What is it they say about the best laid plans?

Well, interpeeps, I had some grand ideas for posts this week that I was hoping would pull me out of my blogging slump.

I was going to find all the old Halloween photos from years gone by and post them here so you could ooh and ahh at my darling babies, you know, when they were babies.

I was going to make a really yummy soup and post pictures and directions to entice you all to make it.

I was going to let you into the world that was my frighteningly pious 19-year-old psyche and share some old journal entries I just found in the basement.

But, these good intentions have gone by the wayside. And come tomorrow morning, I will be waking at the unholy hour of four a.m. for a little spontaneous road trip with the family.

See, when your husband happily tells you he has taken Halloween off from work, don't mentally start making any plans for lunch dates, afternoon matinees, or any other afternoon delights. For, you see, about three-point-seven seconds later, he will sweetly bring up the fact that there is a BYU game in Colorado this weekend, and wouldn't it be great if we all went?

So, we're going.

I'm actually excited because it means I will get to spend time with one of my favorite sisters-in-law (sorry, she's blogless or I'd link) and I get to sit in the car for several uninterrupted hours with a large stack of books by my side.

And I get to miss church. (Which is definitely something my pious 19-year-old self would not be happy about. Please don't tell her. She'd definitely have words to say about that.)

So, Happy Halloween. And, I guess, Go Cougs.

Pretending to be what I want to be

Recently, I have decided that if I want to ever get any better at this photography thing, I'd better start taking pictures of people other than my own children.

So, I begged and borrowed, pleaded and whined, and stole a baby or two from friends. Here are some of my favorites. I know I have a long way to go, and a lot to learn, but it's very fun to take pictures of children I don't acatually have to pay to pose for me. Mine have become so sick of it, that they will not comply unless given cold, hard cash.

I know, right? Who said they could be such selfish capitalists?

Lucky for me, most of these babies and kids are too young and nice to know any better:






Got any kids I can practice on?

Send them only if they work for free. This ain't no paying gig.

Spiderweb Cookies revisited

It's that time of year again, interpeeps.

No, not the time of year where we finally pull out that naughty french maid outfit and decide to hooch it up at the PTA party.

It's the time of year where we raid our children's trick-or-treat bags and steal all the good chocolate.

Don't even pretend you don't do it.

But I just made these today, as per our annual tradition. If you want the recipe, see the post I did on it last year. You won't be sorry. They are so, so good.

On pumpkins and musicals

In case you were wondering:

We did go to HSM3. Probably the worst of all the three movies. It was BEYOND PAINFUL. And I am a girl that likes my musicals, be they high school or otherwise. But this one? Horrible.

Although, she thought it was the best movie ever. (But don't believe her. It was pretty bad.)

Just ask them. They'll tell you how painful it truly was.


But I survived the mess. They survived the rest. And here is the end result:

Happy weekend!

Is it Monday yet?

Hi, there.

No time to chat for the following reasons:

1. The kids are home from school today.

2. I have 1,873 things to do, but will not get to any of them. See number one for questions on this.

3. High School Musical opens today and I have a six-year-old girl who cannot stop talking about Troy, Gabriella, and Sharpay. She is literally clinging to my legs, begging to see it RIGHT. NOW. (the child is clinging to my legs, not Sharpay, in case you were wondering).

4. I have two boys pouting in the basement, praying to be left home from the movie in which the characters sing and dance spontaneously, which, apparently, is a fate worse than death, according to them.

5. I have a child with virtually no long pants, and cold weather is now upon us.

6. I have another child who had outgrown his church pants and cannot fake button them another Sunday.

7. I have no milk in the house.

8. I am in dire need of a McDonald's diet coke. See all of the above for reasons on this one.

9. I have foolishly promised the children some pumpkin carving today. Oh, how I hate that sticky, gooey mess that lives inside the pumpkins. I can just feel it squishing in my fingers right now and I'm already grossed out.

10. I will soon have a gigantic mess of pumpkin innards to mop up off my floor.

Happy Friday, all.

Driving me crazy

Something that has always been interesting to me is the vast differences when driving in other states. Sure, we all live in the same country, we all get fat at McDonald's together, and we all cheer for the Red Sox (at least those of us with good taste, anyway). But when it comes to getting behind the wheel of our cars, we become something else entirely.

