life on D street

Valentine's Surpise!

2012-02-13T17:56:00.000-08:00

As part of our Valentine's Day celebration this year, we put together a treasure hunt for the boys with a grand finale! I recorded the very last clue. You may have to turn up the volume on your computer to hear what Jonah is reading -- he's speaking pretty quiet and the echo doesn't help (I know, I know...art on the walls would help that!). If you still can't make it out, just scroll down and read the text below.

(written by Tyler...that man can rhyme!)

Once upon a time in a house that was small,
There lived a little brother who wasn't yet tall.
Inside his white pillow is said to be found
A treasure so tasty...
Go look around! (...candy for Sam, Vanilla flavored Carnation Instant Breakfast for Jonah...he's a weirdo!)

Now that you know that you're part of this tale
You must find a treasure that you can set sail
Up with the clouds this treasure can fly
But only with help from your Mother and I.
To find the next treasure, hurry and see,
What you can find behind the love tree. (...kites...)

To find your next fortune you must start to think
Where we get water (and I don't mean the sink).
A place that we lather, we rinse, and we scrub,
Hurry and go there! Its down in Mom's tub! (...bubbles...)

For your last and your final treasure today
Go to the room where together we pray
Go into the room where you'll find a warm flame
Sit in the chair where you find your name
Sit there and listen to mom and to me
We have something exciting to tell to you three?

Your Mommy has something inside of her tummy
Not last night's dessert that tasted so yummy
But a brother or sister to be part of our team
Someone to help you to scrub and to clean
A small little baby to love and to cuddle
To teach and to care for and keep out of trouble.
Go tell Mom you're happy and you just can't wait
And tell that darn baby not to be late!

Happy Valentine's Day!

The end of the year...and the beginning of a new one.

2012-01-03T13:02:00.000-08:00

Time for a holiday report. So what if its a week late? That just means I've been doing what all self-respecting moms-with-kids-on-break should be doing: Rolling out of bed at 8:30 AM (...okay, 9:00 AM...don't judge me!) and spending the better part of the day in my pajamas. That's what school winter vacation is for, right? Cleaning up the aftermath of Christmas, assembling new toys, and breaking up fights. And there's been quite a bit of all of that around here! Now on to business...

Santa Claus plays a rather small role in our family. In a cast of characters, he definitely wouldn't be the leading man -- he'd be more like "the storekeeper" with a few poignant but fleeting lines. We don't discourage the presence of Santa in our home -- in fact, we do try to maintain a sense of Christmas magic in our celebrations, and Santa is a good contributor to that -- he just doesn't seem to make it into our conversations all that much. Instead, we try to focus more of our holiday effort onto discussing the birth and ministry of Christ and looking for ways to serve and show our love for others. We don't ask for Christmas lists from our boys and we keep our gifts rather humble, both in quantity and monetary value. Santa leaves no presents, but only fills the stockings with small, inexpensive treats. For this reason, when the boys have the opportunity to meet Santa, you'll never find them asking for a new bike or Playstation because they know something of that caliber won't fit in a stocking. I joke that I work hard to keep my kids' expectations low, but I guess in all honesty, there's some truth to that. I know some parents may disagree with that practice, but taking this type of give-not-receive-and-work-hard-for-what-you-do-get stance takes a lot of the pressure and stress out of the holidays and is a sentiment that lasts well beyond the Christmas season.

This year, Santa visited our church Christmas breakfast. We mentioned to the boys that morning that Santa was going to ask them what they wanted him to bring them for Christmas, and that they needed to have an answer prepared so as to not clog the line. (You don't want to mess with Jonah's indecisiveness. Trust me.) Jonah had wanted a wristwatch more than anything since the start of the school year, but he wasn't sure if that was a wish Santa might fulfill. I told him to ask for it anyway (having already purchased one on Amazon, but intending to take the credit myself). He was instantly concerned, however, about Santa's follow-through:

"But I want a digital watch, not an analog watch. What if I tell him I want a digital watch but he forgets and brings me an analog watch? That would be disastrous!"

"I think you can trust him to remember you want a digital watch -- besides, just because you ask for it, doesn't mean you're going to get it."

"Nope. I just don't want to risk it. I'm going to tell him I want something else. Something I know he can handle."

Once the boys hit the front of the line, Sam decided to go first.

Santa: "...and what do you want for Christmas?"

Sam: "A bell."

Santa: "A bell?"

Sam: "Yes. A bell."

A very puzzled Santa: "What kind of bell?"

Sam: "A small one."

Santa: "But--what are you planning to do with it?"

Sam: "Ring it, of course."

Well, DUH, Santa. What ELSE would you do with a BELL?!

Then it was Jonah's turn. In the end, Jonah asked for Legos. "Any Legos are fine," he said. It was quick and to the point...no risk whatsoever. And it provided additional evidence that cautiousness is genetic. (Santa did seem relieved that Jonah's request was a little more mainstream than Sam's!)

Christmas day itself was a whirlwind of family and togetherness. Jonah was extremely generous with his gift-giving this year. In addition to draining his piggy bank to buy gifts for Sam, he also rooted through his own prized possessions to find items he knew his brother coveted and carefully wrapped and stashed them under the tree. He kept whispering, "Mom -- can't you just imagine the JOY we'll see on Sam's face when he opens this???" It was so heartfelt. We had to keep reminding Jonah to open his own gifts because he was so preoccupied with watching Sam. In addition to the DIGITAL (not analog!) watch, Jonah also received our hand-me-down 8-year old Sony digital camera. He was thrilled. By the end of the day, he had filled two memory cards and completely drained the battery. Both boys were extremely grateful for each gift they opened, and we got lots of hugs and thank-yous. And nobody impaled themselves on Sam's new cactus (courtesy of Santa), which was also a success.

We attended church that morning with Tyler's grandparents and aunt, followed by lunch at our house. A quick stop at my parent's house (we spend Christmas Eve with them) was followed by an evening with Tyler's parents and siblings, where we are always sufficiently spoiled by my generous in-laws. Late into the night I made my annual stop at the home of my best friend's parents where we meet up to exchange gifts, sit in a dark room, and laugh until we start to question the effectiveness of our aging bladders. Its always the perfect way to end the long Christmas day.

New Year's Eve came and went as well. I'm not usually one to make resolutions, but I have been taking stock of this past year and the things I'd like to reevaluate and change in 2012 (more on that later). I sat down with the boys to fill out an end-of-year worksheet to help them bring 2011 to a close and start thinking about their goals for the upcoming year. Jonah's answers were enlightening -- his only goal for 2012 is to learn to get along with his brother. Let's hope he makes some progress in that direction (although, for that to happen, perhaps I should have convinced Sam to list "stop picking on my big brother" as his 2012 goal).

We spent the evening together at home, eating their favorite dinner, getting haircuts, playing computer games, watching Winnie the Pooh, and then ushering in the New Year with party hats, noise-makers, sparklers, and sparkling apple cider...at 12:00 AM EST. That's 10:00 PM MST. I try to be a fun mom, but I'm not a crazy person! Tyler and I turned in soon after. Because we're old like that.

In case you didn't get a Christmas card from us this year, here's our year-end family recap:

TYLER entered his 7th year at Myriad Genetics, only put 2,000 miles on his car, probably logged the same on his bike, spent many evenings tinkering with the sprinkler system, broke a rib or two mountain biking, reluctantly planted new sod in both yards, put in countless hours serving in the Elder’s Quorum presidency, built a home theater PC, and now plans to temporarily abandon Liz for the ski slopes.

LIZ put down the floral clippers indefinitely after one last busy wedding season, purchased a fancy new sewing machine, took a trip to CA with her sister, became the Den Leader for a Cub Scout troop of 17 eight year-olds, helped Jonah master 2nd grade math in six weeks, got the best tan of her life hanging out at the park (which isn’t saying much), and enjoyed every second spent with the kiddos...almost.

JONAH started the 2nd grade at a new school after testing into the district’s accelerated magnet program, made good use of his library card, built amazing things with Legos, spent time with live penguins at the local aquarium, joined the Chess Club, became a Cub Scout, was baptized, knee-boarded for the first time at Lake Powell, savored evening bike rides with his dad, and never, ever stopped talking.

SAM graduated from Joy School and moved on to Preschool, made friends with countless strangers, tried his hand at swimming lessons, developed a fondness for the Peanuts gang, ate more than a 14-year old boy, enjoyed scaling rocks at Moab, kept a very busy social calendar with his best buddies, lost his cherished doggie but learned to love a new one, realized he can beat up his older brother...and did.

Wishing you a lovely 2011 Christmas!
Tyler, Elizabeth, Jonah (8) & Sam (4) Eves

...And a very Happy New Year, too.

Birthdays, Baptisms, and Halloween - oh my!

2011-11-13T14:30:00.000-08:00

Tyler and I are probably two of the most calculated, practical people you will ever meet. We research. We deliberate. We weigh the options, the pros, the cons. When we make a decision, you can be sure the issue was first beat to death, reincarnated, and then murdered a second time. Once we make a decision, we plan, we prepare, and make sure to dot and cross all our letters. Its a neat and tidy (and admittedly obnoxious) little life.

Such was the case when we decided I should become pregnant for the first time. I loved Autumn and knew that at the point the baby was born we would have sufficient savings to allow me to quit my job while Tyler continued his studies full-time. It seemed to fit into our naive 10-year plan. Jonah was born October 15th -- 20 days after my own birthday (September 25). Years later when we were considering baby #2, we determined that delivering in October would be ideal for my work schedule and so Sam was born October 5th -- 10 days after my birthday, and 10 days before Jonah's.

Its funny that in all the talk and planning, we never considered what a feat it was going to be every year to celebrate three birthdays in so many weeks, not to mention tacking Halloween onto the tail end of it. This year we spent the month wondering what in the WORLD we had been thinking, deliberately having kids so close in birth date. It was a whirlwind few weeks, to put it lightly. Here's how it all played out:

Sam turned 4 this year. Unlike Jonah who is just now starting to find his social footing, Sam makes friends everywhere he goes. Even at this young age, he runs with his own little posse, so I figured a small birthday party in the form of a glorified play-date couldn't hurt – super-hero style. He invited his best buds and his cousin, 5 boys in all. The boys decorated superhero masks and then played two games which were a complete failure by my standards, but the kids had fun. First, we had booby-trapped the family room with black streamers and then threw glow sticks all over the floor. The object of the game was for the kids to crawl on their bellies to retrieve the glow sticks, treating the streamers like lasers. After I said, "GO," Sam opened his arms wide and ran straight into the streamers, instantaneously ripping every last streamer from the wall and clearing the way for the glow sticks to be grabbed by little hands. My mom had predicted the game would last 30 seconds -- it was closer to 7. For the second game, my brother, David, dressed up as a super-villain. The kids were all given cans of silly spray and were told to use it to "vaporize the villain". I had envisioned them tearing through the yard, attacking Sam's uncle with silly string, but what I hadn't anticipated was that the triggers on the cans were too hard for little fingers to press. This resulted in David standing still on the driveway while the adults tried to help the kids operate the silly string cans. I suppose in this situation, I got what I paid for. (Thanks for nothing, Dollar Store!) With that behind us we moved on to cake and presents. I thought I'd be clever and place lit sparklers on the cake -- very POW-BOOM-ZAP like, right? It took forever to light the darned things, and then when I placed the cake in front of Sam, he burst into tears because he thought his mother was trying to light him on fire. Shall we call that strike 3? Luckily he's very forgiving. After we covered the entire kitchen with cake crumbs and blue frosting, we retreated to the family room to play with toys -- for the remaining HOUR. It really did end up being a play-date! The boys all went home with a superhero cape. Surprisingly, Sam had a fabulous time. I think in the end, he was just happy to have his friends over to play.

Jonah's birthday was a different story. I was terrified when he announced he was ready for his first friend party. As far as I knew, he didn't have any friends. Since he's new to his school this year, I couldn't imagine whom he would invite, and I certainly didn't know that anyone would respond to the invitation. We invited 12 kids with the hope that 6 would show up. Since people in Utah do not RSVP (Seriously – not to parties, not to weddings, not to graduations…I can’t help but wonder if people here just don’t know what those letters stand for), I figured I'd plan for 12 even though 12 surely wouldn't show. When 11 kids showed up to the party that day, I was flabbergasted! I honestly could have burst into tears -- not only because I was so excited that Jonah had found some great little friends, but because for once my obsessive over-planning paid off! No surprise, he had insisted on a penguin theme. Our main activity was a craft: I made penguin bodies out of fleece and gathered items for the kids to create faces on their penguins. They then stuffed their penguins and stitched them shut. After that, we built igloos out of sugar cubes and then rushed through a fishing game, a musical iceberg game, a pinata, cake and presents. Where I had too little planned for Sam's party, I had way too much planned for Jonah's. But it was so much fun! The kids were courteous and hilarious, and the screaming -- oh, the screaming! Who knew girls screamed so much?! I can only imagine what a slumber party must sound like! It was a good day.

On to Halloween. Being the cheapskate I am, I took Sam to Target after Halloween last year to find a costume on clearance. He already knew he wanted to be Darth Vader (aka "Darf Vater"), but the only one left on the rack was a size 12-14. I tried to talk him out of it, but how do you talk a 3 year old out of ANYTHING??? I figured the $5.00 was worth the mask if nothing else, so I relented. He wore that costume around the house all year, and the day before he was scheduled to wear it to school for Halloween, I decided to alter it to fit him better (because in its original state, the costume fit ME). I raised the waistband by 6 inches, and chopped who-knows-how-much off the legs, arms and cape. After throwing on some snow boots and grabbing his light saber, he was good to go. Adorable.

And guess what Jonah wanted to be? Must you ask? I tried so hard to talk that kid into being a zookeeper or penguin researcher -- anything that got me out of making a penguin suit -- but to no avail. So I gave in, bought a lot of black and white felt and fleece, and got to work. For most of the design and fitting process (based on this tutorial), he just looked like a big tootsie roll. He is so tall and skinny, that no matter what I did, he didn't look very penguin-like. Once I got the wings and hat on him, you could at least tell what he was supposed to be. It was a boiling-hot costume with all that fabric and stuffing, but he didn't complain. The boy was living his dream.

