A few months ago, I was teaching a large group of very small children at church. I needed to tell them three different stories about Christ without losing their attention.
So.
I took a long strip of butcher paper. I tacked it up over the chalkboard at the front of the class room. I strapped on a work apron that had it’s pockets full of markers… one pocket was filled to the brim with candy hearts.
“Who has two hands?” I asked, tying the apron on.
“Me!” They all cried out, almost in unison.
“Let me see… raise them up.” I said. The children all raised their hands up excitedly, “Wow… Now, someone told me that you guys really like to use your hands to draw.”
“Yeah, yeah!” They cried out, almost in unison.
“What do you call someone you draws and paints?” I asked.
“An artist!” A four year old girl on the front row called out.
“That’s right! An artist. Now. Sister Deets is a terrrrrrrrrrible artist. Can you say that?”
“Sister Deets is a terrrrrrrrrible artist,” they all chimed.
And so we began our lesson. They all had to help me draw because I was SUCH a bad artist, and they all earned candy here and there as they answered questions.
Well, my daughter has never forgotten that day. She actually remembered the story I told about SAUL because every time I said, “SAUL” I made a wicked face and used a wicked voice and made the children copy me. So she loves that story. But what she remembers even more is…
Mother is a terrrrrrrrrible artist.
She reminds me of it always when I’ve almost blocked it out of my mind.

“Hey,” I said to her when we were in the car together, “I’m really sorry but I forgot to take you to preschool this week.”
I didn’t mean to honestly. And I never forget like this… honestly! It’s just… we came back from vacation after taking a week off from preschool and we found out we were pregnant and I’ve been sleeping countless hours and my brain got sort of mushy in all the commotion.
“I’m sorry,” I continued, “I’m a jerk.”
“No you’re not a jerk,” my daughter said in her overly-nice voice, “You’re just… a terrrrrrrible artist.”

Oh, yeah. THAT explains everything!

She really is something else, my daughter. I love her to pieces. She loves the weird foods I love, and she’ll gobble up green olives and artichokes with me like there’s no tomorrow. By the way, the first time she asked for a green olive I told her no. I said, “These are yuckies. You wouldn’t like them.” Later on, when I wasn’t looking she snuck into the fridge, twisted open the jar, popped one in her mouth and came running to me, “Guess what, Mom?!?! I just LOVE those YUCKIES!”
She’s had so many firsts, and she has so many firsts on the way. Last night was a VERY important first… it’s one every family holds dear. Well. Every family that prays together, anyway.

She TOTALLY crashed.
I just love that girl. Love love love.

Every so often, I start getting overly excited about THINGS. A few years ago, I went berserk over some Dawn dish soap because it was fancy enough to keep my hands from cracking and bleeding when I did the dishes. I wanted to give away a case of that dish soap, but truth be told… if I had a case of it, I’d prolly hoard it. I’m still smitten by that dish soap. Every winter, I send up prayers of thanks for that wonderful product.

Yesterday was another on of THOSE days where I look at what I’m using and practically gush with glee. The first is my (now don’t laugh) Britta water bottle.
My husband bought one of these for himself, and I thought he was a little silly. After all, we had a Britta water pitcher and we use it constantly… why an extra bottle? While we were on vacation, Danny insisted on buying a water bottle for him mother who was having some pain in her kidneys. He bought a two pack and gave me one, insisting that it would help me drink more water during my pregnancy.
“Okay,” I said, because I’ve been married to him long enough to know that he’ll do what he wants anyway.
And guess what? I use that bottle to PIECES. I drink water like a crazy lady, and the purple water bottle has become my very close friend. I don’t leave the house without it.
Phone? Check.
Purse? Check.
Keys? Check.
Water Bottle? Check!

It makes Joseph City water taste SO good -it’s a tiny, precious miracle.

Onto the next:

Look at the one all the way to the left… in the middle… it’s a bird’s nest with three eggs, and by golly gee if my thoughts weren’t almost immediately on that necklace in the minutes following my positive pregnancy test (ahem, the FIRST one). Guess what I’m getting for Mother’s Day? And I wonder if Danny will be sweet enough to throw in the necklace on the top left? It’s gorgeous!