So, I thought I'd take this chilly fall day and share my thoughts on local drivers in the states we've lived in. Hopefully, it will help you, if you ever find yourself in any of these places.

Utah:

In Utah, if you want to change lanes, don't put your blinker on. For, you see, a blinker doesn't signal your desire to change lanes. It actually means the vehicle in the next lane over should immediately speed up, in order to prevent you from getting in front of him. Do not be surprised when you see lots of middle fingers pointed your direction in Utah.

But take heart, for when you arrive at your destination (likely the church Halloween party), you will discover the other driver is actually in your ward. You can thank him personally for the nice, friendly greeting he sent you on I-15.

Minnesota:

Minnesotans brag about being "Minnesota Nice." That definitely doesn't apply to driving. What you most need to be wary of is the chain smoking, coffee chugging, big haired old lady. She WILL run you down in her pink Mary Kay Cadillac. These are hearty people used to living in an inhospitable frozen tundra eight months out of the year. They know how to drive on a sheet of ice without fear. There is no mercy on the road in Minnesota.

Boston:

Boston is a scary place to drive. The drivers there have decided that the vehicle trying to make a left-hand turn onto a busy street actually has the right of way. There's no law that says this, but they have declared it so, and everyone does it.

And if have the gall to NOT stop your vehicle in the middle of the street to let them turn left (you know, because that seems like the safest thing to do when going 40 mph), they will pull out anyway. They will ram your car, yell at YOU, and miraculously not pronounce the letter "R" once.

Washington:

Seattle drivers were a wee bit obsessed with the carpool lane. So much so, that it was a pretty frequent occurrence to see a single driver in that lane, with a blow-up doll in the front seat. I was actually pulled over once for driving in that lane, but not given a ticket because I had my two small children with me, who were not visible in their car seats. When driving in Seattle, beware any old clunker plastered with Kurt Cobain stickers. The driver is undoubtedly hopped up on Starbucks, has not showered in a week, and would probably ram your car if he saw you using a styrofoam cup.

California:

Oy. California. Your best bet is to go 40 miles per hour OVER the speed limit, and drive defensively to avoid any accidents. Because chances are, you'll be the one to hit the Bentley, and they've definitely got more money to sue you with. Trust me when I tell you, the last place you want to be is between a giant pimped out Hummer, driven by a hungry anorexic woman, and her Botox appointment. She will crush you. And she will not care.

Missouri:

Missouri drivers are unlike ANY I have seen anywhere else. They don't actually go the speed limit here, they go S-L-O-W-E-R. It is SO ANNOYING. I am no speeder, but when I'm the fastest one on the freeway, you know something is wrong. The people here drive like every day is a leisurely Sunday drive. They look, this way and that, slow their car down to check out the homes, trees, dogs, and sky. I am doomed to be forever behind a slow car here.

So, internets, what are the drivers like where you live?

I am blogger, hear me roar

I was contacted recently by a PhD student who is writing a thesis on, of all things, blogging.

He randomly contacted about 500 bloggers and asked for help in filling out a survey. The questions were targeted primarily at a person's motivation for blogging. I was eager to help him, envisioning my brilliant answers paving the way for a groundbreaking thesis.

I imagined it impressing his professors - so much so - that they would seek me out personally in order to dig deeper into the great, vast, intellectually superior territory that is my psyche. There would be a bestseller book written. The Today Show would be calling. I would have my moment in the sun.

Yeah, I know. Came down off that cloud real quick.

But it did give me pause to reflect on my motivations. Why do I blog? Why, after almost two years, do I still do this thing? Why do I log onto the internet and prattle on about my everyday life for friends, family, and strangers to read?

There is a part of me that does it so I don't feel alone. Knowing, at this exact minute, there are thousands of women across the country, doing exactly what I'm doing, makes me feel part of a greater cause. It makes it easier, somehow, to laugh at cleaning spaghettios off the ceiling, or dealing with the sick kids, knowing that others are doing it, too.

Because maybe, if we had to deal with it all on our own? We'd just go with our instincts, let out the crazy, and break down sobbing. Or take it out on our husbands because they innocently went to work instead of spending the day covered in a child's throw-up. But suddenly, there is an outlet for the crazy things that happen. And then it all somehow seems more manageable because of that.

