In a previous post, I mentioned the snow.   I posted a bunch of pictures -one of which included a snowman.  WELL, the day after we made our snowman, we woke up to a fresh cover of new snow!

What do you do with a fresh cover of new snow?
Make a pirate snowman!
My son tried to make sure there was no doubt he was, indeed, a snow MAN, but luckily that idea crumpled in his hands before he could apply it (I’m talking literally here).

Dad was off work, so we were able to not only make a snow man
But snow angels
(yes, the zipper on that coat is broken.)
And a big snowball fight that we didn’t get pictures of because… well, we were busy fighting. I got snow down my back, and my husband didn’t. I’ll let you infer from that fact that I am the nice one and he is the naughty one (instead of seeing it for what it is: he won the fight. I lost).

We snacked on icicles.

And then we went inside where we watched the animated version of How the Grinch Stole Christmas by the most genius poet of our day (probably all days there ever were in the whole entire history of the WORLD), and then we took naps. As the day wore on, we watched dads ride by on horses -their kids in their arms in front of them… we watched birds pick at the snow, and we ate our leftover cookies.
The power stayed on, and we were even able to make it up to Grandma and Grandpa’s house for a visit.
Snow is very welcome in Arizona. Aside from the fun it offers, it’s a sort of insurance against wildfire season.
The nest day the kids ran inside after church, immediately changed their clothes, put on their snow boots, and headed back outside. My husband and I sank onto the couch for all of three minutes before we were started by a loud

*SMASH*

We ran outside to find our pink-coat clad daughter standing in front of us.
“What was that?” We asked her.
“The window,” she pointed.

The hole in the window was already there. But the huge crack that ran from it to the top and bottom of the window? Brand new!
“Did you do that?” We asked.
“Yes,” she nodded, “I’m sorry.”
“What did you break it with?” We asked.
“I don’t know, just that…” she pointed to a metal tent stake we had used to hold our tomato cages down (or up, depending on the wind) “I don’t know what it’s called.”
“Why?” At this point we were more intrigued than angry.
“I was just tryin’ to get a icicle.” She pointed to the roof of our house. My gaze followed her finger, and…

Apparently the last tent stake she had thrown had gotten lodged in the ice on our roof. Naturally, she had to get another one and try again.
Naturally.
Because we have to do everything ourselves when we’re four. Asking for help from someone tall enough to snap an icicle from a rooftop is definitely our last option… A Daring Plan for the Desperate.

There’s been something on my mind lately -I mean REALLY racking my brain. I’ve been try to answer the question: why?
Why do I do the things I do? What’s my motivation for doing them?

The reason I’ve been thinking about it is that for a few weeks there, I was terrified that perhaps the real reason I did most anything I did was to make myself look good. It was a haunting thought that plagued me -absolutely plagued me. I couldn’t lift a finger without wondering if what I was doing -whether it was my hair, cooking a meal, or calling a friend -was solely to satisfy my own vanity. I’ve told you before that my vanity is my own personal Everest. I don’t define vanity as “looking at myself in the mirror in complete awe of my awesomeness.”
I think vanity would definitely fit that bill, but I believe there’s more it. I’ve done extensive personal research on the subject, you know. Vanity, to me, is spending too much time dwelling on Number One. It’s spending thirty minutes picking out what to wear, just so others will look at it and see something admirable. It’s assuming that people ACTUALLY CARE what I’m wearing.
This is hard for me to write.
It’s revealing and embarrassing.
But I need to get my point across, so if you’ll just stay with me without hating me too much…

This vanity issue has sent me on a journey of self-discovery. I started analyzing my feelings, digging deep to find out why I did certain things.
I expressed my concern to Laurie over the phone, asking the question “I love to do acts of service, but why? Is it because I want people to notice and commend me?”
She replied with a question, “Would you still do it even if people didn’t notice?”
“Of course,” I said.
“Then you’re fine.”

A psychologist once spoke in a meeting I attended, and he stressed the importance of a third party when you’re in the midst of a problem. The answer seems hidden to us, but to someone with another perspective, it’s completely obvious.
Mira:

The answer is OBVIOUS to us, but because they’re in the thick of it, they can’t think clearly.

Now, now. Laurie was my fresh perspective in this case. What she said made a lot of sense, and I carried it with me while I went on my way.

In the last week, I’ve had something really stand out to me: talents.
As I did my dishes one day, I started thinking about being God. I have a beautiful window to look out of while I warsh my dishes, and I insist -no matter where I live -on having a thinking window over my sink. I love to look out of the window while I warsh. Too bad my name isn’t Wanda.
Wanda warshes whilst wearily wishing by her window.

I digress.

