Art Entry Number One: The One With the Buddies

Welcome to Day One of my PW art challenge...

Not three blocks from my home, there is this beautiful field that leads down into O’Neill Regional Park. In March, I’m not sure there is a more gorgeous spot. And is there any friendship more genuine and unpretentious than the kindergarten kind? I think not.

*Click on the photos to view them larger.

The One Where the Grass Was Greener On Someone Else’s Ranch

I want to be Pioneer Woman. At the very least, she and I should be best friends. It is true…I dream of Ree Drummond’s life on the ranch. I would really like to go and chop some wood right now. Or milk a cow. Marinate some flank steak. Step in something. Ride out to check the back forty. Unfortunately, it’s not going to happen today. Well, you never know…I could probably step in something. But I am in Orange County. Here we have two seasons: spring and summer. We have the only tree for miles around that changes colors in the fall, and people always seem so surprised by it. Um, did you notice that your tree is turning red, and the leaves are falling off?

But enough wishing for what I cannot have. Her blog is not really about living on a ranch. It is about having a beautiful life. I admire the way PW takes photos of everyday things, and calls it art. I can do that. It is free fun. So I am issuing myself a challenge. Every day this week I am going to photograph something I think is beautiful, post it and call it art. I already know what my first entry has to be… you can look for it later tonight. Anyone have any suggestions for the rest of the week?

The One With the Baby Dream

you are
floating, drifting, lazing
in the perfectly not-quite-quiet
twitching, sucking, whimpering
without once waking
tell me
baby
what do you dream?

The One That Was Completely Blërgen

The cell phone bill came today. It was so big that it filled up the whole mailbox and made everything else all squished and bent. It is approximately one inch thick. We’re talking some major deforestation here. In fact, the metered postage on the bill was $2.53. You know you need to be worried when your bill is so large that it takes $2.53 to mail it! No, I haven’t opened it. No way. Heads are going to roll.

But not mine. I have been good this month. I try to only need to talk to people after 9:00 p.m., and as we have an unlimited text messaging plan, I have whole conversations via text message. Now, I really don’t like to complain, but I have to vent just a little bit here. DK noticed last week that his phone was not receiving good reception. So he swapped out the card from his phone into my phone, and took mine to work. My phone is already what I would maybe call “second generation.” In the same sense that Cain and Abel were second generation…namely, they came after the very first generation. Ever. So when I say that my cell phone is second generation, what I mean is, it is from the generation of cell phone right after the brick phones…the kind where you had to wear a back pack that contained a power generator and a three-foot antenna. And yet it still works better than DK’s phone, which actually quit entirely while I was at the courthouse on Tuesday.

When it quit, I began rummaging through the house for another cell phone in which to house the “spirit” of my deceased one. Dillon found me Casey’s old phone. It started out to be a good phone, but once a couple of Christmases ago, one of the kids (who prefers to remain anonymous) threw up in the car on the way to Grandma’s. Said vomit got all over Dillon’s jacket, and when we reached Grandma’s, we tossed the jacket into the washer. Unfortunately, the cell phone was stowed away in the pocket. Miraculously, the phone still works. But it makes me sound like I am underwater. And not in an endearing, Spongebob Squarepants sort of way, either.

But let me just say…I don’t ask for much when it comes to a cell phone. I am willing to endure the aquatic sound quality. I am even willing to carry around the “second generation.” Mostly what I care about is the texting. I teach the 16-18-year-old girls at church, and texting and Facebook are my primary methods of communication. So I decided I could just make do with the old Casey phone. Until today, when I realized that the phone, which Casey bought from a European seller on eBay, has Swedish as its native language, and all the predictive spelling is in Swedish. Instead of “Wow, that’s awesome!” I get “Rädda barnen!” (Save the children!) “I’m here to pick you up from track” turns into “Jag är snyggare naken.” (I am better-looking naked.) You can see why at this point one might lapse into uncomfortable texting silence.

I did figure out how to type in the word “yes,” however. So when one of my “girls” texted today, it went something like this:

“So, Sis. McD., do you think I am old enough to date a returned missionary?”

I had no option here. “Yes.”

“Cool! I’ll tell my mom you said that. He is really cute. I want to bring him over so you can meet him. You can make us some cookies!”

Me: “Yes.”

“Wow…you’re sure talkative today.” ☺

“Yes.”

In the words of my cell phone, “hjälp!”

The One Where She Really Stayed on Top of It

Well, compar- atively speaking. Sometimes it is okay to compare yourself to others. It is a little shot in the arm to realize that if this was a race, you would not be in dead last. It is why I watch “The Real Housewives of Orange County.” It makes me feel like a really good parent, because at least I don’t serve my kids alcohol or any of the other over-the-top bad-parent things those women do.

This has been a typical week. Yesterday I went on an adventure. I picked up my friend and her five-month-old baby, and we set out, armed with a diaper bag, pacifier, high heels and a couple of Yoplait Lights…traversing fifty miles, four different freeways, and several miles of surface streets without a single sign written in English, to arrive before 8:00 a.m. at a courthouse in Los Angeles County. My friend is having custody issues, which was the reason for our visit. I will only say that the hearing went miraculously and quite entirely in her favor, which can only be the result of the fasting and prayers of many people on her behalf. My little five-month-old friend and I stayed outside the courtroom during the hearing, and the two of us learned a lot during our pacing the hallway outside the chambers, especially that a courthouse is a pretty bad way to have to divvy up child care, and should be avoided when at all possible.

