Aloha, internets

And we are off...will be posting from the road via the wonderful people who invented the i-phone.

In case you were wondering how the pre-trip diet went, I am happy to report that through a combination of near-starvation and strenuous exercise, I dropped four pounds in four days.

Which will probably be put back on at breakfast tomorrow morning.

Which I am totally fine with. Just don't tell my thighs. They will not be thrilled one bit.

Selfish, chubby thighs. Always thinking of themselves.

Don't have too much fun without me.

"Ugh, I think I can actually hear you getting fatter"

[Anyone know the classic movie where that line comes from? I do. And every time I watch it, it makes me laugh so hard a little pee comes out.]

To say the scale has not been my friend the last few days would be a bit of an understatement.

That damn thing hasn't been my friend for a good two weeks.

It really isn't shocking or unexpected. There have been more than a few rounds of cookie dough. There have been cakes and pans of brownies. There have been endless bowls of my fabulous homemade guacamole (a recipe which I really ought to share with you one of these days). And I'm not sure, but I think I may or may not have eaten 1,873 pounds of M&Ms.

I am feeling it and I am not happy with that feeling. To make matters worse, we leave in three days for a little vacay in Hawaii wherein I was planning on looking seductive and trampy on the beach. Not lumpy and fat on the beach.

But, I've not lost heart. I am going to give the next three days my best effort and see if I can drop a pound or two.

Failing that, I'll just drown my sorrows in a super-sized tub of cookie dough, buy a muu-muu, and tell my trainer it wasn't my fault when I get back.

Sound good?

Shut up.

Making peace with my freckles

The other day, I was driving somewhere with all three kids in the car. I listened quietly from the front seat to their happy banter,relishing the back-and-forth between them.

That is, until I heard these words said by Hannah:

"I hate my freckles. I have so many of them and they make me look so ugly."

McKay responded with this:

"I hate mine, too. They make me look like such a little kid. I wish I didn't have any freckles."

Horrified, I realized they were repeating VERBATIM things that have come from my own mouth.

I glanced in the rear view mirror, frowning slightly at my face full of them, and took a deep breath. I jumped in and told them how much I love their freckles and my freckles, and how cute they look on all of us. I told them their freckles were angel kisses from heaven, and that it meant we were special.

That brilliant plan worked well until the one child WITHOUT freckles piped up and asked if that meant he wasn't special.

Crap.

Can't win here, can I?

Anyhoo, I have decided from here on out to publicly embrace my freckles, lest my children develop a complex and feel slightly unattractive all their lives thanks to me. I will stop complaining out loud about them. I will stop whining about them while flipping through People magazine. And I will try to stop comparing my skin to all the non-freckly skin out there.

We are what we are, and that's good, too. (Any one know which old musical that fabulous line comes from? It's a classic.)

It does not mean, however, that I will stop photoshopping them away every chance I get. Like this picture from last summer (when my hair was so gloriously long).

Before:

And after:

(Admit it, the after is so much better. Just don't admit it in front of my kids)

Psychological inkblots or fireworks? You decide

So. I have decided it was wise not to kill my boys over the basement flood, even though they might have deserved it. I also forgave them when, a mere day later, my boys were wrestling in the basement and my oldest child put a giant hole in the wall with his knee. (Yay, Dad! Another hole for you to fix on your next visit!)

I have not ruled out selling them to gypsies, however.

But for fun, I thought I'd show you some of my favorite fireworks pictures from this year and tell you how to make some of your own for next year.

I know, it might have been nice to have this information on, say, July 3rd. But what can I say? This is the best you can expect from me this week.

I love taking pictures of fireworks - it's like distorted, colorful works of art that come out gloriously different every time you click the shutter. You never know what you're going to get. Someday I may mount a few of these on canvas and find someplace cool to hang them.


First, your camera must be set to manual for this. For those of you who waste a perfectly good SLR camera by keeping it on the auto setting, turn the knob to the giant "M."

Also, if the previous paragraph applies to you, stop what you are doing immediately. Log on to Amazon, send away for this book, and pray I forgive you for your ignorance.

For those of you who actually know how to use your camera properly, you will be allowed to move on to step two.

Lower your shutter speed until it says "bulb." This is the slowest shutter speed setting and will allow you to manually hold the shutter open for as long as your little heart desires.

You can put your f-stop (or aperture) at whatever you'd like - I played around with mine and found that the wider apertures (or smaller f-stop numbers) worked better as it allowed more light in. I also had my ISO set to 100.

Then, just point at the fireworks and shoot, holding down on the shutter release for as long as you like.

I didn't take my tripod this year, and I wish I would have. Balancing the camera on my knees while shooting in the rain wasn't ideal.

But they turned out pretty cool - each one more different than the last.

And afterwards, it's totally fun to study each picture and find something in the lines, squiggles, and colors. Kind of like a homemade inkblot test of sorts. You can give them to your family for an enlightening night of psycho-analysis. (Get it, en-LIGHT-ening? Okay. Bad pun).

For the record, my children saw food in nearly every picture. What does that say about us?

Is it just me or does that last one look slightly like Daniel Craig? A little? No?

Fine. Party poopers.

A question on a summer Monday

Question:

What happens when your boys decide to build a fort in the unfinished part of the basement near the air conditioners, and they shove the condensation hoses away from the drain and point them towards the finished part of the house, where carpet, drywall, and other such things reside?