Reading blogs also plays a role. Once in a while, I read a blog that makes my struggles seem small in comparison. Tears have been shed when I read about someones baby girl being diagnosed with cancer, or someone longing for babies that just don't seem to be coming her way. I feel a kinship with these women and feel blessed by their ability to share their stories with the rest of us.

I laugh daily with old friends who have moved away, and it is as though we still live in the same town. I see pictures of their kids and feel connected to their lives. This, too, is why I blog. These women are hugely important to me, and they are part of who I am. It's nice to not have to let that go, just because someone moves away.

I also blog so my kids will have a daily record of what they did and said. I do not look at it as a replacement for my journal, but a photographic supplement. The words in my journal will not be read by them until long after I am gone, but the blog? They can read that right now. They can know that even when they were hard, and even when I wasn't as good of a mom as I could have been, that they were loved.

The simplistic beauty that is our ordinary lives has been captured out loud. And to me, that is priceless. It's those everyday things that get forgotten. They were not scrapbooked or recorded until now. And lately, I find myself wanting to remember those things most of all. This is the good stuff. The sick kids, the spilled milk, the embarrassing stories, the silly time at the breakfast table. It's what is building our character, and shaping our lives.

I blog because I have a voice. It is not a voice that many people hear, but that does not make it any less important. Years from now, when I am old and gray, I want someone to know that I mattered. I want to feel that my life was lived well, with tears and with happiness. I want to remember the good days, the bad days, the struggles, and the ordinary perfection that was our little life.

I always want to remember what made me who I am.

We've all got a voice. The key is letting it out. I say let it out, blogging sistas. Let it out.

[Oh, and let us not forget that it's also a nice outlet for mercilessly mock your brother.]

The basic brown tee

Yesterday, my brother Daniel made a comment which I would like to address here. You see, he falsely accused me of wearing the same brown t-shirt in several different photos.

What he does not understand is that it is possible for a person to own multiple brown t-shirts.

I know he happily spends his days in a wife beater tank and dingy sweatpants (and who are we kidding, probably even wears them to work), but I feel it is my duty as his sister to help him see the possibilities open to him. He CAN own multiple shirts, even in the same color.

I know, right? It's like living dangerously.

Plus, I'd like to introduce you to my all-time favorite t-shirt. Internets, meet the basic tee from H&M.

They come in every color imaginable, fit snug and comfortable, and the best part? They are ONLY SIX DOLLARS. Which probably explains why I own at least ten in every color.

I have tried the $40 t-shirts from every store out there. And you know what? I always come back to my H&M tees. They fit just the way I like, plus they're long enough to cover the tramp stamp that I have across my lower back.

Okay. Well, maybe I don't have that. But if I did, it would cover it up nicely at those PTA meetings.

And guess what? If they wear out (as six dollar tees are prone to do), you can buy like 19 more. Because they're cheaper THAN SEEING A MOVIE.

So, Daniel, mock if you must. And be sure and stay tuned tomorrow when I model my 14 different black H&M tees.

Because spending a morning taking pictures of yourself for spite? Totally a worthwhile and productive endeavor.

A little photo mishap that he will live to regret

Let's say you are taking family photos in your backyard. You get a wild hair and decide to take a few shots of just you and your Husband. You know, because you don't have many of those.

You have the camera ready to go on the tripod, and the remote in your hand.

You both smile, and the shutter clicks.

Well, what happens when your middle child, unbeknownst to you, decides to sneak himself into the picture?

This, my friends, is what happens:

Looks like it's cropping for this photo. Unless we want to commemorate the dive Chase took?

No, I don't think so.
But I'm a fair minded person. And I've always thought that the punishment should fit the crime.

So here's a little shot of him that I'm sure he'd rather have buried in the archives for all eternity: I know. I'm such a mean mom.

Me not so suhmart no mor

Remember how a few days ago, I was all on top of my business and shouting "yes, I can" from the rooftops?

Nothing like a little slice of humble pie to bring you back to the reality of, "Umm, no, I really can't."

You see, I volunteer to help in my kids' classrooms. A lot. I like to be there, see how the teacher interacts with the students, and see how my kids interact with other kids.

