Inquiring minds want to know

In lieu of anything monumental to blog about tonight, I thought I'd take a page from Gabi (our own personal Bawbwa Waltehs) and conduct a little interview of my own.

With one of my own.

Clicked off to hunt for free porn yet?

No? Good, here goes.

Tonight I will be interviewing my youngest, Hannah, who for some reason seems to think that bedtime does not apply to her tonight.

Name: Hannah.

Nickname: Odette (Watch Swan Lake much? Me thinks a little TOO much).

Middle name: Ruby (in real life, she doesn't have one).

Favorite color: Pink. P-I-N-K, Mom. That spells pink. Ha ha ha ha ha. (She finds herself quite hilarious)

Favorite animal: Bunny. (If you only knew my girl, you'd know how vast of an understatement this is. Someday I will blog about her love of bunnies)

What do you want to be when you grow up? A teacher because I want to learn lots of things. But a teacher really only teaches things. So, I guess I don't want to be that. Maybe I'll just be a mom. And really beautiful. I'll be really, really beautiful and have lots of children. My husband will be just like Daddy, except maybe not with brown hair. He'll probably have gray hair. And he'll be handsome, just like Daddy.

What do you think I was like as a little girl? Just like me, only not as pretty. Ha ha ha ha ha. (Nice one, kid.)

What kind of a mom do you think you will be like? A nice mom. I will take my children out to dinner at fancy restaurants like McDonald's. I will buy my little girls lots of Webkinz. And I guess for my little boys, too. I think I will have two girls and one boy. That's the opposite of our family.

Am I a nice mom? Yes.

Be honest? YES, GEEZ!

What's your favorite food that I make? Umm...[crickets chirping in the background, then a long pause]...panacakes.

What do you think Daddy does for work? He helps the hospital, and he gets people to the hospital. (Close, except that sometimes health care consultants have to FIRE people working in the hospital. I won't tell her if you don't.)

Who is your best friend? Jilian.

What is your favorite thing about me? [Long disapproving look] Umm, you smell good?

What are you afraid of? The dark because I think ghosts will pop up, but I know they're not alive.

If you know they're not alive, why are you afraid of them? Because I can't get rid of that feeling.

Why are you still awake right now - it's 9:58? Hee hee hee. Cause I want to sleep with you. (Husband is out of town, of course, which leaves me with a six-year-old bunkmate)

Are you waiting for me to come to bed before you will fall asleep? Yes.

Who is the mom here, me or you? ME. Ha ha ha, hee hee hee.

All right. Time for bed.

So concludes the end of this highly important interview in which I learned that I smell nice and am not in charge around here.

Now tell me something I didn't know.

What happens when Spiderman has a major growth spurt

I tried to make him promise never to wear this EVER. AGAIN.

He simply couldn't imagine why.

Don't give up on me

I'm not ignoring you, interpeeps; honest I'm not. Just been really busy.

School ended last week.

I took on some new work projects.

I got a new camera lens that I am wanting more time to play with.

We started a basement project that is requiring a lot of my time.

Oh, and did I mention the kids are home now? For the whole summer?

I promise, little blog, I'll be back soon. Lots of pictures and stories to tell.

Stay tuned...

P.S. For those of you that are interested, the mohawk lives on. Essentially, I am powerless on this subject. I've accepted it.

Death by Caramel Bars

It's time, dear interpeeps, for another edition of: MAKING MY FRIENDS AS FAT AS ME.

This week's tool: Caramel bars.

Now, don't be fooled by their simple appearance. These are not just ordinary caramel bars. They are special. They are 'wrestle your husband to the ground for the last one' caramel bars.

Not that I'd know anything about that, ahem.

And if I was sitting in prison, awaiting death row for killing a husband who dared to eat the last one, I'd probably make these my last meal. And I'd definitely die happy.

[Luckily, I really don't know anything about that. Phew.]

But I got this recipe years ago from my friend Sue, when we both lived in Boston. I can still remember the first time I tried them in her beautiful, spacious kitchen in Concord. Right then and there, I knew two things. One, I HAD to have this recipe, whatever the cost; and two, that Sue and I would be friends for life. Because a friend that gives you a recipe like this? She's one you'll trust for a long, long time.

So. Let's begin fattening you all up, shall we?

First melt two sticks of butter in the microwave:
Then add:

1 1/2 cups brown sugar
2 cups flour
2 cups oatmeal
1 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
Stir it all together. I like to use my hands. Makes me feel all earthy and homemaker-ish. The dough should clump together, but still crumble well.
Now press only HALF of the dough into a greased 9x13 pan.
Bake at 325 for 17 minutes. (How could you not love this recipe with a baking time of 17 minutes? Just sets my little heart all a flutter).

Remove it from the oven and dump an entire bottle of this over the top.
Yes, that's right. I said the entire bottle. Now would be a good time to mention that you might need to grab a few insulin shots while you're at the store getting supplies. One bite of this will likely send you into a diabetic coma.

