again tonight! He can cry all night!

Rhett: (calmly and casually) Okaaaay.

He did cry for almost half an hour, and I held my ground. No seven month old is a match for the temper tantrums I can throw. I've had years and years of practice and I ALWAYS WIN! (Is anyone else getting the feeling that I'm unhealthily competitive? Is it normal for a mother to be locked in a contest of wills with her seven month old? Yeah, I should do something about that.)

Finally Rhett realized we were in a lose/lose holding pattern here and he intervened. He went and slept with the baby. But I've already told him: tonight is the night for Baby Banshee Boy to cry it out. Because I can only take so much . . . and I want my fabulous sleeping baby back.

Chick-a-Bam-Bam-Ban-Ow!

We're not nice people. I'm just forewarning you so you won't be too surprised when I tell you this next weird, quirky thing that we do. Just keep in mind, I already know we're not nice, so don't pepper me with comments about how mean we are. I already know!

In the course of our married life, Rhett and I have had the opportunity to move around a little bit, and every time we do we have to meet a whole new group of people at church. But sometimes we're a little bit lazy about learning names at first. But we still like to talk about people (especially crazy comments that they might make in church, etc.), so we have our own system of describing people to each other. And it's kind of mean.

We nickname people. Here are some of the nicknames we have used over the years to help each other understand who we are talking about: Man-Talker (obviously a woman with a very, very deep voice), The Giants (This whole family was over six feet tall! They were huge!), Big Hair Lady (I think this one speaks for itself), The Weasleys (a family of redheads), and my favorite, Chick-a-Bam-Bam-Ban-Ow! (let's simply say that there was a very . . . um . . . interesting sense of style associated with this one).

The problem is sometimes (like in Chick-a-Bam-Bam-Ban-Ow!'s case) occasionally we would get to know these people and really like them. But still, we called them by their nickname in private because as I think I've mentioned before, we're just not that nice. But we did feel a little bit of guilt . . . but not enough to make us stop nicknaming. Another drawback was that Ivy picked up on the Chick-a-Bam-Bam-Ban-Ow! nickname and she started saying it whenever she saw that lady too. She was two years old, so we really should have been teaching her to be nice. But whatever.

One time my brother Josh (you know, the famous organist power player) came to church with us. Rhett was pointing out all the people whom we had nicknamed. He looked at us like we were crazy mean (which we are), and then he pointed to a woman in a wheelchair. "So, what do you call her? Hot Wheels?"

"That is SO mean!" I protested. But I have to admit, that's what we called her from then on. I just recently thought that maybe other people do this too, and I wonder what they would nickname me. A few thoughts: "Lady who can't dress her kids in matching clothes," or "Horsey" (since I rarely am seen these days without an accompanying ponytail . . .) or maybe "Pauncho" (since I haven't quite lost the belly from my three children).

What nicknames have you had for people? (And don't pretend you're all better than me, you know you do this, too!) What do you think people would nickname you?

Justify my love . . .

Who lets their child run around with hair like this? I'm just saying . . . it's not a pretty picture!

Do you ever feel like you have to justify your love for your kids? I totally do all the time, and I wonder what it says about me.

For example, Veevs wanted to wear her own outfit, which as any mom out there can tell you, meant she wanted to wear something that didn't match. Not even close to matching, really. And then the shoes! Oh, laws, the shoes were from a different world. So, all day long I found myself trying to work it into the conversation that she dressed herself. I'd even start up conversations with people so that I could casually drop in that she is generally dressed fashionably (okay, at least matching) but today was a DIY (do-it-yourself) moment.

Walmart checker: How are you today?

Me: Fine, except my little girl wanted to dress herself today.

Walmart checker: Oh.

See what I mean?

McDonald's drive-through attendant: That will be $7.68 at the first window.

Me: When we get there, I just want to clarify that my daughter dressed herself.

McDonald's drive-through attendant: Oh.

Okay, that didn't actually happen, but I really had the urge to say stuff like that all day. And a few days ago we had a cold snap and I couldn't find the socks that I tossed into the car for my little Wristy (seven months) so he had to go barefoot. I felt compelled to tell everyone, "I'm not a bad mom, really, I just can't find the socks!" I can be pretty tricky though. So I might pretend I'm talking to my baby and say, "Oh, Wristy, I'm so sorry I can't find your socks. Your feet must be so cold!" 1) Wristy doesn't care, and 2) neither do the people I'm trying to make sure hear, and 3) why do I care so much? (I eventually did find the socks, by the way, shoved into the butt pocket of my blue jeans. Not only a bad place to keep something I'm looking for, but I have a hunch my butt wasn't looking too hot, either!)