A couple weeks later came the high point of the entire month of festivities. Because this was his 8th birthday, Jonah was able to be baptized and confirmed a member of our church on Saturday, November 5, 2011 by his Dad. He came home from school the day before his baptism feeling rotten (Sam had been sick the previous week). We considered rescheduling, but since baptisms are only done once a month in our Stake and we had friends and family coming from all over the valley, we decided instead to have Tyler give Jonah a priesthood blessing that evening and hope for the best. We woke up to snow the next morning which was funny in itself. You see, the weekend Jonah was to receive his blessing as a newborn (Jan. 2004), we were hit with a terrible snow storm. We found out shortly before it was to take place – with guests already in route and family visiting from out-of-state -- that our Sunday service was canceled because there was no power in our Ward building. A last minute scramble sent a bishopric member to our home which allowed us to bless Jonah in our living room, surrounded by those we loved. The fact that Tyler had to shovel the driveway before we left for the baptism was a sweet reminder of that morning. As it was all those years ago, many cherished friends and family were in attendance, and it was a day filled with excitement, anticipation, love and support. Driving home after the service, I asked Jonah how he felt. “I feel warm inside. And happy…and not very sick!” was his reply. I was a proud and grateful mother -- proud to be the mom of such a special kid, and grateful to my Heavenly Father for His eternal plan. Its a day I'll never forget, and one I hope Jonah remembers as well.

And that was our month from October 5th-November 5th. Its over, my kitchen is finally clean, and all I want to do now is take a nap. Wake me up when its Thanksgiving...

Creepy Moustache Family

2011-07-11T14:57:00.001-07:00

The boys went to a new pediatric dentist last week. Jonah loves the dentist (and by "love," I mean gets crazy-hyper like a little poodle when we walk through the door), Sam, not so much. Sam has been to the dentist twice before, and each time he was asked to hop up on the chair, he would suddenly become possessed by some devil and it would take two to three adults to restrain him long enough to "kind of" get his teeth counted. No instruments were allowed. I always thought my insurance company was getting ripped off after those failed appointments.

Since we moved, I decided to find somewhere a little bit closer (even though the old office is only 5 miles away...I prefer less than 2. Have you SEEN the gas prices these days???), and boy am I glad I did. I swear the gals in this new office are "boy whisperers". Not only did they do a thorough cleaning and fluoride treatment without any tears, they got a full set of x-rays to boot. Cue the Hallelujah chorus and descending cherubs! I was relieved, because I swear the last guy (who spent way too much time with the self-tanner and teeth bleaching trays...and that unnerved me) had an asterisk on our chart that said, "DIFFICULT PATIENTS - PROCEED WITH CAUTION." Our new dentist ("Jeff" -- no self-tanner whatsoever) probably noted that my boys were very-well behaved, and that their mother has beautiful teeth. (Because I do. And I showed him.) And aside from that, he most likely threw a couple $$$'s in there for reference because Jonah will require a trip to the orthodontist in the next year for a braces consult which means a happier Christmas for all practitioners involved, and a much more meager Christmas for us.

Each boy was given a coin to use in the toy machine on the way out (like a gumball machine, filled with stuff that will either jam my washing machine or will be found months from now, half-melted under their car seats). Sam was smart and had scoped out the goods prior to his appointment. It was an easy decision -- the faux moustache -- very debonair. When the appointment was over and we went out to redeem his coin, the guy who has the job of replenishing the dental toy machines had been there and was packing up to leave. The moustaches were gone. All the pent up fear and anxiety that Sam had been holding back that morning was suddenly unleashed like a tsunami. Since crying at that decibel level can not be ignored, the toy guy ran up and asked what it was that Sam had wanted. He then proceeded to give Sam not one, but FOUR moustaches. All he had left in his box. Jack pot.

And now we are the Creepy Moustache Family. Who knew facial hair could be so much fun?

Before there were dryers...(or how Eve did her laundry)

2011-02-11T19:32:00.001-08:00

One of the things that made Tyler swoon when we first toured this house was it's ridiculously enormous utility room. Its huge. Like, the size of two large bedrooms combined, huge. Personally, I think I'd rather have an extra two bedrooms, but I've found even I am enjoying the huge space that affords us way more storage than the average single family home (which almost makes up for the fact that our entire garage is committed to Whimsy's inventory...if only we could park a car in the utility room).

On one end of the room is both our furnaces and humidifier, the water heater, the washer dryer, Tyler's server/network area, and loads of storage. The other end of the room currently houses three large closets dedicated to food storage, shelving for "stuff," Tyler's tools, Tyler's table saw, a second fridge, and more cubbies for storage. In the middle is a wide open expanse I try not to use as a dumping ground.

A month or so ago, Tyler strung two clotheslines that reach across the room. I {{{LOVE}}} them! I didn't realize how much I'd use them until they were there...and I do. I really do use them. This is something we did not have at the last house (downside of having the washer/dryer in a hall closet), so anything that couldn't go in the dryer ended up being flung over the backsides of chairs and couches. It made the long process of laundry seem even longer and more arduous. Now, I get to hang my air-dry laundry and walk away, closing the door behind me. Who knew such a time-honored practice would feel like such a luxury?

So --

The other day I was cleaning the bathroom downstairs, listening to the boys wander through the house together. They eventually ended up in the utility room. And this is what I heard (coming from a very wise 7-year old voice):

Jonah: "Sam, do you see the rope up there? That's how they used to do laundry in the olden days. Its very old fashioned, you know. A long, long time ago, back when Adam and Eve were still alive, they didn't have dryers, so they had to hang up their clothes on strings. They'd wash their clothes in the washing machine but then they'd have to pull them out and hang them up to dry like that. Can you believe that??? We're really lucky that we have dryers now because if we didn't, it would take so long to dry all our laundry, we'd never have clean underwear to wear! Adam and Eve had a lot of kids so I bet Eve wished she had a dryer like Mom, instead of some string..."

Sam agreed emphatically.

I don't know, though. Seems like a dryer would be pretty far down on Eve's wish list.

Honestly, I bet she would have been happy with toilet paper.

2010 year-in-review

2011-01-06T20:23:00.000-08:00

I don't think of myself as being particularly voyeuristic, but I do love hearing about the lives of my family and friends. For this reason, one of my favorite parts about the holidays are the Christmas cards, and more so, the family newsletters/updates that accompany many of them. It seems however, that with our busy lives these days, fewer families are sending out these newsletters. I'm guilty of this myself. This year I felt like I was lucky just to get the stamps on the envelopes (and I thought my head was going to explode waiting for Jonah to lick each envelope...one after another, after another...). There was no way I could muster a family update. But now the holidays are well over, and while you didn't find it in your envelopes this Christmas, you can read our year-in-review right here.

I thought about going through month-by-month so I opened up my trusty calendar, thinking it would be easy to pull out all the brilliant things we did as a family...

Ha.

The first 5 months of the year consisted of nothing more than battling contractors, pulling all-nighters at the D Street house, and for me, working on the weekends. At the beginning of May, we decided that come hell-or-high-water, we WOULD BE MOVING in June. We went so far as to set a date. The date was to be almost 18 months from the day we closed on the house. It was a busy, emotional few weeks as we scrambled to get the house livable. My sweet sister came out to help finish last-minute projects and somehow we were able to pull it together in time. But then we had to pack.

Oh.my.word.

I had been trying to pack unnecessary things here and there, but really, I was spending about 20 hours a week working at the house in addition to my 20-40 hours a week working for my clients, so I hadn't been able to accomplish as much in advance as I would have hoped. I had my last wedding on June 8th and we were scheduled to move on June 12th (and by scheduled, I mean the truck was reserved and the Elders Quorum had us on the calendar). Oh -- and Jonah's last day of kindergarten was on the 8th as well, which meant I had two kids that I needed to pawn off on wonderful friends. So I had three days to pack an entire house PLUS a business. On the 10th, it was pretty obvious I wasn't going to make it. This was tragic since half our work-force (Tyler's family) was only available that weekend. We told his family that we were throwing in the towel, at which point they rallied together and told us we were going to move on Saturday, and they were going to help. My sister-in-law, Maren, was at the house bright and early on Friday, and lo and behold, together we got the entire house packed that day. That evening, Clayton, Kylie, Jordan, Ashley, and Randy showed up to move Whimsy's inventory and coolers. They packed the moving truck to the brim and had it unpacked at the house a couple hours later. The boys were staying the night with my in-laws, and by 3:00 AM, Tyler and I had all the furniture taken apart and we collapsed in our sleeping bags. Everything was ready to go. The next morning, the guys from the ward showed up at 8:30 AM. I decided to take a load of personal stuff to the house at 9:00 AM, and by the time I got back, the truck was loaded. Amazing. We all drove to the house to unload the truck, and I think we had the Elders Quorum done and on their way by 11:30 AM? (One of the wives later told me that her husband said it was the most organized, painless move he's ever been a part of. Best compliment ever!) Our families stuck around to make beds and unpack the bathrooms, kitchen, and pantry, and we had a nice lunch and then sent everyone off around 1:00 PM. I couldn't believe how smoothly it all went. I was able to spend the afternoon unpacking, and even had time to drop off thank-you cards and loaves of bread from the bakery to our moving helpers.

As you can guess, the remainder of our year has been consumed by settling into this house. In addition to our continuing cosmetic projects, we've had some major headaches as well (like the time we were told we needed to replace our main sewer line...a week after we moved in!). But all the same, we love this charming little house, and this quiet little neighborhood.

Other 2010 happenings:

Tyler was promoted to "Clinical Scientist" this year, and shortly after we moved, he also started supervising his lab's evening shift. Can you say awesome?! I live in a world where my husband gets my son ready in the morning, takes him to school, chaperone's every field trip, gladly accompanies me grocery shopping, has time to tinker around the house and work on projects, and allows me to take off at a moment's notice -- child-free. I've been a lucky gal. In September, Tyler crashed his mountain bike on a rocky trail and consequently broke his elbow. He was banged up pretty bad, but that didn't keep him from ripping out and replanting the entire front yard landscaping before he even got the green-light from the doctor to remove his sling. What a [stubborn] stud.

I, on the other hand, remained a slave to my work for the better part of the year. I had an epiphany-inducing experience at the start of the year that really got me thinking about my priorities. I finished out the 2010 commitments to my clients and then chose not to renew all but one of my advertising outlets for 2011. After so many years running this business, its my desire to be more accessible to my children that has prompted me to pull back professionally. We're putting a lot of faith in the Lord that we'll be able to swing this financially. I'll still take a handful of weddings in 2011, but hopefully, Whimsy will now take its rightful backseat to the family. (That's not to say I'm not constantly thinking about new, less time consuming projects to bring in some additional income!) Other not-so-noteworthy things I did: cut my bangs (something I said I'd never do), joined a neighborhood "Joy School" group for Sam (something everyone else said I'd never do), and learned how to make a semi-decent dinner roll (something I never thought I'd do, but I'm still working on that one).

True to the previous 6 years of his life, Jonah's year was an eventful one. He finished kindergarten, learned to ride a bike, shared a room for the first time, kept the Tooth-Fairy in business, started the first grade, turned 7, became obsessed with all things Pokemon, finished the first five volumes in the Harry Potter series, upgraded from his Gameboy to a Nintendo DS, and won his grade's "Reflections" art contest. He's reading from the fifth/sixth-grade reading list at school, and he claims he plays basketball during recess. (What?!) He was diagnosed in early-fall as having ADHD, and we've spent the last part of the year trying to get his medications all squared away. As always, he's been a champ and has maintained a great attitude through it all.

Sam...What to say about this little monkey? He's adorable. Just adorable. And sweet. But stubborn. And hilarious. And exasperating. (Three year olds!) In 2010 he conquered potty-training and started Joy School, developed a fondness for Darth Vader and other villains, and devoted the majority of his time to terrorizing his older brother. He's always dressing up in some costume or another, he loves any and all forms of music, he prefers to always be on the go, and his favorite thing to do (outside of teasing Jonah) is eat. Breakfast, first lunch, snack, second lunch, snack, early-late snack, after-school snack, grazing, dinner, dessert, midnight snack. For Christmas he only asked for an Easy Bake Oven, which he received. He's a crack-up. And thank goodness, Sam is still a squishy little dude, which makes me want to cuddle him constantly...if only he wouldn't squirm so much.

So in 2010 we stayed close to home, but as it turns out, that's exactly where we wanted to be. It was a fun, adventure-filled year, spent in here in SLC. The kind that makes you look forward to years to come.

The Day After

2010-12-26T13:08:00.000-08:00

Christmas was glorious this year.

I remember being a child, feeling such pity for my parents who seemed to receive so little by way of gifts. I could never understand how they could be so cheerful when their haul was so small. I totally get it, though. Watching my boys' fulfilled anticipation was better than any gift I have ever received in the past. My only wish was that Christmas came more than once a year (and that I could afford it!).

Missing from our celebration was snow. We did not have a "white Christmas" here in Utah this year. At our home in Salt Lake, it was dry as a bone -- reminiscent of northern California holidays, with a slightly lower temperature. This afternoon the flakes finally started falling, and as a result, we've found a renewed Christmas spirit which we'd like to share with you.

I told the boys I'd give them a quarter if they sung really loud.

I think I may owe them 50 cents instead.

Ghost of Christmas Past

2010-12-24T15:20:00.000-08:00

I have friends who dutifully record their children's memories in a journal every week.
I wish I was one of those moms.
I am so not.

To be honest, I don't know what my boys' first words were, when they cut their first teeth, or when they took their first steps. I think in my heart, I wanted to write down every moment, but life is so much more busy and complicated than that for me. I'm sure that after enough therapy, they'll learn to forgive me for the fact that their childhood is a fuzzy, very distant blur, filled with whatever embellished, half-truth stories I can conjure up. Oh well.

Every once and a while, however, I sat down to detail a moment purely for the benefit of the relatives that couldn't be present.

Four years ago this month, Jonah had his first meet-and-greet with good ol' San-ty Claus. It was a highly anticipated event, and one that did not disappoint. I found it amusing, so I wrote down the experience and emailed it (along with some photos) to some extended family.

A few weeks ago we took the boys to visit with Kris Kringle at a church function. Jonah was all business and got right to the point. Sam (who had already had a run-in with Santa at the grocery store) wanted nothing to do with him. I got to thinking about how similar that was to Jonah when he was the same age and went looking for the email. Luckily, one of their great-aunts had held onto and graciously sent it my way.

So now I'll share it with all of you.
Merry Christmas!

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

Originally emailed on 12/12/06

This past Saturday was our ward Christmas party. Among our festive activities was a scheduled appearance from Santa Claus. This is the first year Jonah has been aware of Santa, thanks to unrelenting commercialism and media brainwashing. He didn't know much about the big red man, but enough to know he was good -- he jingles when he walks, and he brings presents.

Jonah had been looking forward to meeting Santa at the party -- So much so that it became a frequent topic of conversation during the days leading up to the event. He'd walk around the house bellowing, "Ho-ho-ho! Merry Christmas eddybuddy!" During one conversation, I told him that most likely he'd sit on Santa's lap and Santa would ask if he'd been a good boy at which point he should reply in the affirmative. He would then probably ask what he'd like to receive for Christmas (to which Jonah emphatically replied, "A binky!" -- I later coached him that he might want to say something a little more big-boyish like a toy car, to which Jonah agreed...). At home Jonah would dialogue with his toys, one pretending to be Santa and the other pretending to be him, with those exact questions and answers. The night before the party there was a lot of bouncing around, with constant reminders that it was almost "party time" and "Santa time."