Plus, I really have no excuse this year, what with them in school all day now.

So, I went to help in McKay's class for the first time this year. As soon as I enter the classroom, his teacher hands me a heavy math book. She points out the page the students are currently working on (which is multiplying with decimals). She smiles sweetly, and asks me if I'd feel comfortable teaching this concept to one of the groups, while she works with the other.

Panic immediately sets in. Math has never been my strong suit. But this is fifth grade math. Surely, I passed fifth grade math at some point in my life, right? I smile, and tell her, "Sure, no problem," and head for the white board.

To my surprise, things move along rather well. I find that I am actually pretty good at teaching the math. McKay gets over his instinctive embarrassment and even makes eye contact with me a few times, which is a huge victory in and of itself.

Well, just about the end of our time together, the teacher returns to the classroom with her group. At this moment, one of my students raises her hands and says, "Um, I got a different answer for that one." Before I can respond, the teacher notices my problem on the board, comes over, erases it, AND RE-DOES IT FOR ME.

Apparently, I am not so good at the fifth grade math.

I made a REALLY STUPID error and did not have my decimal in the right place. I knew it as soon as I looked at it, unfortunately a little too late.

But there, in front of my son, and all of his classmates, I looked like an idiot. I felt so dumb. I have no doubt she is wondering exactly what I had been teaching while she was out. I wanted to tell her that, "YES! I REALLY DO KNOW HOW TO DO THIS!"

But instead, I smiled, thanked her, and went to my car in a cloud of stupidity and shame.

And so, next week when I go in, I fully expect her to have a desk with my name on it.

Think McKay will be embarrassed if I have to repeat my fifth grade year?

Yes, I can!

Chase has been taking tae kwan do lessons for a few months now. He absolutely loves it. Through a thick Korean accent, Grand Master Rho has the kids repeat, over and over, the words, "Yes, I can!" It's a mantra that Chase has readily adopted to fit his 'just try and stop me' personality.

So, in honor of that, I thought I would give you some of the lessons I learned this week, in "yes, I can" style.

Because it's my blog, and, well, because I can.

Clicked off to hunt for free porn yet?

No? Good. Here goes. Things I learned this week:

• I can survive two field trips in one week, even when one of them is spent chasing down other people's annoying wandering children at the zoo in the pouring rain.
• I can recover from poison ivy. (Though can anyone tell me why the rash is gone but I am still itchy?)
• I can clean out the kids' bedrooms and throw away five bags of plastic crap (all of which I am sure they will never miss).
• I can tell the random caller from one campaign that I am currently undecided.
• I can then field two phone calls per day, and one front porch visit in an attempt to sway my vote.
• I can decide to never again admit that I am undecided.
• I can enjoy my workouts again, thanks to a new TV season.
• I can order my Christmas cards in October (please don't hate me. I'm diseased. I can't help it).
• I can pay other people's children to smile for me in photographs.
• I can actually watch general conference and not take a nap. Go me.

What did you learn this week?

How to take an Amish Country Tour

Step one: Read all of Beverly Lewis' books. Become obsessed with the Amish people. Discuss the Amish on a regular basis with your friends. Get giddy with excitement when the local community college offers an Illinois Amish Country Tour. Sign up immediately and ignore all mothering responsibilities to attend the day-long tour.

Step two: Board the bus for your Amish Country Tour, and realize, to your dismay, that you are the youngest people there, and I do mean the youngest by decades. Be grateful you can walk without the assistance of a cane and do not yet require Depends. Stop for bathroom breaks every 16 minutes on the two-hour drive. Try to recover from a very unmentionable bathroom incident involving one of the elderly passengers.


Step Three: Eat lunch a thanksgiving feast in an actual Amish home. Be very grateful for make-up and pretty shoes. Decide those two factors alone would be deal breakers in your husband's Amish conversion/go-off-the-grid-dream. Eat yourself sick on fresh bread, jam, chicken, meatloaf, mashed potatoes, fresh corn, and pie. Wonder why the Amish don't weigh 900 pounds. Realize all this food was made by hand instead of by Costco. Decide Amish work load is too hard. Call your Husband and break the news that you will not be converting after all.