Besides the courthouse run, I have spent time working on music this week, and have made some really good progress. I have fed dinner to people other than my own family three times, and I have swept my backyard. I threw a going-away party for Glass, I pulled a couple of weeds (cut me some slack here…I’m no Farmer McGregor) and did a few loads of laundry (well…two loads…and DK did one of those).

And okay, no… my house is not really any tidier than usual. And no, I haven’t suddenly started cleaning out my junk drawers or keeping a calendar…and no, I’m still not wearing a watch. But as home organization goes, I am not in dead last place here… check out what my neighbor left out on Tuesday for the trash man. Ho ho ho…Merry Christmas!

The One Where You Really Shouldn’t Mess With This

The missionaries learned this lesson one day. Elder Hobley and Elder Crane came in one night with a sneak nerf dart attack. They knew they were in trouble when they hit me in the face a few times. I wasn’t angry, but obviously I couldn’t just let it go. I told them that they should be expecting retribution. The very next morning, I had my faithful sidekick Tyler with me, and the two of us scored six giant rolls of saran wrap from the grocery store. We caught up with their poor, defenseless car at a district meeting that morning, and it clearly needed to be wrapped for freshness... we did everything possible to ensure that it wouldn’t spoil.


A couple hours later they came home. We all acted like nothing had happened...they did... I did. And then, Elder Hobley, from the kitchen: “Touche, Sister McD... touche.” And just in case anyone decides to mess with me again, I have my follow-up plan laid away in the garage. I don’t want to use it. But I will if I have to.

The One Where He Was Annoyingly Independent

Since “Glass” left for MCRD, I thought it would be fitting to tell some of my best Ethan stories. Ethan was an interesting baby. He had eczema head to toe...tubes in his ears, casts on his feet, and shingles twice before he was a year old. He had to wear the casts for almost a year. They went from his toes almost up to his knees, and the orthopedist would change them every six weeks. He would lie in his crib and bash them against the bars of the crib until the plaster became soft and pliable.

He was annoyingly independent from a very young age. One early evening when the sun was still out, he asked if we could go to the park. He was three, and had just started preschool. I told him it was almost nighttime, and he said he would go play in his room. Not ten minutes later, there was a knock at the door. It was Miss Cindy, his preschool teacher. She had Ethan by the hand. She said she saw him playing by himself at the park. The park was only a couple of blocks away, but he had to cross a pretty big street to get there.

When Ethan was four, he was run over by a mini-van. It was noon, and Ethan was riding his Big Wheel out front. I was inside with Dillon, who was only two, and I had the front door open so I could hear Ethan playing. Being the middle of the day, there were only a handful of people home on the street. Suddenly I heard a scream and a screech. The scream was my neighbor, who had observed a mini-van backing over Ethan, and the screech was the mini-van stopping abruptly with a crunch. The lady who backed over him was in hysterics. She was a young mother of three little girls…a school teacher who came home for lunch to see her daughters. She was backing out of her driveway, and stopped to check her makeup in her rearview mirror. Ethan had stopped to wait for her to back out, but when she stopped, he thought that meant it was okay for him to go. So he did, and then she did…right on top of him and the Big Wheel.

Ethan was talking to us. I asked him if he was okay. He cheerfully replied, yup, I’m okay. He said he wasn’t hurt, but he was stuck and couldn’t come out. We couldn’t see him or touch him in any way, so the paramedics came within about five minutes to lift the van off of Ethan. I was not crying. Ethan told me he was fine, and I believed him. The mini-van driver kept telling me, “I killed your baby!” and was crying hysterically. They lifted up the van, and out Ethan came, without a single scratch, despite the fact that the big wheel was completely mangled beyond recognition, and Ethan had been tangled in it to the point that he was unable to move until they freed him. The paramedics could not believe it.

Ethan has disappeared on me many more times over the years, even up into junior high school, when once I almost called the police because he never came home from school for hours and hours. He had gone to a band concert for another school without telling me. He ended up doing that to me so many times that I actually got used to it. He was always so surprised to find I had worried. I was fine, mom.

I’m not gonna lie…there is part of me that is relieved that it is someone else’s turn to worry about where he is all the time.

The One Where We Had to Give Cambria Away

Yesterday my brain hurt, and today...it has pretty much exploded. So I am lying in my bed, waiting for some aspirin and caffeine to make a dent in this monster of a migraine I have had all morning, and I hear a commotion downstairs at the front door. I can tell almost immediately that it is Cambria banishing Skippy back indoors, so that she can play with her friends without a tag-along half her age.

Skippy tells me on a regular basis: Cambria is so mean to me.

So today, I figured he would come and find me where I was languishing in my bed, to tell me just that. And he did come and find me. But he had a new approach. It was this: Mama, I want Cambria out of our family. Really, Skippy? Do you think we should give her away to some other family? As Skippy realized that I was receptive to his idea, his little face began to brighten. Yes! Another family! I think quick on my feet (even when I am flat on my back), and so I said, Skippy, I have a great idea. What if we gave Cambria away to a family of wolves? Or maybe bears. His eyes lit up with the magic of the idea.

But no. Mama, I don’t want Cambria to die…just go out of our family. If she went to the wolves, or the bears, they would eat her all gone. Hmm. You’re probably right, Skippy. So what do you suggest? I know! The family with the man with all the white hairs. White hairs? I ask… Yes, but not on his head. All over him, except right here, and right here (he indicates the palms of his hands and the soles of his bare feet). At this point I am picturing some mythical creature…maybe a yeti or a hobbit… I don’t know. They have the little boy Taylor in their family. Do you mean the family across the street? Yes! The Andertons! Hmm. I never thought of him as being particularly hirsute. Well, Skip, interesting thought. But you realize, that if we give Cambria away to the Andertons, that every time you go outside to play, she will still be there, being mean.