But it's so worth it.
Next, generously sprinkle chocolate chips over the top of the caramel. Then top that with the remaining dough. You don't need to press the dough this time, just crumble all over the top.

Now pop this baby back into your 325 degree oven and bake for another 17 minutes.

Once you remove the pan from the oven, let it cool completely. They really need to sit for a while to allow that caramel gooey-ness time to firm up a bit. You can put them in the freezer to speed up this process if you're too impatient to wait. What? Me, impatient? Never.

And finally?

Hello, lover.

As your new BFF, I am thrilled to have helped you discover these lovelies. I say a little prayer of thankfulness for my friend Sue each and every time I make these.

You're welcome.

Why husbands should not be in charge of matters relating to hair

Remember this from last year?

Apparently, it has become a tradition.

Quite without my consent.

Here is what my darling boy looked like before the Husband took him for a haircut today:
And here is what he looks like now:

There are just no words (except words with four letters in them, and I vowed to stop saying those out loud).

Welcome to my world, internets.

Things I Learned Last Week

• You bloggers have very decided opinions when discussing being on-time or late. I had no idea there was such strong feelings on the subject. (Note to self: Be more controversial).
  
• Caramel bars make the Husband's Sunday school class a very happy place to be (recipe coming later this week, I promise).
• Pulling my brand-new dryer out from the wall a little bit will quite miraculously reduce the time it takes to dry a load from one-and-a-half hours to about 36 minutes.
  
• Doing this will cause me to swear out loud, and then wonder stupidly why I didn't do it a month ago.
  
• In my mind, stockpiling my house with books makes up for the lack of food storage. What we'll eat in a crisis? I don't know. But books, we'll have in droves.
  
• Watching my son pitch at his games and strike out several players is a very fun thing.
• Unless you are the player getting struck out. Then it's probably not so fun.
  
• Four-dollar-a-gallon gas prices will put a damper on the Husband's RV dream vacation this summer.
• The aforementioned gas prices will force us to stay in nice hotels instead (which thus turns our trip into more of MY dream vacation).
• My backyard has somehow become a bird sanctuary. Especially around five-thirty every morning when they converge right outside my window and speak to each other. AT THE TOP OF THEIR TINY BIRD LUNGS.
  
• This is making me not like them so much anymore.
• Self-given pedicures are against god's plan. When eagerly scraping dead skin off my heels, it is always a good idea to stop before the blood appears. Pain and suffering will surely follow, along with a solemn promise to never touch my own feet again.
  
• Favorite thing this week: Good friends and tents in my backyard, warm chocolate chip cookies, and a few sunny days that make up for all the rain.
  

Will the real time please stand up?

Hi, my name is Christie, and I am obsessive-compulsive. (Hi, Christie).

Bet you didn't know that.

Lately, I have been thinking about another facet of my ever-so-slight OCD (stop laughing). It is definitely not the worst of my many quirks, but is still something that drives the Husband a little batty. And that is the fact that I am incapable of showing up late to ANYTHING.

I think my eye just started twitching thinking about it.

It literally pains me if I am late to anything. Pains me. I just cannot be late. The Husband moans and groans every Sunday when we arrive 20 minutes early to church. But I cannot, and will not, sit in the back, so early we must be.

I have developed a bad habit of moving the time ahead on our clocks in order to trick my family into thinking they are late, thus making them rush a little more to get out the door. Imagine their delight when we get into the car, and surprise! We're not late at all. We're early. (Some in our family don't find this to be a good surprise. Cough*husband*cough).

The only problem is that now I have no idea what the real time is because I've moved every clock around by so many minutes. I have become terrified I will actually BE late when going somewhere, and so I combat that by moving the clocks MORE ahead.

I know, I need help.

Next spring, at daylight savings, do not be surprised if our clocks don't have to change at all.

Do any of you do this? Or am I standing all alone out here on my big crazy platform?

Probably. But that's all right.

At least I won't be late for all those therapy sessions I'm going to need.

My kids

My kids wake themselves up to play at the crack of dawn, and see nothing wrong with this annoying habit.

My kids make their own waffles and smear peanut butter all over the counter. And they never clean it up when they're done, either.

My kids climb trees in our backyard.

Then come in crying when they get a scratch.

My kids make huge messes. Especially in their rooms.

My kids track mud all through the house. I honestly believe they have no idea what a doormat is for.

My kids do not want me to come with them to the bus stop. They want to do it all by themselves.

But they do require that I stand at the window and wave as the bus passes.

My kids currently do cub scouts, swimming, baseball, and ballet.

My kids whine when they have too much homework.

My kids splash water all over the floor when they're in the tub.

My kids grow out of their clothes faster than I can keep up with.

My kids crave sweets, sugar, suckers, and gum. And they get it more than they should.

My kids tell the dumbest knock-knock jokes.

My kids fight with each other.

They absolutely detest running errands, unless it's to Target, and then they beg and whine to go down the toy aisles.

My boys love Star Wars, Indiana Jones, and World War II.

My girl loves dress-ups, dolls, and High School Musical.

My kids color with markers that sometimes leak onto my desk.

My kids break expensive electronic things.

