Something Fishy

Marissa received a very thoughtful gift from Caleb for Christmas: a goldfish, which she rather unfortunately named "Bucket". This morning, Bucket ... um ... well, kicked the bucket. We went to the pet store earlier this evening in search of a worthy replacement. Our conversation during the drive home gave me a good guffaw.

Marissa: Why do fish flop around when they get on land?

Me: Well, I think it's just their instinct in order to move back into the water.

Marissa: Oh, that makes sense. But people don't flop around in the water to get back on land.

Ha, ha, ha! That's pretty much the best visual ever.

Going Green

We've had a challenge lately with energy conservation -- or in other words, turning lights out. I got tired of reminding Aiden in particular to turn off his lights, so I started threatening that we'd remove his light bulbs if he kept leaving the lights on. I guess he's used to empty threats, cause it didn't seem to make a difference.

So we followed through the other day. Morgan watched Jeremy taking the light bulbs out and was just dying to tell Aiden all about it. Jeremy told her to be quiet and let Aiden find out for himself. This was more than Morgan could handle. She showed us just how smart she is by going to Aiden and saying, "Can you help me turn on your light?"

Aiden earned his light bulb privileges back, and it has been like magic. He's come to me several times just to let me know his lights are off. Brilliant! And if it doesn't last, I suppose we can always try this . . .

Once in a Lifetime

This year marked the coolest birthdate ever for one 8-year-old I know.

11-11-11.

We tried to instill in Aiden the singularity of this once-in-a-lifetime event. Maybe he got it, but there were more important things for him to attend to . . .

. . . such as fostering his latest obsession with all things BYU, hosting an insane "late night" movie birthday party with a houseful of highly energetic boys, and preparing for his baptism.

I'm convinced as Aiden gets older that he is destined for a charmed life. He's one of those kids you're privately a tiny bit jealous of. He's good looking and athletic, makes friends easily, gets a good joke, and has got a smart brain in his head. And he's nice! He's also a little bit mischievous and can be a stinker, but he somehow makes you laugh when you're trying to get mad.

Aiden's baptism was a quiet and special affair. Aiden is rather reserved about being in the spotlight, but he said he felt happy. Since that day, he asks questions and makes comments that show he is trying to understand gospel principles and ordinances. I'm proud of his growth and effort. And we got a half-way decent family picture out of the day.

Happy birthday (an itty bit late), my favorite 8-year-old!

Fortunate

As per family tradition, today we headed to Springville to pick out our Christmas tree and then visited our old haunt, the China Town restaurant in Provo. We rescued a sad little tree with one perfectly flat side, ideal for pushing up against the wall as to avoid taking up too much space in our tiny living room. The meal was polished off in record time -- no left-overs for us anymore! -- and then we opened our fortune cookies. Morgan went first and got this puzzler:

"Now go to it! It's ready to be pick."

We laughed. Ha! Ha! Huh?! And then I opened mine, which read:

"Now go to it! It's ready to be pick."

What does it mean???

Maybe it was a forecast of my brain blunder which would come to pass moments later while taking a picture of the kids. Tired of trying to tell them to get ready, I decided simply to count down. Not so simple, it would seem. I said:

"2 - 3 - 1 - [click]!"










Maybe everybody'll forget about it and stop picking on me tomorrow . . . but I doubt it.

True Love

We took our family to tithing settlement on Sunday and were engaged in some small talk with the bishop. He asked each of the kids what is his or her favorite thing to do. Then he asked Marissa what is my favorite thing to do. She thought briefly and said, "Smooch my dad." Well, after passing through various stages of embarrassment -- a) turn several shades of red; b) giggle uncontrollably; c) karate chop the progression of any further conversation; d) flee at the soonest possible moment -- I came to a conclusion.

I am in possession of a rare treasure.

While the setting was vastly inappropriate for such a declaration, I feel so, so, SO grateful that our children see and recognize love in our home. I'm glad they know that Jeremy and I love each other. I count my blessings to have married a funny and charming and respectful and forgiving and loving man who shows our kids how a woman should be treated. The fact that I like to smooch him is just an added bonus.

Gratitude

Last Sunday, I was struck with a migraine right about time to fix dinner. I crashed, leaving Jeremy to fend for himself and the rest of the gang. He resorted to the emergency stash of frozen cardboard pizza. It was Aiden's turn to say the blessing on the food. How's this for sincerity?

"We're thankful for this food that Dad . . .

. . . put into the oven."

On the subject of food, I submit we should also be grateful for a free enterprise system of feeding our faces. During our garden's heyday this summer, we had an abundance of zucchini which I tried to use in diverse and sneaky ways. Jeremy will readily admit that he likes zucchini a grand total of once every summer, but I was undeterred. One day I chopped it up and hid it inside a calzone. The kids scarfed it down, so I reveled in my success until Jeremy made a comment about our Communist dinner. Ha! I guess that makes me the czar.

If Walls Could Talk

I was mid-shower today when Morgan began pounding frantically on the door and yelling, "Mom! Mom! Mom!" This sounded different than the standard daily interruptions, so I asked what was the matter. "The handle is broken and the water is pouring out!! I can't turn it off!!!"

Okay, now what do you envision here? Then add to that vision the fact that just earlier this year we had a toilet overflow which resulted in a bathroom floor redo and downstairs closet ceiling restoration. Water flooding, seeking the lowest point, saturating surfaces only to manifest itself in horrible, fuzzy, slimy, foul ways when you least expect it. What would you do?

Disregarding my mid-shower status, I turned off the water, haphazardly flung my towel around me, tore open the door, issued an abrupt command: "Move!" and ran, the ends of my towel flailing unheeded behind me. I could hear the water running in the sink, adding desperation to my flight. Around the corner, and

nothing. Yes, the water was running full blast, but it was happily draining with not a sign of disaster in sight. I sagged in relief, issued another command: "No more water for you!" and followed my trail of soggy footprints back to the abandoned shower.

So can you guess how many lucky stars I thanked today? In honor of our holiday around the corner, here's one at least. I am grateful for solid walls and closed doors.