Step Four: Get back on the Old Folks Mobile tour bus and begin the long drive back to St. Louis. Accept the impending 19 bathroom breaks. Laugh mercilessly with your friends. Make lots of jokes in Effingham. Search i-phones for You Tube videos and pictures of Rupert Penry-Jones, your new imaginary boyfriend.

Step Five: When, and only when, you are positive the lady in front of you is about to fall out of her seat for the eavesdropping, be sure to invent some stories about your friend's illustrious street walking career and nekkid bungee jumping escapades. Be a little frightened later when she tells you how much you all remind her of her daughter.

Step Six: When one of the bus patrons loses control and pees all over her seat, be renewed in your desire to spend hours a day doing kegel exercises.

The next great Hemingway?

While walking past their bedroom the other night, I overheard Chase tell McKay the following:

"Old fashioned things are so much better. They're not made of cheap junk, and they last a lot longer. I just can't waste my time on plastic anymore."

Amen, brother. Amen.

Our weekend, in photos

This weekend we did a lot of stuff.

Some of us played basketball, and did not go easy on our opponent just because they're ten and have shorter arms:

Some of us created science experiments out of sand and water:

One of us sang "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" with his fellow fifth graders during the seventh inning stretch of Saturday night's Cardinals game.

It is rumored that one child in particular may have sang, "Root, root, root for the Red Sox" instead of, "the Cardinals," though that child officially denies this rumor:
Some of us had foot races in the backyard, and did not want to let our little brother win:
(hmm...wonder where he gets that from?)

One of us pitched (at least according to him), "THE BEST GAME OF HIS LIFE!" And as you can see, this person takes baseball very seriously:

There will be no mercy on the mound when you're staring down this fellow. He means business.
Some of us thought it would be fun to stand on our brothers and see how long they could hold us up:

The answer? About four seconds. One brother will cave under the pressure and the pyramid will come toppling down.

The only damper on the weekend? One of us spent it (and the majority of last week) scratching her mad case of poison ivy:

Oh yes, and that is the improved version. Trust me when I tell you, it was much worse a few days ago, and covers a good portion of my entire body (I decided to spare you the rest of me, especially the nekkid parts. You're welcome).

Yeah, so remember the near-electrocution yard work day last week? Apparently, of those 1,934 weeds I pulled, a good portion of them were poison ivy.

And poison ivy? Not so much fun, as it turns out.

Still, though, a pretty good weekend for us.

At least, for those of us not scratching and smelling of Calamine lotion anyway.

The only way I'll carry that NRA card

Question--
What do you get when your boys discover their father's old BB gun at Opa's office?

Answer: You get two very excited boys, begging and pleading to have it. They will be absolutely sure that life, as they know it, cannot go on without the BB gun.

Question--
What do you get when Opa, reluctantly frighteningly proudly, decides to pass that gun onto the next generation and gives it to them?

Answer: Your own private backyard shooting range, that's what.

Oh, if only Mr. Crazy Scouting Man, Sir! could see us now with our dangerous weapon constitutionally-protected firearm. I'm pretty sure he'd have us signed up for the NRA.

I have decided we will only join if Charlton Heston will personally come to the house , stand on the kitchen table and say, "RAMSES, LET MY PEOPLE GO!"

I'm betting it's not likely to happen, what with him, you know, being slightly not alive and all.

But, still. Stranger things have happened, right?

And don't tell me you wouldn't want to see it. You know you love that line, too.

Happy birthday, little blue-eyed boy

Dear Chase,

Today at exactly 8:23 this morning, you turned nine. You were very insistent that you were not nine until the clock hit those magic numbers, which signaled your entrance into the world all those years ago. No amount of convincing by your brother could entice you to admit that you were nine, even one minute too soon.

I didn't have the heart to tell you that you were born on west coast time. I let you be nine, two whole hours early.

I know, don't be mad.

We celebrated your birthday early this year, as Dad was going to be out of town today. You, ever the middle child, didn't mind one bit. You were thrilled to be getting presents early. Presents, which included a live pet from me.

Yes, I finally made good on that hasty-made promise of letting you one day own something that's alive. I hope you like your little hermit crab. And I fervently hope that it never gets lost in your room or dies, as other pets have done traumatically in the past.