My kids wear holes in their jeans faster than ice cream melts.

My kids cannot fall asleep without a kiss and a hug from me.

***************

This morning, my mind and heart is full of all the things my kids can do. We made our semi-annual trip to Children's Hospital for McKay's asthma and allergy check-up.

And as we sat in the shared waiting room, I couldn't help but look around at the other kids. Many were in wheelchairs with contorted, mangled limbs. Many were there getting their heart checked, because the core of their body just doesn't work like it should. A few were bald, with patchy tufts of hair the only remnant of what they looked like before the cancer reared its ugly head. Some smiled. Some looked sad. Some didn't look like they knew where they were at all.

And I have never in my life been more thankful for what we don't have.

So today, I will clean up that peanut butter. I will wipe the marker off my white desk. I will hug them when they slip and fall. I will probably still get mad at the mud they track through the house. But I am eternally grateful for all the annoying, physical, happy, healthy, busy things my kids can do.

And my heart just aches for the moms who have kids that can't.

It's a dog-eat-dog world

This morning I went to Sam's Club. And before you ask, no, I was not hit on today by any strange or handicapped men. Disappointing, yes.

But I happily wandered up and down the aisles of my local store, filling my cart with all kinds of treasures. Things full of partially hydrogenated oil and high fructose corn syrup. Things that probably cause cancer and diabetes. You know, things that taste really good.

And while there, I had me some samples.

I had some of these:

And I had some of this (which I buy on a regular basis and love):
And I even had some of this, and although delicious, I did not buy it. I prefer my wasteful calories in cookie dough form.
I was tempted to have some of this, but the sample table was too crowded. Lots of old men in cowboy hats dying for a miniature bite of a pizza bagel.

But it was all right. I was already full from my chips and cream puffs.

But the one sample that I was not even remotely tempted to taste was this:
Yes, they were sampling DOG FOOD at my Sam's today.

In sample cups.

For people to taste, I presume, since no dogs shop at my Sam's on a regular basis.

You know, seeing as how they don't drive or take the bus. Because THEY'RE DOGS.

Has the world gone mad and I just don't know it? Please explain this to me. Why would they sample the dog food?

I just don't get it.

The keeper of the kingdom

TravelinOma wrote today about the green people in her life.

Let me take a moment and tell you about the little green person that is in mine (who probably would be much happier with more environmentally-conscious parents like these).
Chase has always been fascinated by animals. It began when he suddenly became obsessed over elephants at about age one. And when I say obsessed, please think of stalker-like, all-consuming-type behavior. To say that he loved elephants does his passion a great disservice.

Elephants somehow morphed into dinosaurs around age three.

There were not enough books in the library to satisfy his need for information. Big, thick books with words I had to learn to pronounce like Orinthomimus or Pachycephalasaurus (which I still know to this day). It agitated him to see cartoon-like T-Rex's with three claws on scrawny arms. Because, after all, T-Rex only had two claws. And any self-respecting paleontologist would know that.

Dinosaurs eventually morphed into reptiles--frogs and snakes, in particular. He can identify any snake or frog, in pretty much any part of the world. He can reiterate its life cycle, predators, food, and mating habits. He even once tried unsuccessfully to mate two plastic frogs in the middle of church.

He has always expressed extreme sorrow when reading about the rain forests being destroyed. His little heart nearly bursts when he talks about the importance of protecting the environment. It has in the past, and no doubt will in the future, bring him to tears. When his hero, Steve Irwin, died, we felt like we had lost a real friend.

Chase is just that kind of a guy.

Well, lately his passion has taken on a new voice.

The very loud voice of recycling and energy conservation.

He lectures me on a daily basis for not recycling my diet coke cans. He yells at his brother and sister when they leave the water on while they're brushing their teeth. He digs through the garbage when he gets home from school, and pulls out anything that can be recycled. Even if that thing has disgusting dried up food on it. He sees beautiful neighborhood fountains, and is disturbed by the wasteful use of resources.

And, with a passing comment made by Aunt Heidi in Utah, he is busily preparing a full-blown lecture series on the environment for his cousins when we visit this summer.

And yes, he's only eight years old.

So, thanks to Chase, we'll keep recycling around here, even if it's against our will and without our consent.

Al Gore would be so proud.

Telling lies to get to Blogapalooza

There is so much to say. And yet where to begin?

Let's begin with the trip that almost didn't happen.

After getting a very sad email from my real-life friend, Annie, that she would not be able to make it (see why here), I arrived at the airport on Thursday afternoon. I was excited, nervous, and ready to go. I stepped up to the counter, and was greeted by a guy who looks disturbingly similar to this one:

Only a little less cute.

He checked my ID, and commented that we share the same birthday (except he was classy and smooth, and pointed out that my birthday is ten years sooner than his, thus making me essentially an old hag). He was flirty and eager, yet annoying, and I made nice long enough to get myself checked in, and on my merry way.

