True or False: Vacation edition

Time seems to be slipping away from me here on this seemingly never-ending vacation. I cannot believe it's...wait. What day is it?

Anyway, I am now here in sunny cloudy San Diego with the Husband, while the children are spending a few days being spoiled by their grandparents. His firm has an annual conference every summer, and spouses and children are invited strongly encouraged to attend. I have spent the last 12 hours answering the question of "BUT WHERE ARE YOUR KIDS?" until I am blue in the face. I think I'll make a sign and put it around my neck that says, "WE HAVE JUST SPENT 14 DAYS IN THE CAR WITH OUR CHILDREN. 'NUFF SAID."

Subtle, yes? I think so.

Anyway, to catch you up on my doings for the last week or so, I thought I'd make up a little quiz. Every answer is true or false, and you get to decide which is which. I realize you have no way of knowing which outlandish tale is true and which is not, but that's all part of the fun, right?

And the first person to get every answer right will receive a surprise in the mail when I get home (that is, if I ever do get home).

So, here it is: STIE'S TRUE OR FALSE QUIZ

1. As I write this, I am lying in my bed, gorging myself on pancakes instead of socializing with the other wives at the company breakfast.
2. I have read six books in the last two weeks.
3. I have exercised only four times.
4. I did the Zip Line, Alpine Slide, and Alpine Coaster in Park City, and LOVED every second of it.
5. I sat down next to a blind man at the airport and he pulled out a laptop and started typing. You know, kind of interesting because HE CAN'T ACTUALLY SEE HIS COMPUTER.
6. I was hit on by a non-handicapped man.
7. I have not bought myself one new item of clothing.
8. One of my children has already been sick twice on this trip (and one of those sicknesses turned out to be strep, which we found out after a maddening three-hour hunt to find a doctor that would take our insurance).
9. I went white water river rafting down the Colorado River and did not fall in, as I had feared.
10. One of my children became tangled in their seat belt and I was unable to get them out. In a panic, I cut the seat belt, seeing no other option. That's right, I CUT THE SEAT BELT, as in, irreparable severing of a much-needed safety device in our car.
11. The Husband was so relieved that the child was safe that he didn't care at all about the damage done to our car, and didn't once wonder what it was going to cost to repair.
12. I ordered a virgin pina colada, only to find it non-virgin when it arrived. I drank it anyway.
13. I am taking the Husband for his-and-hers pedicures today, and he is excited about it.
14. I have refused to wear sunscreen even once, and now sport a lovely, cancerous shade of red all over my body.
15. At this typing, I have not read one single blog since we left home (but plan to rectify that very soon).

Good luck, if there are any of you even still checking this blog. Happy guessing!

Heat, heights, and my ever-expanding thighs

We are now at Lake Powell. I am sitting in the hotel lobby on a borrowed computer because nobody out here in the desert seems to have heard of WiFi. I only have time to get in a quick post, as there is a line waiting for this one precious computer, and some bratty teenager (probably missing her MySpace page) is sighing deep breaths and tapping her foot impatiently next to me.

Should I hurry?

Right now, it is 5,698 degrees outside. And do you know what? Lake Powell doesn't have any trees. I'M. NOT. KIDDING. I had all this ambition to go for a quick evening run once we got here. Ambition that was bred out of six hours in the car and lots of sugary snacks at my feet.

But now those sweet sugary snacks that were once at my feet will reside permanently on my thighs.

Stupid thighs. Stupid heat.

Anyway, the drive here was anything but boring. The Husband decided to take a "shortcut" on an unpaved, windy mountain road for 75 miles. He neglected to mention anything to me other than he found out about a shortcut. I was excited at first.

But me and heights? We get along about as well as me and sheer terror. I'm talking white-knuckled, heart pounding, I'm-going-to-die-at-any-moment-type of terror. It was not a pretty sight.

I'm hoping tomorrow that he redeems himself when we're out on the lake on a boat - cruising along leisurely like the 80-year-old woman inside me wants to do, and not barreling through the water like the 17-year-old boy inside of him wants to do.

