Yesterday I spent a few hours refreshing.
Not shaving. Not facial masking. Not juice cleansing.
SOUL refreshing, people. SOUL refreshing.

And yes you DO have time to watch that. Put it on while you do your make-up, or get dressed or while you juice.
Also, if you haven’t taken the time to watch (or listen to) Elder Jeffery R. Holland’s CES broadcast, you have GOT TO.
This video is of the entire devotional. I put it on and listened to it while I did other things, and I will never regret it -no, not ever.
Elder Holland has a way of moving my soul. When I hear his voice, I can FEEL something working inside of me. I’ve gone back to the words in this devotional so many times that I can’t imagine living the rest of my life without hearing them.
And lastly. If you’re still reading.
HERE is a talk mentioned in the first clip. It’s titled, “Grounded, Rooted, Established, and Settled.”
Lately, I’ve been experiencing so many emotions -thank you, pregnancy. Thank you -and it’s been so much harder for me to
“Look to the light!”
“See the good!”
“Dance in the rain!”
And when my husband said to me a few days ago, “Just look for the good in the pregnancy,” I nearly nailed him in the crotch… you know, just so he could get a true FEEL for what it’s like to be kicked around all the time.

And that last sentence alone should be enough to prove how much I need a soul refresher (and probably a juice cleanse, but anyway).
Elder Maxwell also has a way of speaking that moves me -it hits me and it really changes my perspective.

In other pinteresting news, here’s what I love today:

Please check out melissaephotography.blogspot.com
Her talent for taking pictures when the subjects are at their selves is just… gosh, I love it so much.

Found at THIS store.

Finally:

via
I’m trying to decide if it’s cute or creepy. Thoughts?

I’ve never done a “friends” birthday party before. I’m not awesome enough to do decorations, a cake, games, invites, and goody bags. I WISH I was, and I really WISHED I was when my son told me that he wanted a “just boys” party.
He only wanted three of his friends to come over, so I decided to give it a try.
“What do you want to do?” I asked him.
“Have just da boys and watch Capture d’Merica and eat pizza and popcorn.”
Gosh, well. I can do that! I either told or texted parents about the party, and I did make another cake. But I didn’t decorate. I went to Safeway and got 6 frozen pizzas and 2 two liters for under $10 (a small miracle).
The boys ate pizza and popcorn and watched Captain America for maybe thirty minutes… after that, they ran outside and fought with each other. You know, for FUN.
Boys…

After opening gifts, the boys got busy playing with everything in sight and my husband and I ended up watching Captain America.
I’ve seen it before, but I didn’t remember every little scene. At one point, I was watching Captain America’s woman and Tommy Lee Jones (my favorite old man Hollywood crush) speed toward the edge of a cliff… just at the last minute, Tommy evaded death. But not before one wheel slipped off the edge.
“CRAP!!!!!” I squealed.
“Where’s the crap?” my son’s friend, Soren, asked.
Oh. Oooooops…
Sorry, Jamie. I’m teaching him bad crap.

When I was frosting the cake, I gave my son one of the beaters. He licked it clean in no time, but he wasn’t satisfied… so he remedied his own situation the best way he knew how. He plunged the beater back into the fresh bowl of icing.

I took it away. He was well aware that I didn’t fully appreciate his savvy problem-solving skills.
The next morning, we went to a baptism for one of my Primary kids. Before we left, my husband decided he wanted Ramen noodles… so he boiled some water.
A few hours later we came home to a burner on high, an empty pan, fumes out the wazoo, and the fire alarm going off.
Luckily, our birds are still alive. The pan, however?

After the baptism, we were able to eat the most delicious lunch with the baptized boy and his family. On our walk home, I had to snap a picture.

In my mind’s eye, I can practically see the screaming crowd running away from the radioactive calf…

Later that night, I took my daughter with me on a walk. We passed by some flowers that my grandma grows in her yard. I stopped to take a picture because I had taken her picture by the same flowers 5 years ago…

Pictures like that make me want to cry.
Remind me why I’m doing this all over again?
Love, that’s why. Love, love, love. And apparently, I have a crying hobby I need to feed.