Fed Ex came to my house yesterday and dropped off:

I’m SO thrilled! A few weeks ago, I went to a presentation on THRIVE. I was supposed to be teaching preschool, but I felt really strongly that I needed to go to this presentation instead. I cancelled preschool and went. I’m so glad I did -this food is a life saver! Unopened, it keeps for 25 years. Can you even begin to wrap your mind around that? Once opened, their shelf life is about one year, give or take a little. The cans are specially coated on the inside to keep the food from absorbing that “tin” taste. My shipment yesterday was spinach, pineapple, and blueberries. They are freeze dried, so the nutritional value is much higher than that of canned or dehydrated food. And my kids went nuts for it. They gobbled up handfuls of the pineapple and blueberries, and asked for more… win! I signed up for the program which is set up to take $50 out of my food budget every month ($25 a paycheck, not bad!) and send me whatever is on my list. I have a list set up online that I can change up however I want to, but once a month without fail, I get $50 worth of food storage shipped to my front door.
And there’s so much variety! Fruit, veggies, cheese, butter, eggs, yogurt… and on and on and on. My husband popped in the door for a brief second yesterday to pick up some work stuff and I shoved a pineapple in his mouth. A few minutes later (after he was back at work) he sent me a text, “I feel really good about having that food.”
I feel good about it too, and I feel SO good about it that I just HAD to share the info with my family. I booked a party and started taking invites around to my siblings, aunts and parents… only to find that most of them already had an account.
What? This stuff was brand new to me! No one told me about it! Maybe they all wanted me to die of starvation instead of thrive on my freeze dried food.
Okay, that was a joke.
I realize that most people don’t go bonkers over freeze-dried food. I was just really excited. HEY! I just realized I could totally send some to my sister on her mission! I bet she’d LOVE some!
Great idea, Alicia. Very great indeed. I’ll start work on a package straight away.

I love having it on hand not only for preparation reasons, but I live in a rural area where if I run out of sour cream, I have to drive at least 10 miles one way to get more. Now I can just use the freeze dried sour cream which tastes really, really good. Really.

So you should come over and see what I’m talking about. Saturday at 10:30 am at my house… unless you’re already set up with an account. In which case, shame on you for keeping it to yourself in hopes that I’ll die of slow starvation.
Shame, shame, shame.

I even put samples on my invites. Eets for fun.

I also put the pineapple on my homemade pizza last night AND I put a handful of blueberries in my oatmeal this morning. I feel so proficient… and I also feel healthy about the whole thing. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a date with Pinterest, looking a recipe I pinned that calls for blueberries (which I usually don’t have). Then it’s off to do the most hysterical prenatal yoga video on Netflix instant streaming (“Now look down at your baby… say hello!”) during which I’ll have my trusty water bottle court side.
Enjoy your day, friends. It’s a beaut outside.

Grandpa got out Strawberry a couple days ago and snapped some pictures to send to Julianne on her mission. Speaking of Julianne:

She’s the greatest, and the only thing she loves more than horses is her nieces and nephews.

Ah, horses and kids. They go together like… I don’t know, maybe not peanut butter and jelly, but they’re a close second.

I think the only thing that tops peanut butter and jelly is probably grandpas and grandgirls.

Now BABIES and horses is a different story entirely.

And while The Red Headed Nephew isn’t so sure of the hoss… he’s right at home under a truck.

The kid can’t help it -he was born with mechanically minded genes.
And this girl… well she was born to love the outdoors and everything that goes with it. She has a special gift with animals -something she most certainly did not get from me. I just absolutely love her animal and outdoorsy ways.