Get Me a Pair of Those!

We were watching TV the other day, and Aiden asked Jeremy, "Why are those people so skinny?"

Jeremy responded, "It's just their genes."

Aiden tried to figure that one out. "So are they really tight [pulling his own jeans tighter around his waist] so they can't grow?"

I wish it worked a little something like that!

"Funny"

I, along with some of my favorite bloggers [shout out to you], have issues with the abuse of the poor, misunderstood quotation mark. I saw an example today on a sign advertising a little family farm down the road. It read:

"Pumpkins"
Pick your own

Hmm. So if they are "pumpkins," I am left to ponder their actual nature. What will you pick today? I choose eggplants!

. . . and More on the Topic

Here's today's Morganism that made me literally guffaw.

Jeremy: Morgan, you're so smart.

Morgan: Just don't call me a fart cookie.

Oh, man!

So Fecial

Morgan has a few lingering speech difficulties. One of them involves the "sp" sound. I personally love it, especially when she says words like "sparkly." Who can resist something farkly? Or spider/fider. That's another favorite. Anyway, Marissa was trying to help her say "sp" today. It went something like this.

Ma: Say "spoon"

Mo: Foon

Ma: Say "s"

Mo: Ssss

Ma: Say "p"

Mo: P

Ma: Say "sss - p"

Mo: Sss - p

Ma: Say "spoon"

Mo: Pah - foon

Oh, it will come. But until then, I will savor every farkly and fecial thing.

Moon Party

Did you know that last night was International Observe the Moon Night? Well, it was, and that is it's official name. I didn't know until I saw a flyer advertising a moon party at our little local library. I was a bit skeptical, but they successfully sold the nerd in me by stating they would have telescopes. Yeah!

The weather all day yesterday left me fearing any lunar observations would fail, but the kids ran home from the park [and their most excellent flag football game] at dark saying, "We can see the moon!" By this time I was frankly done for the day and still had to vacuum, dust, finish laundry, put sheets on beds, bathe the kids, and clean my bathroom. And it was cold outside. And Jeremy was at the BYU game. And I dislike crowds. But my curiosity won out. We grabbed some jackets and headed over to our blessed gem of a library. [More on that another day.]

We did find a decent crowd gathered. I overheard the head librarian say they had expected about 100 people but ended up with more like 400. Outside they had about half a dozen telescopes of various sizes set up. They had a station for building construction paper rockets to then launch with an air compressor. Another station had a "moon landscape" obstacle course through which the kids took turns guiding a computer-controlled rover. There was free pizza and water and cookies and moon pies [which were gone before we arrived]. Inside the library was a coloring station and computer games to test your ability to land a rocket. We ended up spending about 2 hours at the party. The sky ended up incredibly clear, and the moon was in top notch form. We also snuck a peek at Jupiter, which was bright in the eastern sky, and several of its moons [I was told it has upwards of 60]. I'm not an astronomy buff by any stretch of the imagination, but there is something about space and the planets that fascinates. After all my balking, and in spite of a late night for the kids and not finishing all my jobs, I'm glad we ventured out. Three cheers for the moon, and for itty bitty libraries.

Now if I may diverge for a moment, I just passed Marissa on the stairs. She had blankets stuffed in both of her shoulders and must have noticed the confused look I gave her, because she explained, "We're playing tackle football." Why do these things make me laugh so hard?

The Mother of Invention

Jeremy and I were puzzled when Caleb, Marissa, and Aiden walked out of the house today with socks dangling out of their pants' pockets. Our puzzlement turned to amusement after we realized they were playing flag football. Of course, how perfectly reasonable! May I say, though, it was one of the funniest looking games of flag football I've ever seen?

Frenetic Genetics

Some of the traits Jeremy and I have passed to our children make sense. Caleb and Marissa, for example, got my "pond" eyes, while Morgan has Jeremy's bright blues. Other things, however, give us a chuckle and make us ask, "What the. . .?"

A couple of our favorites:

Marissa bites the corner of her cheek when she's nervous. She just sits there and nibbles away. Guess who else does that? Me.

Morgan squishes her bread into a doughy ball before eating it. I suppose this could be learned behavior, but I'm pretty sure she inherited it from her dad.

Just weird. I thought there were more, but I'm blank now. I'll have to revisit the topic another day.

Aaack!

I knew this day would inevitably come, but I lived in a hopeful state of delusion that it would arrive at least a little bit later.

Today Caleb walked past me, and Jeremy said, "Whoa! He's taller than you." We stood back-to-back, and lo, and behold! It was true. It must have happened during the night. No kidding. At the beginning of the school year I had at least a 1/2 inch on him. Curse those prepubescent growth spurts!

So now we just wait and see if his torso ever catches up with his legs. [For reference, I just bought him a pair of pants size 29W 32L. I would have gone smaller in the waist, but it seems that size doesn't exist. And Jeremy wears 32L and is 6' 2-ish".] Ho hum. I guess I'd just better adjust to my future role as the shrimp of the family.

Eloquence and Injury

Marissa came home from school the other day with a gem in hand. Apparently her encounter with school lunch that day left enough of a putrid impression to inspire an ode. I share it with her permission.

September 15, 2011

The lunch today
almost made me cry.
It was so horrifying.
It even came alive.
The spaghetti smacked Alanna.
The salad gulped up Bridget.
It kinda made me eat it.
But instead I threw up in it.
It was very, very gross.
My mom made toast.
And that was so much better
than today's school lunch.

On the topic of Marissa, I got one of those phone calls from the school office yesterday that no parent wants to receive. Marissa had run into another student's head and split open her forehead. I zipped up to the school and checked her out. I didn't get a good look at the wound because the office assistants had taped it up, but they assured me it was deep. I called the doctor from the school thinking we could drive right over, but the doctors were all at lunch. So we set an appointment and went home to wait. Marissa was a trooper the whole time and expressed her concern for the younger kids she walks home with after school. I told her not to worry about them, that we just needed to take care of her for now. At the doctor's office, they took the tape off her cut. Initially it just looked like a narrow little thing, but then the nurse started to clean it, and it just gushed open. In the end, she needed three stitches inside the gash and 9 on the surface. It contours her eyebrow, so hopefully the scar won't be too noticeable as it heals. But it was a doozy. Now her eye is a bit purple and swollen and she has to wear a bandage until the stitches come out. My poor, pretty girl. Yeow!