So, I miss bacon.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to cut back on fats or be more healthy or whatever. I mean, I should be. But I’m not. Because it’s BACON for crying out loud. I was raised in a farming way and bacon was a staple in our house. It was never a question of IF we should have bacon but WHEN and HOW MUCH.
When mom was gone and dad was in charge of cooking, we always had bacon, eggs, and grits.
We never had grits, eggs, and bacon.
BACON came first. It deserves the honor. Because it is worthy of it.

That said, I’m not a true fan of the bacon revolution going on. I’m a bacon purist. I do not put bacon in my chocolate. I do not put it in my ice cream.
Truth: I put it in my mouth.
My older brother (bless your heart, Steve) once told me that when you eat bacon it has the potential to turn your blood the consistency of motor oil. It should have stopped me in my tracks, but mostly all it did was bring fond memories of the time I spent trailing my mechanic Dad along on parts runs into town… I would sit on the greasy stools at the parts stores and crank the little motor oil toys they had sitting on the counter. I was mesmerized by the oil glistening through the gears.
Wow… pretty…

I went without bacon in college. I went without pretty much everything in college except canned spinach and frozen tater tots. I also lost five pounds.
But anyway.
Once I was married, bacon was BACK on the menu.
Those were such happy years: The BACON years.
And then my husband met (figuratively speaking) Dave Ramsey.

The Bacon Years are now only a cherished memory. We don’t buy bacon anymore… something about how we don’t need it for survival or whatever.
Bloody bull if you ask me.

Also missing from our cupboards? Cold Cereal. Fruit Juice. Chocolate Chips (don’t even get me started on that one).
I’ve also learned to go without certain cleaning supplies and other household products that were standard in our home. It’s no big deal, really. Besides, concocting my own cleaning products from what I have on hand makes me feel like a master chemist.
“Warm water… a cup of baking soda… a splash of ammonia…”

But the bacon thing.
It bothers me.

Because of Dave Ramsey, I also never replenished my molasses supply when it ran out.

HOWEVER, since we’ve been following ol’ Dave’s plan, we’ve witnessed many small miracles. They’ve always come after we’ve showed a little bit of faith. Although it’s been hard to make small sacrifices, it’s humbling to see that the Lord sees them. They’re so small that I hardly notice them, but HE does.
So many times my husband and I look at each other and say, “I have no idea how such-and-such is going to work out. We just can’t afford it.”
And then we find money in a pocket. Or someone calls and says something that fixes everything. Or I get a new piano student.
After which, we look at each other and say, “Oh, wow… I wonder what kind of little miracles we’ve been missing out on all of these years.”

One of the little miracles that came to pass last shopping trip was that I had JUST enough to buy molasses.
Yesterday I juiced some freshly-picked apples and made hot cider and warm, gooey chewy gingersnaps. The kitchen could have been it’s own Scentsy Scent and no foolin’.
“Come home soon,” I texted my husband, “There’s hot apple cider and fresh, warm gingersnap cookies.”
“Ooooooo weeeeee!” he said, texting back his signature reaction to Crap He Loves, “What’s the occasion?”
“WE HAVE MOLASSES,” I texted back, fairly dancing in my highly unbalanced body.
And he text-laughed at me.

And so I dream of a day when we’ll have JUST enough money left in the food budget to buy bacon.
“Come home soon,” I’ll text my husband, “There’s BLTs all over the place.”
“Oooooo weeeee!”
“We have BACON!”

via bacon.wikia.com

In the meantime, I haven’t lost five pounds like the last time I cut bacon from the menu. Probably because I’ve been baking gingersnaps.
Or a baby.
Whatever.

Even though I’m technically over the morning sickness stage (incidentally I never got over it with my son), I still get attacked every now and then.
Yesterday was one of those days.
The upside? I got the Primary Program written (look at me and my smoking gun).
The downside? Well, I was sick.
The upside? My husband is nice enough to bring me Sprite and Gatorade and make Ramen for everyone for dinner.
The downside? Well, I was sick.

I also have a bad case of the Miss Hilly Holbrook’s goin’ on:

It’s grown substantially since I took that picture, and it isn’t the cutest thing I’ve ever had on my face.