Wish me luck.

Travel Tips from Zion

Greetings, internets, from Zion National Park.

Have you ever been here? It is so beautiful. Sheer, towering cliffs of red rock, hot desert air, and wildlife abound. We have spent two days hiking, shopping, swimming, and hunting reptiles. I have observed some very interesting things down here, and thought I'd share a few with you.

Because nothing is better than reading about someone else's vacation, right?

I know. Sorry.

Anyhoo, it has come to my attention that there are a lot of women in the world who, for reasons unknown to me, do not shave. ANYWHERE. It is all I can do to not hand out disposable Bic razors to every hippie/European/granola girl I meet. I'd also like to take them for an eyebrow wax and shoe store visit, but first things first. ARMPITS, girls. It's just plain disgusting.

If my waitress/restaurant cashier is literally 10 years old, I will not blindly trust her skills when she rings up my dinner bill to $80 for a few cheeseburgers. It is a good idea to have her re-check the math before paying.

Hiking in 100 plus degree temperatures will bring the poor little princess Hannah to tears. She will proclaim today as the worst day of her entire life, and resign herself to laying down and dying there on the trail.

This fervent declaration will still not produce enough guilt to entice me to carry her sorry self up the steep mountain, much to her chagrin.

She will survive the mountain hike, but find herself terrified of the man-eating squirrel that will decide to take a bite out of the Husband's finger for no apparent reason. The man-eating squirrel does not carry mad squirrel disease, of this I am sure. But if the Husband starts foaming at the mouth anytime soon, I might need some help from Dr. Google on how to treat rabies.

If there is a "fossil and gem" store, DO. NOT. STOP. Stopping will have Chase suddenly finding every item that his heart has now, or ever will, desire, and I will have to spend an hour talking to the kindly owner of the store while Chase peruses the crap for sale merchandise. I will find myself unable to concentrate on anything but the man's lack of teeth.

How does a person not have teeth in this day and age? I just don't get it.

And lastly, watching people argue in another language is really funny.

Until they stop their argument to stare at you. Then it's not so funny. It's just embarrassing.

But as I walk away red-faced, I will not lose heart. For although I may be a rude, staring American, at least my armpit hair isn't longer than my husband's.

And that, internets, is enough to let me sleep well at night.

On the road again

Oh, hello there.

It's me.

No, I have not forgotten you, little blog. I got so busy before we headed out of town that I neglected to let you know that I was leaving.

Well, now it's too late because I've already left. We are taking a little time away as a family. Seeing some old friends, family, and taking our kids to places they've never been before. So far, we have:

-Spent 18 hours together in the car.

-Killed 9,345 bugs with our windshield.

-Slept in the same room for two (going on three) nights. Yes. All five of us, including the incredibly-loud snoring princess who, for reasons I cannot fathom, feels compelled to sleep within three inches of my face, with one of her arms touching me AT. ALL. TIMES.

Which isn't annoying at all.

-We celebrated the Husband's birthday and Father's Day.

-We watched as Chase caught and released two reptiles, and tried not to laugh at Uncle Micah, who squealed like a little girl when he saw them.

-We made our traditional pilgrimage to eat devour the delicious perfection that is a hamburger at Hires.

-We witnessed a drug bust on the Utah State Capitol grounds, which involved a lot of policemen wielding very large weapons firearms.

-We said our final farewell to the mohawk.

-And we ate our weight in red velvet cake. If the red velvet cake and Hires are any indication, I'd say it's shaping up to be an excellent vacation.

I don't know that I'll get any pictures uploaded before we get home, but I'll definitely be back to fill you in as we go. The Husband has promised his laptop in exchange for my cooperation on jet skis, river rafting trips, motorcycles, and long hikes.

What he doesn't know yet is that it will also require lots of extra shopping, pedicures, and napping. We won't tell him that part today though.

We'll wait until the time is right. Like when he's in the middle of all his manly fun.

Because I'm just a good and thoughtful wife that way.

What? Shut up.