Skippy agreed. It’s hard to argue with that kind of logic. So I asked if I could think about it, and come up with a better solution. He said that would be fine. I told him it could take a couple of days to come up with just the right place for her. A couple of days! His face fell. He wanted her out today. I told him that I thought if we gave Cambria away, that he would probably miss her a lot. Yes! he said. We can make her an “I miss you” letter. That will be fun. And he immediately disappeared to find some paper and crayons.

I remember when my big boys were little, and Josh and Ty were being particularly mean to Casey. Early one evening, I had had enough, and I walked Casey to a neighbor’s house, and then came home and told Josh and Tyler that I had given Casey away to another family, because they were too mean to him. They cried and cried, and begged me to get him back. I have a feeling this ploy would not work so well on Skippy. So I guess my options are limited. We may have to try Skippy’s suggestion of putting an ad in the church bulletin. Wanted: new home for bright, creative and cheerful almost-12-year-old. She is helpful, hard-working and has a blistering vocabulary. We will furnish a thesaurus. Best for families without almost-six-year-old boys.

P.S. Okay, so I was telling DK about this experience, and Skippy overheard us talking, and he looked at me like I was crazy when I was telling about Mr. Anderton, with the white hair all over... he said, “NO, Mama, the DADDY is not the one with the white hairs... it is their DOGGY, TOBY.” Well, holy cow, Skip, that DOES make more sense, now doesn't it???

The One Where Her Brain Hurt

I have had all afternoon to work on my music. So what did I do? I scrubbed the downstairs bathroom. I worked on Cambria’s messy closet. I watched the last half of Mulan. For the 500th time (that one never gets old...I always get a little teary-eyed when the emperor gives her Shan Yu the Hun’s sword, and all of China falls to their knees in respect. For that matter, I love that Donny Osmond song in there, too...I’ll Make a Man Out of You...where in the middle the men’s chorus picks it up...Be a man! We must be swift as the coursing river... ahhh... but where was I???) Maybe you already get the picture. I seem to be procrastinating (I am, after all, posting for the second time in one day...). And right after complaining about no face time with the computer.

So here is the thing: it is really, really hard, and it is hurting my brain! This song is done. The lyrics are written. I can play it from start to finish on the piano. But it is like a Chinese puzzle (little nod to you, Mulan) trying to get it transcribed. I think it is because it is really hard rhythm, and I lack a mathematical brain. Skippy got it... he was cranking out the math last night. Josh and Tyler both got perfect scores on the math section of the SAT... Casey and Ethan, darned close. I think that I can take a lot of credit for that, because I ate really, really great when I was pregnant. Those kids popped out of me fat and smart. But the actual math aptitude...yikes! DK’s genes.

So the solution? I guess I have to just gut it out. Even if I have to pull an all-nighter, I am getting this song done this weekend. Rachel is coming to record it, and I will put a nice little preview up on the blog next week. I actually wrote this song for a friend, and it is time to gift-wrap it and leave it on her doorstep. Send me brain cells, everyone.

The One With the Easier Week

I’ve been telling myself since about 1985, “Next week is going to be easier. I won’t be so busy, and I will have time to do *fill in the blank*.” When will I ever learn? Last week, as we finished roadshow performances I actually let myself believe that! So of course, this week becomes an exercise in futility, as I run from one unexpected task to the next, while my music software calls me from the other room.

It is okay. I don’t even mind doing the tasks. But there have been a few moments this week…. There was a moment when I considered ways to get Tom Bergeron fired. I know…you don’t even know who that is, right? He is the host of “Dancing With the Stars,” and it was really bugging me that he thought he was so funny. That’s pretty random…but I figure it is a symptom of my frustration. But maybe not…does he really annoy you too?

Then last night I got home from a meeting at 8:40 to find that Dillon had gone to bed, Ethan was working on last-minute eagle scout application stuff, Cambria was who-knows-where…and Skippy was on his knees in a mostly dark family room, silently crying and doing…math. I said, “Skip, what’s the matter?” He burst into full-on sobs, and said, “I am doing my homework all alone!” I looked at it, and said, “Yes, but you’re doing such a good job.” He said, “But I’m ALL ALONE!” He was right. A five-year-old should not have to sit in a dark room and do his homework all alone. That is super sad.

And finally I woke up this morning with a very vivid dream still resonating around my brain. I really wish I could remember all of it, because it definitely could have been made into a movie. But here’s the gist: BYU’s Young Ambassadors (think singing, folk dancing, etc.) are traveling to countries all over the world. I know…it seems innocent. But there is an evil plot. It seems that someone is choosing a couple of their members in each country and setting them up to look as though they have been drinking, doing drugs… being promiscuous… to the point of semi-conciousness or unconsciousness… and they dissapear for 24 hours, and when they reappear they have no recollection of what has happened to them. It turns out (at this juncture I have to admit that I’ve read one too many Robin Cook novels) that they have actually been injected with a horrible, ebola-like airborne virus, which they have now spread to the seamier side of whatever large population they have been visiting. Young Ambassadors on world tour…with the plague in their wake. I don’t know a) why the infected students did not actually contract the virus themselves and die with blood coming from every orifice, or b) what this dream could possibly mean. I would guess that I need to cut back on the TV hours, but honestly, I haven’t caught a single hour of “24” yet this season. So your guess is as good as mine, on both counts.

And I’m going to go out on a limb, here, and say that next week is going to be easier. I won’t be so busy, and I’ll have more time to… yeah, I know, seriously. Who am I kidding?