Did you know that savvy peeps say “deets” instead of details?  It’s all the rage, and something I’d be 100% against (read: annoyed by) if it didn’t happen to be my last name. But it is my last name; therefore, I use it at every opportunity. Because I can. I wanted to fill in some details about the pregnancy MOSTLY for the unborn in my belly but also because a few of you have asked some questions. Here’s the story of how this pregnancy came about.
Wait, that sounded like I was about to give a sex ed lesson.
Let me rephrase: Here’s how we came to find out we were pregnant!
(NOTE: I JUST FINISHED WRITING THIS POST and I scrolled up here to tell you that I have a really annoying ability to retain in my memory tedious details, and I promise that if I don’t GET THEM OUT of my head, I’ll explode. If you’re not interested in tedious details or if looking at a series of used pregnancy tests makes you squeamish… speed scroll through this post. Thank you.)

About 7 months ago, we decided to start trying to have another baby. We were excited to plan a pregnancy because we never had before. Our elder two had just unexpectedly plopped into our lives, and we loved it. I always sort of dreamed of coming up with a creative way to tell my unsuspecting husband that I was pregnant. My ways of telling him had always been, well… not very fun at all.
With our first pregnancy he was there when I took the test.
With our second, I called him at work and through nervous tears said, “I’m pregnant” as I stared at the fancy digital test beaming the word “Pregnant” back up at me.
With our third pregnancy, I tried to get creative. I’ll admit at the risk of making you hate me that I did not want to be pregnant. I was terr.ih.fied. After getting the positive test, I made breakfast and set out two of everything for my husband. Two plates, two knives, two cups… Between the two cups I set a envelope up that had the words “Double Stroller Fund” written on it. He woke up, rubbed his eyes, did a double take at the table and then took me in his arms excitedly. It would have been a tender moment had I not been bawling my eyes out… they weren’t exactly happy tears.
With our fourth pregnancy, he was in the shower when I took the test and I yelled, “It’s POSITIVE!”over the sound of the running water. THAT will wake a guy up.
With our fifth pregnancy, I came out of the bathroom and thrust the test in his face. More on that later…

Our second, third, and fifth pregnancies have stuck… the others didn’t care to stick around. I don’t know that I blame them. Their mother is crazy.

Remember General Conference weekend? The Friday before, I’d gone to the city with my children. The next morning, I woke up JUST in time for the first session. As I stood warily over the sink, my husband watched me with hawk eyes.
“How ya feelin’?” he asked, a hint of suspicion in his voice.
“Fine, why?”
“It’s 9.” He replied.
“So? It’s Saturday.”
“But you usually get up anyway…” he raised an eyebrow.
“I spent yesterday in the city with both of your children. I’m tired, okay?”
“You’re pregnant,” he said, accusingly.
I didn’t believe him… but the Monday after Conference, I started to see where he was coming from.