I’m beginning to think there’s something magical in Sprite. It carried me through my morning sickness, and every day I’ve been hit with morning sickness reruns, it serves as my primary healer. I know it isn’t the healthiest thing to down while I gestating, and honestly I think yesterday’s sickness was a direct result of my sugar indulgences.
I’ve cut pretty far back on sugary things lately, but the day before yesterday? I was so sad over my hair that I ate an unholy amount of pancakes.
And then I went to Family Home Evening (a family talent show) and didn’t exactly step away from the cookie platter.
My system (or as my daughter would say “zyzstem”) truly balked.

Now if you’ll excuse me, my kids are asking for ice cream for breakfast.  I’ve got to serve them some oatmeal and teach them all about how too much sugar is terrible for your little zyzstem.

I talk a lot about the retreat my mom and I went to last summer. I got a new hair cut and color there, and I learned a lot.
One thing I learned was that men don’t understand certain emotions.
“We don’t understand what it’s like to cry after getting a bad hair cut,” the male motivational speaker said. And the room full of women he was speaking to laughed.
Except yesterday it wasn’t so funny… because two days after getting a hair cut and style, I cried for a good thirty minutes. And when I say “I cried” I’m not saying that my eyes were moist and I dabbed a little at them… I’m saying I hunkered down on my bed and BAWLED.

Before you roll your eyes, let me just explain a few things.
I don’t ever get my hair cut and colored. After going to the retreat, I didn’t get my hair cut for over a year… forget about color. I saved up money like you wouldn’t believe and I swore to myself that for my birthday, I would go back to an Aveda salon and get my hair redone.
I absolutely could NOT love my hair more last summer. It was prettier than I ever thought it could be! I would style it everyday and just LOVE it.
I couldn’t wait to have that again -no matter how much it cost. And COST it did.
$200.
Well, $193.
And while I tried to push aside thoughts like, “That’s a baby stroller” and “guess how many diapers you’re NOT buying so you can spend all that money on yourself? You selfish vixen.”
I have never spent so much on my silly hair before. Heck, I’ve never spent that much on myself anywhere on anything!

When the stylist at the Aveda salon in Utah -where the retreat was -styled my hair, she wrote down the color formula she used on a card. And she gave the card to me.
And I gave the card to the stylist at the Aveda salon I went to.
She seemed doubtful, and offered instead of a complete dye with highlights to give me instead a lot of low lights and some highlights.
Now. I listened to her reasoning and I agreed, and I’m glad I did.
Because the colors on the card WERE NOT the colors I got at the retreat. If I had dyed my hair the base color written on the card rather than just gotten low lights… oh ho, buddy.
I showed my stylists pictures of the haircut I’d gotten in Utah. And now I don’t really know why… because my hair.
Is.
Gone.

And I shouldn’t care so much because hair grows, right? But ladies. I’m planning on getting maternity pictures done, and I’m planning on holding a brand newborn in my arms… with THIS hair!  It’s not long like it was.  It’s not my friend.  And it will forever be immortalized by the birth of my newest baby!  I’m so sad!

Okay, now that I’ve said that: it isn’t the worst hairstyle I’ve ever had. But it is the most disappointing because after spending $193 and waiting a full year for a cut, you want to absolutely love your hair.
I don’t even LIKE my hair. So yeah. I bawled. And then I phoned a friend and shared my cloud o’ doom and gloom with her, and she was sweet and understanding about the whole thing.
I took a before picture out in the parking lot of the salon. It isn’t awesome because… who does their hair before going to get their hair done?
The after picture was taken in my yard because you can hardly see the expensive color in my hair unless the sun is blazing down on me. And yeah, I had just finished crying all of my make-up off.

Like I said: I’m not about to bury my head in a million different baseball caps or opt for french braids until it grows out longer or the color fades. It’s fine. It’s a fine cut.
And I just paid $200 for a fine cut.

Like a crazy lady, I had all these images of me walking out of the salon, meeting my husband and hearing him say, “WOW! I’M SO GLAD I MARRIED YOU AND THAT WE MAKE BABIES… IF IT WAS POSSIBLE TO PROPOSE AND MARRY YOU ALL OVER AGAIN, I WOULD!”
What do you think he said?
“Um, is that what they gave you when you went to the retreat?”
*sigh* “No.”