It's like I have to justify the fact that I really do love my children despite not being able to dress them properly. But then I remember my sister, Bucky, as a baby. That girl brushed her own hair (with a wet toothbrush!?) from the ages of two to five. And she looked awful. And I remember some of us trying to get her to wear matching clothes. And my mom told us to leave her alone. My point here is that this need for justification is not genetic. But then again, Bucky was the eighth child. I guess by the time you have eight kids you don't have to justify anything to anyone anymore.

I'm going to take a page out of my mom's book. I love my kids, but I don't have to prove it to you by dressing them all cute. And from now on, I'm going to start judging everyone else--if your kids match, it probably means you're stifling their individuality and creativity! So there.

Not for the faint of heart . . .

Seriously. If you are weak stomached, don't read this. Because I'm not going to edit my four-year old's comments just for you. It is what it is. I realize in blogging this that I'm pandering to the lowest common element, but I have brothers and this is what it takes to make them check my blog every four months. . .

So, yesterday, I was changing Wristy's diaper (this is my new nickname for my baby, as he has just discovered that he can pivot those wrists. Man, does he work it!). Veevs is really the most feces-fascinated girl I've ever met. Honestly, there does not go by a diaper change without her there: watching, advising, and even commenting on quality and quantity. For some reason (aka, I didn't tell her), she missed the beginning of this particular diaper change (Hey, I don't have to indulge her scatological inquiries, do I?). This is the conversation that ensued (I'm putting my thoughts in italics):

Veevs: Was that a poopy diaper, mom? Oh, great. Here we go again.

Mom: Not really. It was actually just a squirt, but we don't need to go into that.

Veevs: So was it like a squirt? Uh-oh. This conversation is quickly heading south, and I'm not talking directionally, if you know what I mean.

Mom: Yes, it was like a squirt.

Veevs: How does he do those squirts? I don't know, Veev. Ask your dad. I'm sure he has plenty of insider knowledge on this issue.

Mom: Um, I don't know. Evade! Evade! Evade!

Veevs: I think he probably farts and then instead of gas, poo comes out. Don't you think so, Mom?

Mom: Uh-huh. Maybe if I stop responding, we'll stop having this conversation at every single diaper change! (Sorry--but keep in mind I have two children in diapers. This conversation is just one of many I could transcribe for you.)

Veevs: So, he just does squirts sometimes, right?

Mom: Right.

Veevs: Okay. Phew! That wasn't as bad as it could have been. I mean at least I got out of that conversation without her mentioning . . .

Veevs: I know boys have penises, Mom. And there it is. Why does this always come up?

Mom (a little hysterically): Good for you, honey. Oh, wow! Let's go see if the mail is here yet!

So there you have it: life at my house every time I change a diaper. Hey, if your kids don't know about either the digestive system or the reproductive system, send 'em over. Veevs is happy to fill them in on all the details!

As Halloween Approaches . . .

Apparently, I've done too good of a job teaching my kids what Halloween is all about. Because suddenly, everything is very, very "spooky" in our world. To them, a pumpkin (even without the carvings) is "spooky". And their Halloween costumes (a pirate, Superman, and a lion--hardly the stuff of nightmares) are "super-spooky".

We've also been enjoying a renaissance of small ghosts. This is achieved by my two oldest throwing their blankets over their head and intoning "OooOOOOoooo!" Trust me, it's very spooky. Even Wristy (seven months) can't keep a straight face.

Veevs loves to "decorate" her room for Halloween. In the months leading up to October, she can often be found drawing and coloring a pumpkin, a ghost, or a bat to hang up in her room. The finished effect, which seems to fall under the fashion label "Halloween Junk Chic" is apparently quite frightening. In fact, this year, the morning after we put up her decorations she woke up with a scream. Apparently, waking up to a cartoon skeleton is too much for any four year old.

But the best of all is that both Veevs (four) and Spe (two) are "banishing" witches and ghosts from their rooms constantly. This is done in the following manner: you go to the doorway of your chosen room, and you throw your fist into the room while yelling, "BANISH!" at the top of your lungs. Apparently, evil creatures cannot withstand this kind of treatment, and leave immediately. Interestingly, mom can also be banished. Now that is really spooky!