About ten minutes before I was scheduled to board the plane, the Seymour-Hoffman Ugly Twin comes to the terminal and announces that our flight has not even left Denver yet, and that we'd be delayed for an undetermined amount of time. He told everyone to sit tight, and that they'd work on connections and call us up when they were done.

Immediately 40 people got in line at the counter. I was wise enough to be one of them.

I watched five or six people in front of me be turned away without success. When it came to be my turn, I tilted my head, pathetically batted my eyelashes, and said in a sultry whisper, "Hello, birthday friend." He blushed, and apologized for the delay. Sensing my chance, I told him that I just HAD to get to Salt Lake tonight. He shrugged his shoulders and said they'd do their best, and for me to have a seat.

That's when the lie suddenly, and without warning, came out.

I might have accidentally told him that I was supposed to be the keynote speaker at a very important conference Thursday night (unlike the real keynote speaker), and that I just HAD to be there. This lie might have been told with very doe-like eyes, and my bosoms may or may not have been squeezed together - accidentally. He glanced behind me at the ever-growing line of angry customers, and then slowly picked up the phone.

Turns out, his mother works for another airlines as a gate agent, and between the two of them, they were able to get me switched to another flight.

Yes, ON ANOTHER AIRLINE.

I have no doubt that others waiting behind me did not get the same lucky break (too bad they weren't born on the same day as the Seymour-Hoffman Ugly Twin. Yay me).

My lucky break, it turned out, was not as lucky as I needed it to be. I did get into Salt Lake and to my Blogapalooza party (after getting lost and requiring cell phone directions from my private navigation system, the Husband), but not until it was almost over.

I peeked my head nervously into the room full of women I have been dying to meet. Celia Fae looked up, recognizing me immediately. She screamed and rushed over, throwing her arms tight around me.

And I promise you, internets, I have never felt like more of a rock star than at that moment.

Right then, all the stress and drama was forgotten. It was such a treat to look around the room, and meet you all in real life, to recognize you from your blogs. People who I have been reading about for a very long time. People who actually read me, and then leave nice words for me when they come. It was a very good feeling, and I wished I had not missed so much of it.

I did not get to talk to all of you like I wanted, but those that I got to chat with were as generous, kind, and beautiful as they are on their blogs. I felt as though I knew you already. Conversation was easy. There was not the awkwardness that you would expect in a room full of people you didn't know. I felt as though I were in a room full of old friends.

And in a way, I was.

What say you to making this an annual tradition, new friends? Shall we meet every year? Say yes, and I will be there.

But I can't promise I won't lie my way into getting there again, and I definitely will work what I've got to get myself on that plane.

This is one party I wouldn't have missed for the world. Thanks for everything!

Some answers for you to chew on for a few days

Oh, my darling interpeeps.

I am leaving you for a few days to head out of town for some more girl time. I know it just seems like I got back from some time away, but lucky me, I get to go again.

I am heading to this conference, where I hope to pay enough attention that I learn something, and attending a huge party where I will actually get meet a large group of you, face to face, for the first time.

I leave you with some answers to your burning questions:

1. Spray-on tan: Absolutely god's greatest invention for skin-cancer phobics like me. (Yes, Dad, I realize I am the same girl that used to lay out in the backyard with baby oil burning on my skin. I know, I know...).

You do it at your normal tanning salon, but be prepared to pay about four times what you would for a regular tanning session. It is safe, FDA approved, and very effective. It lasts about 5-7 days, and then gradually begins fading away. For me, it just evens out my skin tone and gives me a slight glow.

Not once have I come out looking either like an oompa-loompa or worse, DonatellaVersace, which is what I was at first afraid of. I get that sun-kissed look, without the harmful, wrinkle-causing touch of the sun. I highly recommend it. I did it a few times this winter when I was feeling especially pale and ugly. Perks you right up.

2. My new mascaras: Hit up your local mall and stop by Sephora. Ask one of the annoyingly eager ever-friendly workers for Dior Show (for thickness) and Fiberwig (for length). Best new discovery I've made in a long time. It has plumped up and lengthened my normally stubby eyelashes. I'm in love.

3. Dan: I have gotten a few comments and some emails in slightly worried tones about Dan, who seems to leave nasty comments for me every day. He is (until proven otherwise) my brother. I love him for his sarcasm and would actually faint dead if he ever said anything semi-nice. Please do not worry about the things he says. It's his love language. Thanks, though, for your concern. It's nice to have somebody who cares if my feelings are being hurt.

That's about it. Just finishing up the laundry, lists, cleaning, and packing for my weekend away. Can't wait to meet you all.

I only wish it were going to be warmer. [Stupid weather has forced me to rethink my entire trip wardrobe.]

See you soon!

Helpful hints

Things not to ask me about today:

Discovering the next door neighbors were cutting down a tree at six a.m. this morning. Yes, with a chain saw. At six-freaking-o'clock-in-the-morning.

The pain in every part of my body brought on by the trainer I pay to torture me every week.

The laundry that is not done.

The baseball game that I barely got my son to (because I'm a moron and thought it started a half hour later than it actually did).

The temperature of said baseball game hitting a high of 43 degrees.