I thought about being God. I thought how fulfilling it would be to create worlds and people, and what a puzzle it would be.
“All right, I’m going to need a hairdresser of some kind sent down with these people… a baker… someone who is good with mechanical thinking… an entertainer…hmmm…” I could see myself in my mind’s eye, positioning peoples all over my world.
“A builder… a musician… an organizer… and someone with a good head on their shoulders… a leader…”

As a God, I would pour these abilities into the little souls in front of me. Unto one I would give athletic abilities. Unto another I would give the ability to create beautiful things… and the list goes on.
In my mind, I sent my little souls into my world and I watched over them, wondering what they would do with what I had given them.

They all went to work.
Some worked with others, their abilities built up and strengthening one another.
Some worked with others, letting others use their abilities for them because they deserved to be served.
Some worked alone.
Some worked at not working at all, which -it must be admitted -really takes it outta ya.
Some worked with others, and abandoned their abilities because they weren’t given what they wanted. Those were my little Tinkerbells (“I don’t want to be a tinker!”).

And as I thought about this, I thought mostly about those that felt they deserved to be served on account of their awesomeness, and I laughed. From where I sat, in my hypothetical Heaven, my little people were making me laugh.
“Yes, YOU are amazing,” I chuckled at them from above, “YOU do it all and YOU are the best. YOU YOU YOU. The world owes you everything because YOUR abilities are amazing. Wait, where did you get those abilities? Oh, that’s right. I gave them to you. Remember me? Hey! Hello?!”

I believe I was given certain abilities to bless the lives of others. Period. I feel that. I KNOW that.
I am an instrument for the One who created me. He put into me certain abilities for a reason, and I want to make absolute certain that I use them for what they were intended.

Do I serve so others will notice? No.
Do I crochet for compliments? No.
Do I raise children so people will commend ME? No.
Do I write so others will notice me? No.

So why? Why do I do it?

Here’s my answer: I do it because Heavenly Father wants me to, and I do it the way that He wants me to. We talk about it, you know. I tremble at the idea of standing before my Maker and having him peer into my soul and ask the question, “Do you know what you COULD have been if you had just USED what I gave you?” And then I’d cast my eyes down and hand him my muddy talent… the one I had buried so as to keep it safe.

I don’t clean well. I try. You know I do. Instead of working harder, I decided to work smarter. I went to a Cleaner.
My aunt. She’s not a professional cleaner, but she has that ability. My cleaning has improved drastically.
My husband is one happy camper.

And guess what? If you don’t crochet, I do!
Guess what else? I’m awful at hair and make-up, but there are a million beautiful women out there who WANT to help me!

We are given talents to use them to bless others. THAT is what life is about. THAT is what Christmas is about.

Please stay with me as I give you a few examples of what I’m talking about… I love to write. You know that. I have a deep, burning desire to use it to bless others. If I can help one person with what I write, I will write it. I want people to read what I’ve written and feel inspired.
I want them to feel something inside of them when they read. I want them to see God through my words. Go ahead, laugh if you want. I know it sounds cliche and Jesus-loving.
But it is the honest-to-goodness truth.

I recently read an article a man wrote about love. While I read it, I thought about the goodness of mankind, the potential of mankind… I was inspired, uplifted, and I wanted to be better. I thought about Heavenly Father’s love for us, and I thought about the Savior. Then… at the very end of the article, I thought ‘The author is a great writer.’
But that wasn’t my first thought, and that wasn’t my last thought because DAYS after reading the article, I’m still affected my it.
THAT is what I want.
THAT is where it’s at.

While browsing youtube looking for a rousing version of “O Holy Night” I stumbled on something different. Anyway, there’s some really irritating renditions of “O Holy Night” out there. O Holy Vibrato.
This is what I found. Please, please listen to the entire thing. It starts off slowly and builds and builds and builds, and IF you will close your eyes after a minute or two and JUST LISTEN, there’s a good chance your very soul will be stirred.
I cried, but that’s just the woman in me.

The song reaches you… touches you. You see God through it, and THEN you think about what a great voice Andrea Bocelli has. He sings so humbly, almost as if he’s doing his best to direct his attention OFF of him and ONTO Heavenly Father.
Well, success!

On the other hand…
Here’s an entertaining (and fictional) example of the flip side of this. All pay homage to Carlotta and her glorious voice!

As I watched The First Presidency’s Christmas Devotional last night, I felt the theme of giving of ourselves… giving of our individual abilities and letting go of commercialization. Of course we’ve heard that song sung before, but last night it meant so much more to me because I understood it better.
I thought of my little imaginary world with my imaginary hairdressers and bakers, and I just understood. It was illuminating.
You probably already understood it.
You probably chuckled your way through this post, thinking about how much time I waste figuring out the obvious.
But such is life.
We all find ourselves stranded on the escalator at some point on another. But this I promise: when you call out “HELLLLLPPPP!” I’ll be nearby to guide you to the stairs if I can. If I can’t, I’ll find someone who can. And if they can’t, together we’ll all find SOMEONE who can.