Ladies and Gentlemen of the press, I’m seriously considering calling the salon in Utah and asking for the other stylist… getting her cell phone number, TEXTING her the picture I took of the two of us together after I got my hair done and asking if she remembers what formula she used.
Or if she could guess it.
She did tell me last summer that if I had any questions to call because she had been wanting to try the colors she put in my hair on someone for a long time… and she wasn’t likely to forget them. But it has been a year.
Am I really crazy enough?

I would pay $200 for THAT!

The stylist at the salon I went to did make sure to tell me that what she gave me was not what my pictures looked like, color wise.  I hoped CUT WISE at least it would be.  But, no.
There’s a part of me that just hates myself.
I should have bought the stroller. I should have bought diapers. I should have bought a pack n play.
I should NOT have ever thought spending extraordinary amounts of cash on my stupid hair would ever be worth it.
So I will wait for it to grow out and then I will cover my head in ashes and spend the rest of my days striving to rid my soul of vanity.
Not to be dramatic, or anything…

Every year for as long as I can remember, my mother has crafted the most beautiful gingerbread houses. The day after Thanksgiving, when all the rest of the world was shopping, my mother sat studiously at her kitchen table and hand crafted a classy gingerbread house that would rest on a board (special made by dad) with a light inside. At night, she would turn the light on, and it would send the jolly-rancher windows all a-glow. The smell of gingerbread would waft through the house. The family would pick at the scraps, and we’d enjoy the cheery little house every Christmas season…
Come New Year’s Eve, we would SMASH her houses and devour them. Was the candy over a month old? Yeah. Did that stop 6 children?
What do you think?

We loved every bit of it.

When I moved to college, I missed the gingerbread houses. Sure, it was there when I visited on holiday, but it wasn’t at MY house. It was at Mom’s house. When I was married, I decided I needed to have a house of my own.
You know how some girls are so much like their mothers that it’s uncanny? Well, I’m not. And it’s not a good thing, folks. My mother does things so neatly -so in order.
When gingerbread house making comes to our house? Boy, look out. There’s candy flying everywhere and burned sugar crusted to the counter…
I clean it up when I’m done -I promise! But the thing is: Mother would never allow a mess like that around her hands, and she doesn’t HAVE to because she just goes about the whole process much much neater. Neatly? More neat?
Anyway, she’s a champion.
She was so patient with me that first year I made one. She let me borrow a pattern for a small “Love Shack.” It was about half the size of her big house, and just perfect for a newlywed couple.
I mixed the dough with her. I cut the pieces with her. She showed me the ins-and-outs of house crafting.
“If the gingerbread gets too hard to cut, just put it back in the oven for a little bit.”
“Use dark karo syrup instead of molasses for the dough if you want it to be more firm.”
And
The MOST important thing my mother ever taught me about baking (drum roll please):
“Frosting will fix it.”
I can hear her say it, you know. She had to say it so very many times to me.
I glued my chimney on crooked.
“Frosting will fix it,” she said.
I glued my ROOF on wrong.
“Frosting will fix it.”
One wall was backward.
“Frosting will fix it.”
And you know what my mother never, ever did? She never took the house from me. She never said, “Oh, here. Let me just DO it.”
She just stood next to me, offered advice, let me do with it what I would and assured me no matter HOW BAD it got…
“Frosting will fix it.”

All while Mom and I were in the kitchen putting our gingerbread houses together, my husband and the rest of The Boys were out on the first day of a two-day round up. As they all piled back in the warm, gingerbready kitchen that night my husband regarded my house with the utmost pride.
My little brother, on the other hand, was more honest.
“Aw, it’s okay Eash,” he said, putting a comforting little 8-year old arm around me, “It’s your first one.”

We all know that my mother is the smartest woman alive. This we all know. She denies it, of course (unless she’s facing off with my Dad in which case -she IS the wisest).
But I honestly think my mother is wiser than she knows. She teaches life lessons without meaning to, and the lessons that come from her are invaluable.
Remember her Why Not Philosophy? If you’ve never read that post, please do. No matter how many times I read it, I bawl like a baby.
Moms have a way of making us do that… and it all started with our first spanking.