The three hot chocolates I had to buy at the baseball game to keep little fingers warm (and the subsequent spills that made it a major waste of money).

The mac and cheese three little people might be having for dinner tonight, and its lack of nutritional value.

The trip I am taking in two days and am nowhere near ready for (and still have NO IDEA what I'm going to wear).

The blog I have been ignoring all week, much to my chagrin.

Things you may ask me about today:

My new spray-on tan that makes my pasty-white skin look slightly brown. And therefore less full of freckles.

My new mascara(s) (thanks, Nicole!)

Cookie dough (always a favorite subject)

Guess that's it. Any questions?

Today she is six

And I am very afraid that if I blink, she will be 16.

Happy birthday, baby. Love you more than you will ever know.

Pride Cometh Before the Poor House

I have an issue that I'd like to complain about today.

School picture day.

I. ABSOLUTELY. HATE. IT.

There is something so cheesy, so tacky to me about the faded blue/gray background and posed child with a fake smile. It is the same no matter where you go. Granted, the school photographers are shooting anywhere from 500 to 600 kids in a day and, therefore, my kids only get one shot to look their best in the photo. I understand they're not going to spend the time it takes to get that one perfect shot.

Believe me, that task is next to impossible. I've spent the time it takes.

I have had to beg, demand, cajole, and even resort to paying my children in order to have them pose for me. I usually shoot about a hundred pictures, and will be lucky to get one or two that I like. There is no way the best of my children will be captured by the school photographer in one shot.

And yet, I feel compelled to purchase a package each and every time (which is twice a year in our current school). Not compelled because I want a collection of these ugly, stiff pictures, but because I refuse to have my child be the one child in their class who doesn't buy a package. I will not have them look longingly at their friends' ugly pictures and wonder why they don't have an ugly picture of their own. I will not have teachers and classmates think we cannot afford to buy a photo package. And that pride leads to us to spend a large amount of money every year on pictures that look ridiculous.

Here are just a few from my hidden collection:

I ABSOLUTELY KNOW that my children are the most beautiful children ever created, but these photos do not remotely capture anything other than stiff, awkward, serial-killer like expressions. I hate them. I don't send them to grandparents. I most certainly do not put them up on the wall.

You must be asking yourself then what pictures I do deem worthy of putting up on the wall? I am a photo snob, and I'll admit it. Here are some of my favorites, taken by me, of them:







See? You see what I mean now, don't you. Here is a picture of our photo wall with my favorite shots blown up.

And so, next week when I enclose a check in the Tacky-Photos-R-Us envelope for Hannah's ballet pictures, please know that I do it very begrudgingly. But I'd rather waste money than appear as though I have none.

Please tell me there is someone out there like me. I can't imagine that I'm all alone in my insanity. Right? RIGHT?

His and Hers Perceptions

The Husband is generally not around during the week as he travels a lot for work. He's not privy to my daily routine, and I am not privy to his. I'm sure he has his own ideas about what happens around here.

Here's what I think his perceptions are of how I spend a typical day:

7:00 a.m. The alarm goes off. Yell at the kids to get out of bed, then fall right back asleep.

7:50 a.m. Rush out of bed and shove the kids out the front door for school. When they ask about lunches, tell them to just share what the kid next to them brings for lunch. Feel good for teaching them how to share.

7:51 a.m. Eat my own hearty breakfast of donuts, brownies, and chocolate milk.

7:55 a.m. Scratch rear end with long poking stick.

7:59 a.m. Yawn. Consider taking a shower. Go back to bed instead.

11:45 a.m. Wake up and shove Hannah out the door for the kindergarten bus pick-up. Remember her need for lunch and throw a pop-tart at the bus in the hope that she catches it.

12:01 p.m. Go through McDonald's drive-thru and order a Big Mac, three orders of fries, and a large milkshake for lunch. For myself.

12:12 p.m. Rush home to watch several soap operas while gorging on McD's.

2:00 p.m. Take a much-needed nap.

3:20 p.m. Greet the children at the front door with strict instructions not to disturb my second afternoon nap. Tell them to do their own homework.

5:00 p.m. Wake up from nap, order a pizza, and ignore the large pile of dishes in the sink.

5:30 p.m. Feed the children. Eat remaining donuts from this morning when the children aren't looking. Laugh when the children ask for vegetables. Force them to eat greasy pizza instead.

6:00 p.m. Send the children to bed.

6:01 p.m. Begin five hour nighttime television marathon involving TIVO'd episodes of soap operas that I missed while napping.

6:30 p.m. Consume remaining eight slices of pizza. Wash it down with some diet coke and feel good about my low-calorie drink. Feel deep sense of satisfaction for making such a healthy choice.

11:00 p.m. Begin to get ready for bed, and realize I am still in my pajamas from the night before. Smile wickedly at that thought and crawl into the unmade bed.

11:01 p.m. Fall asleep while eating a bag of Doritos.

*********************************

Oh, I wish. Here's how I REALLY spend my days:

6:28 a.m. Wake up. Hit the snooze button three times and wish it was a Saturday.