Answer:

A freakin' flood, that's what.

Be back soon, I promise. Just as soon as I finish dealing with the water, the pulled up carpet, the soaking wet drywall, and general clean-up of the area. Oh, and as soon as I decide to let the boys out of their cage again.

They're only still alive because they didn't know what those hoses were for and I can't legally kill them for their ignorance.

Believe me, I wanted to.

Don't hate her because she's beautiful

Last week, I was lucky enough to get my hands on this gorgeous girl for a photo shoot. I'd had it on the books for a few weeks, and I was dying to get her in front of my camera.

And do you want to know the best part? She has no idea just how absolutely beautiful she is.

Which makes her just about the nicest girl you'll ever meet.

I know, right? I took about 450 pictures and spent four hours whittling them down to the top 100. They were all THAT GOOD. It had absolutely nothing to do with my photography skills, and was attributable entirely to her gorgeous self. She couldn't take a bad picture if she tried.

I like to call this one her sexy look.

Which kind of annoyed and grossed her out.

It's almost unfair - someone having skin this flawless. There was nary a freckle or a blemish to be found. In my next life, I demand to look exactly like this.

Thanks, Rachel. You are a darling girl and as nice as they come. I had a blast taking pictures of you.

Oh, and stay away from all the boys this fall at BYU. You might not realize your charm, my dear, but they most certainly will.

Breakfast in bed

A few days ago, I heard some clattering down in the kitchen. I flopped over and groggily looked at the clock, then immediately rolled over and went back to sleep.

I mean, if those kids of mine want to wake up at the crack of dawn and forage for their own breakfast? Have at it.

About an hour later, all three of them appeared eagerly at the foot of my bed, a tray balancing precariously in the hands of my youngest. I sat up, put my glasses on, and tried to graciously receive their thoughtful gesture.

There was a browning apple, cut and arranged into the shape of a flower, most happily by my oldest son. He practically burst with pride while he told me of the great effort it was to cut it up without slicing off any of his fingers.

I silently thanked their guardian angels for THAT small help.

There was also a (now) cold cup of what appeared to be hot chocolate. A quick stir brought up the many spoonfuls of hot cocoa mix that were residing on the bottom. My middle child noted with great joy how he successfully managed to boil the water and pour it into the cup without burning himself or anyone else.

I then not only thanked their guardian angels, but I began to see the whole morning as nothing short of miraculous.

And, lastly, there was a bowl of my favorite cereal, and I only know this because it was pointed out to me by my youngest child. It was pretty much unrecognizable as anything other than brown mush.

Her hazel eyes shone as she told me how she poured the milk ALL. BY. HERSELF. She then went on to say how she finished her part of my breakfast first and had to wait (somewhat impatiently) for the boys to finish theirs.

Translation: My cold cereal had been sitting in milk for about an hour.

I tell you this - it took everything I had to eat that cereal in front of their happy faces. I tried to disguise my gagging, and with each soggy bite it grew more difficult. I made it about halfway through and then convinced them that we should all go downstairs and eat together.

Somehow, magically, the cereal was gone before I made it downstairs.

I think the toilet really liked it.

The Week of Josh

Last week, as we do every year, we celebrated the Husband's birthday and Father's Day - all within a few days of each other.

He has dubbed it, "The Week of Josh," and makes demands for cakes, presents, and celebratory honor all week long.

I roll my eyes each and every year, groaning out loud, and wondering when it will ever be the Week of Stie. The children, however, jump with glee at the mere possibility of getting cake every day, and immediately start making homespun presents from clay, sticks, and rocks.

Which everyone totally wants for their birthday.

This year, however, the week of Josh was doomed from the start.

Business took him out of town on his birthday and the evening of Father's Day, something no man should ever have to do.

A search for the one present he actually wanted this year ended in disappointment as we discovered it will be back ordered for several weeks. (I have consented on this gift for a few reasons, one of them being that he'll just go out and buy it anyway, and the other because it just so happens to be the weapon of choice for my imaginary boyfriend, James Bond. Nothing wrong with bringing your fantasies to life, right?)

And just a few days shy of his actual birthday, his loving wife accidentally uploaded a system-crippling virus onto the family computer. Doing this resulted in hundreds of dollars shelled out to Geek Squad, and the eventual purchase of a new computer. A computer which everyone but the Husband will realistically use.

Top that off with the trip made to the Apple store wherein the loving wife was also purchased an i-phone. Ahem.

So, for his 37th year, the Husband generously shelled out a large sum of money to make others happy, put his own birthday wishes aside, and cheerfully ate a large slice of the driest birthday cake in history.


While the many layers seem enticing and delicious, it was, in fact, not.

Happy Week of Josh, baby. In spite of indications otherwise, you are extremely loved. It is the generosity of your spirit, your soul without guile, and your constant thought of others that makes you who you are.

And, um, here's hoping I do a little better next year.

Epiphany

We are thick in the throws of summer around here (though you'd hardly recognize it with all the thunderstorms plaguing the land) and I have had a few epiphanies.

The most important being: I really like my kids.

I know that should not come as a new realization, but should be a natural, ever-present thought in a mother's mind.

And it is.

But sometimes it's hard to remember when you're constantly surrounded by the noise, nagging, and needs of three little ones.