Yesterday as I pulled two 9-inch Red Velvet circle cakes out of the oven and frosted them, I chanted over and over in my head.
“Frosting will fix it.”
One cake stuck stubbornly to the bottom. As I stacked them, cake flaked off into the frosting everywhere and I had to make more and more frosting to… FIX everything.
I could hear my mother’s voice saying to me that frosting would fix it, and I thought of her as I dotted red stars on what was about to be (I hoped) a Captain America Shield Cake.
She made our birthday cakes -they were always neat and wonderful. I loved them. Her cakes were beautiful. Mine?
Well… think of the sloppiest cake you can. Do you have it in your mind? My cakes are one baby step up from that. But I keep making them anyway because…
you guessed it.
Frosting will fix it.

As I thought about my mother and her Frosting Philosophy (My mom has no idea she HAD this many philosophies), my thoughts turned to my Savior.
I can see myself sometimes as he sees me: a sloppy little kid trying to navigate this maze of life. He’s letting me choose which way to go, never straying far from my side, and NEVER making my decisions for me.
Like my mother who stood patiently by and let me make mistakes, so does the Savior. He never once will say, “Here. Just let me DO it.”
He waits for me to ask questions -to ask for help. Then he gently fills me with a loving feeling when I do glue my figurative chimney on crooked and he says
“The Atonement will fix it.”
I don’t have any pictures handy of that first house. Boy, how I WISH I did. But guess what I do have? More pictures of different houses. I didn’t give up! I kept making more and more houses! Last year I forgot some of mom’s advice (used straight molasses) and my house was a wretched mess that never made it to the frosting stage.
It made it to the trash. That’s all.
But the more I try, the better I get. No matter what, I always make mistakes. My houses are never perfect, EVER. But you can’t tell because I utilized the HECK out of my frosting.
Here’s my second house:

My third house:

Proof of the mess that ensues when I embark on something that requires frosting to fix it:

And so as the years go on, I continue to try and I continue to mess up (literally. I mean, do you SEE that picture?) and turn to my Savior with “whoopsie-daisy” eyes, and He is always right there for me.
“The Atonement will fix it.”
And in the end what comes out is actually something really quite amazing. Now I’m on to teach Mom’s Frosting Philosophy to the Next Generation. Here’s one of our pictures from last year’s gingerbread making madness:

And here’s a picture of me instilling the words that have held me through many-a-tearfully-failed-project:
“It’s okay. Frosting will fix it.”

And -just like the Atonement -the frosting DID fix it. And thank goodness because I had one hopeful little boy that would have be crushed if he didn’t get a birthday cake:

I’ve always told my husband that one day when we’re rich (*snort*) I’m going to commission an artist to paint us.
Him with his feet so far in the ground that he’s making a good dent in the concrete beneath him and me so far up in the air that I’m about to float away…
except that we’re holding hands.  I’ve got a red umbrella (Mary Poppins style) and he’s got a crisp suit on (all biznass).

And he’s keeping me from losing myself in la-la land and I’m lifting him up and keeping him from sinking in reality.
It’s the perfect dynamic.

I mentioned this to some friends last night, and one of them recommended this video.

To which I say: YES! That’s us. And my kids would love me so much if I put those wings on…
So here’s to the man who keeps me from naming my children as if they were 90 year olds. Thank you.
And here’s to the me who keeps my husband from getting too many worry wrinkles on his forehead. You’re welcome.

The County Fair is in town.
When you live in a small town, the county fair is a pretty big deal. Everyone turns out for the Elvis impersonator and the funnel cakes. Last night was opening night, we went as a family to watch my daughter’s best friend perform in the pageant.
While we weren’t able to stay for the entire pageant, we were able to watch all of the littlest girls perform their talents, and we were almost killed by the cuteness of it all. Seriously -a teensy cheerleader dressed in Mickey Mouse colors shaking her pom-poms and little bum to “Hey Mickey”? It nearly did me in.
Adorableness oozed from the stage… adorableness and rain water.

After we left the pageant, we went to look at exhibits in the exhibit building. It’s one of my favorites. I love to see crochet goodies, canned goods, fresh bread, sewn crafts, photography (I think they should have a “cell phone photography” category), and even cupie doll collections.
“Look at dis pumpkin!” My son called out, “It’s fat like Mom!”
Aaaand we’re still stuck on the Fat Mom stage.