6:55 a.m. Get out of bed. Find two of the three children already awake. Wonder how I gave birth to such cheerful early risers.

7:00 a.m. Feed the children a breakfast of Eggo waffles, apples, peanut butter, and skim milk. Throw in the first of several loads of laundry. Pack lunches. Clean up breakfast dishes, kitchen, living room, and sun room. Vacuum entire first floor.

7:50 a.m. Hug and kiss the boys, and watch them walk to the bus stop. Wait for the bus to pass and wave them off to their day.

8:00 a.m. Hit the treadmill. Sweat and run to a re-run of Desperate Housewives. Silently be grateful there's a new Grey's Anatomy this week.

9:00 a.m. Read a few blogs.

9:20 a.m. Shower, blow dry hair, apply make-up, and get dressed. Change the laundry.

10:15 a.m. Assemble goodie bags for Hannah's birthday party this week. Play dollhouse with her. Listen to her excitedly describe YET AGAIN every character on High School Musical. Nod, and smile, and say, "Oh really, wow!" while secretly wanting to punch Sharpay and Troy. Go pick up dry cleaning.

11:30 a.m. Feed Hannah her favorite lunch of Spaghettios and goldfish. Force her to drink a glass of milk.

12:00 p.m. Watch for the bus with Hannah. Wave to her, even though she never looks or waves back.

12:01 p.m. Run to the grocery store, milk store, Target, and post office. Stop for a diet coke at McDonald's. Savor its absolute perfection.

1:30 p.m. Come home and unpack groceries. Change the laundry again. Go downstairs to office and transcribe three very long and boring files.

3:15 p.m. Greet children at the door and remind them to take off their shoes. Help McKay with his 4th grade math homework and find that it is too challenging for me. Try not to let him know this. Pretend to love math. Wonder when I lost so many brain cells.

4:00 p.m. Begin dinner. Remember laundry that is waiting and switch loads again.

5:00 p.m. Feed the children. Make them eat their vegetables. Feed self. Do the dishes. Re-vacuum entire first floor, most especially around Chase's spot, who wins the Messiest Eater Award every night at dinner.

5:45 p.m. Listen to Chase and Hannah read.

6:30 p.m. Fold more laundry. Put away laundry. Take out garbage.

7:30 p.m. Drive McKay to his baseball game. Cheer, yell, shout, and moan. All at the same time.

7:43 p.m. Take both Chase and Hannah to the bathroom, which is conveniently located about 14.8 miles from the field. Remind them AGAIN to go before we leave home.

9:45 p.m. Game ends. Congratulate McKay on his triple play. Avoid pointing out that it was errors and overthrows made by the other team. Be glad he is so happy about it. Take three tired kids home. Force them to shower against their will. Send them to bed.

10:30 p.m. Remove clothes, wash face, brush teeth, and climb exhausted into my neatly-made bed.

10:31 p.m. Fall fast asleep and dream about doing it all again tomorrow.

************************

See, honey? I think we all know what REALLY happens around here, even you. I'd like to say that I'm living the first life, as it seems to involve lots of donuts and naps, but unfortunately, that is not my life. This one is.

And it's not so bad.

Gotta run though. I'm sure there's a donut somewhere with my name on it.

I feel the earth move under my feet

There have been some disturbing events in my town recently. Let me share them with you.

Disturbing Event Number One:

Two days ago, a home in the neighborhood adjoining ours caught fire. We smelled the smoke first, and thought the neighbors were making something extra delicious on the bar-b-que.

Then we heard the sirens.

[This photo was taken from my front porch:]

Disturbing Event Number Two:

This morning, at about four-thirty a.m., a 5.2 earthquake rocked the Midwest. I immediately sat up in bed and (in my delirious half-asleep state) thought it was a windstorm. The ceiling fans were rattling, the beds were moving, and I could hear things throughout my whole house banging around. I put my hands up, trying to brace the wall (because that's totally going to hold up the house, you know). The shaking continued and I realized it was not the wind, but the entire earth moving beneath me.

And you know what? That realization was surprisingly not comforting.

But the shaking and quaking eventually did end, and we escaped without any damage (as did most of the Midwest, thankfully). Chase woke up in the middle of it, and could not go back to sleep. So he did the only logical thing he could think of - he woke his brother up to play.

Yes, at four-thirty in the morning.

Disturbing Event Number Three:

Remember this?

Well, I have had three packages delivered this week by UPS. And it was not my peeping tom regular driver.

Now. I figure it can only mean one of three things:

1) I have either driven him off the job, what with the frightful sight that is my nekkidness, and he is now out on workman's comp due to the mental hardship of that day;
2) My house is now the best house on the route and I will never see the same driver twice;
3) None of the above - it's only a coincidence.

I should also mention that one of the packages was delivered by a woman.

I think it's number one. Discuss.

Linky Love

I have no humorous or poignant words for you today, as I am still bitter and angry at having to hand a small fortune over to my wasteful government yesterday. But I know someone who is funny and poignant.