This morning (and on several of the mornings lately) I have had the company of my oldest son on my runs. He's eagerly laced up his shoes and we've hit the streets together in the early hours. I was selfishly worried that the quality of my workout would suffer as a result of my young companion (I do eat all that cookie dough, you know), but that has not been the case at all.

This kid can really hold his own.

No one ever told me the elated sense of pleasure I would feel, having this little person suddenly big enough to physically keep up with me. Easy conversation, the back and forth between us is as natural as can be. He talks to me. Tells me things he's feeling and working on in his little 11-year-old world.

As the miles between us and home build up, I realize the distance between he and I shrinks drastically.

Back at home, the others have made strides of their own, as well.

Last night, the light beneath a door led to me discover Chase, still awake and reading. So wrapped up in his book, that all sense of time was lost. The urgent desire to see how it all ends was keeping him from sleep. His tired eyes sparkled as he told me of the book he just could not put down. I smiled as I shut the door, and left him to his happy ending.

This boy, the one who struggled and cried when he was learning to read. His letters constantly transposed and his eyes tired from the strain - often he was left in a puddle of anguish. And often I was left in a sea of worry.

I'll tell you what - I'll let him have that late night of reading any day.

And let us not forget the princess. She, who is sometimes the neediest and most loud voice of all. The girl who has been self-appointed as a one-woman tattling machine has lately been less consumed with what others are or are not doing, and more interested in her own pursuits.

I cherish the sleepy, rock star hair that strolls into my bedroom for an early morning cuddle under the covers. I love the sound of her voice, soft and scratchy, as she tells me of her hopes and dreams for the day.

She plans big, this one.

Always wanting to grab life by the horns, and so impatient when there are trifles like breakfast and showers standing in her way.

But I have also caught her watching me lately. Observing the way I perform this little job called Mom, and forming her own ideas of the way she'll do it herself one day. Makes me stand a little taller and strive to be that much better. To be more patient. To love more, and be cross less. To cherish, instead of just tolerate. To teach, and not just discipline.

Life is a series of peaks and valleys. And right now, I feel sheer gratitude for the mountain top I've been standing on. Here's hoping I get to stay here for a while.

Because I really like the view.

More baby love

A few weeks ago, I had the absolute pleasure of shooting this little pumpkin:

Meet baby Maya. All eyes and smiles, this one. She cooed, babbled, grinned, and was more cooperative than all three of my children combined.

All that while she was needing a nap.



I know, right?

It must be impossible to get anything done around the house with such a gorgeous girl emitting the baby love. If she lived here, I know I'd probably just sit and stare at her all day. But since I can't, I enjoyed her as long as I could, and fully bonded with her mama, Melissa, who is my newly adopted sister.

I love adopting myself into other people's families. It's so fun for me.

Posting may be a little bit sparse this week, as Hotel Stie is busy hosting the parents. We're trying to squeeze in a little fun in between all the chores I've had my dad doing this week.

Don't you just wish you could come visit me now? Come only if you have skillz or babies.

Or if you like Yanni.

Identity theft, i-tunes style

Dear i-tunes Hacker,

While I am sure you think that you are completely clever for hacking into our i-tunes account, let me burst your bubble -- clever, you are not.

It is beyond annoying, my program writing friend, that you changed our password so that we were unable to access our own account. And the genius level intelligence you possess must have helped you come up with the idea of giving us a new fake email address so that we would not receive notifications of your stolen purchases.

Which, by the way, MORON, did you think we would not notice? We, the people who pour over our bank accounts and credit card statements anyway, because there are people like you out in the world?

I could say that I hope that you really make the most of those two-fifty dollar gift cards that you purchased illegally with our credit card, and the thousands of others you've done this to, but I am fairly confident you will not.

Geeks like you have terrible taste in music.

I have no doubt that you are doubled over in a fit of girly-like giggles over your cleverness. You will laugh, I am sure, while you wipe the cheese from your giant bag of Cheetos on your favorite Star Trek shirt, then yell up and ask your mother to bring you some more mountain dew. She probably will, but be assured she is fervently praying that you will get your fat 30-year-old self out of her basement one of these next years, and is utterly and completely sick of you.

So, ha ha, funny man. Laugh it up. You may not ever be caught for this little escapade, but know this: KARMA IS A @ITCH, and one day, she will come calling.

Angrily yours,

Stie

Best. Night. Ever.

Me, pictured here with Oma's new Latin lover, Ender Thomas

Last Saturday, Oma and I headed downtown to attend the Yanni Voices concert. I had very few preconceived notions about this event, but was excited to go, given that I was handed free tickets. I remembered Yanni from the early 90s when one of my college roommates had a CD that would periodically be played around the apartment, and I always found his melodies soothing and peaceful.

All I thought I knew about Yanni changed less than a minute into the show.

SWEET. FANCY. MOSES.

It was absolutely one of the most phenomenal music experiences I've ever had. The 'voices' are artists that have put lyrics to Yanni's compositions. The songs vary; from melodic instrumentals, to Italian-sung perfection by soaring tenor, Nathan Pacheco, as well as Latin beats that got us out of our seats to dance. I was blown away at the sheer, raw talent on the stage; both in the singers and the musicians. It was haunting and sensual; the kind of music that you felt leave its mark on your soul.