What better time to enjoy it than the Christmas season?
What better way to enjoy the season than a Christmas devotional? click HERE to watch what I watched last night.

I woke up early this morning -before the sun was up. I peeked out the window, and what did I see?
Snow. Lots and lots of snow. It isn’t unheard of in Arizona, but it isn’t exactly commonplace either. There’s something downright poetic about freshly fallen snow. The muddy aftermath is something different entirely, but we’re not here to talk about that.
Or how my carpets will suffer.

We’re here to talk about a blanket of snow. How is it that something SO cold can make you feel SO warm? It has the potential to take lives, yet it somehow makes us all feel safe. As I stepped into the snow this morning, the air around me was silent. No roosters -no dogs… just silence.
The snow was still gently falling, and I just took it all in. The smell -the feel… it’s really something, isn’t it? Early mornings and daybreak speak for themselves, but when you add in a few inches of snow, it’s breathtaking.
When the sun more-or-less came up, I took a few pictures.

It made me recite Robert Frost’s poem “Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening.”
Just hearing the words in my mind filled me with warmth -the poem’s meaning, like the muddy aftermath, is something utterly different. Again, we’ll just focus on what’s in front of us. It’s hard to feel the cold meaning behind words when they’re lumped together so comfortably.
“The woods are lovely, dark and deep…”
Ahhh, Bobby Frost. You lyrical genius.

I took pictures of cat tracks in the snow. A flock of black birds made a sudden, mass exodus from one of my trees and scared the growing filly next to my house.
I love that action shot. I looks more like a real, live medieval photograph taken during an attack… raining arrows!

My daughter woke up uncharacteristically early (in fact, she didn’t wake up until 10 am yesterday and that was only because I WOKE her up. She wasn’t happy and quickly informed me that in her dreams she had been flying on Santa’s sleigh with her Grammy. She stretched out her arms and wistfully said, “I wish I was still dreaming…”), so I told her to look out of her window.

Wonder of wonders!

Brother, GET UP!

He didn’t want anything to do with it, but I hoisted him up and forced him to look. He crumpled back into my arms.
“I want to go back to sleep,” he muttered.
“Do you want to snuggle up with Daddy in my bed?” I asked.
“No,” he groggily replied, “I just need my boots.”

These are the days I’m glad I picked up snow gloves for a $1 on the spring clearance rack. AND I actually remembered where they were in the house! Wonder of wonders, indeedy.
I tried to get my husband outside to build a snowman with the kids, but he gave me his gloves instead, insisting he had to be at work, or something. Nonsense, if ya ask me.

Our snowman was amazing, can I just say? Until he crumpled. We all headed inside. I was too tired to care. The girl was too cold to care.
But the boy? Man, oh man. Those TEARS can work a mother over.
“DADDY!” He wailed, tears streaming down his face, “My snowman just MELTED!”
What kind of mother would I be if I let defeat be the order of the day? In any case, when he’s 5 and 9 and 11 and 27, I’ll remind him of that snowman and how WE CONQUERED.
Put our shoulders to the wheel, so to speak.

In a matter of minutes, we had our snowman… built more carefully this time.

The ground is entirely covered in snow, and we couldn’t find any rocks to use as eyes, lips, and buttons… so we improvised and busted out mom’s tiny scented pine cones.

My daughter had gone inside long before, citing the cold as the most vile of offenders.
We joined her after taking pictures. Our power was out, and the boy soon drifted back to sleep (he really did just want sleep), so after doing some cleaning, Lacy and I faced off for three grueling rounds of Candyland.

My husband called about that time and told me he was going to try and come home early from work. I cheered and started listing everything we could do together!
Movies!
Hot cocoa!
Freshly baked cookies!
Blankets!
Cozy, cozy, cozy!

“We really just need to get some cleaning done,” he said, breaking my winter spirit. He wasn’t ENTIRELY wrong (though maybe just a little) since the house actually isn’t in bad shape so long as you stay away from the computer desk and out of the bathrooms.
I rolled up my sleeves and cleaned the computer desk off, hoping it would up my chances for those freshly baked cookies and Christmas movie.
While I was bustling around the house, I saw this:

She was sitting on the table, facing the window, munching on a pile of dried pineapple bits, and just WATCHING the snow. By this time, the power had come on. She had infinite entertaining options, and there she sat, the smartest of us all.
“Want to sit by me?” She asked, scooting over on the table top. I did sit by her (in a chair), we ate pineapple bits and watched the snow fall.
It was sublime.