Funnies

A couple of recent quotables from Aiden . . .

We were discussing the reason we get baptized and trying to gauge Aiden's understanding, so we asked, "Why did Jesus get baptized? How many sins did he have?"

His answer: "I don't know. Five?"

Guess we have a little more teaching to do.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Jeremy was telling me the names of his golfing buddies for an upcoming outing and said, "Justin Peterson will be there."

Aiden's eyes popped open and he said, "Justin Beaver?!? Justin Beaver's son?"

Ha, ha, ha! I laughed and corrected, "It's Justin Bieber."

Aiden: "He's going with Justin Bieber's son?"

Um, no.

Proof of Affection

Jeremy likes to tease that I must not love my children very much since I didn't post their back-to-school pictures on my Facebook wall. I beg to differ. It's just a symptom of my conflicted relationship with social media. But since I do love my children and like to show them off a little, here they are on their first days of school.

Caleb, 7th grader












Marissa, 5th grader












Aiden, 2nd grader












Morgan, preschooler












Have you noticed how the first day of school marks the passage of time more than most things? While I held myself together better this year than last after sending these sweet pieces of my soul away, I look at these pictures and feel gentle twinges in my heart. I guess even at my age I'm bound to have a few growing pains.

Digestive System Fail

This is one of those [more than sufficiently long] ramblings that is more for my memory's sake than anything else. But for those curious and non-squeamish types, feel free to read on.

I can't pinpoint a date when I started having pain in my stomach, so sometime in the last four years I began having mild to major pain in the upper center part of my tummy. Usually it just annoyed me, but every now and then I would feel so sick that I could hardly get out of bed. I'd feel nauseated and get weak and lightheaded and sweaty. I couldn't seem to find a remedy, either. Of course, I'm not much of a seeker of medical attention, so I waited until my annual physical last fall to ask my doctor what might be wrong with me. He ordered an ultrasound to look at things and sent me on my way. The ultrasound revealed that -voila!- everything was normal.

Talking to the doctor again, he suggested I get a HIDA scan done. I scheduled it, but after consulting with my health insurance people and finding out how much those fandangled tests cost, I decided to forgo. No stomachache deserves that much attention and financial gratification was my opinion, especially at the end of the year when we hadn't paid hardly a cent toward our deductible. So I persevered.

The new year brought what seemed to be a worsening of my symptoms, so I revisited the idea of further testing. Then when we had some changes to our health insurance which would raise our deductible considerably, we decided it would be best to go for it before the changes became effective. My doctor worked his magic to rush the orders before the deadline, which was about 2 weeks away.

The HIDA scan came next. The procedure for this test consisted of getting an IV through which some radioactive dye was sent that lit up the gallbladder while I lay under a big x-ray machine for a couple of hours. This was about as bad as it sounds. The IV and dye didn't bother me [although I'm not generally a big fan of sending radioactive products coursing through my body], but lying still on a hard, narrow table for that long about did me in. I brought along my current book club read [which I think was The Brother's Karamozov -- oi! I needed something much more diverting], but holding my arms above my head and avoiding all the contraptions was not so fun. After the gallbladder was sufficiently visible the technician added some hormone to the IV that made the gallbladder contract so they could view if it was properly dispensing it's juice. Upon observation, the conclusion came back... Normal!

Next came the CT scan. Of all the procedures, this was my least favorite. It was quick, which I appreciated, but whatever junk they stuck in my veins I felt certain was going to kill me. The technician warned me I'd experience some sensations such as feeling very warm and like I was going to wet my pants. Nice, huh? So they started the IV and told me to follow the instructions the machine would issue. "Breathe in ... Hold your breath ... Breathe out." It started out all right, but as the contrast spread through my body, I got horribly hot. I began feeling a little bit panicky. I have no idea what a heart attack feels like, but that's what I imagined as my whole center heated up and felt compressed. And I truly thought I would wet my pants. So weird, and utterly unpleasant. Fortunately, it was over in a timely manner and my pants stayed dry. I left the hospital and decided to run a few errands before heading home.

Here's where the fun began. I arrived home to a very disturbed husband. I think his first sentence to me was, "I'm getting you a cell phone!" [Yep, I'm one of the 13 people in the US who does not yet have a cell phone.] Apparently, immediately after I left the hospital, the radiologist called to say that I needed to either go to the emergency room or to my OB/GYN right away. The scan showed that my IUD had ruptured the wall of my uterus and needed to be removed promptly. Jeremy took the liberty of scheduling an appointment with my doctor, so we went to investigate the matter. Now it turns out I had just been to see the midwife at this same office to determine the cause of some other pain I'd been having. She had ordered an ultrasound which showed some ovarian cysts. Nothing too worrisome. So the doctor took another look at the ultrasound and declared the IUD to be in exactly the right place. He called the radiologist, who stuck to his determination that there was a serious problem. My doctor seemed unconvinced, since I didn't have signs of infection, but he also couldn't argue with what the radiologist said he saw. So he removed the IUD prepared to send me into surgery if it was indeed ruptured through the uterus. But, as seems to be a theme here, everything appeared normal. He sent me home with some antibiotics, just in case, but still sure that everything was just fine.

Test #4: Endoscopy. Actually, it had a much longer and more impressive sounding name, but I'd have to go find the paperwork to write it all down. For this one I would be sedated and the surgeon would stick a camera down my throat to take a look at my insides. I was a little nervous about being knocked out. But it ended up being the best part. I remember them hooking me up to the IV. They put something in my mouth so I couldn't bite down. It also made it so I couldn't talk. My arm started to hurt where the IV was placed, so I thought I would take the thing out of my mouth and ask if that was normal, but I couldn't do it and then I was asleep. When I woke up I was so disappointed. I'd been having the best, most restful nap ever. I wanted so badly to stay put. The surgeon came in and showed me some pictures of my small intestines and began explaining that the little teensy lesions I saw were either caused from celiac disease or from ibuprofen use. Of course, my brain was a little foggy still and I couldn't get over the fact that I had pictures of my gut. Cool! He ordered a blood test and said they'd taken a biopsy to rule out celiac disease. Jeremy walked me to the lab for the blood test, and then we left to go curtain shopping. The doctors had instructed me not to make any major decisions for 24 hours after the sedation, but I'm happy to say I still like the drapery I picked out in my altered state.