Little boy heaven

Well, I survived cub scout day camp. Or what I will now refer to as the long-lost-wannabe-branch-of-the-military-camp.

Have you ever met a professional scouter?

This is one hard-core group of men who take their jobs at scout camp very seriously. They run a pretty tight ship. They are in favor of sharp commands and crisp salutes.

They will definitely yell when necessary.


They are very pro-NRA and did not stop short of recruiting me and my absent husband to sign ourselves right up.

They do not like you to refer to a BB gun as a weapon. It is a firearm, thankyouverymuch. [Won't make that mistake again. No, siree.]

And they are unaware that they are not actually generals in the Army. Believe me when I tell you, I so wanted to be the person to tell them.

But I didn't. I behaved and followed the rules.

I asked for permission to enter the range (where we shot beans from sling shots). I wore my large, ugly protective eye wear to prevent any stray beans from causing me blindness. I was absolutely still and silent during the BB gun shooting so as not to distract the cub scout shooters who were engaging their wimpy powerful firearms.

Yes, because when holding a firearm, all an eight-year-old boy really wants to focus on is his mother. Not the fact that he has an actual gun in his hands that he has been given permission to use.

Whatever.

And I even stood a safe distance outside of the live missile zone in the archery area. Unlike Mr. Scouting General, Sir! that you see in the background here:

But the boys? Best week of their lives (their words, not mine). All of the guys in our group had a good time. No one died on my watch. No one shot their eye out. No one was kicked out or had their firearm taken away.

And no one joined the NRA that I am aware of.

I'd say that makes it a roaring success. Hoo-rah!

A recipe for success? Not very likely

What happens when you combine the following ingredients?

• Me
• P.M.S
• 90+ degree temperatures
• humidity
  
• 10 cub scouts at day camp
• BB guns, catapults, sling shots, and archery
  
• total exhaustion
  

Stay tuned. The answers are coming...

A simple reminder

Last night, I had something happen which confirms to me what I know, but sometimes choose to forget.

I should preface this story by telling you about my sleep habits. I am a deep sleeper. I know as a mother, that is usually an oxymoron. Mothers are not deep sleepers. Mothers will wake at the sound of a slight cough, while Fathers will sleep through the earthquakes and thunderstorms.

It hasn't always been this way for me. When my babies were small, all it took was a little stirring in the newborn crib, and I was up, rushing to their side. If someone so much as sighed in their sleep, it woke me up.

Not so much anymore.

I find that when my head hits the pillow, I am OUT. I often barely wake as the Husband is heading out the door for early morning flights or going into the office (a fact which does annoy him to no end). I love my sleep. I NEED my sleep.

Me and the sunrise? Not good friends. We've never actually met.

And it is that fact which makes this experience all the more amazing to me.

Last night, probably around two or three in the morning, I sat bolt upright in bed. I was awake and conscious, but was not sure what had woken me up. I then felt the strong need to go into my boys' bedroom.

There, in the middle of my two sleeping sons, I saw that their lamp was on, and the shade was tilted, resting on the hot light bulb. There was smoke rising from the lamp, as the heat from the light was burning a hole in the side of the lampshade. I immediately went over and pulled the smoldering shade off, and unplugged the lamp. Not even recognizing the significance then, I went back to bed. Even as I crawled back under the covers, the what-ifs still had not hit me. Like a lug, I was back to sleep in an instant.

It was only when my eyes first opened this morning that I realized and thought about what might have been. What could have happened, had I not been pulled from a deep sleep, and directed into their room. Today, in the light of day, I have a pit in my stomach as my imagination has run wild with the horrible what-ifs.

I know that lamp was off when we went to bed. We always tuck the kids in, turn off their lights, and pry books out from under their heavy arms. Always. The only thing I can think of is that one of the boys must have gotten up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, and turned on the bedside lamp in the process.

So, why did I wake up? There were no smoke alarms going off, no bright lights in my eyes. No noise from stumbling kids. Why?

Well, I'm a dummy if I don't know why.

I do know why.

My Heavenly Father woke me up, directed me to their bedroom, and helped prevent anything bad from happening to my sweet boys.