I will never forget it.

After the show, we were invited backstage, where we got to meet Chloe, Leslie Mills, and Ender Thomas. They were gracious and charming, and just as beautiful up close as they were on the stage.

Which really isn't fair. I mean, beauty and talent? I must have been totally absorbed in pre-earth reality t.v. when god was handing those things out.

(me, Chloe, and my friend, Maren)

(Me and Leslie Mills)

I have become obsessed with the new Yanni Voices album, and would encourage all of you to get one and do the same.

And if you're lucky enough to have them come to your city, BUY A TICKET, MAN. I'll tell you what, if I could hear this live anytime soon? I'd be all over it in a heartbeat.

For your viewing pleasure: I leave you with my new boyfriend, Nathan Pacheco.

Seriously, does it get any more delicious than that?

Don't even think about stealing him. But please, go buy the CD. It's the only way I'll share him with you.

Weekend recap

This past weekend was absolutely spectacular.

Spectacular, if you don't count the vomit, fevers, and general plague that has inflicted two of my three children, that is.

Sort of like saying, "Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?"

Lucky for us, these visitors were patient and fun, in spite of our less-than-stellar state of health.

We loved having Oma and Opa come visit. There was a forced photo shoot (by me), a treasure hunt, a World War II war medal internet search, and plenty of embarrassing stories told about the Husband.

Because the best thing about his mother? She remembers absolutely EVERYTHING and the kids cannot get enough of it. Who can blame them, what with juicy nuggets like the infamous tale involving a very manly pink baby blanket? Or the one where the Husband's face was left looking like hamburger meat after a bike crash?

What they don't realize, however, is that someday I will be proudly telling stories to their children, too. I think it's only fitting that I begin with this one.

Maybe by then I will have forgiven them.

But we took advantage of the near-perfect weather and headed to the town pool, where we sat poolside for hours. Those that were unwell, sat pitifully in the shade of a large umbrella. Those that were well, did lots of this for their captive audience's viewing pleasure:


Those that were named Stie did lots of this, merely for her own pleasure:

We truly loved having them here. It was a fantastic few days, and we're already wishing for more.

Coming later this week: The Yanni concert review, which introduced the world (and Oma) to her new Latin lover, as well as identity theft, i-Tunes style.

Trust me, you don't want to miss it.

Why husbands cannot be trusted

I have resigned myself to the inevitable.

There are just certain things in my life that I have no say in, no matter how much I whine, beg, and plead.

I know it's shocking, as I am the queen of quite a lot around here. I run the schedules, bedtimes, shopping, budget, and even most of the home repairs. But sometimes, the Husband just has to step up and take control, leaving this plan-a-holic gasping for breath.

Oh, the nerve of that man.

Take, for instance, the case of my sweet, angelic boy. One could hardly look into these baby blues and find any trace of malice, misdeed, or negativity.


Now take a look at what happens to my sweet angel the MINUTE, I tell you, THE VERY MINUTE, his father gets a hold of him and takes him for a haircut:

Could it be...Satan?

Lucifer, out back practicing his sweet moves

In truth, I have simply accepted my fate. Every year, on the last week of school, my loving, sensitive middle child is going to always turn punk and sport a mohawk. (See here, and here for proof, if you don't believe me).

I tolerate it for maybe a week or two, and then the mohawk is replaced by a summer buzz cut.

Don't tell him, but secretly I love that he doesn't give a lick what people at school think or care at all if he stands out in the crowd.

His older brother, however, could not be more mortified.

So here's to embracing life fully, doing what feels good, and sporting your own kind of style. May we all find a way to do that in our own lives.

Just preferably not in the barber shop.

P.S. Courtesy of random.org, the winner of the Yanni Voices tickets is Maren! Email me if you can go and I will turn your name in at the will-call box. Thanks, local peeps, for playing along. Maybe someday the sponsors will be generous enough to fly you ALL out here for a little show and a lot of Stie.

If only, right?

A weekend McKay will not likely forget

Our Memorial Day weekend was definitely, shall we say, a memorable one.

It started off with a literal bang when McKay crashed his bike on the street Friday afternoon, leaving (in his words) "a three-foot trail of blood and skin behind him."

He was wearing his helmet, which left his head in tip-top shape. We can't say the same thing for his knees and elbows, however.

Saturday was spent at a water park that masquerades as our city pool. It really is fantastic. Sometime I need to take my camera along with me so you can see what I mean. Giant water slides, a lazy river, diving pool, and watery playground. All within two minutes of our front door.

I'm pretty sure if they had beds there, our family would permanently move in every summer.

Sunday, the boys joined scout troops from all over Missouri to place flags on every soldier's grave at Jefferson Barracks. It was a profoundly patriotic experience for them both, despite McKay and a little incident involving vomit.

The poor kid really hasn't felt good all weekend, but we dragged him there anyway. Mostly to appease his brother, who was in tears that anyone would miss an opportunity to pay their respects to the veterans.

Have I mentioned that Chase LOVES the veterans? So much so, that he tried to donate the entire contents of my checking account to the Marine Corp veterans taking donations outside our grocery store on Saturday.

I had to help Chase see that a few dollars was good enough, though I am fairly confident he was not convinced.