So of course the day arrives and Jonah is a very excited boy. When we got to the church to set up, he ran through the building looking for Santa. The morning probably dragged on for him as he patiently waited for the moment he was to meet Santa. When it was finally time to trek to the Relief Society room to stand in line, Jonah was a 3-year old on speed. He was running up to random kids, yelling in their faces, jumping up and down, turning around in circles, repeating the rehearsed answers to what he thought would be asked of him ("Mommy! I will say "Yes" and "I would like a big red car, please.")... It was all I could do just to get him to keep his hands to himself. At the point we made it to the front of the line, he was so overwhelmed with excitement he was doing what one might call the "pee-pee dance." And then the moment came. It was his turn. He stepped up onto the platform and...froze. He was gently pushed forward and consented to being placed on Santa's lap, but couldn't find any words to say. He didn't crack a smile. He didn't blink. He didn't look the old man in the eye. He didn't even look ME in the eye! He was void of all emotion. He didn't even react to the uncontrollable laughter of all the other adults in the room who know how out of character silence is for Jonah.

It was all too similar to the Santa mall scene in the classic movie, "A Christmas Story." Only this Santa wasn't an alcoholic and Jonah didn't ever snap out of it long enough to place his gift request.

When he was handed back to me, it took him a few seconds to shake off the...fear? Awe? Numbness? After that, it was as if he'd just hung out with a rock star -- he was elated and ready to tell anyone who crossed his path. It'd be interesting to know what went on in his head during his 30 seconds with Santa. Probably nothing.

Kids crack me up. Enjoy the photos.

Jonah, age 3

Because "things" should be flushed...

2010-08-27T19:45:00.000-07:00

Sam just got out of bed for the millionth time tonight to tell me that his "diaper is falling off."

Child, if you are articulate enough to tell me in plain English that you are having an issue with your diaper, you are TOO OLD to be wearing one.

When I write a parenting book, my chapter on toilet training is going to go something like this:

"Remember how you were told that its best to let your child decide when its time to potty-train? THAT'S WRONG. Kids don't know anything. That's why they eat stuff they find in the gutter."

Starting next week, we're getting serious about ditching the diaper.
No - wait - scratch that. Next week won't work. I have two weddings, and there's no way that Tyler (blesshisheart) can be trusted to enforce the rigid, Nazi-like potty schedule that leads to eventual underwear freedom. I guess starting next, NEXT week, we'll be getting serious. Serious-er than I've been able to be this summer, anyway. Any suggestions? Bribes, rewards, charts, and stickers have so far proven to be completely useless and have yielded little more than wasted money, spoiled appetites, and Hot Wheel-induced foot-pad bruises.

I bought a box of 108 diapers from Target today. I'm going to go out on a limb and pledge that it will be my last purchase of diapers for this child. (Pull-ups don't count, though. I'll be darned if this boy thinks I'm going to get up in the middle of the night to change wet sheets.) With the extra $25 I'll be saving each month, I will buy chocolate milk. Lots and lots of chocolate milk. Because after potty-training "Stubborn Sam," by golly, I am going to deserve it.

Photo credit: Target. Not my kid. But the resemblance is amazing...huh?

Shabby Apple Dress Sale!

2010-08-24T22:18:00.000-07:00

UPDATE: The sale has been canceled. But I'm keeping this up because by posting about it, I also entered a little contest, and I want to win it!

I'm in search of a dress for a certain family wedding coming up soon. If I can swing it, I'll be attending the Shabby Apple Garden Party dress sale on Saturday. Could I possibly be so lucky as to find an eggplant or green colored dress to fulfill my soon-to-be sister-in-law's request? We shall see. Anyone care to join me?

Why I am not an ENT.

2010-07-02T22:11:00.000-07:00

Before I needed health insurance so I could get pregnant (Tyler was a full-time student), I worked at as a Rec Therapy Tech at a "Rehabilitation Center."

That's a fancy way of saying "Nursing Home."

During my time there, I learned one very important fact about myself:

I do not have a weak stomach.

I saw stuff there. Nasty stuff. Stuff that trumped any gross or unsanitary or shouldn't-be-discussed-at-the-dinner-table experience I had had up to that point. But as with anyone who works in the health care field, you get used to it because you see it every day. Believe me, I could tell you stories that would make your toes curl...but I won't. Blech.

So once the children began invading my home and life, I felt pretty prepared for anything they could throw at me. Blow-out diapers? Piece of cake. Puke all over the couch (or down my shirt)? No problem. Cracked-open heads? Please. I'm on it. Smells, sights, residue...no effect. I'm like a machine.

EXCEPT --

...for boogers. Or boagies (rhymes with "hoagie") as well call them at our house. Nasal secretion or mucus of any kind. {Insert dry-heave} Those make my skin crawl. They make the very hairs on my neck stand up straight, cause me to feel dizzy, and illicit the desire to run and lock myself in the bathroom. I don't know what it is, but...GROSS!

These "issues" are common knowledge among those I am close to because my snot-aversion runs deep. So deep that I think I may have led my children to believe that nose picking is downright shameful. We don't do it. Not in front of mom, anyway.

This past week, however, I've learned that I've been living a pipe dream.
I have been deceived.

As time allows, I am slowly cleaning the Holladay house now that everything is moved out of it. For the most part, I've just been chasing dust bunnies...until I ended up in Jonah's old room. What I thought was just a bunch of dirty hand/foot smudges by his bed ended up being something entirely different. (You parents know what I'm talking about.) If I wasn't so aesthetically obsessive, I probably would have just reached for the Killz Primer. Instead, I spent the better part of an hour meticulously removing the evidence of Jonah's late-night nose-cleanings off the wall. Shudder.

A few days later Jonah and I decided to clean out the car while Sam was napping. I don't do this nearly as often as I should, so when I clean, I CLEAN. I pulled out the boys' boosters so we could get underneath them. Jonah's seat was especially dirty. Upon further inspection, however, I noticed the entire right side of the seat was covered in dried boogers. Covered!!!

"Jonah Randall! Are these boagies? Are they? ARE THEY???"

No response beyond a smirk.

"You think that's funny, huh? Its NOT funny! It's disgusting! Guess what you get to do now? Clean them all off. Every single one of them. Or you owe me $17,000."

Okay. I admit it. Threatening that a six year old is going to owe me 17 Grand is probably a little overkill. But in case I haven't made myself clear, I can not stomach the boogers!

He scrubbed, and picked, and flicked, and vacuumed, and in the end, he got the entire seat clean. I couldn't pass up the opportunity to beat a dead horse, though, so I brought it up -- a few times -- during dinner that night. And I think I made my point. Which will probably be remembered for all of two days before the boagie wiping resumes.

My crack-up (Sam) wanted in on the action, though, too.

Today we were standing in line at IKEA when he held his finger out to me and said, "Look, Mom. A boagie!"

Sure enough, there was a big wad of nastiness perched on the tip of his pointer. "Sam, that's gross. We don't pick our nose. If you have something in your nose, please ask for a tissue."

I began reaching into my purse for a proper disposal method, to which he responded by looking me straight in the eye and giving me the most devilish grin a child can muster, while slowly bringing his finger toward his mouth.

"Sam, don't you -- Don't you DARE! --- SAM! --"

Quick as lightning, he shoved his finger in his mouth and ended with an exaggerated, GULP.

I haven't had an appetite all day...

To: You, From: Me

2010-07-01T20:44:00.000-07:00

I used to pride myself on being a decent gift-giver.

I've always tried to put a lot of thought into my gifts (or at least I did before D Street began and gift cards became my first line of defense). In the initial stages of choosing a gift, I would often think to myself, "What does this person want that they don't know they want?" I believe in leaving "needs" out of the equation completely. I may NEED a shower caddy for the downstairs bathroom, but do I really want to receive that as a gift? (The same goes for socks and underwear -- and I say that in all seriousness because I have family members who actually put said items on their Christmas lists!)

I like to give items that the recipient may otherwise not think of purchasing (or be able to justify purchasing) for themselves. Gifts should be fun! Unexpected! Met with anticipation! Not something off a checklist of mediocre household goods.

(Buy your kids their own dang underwear. I'm getting them a Barbie.)

This topic has been the source of many conversations in the Eves household. We didn't do "lists" in the Crocker home growing up, and as a result, there was a genuine element of surprise as we opened each present. Gifts my parents gave me ranged from the truly awesome (think diamond tennis bracelet as a 17 year old) to rather puzzling (like the hot-pink fanny-pack with the hydration bladder my dad gave me...when I was 8?!). The excitement that came from not knowing what to expect really increased my appreciation for the act of giving and receiving. And that's something I've tried to recreate in my own family.

Tyler's is a list-family, which has taken some getting used to. There are benefits to lists, I agree. You don't have to worry about whether or not the receiver will like the gift, you get what you need, etc. But like I said, I have problems with those very things because it squashes the element of surprise for the recipient and requires little thought/effort from the giver. The times I've strayed from the lists I've gotten some weird looks, but I keep trying. I like to think that my subtle influence helped encourage my in-laws to take a leap of faith and surprise us with non-list-dictated gifts a number of years ago. They brought out big boxes one Christmas and had the daughters-in-law open them at the same time. Under the wrapping was a set of All-Clad pots and pans. It was completely unexpected. I don't know how my SIL felt about her All Clad because I was too busy screaming and jumping up and down with joy. My father-in-law still says that was the coolest reaction to a gift he's ever seen. And that's kind of what I think we all should shoot for in the gifts we give -- but maybe with a much lower price tag!

Tyler started to catch on to this idea a few years ago. Poor guy -- can't bring me flowers (duh), can't buy me clothes (too small, nothing fits), can't take me out on the weekends (my work days) -- What's a guy to do? Somehow he remembered a bit of late-night chatter regarding luxury items that I intended to purchase someday when I'm old and comfortable, simply because I can. The two items at the top of my list were a Dooney and Burke handbag, and a Mason-Pearson hairbrush. Silly things, really, but things that seemed to signify wealth and sophistication when I was growing up. My mother actually had a Mason-Pearson hairbrush and whenever I had the opportunity, I would sneak into her bathroom and use it. I can still feel those boar bristles gliding down my hair like honey. Its the brush of celebrities. So decadent, so luxurious, so...frivolous. But when I opened up my birthday present one year to find a shiny, handmade Mason-Pearson staring back at me, I gulped. Tyler was ecstatic that he got me something I always wanted, I was reeling from the fact that he had spent over $100 on a HAIRBRUSH. A brush that actually comes with care instructions. A brush that has its own brush to clean it. A brush that doesn't do anything in particular. You can't style your hair with it. Its more of a Marsha Brady-type brush (use it before bed and admire how shiny your hair looks). It was a surprise, to say the least, but after I got over the initial sticker shock (darned joint-accounts!), I was reminded of how nice it is to be spoiled sometimes and how a well-thought gift really can make you feel like a million bucks, if only for a moment.

I was thinking about this as I was brushing my hair tonight. I really DO need a shower caddy for the downstairs bathroom (among a trillion other things!), but would I trade my little piece of well-thought indulgence for those perceived needs? I don't think so. Not just because the hairbrush makes my hair soft and shiny and perfect right before I throw it into a bedtime ponytail (and holy-mama, IT DOES!), but because of what it represents. It was the perfect type of gift, and it makes me think of the man who gave it to me each time I put it to use. So in that sense, mission accomplished.

A couple days ago it was Tyler's 34th birthday and I got him nothing. Not even a card. I jest that I bought him a house and that's good enough for a while, but really, I'm ashamed of how lax my gift-giving rituals have become. So now I need to recommit myself to the art of giving gifts and find something to do to make up for this birthday faux pas.

I haven't a clue what to do or get. It'll take some thought, for sure.

...Maybe a Dooney and Burke handbag?

Kindergarten Recap

2010-06-08T19:45:00.000-07:00

Kindergarten is over.
What a year!

I didn't know what to expect going in to the school year. Being that Jonah is my first child, I was rather unprepared as to common school-parent etiquette. When the teacher asked for parents to sign up for ONE class activity in order to give every parent a turn, I signed up for one (I now know that a pushy mom can be in the kindergarten class as much as she wants. If only I were a pushy mom...). When the first day of school rolled around, I had no idea I was supposed to provide the teacher with a gift/bribe of cookies, candies, flowers, or gift certificates to get her to like ME...I mean, my child. In the same vein, I didn't realize that Valentine's Day required a similar $20 gift, or that I was supposed to know her when her birthday was (how do parents get a hold of that kind of information???). I'm not so dumb that I didn't send Jonah with a gift for Christmas and Teacher Appreciation Week, but they weren't large and didn't boast any kind of bravado. Although our gifts were probably smaller than the other students', I think the handwritten notes we included provided the sentiment we were trying to convey. I didn't know how to invite Jonah's classmates to our home for a play date, I felt awkward around the other moms who obviously knew each other from the neighborhood/church, I never found the time to get involved in the PTA (even though I paid the dues...I wouldn't have known how to get involved anyway, I guess), and I must admit I did let Jonah skip three days of school to play with his visiting cousins. I often wished there was a handbook for new-to-school-parents. But alas, I stumbled through the year, worrying about whether or not Jonah was making friends, whether he was happy, and whether he was figuring out who he wanted to be. In kindergarten.

I learned a lot about Jonah this year. Having had no other children to compare him to, I figured he was average on all levels. (okay, I knew he was more energetic than most, and a little uncoordinated, but he is MY child, so...) I learned his level of enthusiasm blows most kids out of the water. Everything is fun. Everything is exciting. Everything is cool. I think that's great. It scared a lot of his classmates off in the beginning, but I think they learned to love him for it. I also learned that he has a brilliant little mind. I am one of those parents that feel strongly that children should be children. They should be allowed to have fun and explore and live life carefree for as long as possible, because heaven knows kids grow up too fast. So I never did a single flashcard with him, I didn't enroll him in any enrichment activities prior to school, I didn't drill him on his letters, numbers, how to write his name, how to use a pair of scissors or color in the lines...I didn't expect him to know ANYTHING, really. I just wanted him to be a kid. Somehow, he walked into kindergarten knowing how to read (I blame TV), and from day one, he just took off academically. His teacher was a little perplexed and concerned by how quickly he learned and how far ahead of his classmates he was/is. When she expressed her concern that he should be instructed at a second grade curriculum that year, my response was, "Uhhh...der...um...duh..." I didn't coach him to be that way. I didn't even CARE that he was that way. I just wanted him to be confident and happy. So it ended up being a challenging year, trying to keep him occupied in class and trying to provide him with valuable learning opportunities at school while the rest of the class was doing something completely different. He rolled with it really well and his teacher did her best to teach him outside the kindergarten curriculum while at the same time managing his high level of energy (and the distraction it often created). I laid awake many nights, wondering what I was going to do with him and how I was going to keep him motivated. But in the end, Tyler and I have decided we'll just take each year as it comes. Skipping grades isn't an option because socially, he's very young. VERY, very young. But he's an unassuming kind of smart for now, which is nice and which means it shouldn't get in the way of his learning to effectively interact/relate with other kids. Learning to make real, lasting connections with other children will be an ongoing challenge in the years to come, as they have been up to this point.