This had happened before. MANY times before. I’ve tried talking to my OB about it, and it always goes like this.
“My stomach gets really big before I PMS,” I say, “Like, pregnant big.”
“Yeah, bloating can be awful.”
“But it’s more than bloating,” I insist, “I look pregnant.”
“Yeah, diet and exercise can help that…”
And then I want to shoot myself in the face. At any rate, this had been happening to me basically monthly. I would take test after test and always get a negative result.
This time it seemed bigger and tighter. I mean, I was actually getting exhausted from just being bigger. And my skin hurt from stretching.
The days went on and I slept. I slept through two conference sessions. I took frequent naps. I went to bed early. I got up late. I took TWO naps on Easter, and through it all: I had the WILDEST dreams. The dreams have continued, very vivid and very strange.
My favorites include:
Making fun of someone in a cooking class, so the teacher made me stand in front of the entire class for the entire class period and then he decided he hated me SO much that he’d excuse everyone and the burn the classroom down with me in it. I HAD to escape, so I turned into a mouse. The next thing I knew, I was on the back of a wooden cart that was headed straight for a homestead and being driven by a rugged cowboy. I figured I was safe, so I transformed back into a woman. But I’d JUST been a mouse, so when I transformed back into a lady… I was stark naked. The cowboy noticed and started chasing me. I ran into the homestead, locked myself in a bedroom that turned out to be occupied by a grandmother. It gets weirder, but I’ll just stop there.
I also dreamed that I had a boyfriend. My husband almost caught me making out with him, and as I sat in the back of a car full of college students, I thought about confessing the whole of it to him. My thoughts were interrupted when I saw my schoolgirl friend, Lindsay, chasing me down the road. She was dressed in a hot dog costume and toting a propane tank.
I won’t even TELL you about the one where I was swimming in a tepid lake full of dead animals (including but not limited to: zebras).
Anyway:
My husband kept insisting I was pregnant. I kept rolling my eyes and reminding him that I DID have two very active children that wear me out.
But my stomach refused to deflate.
As we packed up to visit family on Easter Weekend and the week thereafter, we stopped along the way to buy an Easter dress and a 3-pack of pregnancy tests.
I could take a test exactly one week from the day I bought them. For those of you interested in math: I have a 25 day cycle. I always buy the fun pregnancy tests that tell you a few days before your expected day o’ fun if you’re pregnant or not. They never work for me until two days before (instead of 6 like the box promises), so I knew I couldn’t effectively test until Wednesday, but I promised myself I’d hold off until Friday so the results would be sure.
Naturally, I took a test on Monday.
I fully expected it to be negative. I mean, I was taking it 5 days early. FIVE. But I also knew the minute I saw the negative results, I would relax and stop obsessing over whether I WAS or WASN’T for at least a day.
And guess what?

Now.
I’ve had a faintly positive test before. It was pregnancy number 4, and it didn’t stick (see: crazy mother, above). But pregnant was pregnant and my husband would want to know. So I met him in the kitchen and thrust the stick in his face.
“It’s faint,” he said.
“We’re PREGNANT!” I said.
“We’re PREGNANT?!” He asked.
“We’re PREGNANT!” I said, and we hugged and he CRIED and it made me cry… and then we took our childrens aside and told them the good news.
The boy insists it’s a boy.
The girl insists it’s a girl, and has promised that IF IT IS a boy, she will not love it.
We swore them to secrecy and they were surprisingly angelic about the whole thing, never leaking a word.
I spent Monday perusing Pinterest for Maternity anything and elusively NOT pinning anything at all.

Because I was afraid of Vanishing HCG Line Syndrome (yeah, I just made that up) I took another test on Wednesday: two days early. It was definitely positive. No faintness there.
I took another test Friday: the initial day I planned on testing. (Ha.) The HCG line showed up INSTANTLY and DARKLY.

My stomach was still present as ever:

Sucking it in hurt, so I didn’t. I just let that baby hang. Literally.
When I got home, I had a spare test waiting for me, so two days after my missed day o’ fun, I took another test. Hey, don’t call me crazy until you’ve suffered from the Vanishing HCG Line Syndrome.
The HCG line again showed up instantly… this time much earlier than the other line, and this time much darker than the other line.

Fear not, I quit taking tests after that one.
I also just ran out of tests. If I had more, I’d probably be taking them. It just feels good to pass a test when you’ve been out of school for so long.

As it stands: I am only 4 weeks along.
I am due smack DAB on Christmas Eve.
I am not sick yet, but I fully plan on being so and am already planning on hiring cleaning help once a week. If you need a little extra cash, please contact me.