So maybe we should clean.
Maybe we should watch movies.
Or maybe… just maybe… we should sit at the foot of life and enjoy what it gives us in the moment it gives it to us.

And maybe we should also take pictures of our children when they insist on wearing their Elmo Easter basket on their head when they can’t find a hat to wear outside.

And yeah, that’s laundry they’re sitting on. Come on. Who hasn’t sat on clean laundry this week? I think it’s safe to say that everyone is in recovery mode -recovering from Thanksgiving, that is.

How’s your Christmas going? I have a few gifts bought, a few made. Our tree isn’t up because we’re getting a real tree this year (I almost said “real, live” but real Christmas trees are actually “real, dead” and I didn’t want to sound morbid. It isn’t festive). I’ve got the mistletoe hung (I bought it at family dollar), both Nativities up (one for us, one for the kids to mess around with), and I’ve got greenery to start making a few wreaths (dead greenery).
Yes, it’s that wonderful time of year where we all stress out, eat too much, and lie to our children about a fat man with a bag full of gifts he may or may NOT be leaving at our house. Wonderful, isn’t it? Well, yes. It is.

I vow every year to stress less and less, and it’s actually working. Two years ago, I should have liked to curse Christmas. We missed the whole meaning of the season because we were trying SO HARD to make it “good for our kids.” Whadda joke. Last year was a little better, but I was so wrapped up in crafting, teaching preschool, working as a pianist at the school… anyway, Christmas was a little better, but I still ended up vowing that this year it would be LESS STRESSFUL.
So far? So good.

Christmas isn’t about stress anyway. It’s not about a checklist of duties that HAVE to be done because it’s Crimeny Christmas for Crying out Loud. It’s about giving of yourself -whether it’s time or money or a smile… give.

One of my favorite Christmas traditions is passing around plates full of junk to people I love. I LOVE feeding people. Two years ago, we weren’t able to get it done (bah humbug!) so last year we got it done the FIRST weekend in December. I thought about Christmas all year that year… how we had abandoned the true meaning of it, and I was determined to start a fresh last year.

Am I boring you yet? Yes, Alicia. You blew it two years ago. You did a little better last year. We get it.
I guess I’m just sitting down to write myself a letter and remind myself how this year is going to be. It’s going to be warm and giving and absolutely full of Christmas spirit.

Happy December, everyone. Please don’t stress yourself out this year with needing and wanting and getting and having and competing and and and…

Just sit down with a cuppa hot cocoa and watch your favorite Christmas movie with your favorite people.
Read “A Christmas Carol.”
Read Luke 2.
Make something for someone because you love them.
Give thanks for what you do have, and be content therein. Most people don’t have what you do, you know.

Take a lot of time this month to fully appreciate it all.
Just remember: keep it festive (read: no talk of the deadness of your trees).

Like so many others, I get about a bazillion ideas from Pinterest.  My holiday pin board is my favorite right now, and I’ve been utilizing it like maaaaaaad.  But when it comes to trying out creative pins, mine hardly turn out like the pictures.  Take this turkey for example:

image from eatingwithfoodallergies.com

And here’s mine. I had to talk myself into believing it was, in fact, a turkey. As I hovered over it, I called my husband over.
“Come look at this for a sec, will ya?” I asked. He came over, he stood next to me, hovered… and I waited for him to say, “Ah HA! It’s a TURKEY! Aren’t you just the cleverest wife in the whole wide holiday world?”
But he didn’t say anything.
So I said, “Its supposed to be a turkey.”
“OH! I see it!” Then he took out his camera phone and took a picture like every good husband should do.

The downside to the veggie turkey was that no one ate any of it because they didn’t want to mess it up. So it all came home with me.

I can’t figure out why mine looks so loud and their turkey looks so simple… Maybe I try to hard? In any case, it’s hardly enough to stop me from trying more pinteresting things. Take this, for example:

image from houseography.blogspot.com

A gingerbread house party!! I took one look at that and DIED. I wanted to do it so badly! They had the plans all laid out and it seemed to work like clock work. Surely I could pull it off!