He's so weird its lovable. At least I think its lovable. My greatest hope is always that other people will feel that way too.

He often makes comments about how much he likes himself. I think I fail in so many respects when it comes to motherhood (don't we all?), but when I hear him say things like that, its a reassurance that I'm at least doing something right. And I like him, too.

His favorite classes this year were P.E. and computers. He loves reading, writing, math, and science. Art is okay, but music was boring. And recess...well, recess ROCKS.

It was a year spent commuting. We figured we would have moved a long time ago. As it turned out, we didn't live in that house even one day this school year. Out of the entire year, we only had two tardies. Not too bad, for a kid who doesn't even live in the same town as his school!

So today was the last day of kindergarten. He was excited for the summer, and as I picked him up, I expected to see a 6 year old tornado of energy bursting through the school doors, screaming some nonsensical comment about upcoming summer festivities. Instead, as the other children were running past him, Jonah approached me rather solemnly.

"I don't want to say goodbye to my class."

I wrapped my arms around him. "Are you feeling a little sad?"

With that, he burst into tears. Sobbing, he told me how much he didn't want the school year to be over, how he didn't want a new class next year, how he would miss his friends, and how he loved his teacher. When my child cries (for good reason), I cry. So the two of us were frozen in the middle of the playground -- me on my knees holding a crumpled little boy -- in tears. When his teacher shuffled out after the last of the kids, she approached us explaining he was upset about something that had happened in class, but when I told her he was sad because he didn't want the school year to end, she joined us in our mid-playground hug and said that was the nicest thing that had happened to her all day. (He later told me he wanted to schedule a play-date with his teacher...so cute, so naive.)

When we pulled ourselves together, we made our way to the car for the last time in his kindergarten year. I reflected on how much he has grown this year -- both physically, and socially. I thought about how quickly this is all passing me by, and how lucky I am to have been given the charge to care for such a wonderfully sensitive, forgiving, kind-hearted, dynamic little person.

We talked about how its okay to miss people, but that we should always try to remember the fun experiences we've had, and look forward to new experiences and new people that will give us even more opportunities to learn and grow.

And then we went to MacDonald's and got chocolate milkshakes. Because milkshakes make everything better.

How to Body Slam...by Jonah

2010-05-28T19:31:00.000-07:00

Tutorials always come in handy, right?

Ever wondered how to body slam your friend/brother/Pokemon opponent? Look no further. Jonah has created a "Body Slam How-To" for your viewing pleasure.

Take copious notes -- you never know when you'll need this type of information.

Momma's Day

2010-05-10T09:51:00.000-07:00

For many years now, Mother's Day has really been a wash. It usually ends up being our busiest work week of the year, so by the time Sunday rolls around, I'm more of a zombie than a maternal figure. Yesterday was no different, but despite the overwhelming exhaustion plaguing me, my boys really reminded me of how lucky I am to have them in my life.

I didn't get to sleep in because I had to finish preparing the Relief Society lesson I was scheduled to teach at church that afternoon. When I got out of the shower, the boys were up and bouncing around, ready to present me with the gifts they had prepared for me.

I was first given a large copy-paper box which contained a bag (surprisingly unopened!) of my favorite chips (Tostitos Hint-of-Lime...and Jonah apparently bought them with his own money), and three boxes of Puffs with Lotion tissue (my allergies have been terrible this year). The boys then ran to the freezer and pulled out a half dozen ice cream-cupcakes from Coldstone. (...when I got home from my last delivery the night before Jonah exclaimed, "Do NOT look in the freezer. We bought you something for Mother's Day and its in the freezer so stay OUT!")

Then came the real gift.

Months ago Jonah told me he had made me a Mother's Day gift and he was so-so-so-so-so-so-so excited to give it to me. All this time he has been hiding it in various areas of his room, at the same time asking if I wanted it early because it was driving him CRAZY. So I knew this was a pretty big deal.

And it was.

Out came a little box which contained the following:

A hand-drawn picture of the D Street house
9 pennies
a dollar bill
a seashell
a button (in case one of mine gets lost)
an old, dried Billy Ball flower pulled out of the cooler at some point or another (his favorite)
a tube of used chapstick with a cut-out heart taped onto it
a pretty awesome clay bowl/pot/thingy he made at school

Its obvious a lot of six-year-old thought was put into his selections. He was positively bursting with pride as I praised his gift choices. Not wanting to be left out, Sam emerged from his room with his Diego recorder and a toy car for me to have. And I got a million hugs and kisses to boot.

Those little guys are by far the coolest thing I've ever done.

I do hope all the women in my life had a lovely day. Its true that there are so many amazing women who have impacted both me and my boys: related, not related, friends, church members, women who have never had children themselves, and women who have had so many they should write a book about it. I know I wouldn't be the mother I am without their influence, and I know my children would not be as blessed as they are without their love.

But, I'm especially fond of this one.

Happy Mother's Day!

Perspective...

2010-05-04T21:40:00.000-07:00

Trying to stay afloat.

2010-04-27T18:37:00.001-07:00

"It is significant to consider that one's life, therefore, cannot be both faith-filled and stress-free. President Wilford Woodruff counseled us all about the mercy that is inherent in some adversity: 'The chastisements we have had from time to time have been for our good, and are essential to learn wisdom, and carry us through a school of experience we could never have passed through without.' (Journal of Discourses, 2:198). Therefore, how can you and I really expect to glide naively through life, as if to say, "Lord, give me experience, but not grief, not sorrow, not pain, not opposition, not betrayal, and certainly not to be forsaken. Keep from me, Lord, all those experiences which made Thee what Thou art! Then let me come and dwell with Thee and fully share Thy joy!" (Elder Neal A. Maxwell, "Lest Ye Be Wearied and Faint in Your Minds," Ensign, May 1991, 88)

I've felt weary lately.

Blame it on the never-ending stress with the house, the impending move, the concerns I'm having about Jonah's schooling next year, the economy that has finally hit my industry a year late but is proving to put an enormous amount of financial strain on my family, the feeling that I'm being pulled in a million different directions all at once, the age-old battle of allowing day-to-day life to interfere with one's spirituality, or if nothing else, feeling the aching compassion, empathy, and pain that comes when a friend is suffering. Either way, I'm weary.

Sometimes I need the reminder that all the pieces of what can feel like a very broken puzzle really do come together in the end to create the portrait of who we are to become. I do try to acknowledge and appreciate the tender mercies I'm shown as I wade through sludge that can be mortality. I can see how each difficult experience I've endured has taught me invaluable lessons that I could never replace. But at the end of a long, taxing day/week/month/year its easy to forget, isn't it?

The next few weeks are going to be very tense as we try to get out of here and into the D Street house. I'm hoping I'll have the strength to hold it all together. In the meantime, I'm going to keep this thought in my heart and attempt to stay afloat.

Price Tags and Hair Elastics

2010-04-23T19:54:00.001-07:00

Jonah is a collector at heart.

Early-on, he was the recipient of some heavy-handed influence from his live-in great-grandmother. Her list of collections is almost too long and obscure to count: it includes mass amounts of frog paraphernalia, carved wood, beads-never-strung, books about mushrooms, ceramic molds, and boxes --multiple boxes-- of rocks. So I suppose its safe to say Jonah comes by it honestly.

When I was a kid, I recall feeling passionate about a couple collections, the most important being my erasers. Not just any erasers, but those of the novelty variety. I saved my allowance to hit up the Hello Kitty store whenever possible to add to my collection. They were never, EVER used -- they were for viewing purposes ONLY. I remember spending many after-school hours at Molly Carollo's house going through our respective eraser collections (and smelling her hamsters, but that's another story). Totally awesome. I actually found a few eraser survivors when I packed up my life and moved in with Tyler, but they have since been gnawed and eaten by the monsters I call my children (because what else would you DO with a pretty, heart shaped eraser?).

But back to Jonah's collections --

A couple years ago I started finding pieces of clothing price tags in Jonah's room. Apparently, the perforated strip at the bottom of the tag containing the purchase price was the best (and most coveted) part of the tag, so he began saving them. There were constantly confetti piles of those little tag strips littering his bedroom floor. If I removed and threw away a tag from a new piece of clothing without his knowledge, he'd eventually find it (because my child likes to root through the garbage can. Doesn't yours?) and give me the stink eye for trying to thwart his elevated interests. But it gets worse. Soon I started noticing that he'd get really quiet and momentarily slip away while we were at the clothing store. It took a few store visits and a few pockets full of price tag strips discovered pre-laundry to realize he was combing through the clothing racks and actually removing the tags to add to his collection. Not exactly criminal activity, but still strangely compulsive. I explained that if he continued to remove that part of the tags on unpurchased items, no one would ever know how much the item cost, and it would make it really difficult to shop. It became ritual for me to remind Jonah of what NOT to do before we went shopping ("No screaming, no hugging kids you don't know, no crawling under the dressing room stalls, and NO price tag removal!"). It must be one important collection, though, because he then took to scouring the store floor for tags that had already fallen off. Who's that kid crawling on the concrete floor underneath the tankini rack picking up stray price tags and shoving them into his pocket? Oh yeah. That's MY kid.

And then I began noticing that my hair elastics kept disappearing. I couldn't find any sensible reason for the disappearance. Its not like I was taking them out of my hair and absent-mindedly shooting them across the room. A hair elastic should last for a reasonable amount of time. But every morning, I kept finding myself reaching for a new one because the previous day's elastic was MIA. It made no sense, until I watched Jonah clean the bathroom one day. While clearing off the counter top, he quickly grabbed an errant elastic and stuck it in his pocket. A few days later, I saw him do the same thing while brushing his teeth. And when I went in to dust his bureau, it all made sense. Sitting on the dresser was a pile of hair elastics. I asked him why all my elastics were sitting there, and he responded quite innocently, "Its my collection, Mom."

So the question is, is he a budding collector, or a kleptomaniac? I suppose it could go either way. In his defense, he hasn't shown much interest in those collections lately. His sights have moved on to marbles and leftover pieces of mesh-mosaic tile (clearly the child of a never-ending renovation). This afternoon as we were going through toys and packing up books in preparation for the D Street move, we came across an old pile of price tags and hair elastics. I told him they were all going in the trash. He froze in terror for a moment until I assured him there would be an opportunity to collect more in the future should he determine that was necessary.

He relented with little anguish.

I guess that phase is over.

Phew!

One less thing to add to the list of "Things to discuss with a Child Psychologist"...

A Glimmer of Progress...

2010-04-22T18:15:00.000-07:00

Remember these before photos?

Here's where we stand right now:

We've yet to install the subway tile backsplash, the pendant lights over the sink and cooktop, or the exhaust system, it hasn't been painted yet, and we're still waiting on some cabinet doors (for the cabinets that were originally installed in December!), but the bones of the kitchen are at least in place. It probably looks small to most of you, but it feels HUGE compared to the old kitchen, and compared to many of the kitchens in our neighborhood. (Space. It was our biggest compromise, but you just can't beat the location!)

The kitchen is our favorite part of the house. We put a lot of thought and energy into our choices: painted white maple cabinets, single-basin sink, Cambrian black antiqued granite, all Bosch appliances (including a gas cooktop, a convection oven, built-in microwave, and cabinet depth refrigerator...all of which I scored at mind-blowing prices. MIND BLOWING!!!), red oak floor (it was a new install in the kitchen), new window sizes, where to move the plumbing and electrical, etc. Its been the most time-consuming part of the renovation, but obviously provides the biggest impact as far as resale goes.

We've been spending every spare moment at the house, trying to get things completed. At this point, we've got to finish up the kitchen (although I think I'll wait for my sister's visit in May to do the backsplash -- bet you didn't know that, Annie!), finish painting, and install baseboards, new exterior doors, carpet, the workshop's vinyl floor, window coverings, the new fireplace mantle (which I give Tyler permission to not build until we're in), and new bathroom fixtures, and we'll be ready to move. (At which point we have to unpack then start on the outside of the house...yeesh.) But we're hoping another three weeks. It could be four. But let's hope for THREE!

Any and all motivation is sincerely appreciated. We're running on fumes, here...!

My son, the Entrepeneur

2010-04-14T21:14:00.001-07:00

Should I be proud or concerned?

I've mentioned before how much Jonah loathes work. For a six year old, however, extra chores and odd jobs are really the only way to make a little moolah. (Unless of course that six year old is lucky enough to receive an allowance. Mine is not. Tried it. Didn't work too well. We'll revisit that in a couple years.) Since he has a really hard time holding on to the money he does earn/find in the parking lot/con his great-grandpa out of (must-buy-the-SuperTarget-popcorn-combo!!!) he's learning he has to be creative to keep the dollars flowing.

The other day I walked into the bathroom and turned on the light to find this staring back at me:

"Look at Loos (lots) of Marbles!!! Just for $14."

I know he's been "saving up" [translation: spending every penny he has on candy and then complaining that he needs money] to purchase a replacement battery for his hand-me-down Gameboy (at a cost of $10-15). I guess this route made the most sense. And why not? He's been raised in a family business. He's never known any different, really. I sell stuff so I can buy things. If Mommy does it, why can't he?

But $14? Whew! Do those marbles tap dance?!

...I keep my prices pretty high, too. Way to be a diva, Jonah.

Good boy.

His Great-Aunt (who supplied him with the marbles) stopped by to drop off Easter gifts for the boys. When she was heading out, I followed her to her car with the lunchbox to show her his foray into entrepreneurship. We had a good chuckle about it which was interrupted by Jonah who had come out to see her off. He caught us looking at the the open box and declared, "Wait! You looked! Now you have to pay me $14!" She replied, "I'm sorry, but I don't have $14." "Well then you're just going to have to bring it next time because you OWE me $14." A few chocolate bunnies later and he had forgiven the debt, but I haven't dared to open it since!

But here's a photo so you can see "Loos" of marbles (!!!) for yourself. If you want to send payment, Jonah is currently accepting cash and checks.