Monday was spent at the movie theater seeing Night at the Museum, part two. (Our take: Not as funny as the original, but still made us laugh. Especially the Darth Vader/Oscar the Grouch part).

Poor Mack sat feverish and clammy through the entire show. I was prepared though, and brought a giant Ziploc bag, you know, just in case.

Luckily, we didn't need it.

Monday morning brought more vomiting, fevers, and a sharp pain in McKay's right side. Thus, Monday afternoon and evening was spent most memorably at the E.R. getting a CT scan to rule out appendicitis.

Scans came back negative (thank goodness) and after many hours spent watching Sponge Bob from a scratchy hospital chair, we were sent home with anti-nausea medicine and paperwork on gastroenteritis (which is really just a fancy word for stomach virus).

Stay tuned tomorrow for the concert tickets winner and pictures of a pretty exciting annual event around here involving Chase, the Husband, and a barber.

Heaven help me.

Calling all the local peeps

A little deliciousness for your Friday viewing pleasure:



I know, right?

Want to go see them?

Leave me a comment by midnight on Sunday, May 24th, and I will draw one lucky winner who will receive two tickets for the show. You will also receive passes for the meet and greet with the artists after the show, courtesy of the One2One Network. The show is Saturday, May 30th in St. Louis. Enter as many times as you'd like.

What can I say? I really liked getting all those comments.

I plan to be there with the fabulous Oma in tow. You might get to see me, too, if you're extra lucky.

I'll be the chubby one sneaking in M&Ms and diet coke in my gigantic purse.

How to be a rock star mom: Step-by-step instructions

Step One:
Have a good friend plugged in enough to the local literary scene that she alerts you to a book signing by your son's favorite author, Rick Riordan, creator of the brilliant Percy Jackson series.

Be sure to tell your oldest son about this as though it were your idea.

Step Two:
Take your oldest son and two of his friends to the book signing. Arrive two hours early in anticipation of the large crowds. Bring Subway sandwiches and a deck of cards to keep them busy.


Bask in the glow of their praise for your genius as you watch the line stretch out behind you for miles.

Step Three:
While waiting for the signing to start, steal your son's copy of the newest Percy Jackson saga, and ignore Radio Disney blasting from the speakers above your head. Pay no attention whatsoever to the ongoing pictionary game while reading said book. Look up momentarily to discover your son diving head first into the game and take a photograph of his thoughtful and artistic rendition of Medusa.

Smile, wave, and pretend you've been paying attention the whole time.

Step Four:
Laugh and shake your head when the crowd erupts in squeals and screams as Mr. Riordan enters the room. Be grateful your own son is above such hysterics.

Look over to find him hopelessly mooning over Mr. Riordan and basking in the sheer bliss of the moment.

Step Five:
Have your camera ready for the very moment when his peaceful bliss turns into utter delight as he realizes JUST. WHERE. HE. IS. RIGHT. NOW.

Feel very satisfied for making him so happy.


Step Six:
Text friends while waiting in a seemingly endless line for Mr. Riordan's signature.


Step Seven:
Be glad there is a former middle school teacher out there who decided to tell a bedtime story to his son. These actions, several years later, will cause your son to proclaim this day as, "THE BEST DAY OF HIS WHOLE LIFE."

Step Eight:
Drive home with a profound sense of satisfaction for, today, indeed, you were a great mom.
________________

If any of you (or your children) have not read these books, I highly recommend picking up a copy of the first book in the series, "The Lightning Thief." We have all enjoyed them at our house, and look forward anxiously for the movie coming out next February. They are a fabulous way to get your kids excited about reading. My oldest has become a fanatic on Greek mythology and these books have led him to study this subject in depth. I might even venture out on a limb to say that I liked them better than the Harry Potters.

Don't hate me. Read them and judge for yourself.

Drumroll, please

And the winner of the tell-Christie-how-wonderful-she-is-contest is...

Jesi/Mindy

Email me your address, and a fabulous prize is headed your way.

For the rest of you, in addition to thanks from the bottom of my heart, I have a post or two coming your way this week.

I know, I'm like the gift that keeps on giving, aren't I?

Don't answer that.

Would you like to super size that ego?

Well.

For the first time ever, I am at a loss for words.

How much do I love you, my cute little internet peeps?

I would have logged on here sooner to tell you as much, but I couldn't fit my now-gigantic head through the front door, let alone squeeze it in and be able to sit down in front of the computer.

You have made my day. You have rocked my world. You have given me the will to live.

Well, that last part was maybe a bit dramatic.

But, still, I am humbly honored and thrilled to know you're all out there, somehow connecting with the stuff that gets churned out here at Stie's Thoughts. I love you all. I wish we could go to dinner sometime and have you tell me again how wonderful I am.

Okay. I'll stop now. Really.

I will be drawing a winning comment tonight, and will accept entries until 8 p.m., central time, for anybody coming late to what became the surprise party for Stie.

Thanks, friends.

Coaxing you all out of the closet

I realized recently that I have been doing this little blogging thing for almost two-and-a-half years now. And you know what? I still love it. It's still fun. It's therapeutic for me, and it's given me a permanent record of my everyday life.

Which, we all know, is extremely exciting, right?

I know Angelina must weep with envy at the fabulousness that is me. Me and my thighs made entirely out of cookie dough.