My entire life, my mother has always, ALWAYS had a REAL gingerbread house at Christmas time. The day after Thanksgiving, while other women were out shopping and while my Dad was out rounding up cattle, she would work methodically in her kitchen. She would mix and bake and glue and decorate… and it was magic. It was ALL magic. Her gingerbread house windows were made of crushed Jolly Ranchers and looked like stained glass… My Dad had long ago made my mom a special board with a light in the center of it. Mom built her house over it, and when night fell she would turn the light on in her gingerbread house. The candy windows would glow, and if you leaned in close enough, you could inhale the cinnamon and clove scent that wafted from the gingerbread walls. Just like a Nativity Scene and a Christmas Tree, our gingerbread house was a Christmas constant. Oh, how I love it.
When I married my husband, we went back home for Thanksgiving one year. After my Dad and husband left on the round-up, my mother set to making her gingerbread house. My heart should have liked to DIE for longing, and she let me make a small pattern gingerbread house. Her Love Shack pattern, she called it, on account of the heart-shaped windows. I was thrilled. I learned a lot about gingerbread house making that year with my mom right by my side, guiding and coaxing me. Luckily that year was the year I started blogging, and I have an account of that day.

Here’s an excerpt from my Thanksgiving blog post of 2005 -the first time I had ever made a gingerbread house:

 

Mom and I built separate gingerbread houses the second day of the round-up. She’s the goddess of gingerbread, and she taught me her tricks. I built a small hut, and she built her traditional gingerbread house. My house looked pretty pathetic. If I had a nickel for everytime mom said, “It’s okay. Frosting will fix it,” I’d have enough money to buy my husband a digital camera! After my mom had flattered me with, “Oooh! How pretty!” and, “Aw! Cute!”, I began to think that my hut resembled the Taj Mahal -just a little. The fact that the roof was crooked and the chimney was only on 1/3 of it(that meant that 2/3 of it was hanging off) suddenly didn’t matter. I floated on cloud 9 as I decorated my misshapen heart windows and broken candy cane sides. Just when I had convinced myself that my hut looked pretty amazing, my little brother decided to take a peak at it. As only a nine-year old can, he told me the truth. He gazed at it for a minute, gave me a sympathic smile, wrapped his arms around me and said, “That’s okay. It’s your first one.” He was right. It looks pretty sad, but like mom said, the frosting fixed most of it, and the broken candy canes and crooked roof are all pretty much endearing. Everytime I look at my hut, I remember Thankgiving at home.

Okay, now. Since then, I’ve made a house every year (I think). I don’t make them the day after Thanksgiving like my mom does. I hope someday I will, but for now I just make them whenever the opportunity arises. I’ve gotten better over the years.
Here’s the one I made in 2008 for The Boy’s first Christmas:

This year, I decided to try out my mom’s pattern. The FULL-sized gingerbread house AND I decided to invite some friends over so we could have a gingerbread house decorating party. In my mind it played out so perfectly. There was Christmas music, and cheery warmth in the kitchen to combat the chill in the outside air. There were sweets and frosting and laughter galore!
Well….
We certainly had laughter galore, so that’s something.

While making the gingerbread this year, I forgot one simple fact: substitute dark Karo syrup for some (or all of) the molasses so the gingerbread is more sturdy. As it was, our gingerbread was NOT sturdy. I invited out friends over at 3 and then texted them, begging them to come over later because I was running behind on baking.
They came and I STILL wasn’t ready. I was rushing around the kitchen, baking and apologizing, cutting and apologizing.
I finally was able to glue their house, but I broke it in the process. I glued it back together and then broke MY house. I baked more pieces to fix my house (on account of GLUING it back together not working) and then I broke the new pieces.
It. Was. Catastrophic.
But like I said… laughter galore!
My husband grabbed the camera and started snapping pictures.

Gingerbread was everywhere. We named this house Scarface:

And then we trashed it:
I tried starting over, but I broke everything again. I joked that everything I was touching was turning to crap.
I guess that’s MY magical power.

My counters were a mess, complete with the pizza coupon we didn’t use to order pizza that night. Have I ever told you how horrible I am at couponing?
And here’s my reminder… molasses? Bad.

There is a happy ending to this story. Thank the gingerbread heavens for that. I regret not getting any pictures of actual PEOPLE from our gingerbread fun, but here’s our friends’ houses. They had a little one for their boy and a Love Shack for themselves.
Here’s the little guy’s house:

And here’s their house. Jamie made the house cute while her husband worked on the yard. Isn’t that how it’s supposed to be? We’re all very traditional around here.

Jake even made a swing set which I’m still thoroughly impressed over:

Every gingerbread boy and girl should have a candy cane, Twizzler, and sugar wafer swing set in their back yard:

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful:

And heeeeeere’s our house!

My house smells like a gingerbread house, but there’s none to be seen. I feel like one of those women who saute onions in butter to give the effect of having slaved over the stove all day… the scent is all for show.
But we did have a great time, and we did have some great pizza that I insisted on feeding them on account of our having held them hostage for so long in our home, forcing broken gingerbread houses and candy at them.
They’re such good sports. Jamie, if you were here right now I’d ASK permission to take a picture from your facebook. But you’re not, so I’m just going to snag one. It’s nothing personal, I just think I need a picture to go along with your houses.
Also, you all won the gorgeous lottery and then made babies. People need to see this.