I spent an anxious few days thinking of all the things I would miss if the celiac diagnosis was confirmed. And, naturally, I ate as many of them as I could. I thank my lucky stars that the tests came back normal. Which meant I was having a disastrous reaction to ibuprofen. I've steered clear since then and am pleased to report I have mostly felt much better. I still get minor stomachaches from time to time. But I haven't had any severe problems for a few months. Still, I think the best part of the whole thing was getting a picture of my tummy from the inside. It's so fascinating. If this sort of thing bothers you, you can't say I didn't warn you. Look away!

More Morganisms

Morgan sure makes me laugh. Here are a couple of her most recent funnies:

I walked into her room to find her dresser draw emptied onto the floor.

"What happened here?" I asked.

"I didn't do it!" she retorted. "Daddy did it."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah! He was sleepwalking."

Where did that even come from?!?

Then today, I was getting her out of the bath. She hollered and cried in protest.

"But then I can't swim!"

I didn't think that should constitute the end of the world, but apparently it did because then she explained, "I'm a mermaid. I have fins. I can't walk because I trip on them."

Oh, Miss Morgan the Mermaid! You certainly color my world!

Goals Met & Made

Goal met: Today I ran 3 miles for the first time. This might not seem like a big deal to some, but for me [total non-runner], I was feeling pretty swell.

Goal made: Someday I will take a vacation after which I will feel better than I felt before I left. Not sure when or how this will come to pass, but it must. MUST!

Milestones

Party time at our house! Morgan turned 4. We had a fun family celebration, followed by a "Pinkalicious" friend party. She asked for a princess cake, so I had my first foray into the Barbie-doll-cake-in-a-bowl tradition and experienced varying degrees of success. The party was received enthusiastically. When I went shopping for all the pink accoutrements, it looked like a Pepto bottle exploded on the checkout counter. I made pink tutus for all the girls; we decorated pink wands and ate pink cupcakes; the girls got their fingernails painted - pink, of course; we had a pink Jello jiggler race and made pink bead necklaces. Good times all around. I felt like it was a hit when one of the girls told her mom, "This was the best day of my whole life!"

I achieved a goal of mine recently. It only took four years. I finished writing the story of Morgan's first month of life. It really shouldn't have taken so long, but I started and stopped many times. It was a hard story for me to visit. I wanted to record it all, but the memories were emotionally intense. Much of the experience has become a blur, and I hope I captured the most important details. In particular, it was a spiritually defining time, and those are the things I feel are the most important to remember.

I won't recap the whole story here. Many of the details are too personal and near to my heart. [Not only that, but I filled about 10 pages. Nobody wants to read all that.] But for anyone who doesn't know the basic story, Morgan was born with a malrotation of her small intestines. She was admitted to the hospital at 10 days old, spent a week with doctors trying to fix her in all the wrong ways, then had surgery at 17 days old which put her on the road to healing and health. So many worse things could have happened, and I count my blessings that the end result was positive.

Four years later, I still look at Morgan’s scar almost every day. It doesn’t look so big and ugly now. A little part of me hurts when I see it. But mostly my heart soars. I like to kiss the three little white scars from the picc line on her arm. They’ll always be there, especially noticeable in the summer when she gets a tan. They remind me of the life I could have lost. But she is here. And she has already become more than I could have imagined. She is strong, determined, creative, expressive, affectionate, opinionated. When I would sit in the pumping station at the hospital, the nurses suggested I visualize my baby and think of something relaxing. I would try to picture Morgan as a toddler. I would imagine holding her hand and walking with her. It was hard to envision that future, especially when we didn’t know what was wrong. But now when I hold her hand and kiss those little scars, my heart is full of love and hope and gratitude. Morgan knows her scars mean the doctors fixed her. Someday I’ll tell her the whole story. My hope for her as she grows is that when she sees her scars, she won’t see flaws. I hope she’ll see them and know she got to live. That she was an answer to prayers and faith. That she was, and becomes more so every day, a beautiful gift.

Celebrity Sightings

Guess who the kids saw at the pool the other day?! John and Randy! And then Jeremy and I were at the movie theater and caught a glimpse of silly Brett! If you don't know to whom I am referring, then you must not be among the 246,307 [give or take a few hundred thousand] avid fans of Kid History. John, Randy, and silly Brett enjoy star status at our house. The kids have watched each Kid History episode untold numbers of times and have their fair share of favorite quotes. Among the ones I hear most often:

"Don't punch...our...car."
"I'm going to kick you in the head!"
"F-A-C-T!"
"I'm in so much twouble."
"Behave! I've had a...stressful day."
"Do you want to go on a hike?" "OkayI'llgogetmybags!"
"I'm going to eat some yellow grapes?"
"BUT...!"
"I don't want to have to tell you again!"

In truth, I hear much more than this. And, frankly, I've grown tired of requests to watch the episodes so many times. Nevertheless, it's not every day you get to see someone who's [almost] famous.

Sibling Revelry

I love my kids for lots of reasons. They're pretty great. Here's one big reason: they treat each other well. They are friends. Sure, they tease and irritate one another on a regular basis, but for the most part they care for and about each other.

Caleb spent last week at scout camp. It was his first time away for more than a night. I knew it would feel strange to have him gone and that his absence would leave a little hole. He is, after all, nearly the same size as me and eats about twice as much as the rest of us. What I wasn't prepared for was how his being gone would affect his siblings. Marissa in particular was a lost cause. The first couple of days were the worst for her. When she explained her rocky spirits to me, that she just missed her brother, I told her it was normal for her to feel sad since he'd been her friend since the day she was born. She tearfully told me how bored she was without him and how he takes care of her. I suggested she could write him a letter since Jeremy would head up to camp later in the week. This she did, and it was one of the sweetest things. It's one I'll hold on to for a while. [It'll make excellent evidence when they think they hate each other that they don't really.]