I have no hunch as to the gender, but I’ve had a VERY strong hunch that something is different about this pregnancy. I can’t put my finger on it, but something is definitely different. Maybe it’s a tubal pregnancy or something… which brings me to my next point: we didn’t wait to announce our pregnancy despite the fact that we have miscarried before.
The thing is: we end up having to tell people we miscarried whether they knew we were pregnant or not. And honestly: there’s nothing worse than suffering in silence. If something is amiss, I’d sure like some support along the ride. I also realize it will make the pregnancy seem to last longer. I’m 100% okay with that on account of us needing QUITE a bit of time to square things away.
New car, anyone?
Which brings me to my next point: I think we should start having Third Baby showers simple because all my baby gear lasted through exactly two children.
Along with a new car, I’m going to be buying a new stroller, a new carseat, a pack n’ play (of which I’ve actually never, ever owned) and a crib (ours is broken on one side and a broken crib is terrifying unto me). Where will the money come from? I mean, I’m saving up to simply PAY to BIRTH the baby… I won’t even bring up how we’re going to put three kids in a room big enough to barely fit two.
We just won’t talk about that.  Because then we’d have to discuss house buying and that frightens me almost as much as a broken crib.
Also: the money I’m shelling out for housekeeping is non-optional. It will not be put on the chopping block. My marriage hinges on it. If the house is a mess AND mom is sick: well, even Hulk Hogan couldn’t survive that. It’s just how we roll in the Deets home.
I realize this post is extremely FULL of tedious details, but I write them for the sake of The Baby who will eventually appreciate my crazed dreams.
In other news: I bought two artichokes to last me two weeks. Oh wha ta goo Siam.
I need approximately 8 more. 10 would be better, but I have to be realistic here.

one’s on the way!”

We pulled into our very own driveway last night after being away from home for over a week. Last night, I slept in my gigantic-o bed, and it felt so wonderful. Leaving home for a week is always a welcome, refreshing change. It makes coming home fun, and I’m actually looking forward to cleaning… which is a sensation entirely new to me. The reason we skipped town is that my hairy husband had a little brother getting married. The little brother specifically asked my hairy husband to please clean up before the wedding, and oh my GOSH… my husband cleans up SO good. Seriously.

I’ve spent the last two days begging him to stay clean… just for a week. I miss his cheeks. Don’t get me wrong: he can pull off facial hair really well, but geez golly oh my stars! I missed seeing that purty face.
The wedding colors were grey and yellow, and the reception was jaw-dropping gorgeous. The entrance to the church was decorated with hanging paper lanterns, two beautiful lamps, and vinyl lettering on the glass doors:

The entrance was flanked by doors with a decorative ladder above:

And the rest of the decor followed suit -it was beautiful.


The boy’s favorite dancing partner was his cousin:

There’s really nothing better than cousins all around:

The Bride and Groom posed with all the cousins. Is it me, or do they look totally natural with 7 kids?

Uncle Dusty could really do with a daughter -that’s for sure.

The dessert table was positioned in the middle of the room, and it was filled with delicious goodies: brownies, cookies, cake balls, lemon candies, mints:

My daughter thought it would be a good idea to hide under the dessert table and grab people’s feet. Meanwhile, my son thought it would be fun to hit up the lemonade stand, turn the spickets on and leave them running so lemonade would spill all over the wood floors.
I endured approximately 3 meltdowns from my son and one meltdown from my daughter.
I had to hold my son in my lap to keep him from turning the lights on (since the room was dimly lit by beautiful lights here and there) and he showed his spite by laying on his belly and spitting all over my dress.
I couldn’t believe how naughty my kid was being. He’s old enough to know better, and by the end of the night I was exhausted. I fell into bed and I don’t even remember falling asleep. My husband got the kids to bed.

My poor daughter told me when we first arrived at the reception, “She may throw her pretty flowers, and I know I will catch them.”
But when the bouquet went flying through the air, another girl was trying to dance with my daughter… and she missed out on her chance. Her little shoulders fell, she turned and looked at me and immediately I took her in my arms and beelined it out the door. Once outside, she broke down and cried and cried and cried big, fat tears of disappointment.
“I just have been wanting to catch those flowers for YEARS,” she said, tears barreling down her cheeks.
Luckily the girl’s grammy was in charge of the flowers and had some leftovers.
The girl went to bed with a bouquet tucked safely next to her. She pounced on me in bed just as I was drifting off.
“Look, Mom, what Grammy just do-ed for me!”

Sweet Grammy, who had been going full speed ahead working on the wedding from the luncheon to the flowers to the tiny details that every mother-of-the-groom worries about had come home from the reception and taken a few minutes to make a bouquet for her disappointed granddaughter. That’s a true grandmother right there.
Here’s Grammy dancing with her son. She stood near me as she watched him dance his first dance with his bride, and all she could say was, “My sweet, sweet Dusty…”

And then she got her turn:

It was a great, great night despite my children grabbing feet and spilling beverages.