Perfection

Who says this perfection thing is tough? I think we had a perfect day yesterday and we weren't even trying. We started out at the pumpkin patch, which was all that a pumpkin patch should be and then some. I won't bore you with the details, but will instead post equally boring pictures (unless you love my children as much as I do and then you will be as enthralled as I am by these pictures) that will suffice to cover our time at the pumpkin patch. We went early, left before it got too hot, and stopped at a convenience store for treats on the way home. Perfect, right? Well, the kids thought so anyway.

Veevs had a birthday party to go to (fairy-themed), and I went along. We had to leave a bit early so we could make it to her soccer game. Dad and the boys met us there and after we shoved a bag full of pretzels into Spe's hands he was as good as gold throughout the entire game. Veevs hustled, waved, and cried when she was pushed over--all the drama you expect from a soccer game.

We spent a lovely evening together, and I even took a little catnap (I know, you don't think I'm capable of just a "little" catnap, but I am. Sometimes.). Rhett bathed the kids, we put them to bed, and Rhett started his homework and I read a book. Really, although this day sounds perfectly boring it really was so relaxing and fun. I don't know why people think perfection is so difficult.

Oh, wait, yes I do. Because at about 11:00 Wristy woke up and started coughing and his coughing started him barfing and he threw up all over his sheets and himself and his blanket. Rhett bathed him (again) and I had to hit the Wal-Mart for cough medicine (Hey, I may not be perfect but I'm not going to hell for buying medicine on Sunday! I believe I barely made the purchase on the Saturday side of midnight. Phew!)

Need I say more? I can now say with certainty that there's no such thing as the perfect day. There's just not enough good vibes to last twenty-four hours. If your day goes well in the morning, you might as well just lose your temper in the afternoon to forestall late night puking. Seriously, don't try to be perfect. It's not worth the vomit!

All these years I've been lied to . . .

Okay, I finally figured it out. All these years people have been lying to me. First my mom, and now Rhett. You know how when you get your house perfectly spotless, people say things like, "Doesn't it feel great to have a clean house?" or "This is the way a house should look!" But you know what? Those are lies.

First, it doesn't feel great to have a clean house, because you know the second (and I really mean nanosecond) that you have to actually live in your house, it will suddenly be filthy again. Like in twenty minutes! So when you have a clean house, it's actually the worst position to be in, because there's nowhere to go but down from there. And what a depressing downward spiral it is.

Second, a house shouldn't look that way. A HOTEL should look that way because no one lives in it for real. A MODEL HOME should look that way because no one is actually blow-drying their hair in it, or spraying hairspray on the mirror. But a real house, honestly, just likes to be dirty. So I've been expending all this energy and time trying to make my house be something it's not (hmmm, there's an interesting parallel here, and perhaps connection, between this and my mom and my husband trying to get me to be more tidy).

I'm not filthy by nature. I'll clean it up at some point. I don't like to live in squalor and I don't like my toilets to be dirty. But, I don't put everything I touch away immediately (this is where Rhett and I differ). I have piles (of clothes, of paperwork, of stuff to take downstairs, of stuff to take upstairs). But my piles aren't like the ones you see on Oprah where you only have little paths that lead from room to room surrounded by giant piles of who knows what. My piles are little. Really. And they get taken care of eventually. Usually.

I try really hard to overcome my natural untidiness. I even have a laminated chore chart that I'm supposed to cross off each day, wipe it clean it that night, and then recross off the same chores the next day. Here's the daily list: Help Veevs with her chores (she also has a laminated chore chart), Help Spe with his chores (again, another laminated chore chart), Dress and feed Wristy (I DO remember to feed him, but I like to be able to cross things off the list), Read scriptures, Make bed, Tidy up my room, Tidy up Wristy's room, Tidy up the living rooms (of which there are three!), Unload the dishwasher, Load the dishwasher, Clean the kitchen, Do a load of laundry, Tidy up the bathrooms (again, three!), Tidy up the toy room, and Make Dinner. Don't even get me started on the chores I do once a week. Today I had to dust the house and vacuum the downstairs. I'm making a good effort, right?

But, I realized today as I was cleaning that I was fighting the Vietnam War of house cleaning. Because no matter how many times I tidy up the living room, my kids will drag more toys into it. And there we are, back at the 16th Parallel North. So for the rest of the afternoon, I'm going to grab a book, sit on my couch, and let my house enjoy itself. And you know what? I'm not even going to put the book away when I'm done.