But I feel like you know me here. You get me. You come back to see what dumb things I've done lately. You laugh at my bad haircuts and roll your eyes when I strut my stuff for the handicapped men at the grocery store. I figure, if you're reading me with any regularity, you must find something here that you like.

And so I have decided that today it is time for me to meet all of you. Because I like you. And I think it's time we became friends.

So here's the deal: Leave me a comment saying hi. Maybe tell me how you found me or when you first started reading. I'm even willing to entertain your hate mail. I guess I'm stupid curious like that. But, please, just say SOMETHING.

Even if you've never said something before. Come of your lurking closet. Just this once. Then you can go back in and I will let you read this blog in peace.

I will then take all the lovely love notes from you, throw them into a proverbial hat, and pick a random winner. The winning comment will receive something from me at some point in the near future. Not sure what, but it will be fabulous.

So, come on. Say hi.

Because sometimes? A girl just needs a little validation from her internet peeps.

Channeling my inner June Cleaver

A few weeks ago, I made a bargain with my friend, Maren. I told her that if she would teach me how to make jam, I would teach her how to make homemade chicken noodle soup.

Gabi has posted about the four-generation family recipe for chicken noodle soup here, which I now consider to be a large portion of Hannah's future dowry. I might have married the Husband for this recipe alone, had I known.

It is the same recipe I faithfully use, and it is truly amazing. My favorite part is actually using half an egg shell to measure the milk for the noodles. Something about that just seems so old-fashioned, so earthy.

What? I can be earthy. I can be old fashioned.

Shut up.

ANYway, I urge you to take advantage of the season, head out, and get yourself some strawberries, sugar, pectin, and jars. Because the joy of taking this:



While remembering to do a little bit of this:

And laughing with someone while they do this:


Will ultimately net you a large batch of this:

Pure, red, sugary heaven.

Which, by the way, I have had to ration. The little (and big) people around here seem to think they can have jam on just about everything. It's killing me how fast we're going through this stuff. I feel like I need to stash it safely away from their grubby mitts and growling stomachs.

I decided to hide the rest in the freezer under the vegetables. We all KNOW the children will never look there.

Neither will the Husband.

So, without further rambling on my part, I give you the recipe:

FREEZER JAM
3 cups mashed berries
5 cups sugar (I know, don't even say it, Robyn)
1 cup water
1 box pectin

Wash and stem the berries. Mash by hand (or in a blender if you're lazy like us). Stir sugar into berries and let sit for 20 minutes.

In the meantime, add pectin to water and stir until dissolved. Bring water and pectin to a boil, and boil for one full minute. Add water and pectin to berry mixture; stir until combined. Pour into clean, dry jam jars, leaving a little head room at the top. Cover with lids. Let jam jars sit on your counter for 24 hours, then store in the freezer.

Or until your piggy little munchkins get a hold of some and practically eat it by the spoonfuls.

Also critical to the success of the recipe is having some warm, soft, homemade bread handy. It helps you ensure that your blood sugar will remain in a constant diabetic state for at least a week straight.

Which any good jam really ought to do.

BYU's most eligible bachelor

A few weeks ago, one of my friends asked me to take senior pictures of her son. I was excited to practice taking pictures on someone willing and capable of sitting happily and smiling for me.

Unlike the people around here who would rather endure the dentist's drill than pose for their mother without the promise of cold, hard cash.

Dustan was a photographer's dream. He endured outfit changes, multiple locations, and more than an hour's worth of smiling at my camera. I think it was worth the effort and wanted to show you a few of my favorites.

Look out, ladies of BYU. This handsome fella is coming your way this fall:

Somehow, I don't remember the boys in my high school being nearly as cute or half as nice as Dustan is.

Grab him now, girls. He'll be going fast.

To my baby on her seventh

Dear Hannah,

I don't suppose you have even noticed that your birthday came and went without a letter from me here. What can I say? Such is the life of the youngest child. Time has gotten away from me the last month or so, but you have been ever present in my mind.


You have changed so much in the last year, little sis. You learned to ride your bike without training wheels. You started first grade, and went to school all. day. long, leaving me home by myself for the first time in 10 years. You began to assert your independence in so many ways.


And you began to pick your own clothes.

I have, for the most part, kept my mouth shut about your choices, even when I cringed as you left the house with brightly colored scarves around your neck and mismatched layered tees adorning your slim body. It was not until parent-teacher conference when your young, hip teacher exclaimed her delight at your keen fashion sense, that I began to wonder if I ought to have you picking out my clothes, too.

You've been trying to do that for a long time now anyway.


Hannah, of all the people in our family, you are probably the best sport. You are constantly dragged to baseball games or tae kwan do matches. You are outnumbered when it comes to movie picks, and are frequently forced to endure the war and action movies favored by your brothers. Week after week, and movie after movie, you cheerfully grab a coloring book and open it onto your lap - not wanting to be left out of the fun. It is your happy willingness to join in their games that melts my heart, even though I know you yearn for more girly companions a lot of the time.


The other day I was in the kitchen doing some baking. You had been helping me, and continued to keep me company with your chatter, even when the baking was through. I was washing the dishes, and I looked behind me to see you wiping the bar down with a wet towel. A smile on my face turned to a huge grin when I watched you grab the broom and start sweeping. You did this without any prompt on my part. It was such a big girl thing to do - to notice what needed to be done, and just do it.