Caleb survived camp in one piece and came home to hugs and squeals of joy. I think the kids were a little bashful about the emotion they felt to see each other again. And now they're back to the teasing and the irritating ... and the caring that makes me love them even more.

Lefty

I am right-handed. Extremely. In other words, I'd be a total loss if ever I had to rely solely on my left hand. It would be disastrous. I can write in cursive with my left hand, but only when I am mirroring my right. You know, when you have a pencil in both hands and write in opposite directions simultaneously. That works. Otherwise, not such a great plan. Strangely, however, my left side seems to dominate in unusual ways. I'm curious if this is a normal phenomenon. It seems a little weird to me.

• My left foot is larger than my right, which is so very unfortunate since my feet are enormous enough as it is.

• My left pointer finger is longer than my right.

• I wear my purse or backpack on my left shoulder. It just feels wrong the other way and usually falls off when I try.

• I put my sock and shoe on my left foot first. I'm almost compulsive about this.

• I fall asleep on my left side.

• I am left-eye dominant. So when I shoot a gun I have to close my right eye to aim. Apparently about 30% of all mammals are left-eye dominant [in case you like to store random and basically useless facts].

• I recently took a test which determined I am center-brained with a trend toward left-brain dominance. I don't think this is strange, nor was it a big surprise, but it goes with the theme.

So what? I have no idea. I will tell you, though, that if we ever play basketball, just guard my right side. Even with that extra big foot, I have no hope using my left.

Iron Chef

Look out, Bobby Flay. I've got an up-and-coming food network star on my hands.

While I was getting dinner ready this evening, Marissa was moping around the kitchen. She was bored and hungry, so I decided to put her to work.

Me: "Go pick some radishes."

[Yes, we planted radishes, more as an experiment than because we like to eat them. Actually, it's because Morgan went with me to the farm store and picked them out, and I thought, eh, why not?! A bit unfortunately, they grew nicely and have become rather prolific.]

Marissa: "What are we going to do with them?"

Me: "I don't know. Whatever you want."

Little did I know what we were in for. I suggested cutting smiley faces into them and told her that Grandma knows how to make radish roses. Well, that was not sufficiently creative. Here's what she did instead.

Step 1: Hollow out the center of the radish and chop up the meat.

Step 2: Fill the radish with honey and stuff with chopped pieces.

Step 3: Sprinkle with parsley. ["It needs something green and pretty."]

Step 4: Wrap with a strip of ham.

Now, I was admittedly dubious and tried one out of obligation. But, honestly, it wasn't bad at all. Jeremy said, "That made radishes edible."

So, like I said: Look out, Bobby. Iron Chef Marissa is on her way! I can't wait to see what she'll come up with for our other garden experiments. We've got sunburst squash, sweet banana peppers, tomatillos, and white pumpkins all growing this very moment. Oh, goody!

Normal

Normally by June 21st ...

... long sleeves, sweatshirts, and fleece p.j. bottoms have long since abandoned the laundry pile.

... the kids have thoroughly exhausted an inflatable pool and sprinklers.

... the air conditioning runs more often than not.

... sitting by the pool doesn't turn you purple.

... a rain storm invites playing in the puddles rather than bundling up.

... you wouldn't say, "Hot chocolate sounds really good right now."

... considering the current temperature brings dread of July and August.

... we've gone through a substantial amount of sunscreen.

... you wouldn't wonder how much snow will be on the ground when you send your scout to camp.

... you don't have to bring jackets to a baseball game.

... popsicles don't bring on the shivers.

Let's just say I'm ready for a little bit of normal. Thankfully, the day after the summer solstice has been beautiful and sunny and given me hope that summer is finally on its way.

How to Speak Utahrn

Although I've lived in Utah for almost half of my life, I still think of myself as an Oregonian in certain ways. Such as: I still speak like one. I grew up never thinking of Oregon as having an accent of any kind, but Jeremy likes to point out a few northwest peculiarities [not peculiar to me, I must clarify]. According to him, Oregonians put a twangy a in words of the ants family. I guess it comes out a little like "aynts." So a sentence like, "The ants from France wore pants to the dance," ends up sounding [to him] like, "The aynts from Fraynce wore paynts to the daynce."

I've also held on to some words and phrases. We have an ongoing debate over the use of high waters vs. floods to describe pants [or paynts] of the awkwardly short variety. Out of habit, I call them high waters. My argument, which I feel legitimate, is that someone from Oregon should be able to differentiate between high water and a flood.

Now it's not like Jeremy has much room to critique how us Oregonians speak. Utah has its fair share of verbal humdingers. I am raising 4 Utahns, which came abruptly to my attention one day while I worked on spelling with Aiden. I read his spelling list while he wrote the words. We came to the word sure and I watched him write shore. Feeling a little puzzled, I tried again. "No, the word is shoor." He said, "That's what I wrote." So I tried another approach. "It's shur [almost neglecting the vowel sound completely]." And he wrote it correctly. Oh, the dismay!

From time to time I do slip into some characteristically Utahn pronunciations. For example, I have caught myself saying fur instead of for and feel rather horrified. [Just as long as I don't fill horrified.] Maybe it's inevitable. After all, in another couple years I'll have lived in Utah longer than I lived in Oregon. But at least so far, supposebly I still haven't warshed my hands in the crick or put my house up for sell!

Decades

Ten years ago I became mother to a daughter. I swear Marissa was beautiful from the second she was born. Now I look at her and marvel that she is a decade old. I think she's still beautiful. But we've also discovered that she is funny and kind and athletic and creative and gentle and smart and a little kooky.