Disclaimer: The Young Ambassadors do not, to my knowledge, drink, do drugs, or engage in promiscuous behavior. I almost put a link to them here so you could see, but realized it would probably only make it worse. Just remember...only a dream, people.

The One Where She Got Hacked In Retaliation

So, my mom thinks that I can be overly dramatic. She's right. She also thinks that I don't have the competitive drive to win that she does. Not so at all. Also, her password was incredibly easy to break, hahaha.

So this is retaliation.

If you're reading this, go to the link below and help me win my mom's crazy little competition.

Also, if any of you are wondering if this really is my mom pretending to be me, it's me. Ethan. Glass. Whatever. Anyways, I'm changing her password as we speak. When I get to the MCRD (Marine Corps Recruiting Depot) then maybe I will write her with her password. Unless I forget.

glassmannequin.blogspot.com

Ugh... LAME. I can't get blogger to not allow my mom to retrieve/make a new password. Short of deleting my own blog, that is, and that would be throwing in the towel in a whole different way. Then again, that would be something she'd do. Sacrificing her blog so mine would wither and die... Hmm... Not worth it. Oh well... I suppose I'll have to be satisfied knowing that I have four times as many followers as she does... *sigh*

And while I'm complaining, I might as well point out that I've sung for my mom so many times I can't remember but does she ever record me? No. Apparently I'm good enough to thunk out a new song with on the piano, but these other shmucks have to learn a song I already know and my mom records them and plays them in the car 80 thousand times and then makes fun of me because I'm putting in lower harmonies when, OF COURSE, they would sound better in a higher, girlier voice. Geethanks, mom. Man, I've got to work on that gratitude thing... I'll clean the kitchen now to show her I'm not spiteful.

The One With Me Vs. the Glass Mannequin

Okay, I will admit it. I am just the teensiest bit competitive. Even with my own kids sometimes. I really enjoy beating Dillon at a game of HORSE. I like beating Skippy at being the first to buckle my seatbelt when we get in the car. And I really, really like to get more blog hits than Ethan. As in all the other cases where I am inappropriately competitive, Ethan informs me all the time that it is not a competition. But those hits show up right next to each other in my stat counter, so how can that not be a competition?

In February, I had 849, and Ethan had 785. But there were a few days there, where it was touch and go…I haven’t had a computer very much for a couple of weeks, and the hits naturally decline when I don’t write anything. I am under a distinct disadvantage, too, because I do not have a following of over 50 teenage girls… nor can I muster the same drama as Ethan’s tortured 17-year-old soul.

I mean, I write a post about picking Skippy up from school. Ethan writes a post entitled “Prince of Hell.” I write about emoticons, which is sadly, one of my more exciting topics, and Ethan counters with “Comprehension of Damnation” and “The Essence of Hell” (oh, and by the way, Ethan, Axe called, and they want to use that name for their new body spray). Me: “The One With the Kitty Backpack.” Ethan: “Melancholy,” and “What’s a Boy Got to Do For a Tip?” Do you see my problem? This kid generates so much teen angst that Romeo and Juliet would blush. Even the blog title is telling. I am “The Welcome Mat,” and Ethan is “Glass Mannequin.” What does that even mean?

Oh, and in the course of writing this post, I noticed that I have been removed as a follower of Ethan’s blog. Maybe I was bringing up the median age…but it was probably just one too many snarky comments. I’ve been known to leave such a scathing remark as to cause him to delete the entire post. He also un-friended me on Facebook for the same reason. But not to worry on that count…we use the same computer. He doesn’t very often forget to log out of Facebook, but on those rare occasions when he does, I change his status to say something like, “Ethan takes himself way too seriously,” or “Ethan apologizes for all his overly dramatic status updates.” All of that extra effort I expend…and I don’t think he even appreciates it. In fact, the other day, he was describing someone, and he said, “They are mean, but in a nice sort of way. Kind of like you, Mom.” I take exception to that. I consider myself to be nice. But in a mean sort of way. Anyone who knows me, will attest that I am far more sarcastic and sharp-tongued in person than I am in my blog. Do you see? I’m taking one for the team, here, by suppressing my gift of cruel wit, and Ethan doesn’t suppress anything. If he feels it, thinks it, or maybe even notices it lying by the side of the road, it is going right out there on his blog.

But, as I mentioned, despite his loyal young female following, the score in our “non-contest” was 849-785 for February. Okay, so Ethan had even less time to post than I did. He was working 30 hours a week, graduating early from high school and finishing his eagle scout, so that he can report to Marine Basic Training in two weeks, where he has been accepted into the Marine Band, playing French horn. And in the interest of full disclosure, he is edging me out for March. But hey, the month is young. All I need are about 40 more adoring followers who hang on my every word, and who think I am going to look fabulous and brave, yet tortured, in a uniform.

The One Where Skippy and I Pulled an All-Nighter

Skippy has been sick for a week. Fever, cough…you know the story. We have had to spend a couple of nights on the sectional in the family room. The cough was keeping Dillon awake, since they share a room. Dillon gets up at 5:00 a.m. for an early-morning scripture study class, and then runs track after school…he can’t stay up all night. It wasn’t bad spending some quality time with the Skipster.

DK asked me today if I knew where Skippy’s name came from. Actually, I did not. He said that he was always creeped out by that clown on the ice cream cone box…whose name was Scoopy. So he started calling our adorable seventh-born “Scoopy.” But the rest of us apparently never realized that was what he was saying, and it turned into Skippy...and then stuck.