Hello, models. Thank you for having babies.

Okay now. Memorize their faces.
Close your eyes.
Picture them holding a gingerbread house.
Ta-da! Suddenly it doesn’t matter that we forgot to take pictures with people in them.

Thanks for the fun, Jake and Jamie!!! I’ll never forget our very first Gingerbread House Party. Things always go so well in my mind, and then reality hits: I’m glad it hit with you guys!

I should be going back to the drawing board to start a’fresh. But I’m going back to the holiday pinterest board instead. There’s gotta be something else for me to butcher… there’s gotta be! In a few weeks I should be posting pictures of our gingerbread house.
Hopefully.
Don’t hold your breath, though.

Do I have a lot to post about?  Yes.  I do.  We spent 3 days with family out of town, we ate a Thanksgiving dinner that included 2 kinds of turkey, one honey baked ham, and one dish of rabbit (no lie).  I experienced Black Friday Shopping for the first time.  Our Christmas decorations are begging to be put up, but only the Nativities are.  I spent an undisclosed amount of money on candy for gingerbread house making… my husband came with me to shop for gingerbread house candy for the first time this year and he was appalled that candy cost so much.  He tried to cheapen my house, something I wouldn’t allow in the least.  We’ll go without FOOD before letting the gingerbread house suffer the effect of the recession.  It doesn’t deserve to hurt -it’s so pure.

But what I’m going to tell you today is that my husband took some time yesterday to play outside with the children.  I was trying to get the house clean because it was the day after Thanksgiving.

We had gotten home from visiting family at 10 pm on Wednesday night.  We unpacked the car and then poured into bed.  I fell asleep without even so much as removing a contact.  We woke up Thursday morning, and I opened my computer to check out Amazon’s lightening deals.  After buying season 4 of The Big Bang Theory for $12 (or was it $10?) and a few other things so I could get free shipping… I told my husband I needed to get into the kitchen and start cooking.

“I could really use your help,” I said.  He looked around the living room at the unzipped-crap-flowing-out-of suitcases and the piles of laundry that had been laundered and left unfolded before leaving on our trip, and he proclaimed that HE WOULD CLEAN while I cooked so we wouldn’t have to clean the house the next day.  I thought about telling him the truth about cleaning… about how it wouldn’t make a BIT of difference and how we would end up cleaning the next day anyway, but he was determined.  I resigned myself to the kitchen and began cooking, cutting, thawing, and baking.  I watched as my husband tried to clean.  I have to say: it was sweet of him.  But watching a man try to clean a room that really requires the skills of a master multi-tasker (a WOMAN) was really trying.  I really needed help peeling potatoes, and it seemed like every crayon my husband picked up grew two heads and slipped from his fingers back onto the carpet.

As we walked out of the door to join my family for Thanksgiving dinner, our hands LOADED with food (and the ugliest pie you’ve ever seen.  Pie is my nemesis), my husband remarked, “It doesn’t look like I cleaned at all.”
Nope, nope, it didn’t! But it sure looked like I COOKED all alone for 4 hours in my kitchen.

The next day, we woke up and (what else?) CLEANED. I went for a pathetic run… really, it was the saddest little thing, but at least I went! I came home and joined everyone in the kids’ room for a mass cleaning and then I set to making breakfast while my husband folded the laundry that was still strewn across BOTH couches. Have I ever told you how much my husband likes to WASH laundry but how much he dislikes folding it? I finally spoke up, like a spoiled brat. I told him I appreciated that he loved washing, but he was taking all the FUN out of laundry for me. He did the part that made you feel important and accomplished and always left me with an eternal pile on the couch to fold and put away… a job that makes you feel insignificant, mundane, boring and a little fat. The button pushing and machine loading part? MUCH more fulfilling. I asked him to please either STOP washing or START helping fold.
He’s done a little of both.
Yesterday he folded while I made breakfast at 1 pm. Eating a breakfast of honey baked ham and fresh fruit at 1 pm is just… sublime. It really makes it feel like a holiday, you know? Plus, by 1 the kids were so hungry that they ATE ALL OF THEIR FOOD which is really something.