I have no doubt this experience will never be repeated by your brothers, however.


All through our cleaning, you talked and talked, never once wanting to be anywhere else but by my side, and for a brief moment, I had a glimpse of what will be.

Of what has become, really.

No longer are you just the baby on the counter waiting to lick the spoon. Suddenly, and without warning, you have became my ally and companion in the kitchen. You have become my friend.

And sweets, I can't think of anything that I want more.

I love you deeper than you will ever know. There's a special place in my heart reserved solely for you.

You, the little baby who was sent to us quite on purpose when we were not looking. Tell me, what did we ever do without you?



I love you forever, little Chica.

♥Mama

A happy ending for our DMV fairy tale

I thought you all would like to know the end of the pretend, made up, and hypothetical story from yesterday.

Ahem.

Flash back to our fictional, imaginary heroine, who is beautiful, has flawless skin, and long, luxurious hair. She is so thin that models come seeking her advice on weight loss, and her mailbox is constantly full of love notes from the chiseled perfection that is Daniel Craig.

Admittedly, I might have gotten carried away with that last bit.

ANYway, upon noticing the smoking chimney staring her down, she immediately threw her car into reverse and drove around the block like the chicken that she is. After about ten minutes, she went back to the DMV with her husband's forged signature, and stood in what was now a very long line.

She, whoever she may be, is definitely not as brave as some of you fine people who would willingly forge their husband's signature while staring down the chain-smoking psychos of the DMV.

But our heroine was able to successfully register her new vehicle and is thrilled to finally have license plates.

She is mourning the loss of a gazillion billion dollars from her bank account, however.

And I feel certain that our heroine would choose to drown her sorrows in a diet coke from Sonic and a mini twix bar.

Who can waste calories on a Twinkie anyway? Especially with that delicious Daniel Craig just lying around . . .

The end.

Hypothetical fun on a Monday morning

Let's just say you get a new car. And, because you are not excited about handing over a gazillion billion dollars in sales tax to your local DMV, you wait until the last possible second to go in and register that car.

And let's just say, for imagination's sake, that upon entering the DMV, you gleefully notice there is no line. You eagerly hand over your 9,548 sheets of papers required by the local DMV.

All appears to be going well until the local DMV worker notices that your husband's signature is missing on one of the forms. You curse silently because you know that your husband is out of town for the week.

In this completely fictional situation, you would probably smile, take your piles of forms, and head out to your car. Because you are such a good person, you would then FedEx the documents to your husband's hotel, where he would sign his own name, and promptly FedEx them back the next day.

But let's just say, for argument's sake, that you are really good at signing your husband's name. So good, in fact, that he, himself, is unable to tell the difference between his own signature and your version.

Given this fact, hypothetically, you might wait out in your car, mentally allowing the ten minutes it would take for you to drive home and obtain the signature from your husband. You know, if he were actually there. You might decide to pass the time by calling your sister-in-law for a chat.

And let's just say that while you are sitting in the car chatting, not driving home for a signature from a husband who is not there, you look up to see the DMV worker who just helped you, coming out for his smoke break. He takes a few long, cancer-riddled puffs, looks your way, and notices you sitting there in your car.

Oh, frick.

In this type of alleged, hypothetical situation, do you:

a) Sit there in defiance and go back into the DMV with the signature magically obtained?

b) Give up, and go seek comfort in a Costco-sized box of Twinkies?

c) Drive around the parking lot like a coward before returning with the signature magically obtained?

d) Drive away and throw your shoe at the DMV door in protest, all while yelling obscenities and curses?

What would you do in this alleged situation, my friends?

Disclaimer: I'm not saying this was me or anyone I know. Definitely not me this morning. I have been sitting here at my desk, calmly thinking of solutions to potential problems such as this one.

I'm a problem solver, people. It's what I do.

This one's for you, Peter Skeever

On Tuesday of this week, our Crazy Uncle Pete (as is he affectionately called around here) was hit by a car while riding his bicycle to work. He went flying, landed on his head, and was knocked unconscious. The woman who hit him got out of her car, shrieked, and promptly drove away.

Yes, leaving him injured, unconscious, and alone. Not even sure if she had left him alive.

Thank heavens some witnesses to the accident called the ambulance, and Pete was rushed to a nearby hospital. He suffered a broken neck, broken back, sprained ankle, beat up face, and broken front tooth. He is not paralyzed, but will be recovering for MONTHS.

The person who did this has yet to come forward and own up to it.

Instead of focusing on the blinding rage I feel when I think about her cowardice, I am channeling my energy to well wishes for Pete and a little reminder for all you. My friends, when he landed on his head, his helmet split in two. Had he not been wearing one, well, I can't really even bring myself to think about what might have been.

The helmet literally. saved. his. life.

Please, please, please, wear your helmets. Make your kids wear their helmets. It only takes a minute, and can mean the different between being here today and not being here tomorrow. As a mother who has gotten a little lax herself when it comes to this, I can tell you, we will not be making that mistake again.

And hang in there, Pete. We're all praying for you here.

We heart these Idaho spuds of ours

Hello? Hello? Is there anybody out there?

Yeah, yeah, I know. Pink Floyd, I am not. But I am back and I've got lots to share with you.