I know. It kind of makes you wonder about DK, doesn’t it? He has always had a fascination with the macabre. He used to read stories to the kids. There was one that talked about daddies. “Porcupine daddy is a prickly daddy.” As if that one wasn’t weird enough, he added his own into the mix: “Guppy daddy is a dangerous daddy!” Yes, guppies eat their own young. He also delighted in reading from a morbidly fascinating vintage book, called “Struwwelpeter,” (shock-headed Peter). It is a book of tales designed to terrify young children into obedience…for instance, in one, a disobedient child sucks his thumb and has it snipped off.
Maybe DK has it right…our children have been exceptionally obedient and respectful. And mostly non-thumb-sucking. In the middle of the night, Skippy woke me up and said, “Mama, are you cold? You can hold me and get under my blankie…” That’s my Skippy. And I don’t think we have even read to him yet from Struwwelpeter. I guess it doesn’t hurt to have an ace in the hole.

The One With the Grandma Shoes

These are my grandma shoes. I wore them all day today, while I did all of my grandma stuff. I peeled apples. I prepared a church lesson (and gave it, in my matching grandma dress). I made waffles for hungry missionaries. I baked peanut butter oatmeal M&M cookies. I read stories aloud. I worked a crossword puzzle. I gave some grandmotherly advice (that sounds suspiciously like regular advice) and managed to work in the phrase, Oh, my aching bones. I did dishes, wore an apron, and tucked someone into bed. All with a twinkle in my eye, and grandma shoes on my feet. Yeah, they're four inches tall...and not that easy to walk in. But it is more important to look grandmotherly than it is to be comfortable.

Hey, I am getting good at this grandma stuff.

Recipe for Peanut Butter Oatmeal M&M Cookies

The One Where Romance Was Not Dead

Did happen to mention how much I love Valentine’s Day? I suppose I am this weird mix of logical and romantic… this morning while I was sorta kinda pretending to myself that I was sleeping in, DK came in and jumped on the bed, and said, “Which is more romantic…French Toast or” at which point I cut him off, with a very rude, “NO FOOD. Food is not romantic!” Yes, I turned down breakfast in bed. Rudely. Then I placed my cell phone in his hand and said, “But if you’re going downstairs, you can plug this in to charge. It has been beeping.” Good sport that he is, he took the cell phone with him, remarking as he went, “Romance is not dead.”

And he was still nice to me as he left for work. I must have had some good juju stored up from awhile back...way back. Tomorrow being February 14th, it will be 25 years to the day that DK and I got engaged. There have been some romantic moments.

Our first Valentine’s Day together (the year before we got engaged), DK had to work, but he designed me an animated Valentine that played on the computer. That was back before computers even did stuff like that, and had a heart-shaped pizza with everything, delivered from Brick Oven Pizza. I was totally in love, and my mouth is watering right now. I thought that was probably as good as it could get. I was wrong.

When we had our first baby, he spent a week in the Intensive Care Nursery. The reasons for keeping him there were becoming more and more unreasonable, and I, having been at home without my baby for five days, was becoming more and more despondent. On the seventh day, DK drove to St. Joseph’s Children’s Hospital in Orange, parked in the multi-level garage and left me in the car. He then went to the financial clerk and paid cash for the baby (we sold our Apple stock to pay the $6,000 bill) and then took the elevator up to the nursery. He presented them with the discharge papers from the financial clerk, and then, although he had never even held a baby before that week, he dressed Josh in multiple layers of clothes for the cold, picked him up and walked out to the parking structure where I sat crying in the car. I always knew he would be a cool dad, but that was the first day I realized he was a hero.

When I was 29 years old, I had five little boys, all under eight years old. It was honestly fun most of the time, but the idea of having some alone time was about the most heavenly thing I can think of. How many times, over the years, has DK looked around as he was about to leave for the office, and said, “How about I take Dillon to work with me today?” Or Ethan…or Cambria… and he packed up a toddler, with a little backpack full of crayons and coloring books, sometimes even a little TV with videos, and took him to his office and out on appointments to see clients, so that I could have a little time to myself? Truly, romance is not dead.

Then there was this year, when I told him I decided I was going to make a music album. Instead of asking whether I thought maybe I should have consulted with him before making that kind of decision, he immediately started researching the best music recording software online. He is always strangely happy when I decide to do crazy, creative things, and always seems proud of my compulsively entrepreneurial ways. If that is not romantic, I don’t know what is.

Well, DK just called. He said he is bringing home a Top Chef-style food challenge…he is either bringing home octopus, shrimp, ground beef, filet mignon or lobster tail. It is definitely not ground beef. That would not warrant a phone call. It is also not octopus. I would cook that if he brought it home, but I would not eat it, and he knows that. So I’ve got to go dust off my frying pans and signature recipes…and see if I can’t repent of that “food is not romance” comment…

The One Where She Got Tagged...Over and Over and Over

The latest Facebook craze is tagging 25 of your friends in a “note” in which you write 25 random things about yourself. Then each of those 25 friends is supposed to do the same thing. I have been tagged about fifteen times, but have thus far resisted the urge. I am not going to post 25 random things about myself on Facebook. I mean, all those people are friends, and I have basically no idea who reads this blog, so naturally I would rather post here. Consider yourself warned…

25 Things About Me You May Wish You Didn’t Know

1. I have spent five and a half years pregnant, 135 hours in labor, and about nine years nursing babies...and you thought elephants had it bad. Oh, and once, I was asked when I was due, about three months after I had one of my kids. It was a grocery checker, and I wanted so badly to get her fired that I sat in my car for fifteen minutes debating how to go about it.. You are NEVER supposed to ask that. Even if you can see the baby’s head actually coming out.

2. My bedroom is so messy right now that you can’t see the bed.

3. I had to go to the emergency room because I almost had a heart attack from taking 12-hour Sudafeds every 12 hours for two days. I don’t make a very good drug user.