After breakfast, we had to get the entire house cleaned up before we would let ourselves get our Christmas decorations out. I wasn’t about to do it alone -as I had done the day before in the kitchen -no way… I needed help cleaning the mess I didn’t make. I put a movie on for the kids (who really had done their fair share by mucking out their room all morning) and my husband and I set to cleaning.
Eventually, the kids got sick of their movie and started throwing stuff around… because, well, why not? I got sick of their throwing stuff around and announced that SHOES WOULD BE PUT ON and COATS WOULD BE GOT ON and THE CHILDREN WOULD PLAY OUTSIDE.
So they did. A few minutes later, my husband took something outside.
“Hurry back,” I teased, “We’ve got a lot of work to do.”
On his way back inside, he got distracted playing soccer with the children. I listened to them outside, cheering for dad, clapping, laughing, giggling… He handed the soccer ball to the girl and told them he needed to get back inside to help Mama clean.
“Stay, Dad!” She begged, “Just PLAY with us!”
“Maybe when I’m done cleaning,” he said as he walked away. I met him at the door and ordered him back out.
“Go back out there and PLAY with your children,” I lightly shoved his back.
“But I thought you needed my help,” he looked back.
It’s no wonder we confuse men… just when they think they’re doing what they ought we go and prove them wrong. No, no, don’t DO WHAT I SAY… just DO what I SAY!
And what I say is, “Go outside. and PLAY.”

He readily agreed, leaving me to clean the house (you guessed it) all by myself. As I ran around the house putting things away and straightening this and that, I peaked outside and saw my kids waiting next to a growing pile of leaves.

Once they were given the all-clear they launched their little bodies into the pile.

Lying down in a pile of leaves makes you extra vulnerable… something dads just LOVE.

What do moms love? This:
My husband’s hotness speaks for itself. Holy gorgeous.
What do kids love? Kicking a perfectly good pile to pieces.

Today is going to be filled with more cleaning (the kids went a little crazy with the Christmas decorations -most of which we can’t put up because we’re getting a REAL tree this year which means all of the ornaments are wrapped in newspaper and sitting in a box that the kids just CAN’T leave alone) and then a little gingerbread house making and decorating.
But first? I’ve got a sad little run to go on. Wish me luck.

Hello, it’s Monday.

Do you know what that means? It means the Benefit Auction AND the Primary Program are both over. It also means that I took a 5 1/2 hour nap on Sunday afternoon, briefly interrupted by a pair of Heavenly Angels who delivered unto me the BEST HOMEMADE BREAD I’ve ever had (sorry Mom and Grandma) along with a bottle of pear jam that I am currently hoarding. Despite the Heavenly Angels’ example to share of our goods, I am NOT. That jam, suckahs, is mine.

I want to tell you all about this weekend, but FIRST.
As a follow-up to my last post, you can read all about Laurie’s Adventures in Twilightland HERE. It includes a picture of her with her “Team Edward Rochester” shirt which (based on the positive response) I’m thinking should hereby be marketed. I need a design team, stat!

Next, here’s what he looked like when I was about 4 or 5.

Roughly 15 years after that picture was taken, we got murried.

Wasn’t that fun?
NOW.
Onto the weekend…

Saturday around noon, I went to the Fire Station and HAD to take a picture of our Hall of Fame. Joseph City has a little Hall of Fame that is displayed on the wall. There’s only one picture missing. It’s of my Grandma. She hated her picture so she took it down before anyone could see it.

My grandma is a classy spit-fire, and we all just adore her… my husband included.

I slowly set up everything in the kitchen. I opened the packages of bottled water, donated by a local dentist.

I opened and stacked the paper goods, donated by a local trucking company (added onto last minute by a local roofing company -thanks again, LuAnne!), and the list goes on and on. By three o’clock, the kitchen was filling up with OVER 60 CROCK-POTS of food, made with love by women all throughout town.
The High School service club stood right by my side, labeling crock pots and organizing everything for the dinner.
One of my favorite pictures of the night was these three boys, handing out bottles of water:

PS: What is happening to high school kids the world over? Isn’t High School supposed to be that terrible awful awkward phase where you take a bunch of dance pictures so you can laugh at yourself 15 years later? All the kids I bumped into last night were utterly lacking in awkwardness. I just want to know why. And when it happened.

The auction items mounted as the day wore on, and by the time the auction started, we had OVER 200 items. We had to start the auction 30 minutes earlier out of necessity.

We had a FULL HOUSE, and the town bought up the loads of auctions items like there was no tomorrow… a loaf of homemade bread went for $80. My husband bought a small pan of homemade fudge for $35. Home decor signs, sock monkeys, fleece horses, lap quilts, gift certificates, trailers of chopped wood… it was almost as if Santa himself came and dumped the contents of his fat, red sack in the middle of the fire house floor!

People came from all over town (and a few from miles around) to participate in the auction.