April Fools

2010-04-01T10:30:00.000-07:00

I've said before that Jonah is "enthusiastic." I'd try to come up with some other words to describe him, but vocabulary does not exist that better illustrates this little boy. Everything is fun. Everything is exciting. Everything is an adventure. Not a bad trait to have (although by 4:00 PM, even after having had a 3 hour break from him, it starts to wear on you).

So this morning, as with every morning, I was woken up by a beaming six-year old ready to tackle the world. Only today, instead of saying, "Mom, I'm awake. What can I do?" he said, "Mom, I'm awake. And I want breakfast."

I was prepared for this. Its April 1st.

Yesterday afternoon he made a big production of bringing me a carton of eggs, going on and on about how he wanted eggs for breakfast the next day but that I had to use the eggs that had an "x" written on them (a detail punctuated by a suspicious snicker in between each word). It was the same exact exchange we had had on March 31st the year before. And the year before that.

I rolled out of bed, dragged myself down the hall and pulled a frying pan out of the cupboard. I set it on the stove, not even bothering to turn it on knowing where we were headed, and decided to drag it out a bit this year for fun. I asked if he wanted toast and slowly began fussing with the twist tie on the bread bag.

*He started to fidget.*

I pulled a piece of bread out of the bag and placed it in the toaster, stopping to adjust my bedtime ponytail for theatrical impact.

*The fidgeting turned into small hops.*

I turned the toaster on, opened a drawer and started rifling through it, looking for a spatula.

*The small hops became larger jumps and his arms began to flail.*

I pretended to look for some non-stick spray and made a comment about maybe making some juice to go with his breakfast.

*Full-body convulsions were now accompanied by small, irrepressible snorts as if he was moments away from having an aneurysm.*

"THE EGGS! CRACK THE EGGS!!!"

I dramatically gave the eggs a smack on the counter top, and before I could even comment on the fact that they were hard boiled eggs, Jonah was rolling on the floor, gasping for breath in between guffaws.

"I got you Mom! I got you! April Fools! I got you so good!"

"You sure did! Hard boiled eggs! That's a good one, buddy!" (Again.) "I had NO idea!" (Year three, now? I guess if it works, why change?)

So we had hard boiled eggs for breakfast. While he was in the shower, I took all of Jonah's clothes out of his dresser and replaced them with Sam's clothes. If I thought he enjoyed his little breakfast hoax, it was nothing compared to being the recipient of a prank. As I watched him dripping with water in the middle of his room, I seriously considered throwing a towel under him to protect the carpet in case the delirious laughter led to loss of bladder control.

He's one easy kid to please.

So now we're conspiring, trying to decide how to punk his dad tonight.

I'm thinking maybe we'll just have eggs for dinner...but only the one's with an "x" on them.

Wheat Grass Tutorial

2010-03-28T18:32:00.000-07:00

photo credit: Opiefoto

I almost never have flowers in my home. I know what you're thinking: Wha??? A floral designer with no flowers?! Sacrilege! At the end of the day, that's just the last thing I want to do. So instead, they just die in my coolers if I don't have time to divvy them out to friends and neighbors. Springtime does make me long for a little perkiness - a little happy pop of color, however, and so once a year or so, I ignore the tulips in the cooler and instead grow myself some wheat grass. Nothing screams Easter like a big bushel of bright green grass...maybe with a few colored eggs at the base?

So without further adieu, I'm providing a quick 6-step tutorial on how to grow (or how I grow) wheat grass:

Step 1

Bust open a bucket of wheat and grab yourself a handful. For anyone who is LDS, this shouldn't be a problem -- we're supposed to rotate this stuff anyway, right? For someone who doesn't have a food storage supply (or doesn't store wheat) just grab a smaller bag from the grocery store. No need to pick up a 45 lb. bucket from Costco. And I figure if you're already making some for yourself, why not make a few cute pots for neighbors in the process? A cup and a half of wheat is more than enough for this purpose.

Step 2

Give the wheat a quick rinse, then place the wheat kernels in an airtight container and cover with water. I like to use these old Pyrex covered loaf pans, but a quart jar will work well, too. Don't put too much wheat into a single container. You don't want it to exceed a half inch...3/4 of an inch max. These things need room to breathe, so in an effort to prevent rot (Tyler's grandma says they "go sour"...and when they rot, they really do smell sour!), distribute the wheat into a few containers.

Step 3

Every day, dump the soaking wheat into a colander and rinse with cold water. Drain it really well, return it to the container, and recover (but don't add any water!). You'll do this for a few days until the wheat gets a good sprout, at which point you're ready to plant it.

Step 4

Fill your planting container with dirt. Any potting soil will work. Tyler's grandma mixes peat moss into her soil, but I haven't found that makes a noticeable difference in growth.
When I'm making grass for a wedding (see photo at the beginning of the post), I need it in large quantities so I plant it by the flat. I do this by cutting down a cardboard box, lining it with tin foil, and filling it with dirt (you only need a few inches of dirt). Then after its grown, I cut the sizes I need from the flat with scissors or a knife and place in the containers I'm using for the event. When I'm doing this for personal decor or gifts, its easier just to plant it directly into the pot I'll be using.

Sprinkle the sprouted wheat on the surface of the dirt. Give it some good coverage so your grass will be thicker. No need to pat it down -- just let it sit on top of the soil.

Step 5

Lightly sprinkle soil on top of your sprouts. LIGHTLY. If you dump a bunch of soil on top of your wheat, it'll grow funky because it'll have to work too hard to break the surface, or it won't grow at all. Just barely cover it. And if you can still see a few berries peeking through the soil, don't worry about it.

Step 6

Put the pots in a warm, bright place and keep moist. I use a spray bottle to water the grass once a day. If you over-water, the wheat will sour.

If the grass is able to grow in the sun, it will grow greener and faster. I don't get a ton of direct sunlight in my north-facing house, but keeping it by the windows on the south side has been sufficient for me. I find it takes about 10 days to get a decent growth. What you see here is probably about two weeks of growth.

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

And that's it. Easy-peasy. You can use pretty much any type of pot (although I've noticed that the roots tend to mold faster when grown in glass), you can grow it indoors or outdoors, and its a fun project for the kids as well because there's some instant gratification involved. It really does make for an adorable centerpiece or springtime decor feature. Grown in tera cotta pots and tied up with a bright ribbon? Talk about an easy neighbor gift! I even have some friends that have taken my event leftovers and used it in their smoothies and such, because its totally edible. But the best thing about growing wheat grass, is that is so insanely inexpensive. I have a trillion vessels in my work inventory and probably 600 pounds of wheat in our combined food storage, so all it costs me is a small bag of potting mix, and even that goes a long way.

Dare you to try it. Any way you look at it, wheat grass is happy. And happy is good. Especially in the home!

Steve Irwin reincarnate

2010-03-25T19:33:00.000-07:00

On the way home from school this afternoon, a random conversation about Little Caesar's Pizza ("why is it pronounced "see-zer" instead of "kay-ee-sar"?) eventually caused us to reflect on a rather large road construction project in our town last summer (because they bull-dozed the Little Caesar's in the process).

Jonah recalled, "Mom? Remember that man with one hand?"

At the largest intersection of this road project stood a man responsible for holding the stop/slow sign. He was missing his left arm. We drove that road a couple times a day, always stopping at his command and offering a friendly wave as we passed by (and by friendly wave, I mean I waved while the boys screamed salutations and practically jumped out of their safety seats). He never failed to nod in return, and when the fall came around and the construction was completed, we were a little sad to see him go.

I told Jonah I did remember that construction worker and he innocently inquired, "How come he only had one arm?"

"Well, I can't be sure. Maybe he was born without it? Maybe he lost it in an accident? Maybe he got really sick and the doctors had to remove it? Maybe--"

"--Maybe he used to hunt crocodiles???"

I suppose that's a valid theory. Considering all the crocodiles we have in Utah...

The birds and the...?

2010-03-24T15:03:00.000-07:00

Sam...a few days old

Jonah is 6 1/2. I've been wondering for a while when the most appropriate time is to have "the talk" with him.

You know what I mean. THAT talk.

He attends public school now and I can only imagine the things he's going to start hearing (and repeating) from other students with older siblings. I struggle with wanting him to be accurately informed but also wanting to shelter the daylights out of him. Because he's so inquisitive, I'm anticipating that a simple "how-to" will elicit a barrage of questions that I may not be prepared to answer. But questions are good, right? Information is good. I'll keep telling myself that: Information is good...its good...it really, really is.

When it comes to body parts and private areas and what-is and is-not appropriate or safe, we are extremely straight forward and keep an open dialogue. What we haven't done is take the next step and talk about what those body parts do. I still remember having that conversation with my mother at a similar age. It doesn't take much to recall the wave of nausea I felt after she opened up the trusty book, "A Woman's Body." But the diagrams were helpful. Only I don't have any diagrams for boys. What will I do without a diagram??? (Thank goodness Barnes and Noble has an online store!)

Every time Jonah starts asking questions that could possibly head in that direction, I start to panic -- a mild panic. Having had two children myself, I'm pretty confident in my ability to accurately describe where babies come from, but when it comes to the other stuff...well, just count me out. I'm a female with female parts and female problems. And that is all I know. Period. (no pun intended) If that conversation is not a job for the Dad, I don't know what is. My fear is that the one conversation will automatically lead to the other, and for that, I will obviously need reinforcements.

Today at lunch we were discussing the generational steps that make up a son, grandson, great-grandson, etc., when Jonah asked, "Mom? Why don't I have a sister?"

"Because Sam was a boy."

"Why didn't you have a girl?"

"Because I had two sons. You don't get to pick what kind of baby you're going to have."

"Why can't you just make a girl?"

"Because that's not the way it works."

"Why not? How does it work?"

[SILENCE...beads of sweat forming on my forehead...]

Maybe if I look very intent on making this peanut butter sandwich, he'll think I didn't hear his question and resume his incessant chatter about Pokemon. Just don't.make.eye contact.

Wait a second -- This conversation doesn't have to go that direction! On a deeper level, he's asking about gender determination! Mitosis! Nucleic acid! Cellular...stuff! AND I'M MARRIED TO A GENETIC SCIENTIST!!! I can be exempt from pursuing this discussion!

"You know what, buddy? That's a very good question. And since its one that involves DNA, why don't we wait for Dad to get home? He can explain it so much better than I can."

"Okay, Mom. No problem." [enter Pokemon-speak]

Yes, my child knows what DNA is...and yes, I should be ashamed of myself for using Tyler as an out. But I'm not. Besides -- he's six. He's got the attention span of a hummingbird.

I'm sure we will revisit this issue in another day or so when he remembers we never did talk to Dad. And maybe then I'll be ready.

Or maybe not...

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

2010-03-17T15:28:00.000-07:00

Sam not only agreed to have his photo taken, but was also game for a little green face paint in honor of today's holiday. I suggested Jonah do the same, but he responded by hiding behind the toilet.

Then I tried to get a photo of both boys.

And this is what I got:

So much for trying.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Why I Love Spring

2010-03-16T18:44:00.000-07:00

There's something about winters in Utah that can drive a person to insanity. And not just any old crazy, either -- I'm talking serial killer kind of nuts. The inversion we suffer from in January through the end of February is almost unbearable. Everyone drives around the valley in their filthy-dirty cars, hacking up the gunk that was once in the air but now coats their lungs, squinting their eyes trying to make out where the silhouette of the mountain peaks should be... People are short-tempered and depressed, and after 4:00 PM when the day turns to night (I'd say the sun goes down, but there is no sun during those months) the only thing that seems to provide any kind of distraction from the dreariness is consuming unhealthy amounts of comfort food while watching really bad sitcoms. Unless you have the where-with-all to make frequent ski trips up the mountain to escape the smog (and I don't ski), you're stuck. No relief.

When March rolls around, its like tasting chocolate for the first time. Suddenly the sun is gleaming, people start smiling again, and everywhere you turn, you see short-sleeves and clam-diggers -- despite the fact its only 50 degrees on a good day. Men are back on their bikes, women can't stop talking about what they're going to do in their garden that year, and kids...well, kids finally shed the monster-skin they somehow developed during the winter and start acting like their former-summer-euphoria-selves again.

I, for one, feel like a new woman. Since Jonah started kindergarten in the fall, we have become slaves to his ridiculous 12:20-3:10 PM school schedule. I'd like to say I run a tight enough ship to provide these guys with a decent before-school activity, but I really, truly do not. Our daily schedule goes a little something like this:

7:00 AM -- Jonah wakes up and fails miserably at "playing quietly" while Sam continues to sleep.
8:00 AM -- Sam wakes up and he and I shower, get dressed, eat breakfast, and wait for Jonah.
8:30-9:30 AM -- Jonah eats breakfast.
9:30-10:00 AM -- Jonah showers.
10:00-10:45 AM -- Jonah runs around the house, naked, while playing with toys.
10:45-11:00 AM -- After being threatened 100 times, Jonah finally gets dressed.
11:00 AM-11:50 AM -- Jonah plays with his food and eventually...eventually eats his lunch.
11:50 AM - 12:00 PM -- brush teeth, try to clean the resulting sparkly toothpaste off the counter, search frantically for two matching shoes, "Where in the world is your backpack?!" 12:01 PM -- "Everyone out the door NOW!"
12:04 PM -- Kids strapped in the car, mommy requests a few moments of silence.

See? Try as I might, there's just no way to make it to the museum or story-time at the bookstore before school. The library is sometimes doable simply because its down the street and we can make it home by lunch, but even that is pushing it. So at mid-day, Jonah goes to school, Sam takes a nap, and by the time the afternoon rolls around and both kids are at home and awake, I suddenly find I have an army of monkeys in my house jumping off the furniture, dumping out the toy chest, and fighting to see "who can be the loudest" while I struggle to get some sad-excuse for a dinner (usually involving potatoes...I don't like potatoes much) on the table.

But now -- oh joyous now! -- with the sun pouring through the window and the breeze just hovering around no-jacket-needed weather, the moment I see those little eyes skirting about looking for mischief, I can now open the door and usher them outside to explore, dig, and scream to their hearts' content. This afternoon I sent them out with a small container of bubbles and didn't see them again for an hour and a half (though I listened to the giggles through the open kitchen window). An HOUR and a HALF. Do you know what a mother can accomplish with a childless hour and a half?! Laundry! Dinner! Bills! Heck, I could clean the entire HOUSE with a spare hour and a half! Okay, maybe not the whole house, but I could definitely make the bed. Did I do any of that? Of course not! I watched Oprah, read some emails, and ate half a bag of Goldfish crackers. I deserved it. I needed it. After a winter like the one now in my rear view mirror, one afternoon of slacking off was just what the doctor ordered.