Somehow we unwittingly established a tradition for the decade milestone that the birthday kid receives a Nintendo DS. That basically caps off the birthday gifts, but Marissa was so excited she didn't really care. We decided to upgrade to a DSi because of the camera feature, which is well tailored to Marissa's creative personality. Ten is also an off year for friend parties, so we had a family celebration which included her choice of dinner [crepes] and cake [teddy bear] and ice cream. We kept everything fairly low key, but there were smiles all around.

I remember thinking it was kind of cool to say I was a decade. [I'm also kind of a nerd, but you already knew that.] Unfortunately, I can now say I'm 3 1/2 decades old. My family made my birthday a happy day. I got just what I wanted -- a new potato peeler! That might not sound very exciting, but have you ever tried peeling potatoes or carrots or cucumbers or etc., with a defunct kitchen tool? It's unpleasant. My other request was to take a family trip to the zoo. So we headed up, along with the entire population of Utah [may I suggest avoiding the zoo on a major holiday weekend?]. We had fun despite the crowds.

In honor of both of our birthdays, and to document Marissa's kookiness, here is a sampling of her birthday card to me. She'll probably hate me for this someday, but I choose to exercise my motherly prerogative.

Dear Motha, We bring to you a happy day that is not a girl. A ha ha ha a berba dito mano fergivity gerb. Dear mom, I hope you have a great birthday and a bob. I am going to clean something. It is ...... something. Love, Marissa

It's a puzzle, I know. But I firmly believe I should add "fergivity gerb" to my permanent vocabulary. Try feeling grumpy when you say it. I dare you. And for the record, she did clean something. It was ....... the bathrooms. What a gem. Looks like the last decade was good for something.

An Observation

Nerds candies, when dropped to the kitchen floor from counter height, scatter with magnificent efficiency.

And then a conversation.

Morgan: "I'm sorry, Mom. I just made a mistake. I'm sorry."

Me: "I know. Everybody makes mistakes."

Morgan: "Just don't say you already mopped."

Mother's Day Math

I'm pretty sure I've discovered the formula for a great mother's day. It goes something like this:

1 really, truly amazing husband
+
[loving kid]^4
+
2 perfectly cooked slabs of baby back ribs
+
1 peaceful afternoon nap
+
[1 video chat] x [the whole Bogardus family, including Elder Spencer who had dinner at Bethany's house . . . when does that ever happen?]
=

Ideal!

For the record, Jeremy will never again be allowed to plead incapability when it comes to cooking. His ribs proved otherwise. Thanks to Brendan and Chris for sharing the recipe.

One more mother's day math problem for you to puzzle over. Aiden told me he thinks Zeke will live to be 15 and 14 quarters. The funny thing about that is he thinks of quarters in terms of money. I'm not quite sure how you translate that into time, so I'm curious to know how that will work.

The Marvelous She

Dear Mom,

The longer I am a mom, the more I sit in wonder at the things you did and the kind of mother you are. If I were to catalog a few of the ways you amaze me, it would look a little something like this:

I marvel . . .

. . . that your fingernails were always shaped and cuticles tended.
. . . that your eyebrows were always plucked.
. . . that I don't remember you ever leaving the house with your wet hair in a sloppy bun.
. . . that you ground flour and made whole wheat bread weekly for years.
. . . that you canned peaches and pears and cherries and pear butter ALL BY YOURSELF.
. . . that Dad always had his dress shirts ironed.
. . . that you clipped coupons.
. . . that your photo albums were consistently updated and labeled.
. . . that the house looked clean.
. . . that the car looked clean.
. . . that the clothes looked clean.
. . . that you agreed to have cats, a bunny, a dog, and even a rat.
. . . that you always had a supply of birthday wrapping paper.
. . . that, speaking of birthdays, you decorated the house and made a special cake every year.
. . . that you read books to us.
. . . that you made sure we had vegetables with both our lunch and dinner.
. . . that you helped with school projects before the Internet was invented.
. . . that you recognized our talents and encouraged us to develop them.
. . . that you taxied for and sat through soccer, basketball, softball, baseball, dance, swimming, piano, plays, band, and whatever other extracurricular activities were going on.
. . . that we never ran out of toothpaste or shampoo or deodorant or contact lens solution or band-aids.
. . . that you sewed wearable clothes.
. . . that you found ways to spend time with each of your kids individually.
. . . that you let me stay up and watch Magnum P.I.
. . . that you tied ribbons on birthday and Christmas presents.
. . . that our sheets were washed weekly, without fail.
. . . that you had wise suggestions on how to deal with childhood conundrums.
. . . that you kept up on traditions and made holidays fun.
. . . that you stayed on top of the budget, filed everything, and payed bills and taxes.
. . . that you got us to church on time and were often even early to take care of your callings.
. . . that you managed to feed us with fast food and cold cereal being a rare treat.
. . . that you managed to feed us without a microwave for most of my childhood.
. . . that you parented without a TV for many years, and never with the benefit of Disney channel.
. . . that you sent out birthday cards to everyone and made sure they arrived on time.
. . . that you listened to us without looking like your mind was somewhere else.
. . . that you allowed us to have sleepovers.
. . . that you shopped and provided for us without the perks of Costco or Walmart.
. . . that you succeeded in producing four functional, happy, productive adults.

I'm convinced the older my kids get the more things I'll add to this list. It just never ceases to amaze me all the things you did, and do, so well. I aspire to achieve even a few of the things here. That would be the best way I could say thank you and show you how much I love you. Happy Mother's Day!

Love, Me

It's Closer than I Thought

You know the saying, "Home can be a heaven on earth"? Well, apparently I've discovered the key to achieving this feat, at least according to one member of the family. I finally signed up for the food co-op called Bountiful Baskets. Each week, or less often according to your family's wants and needs, you can make a contribution for a fruit and veggie basket. I have thought about joining for a long time but never committed until last Saturday. After navigating the crowd of produce enthusiasts, I brought home a hefty box full of watermelon, strawberries, bananas, apples, grapefruit, spinach, cucumbers, onions, zucchini, mushrooms, herbs, broccoli, cauliflower, and even an eggplant. Marissa immediately started sifting through the bounty and said, "This is HEAVEN!" Me: brushing my hands off, and done.