4. Once I pretended that my kids were someone else’s because they were so embarrassing. But in a sort of kharmic switcheroo, twice I have breastfed other people’s babies. Believe me when I tell you that it was an emergency both times.

5. In 2007, I read about 90 books. In 2008, about 30. This year, I’m shooting for five. And I’m going to count it if it is the same book five times. In fact, if I flip through a recipe book, I will probably count that.

6. Until about two or three weeks ago, I only had Facebook friends who “friended” me. I didn’t initiate friend requests. However, my self-esteem was flagging, so now I shamelessly cull my friends’ lists for new people to friend.

7. I can eat a dozen hot Krispy Kremes washed down with a Diet Coke, before leaving the Krispy Kreme parking lot. I like guilty, furtive eating binges. When I was little, my mom used to freeze dozens of quart-sized plastic containers of sweetened strawberries. I used to sneak those and eat them like do-it-yourself sorbet, scraping as I went with a spoon, and leaving the empty containers under beds and behind couches. She always knew it was me, but I thought I was pretty sly.

8. I only shave my legs once a week. Unless I have to wear a dress mid-week, and then I take one for the team and do it again.

9. I used to have a red, heart-shaped mark on my lower abdomen. But (please see item #1 for full explanation) unfortunately it has been stretched out of shape, and now I think it might be the mark of the beast or something. Not that I know what the mark of the beast looks like, but I’m just saying…

10. I have sort of ugly feet. I even dropped a table on my foot while working at a law office when I was first married, and now the big toe on my right foot grows some pretty crazy looking nails…I don’t look so hot in sandals. But not as bad as my brother-in-law Joe.

11. I was asked to bring homemade lasagna to a “Sweetheart Dinner” for church once, and I made three containers of Stouffers and stuffed it into my own casserole dish, and everyone asked me for that recipe for months. Suckers. That was the same “Sweetheart Dinner” where someone had the bright idea to have the women come dressed in their wedding gowns. That was wrong on so many levels. They deserved the Stouffers for that one.

12. In third grade I stole arts supplies from my school classroom. My mom made me take them back and tell Mrs. Gunthner that I stole. In retrospect, I think a case could be made that as taxpayers, we actually owned the art supplies. And Mrs. Gunthner wasn’t very nice and forgiving. I’m a little bitter.

13. I don’t like to drink milk. Maybe it has something to do with when we lived on the ranch, and used plastic buckets for milking the cows, and once my mom decided to clean the bucket with PineSol, and then all the milk tasted like PineSol after that. Or maybe I just don’t like milk.

14. I don’t wear a watch very often, because I usually don’t really care what time it is.

15. I would like to waste my life away watching TV. TV is awesome. There are about 75 shows that I would like to Tivo and watch. I could watch all day and all night, and eat goodies. I would blow up like a balloon, and pretty soon wouldn’t even leave the house to go through a drive-thru. I would have to have all my high-calorie junk food delivered, and eventually they would have to remove a wall of my house so I could be taken out the window by a big hauler so that they could bury me in a piano box or something like that. I only watch about an hour a day right now. But someday…let’s just say I haven't ruled that out.

16. I love the smell of dish soap. And laundry soap. Mmm. However, my love for those smells does not extend to their related tasks.

17. Ninety percent of my wardrobe consists of v-neck t-shirts. One should always accentuate the positive.

18. Once I had to do a five-page research paper in Spanish on a Latin-American subject. I did not feel like doing the research, so I made up one about how the ancient Mayans were actually people from the Book of Mormon. I did not back my claim up with a single shred of research. Señora Cardoza did not appreciate that at all. Oh! And, that same year, I wrote a children’s story for Spanish entitled “Elefante Embarazada,” which I blithely assumed meant “Embarrassed Elephant,” and as it turned out translated to “Pregnant Elephant.” I think she actually did appreciate that one.

19. I don’t like chocolate all that much, but I really like seeing other people enjoy it.

20. I only ever tell the truth on my blog, even though it would be ever so much funnier and more interesting if I were to invent a really horrid mother-in-law to bash, or if I seemed mad about stuff all the time, or pretended to drink to excess, or if I constantly made fun of people and things. Sorry so bland.

21. I only really enjoy playing games if I win. But I am pretty good at hiding that fact most of the time.

22. I must be a really poor time manager, because despite the fact that I have not implemented my TV-watching plan, I still don’t seem to get much done. What do I actually do all day??? The answer to this one may be related to #14 on my list.

23. One time when I couldn’t find a car ride back to BYU in Utah from my Northern California home, I talked my dad into getting me a ride in a little four-passenger airplane that took off from Montague Airport (try looking that up…you probably won’t find it). It was the middle of the winter and snowing, and I sat in the co-pilot seat the whole way. Now that seems a little crazy. Of course, once we kids rode to Arizona in the back of my dad’s pickup. I guess the airplane seems relatively safe…

24. The most expensive item I own, including cars, is my piano. Once a babysitter allowed the kids to hit the piano with some object or other, and broke a key. I couldn’t afford to have it replaced, and so I superglued it back on. I keep reminding the piano tuner to order a replacement key, but in more than a decade, he has never remembered to do it, so it is still superglued. I still remember that babysitter. She has kids of her own now. I hope they are hell on wheels.

25. Last one. I would probably do most anything for you. Please try not to take advantage of that fact.

The One Where She Admits She Hasn't Been Listening

There is this thing that I have done ever since I can remember. Sometimes when I am playing the piano, at the end of a song that moves me, I like to hold the sustain pedal, and lay my head on the piano, so that I can listen to the final chord reverberate through the soundboard, and feel it with my whole body. Sometimes I can hear it for an entire minute, , and even after my human ear fails to hear it, I stay there for a few more moments, knowing that the sound is still there, even if I can’t hear it anymore.