I. Love. Spring.

But, lest you think otherwise, I did manage to get dinner on the table, too.
And this time, no potatoes.

Whoosie Cushion

2010-03-06T12:49:00.000-08:00

Not all boys are created equal.

There are some who exit the womb tossing balls and tackling teammates, others who immerse themselves in video games and comic books, and yet others still who prefer to strum a guitar or bang on a snare drum to pass the time.

However, I do believe there is a common denominator that unites boys everywhere: the obsession with bodily noises.

My boys are no exception. In their eyes, there is nothing better, nothing more entertaining, nothing more expressive than a good belch or some decent flatulence. Growing up in a house of females, I wasn't privy to the humor associated with bodily functions. After marrying into Tyler's family of brothers, I was a little shocked by how casual and welcomed it was to break wind during dinner and then discuss it. I suppose I should have looked at it as a primer to mothering boys, but at the time, I assumed I'd be graced with daughters simply because girls were all I knew how to do. I know the Lord must have a pretty decent sense of humor (just look at a giraffe and try to convince yourself He doesn't), but I didn't know He was that funny. Apparently humor is divine, because I'm now the mother of two sons.

It didn't take long to realize that this love for all things intestinally-related was innate. Once Jonah learned he actually had a little control over his body, it became a favorite pass time to see just how loud he could belch. When Sam came along, everything was taken to another level. Sam revels in it. Not only is he the first to point out and laugh at anything that remotely sounds like a toot ("toot" being our word of choice -- I feel its less offensive than other options and considering how often its said around here, it might as well not be disgusting.), but he's a pro at mimicking those sounds and does his best to slip in one -or twenty- artificial belches while we bless the food before dinner. Jonah is always a great audience, and if we're lucky, he'll join in and contribute to the symphony of inappropriate noises.

A while back, Jonah's Granny took him to the dollar store. I'm pretty sure the purpose of this particular visit was to find Sam a Christmas present, but not surprisingly, Jonah came home that afternoon having spent the entire contents of his piggy bank -- on himself. The prized acquisition of that trip was a immaculate blue Whoopie Cushion. I know he'd had one in the past, but it might as well have been his first fart-maker because it quickly became his most loved possession. His entire reason for existence became wrapped up in trying to "trick" people into sitting on it. He never did seem to grasp the idea that the cushion should be hidden so as to catch the sitter off guard, but we all played along and did our due diligence on what became known as the "Whoosie Cushion." Unfortunately, his father and his Papa were frequent targets of the whoosie cushion. When 160-270+ pounds meets a little rubber pillow, the pillow doesn't stand a chance. So once a week or so, the whoosie cushion would pop. I would suggest it find its way into the trash, and Jonah would insist on patching it with "Goose Tape" (aka, Duct Tape -- Goose, Duck, Duct...its all the same, right?). Pretty soon, the only thing holding it together was tape. But that didn't deter the boys from using it. Over, and over, and over again.

When it was his time to bring something for Show and Tell at school, the whoosie cushion was it. I'm sure he demonstrated how it worked, and I would imagine the other 5 and 6 year-olds got a kick out it (soooo much cooler than a stuffed animal!) -- And that his teacher rolled her eyes.

Sam became the whoosie cushion's biggest fan. He would gleefully scream, "toot-ing! toot-ing!" every time it was brought out, laugh delightfully at each disgusting vibration, and then watch intently as another Goose Tape patch was administered.

This morning the whoosie cushion received two more patches and I announced that it was finally time to say good-bye to the wretched thing. After cries of protest, I finally gave in and agreed it could stick around until we had time to make another trip to the dollar store to replace it.

We're counting the coins in Jonah's piggy bank right now.

Toothy Accusation

2010-03-03T12:50:00.000-08:00

Jonah started losing his teeth soon after the school year began. It was very bittersweet. While I love to see him excited about growing up, every mother is cognizant of the fact that once the teeth start falling out, a kid's cuteness factor starts dropping like one of those free-fall attractions at the amusement park. No one looks at a kid with a mouth full of twisted, half-grown adult teeth and overcrowded baby teeth and thinks, "Wow! That child sure got good genes! Who, pray tell, are his uber-attractive parents?"

When the first tooth became wiggly, I had a frantic desire to get a family portrait taken so I could usher guests into my home and direct them to the photo to show that at one point, my child was indeed very cute. I needed proof. But that never happened, so now I have none.

You'll have to take my word for it.

Eventually, the first one fell out while he was brushing his teeth. The second fell out while he was sucking on a pistachio shell, and I can't even begin to remember how he lost the third one. At that point, his front teeth were gone. All except for one, anyway.

One afternoon Jonah was jumping off the couch and hit his face on a sofa cushion of all things, which knocked his remaining tooth out of alignment so it was just crooked enough that you noticed. The skawonkiness (yes, that is a technical term) of his tooth just got worse as the weeks passed...and then months...until Tyler and I were begging, pleading, and trying to bribe Jonah to just pull the nasty thing out. For some reason, he always resisted, and so we've been looking at his goofy grin for quite some time now.

Yesterday, while eating a granola bar, Jonah announced that his last remaining front tooth had FINALLY fallen out. There was cheering. And dancing. And jumping for joy. At last -- no more crooked, crazy, "billy-bob" tooth. We put it in a Ziploc bag and waited for the evening when it would be placed under his pillow to be exchanged for a Sacajawea coin by the hairy, 33-year old tooth-fairy that is his father.

At 9:00 PM, Jonah got out of bed with his tooth-baggy in hand.

"Mom? I decided I want to write a letter to the tooth fairy."

"Sorry, kiddo. Its way past your bedtime. If you want to wait until tomorrow night to put your tooth under your pillow, we can work on your letter in the morning."

"Okay. I'll wait." [He hands me his tooth] "You keep this safe for me. But MOM --" [He gives me the stink eye and points his index finger at me] "Don't even THINK about putting it under YOUR pillow!"

Please. I know I'm a little strapped for cash these days, but I haven't tried the ol' "steal-the-tooth-and-put-it-under-my-pillow-in-hopes-the-TF-doesn't-know-better" for at least 25 years. I'm way too mature for such shenanigans. Besides, I know the coin is going to be placed in his pocket, and then end up in the washing machine next week anyway.

For those who are curious, the letter said this:
"from...Jonah to..
Dear tooth fairy, i want to see you so can you just get a blanket and go.
P.S. under a blanket."

He's quite the communicator, eh?

Brain Freeze

2010-03-02T15:06:00.000-08:00

I was working at the D Street house today when my cell phone rang. Every time my phone rings, I brace for the worst. Since Tyler has his own ring (Tom Petty...its catchy), any other call is usually a contractor, which is my least favorite of daily contacts. This afternoon, while attempting in vain to scrape out the ridiculous mess of caulk that is currently the crown molding in my kitchen (thank you very much, Crescent Cabinets), the generic ring cut the silence. I assumed it was the cabinet guy, and climbed down my ladder with a sigh. Instead of hearing a gruff man instantly complaining about how "particular" I am, I was greeted by a woman's voice on the other end. Jonah's kindergarten teacher.

Gulp.

A phone call from Ms. B can only mean one of three things: Jonah has split his head open, he's gotten sick all over another kid, or his actions have garnered him a dreaded RED STICK. The "stick system" is how discipline is administered in Jonah's class of 25 students. Green stick = good behavior, Yellow stick = major warning, Red stick = busted. Amazingly, Jonah hasn't spent much time in the red stick category, mostly because while common sense isn't enough to persuade him to good behavior, the consequences of that fateful stick are.

Jonah's teacher assured me he was fine, but that she wanted me to know that Jonah had received a red stick that afternoon for hitting another child. She said she had talked it through with Jonah and that it sounded like the hit was not at all malicious -- that they were playing a game and Jonah got carried away. BUT she wanted me to know that Jonah was extremely upset and would likely be so when he was picked up from school. She held him back while the other students went to art class to inquire about his response to the red stick. In the midst of the crying, she was able to make out that he "hated red sticks more than anyone" because he knew what the consequence would be and that it was bad. Really bad. Red sticks can only mean one thing: No Gameboy, no Playstation.

Oh, the HORROR!!!

I had a dentist appointment this afternoon, so Tyler picked up Jonah from school. When I returned home, I found a pitiful little 6-year old curled up on a chair underneath a blanket, quietly sobbing. (Mind you, this is hours after the offense occurred) I pulled Jonah onto my lap and asked him to tell me what happened. He described the incident with perfect clarity, pausing only to push away his little brother who was clearly trying to console his best friend. We rocked, and talked about why it was wrong to hit his classmate even if it was all in fun, and how that little boy may have felt.

And then, out of nowhere, he began to wail in agony: "I know what the consequence is, Mom! I know what it is!"

"You know what it is because we decided what the consequence would be beforehand, didn't we? What's the consequence for getting a red stick, buddy?"

"No [sob!] Game [sob!] Boy! NO [gasp!] PLAY [sob!] STATION!"

Holy cow. The agreement was, if he gets a red stick, no electronics for the rest of the day. And seeing as he's only allotted one hour's worth each day, its not like we're talking about a huge loss here. At least from my 30-year old perspective.

I'm a big believer in making the "punishment" fit the crime, but in some circumstances, I think you need to have the consequence laid out before the crime has been committed, simply to try to influence good behavior (or at least dissuade bad behavior). In this instance, I wasn't sure he was learning the lesson because he was so fixated on how horrible the consequence was at that moment. So now I'm rethinking that approach. But in the meantime, Jonah and I had a little discussion about why we have consequences and why there are good consequences, and bad consequences.

I said to him, "What if Ms. B called to tell me you hit that boy and instead of losing electronics I took you to go get ice cream? Would that help you to remember that hitting isn't good to do?"

"No."

"Nope. You'd probably think that hitting is okay since you got rewarded with ice cream, and then you wouldn't learn that your actions were inappropriate. That's one of the reasons we say 'When you do good things, good things happen, but when you do bad things, BAD things happen.' Does that make sense?"

"Yeah, it makes sense..."

"Good, I'm glad. Because you're a good kid and I know these consequences are hard for you."

[Silence.]

"Mom?"

"Yes?"

"Ice cream sounds really good right now. Do we have any?"

***Note to self: Avoid ice cream analogies. The thought of ice cream will always trump the life lessons you're trying to teach.

Skool?

2010-02-10T19:26:00.000-08:00

Ever since I first felt Jonah move inside my belly, I've been concerned about my children's' education. I feel like my parents were involved the right amount: not too much, and not too little. We were fairly smart kids and they made sure were placed in the right programs to help us succeed. Once we hit high school, my parents moved us to a town that offered us a truly innovative education, laying a solid foundation for our future. After accepting a job in a different state, my father commuted well over an hour each way in order to allow me to remain in my high school. This didn't go unnoticed, and I've always known that as a parent, I would be expected (and willing) to make sacrifices for my children to ensure they have every opportunity to fulfill their potential.

We live in Utah, which creates a number of almost insurmountable obstacles when it comes to my kids' education. We're a state with a huge number of children and not enough money to support them. Our state government has consistently demonstrated that education sits fairly low on the priority scale, and our embarrassingly low test scores/competency rates reflect that. No money, no resources. No money, can't attract or keep quality teachers. No money, sub-par facilities. If all of these things are neglected (as they are), its our children that suffer. We will be graduating scores of young adults unprepared for their future and the responsibilities they will ultimately face. I don't know about you, but that's just not okay with me. Our neighborhood elementary school does a lot in the area of grant writing for additional funds, but we're also a community of young professionals who have the means and know-how to pursue such resources. Not many schools in our district or state are so lucky.

Jonah happens to be an exceptionally bright little boy (no doing of mine -- he just came out that way). We're not even certain what his reading level was when entering kindergarten because they only test up to a second-grade reading level, and he aced that with little effort. His sweet teacher does everything she can think of to challenge him but the reality is, he's bored. Every day. We're not in the financial position to provide him with a private education, so we began investigating what the district can do to help him, or kids like him. This is what we found out: The district has only three classes for kids that need accelerated learning. Those classes are housed in three different schools downtown. Each class accepts 26 students. So for each grade level, a maximum of 78 children are allowed to exercise that particular resource (and for clarification's sake, 26 of that 78 are put in a Spanish-English immersion program, so they don't necessarily get to learn state curriculum any faster). I haven't been able to get many specifics from the district as far as how curriculum is altered or general test scores for this accelerated program are concerned, and it worries me that so little information is provided to parents. These magnet programs also reside in schools whose test scores fall below the state average. Perhaps they put them there in an effort to bring up each school's overall scores? Either way, as a parent, I'm really, really concerned about what is (or is NOT) going on. My concern isn't only for my children. I worry about how we're serving all of the children in our state, how we are accommodating various needs and learning styles, and how we are failing to provide enrichment programs in addition to ensuring there is a proficiency in basic, general education.

My best friend teaches at a high school in the Jordan School District (we reside in the Salt Lake School District). We spend a lot of time talking about the educational undercurrents in the state and how that effects both students and educators. Unfortunately for the past few years, there has been nothing positive to report and this year is no exception. I received the following email from her today, and I think its something that all parents of Utah children should read and be aware of because if something similar hasn't already happened in your district, it seems like its only a matter of time before it does unless residents/parents/taxpayers start getting involved:

"So last night was the school board meeting where they told us the budget decision for the coming year. We knew they would have to cut from a variety of sources, so we were prepared for some cuts. Of all the areas they could find money, the biggest revenue is in a tax raise. It would come to about $100 more per year for every $100,000 of home. That makes a difference, but not that much. I live in the school boundary and I have no children to support in education, yet I was willing to take the tax increase. The other options for finding necessary funding were small money producers in comparison. The board voted against a tax increase and in favor of personnel cuts, increased class sizes, and less prep time for the teachers with no compensation. Elementary classes are scheduled to increase by two students, middle school classes will increase by three students, and high school classes will increase by 4.5 students per class. (Of course that will be greater since the geniuses who figure the ratio of students to teachers figure in administration, classified employees, and non-teaching licensed employees. Right now the "ratio" is 1:28, but when just the teachers in the class rooms are counted, the ratio is 1:36. We are looking at an increased load of something more like 7 students to each class.) Additionally, we will no longer be teaching 6 of 8 classes with one preparation period each day, but 7 of 8 classes with one preparation period every other day. Our funding now says we have 216 students each, but with the changes, we will be at 301 students with half our normal preparation time. They voted to balance the budget on the backs of the teachers instead of the general public or a combination of both. Specifically, they are balancing it on high school teachers where the increase of class sizes is greater and the 8 period day is in force. Now tell me how I am going to teach 300 students to write if I have no time to read their work? How am I going to teach them to analytically read and think if we don't have enough books to accommodate that many students nor the money to buy more books? How am I expected to be effective at all in my job with half the prep time, a third more work, and no pay raise (even for cost of living) at all? Do they not understand that they voted to limit my ability to teach which results in students who are even less prepared to college and other jobs? And there is nothing we can do about it. I am so mad and disgusted with this decision I can hardly believe it is really the reality for next year. This decision cost 600 people their jobs. Most of them are classified employees (office and custodial staff, aids...) We need them, but they will be gone. The board says it thought long and hard about the cuts; but I don't buy that for a second. They sold us out so as not to upset the tax payers. There is no talk of removing such restrictions once the economic hardship subsides. We are just expected to keep working for free while being cut and abused even more. I can't see how this has a silver lining, and I am getting angry again just thinking about all the ways we are metaphorically being thrown under the bus. It makes me sick."