My word-inventing interpeep Lisa, at Take 90 West, has written THE MOST HILARIOUS post. Seriously. You must go there. Right now. I laughed so hard, that I had to wipe the tears from my eyes to even finish reading. Seriously funny business going on involving man purses, European tourists, and American appetites. That's all I'm gonna say.

What? You still here? Go there. Now.

Oh, and when you're done there, stop by my adorable cousin Kimberly's blog and sign up for her Desperate Housewives Swap. You've only got a few more days to get in on the fun. Who doesn't want good mail?


Go. Now.

Come back here tomorrow. Maybe I'll be funny by then.

But probably not.

A letter to my government

Dearest Federal Government:

Today, on the day in which you see the need to take half of my soul in taxes, I would like to make a plea.

If you must steal 35 percent of my husband's hard-earned money, can you please not spend it on wasteful things, as you have in the past? You know, like when you spent $13 million to help fund the World Toilet Summit in Ireland?

Oh, yes they did.

And you think that's the least offensive thing? Take a look at this.

Don't even ask me to pretend to understand it.

I ask you, good sirs, to take my money and do something good with it. Like fixing health care. Or making our schools safe, productive environments of learning.

Those kinds of things I get, and will unclasp this fist from my dollars a little less begrudgingly for.

Much obliged,

Stie

Loving Hannah

Last night, I got an email from a good friend we knew in Boston (hi, Kathy F!). This dear, sweet woman and her husband were huge fans of our kids. So much so, that her husband (on his way to work) was one of the first people to come see me in the hospital after I delivered Hannah. I've never forgotten their many kindnesses, and getting back in touch with her took me back about seven years in time.

We moved to Boston in September of 2000. It was the peak of everything - economy, dot-coms, housing, jobs, technology - the world seemed so boundless then, didn't it? So full of promise?

Then about a year into our time there, on a crisp September morning, the world forever changed. I have written in the past about my experiences on that awful morning, which you can read again here.

Let's just say that September of 2001 rocked our family personally, as well. I had found out a few weeks prior to 9-11 that I was expecting another baby. I wish I could say that every part of me rejoiced at the opportunity to be a mother again, but I didn't. This was a major surprise. A surprise that neither one of us could find the energy to get excited about.

At the time, we were overwhelmed with the daily exhaustion that came with raising two wild and energetic boys. McKay was three, and Chase was not yet two. We felt insane with just the two kids we had. We were living in an apartment, and in light of the newly-shaken economy, had just downgraded to an even smaller apartment until we could be sure our job was viable long-term. And the thought of even one day with the boys and a newborn in a two-bedroom apartment did little to cheer me up. We just weren't ready for a third. The timing seemed all wrong.

We told no one about this pregnancy, and that included our extended family, parents, and friends. I felt that until I could be happy when I shared the news, it was better to keep it to myself. So we did what every American did in those months following 9-11. We watched the news for hours on end. We flew our flag. We drove to and from work. And we tried to remember to count our blessings.

Several months went by, and the news was no longer concealable, as my growing belly announced our situation for us. Thanksgiving came, and we drove down to spend it with Gabi and her family, figuring it was time to announce this baby to those we loved. Gabi's husband, Brad, was the first to greet us that weekend and said nothing - thinking I had simply gained some weight (thanks, Brad). Gabi could tell right away, and gave shrieks of excitement and joy. I tried hard to catch some of her enthusiasm, while feeling very guilty for not being more happy. A surprise visit from Opa that weekend, and the cat was definitely let out of the bag.

A few weeks after we got home, I had my first ultrasound. I remember laying on the paper-covered table, in the darkened room, waiting for it to begin. Laying there, staring up at the white ceiling tiles, I was not sure what to hope for. Another boy? Could we handle one more? And a girl? I don't know how to take care of a girl (forget the fact that I am one). As all these thoughts ran through my head, the cool shock of the jelly on my largely protruding stomach brought me back to the present.

And as the technician began to probe and measure, this little, flickering heartbeat caught my eye. I could make out tiny, perfect toes.

And fingers.

Arms and legs, and hands and feet, moving to a rhythm I already knew well.

And then something happened. A rush of emotion came over me and tears filled my eyes as I saw the first glimpses of this baby. Not just an inconvenient thing that seemed to have come so unexpectedly without our consent, but my baby. A sweet, little person that we would get to know soon.

"It's a girl," the technician told me with a smile.

A girl. We were having a girl. In an instant, I felt as though everything came into focus. As I lay there on the table, I began to feel an overwhelming sense of happiness. I knew then that it would be okay. It was going to be more than okay.

It was going to be fantastic.

And you know something? It has been. Every single day spent with this sweet angel in our family has been filled with bliss.

Silly, pink, fluffy, girly bliss.

And I wouldn't trade it for all the riches in the world.

I love you, baby.

God sure knows what he's doing with those big surprises.

Back from the dead with an introduction

Hi.

Remember me?

Well, I'm back from the dead and in tip-top shape, thanks to antibiotics, codeine cough syrup, and sleep. I appreciate all your many well-wishes while I was away. Unfortunately, you didn't listen to me when I said not to blog. I do not think my Bloglines will ever be caught up.