[If you're interested in more information about the co-op, check out their website at www.bountifulbaskets.org.]

Book Edition -- The Grass Harp

I finished The Grass Harp by Truman Capote a few months ago. It was a unique little story with some beautifully descriptive passages. Here was one of my favorites:

Wind surprised, pealed the leaves, parted night clouds; showers of starlight were let loose: our candle, as though intimidated by the incandescence of the opening, star-stabbed sky, toppled, and we could see, unwrapped above us, a late wayaway wintery moon: it was like a slice of snow, near and far creatures called to it, hunched moon-eyed frogs, a claw-voiced wildcat. Catherine hauled out the rose scrapquilt, insisting Dolly wrap it around herself; then she tucked her arms around me and scratched my head until I let it relax on her bosom -- You cold? she said, and I wiggled closer: she was good and warm as the old kitchen.

Ahh, don't you just want to curl up and witness that night sky?

The story itself mostly took place in a tree house, which might explain why I enjoyed it. I spent a good deal of my younger years in the trees. The home in which I lived from about the age of 5 until 10 had a fantastic tree house wedged between 3 huge trees in our backyard. The fort had a ledge around 2 of its sides, 2 windows, and a trap door. We played for hours in that fort [except for the period of time when an opossum was decomposing underneath the bottom level], and I have lots of funny memories from my time spent there. Maybe someday I'll make a list of some of them. If I wasn't in the tree house, you might have found me climbing up another tree in our yard and swinging out of it on the rope swing. It was a pretty great back yard.

Back to the book -- it included a few other short stories I could have done without. They left me with a disturbed and unresolved feeling and sort of tainted my experience with The Grass Harp. Overall, however, if you are seeking some lovely language and a transport back to your childhood, you might find it in this quirky tale.

Food Edition -- Puree of Carrot Soup

I love my garden. I don't have a particularly green thumb, and most of the productivity I see is more of a happy accident than the result of any knowledge or skill. This being said, I felt pleased as punch a few weeks ago when Jeremy set out to clean out the garden and discovered a bounty of wintering carrots. He summoned the kids and put them to work gathering two garbage sacks worth of the orange veggie.

The next order of business was to decide what to do with so many carrots arriving all at once. I decided I had to make a batch of carrot soup. Once I got scrubbing and peeling and chopping [and scrubbing and peeling and chopping], I figured I might as well double the batch while I was at it. Doubling soon turned to tripling and finally quadrupling. Since my biggest deterrent in ever making this strangely addicting soup is the preparation part, I thought I could make the base and then put the extra batches in the freezer.

Let me just say that I struggle with sticking to repetitive actions [like chopping vegetables or packaging candy for The Peppermint Place]. I get bored and weary and irritable pretty quickly. But my desire for self-sufficiency and for a taste of this, my favorite soup, overcame my hatred of menial tasks, and I persevered. A few hours and several semi-permanently orange-stained fingernails later, I had 12 cups of finely chopped carrots ready to simmer. The first batch declared by Morgan to be "de-wicious," now I anticipate savoring this satisfying concoction a few more times before the next season of carrots arrives.

Puree of Carrot Soup

2 Tbsp. butter
3 c. finely chopped carrots
1 qt. chicken broth [I'm a fan of Better Than Bouillon from Costco in lieu of bouillon cubes]
2/3 c. chopped onion
2 Tbsp. uncooked rice
1/2 tsp. salt
1/8 tsp. pepper
1/2 c. light cream, evaporated milk, or half-and-half

Melt butter in large saucepan. Add onions and cook until soft. Add carrots, chicken broth, rice and seasonings. Simmer, uncovered, for 30 minutes. Puree soup in blender. Return to saucepan and add cream. Heat just to boiling. Makes 5 cups. [Recipe courtesy of my friend, Meri Ann.]

Whatever It Takes

So Morgan got into the tub of lotion [again] while I was in the middle of teaching a piano lesson the other day. I could sense something was afoot, so I went to find her. Upon discovery, she calmly spread a glob of lotion over her arms and said, "This will protect me from sin." I'm curious what we're teaching over here to make her feel the need for such protection, but I guess I'm glad she's prepared. Better sooner than later!

[Maybe I should add that her comment made me laugh out loud, after which she asked, "Are you happy now?" This question is her latest clever effort to get out of trouble. Or perhaps I should take it as a message that I need to smile more.]

Just Dance

I am not a dancer. As a little girl I thought I wanted to be a ballerina when I grew up. I remember doing ballerina leaps all through the house. [Evidently I also wore my tutu without reservation. I wonder where Morgan gets that from?] That ended as I became more self-conscious and realized I really didn't have great coordination. However, I find there is a time and place to bust a move. One of my friends teaches a free Zumba class on Saturday mornings, and I take my two left feet pretty regularly. It gets me moving and I laugh a lot, both of which are good things. I've discovered an additional benefit to my Zumba experience: my friend uses all sorts of fun music for her routines, which helps narrow the gap in my vast pop culture divide. Sure, I listen to the radio, but I have a fairly stunted repertoire when it comes to such things. Anyway, my latest favorite is one she uses for the cool down. It's a mash-up, which I didn't even know existed before. You should take a listen, just for fun. . .

Are We Really There?

The last month or so has provided me with several moments to reflect and pause in wonder that my life has progressed to its current point. It started with my little Caleb turning 12. Actually, he has never been little. Nine pounds at birth, and growing like a weed ever since -- he had his 12-year-old checkup yesterday and measured 5 feet 5 inches [97th percentile] and 112 pounds [75th percentile]. Yikes! Somehow, when I see him every day, his transformation from this . . .

. . . to this . . .

. . . seems like not such a big deal. But, really, when did it become possible for me to be the mother of a 12-year-old? Such a strange feeling. However, if I must be there already, I feel so privileged to be the mother of this 12-year-old. Caleb is a treasure. He is kind, conscientious, and tries to live with integrity. He has some fears, but he is working hard to be more responsible, to set goals and reach them, and to improve his talents. He has a strong moral compass and faith in God. One of the significant milestones of this birthday was that Caleb received the Aaronic Priesthood. Caleb is one who feels things deeply and has for some time recognized how the Holy Ghost communicates with him, and Jeremy ordaining him to the Priesthood was a tender moment for all of us.