It makes me sick, too. We live in a state where few but teachers and classified employees are expected to sacrifice in order to keep things going. I joke with my friend that next year her district will be sending her a bill instead of a paycheck. When you think about what our teachers are asked to endure, you can't help but wonder why anyone would want to subject themselves to that treatment. Its a thankless job on so many levels. I know my friend does it because teaching is her passion -- and she's amazing at it. As a parent, I'm just not sure what I need to do in order to guarantee my children get the best education possible -- with teachers like her. Common sense tells me that nothing is going to change for the good until taxpayers get involved and become more vocal about their expectations from the state and individual districts.

I know the move has to be mine, but what, exactly? I wish I knew where to find those answers...because my kids deserve it.

I am Caucasian.

2010-02-07T21:08:00.000-08:00

While Tyler was over at the D Street house installing our wall oven the other night, I was at home, flipping channels for company. I stumbled across TLC’s Toddlers and Tiaras. What a seriously bizarre show. On this particular episode, the camera filmed as a three-year-old gagged while enduring a spray tan in preparation for a pageant. You’d think as a mother I would have felt some sense of outrage for this little girl, but instead I found myself too busy reliving my own failed attempts to satiate my vanity and alter my own skin color.

When it comes to my skin tone, I’ve always felt like I got the short end of the stick. Go ahead and tell me I have “porcelain” skin — giving it a pretty name doesn’t make it any less pasty-white. I might not have even noticed just how pale I am had my Eastern European grandmother not passed down her beautiful olive-toned skin to the other females in the family. Of course by the time I was conceived, the family melanin supply must have been depleted because I missed out in that category. Completely. I do not tan, despite my best efforts. I grew up in California, spent a significant amount of time in the pool, burned off several hundred layers of skin, but never achieved an amber glow. My sister, on the other hand, (who nicknamed me "Casper the friendly ghost") only has to think about sunshine in order to look like a Coppertone spokesperson. Still, I don’t think I began to feel self-conscious about it until I was a teenager. At the time, I was involved in our local theater community, and was cast in a role that required me wear costumes that didn’t provide much more coverage than a swimsuit would have. My all-too-honest director commented that my bare skin looked like Haley’s comet under all the stage lights and that I needed to do something about it. This was the mid-90's, and everywhere you looked there were advertisements for this new thing called “tanning lotion,” so after school one day, I headed over to a friend’s house with a bottle of drug-store lotion to transform from blinding white, to sexy brown. The next morning (remember when it took that long to process?) I awoke to find myself an orange, utter mess. It looked like a bag of Cheetos had thrown up on me, and if the color — and smell — weren’t bad enough, there were visible hand prints all over my back and neck. Not pretty. I had to wait a couple weeks for the color to wear off, and vowed never to try again.

But then prom rolled around. I was going to be wearing a lovely sleeveless gown with an exposed back and again found myself longing to be kissed by the sun. This time I decided to try a tanning booth. How could I go wrong there? It was practically natural, right? Just step in, perspire for 10 minutes, and after a couple visits you walk out tan. I went once, then twice, then three times — each visit increasing the amount of time I stayed in the booth. Of course the mistake I made was that I tried to do all of this the week before prom. At my final dress fitting, my mother finally commented on my lobster-red skin. In defense I said, “I’ve got a few days. The burn should turn into a tan, right?” Not on my skin. I go from white, to red, peel, then back to white. Luckily, prom arrived before the peeling began, so while I did look like a tomato, at least I didn’t look like a lizard.

I decided to give up my quest for a number of years. I was busy with life and didn’t have too many occasions to worry about it...until about a month before my wedding, I started to realize that the color of my dress was very similar to the color of my skin. This time I said, “I don’t want to be tan, I just want a tiny bit of color.” I already knew tanning lotion didn’t work, and I didn’t seem to get good results with the tanning booth, so this time I decided to try the time-honored tanning bed. I told myself I was going to start off slow — get the “base tan” people always talked about — and only shoot for the amount of color needed to look good in my dress. The method seemed to be working well. I wasn’t burning too badly, but I was concerned about tan lines (why, I’m not sure) so I decided to shed the bikini at my next visit. People do that, right? However, the thought of going commando gave me the heebie-jeebies. (Germs!!!) I thought a brilliant solution would be to take one of the post-treatment wipes they provided in each room and place it on the tanning bed where my behind would be. (man, I felt like such a good problem solver!) For some reason, my time was increased a bit too much that day, and wouldn’t you know it — I burned. Badly. It was one of those burns that you feel instantly. By the time the evening rolled around, my skin was on fire, I had the chills, a fever, vomiting... Who gets sick from a tanning bed-induced sunburn??? But to add insult to injury, when I surveyed the damage that night, I discovered a perfect 6x6 square of white skin in the middle of my butt. Every inch of my body was burned EXCEPT for that square! I knew the reality of burns well enough to know that while my sunburn would fade before my wedding day, that white square would not and would likely be a very unfashionable accessory on my honeymoon. Oh boy, did it stick around. For months.

At that point I swore off tanning altogether, until about three years later when one of my best friends was getting married. I found an adorable white pencil skirt to wear to the reception, but found myself in the same white-on-white predicament. This time I thought my next attempt would be foolproof: a spray booth. I heard people talk about spray tans all the time. It HAD to work. Why wouldn’t it? So I went, spent my 90 seconds in the booth, patted myself down, got dressed, and went home a happy gal. I admired my new tan in the mirror quite a bit that evening. I had finally beat the system!

And then the morning came.

I had been told that the tan solution was virtually waterproof…”virtually” obviously excludes sweat, and apparently, I sweat a lot that night. To my horror, there were drips marks all over my body — horrible streaks that looked like I had tie-dyed my skin in a drunken stupor. I was mortified. So with two hours on the clock before we had to leave for the wedding, I grabbed a loofah and scrubbed my skin raw. I suppose the streaky fake-tan was less noticeable due to my now red, irritated skin, but I still walked through that day in shame. And again, vowed to never try to alter my skin color again.

Lessons learned. Embarrassing, self-degrading, hard lessons. Can I truthfully say I haven’t tried a lotion or two since then? No, of course not. Not that my efforts have led to anything but disappointment. But such is the cost of vanity. I wish I were so comfortable with who I am that I could say that stuff doesn't matter. Unfortunately, there will always be little things about myself that I'd like to change. Chalk it up to being human, and female.

So now that I’m 30, I’m officially turning my focus from my skin color to skin aging. Who wants to place bets on the number of times I’m likely to blister part of my face while attempting to rid myself of crow’s feet?

I’ll take that bet. Whatever it is.

How to Fold Shirts

2010-02-05T13:21:00.000-08:00

Last night this was given to me by Jonah for safe keeping. He had asked for a tutorial on folding shirts a few days ago, and is excited to try out his adapted method. Excited? Jonah? Not surprising. But excited about folding laundry? Hallelujah!

For those of you not fluent in 6-year-old:
"How to fold shirts Jonah's way" -- followed by a very clear, concise diagram detailing how one is to lay the shirt flat, fold in each sleeve, then fold the shirt in half twice, apparently. Hopefully we're on to something here. This diagram is a keeper, though, as is this kid. He's a hoot.

Now off to do some laundry to test his method...

Bathroom Nazi

2010-02-04T10:39:00.000-08:00

Ever react to something one of your children did and then wonder if maybe you went a little overboard?

I do. All the time.

This morning I may have crossed a boundary somewhere. But first you'll need a little background to understand the years leading up to my hysteria.

When we moved into our current situation, we first did what we always do: ripped everything apart and put it back together. We remodeled every room except for one -- the master bathroom. (and to clarify, we never completed the remodel on the main bath, either...which is why I refuse to move into the D Street house until its done-done.) The master bath was unfortunately unusable by my standards. Its a safety hazard. The wall-mounted sink is barely hanging on by a bolt or two, the grout is missing in most of the shower, and the shower fixtures themselves are not in working order. Cracked tile on the floor, no working outlets...you get the picture. Had I not been 9 months pregnant at the time, I would have totally gone in there and fixed it myself and probably wouldn't have had to spend more than $500 to do so, but that just wasn't on my agenda at the time. So it became a temporary storage closet instead, and to this day is a door that remains closed.

What that means is that our family shares one bathroom. In the big scheme of things, I realize this is not a big deal. We're lucky to have a bathroom at all, right? I do tell myself that, I do, but sometimes when I'm running out the door to meet with a client only to discover my dry-clean slacks are laced with sparkly children's' toothpaste, that gratitude escapes me. My bathtub is full of Happy Meal toys, my makeup is frequently used as finger paint, and my feminine hygiene products have been known to double as torpedoes in Star Wars battles. Now that we're in the beginning stages of potty-training Sam, the family bathroom has become an even more cramped, almost frantic environment. Every time I see one those home-improvement shows where they're making a "serene, spa-like bathroom," I snort and change the channel.

When Jonah goes to the bathroom, we expect him to be gone for at least 15 minutes. Like many little boys his age, a trip to the bathroom means a full-scale retreat into his imagination. He sings, he tries out new accents and dialects, he tells stories, and makes animal noises. When the bathroom FAN is switched on, however, its a completely different story. Not only will that 15 minutes be extended to at least 30, we also know its in our best interests (and necessary for our overall general health) to stay away until the fumes subside. This isn't big deal when no one else needs to use the bathroom (like I'm going to complain that he's occupied for a half hour!), but that's not always the case.

This morning the dreaded bathroom fan was switched on as I was getting ready for the day and Sam was playing in the bathtub. I quickly warned him to be fast and to be cognizant of the fact that there were two other people using the bathroom at the time. Do your business and flush. He assured me he would, but 10 seconds into the task, he was obviously fighting a Pokemon in a jungle somewhere in his mind. Every couple minutes I would tell him to hurry up, and when I finally pulled the mascara wand away from my eye, I glanced over to see him getting ready to use a compacted wad of toilet paper the size of a softball. I cannot tell you how many conversations/tutorials/Family Night lessons we have had on the proper usage of toilet paper. Two squares, I say. TWO SQUARES! If you need more, fine, but only in two square increments! Forget the fact that poor trees are giving their lives so you can clean your behind -- I pay for that stuff! So I march over in a huff and start separating his immense handful of toilet paper into two-square sections. When I'm done, there is a pile of 11 pieces. He was going to use 23 squares of toilet paper for one swipe! I gave him the most serious "I'm-your-mother-and-I-will-be-heard" look I could (I think I even pointed a finger to make sure he knew I meant business) and told him to finish and flush. Now.

A few minutes later I walked back in to see him getting ready to pull more paper off the roll.

"But MOM! I'm not done!"

-- Okay. In all honesty, I think I'm to blame here. In an effort to prevent the "skid marks" I've witnessed in some of my nephew's underpants, I think I may have told him at one point that if he were to ever leave anything behind after going #2, he would get a terrible, horrible rash and would be in dire pain and agony. My bad. --

"Yes you are. You are done. You have used more toilet paper than a grown man. There is no reason to -- JONAH!"

I had glanced into the toilet and saw that water could no longer be seen. There was so much toilet paper in that bowl, it was inches away from actually touching his little hiney. Had this been the first time this had ever happened, I may have handled the situation better, but as it were, I had become an expert in the use of a plunger long ago. Not a skill set I ever thought I'd need, but one I use at least every other week because of this little boy and his toilet paper habit. And I'm so over it.

So we flushed. And as you may have guessed, it didn't go down. Suddenly, I remembered one of the empty threats I had issued a few weeks ago -- I told him that the next time he clogged the toilet, I was not going to trek to the garage to retrieve the plunger, I was going to make him reach into the toilet and pull the toilet paper (etc.) out. With his hands.

And that's what I did.

I remember catching the tail-end of an Oprah episode a year or so ago where they were doing silly mom-confessions and one mother said something to the effect of, "I think the best way to discipline is for your kid to think that you're just a little bit crazy. You've got to make them think that this might be the moment that Mom finally loses it."

Today Jonah may have thought I finally cracked. After he cleared the clog and washed his hands with soap - twice - I calmly explained that this was the new order. He was now the family plunger. I think I made my point. Whether that point was a warning to use less toilet paper, or proof that his mother is actually insane, I don't know. We'll just have to wait and see what happens the next time he flips on the fan.

image via The Frugal Law Student

The Cactus vs. The Penguin

2010-02-03T12:19:00.000-08:00

A couple weeks ago, my sister-in-law reminded me it was time for Old Navy's annual "50% off all clearance" sale. I'm in love with that sale. I try to purchase as much boys clothing for the upcoming year(s) as possible during that week, and have been known to hit every Old Navy in the area to find the best selection. I'm always doing what I can to save money, and since ALL clothing worn by my children should be deemed "disposable" (translation: look at something they've worn at the end of any given day and you'll think my boys share the same genetic make-up as porcupines and pigs), why not spend $1.50 on a shirt as opposed to $10.00?

This time, the whole family came along to kindly complicate my shopping experience. When I was finally wrapping things up, Jonah approached me , positively giddy: "MOM! Look what I FOUND!" I looked down to see him holding the most disgusting pair of slippers I've ever seen. I am absolutely certain that some kid got these slippers for Christmas and wore them once or twice, the family dog decided to use them as a chew toy, and then the mom decided they were a total waste of money and returned them to the store. I'm sure that in any other circumstance Jonah would have been able to recognize their dilapidated state, but in this instance, all reasoning was lost on him because these were Penguin slippers. I don't know what it is about Penguins and my oldest son. He loves them. Not crazy-love, but if he's going to receive anything plush, it'd better resemble a non-flying bird. I looked at the price tag.

"50% off $5.49 is $2.75."

"I've got money at home!"

"But you don't have $2.75 because you just barely made that trip to the dollar store..."

"Mom. If you'll buy them for me, I promise I'll pay you back. Pinkie swear! Look they fit perfect!" (...only if by "perfect" he means that his heels are completely hanging off the back.)

There didn't seem to be much harm in indulging his penguin fetish, and I do like to provide opportunities for him to learn to earn and respect money...so I gave in -- with the understanding that they could not be worn and the tag could not be removed until he paid in full.