Simple as that.

What is not so simple now is the overwhelming feeling of love and protection that I have in my heart today. In this great big world of ours, someone loves me. Someone loves my family. Someone is watching over us. He really is. Even in the middle of the night, when a simple lamp shade is turned too far the wrong way.

Today I am grateful. I am grateful to know that He loves me. That He is aware of me. He is watching over me, and my sleeping angels. Even though I swear sometimes. Even though I complain about having to go to church on really pretty Sunday afternoons. Even though I get annoyed with my kids. Even though I tend to tuck my spirituality away, and pretend it's not there. He still loves me. He still loves us.

I just wanted to share that with you, in case, like me, you had forgotten, too.

Show and Tell

My friend Annie tagged me for this meme. I've enjoyed seeing some of you play, and have probably been tagged before. I generally don't play along, but if Annie does something...well, then I'll definitely do it.

And no, I'm not easily influenced by friends. Not at all.

Unless you ask my fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Yergensen, who wrote that very thing on my report card, the mean old witch.

I just wait for cool friends to do things before I do them. That way I'm sure things are cool, and I don't make the mistake of doing something un-cool. I like to think of it as having patience.

Anyhoo, here is my show-and-tell tour. The rules are that you may not tidy things up, just take the pictures as-is, and give the internet a peek into your life.

THE FRIDGE:
The only thing I allow on the outside of my fridge are these cute magnet letters made for me by the one and only Mique. They match my kitchen perfectly, and I think they're just darling. One of my best mail days ever.

The inside of my fridge? It is not so darling.

Let's just say that you can all sleep well at night knowing that there are parts of my life that remain very unorganized. The inside of the fridge is always one of those things. It will, however, never be without a large stash of diet coke. So come on over anytime, and we can chat over a cold one.

Next up is THE SINK. It, fortunately, will almost always be clean and dishes-free.

Don't hate me. I'm just annoying that way.

THE TOILET, and this is one I was unclear about. Do I take pictures of the entire bathroom or just the throne? I went with the throne in the master bath. Very boring, very toilet-like. (Have I just sunk to taking pictures of my toilet for the internet? Apparently so. Oy).

Moving on to THE LAUNDRY:
Tomorrow is laundry day, but that only means that our clothes are in our bedroom closets, in baskets with lids, waiting to be washed. Very uninteresting. But, I do have to take this moment and praise my dryer. As I mentioned before, scooting it out a few inches from the wall has miraculously reduced my drying time from about 1 1/2 hours to 37 minutes. And that's big loads of jeans, towels, you name it. This dryer is my new best friend.

And yes, I do realize that I am giving Daniel lots to make fun of here, what with all the pictures of toilets, laundry facilities, and sinks. But I like to live dangerously sometimes.

WHAT THE KIDS ARE DOING RIGHT NOW:

Don't tell the Husband. We just got home from the pool, it's 1,237 degrees outside, and I need a break. Sometimes Sponge Bob is my best friend. Most days not.

[Also, please ignore the multi-colored wainscoting/walls behind the couch. We just put it up and have yet to get it painted. It will look really good when it's done. But that's unfortunately not today.]

MY FAVORITE ROOM:

I know I have shown pictures of this room like a million times, but I do love it. It's our formal living room, and it's the place I like to curl up with a good book. I love the picture wall, the furniture, the colors. Everything. I feel that room is more me than any other room in the house. Or at least the me I want to be. A nice me. Who takes good pictures. And reads lots of novels. And hardly ever yells.

MY CLOSET:

Yet another dark secret in the life of Stie. My closet does not look good, and today is no exception. This is a good reminder to straighten it up. Which I will do. As soon as I finish blogging about it.

MY FAVORITE SHOES:

Hello, lovelies. I got these shoes at Nine West two summers ago. I still get giddy for warm weather, because I can't wait to break them out. Sure, I don't really wear them anywhere but church or date nights (seeing as how they are the most uncomfortable shoes ever created), but they are oh, so pretty. And they show off a pedicure like a good pair of summer shoes should. And if we can't endure a little pain for a pretty shoe, then what good are we?