I haven’t done that in a couple of months…because I haven’t been listening to any music. At all. I don’t play the play the piano, nor so much as look at my ipod. I don’t even listen to music in the car, preferring to drive in silence. And believe me when I tell you that giving piano lessons does not (with a few small exceptions) qualify as listening to music.

When I confided my self-imposed code of silence to a friend, she asked if perhaps I was listening for inspiration. The answer is quite the opposite. I have been running from it. Lately, though, the music has been finding me…just as I lie down to sleep at night. Maybe in the clamor of the day, I simply find it easier to ignore, but the moment I close my eyes, my heart starts to pound, and the music roars through my head. My busy mind betrays me, as, despite my best efforts to fall asleep, it plays with the music, trying new melodies, composing lyrics…making arrangements in the dark as I toss restlessly.

I think I have been running from the music because of a lack of faith. It is not God I have been doubting, but I am afraid I have not been trusting enough in His plan for me. And it is no wonder…nothing good ever happens when you stop listening. But I have ears to hear. Today I will listen. I am going to stop and face the music. Maybe I’ll start by listening to one of my own songs, to remind myself why I’m doing this. So tell me…are you listening?

The One Where She Prefers it Remain a Mystery

You know, there are things that I would prefer remain a mystery. I have six sons, and I don’t know how to tie a tie. And I’m okay with that. I like how they take the bunny around the tree and down the hole, or whatever that is, and come up with the perfect knot, with the point just touching the top of their belt. It is one of those things I just don’t have to understand to appreciate. I don’t want to know how the internet works. I am content to revel in the magical mystery. Thanks, Al Gore. You’re a genius.

On the way home from church today, Skippy asked me how babies come out of a mommy’s tummy. He is no doubt contemplating how his ten-pound nephew could be in Jessi’s tummy, and now, so inexplicably, out. I must confess, I had no desire whatsoever to explain it to him. So I told him, well buddy, that is a mystery you will solve at a later date. How about some ice cream? Awesome. Oh, and I recently had a friend tell me that her husband was uncircumcised. Again, I would have preferred that one to remain a mystery. Seriously…I could have died happy, never knowing that.

I have a couple of boys in my house (the missionary ones) who are trying, for 21 days, to go without sugar and caffeine, and to exercise every day. I am happy they are doing it, and equally happy that I am not. But in my house, trying to go without sugar is kind of like torture. There is a particular smell in my house… a friend describes it as boynip. It could be described as fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies with undertones of homemade bread and bacon. See? Boynip. So yesterday, I made banana bread. I handed a warm slice to one of the boys who is not on the 21-day plan. I told the other, sorry, none for you. He was crushed. Why not? Because you aren’t eating sugar, right? Come on, he begs…there’s not much sugar in banana bread, right? Right?

Okay, Elder Murray, let’s just say that it would be better for that to remain a mystery. It’s bread. And fruit. How bad can that be? Have a slice.

In case you want to make the banana bread, here is my favorite:

Monkey Squares... with a variation to make super moist banana bread

The One Where the Emoticons Gain Ground

OK, so I am pretty smart, right? Say right. And pretty handy with computer stuff for the most part. So why is it that everything to do with Blogger is so darned difficult? Yesterday in order to insert those $#@^%*! Emoticons, I had to download a particular Foxfire add-on, then download a plug-in program, then use the plug-in program to edit the HTML in my Blogger to allow it to use Yahoo Emoticons. Simple, right?

Simple, yet insidious. I believe the whole thing was a plot designed by the emoticons to take over my blog. Now when I go in to make a new blog post, right above the text are displayed all of the Yahoo emoticons. It is a nightmare of a hundred yellow faces. (Witness the actual screenshot above!) I hate that they are animated. They appear to all be mocking me. I removed the lines of HTML that I altered yesterday in order to allow them, but they won’t leave. I feel as though I am possessed. I had a lot of things to do today. Real life things. But I am afraid they are just going to have to wait, because this is war, people. The emoticons will go, if it is the last thing I do. If you don’t hear from me in a couple of days, Gardenweasel, don’t forget our closet pact...I can’t bear to think of the relief society seeing it. Bring a lot of trash bags.

Oh! One more thing. Assuming that I survive my epic emoticon battle, I am playing Pay it Forward with one of my favorite blogsters...Here’s how it works: the first four people to leave a comment on this post will receive, at some point during the year, a handmade gift from me. What it will be and when it will arrive is a total surprise! Although, let’s face it, I’m not very crafty, so you can almost certainly expect to receive FOOD. GOOD FOOD. The catch is that you must participate as well–before you leave your comment here, write up a pay it forward post on your blog to keep the fun going. Then come back, let me know you’re going to play, and sit back and anticipate the arrival of your gift! Remember that only the first four comments will receive a gift from me, so be quick! Oh...and being completely conversant with the mail system, this offer is open to everyone...yes, even those who are geographically challenged (translation: those who don’t live in beautiful sunny Southern California).

The One With the Attack of the Emoticons

The other night my friend Gardenweasel and I were chatting on Facebook. Yes, we live only half a mile from each other. And yes, we both have phones. Multiple phones…that is true. But there is something liberating about chatting on Facebook. I type almost as fast as I think, so I can utter insensitive remarks just as quickly that way as I can in person. Maybe faster.