I did see that someone entered a craft under the name …

I’m not sure if someone really HAS this name or if they were joking. But I will tell you that I was once told of a man named Justin. Last name? Case.
We stopped by to see some of the livestock, and I did my best to keep the kids from feeding their glow stick to the lambies and goats.

After snapping a picture, of course.
We found some pigs that snuggled so close we almost had to avert our eyes. Scandalous!

Speaking of names, I should tell you that a few pigs away from the naked cuddling pigs, we ran into Bacon and Pork Chop.

It reminded me of the pig my brother once had. His name was Jimmy. Last name? Dean.

We left the fair around 9:30 pm, and all of us were happy to get home. I wasn’t feeling very well, and I had been hit in the middle of the exhibition building with some REALLY painful Braxton Hicks contractions. It wasn’t cute.
The boy must not have been feeling very well either because he woke up sick last night. I cleaned everything up and sent him to bed with a bowl.
That was at 3 am. Sometime after 4, I finally fell back asleep. I still wasn’t feeling all that great. I had nausea and insomnia bouncing around me… no matter how much I tossed or turned I was out of luck. I finally went to the couch with a book and thirty minutes later: I was asleep.
My husband came in the living room this morning and asked if everything went all right last night (the man is not exactly the one to rely on when it comes to cleaning up sickness… because he’ll just make a bigger mess -if you know what I mean).
“Yeah,” I said.
“Why is Trenton asleep on the floor in the bathroom?” He asked.
“He is? I have no idea… I put him back in bed.”
But I had to smile.
My daughter and husband have a special bond. He just GETS her and she just GETS him. They even sleep in the same position -the same one my husband has been sleeping in since he was just a baby.
I would sometimes scold my daughter for something and my husband would pull me aside and say, “She wasn’t meaning to do that, she’s just feeling…”
It was like the two of them spoke this silent language of understanding and I was left in the fog. Their relationship has always been special.
When my son was placed in my arms, I suddenly SPOKE the language of understanding. From the moment he was born, I GOT that child. And he got me. When my husband scolds him for something, I can pull him aside and say “He wasn’t meaning to do that, he’s just feeling…”
And there’s times when my son senses my feelings and gives me a well-timed kiss or compliment. It’s really neat.
But he was asleep on the bathroom floor. I didn’t teach him that. I never told him, “Trenton, when you’re not feeling good you should curl up on the cold hard bathroom floor because it will make you feel better.”
My mom STILL wonders why on earth she found me on the bathroom floor so many times. Even I don’t know. The cold hard tile made my tummy feel better? I don’t know.
All I know is when I saw this, I melted a little. He GETS it.

Please forgive me for breaking my own blogging rule which is “never post a picture with a hint of a toilet.” But the image of my son curled up on the robe I was wearing when I birthed him is just sweet to me. It’s one of those gross mom things.
But I do love and appreciate that boy who will be turning 4 on Sunday.
On that note, isn’t four years a little long to keep a robe that you gave birth in? I think I’d better buy a new one.

My son is very aware that his mom is fat. He tells me all the time.
“How do you do that if you’re fat?” He has asked so many times, looking up with his big, concerned, HONEST eyes.
While my husband was doing some painting, he moved some of my daughter’s Polly Pockets. Now: she has 2 storage bins FULL of Polly Pockets. They were given to her as hand-me-downs from my cousin, Leigh.
When my husband finished painting, I asked her to move her Polly Pockets back to their spot in in the living room.
“I can’t carry the big one,” my daughter said, pointing to the larger bin, “Will you get it for me, Mom?”
“Lace,” my son cut in before I could respond, “No. Mom is just too FAT.”
Then something -a light bulb, probably -came on in his head. He turned to me, again with his big, concerned, HONEST eyes.
“What would happen if Fat Mom fell on her liddle boy?”
Oh, he SERIOUSLY wanted an answer to that?! I didn’t know what was worse -the fact that he actually had a brief terror flash before his eyes of his mom falling on him OR the fact that I know have an official new name.
Not Mom.
Fat Mom.
Fat Mom.
Say it. It feels like a warm hug. Go ahead.

The kids went with me to my baby doctor appointment. As I sat on the table waiting for the good doctor to come in, my son handed me a magazine.
“It’s about babies being born!” He said, excitedly.

Well.
I did say he was honest. I just didn’t realize how much he actually understood the birthing process.