SELF PORTRAIT:

Here is me in my master bathroom, Yes, still in my swim dress. Sometimes it's just too hot to wear real clothes.

And sometimes, after swimming with the kidlets, I'm just too darn lazy to get dressed again. No, I don't run around nekkid anymore. Lesson painfully learned.

Lastly, MY DREAM VACATION:

I would say my dream vacation would be Paris and London. There are about a million other cities I want to visit, but those two are at the top of my list. Someday (hopefully next spring) I'll get there.

But I definitely won't be wearing my brown ballerina wedge shoes.

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

Consider yourself tagged, if you want to play along. It was surprisingly fun. And productive.

Now I've got to go clean out that closet.

To my three babies

Here we are, in the second full week of our summer vacation. The first few days were a little rough on me, I'll admit. I have been so used to spending several hours a day all by myself - doing what I wanted, when I wanted. And then suddenly, here are you three little people.

Here. In my clean house.

And you are always hungry. ALWAYS leaving things out. And not the least bit concerned with the trail of crumbs behind you.

But in spite of this, I think we've found our rhythm, you and I. I'm looking at your cheerful faces across the table, listening to your chatter, and I find that my heart is full.

With each various stage of life that we've gone through together, it seemed to me that I would always remember. I'll be honest - sometimes, it felt like your less-desirable phases would never end. I can definitely think of at least one that is irrevocably seared into the recesses of my mind.

But there are so many more that I know I have forgotten.

Long ago, as I held your baby selves, smelling your sweet little necks, I promised myself I would never forget. That these moments, like the thousands of photos I've taken of you, would always be permanently etched in my mind. But now that a little time has passed, I find that I just can't quite recall your baby smells. I have all but forgotten the sounds of your newborn cries. And it hurts my heart to think that I won't ever again hear your bubbly toddler voices.

Only when I creep to your bedside at night do I see traces of the babies you once were. Even you, McKay, still sometimes purse your little lips together, making that all-too familiar puckered face. It's when you're in that angelic, dreamy state that it all comes back to me. And it brings a smile to my face every time.

Right now though, I want to freeze this. I don't want these days, and these people you are today, to be only a memory.

I want to remember how Hannah's voice sounds when she's just woken up and has a head full of morning hair. I want to remember the way Chase lights up when he talks about conservation or a new story he's written. I want to always see McKay's crooked smile, and feel the swell of pride when walking by him curled up, reading a book. Because I just love that he's a reader. Like me.

I am in love with the phase that you're all in. You've suddenly, and without warning, become very interesting people to be around. You're growing more independent every day. Your opinions are all your own, and not reflections of what you hear your dad and I say. You see that your life will not always be dictated by me, and you really like the idea of that.

You are doing what children should. You are doing what I want you to do. You are growing up.

I am just so afraid that I will forget.

And I probably will.

But if I've learned nothing else as a mother, it's this: I will always mourn each phase as it passes me by, leaving me standing on the sidelines. And although it leaves my arms a little more empty each time, it leaves my heart a whole lot more full.

And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Proving the nut and the tree theory

This morning, I stumbled upon a little list.

A Monday morning to-do list.

Written, unbeknownst to me, by my eight-year-old, Chase.

He had carefully laid out his plans and must-do tasks for the day. They are:

1. Wake up (already done and crossed off)
2. Eat breakfast
3. Do jobs
4. Do mathsheets
5. Read Chet Gecko #3
6. Play with McKay and Hannah?
7. Eat lunch
8. Specile [special] family outing
9. Come home
10. Eat dinner
11. Read the Little House in the Big Woods?
12. Go to sleep

What I love more than just the fact that he's actually written this list himself (which, I'll be honest, does make my heart go all a flutter), is that he put a question mark on playing with his brother and sister, and reading a book before bed.

Because one certainly cannot count on later wanting to do these items.

One must always leave room for changing one's mind.

I think we definitely got the right baby at the hospital. No doubt in my mind.

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?