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 . . .

Oh to be young again . . .

Am I the only one who still isn't adjusted to Daylight Savings Time? I still find myself saying, "Oh, the clock says it's 7:00, that means it's really 8:00." How long is this transition going to take?

Before I had children, I cherished daylight savings. I mean, what's better than suddenly gaining a full hour of sleep? (True, they take it away in the spring, but I prefer to focus on the giving nature of daylight savings.) It was like a dream come true.

But now, with three kids, daylight savings is killing me slowly. They somehow missed the memo that we sleep an hour longer. So, they are getting up at all sorts of ungodly hours (well, the hours make me ungodly, anyway).

Maybe I'd better hold off on the transition. Because right now, me thinking, "Hmm . . so it's really 6:30 in the morning," is the only thing that's keeping me from having a total temper tantrum with my kids. That, and the fact that I'm looking forward to spring when my kids will sleep in later than they should.

Oh, how things change with perspective . . .


This is how Spe and I feel every morning now that daylight savings has taken effect. I'm quite confident I'm seven months pregnant in this photo (oh, all right, I was only six months!), so don't hold it against me, please. Plus, I didn't do my hair. Plus, I'm wearing one of Rhett's t-shirts. Oh, I'm just homely, okay?

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.

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.

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.