I can’t believe it’s been 7 1/2 years since our wedding. It seems like yesterday and a million years ago all at the same time.
The next morning, we met up with family for a breakfast before most of them had to head home. When I walked into the room with my naughty boy in tow, a 9 year old boy said, “Did you not comb your hair this morning?”
“Well, no,” I reached up and scrunched my hair absolutely mortified that someone noticed, “I was really tired…”
And then I realized he was talking to my son.
Ah, the wonderful awkwardness of admitting to the entire room that you didn’t comb your hair at all… which implies you didn’t shower either.
Awe.some.

A couple months ago, my awesome brother (ONE of my awesome brothers, that is) gave me a disc with pictures on it. He and his wife had snapped pictures during our Christmas celebration. Hansen Christmases are rife with traditions, from pinatas to horse rides to luminaries lining Main Street to orange rolls and ham to Christmas villages… it really is the most wonderful time of the year. The hap-happiest season of all. Unfortunately, my camera was missing at the time and I missed taking pictures of everything. I’m so grateful that Mike and Brittany shared some of their pictures. Here’s my beautiful cousin, Leigh, with one of my Dad’s hosses. Leigh is just WAAAAY too cute!!

The horse is all right too. I guess.
Dad always pulls his cart out. We used this cart at our wedding reception. It is gorgeous.

And my family is all right too. I guess.

I just love my cousins. It’s so fun having so many of them close by. We have our own sort of Utopia going on: farms, food, family.
Meet Max: he belongs to my folks.

I just love this picture… it warms me to the very core.

Pinatas have been a long-standing tradition in the Hansen Family, and we’re all keen on carrying it on.
The boy happened to find a toy camera in his loot, so he used it to take a picture of Mike taking a picture of him. Priceless.

Speaking of loot:

They look like victorious, smug hunters.
Sometimes the best part of the pinata isn’t actually the loot… it’s the pinata itself. How many grandpas do you know that would wear part of a parrot to get a few laughs?

Of course the cousins get to exchange gifts:

BOOTS!

I made some crochet hats.
And here’s a tiny peek at my Dad’s John Deere Christmas Village. It’s really something to see -it’s cozy and matching and classy AND country. Perfection.

Christmas this year will be JUST as wonderful… even more so :)

I have a pair of white capris.
They are really small.
They are, in fact, TOO small.
I sometimes cheat and use a hair tie around the button to make them bigger.
But most importantly: they have a stain on the left back pocket.

Now that I’ve set the background for my pants… listen well. Thanks to the stain, I never wear them. I keep thinking that people will see the stain and think less of me. And when I say “people” I’m talking about total strangers who I might run into once in the course of my life and whose existence has little to no bearing on my true happiness.

On Saturday, I threw caution to the wind. I pep talked myself into believing that NO ONE really cares what I wear. NO ONE notices but me. If I like my white capris and they make me happy, I should WEAR them! So I pulled out a hair tie and I did.
As I stood in line at Dollar Tree on Saturday late afternoon buying BASKETS that I should have bought weeks ago, a heard the girl in line behind me lean over to her boyfriend.
“Check it out,” she less than whispered, “Her pants are totally dirty.”
Immediately following this, a cashier in another line beckoned me over.
“I can take you over here,” she said.
I turned to the detail conscious girl behind me, “I think that cashier can check you out,” I said. She took her boyfriend and wandered over to the other line… like a beaten puppy.
Ha. That’ll show HER to look at my STAIN.

In other news: I’ll only be wearing my pants around my own house where stains are a common and welcome mainstay.

When friends come over, we all dress up and hit each other… apparently.


*BAM!*

I love the baby’s face in that picture.
When did we ever outgrow being that awesome with our friends? When mine come over, we just talk. Laaaame.