There was someone who forgot to send well-wishes and good thoughts my way, however. And that someone knows who he is.

My brother, Dan.

Have you not met Dan? Well, that's a shame. Let me introduce you.

Dan was born the third child in our family, right after me. Which makes him at least second best for sure. Unfortunately, he is now, and will always be, our mother's favorite. This is a fact that my elder brother and I cannot not possibly forgive him for.

Dan was always an annoyingly happy child. Very comfortable with whatever life threw at him. Even if it included the inability to tan or gain muscle:

He was a cheerful worker. Happily doing his chores with a stupid grin on his stupid face. It's no wonder that Mom liked him the best.

Oh, and you know the kid that could spend an hour eating an ice cream cone? Yeah, that was him. We'd all gobble ours up in about fourteen seconds flat. And then we'd have to sit there for another 40 minutes, greedily watching Dan, as he ever-so-delicately ate his ice cream.

One. lousy. miniature. bite. at. a. time.

You'd have tied him up in the basement, too. I know you would have.

His pre-teen years were the only years in which he rebelled. [And Dan, don't be pretending you didn't look at Jared H.'s girly magazines with the rest of your buddies. I know the truth. Perhaps that is the reason for your sour expression in this joyful family photo. Guilt, maybe?]

I sure hope so. Pervert.

(Notice my guilt-free, shining countenance.)

And in his free time growing up, Dan did a lot of this:

Sadly, he has still not outgrown it.

But, he was able to clean up his act in time to serve a mission for our church to Brazil. This was a great time of growth and learning for Daniel. I think he probably found teaching people equivalent (or above) his intellect to be quite a challenge.

Here is an example of an intellectually superior investigator:

Yes, Daniel converted many farm animals to the gospel of Jesus Christ.

And his growth and knowledge has certainly continued after his mission as well. He is now married (to a beautiful woman who is WAY too good for him) and has three adorable children (so cute, in fact, that we all think they're the mailman's).

He continues to strive daily for the spiritual enlightenment that comes from studying the scriptures. As you can see, Dan is always extremely diligent in this area:

In addition to his dedicated spirituality, Dan is actively involved in a rigid exercise program. Here, you see him leading his weekly men's group in Hula Dancing.

Or auditioning for the Village People. We're not sure which.

All in all, Dan is a very generous, wonderful, giving friend. He always has the nicest things to say to me, his favorite sister. Especially on my blog. I do so look forward to his thoughtful comments, for I know that each comment is crafted with love and care, and said in the hopes of raising my fragile, yet growing, self-esteem.

Smell ya later, loser.

death by sinus infection

i. am. sick.

cannot even use proper capitalization, for fear of clogged sinuses exploding.

must get well.

will try to be back tomorrow. have big post planned wherein mocking of brother will take center stage.

here's hoping.

don't do any good blogging without me.

A Top Ten List for the Husband

For many months now, I have been spouse-less during the week. The Husband has been on the road every week, racking up those frequent flier miles, and getting stranded at airports all across the country.

But come Monday morning this week, the strangest thing happened. I woke up and he was home. That six a.m. flight? Did not have him on it.

I almost didn't know what to do with myself. It was very confusing.

So, in case any of you ever find yourselves in this position, I thought I'd present you with my Top Ten List of Clues that Your Husband is at Home. Lest you get confused and call the police on the strange man eating out of your refrigerator in his sweatpants.

Number Ten:

You know your husband is home when quite suddenly, your car has to share the garage. And she's not very good at sharing. She likes to park right in the center where children cannot bang her doors on anything or get scratched.

Nine: The usually manageable loads of laundry look like this:

Eight: Your bathroom is filled with the musky scent of this (and hopefully not because you have been wearing it):

Seven: Suits needing dry cleaning will miraculously appear out of nowhere and clutter up your bedroom furniture. You will smile for a minute and wonder sarcastically just who will be taking that suit to the cleaners.

But only for a minute.

You know you'll make him do it.

Six: When the alarm goes off at this unholy time in the morning, there will actually be someone in your bed saying OUT LOUD in their grown-up, manly voice, "Time for us to get up."

That can be very unnerving, for usually the snooze button is hit several times before that happens.

Five: You will be eating this for dinner instead of feeding the kids macaroni and cheese, and munching on the Lucky Charms straight out of the box.

Four: Keys and wallets will be left out on counters and tables. They will not belong to you, and you are pretty certain they do not belong to your ten-year-old.

Three: The brownies you made in the morning will mysteriously have large chunks missing. The children WILL be innocent, of this you are sure.

Two: Sparklers, ice cream, and caramel topping will be combined with your pan of brownies to satisfy sweet tooths and pyromaniacal needs.

And the number one clue that your husband is home:

The covers neatly tucked into the foot of your bed will look like this in the morning. And you know with a certainty that you did not sleep on that side of the bed last night.

Still, it's nice to see this face once in a while in the mornings.

Even if he eats all the brownies and plays with fire in the kitchen.