Chase, you are filled with more creative energy than I have ever seen. Your mind is always working, always thinking. I like to watch you when you are drifting off to that place inside your head, where your dreams are made. You squint your eyes, and I can tell that worlds are being created by your imagination. There is no limit to what you will do, of this I am sure.

You constantly amuse me. We have been asking you for weeks what you want for your birthday, and the two things you have said are a pet and a typewriter. You got both, and it cracks me up to see you at the desk in your room, plunking away on that ancient piece of machinery, courtesy of Oma and e-Bay. You take your writing quite seriously, and it will not surprise me at all when you one day churn out that bestseller.

I love that you like old things. I think it's a rare child that can look past the glaring siren song of cheaply-made plastic crap from China and seek out things with substance. Things that still work, even after probably spending 30 dusty years in someone's basement.

You are my hero, and I love your individuality. I love you for not caring what anyone thinks of you. I love you for dreaming big. I love you for your passion, even when it leads you lecture me for my giant carbon footprint.

I love you, kid. And I owe the good Lord for sending such a tender soul to be in my care. I don't know what I ever did to deserve you. May I one day be worthy of such trust.

Love,

Mama

A love letter

To my darling Husband, my most precious other half:

I have good news for you, my dear. News that will be music to your frugal soul.

Remember that slightly not-cheap paring knife that I lost a few days ago? Well, guess what. I found it! It is lost no more.

I know. I am extremely relieved, too.

Where was it, you say? You'll laugh yourself silly at this, darling, really you will. And you'll never guess where it was. It was in the pan of leftover quiche in the fridge. I must have used it to cut the quiche, and not noticed it there when I put the pan in the fridge that night after dinner.

I know, right? What a chuckle we'll have over this one.

My only regret, dearest one, is that we were not able to find the knife sooner.

Like, say, right about the time you were digging through the trash to look for it. Oh, what an adventure we could have saved you then, had we known.

But, all's well that ends well, or so they always say. And now you may rest well tonight, lovey, knowing the knife is back where she belongs.

Ever Yours,

Your darling wife, Christie

P.S. Please do not use it on me. I really thought it was in the trash. Honest, I did.

The genius of the lone trucker

About ten years ago, when McKay was a baby, we were living in Minneapolis while the Husband finished up grad school.

We grew to love Minnesota, in spite of the fact that there are only about eight days a year where you can go outside. And in spite of the fact that they willingly elected Jessie "the Body" for their governor (blame the Husband. I'm pretty sure he voted for him).

Slowly, over time, we even began to understand what the natives were saying when they asked us if we "wanted a baig for that" at the grocery store.

But one the funniest experiences of my life came while we were living there. I was running some errands downtown, and had baby McKay, buckled in his car seat, in the back of the car.

I pulled up to a stoplight, and movement out of the corner of my eye caught my attention. Next to me at the light, was a big 18-wheeler truck, driven by a man who looked a little something like this:


Only not quite so handsome.

He was frantically waving at me, so I smiled, nodded my head, and turned toward the light, hoping that the light would soon turn green.

In spite of my attempt to ignore him, he was practically jumping up and down in his seat. I looked over once again, praying that my life was not about to end at the hands of this apparently-crazy trucker.

He was motioning for me to roll down my window, which I did, in spite of the mental security that thin little piece of glass afforded me.

He smiled, revealing several missing teeth, and said: "Hey lady, you always know where you're going, and he always knows where you've been!"

I nodded politely, smiled, and sped off just as the light turned green, hoping to be spared from any more trucker wisdom which made absolutely no sense at all. Shaking my head and laughing, I started thinking about what he had said.

And by the next block, it hit me. He was referring to McKay in the rear-facing car seat, knowing where we've been. And me, facing forward, knowing where we're going.

Probably the most clever thing I've ever heard from a tattooed, toothless trucker in my life.

I only wish I could find him so I could tell him that I got it.

If you see him, be sure to tell him for me, good one, buddy. Good one.

Killing myself, one extension cord at a time

Today, I...