Last week, we spent a lovely few days with this beautiful family:


My brother, Craig, and his family came for a little visit. His wife, Laura, is the sister I never got and always wanted. I LOVE her to pieces. She totally gets me. We stayed up until the wee hours chatting, pontificating, You Tubing, and cookie dough eating. Pretty much my four favorite things EVER.

We also took them to some of our favorite St. Louis sites. Like the new Five Guys restaurant, (which we love!), and which really isn't helping me any with the matter of my chubby thighs. They fell in love with it, too. And there's nothing like traveling all the way from Rexburg, Idaho to eat potatoes that are brought in from, yep, Rexburg, Idaho.

Only here in Missouri, we don't actually know how to spell "Rexburg," as you can see.

My children begged and pleaded to be kept home from school, and, good mother that I am, I used that as leverage to get them to do my bidding for an entire day. Nothing like a little motivation, eh?

Heh, heh. Suckers.

Of course, in the end, I let them stay home from school, and we had a blast at the science museum, the zoo, the park, and terrorizing the old people in our neighborhood.

Please come back soon, you Idaho spuds. It was so fun hanging out with you guys.

Plus, I could really use some leverage over these children around here. They seem to have lost their desire to do my bidding.

Stinkers.

Too tired to come up with a clever title

I am stopping my slightly manic cleaning frenzy to log on here and let you know that I may be absent from the blogosphere for the next few days. We have family coming to town (who we are absolutely excited to see) and, after two days of scrubbing every surface in our home, I think I am nearly ready for them.

Hope you all had a fabulous Easter and are not hungover on chocolate like I am. Curse those blasted Reeses peanut butter eggs.

Anyhoo, I promise to return later this week with stories and blogging galore.

Or at least a post or two.

Happy Monday, peeps.

Double your pleasure, double your fun

Last night, after I had leisurely indulged in a not-so-classic (or classy) book, which name I cannot divulge here due to the shame I'd feel if you knew I was reading it, I treated myself to a little bit of bad TV.

I mean, a girl can only work so hard in her life, right?

Shut up.

So, I'm lying in bed, falling asleep to some trashy TV, and I notice suddenly that the people on the television screen have four eyes and two heads. Yes, each. So, I sit up and adjust my glasses, thinking things would straighten themselves out.

They didn't. I was seeing two of everything.

I started to panic. My not-so-logical tendency is to assume it's the worst case scenario and jump to extremely unlikely conclusions. Like that I was having a stroke or a heart attack. Or I have a brain tumor. Maybe it's early onset dementia. Or Alzheimer's. And, oh my gosh, what if it's urinary incontence and E.D.?

Okay, maybe not that last one.

That'd be one for the medical journals, eh?

But I did panic. Here it was, ten o'clock at night, the Husband is out of town, and my children are blissfully sleeping. Totally unaware that their beloved wife and mother is probably dying of a stroke. Within minutes, I was all choked up, had planned my own funeral, and mourned the loss of myself and my unfulfilled life. You know, before I had actually come close to dying or anything.

Thankfully, it wasn't a stroke, and I sit here perfectly whole this morning, except for the killer headache I've got. It leads me to think that my double vision is most likely due to a migraine headache, which I have had before, just never with the double vision. Usually, I get the sparkling, twinkly lights before a migraine. I've been to a neurologist and do have migraine medication, but I did not think to take it last night. I figured it was wrong to treat my stroke/E.D. with Frova.

I might be a misdiagnosing psycho, but I am always cautious about my pharmaceuticals.

So now I have spent all morning Dr. Googling, and I have almost convinced myself that it is not actually a brain tumor. I now must call upon you, oh wise Internet self-diagnosing doctors. Have any of you had double vision with migraines? If so, what do you do?

Help. Please don't leave me alone here with my Dr. Google.

Bliss

I am startled out of sleep by the loud, merciless beeps. It is chilly this morning, and the tiny warm body in my bed is snuggled up close, stealing my body heat. I smile at her tangled mass of hair and wonder how she makes that perfect rock star hair in her sleep. I sigh and hit the snooze button at least three times before I can force myself out from under the warm covers.

I strip down and stand on the scale. I smile, for today it has been kind to me. I pull on the workout gear and slip into my pink, fuzzy slippers. I plod down the hall to wake the boys. As usual, they are already up. Up, at the crack of dawn.

Just like their father.

I chuckle and shake my head in awe, not comprehending how it is they manage to wake so early every day. And do it so cheerfully, too.

At breakfast, their sleepy faces start to light up as they speculate about the upcoming day. I take the morning poll and find out who is bringing and who is buying. I can almost always predict this, even without asking. Today they all surprise me and want to bring.

I suspect it has something to do with the pan of brownies on the counter.

I do dishes. I pack lunches. I blow dry the now smooth and very un-rock star-like hair. I smile and listen as she chatters on about every boy and girl in her class. I love her endless chatter, and silently wonder if everyone is lucky as I am.

I tie shoes. I zip backpacks. I look over and notice that both boys have a peanut butter smile on their cheeks. I laugh and send them in for a wash. I wipe counters. I sweep floors. I give hugs. I give kisses. I miss them already.

I stand at the door and wave. I watch the big, yellow bus take them from me, as it does each morning. I pray in my heart for their safety and happiness, as I do hundreds of times a day.

I sigh, content.

And I think to myself, what a wonderful world.