Caleb had a friend party, which I should probably document, especially because I forgot to pull out the camera. Shame on me. The boys came over and ate dinner. We decided to do sloppy joes since pizza is way overdone at parties. Then Jeremy took them to the bowling alley. They played a game of bowling and still had a ton of time to "kill," so they played some laser tag. I'm not sure who had more fun, the boys or Jeremy. Afterward, they came back to our house, had root beer floats, and played the Wii for awhile until they were ready to end.

One more note. . . You might not be able to tell from the picture, but Caleb requested a Wii remote cake this year. I tried to convince him that he's old enough now to just get a regular cake, but he wanted one last hurrah. [We'll see if it's really the last. I'm kind of a sucker.] It didn't turn out fantastic, but you could tell what it was meant to be.

--- --- --- --- --- --- ---

I had another awe - some reflection when I realized I have celebrated Jeremy's birthday with him for 15 years now. Yep, we have now been together for THAT long. This is us way back then posing in front of the BY Academy [since restored and repurposed as the Provo City Library].

I thought back to how we celebrated his birthday 15 years ago and remembered we went to The Roof restaurant at the top of the Joseph Smith Memorial Building. He requested this as his gift from his parents. I wish I could remember what I gave him. Probably not much of anything, since I was a poor student. After dinner, we wandered around Temple Square and had a conversation that brought us a little closer to making the decision to get married. We actually got engaged just about a month later. And look where we are now. I count my blessings every day that I have Jeremy as a companion and friend. He is my best gift.

St. Patty's Party Pooper

I was just wondering since when had St. Patrick's Day evolved from a day you just tried to find a clean, green article of clothing to a day full of magic and featuring mischievous imaginary men? Perhaps I should be more prepared [and enthusiastic] after my high school years as a fighting Irish. But I'm pretty sure all I gained there, in addition to a little luck from kissing the Blarney Stone, was how to draw a passable shamrock.

Perusing Facebook posts has given me a bit of an inferiority complex. It all started when I saw a friend's post saying she had finished making Lucky Charm treats. The day progressed with reports of bigger and more elaborate celebrations. Leprechaun traps, gift-bearing little green men, green meals, a "dinner at the end of the rainbow," various pranks. [I have to admit I was impressed by one friend who said the leprechauns stacked up all the dining room chairs in the hall, toilet papered, and put the vacuum on the table and a chair in the sink. That's dedication.] It doesn't help that apparently our next door neighbor's house is the most magical on the block. As a result, Aiden in particular expects letters from his own personal leprechaun, tricks of all sorts in the house, and footprints from leprechauns dancing in the garden at midnight. I just can't keep up with these Joneses.

I did manage to cast a spell upon the milk at breakfast [put a couple of drops of food coloring in the bottom of the bowl and cover with cereal -- when you pour the milk and mix it up, voila! it's green] and put green sprinkles on the toast. But then I forgot to wear green and made a very un-green dinner of spaghetti and meatballs. Nary a Lucky Charms treat nor rainbow cupcake in sight. Aiden asked why we weren't having green food. My response: "Eat your spinach salad, son!" Who needs all those simple carbs, anyway?

So to make myself feel better after my run-in with Facebook peer pressure, I decided I needed to tally the things I did do yesterday rather than focus on my glaring neglect of this vastly important holiday. I washed three loads of laundry and folded one! I got my kids off to school, welcomed them home, completed homework, made them practice the piano, and got them to bed! I played balloon toss and otherwise [mostly] entertained/fed/clothed a 3-year-old! I made my bed! I prepared a very well-balanced and rather delicious dinner! I baked a batch of wheat bread! I washed lots of dishes! I know there's more but it's too late to think anymore! [I had to exclaim all of these sentences because I feel to celebrate each accomplishment and also because it seems like a very Facebookish thing to do.] So there you have it. Hope you had a happy St. Patrick's Day. And hope it was just as magical as you felt inclined to make it.

Mexinese

The other day Jeremy took the kids out for dinner so I could host book club in peace and quiet. They went to a Chinese restaurant, and Aiden learned how to use chopsticks very successfully. So successfully, in fact, that he has since used his chopsticks to eat almost everything. I have seen him down ice cream, cream of wheat, oatmeal, cheese, yogurt, and more with those two little sticks. My favorite, however, was when we sat down a few days ago for a dinner of chicken quesadillas, Spanish rice, and corn. Aiden whipped out those chopsticks and got to work. Perhaps he's on to something. Fusion at its finest.

Little Miss Mischief

Morgan has recently proved she is a wellspring of trouble. Here is a countdown of her most recent antics.

3 days ago: Unrolled the toilet paper. I came in to the bathroom to help her take care of business and found her walking her fingers along the toilet paper roll to unwind it. She just looked at me and kept on going. I reprimanded her, but she still kept going. "My fingers are doing it. I can't stop them."

2 days ago: Emptied about 1/2 of a bottle of conditioner into her bath. Even after rinsing, she was extra soft and smooth. "I needed to put it on my legs."

1 day ago: Squirted lotion all over the kitchen. I mean ALL over. I found it over and under the counters, table, chairs, stools. She made an impressive trail across the floor. I even found it in the heating and intake vents. Have you ever tried to clean things out of vents? [I will count my blessings here, because there could be much worse things to clean out of vents. Just ask Jeremy. And lotion is easier to clean up than diaper cream, which Marissa once smeared all over herself.] "I had to give Zeke some lotion." Yes, there was also lotion on the dog.

Today: Emptied the entire bookshelf of its contents. I walked into her room to discover a humongous pile of books. Putting them back, I found books I didn't even know we owned. Jeremy asked her to please not ever do it again. "But I like it."

Tomorrow: I feel dread.

[I realize this makes me look like a completely absent parent. I promise these things happen with astonishing efficiency. Really.]

My Valentines

Here is a photo tribute to the Valentines in my life. I love these guys!