• Played tennis for two hours (even though I really suck at it)
• Did six loads of laundry
• Cleaned four bathrooms
• Vacuumed two floors
• Pulled 1,934 weeds from my backyard
• Cursed weeds with eight different swear words (oh yes, I know that many)
  
• Screamed when I discovered a large spider on my bosom
• Killed large spider after knocking it off my bosom
• Looked down my cleavage and examined my bosom for any other lingering spiders
• Smiled sheepishly when the old lady next door caught me doing it
  
• Happily discovered I have strawberry plants growing in my backyard
  
• Moved three evergreen bushes to a different flower bed because I felt like it
  
• Trimmed all the hedges in my yard
  
• Accidentally severed the Husband's extension cord while trimming the hedges
• Buried extension cord in the trash so that the Husband will never see it
  
• Wondered aloud if you can die of electrocution when severing live wires
  
• Starting searching for landscapers to prevent future death by electrocution
• Read and commented on a few blogs
• Wrote my own (albeit pathetic) blog post, and
  
• Decided to be content with re-heating Thai food leftovers for dinner

Today, I did not:

• Shower (yet, but I will)
  
• Read novels
• See movies
• Cook dinner, or
  
• Eat 14 cookies (unlike yesterday)

I am thinking it has been a productive day thus far. Especially considering that it's a Monday.

Thanks, special new friend. I owe you one.

Dear Anonymous Stranger,

Thank you for the extra special treat you left by my car yesterday.

Imagine my delight, if you will, at discovering your thoughtful little present just moments after loading my groceries into the back of the car, as I was sitting down contentedly in the driver's seat.

It is unfortunate that I did not discover it before I actually put my foot on the brake. For had I found your ball of already-chewed delight sooner, it would have enabled me to enjoy it only on the bottom of my shoe. Instead, it was added special fun to scrape the pink sticky mess off the brake pedal AND my shoe.

You know, this piece of sanitary deliciousness THAT CAME FROM YOUR MOUTH. WHERE YOUR SPIT LIVES.

I can appreciate that it was especially tiring for you that day, what with having to use all three of your brain cells to walk and chew at the same time. And I know the extra energy that it would have taken to walk ten feet and toss your treasure in a garbage can was really more than society could have asked of you.

What with you being, you know, a selfish pig and all.

So, please. From the bottom of my heart, accept my honest and sincere thanks.

It's been a long time since I've cleaned up anything quite so sticky, seeing as how my kids are in school all day now. And honestly, it was a thrill to get some more practice at it.

Yours,

Christie
____________________

P.S. In spite of the apparent sarcasm, I am ever mindful of the horrific events that took place seven years ago today. You can read my experience with that day again here. God bless America.

"Mawage is what bwings us togevah, today."

I was reading one of my favorite blogs today, and was very excited to hear that Nicole is getting married. She was asking her readers for marriage advice, and it got me thinking.

What would I say to this goofy-looking girl, knowing what I know now, after almost 15 years of marriage?


I'd say a lot, that's what. Least of which would be to stop perming her hair already. Oh, and grow those bangs out a little while she's at it. I'm pretty sure there should never be a one-inch space between your eyebrows and your bangs. Oy.

So I thought it would be fun to write a letter to myself with a few of the tidbits that have helped me along the way:
__________________________________

Dear Me,

You are about to get married to a tall, skinny boy from the other side of town. He loves you all right, but he has no idea yet just how much he needs you, and you him.

You may think you want babies right away, but don't rush yourself. Enjoy this time when it's just the two of you. THE BABIES WILL COME. And once they do, they will never leave. And they will smell sometimes. And pee on you (and yet you will still love them). Stop wishing this time away, because in a blink, it will be gone, and you will find yourself a mother of three, with a road map of stretch marks to prove it.

In spite of what everyone will tell you, it is okay to go to bed mad at each other. Sometimes it's better, as hurtful words are not said, and cooler heads always prevail in the morning.

You are not really that great of a cook. I'm sorry to break that to you. You can bake like nobody's business, but cooking meat is not really your thing. And when you're making gravy one night in your first apartment? Don't add the paprika. Trust me on this one. The gravy will turn pink, and will be thoroughly disgusting. Your sweet husband will eat it anyway, but you will have just given him something to tease you about. Forever.

Do not be critical of your spouse, and expect the same in return from him. Never badmouth him to your friends. Instead, brag about all his good qualities. It will help you to constantly see the good in him, of which there is a lot.