The only problem was that Gardenweasel was having some Facebook trouble, and Facebook Chat kept dropping her. Not to make fun of disabled persons (I know…anything you have to preface like that is ill-advised and should definitely not be said, and I know this is going to come back to bite me), it was sort of like I imagine it would be communicating with Stephen Hawking. As she repeated herself in a manic way, stuttered, and took forever to string together a single sentence, I found myself holding my breath, feeling very sorry for her, and actually had the urge to dab at the drool that it seemed must certainly be stringing from the corner of her mouth.

In her frustration, she resorted to a very guttural, almost primal form of communication. It consisted of an occasional word
repeated
repeated
like
this

punctuated by a few swear words. Okay, maybe more than a few…
$#@^%*!

but...and this is the best of all… EMOTICONS.

Suddenly I was talking with a very expressive mute. I realized that I have been ignoring a very potent method of communication. Emoticons can tap into the deep emotional well of my soul.

Let’s say, for instance, that you want to tell your son how you feel when he doesn’t do his homework. Here is how this would go:

Sam,

I am very that you are doing such a job at turning in your homework. Your teacher is very as well. I would like to say that I am at your lack of initiative, but the attitude which you have cultivated over the past 15 years has not escaped my attention. I know that you would like me to believe that you are, and that this “misunderstanding” was brought about by your utter because you are just too smart for this class. I am very you feel this way, as you seem to have me with someone who feels for you. No, Sam, the fact is, you are in very deep . I am completely by your report card, and I am that after we have taken away your ipod, your phone, your ability to sit without , and all the other conveniences with which your father and I have been accustomed to providing you, it will be no time at all before we will be with you on your straight-A comeback. .

you,
Mom

The One With the Ogre Achiever

Elder Hobley lived with us for six months. Since he transferred to a new area about three weeks ago, we have really missed him. We used to tease him that he was half ogre (on his father’s side, of course) because he was a big kid. In fact, he once asked me if I thought he was a lurp. I didn’t know what that was. I had to look it up in the Urban Dictionary:

Lurp: 1. (n) A person who is long, lanky, and can't quite handle him or herself while doing physical activities, such as playing basketball, dancing, walking, etc.

You learn something new every day, right? He was not a lurp. Exactly. Nor did he have many ogre-like tendencies. In fact, given the maple syrup incident, I would say he had a lot more Buddy the Elf in him than Shrek. Nonetheless the nickname stuck, and while we were in Utah this weekend we passed this awesome billboard. We had to make a second pass and roll down the car window in 18-degree weather to snap a picture for him. This is for the ogre-achiever in us all...

The One Where She Holds the Line

To answer Nan’s question, I will happily be called Grandma. It was good enough for Neva and Dora, my two perfectly perfect grandmothers, who were, between the two of them, everything a good grandma should be. A lot of people have asked me, what do you think about being a grandma? to which my pat response has been “Weird,” or “I’m still trying to wrap my brain around it.” Which responses were completely true. I really had no way of saying how I felt about it until I actually experienced it. But now I have been a grandmother for two and a half days.

I realized :( as we pulled up to the hospital where Josh, Jessi and Jif were recovering from birth, that I was very excited. I thought that it would be so fun to see my son and daughter-in-law in the role of parents, and see this little stranger for the first time. But then we walked in and I saw him. I had the same reaction to him that I had when I saw Josh for the very first time, and then each of my seven in their turns. This was not the stranger baby I was expecting to hold for the first time. I could have walked into the nursery full of babies, and picked him out without ever having seen him before. I knew that when I saw Joshua as a newborn, too. I looked at him, and thought, Well, of course that is him. He is so perfectly part of us. So familiar. I have known him forever. The thing is, I just didn’t expect to already know Jif.

People always say that being a grandma is way better than being a mom. You can love them, spoil them, and then send them home to their parents. I know you have heard this...everyone says it, right? Well, I am sorry, but that is just not true. At least it is not for me. I could not pry myself out of that hospital room for several hours on Saturday. The problem (if it is one), I finally realized, is that I would be perfectly happy to trade them. They can leave, and I will stay here with this perfect baby tonight. I will sit with warm blankets on my swollen abdomen to soothe the afterpains; I’ll take the icepacks and the bleeding. I’ll brave the cracked nipples and grit my teeth to nurse when his mouth feels just like a pair of pliers. I will take that sensation where when you stand up to hobble to the bathroom, it feels like all of your insides might just fall out. I will sit awake all night, holding him skin to skin, or just look at him for hours under that fluorescent light, and think how entirely amazing he is...how smart, and alert, and incredibly, impossibly beautiful. Here is the deal: I want to be a mother forever and ever and ever.

Please don’t take this the wrong way. I love what great parents Josh and Jessi already are. They are so patient and calm and wonderful. It doesn’t even make me feel old to be called Grandma. I don’t get jealous when I look at other people’s babies, and wish they were mine. I am going to love being a grandma. But I am not going to lie and say that it is better than being a mom. Jessi got the better end of this one.

I don’t think that I am one of those “over-mothering” mothers. I don’t follow my big kids around and try to tell them what to do all the time... and I’m sure that if I don’t speak the truth, here, they will feel free to comment and correct me. But what in the entire world could be better than having children, watching them be perfect babies, and then adorable two-year-olds, and then teenagers who are smart and funny and make all kinds of mistakes, and then, before you know it, grown-ups who are better at everything than you ever were? There could not be anything better. So there I will hold the line.

Grandma I am; and I have to say that including a new grandson in my family can only be described as life-altering. I love him like crazy. But please don’t cue the Circle of Life music quite yet. I am not done with the first part. And I don’t ever intend to be. I am going to be a mother for eternity.