Fast forward a couple weeks. Like any normal household, the filled Old Navy bags were still sitting on the kitchen floor. I finally (begrudgingly) decided it was time to put everything away, at which point we were all reminded of the penguin slippers. The desire to pay his debt was renewed, and I encouraged him to talk to his Granny to determine whether or not she had any paying jobs he could do to earn some money.

Now Jonah hates to work. Haaaates it. And he's a pretty resourceful little bugger so I'm never surprised to see him looking for ways to skirt manual labor. This time there was no whining, though, which surprised me. About an hour later I saw him trot downstairs holding the potted cactus I bought him a couple years ago in an effort to teach him about caring for living things (a lesson which totally backfired since I failed to recognize that those things are impossible to kill so it doesn't matter that we haven't watered it for 18 months). He rarely shows any interest in it, so I was curious to find out what he was doing. I went downstairs and found Jonah cactus-less with a handful of change. Tyler's grandma explained:

"Jonah sold me his cactus. He told me he needed $2.75, but I negotiated and talked him down to $2.00."

"You sold your cactus to Granny?"

"Yes! And now I'm going to go count my money and see if I have enough to buy the slippers."

What am I going say? The cactus belonged to him -- he can do with it what he pleases. Deep down I was a little impressed that he even thought to make money that way. But of course, that's not the end of the story. The thrill of entrepreneurship lasted a whole 10 minutes until I heard him approach his Granny again:

"Granny, I changed my mind. I want to buy back my cactus for $2.00."

"Okay, if that's what you want. How come?"

"I know you'll do a very good job taking care of it, but I'm afraid it will be lonely without me."

So the refund was made and the cactus reclaimed its rightful place on Jonah's dusty, cluttered dresser.

And guess what? The tags are still on those darned slippers.

$2.75 is a lot of money, after all.

I deserve immunity.

2010-02-02T13:48:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I wasn't feeling quite 100%.

Normally, someone in this position would think, "Hm. Maybe I'm coming down with something. Good thing I've been rationing my sick days." But you see, I'm not one of those people. I'm a Mom. Moms don't qualify for sick days (or salaries, or Social Security contributions, or bathroom breaks, for that matter). When Mom is sick, the entire axis of the planet is turned topsy-turvy because as I've come to learn during these past 6 years of Mom-dom, it is physically impossible for a family of two boys-and-a-dad to take care of themselves. Can't be done.

In his defense, I married a man who tries. Hard. He's a great partner-in-crime and will come to my aid whenever summoned. But that doesn't mean he is an acceptable stand-in for Mom, because apparently when I gave birth the first time, aliens implanted my brain with a measure of knowledge and ability that far surpasses anything a man can muster. I mean, really -- I know where the can opener is. Doesn't that just blow your mind???

So as I laid in bed last night, unable to sleep, with inevitable doom on my mind because it was obvious that the area between my chest and hips was going into full, internal revolt, I started to take immediate stock of my resources: How will I get Jonah to school? Do we have enough food storage to get us through the next 24 hours? How many movies can I safely let my children watch before their brain actually turns to mush? Does popcorn count as breakfast? Should I write down all the bank account numbers for Tyler in case I don't make it? When was the last time I cleaned the toilet??? (the latter being the most important question in my current condition!) And sure enough, it hit me. The stomach flu. The worst day-to-day illness a mother can endure. Because as much as she tries, a Mom simply cannot power through the stomach flu.

I was awaken from my groggy stupor this morning by the cheery calls of, "Mo-ooom. I po-oooped!" And so it began. Diapers still had to be changed, breakfast still had to be made, clean underwear still had to be retrieved from the dryer, children still had to be bathed, kindergartners still had to be driven to school, the dentist still had to be phoned, and clients still had to be dealt with. I couldn't help but consider the injustice of it all -- how no medical researcher has found a way to immunize a woman from basic physical ailments so that we may continue to carry on our quest to save the world, one runny nose at a time. As one friend put it, "Moms should be exempt from all illnesses when they still have children in the home..." Amen to that.

For now, I'll pretend not to hear the gasp that will surely depart Tyler's lips when he walks through the door tonight to find the remains of what used to be a functioning household (I didn't clean up the spilled Raisin Bran on purpose! What if Sam got hungry? Can't you see I'm sick???). And I'm just going to hope that they all figure out that the can of soup on the counter is indeed their dinner...and that they can effectively locate the can opener without my assistance.

I suppose I'll have to worry about all that later, though. I've been ignoring the desperate requests to read "Peek-a-boo Puppy" (for the 42nd time today) for long enough.

Back to work, sissy.

art by Andy Warhol

The Money Pit: Chapter 1

2010-01-07T12:40:00.000-08:00

"The Discovery"...

Since the most common form of salutation directed at me these days is, "How's the house coming?," I figure it makes sense to get the history of the topic out of the way so any updates can be reported without the need for background information. So here we go:

We had been actively house hunting for about year when we stumbled upon the property I so lovingly refer to as "The Money Pit." Our list of requirements for a house were a minimum of 4-5 bedrooms (3 of which needed to be on the main floor since the boys are still young), a master bathroom, a separate living room and family room, either a second kitchen or space to put one in (to function as my workshop), a walkout basement (since I would be working in said basement), and a garage -- 1 car, 2 car, didn't matter as long as there was one. We set our sights on a minimum of 2800-3000 sq ft. In Utah, recorded square footage includes the basement (which are 99.9% of the time finished living areas), so 2800 sq. ft is not as livable in Utah as it is in other states. We knew we wanted to remain close to the city since Tyler works by the University and most of my clients/jobs are in Salt Lake. I preferred we stay in the Holladay/Millcreek area. Our agent convinced us to spend a day looking in Sandy and Cottonwood Heights as well, but we never considered those areas.

We found a house in Holladay we fell in love with in August 2008. It was literally a block away from our current home so the location couldn't have been more convenient to Tyler's grandparents whom we spend a significant amount of time looking after. It was love at first sight -- built in the 60's with a retro, roomy style. The ceilings were vaulted, it had gorgeous trees on the property with a great backyard, met all our requirements (minus the second kitchen, but I felt I could work with the space). The only downside was that it did need some cosmetic work inside (popcorn ceilings, old windows, original leaky bathrooms, etc.), and down the street was a gas station. The gas station was close enough that standing in the front yard, I could look south and see it. This really, really concerned me for obvious resale purposes. Still, it was a house that would last us a long time, so after spending a month thinking about it, we decided to make an offer. The house had been listed for 6 months with no offers so we went in low. They countered, we countered, and we finally decided on what seemed to be a fair price. Then came the inspection. It had some notable electrical and plumbing issues, but the biggest concern was the roof and the ceiling. It was a tar and gravel roof that was well past its prime and would cost about $8000-10K to replace. We also had the popcorn ceiling tested and it was of course littered with asbestos. After adding everything up we were looking at about $20K in necessary repairs...before anything cosmetic. We went back to the sellers and asked for $8000 in concessions, against our agent's advice. At that point we were already feeling uneasy about the property and I had already detached myself enough to say if I didn't get the concessions, I was going to walk. They came back rather upset, offering us $1000. So I didn't even bother countering. We walked. And I felt good about that decision.

Fast forward to December. We were starting to feel desperate. Jonah was starting school in the fall and we felt we really needed to pick something, anything, so we could get him enrolled. I started widening my search and shortening my list of requirements and eventually I stumbled upon a house in Sugarhouse. Sugarhouse is a ridiculously charming neighborhood in Salt Lake City. Tree lined, picturesque streets, as pedestrian of a community as you get around here, eclectic shops and restaurants...from a real estate perspective its liquid gold. (and resale potential had big very important to us from the beginning...blame it on my moving around as a kid...) The house I found was listed on Friday. It was smaller than we wanted, but I figured it didn't hurt to look. It was an estate sale and had been a one-owner home. It was in great condition for its age and while it hadn't seen significant cosmetic updates in decades, the bones of the house seemed strong enough. We saw it on Monday, and in a move more impulsive than any Tyler has EVER made, we put an offer on it that night, knowing it would be gone if we didn't. They didn't counter and we were under contract. Inspection time came and the inspector we had used previously was out of town so we used someone our agent recommended -- we didn't find out until later that he had never actually worked with him before. That inspector was horrible. He must have spent a total of 40 minutes in the house and the stuff he glossed over (that we discovered after the fact...another story completely) was incredible. The biggest concern for me at that moment was that the guy refused to get on the roof because it was winter time. What?! I understand you don't want to slip and fall, but come on. Why should I pay full-price for an inspection that is not complete? (And yes, I did ask for a reduced price, and no, I did not get it.) I called my agent and told him the deal was off unless I knew the roof was in good shape (flashback to the house we were previously under contract with). So the agent scheduled his licensed roofer to get on the roof, clear the snow, and give it a thorough inspection. The inspection came back with a green light so we closed on the house.

And this is what we bought: 2 beds, 1 bath, a living room, dining room, and minuscule kitchen on the main floor, and a family room, 1 bed, 1 bath, 2nd kitchen and utility room in the basement, all squeezed into 2400 sq. feet. Very typical, if not larger-than-normal, for Sugarhouse. It was indeed a walkout (though not a full walkout like I'm used to) and it had a 2 car garage (which we refer to as a car-and-a-half). And a postage-sized backyard. Really tiny. But people don't buy those houses because of the size. They're looking for character and location. Done.

We closed on January 9, 2009. At the time, we got a good deal (who knows now with continually declining property values) and an excellent mortgage. But we weren't delusional. We knew it needed a TON of work. We weren't strangers to remodeling, but I don't think anyone could have imagined just how much work would eventually go into it.

Here's the Before photos:

The planter you see off to the right actually had three pieces of PVC extending from the planter to the ceiling to look like decorative pillars. So very UNdecorative. My brother-in-law popped those off before the photo was taken.

Tyler actually tried to fight me on removing the planter. He thought it had character. I thought he was on drugs. As a mom, I immediately started anticipating the number of trips to Instacare resulting from boy-flagstone collisions. Not good.

Dining room. Before anyone calls dibs on the chandelier, know my dad walked into it and broke it before we had even owned it a week. And we did find out after we sold it (broken) for $10 that it WAS real crystal and worth a good little sum.

It was hard to get a good photo of the main kitchen simply because it was SO SMALL. There was no where to stand. Note the plaid carpet...and the "island" which went up to my knees. I'll post more before pictures of this beauty when we get into the kitchen remodel specifics.

Boys' bedroom. I survived sharing with my sisters. I hope they do, too, because I don't have life insurance on either of them.

Main bathroom. It. Is. Pink.

Hallway. Tyler fought me on the closet doors, too. This time he won and got to keep the 50's wood.

Master Bedroom. Before anyone passes out because of the size, just know this is VERY TYPICAL for the age and location of the house. Anyone house shopping in this area knows this is what you get. Our furniture will barely fit.

Shot of the original steel windows with storm windows and lovely awnings which kept it feeling very cave-like. Just the ambiance you want in a house, right?

Downstairs kitchen, or my workshop. Take a look at these appliances (don't ask for them -- they've already been sold) and the awesome carpet!

Utility Room. Two furnaces. One is original to the house (so 60 years old), and the other is about 30 years old. I tried to negotiate a new furnace, but they're in such good condition, I had HVAC guys telling us there's no reason to replace them. I'm just hoping they hurry up and die before I stop renewing my home warranty. At least the AC is newer.

Downstairs family room.

Downstairs bedroom.

Just wait until you see the transformation...if it ever gets finished.

In a Nutshell...

2010-01-04T18:50:00.000-08:00

Its January 2010.

And here I am.

Up until now I've let my Facebook status updates do the talking for me. I suppose in many ways, the demands of my life really don't allow for more than the 420 characters in an update -- I, like any working parent, am stretched so thin that remembering to brush my teeth, much less record my inner thoughts, is frequently a battle lost. But apparently, those sporadic Facebook updates are entertaining enough that people continue to request/encourage/nag that I expand those few sentences and provide a bit more gristle-to-chew in blog form. I've maintained a professional blog for quite some time (and when I say "maintain" I mean I post at the once-in-a-blue-moon frequency level), but have resisted launching a personal one. I'm just not one to presume that any sane person would care about what's going on in my life -- how I burned the quesadilla at lunch today, how my kid's tooth fell out while sucking on a pistachio shell, how my husband's car won't start if the temperature outside dips below 35 degrees, or how at the age of 30 I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing (at all...at any given time). I don't find myself all that interesting. I guess in many respects, though, I've got some good material:

I own a floral design company and work mostly with brides...and their mothers. Need I say more? I could stop right there and we'd have the makings for next year's big drama/comedy.

Outside of our busy work schedule, we've spent the past year renovating a house (aka: the Money Pit) in the Salt Lake City/Sugarhouse area. The project was supposed to take 4 months, and we're now going on month 13. We're insanely lucky in that we're not living there while we're renovating, but that experience could also be a blog in itself. Can you say do-over? I wish...

I've been married for 8 1/2 years to my polar opposite. Seriously -- I still wonder how we got together. Or how we're still alive. And not incarcerated.

My kids...well, let's just say they're hilarious. Gut-busting kind of funny. Jonah (currently 6) is brilliant, spirited, "enthusiastic" (his kindergarten teacher's term), and socially awkward (scares other kids with his "enthusiasm"). I can't tell you how many people have asked if he has a mild form of OCD. Nope. He's totally normal -- at least by a psychologist's standards (because we checked). Sam (currently 2), aside from being melt-your-heart-cute (even though he got his mother's nose -- sorry dude!), has a very sly sense of humor. He's also the most deliberately manipulative toddler I've ever seen. (I see politics in his future already.) But like his older brother, he's got a heart of gold...and a memory like a steel trap. Its a good thing Oprah is retiring, because 20 years from now, these boys will be able to tell you every parenting mistake I ever made. And there are many already.

But this blog isn't gauged to be a "family blog." Surely one will be able to keep abreast of our goings-on by reading it simply because that is much of what I have to write about, but I don't see that as its purpose. I suppose the purpose of the blog is to a) get people off my back [and I'm fully aware that the individuals that have demanded I start this blog will be the ones that never read it]; b) completely shatter the illusion that I've "got it together" professionally and personally; c) hopefully propel myself into some sort of stardom, quit my job, and provide for my family through "sponsorships." ...No? In all seriousness, I'm seeing the wisdom in hitting the brakes once and a while. A woman needs something else to think about outside of her many daily responsibilities. While I don't have time to hit the spa, perhaps a little introspection will suffice. That is, of course, providing I take the time to do so.

So that's it. Post #1 summarizing...me?
Stay tuned. Life on D street can get pretty crazy...