Learn to pick your battles. I can promise you that after almost 15 years, he will still sling his suit over the back of a chair at the end of a long day. YOU WILL NOT FIX THIS. Stop trying. Just get over it, and be glad he is willing to work so hard for you and your family. Focus instead on ways you can make it easier for him to do his demanding job.

You must also accept that you will be ignored on Saturday afternoons from late August through November, as he will ALWAYS want to watch his favorite team play football. It is nothing personal. It is just a strange part of this man that you will never understand. Instead, get a hobby or a good book and enjoy your alone time.

Lastly, remember this: Men are like puppies; a little praise and a treat goes a long way in training them to do what you want.

With love,

You, age 34.
_______________________________

What's your best marital advice, internets? Do share.

Perfect, ordinary simplicity

Today I wake up to the happy chatter of my kids, already at the breakfast table. The alarm has failed to go off, but the Husband is in town this morning, and has cheerfully gotten them started.

I come downstairs, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. I kiss each baby on top of their head, smelling the strawberry shampoo. I cannot help but notice Hannah's 'creative' outfit combination. I decide to save that battle for another day. I briefly wonder if her teacher will think I picked it. I decide to not care if she does.

I shuffle over in my slippers and give the Husband a sheepish hug. He smiles, dimples creasing and blue eyes sparkling, and for the millionth time in my life, I fall in love with him all over again.

I take the morning poll of who is buying lunch and who is bringing. I laugh when two of the three get excited for chicken patty on a bun, which sounds thoroughly disgusting to me.

At once, they realize today is Friday, and squeal with glee because this means they get to have music with "Eddie," a man who is probably way too cool to be an elementary school teacher. I wonder if he knows just how much the entire studentbody worships him.

I remind them to pack snacks, and laugh at Chase who always wants to bring candy. I clean up the breakfast dishes and do Hannah's hair. She chatters away, filling me in for the umpteenth time on everyone and everything that happens in the first grade. I say a prayer of hope she talks to me like this forever.

I stand at the door and wave when the bus goes by. It still makes me smile that they want me to wave, but do not want me at the bus stop. Stretching their independence, but still wanting to know I'm there. I close the door and go start sorting the laundry. I think about the fresh peaches in the fridge and decide to surprise them all with a pie this afternoon.

I hop on the treadmill and run to a couple old episodes of "The Office," and laugh hysterically because they are all new to me.

I sit and sweat, drinking the cold, crisp water from the fridge. I feel strong. I feel content.

I find that my heart is full and tears threaten to spill over, as I think of the perfect, ordinary simplicity that is my happy life. I know that this is the place I am meant to be.

I feel blessed.

Because I need to know I'm bringing at least one of them up right

[Hannah, in the left front corner. First day photo courtesy of her fabulous teacher]

Today, the Princess came home from school and said the words that set my heart all a flutter:

"I don't know why, but I love to keep my school supplies neat and organized. It really helps me to feel so happy inside."

I am now 100 percent convinced we got the right baby at the hospital.

She had me worried for a few years there, what with her unbridled love of all things pink and High School Musical, but now I am sure.

She is so mine it's scary.

Labor Day, Christie style

This year, I decided to celebrate Labor Day by rewarding myself for having given birth three times. Yes, I realize it was a long time ago. No, that doesn't make it any less painful.

That's what we celebrate Labor Day for, right?

I mean honestly, do you think Mother's Day makes up for the fact that I voluntarily split my heinie in half? And did it three times, one of those without an epidural? No, it doesn't. Which is why, this past Labor day, I was found in Branson doing this:

With them:
Instead of them:

I'm pretty sure the mother of the year plaque won't bear my name this year. Oh well. It was totally worth it.

This weekend, there was a lot of:

Laughing
Eating
You Tube searching
Flashing grill wearing
Shopping
Boating
Journey worshipping
Tennis playing

There was not a lot of:

Sleeping
Cooking
Cleaning (unless your name is Butch and you are the maid. Then there was definitely a lot of cleaning that took place).

A most excellent way to spend a holiday. Thanks, girls. It was a great weekend. Let's do it again soon.

Like tomorrow. Anyone?

Oh, and Katie? This one's for you: "They never take them off!"