The Firemen were in charge of the auction, with the Fire Chief acting as the Main Auctioneer. He had men out in the crowd, calling out every time a bid was made. The adrenaline was almost too much for my son to handle, and he was a fit of giggles as the auctioneers hollered out numbers.

About a month ago, a friend asked me what she could do to help. The Fire Chief had told me that quilts generally rake in QUITE a bit, so I told her if she could round up some cash, I could use it to buy material to make a quilt. A few hours after I hung up the phone, she was standing on my porch with $70. I knew that $70 wasn’t enough to make the quilt I had in mind, but it was a GREAT start. I took it to the city with me, telling myself I’d get what I could and figure out the rest later.
As I walked in the fabric store, I saw that flannel was 60% off (AMAZING price!), and the batting and thread were all 50% off. I was able to get EVERYTHING I needed, and when the cashier rang me up, the total came to $70.07. I squealed in excitement. It was one of those little miracles that, when it happens to you, doesn’t feel so little at all.
I took the materials home where one woman cut the pieces into squares (and the batting into squares), and the supplies were delivered all over town to several different women. Friday night (the night before the benefit) I pulled it all together… stitched the pieces into place and trimmed the edging so it would fray:

As I put the finishing touches on the quilt, I hugged it close and confessed to my husband, “I WANT this quilt!”
“Make another one,” he shrugged.
“It won’t be the same!”
“Why not?”
“This quilt,” I explained with far more passion in my voice than one ought to have for a rag quilt, “encompasses the SPIRIT of this TOWN!”
He laughed at me.

But he also bid his little big heart out when that quilt came up for auction.
We did not win the quilt. Try as my husband might -and DID -we didn’t come home with it.
It went for a whopping $385 to a home that will appreciate just how much it’s worth.

My husband, children and I poured ourselves into bed at 10 pm Saturday night. At 6 am, I was up and making treats for the Primary Kids.
As luck would have it, all but 2 of the teacher weren’t able to make it to the Primary Program to help out. I panicked for all of 30 seconds before I realized…

It would be totally fine.

The auction needed to happen.
The quilt needed to be made.
The Program needed to come to pass.

And they all did… in SPITE of all I did to muddle everything up.
If it needs to happen, it will happen… if there’s one thing I’ve learned this weekend: THAT is it.
Whatever will be, will be.

My heart lies with my little town… with the generosity of the people, the spirit of the children, and the love stitched into a miracle quilt.

Someone wrapped their arms around me Saturday night and said, “Think what would have happened if you hadn’t had started all of this.”
I had to laugh, “Someone else would have,” I shrugged.
And isn’t that the wonderful, glorious truth of a small town? It’s a place where the Fire House hosts benefits and The Wall of Fame where grandmothers refuse to let their glory shine. It’s a place where money means nothing and your word means everything. It’s the place country songs are written about.

When it comes to weight, brother we pull our own.
Until we can’t anymore… then we hit our knees and the neighbors come running with their hearts open.

This is where it’s at… this is home.

Am I the only one who puts an “r” at the end of certain words… like idears? And Isabellar? I feign Britishness when I’m feeling fancy.

And yes, at 9 AM with my running sweats on, my hair all a wreck and my unwashed raccoon eyes, I feel mighty fancy.

Back to the point: I get t-shirt ideas all the time. It’s a sort of silent hobby of mine to dream up what shirts should say, but I never DO anything with it -see -because I make crappy shirts. I did once, you know. When we were first married, I took a plain white tee (not the band, a literal plain white tee) and some paint and made a shirt. And here’s what it said:
(Please ignore the double colon usage) (Please stop giggling because I said “double colon”)

This item belongs to:
Danny Deets
If found, please return to:
His Arms

I painted hearts all OVER it and then I wore it on Valentine’s Day. Danny Deets himself was not all that thrilled, but last year he pouted when I wore that same shirt while PAINTING our table and chairs.
“I thought it was special…” He protested. He’s like one of those children who swears they HATE IT when you hug them but who, in all reality, wouldn’t have it any other way.

I haven’t made a shirt in a looooonnnnngggg time, but I still get shirt ideas up the wazoo. I have a hankering to make a maternity shirt with two word bubbles, one coming down from the neck of the shirt that says “Marco!”
And the other coming from the protruding belly that says “Polo!”

Stupid? Yes. But I still giggle picturing it. Because the BABY is SWIMMING. Get it? Get it?!

I also dream of a maternity shirt with a vintage cowgirl on a bucking bronco printed across the belly with the words “This ain’t my first rodeo” written across the chest. Only second-time mothers could buy it, of course.

Anyway, I get these idears from time to time, but I don’t have the skills to do much with them (how I WISH I DID!). Thank goodness for my brother Steve, who brought the Team Edward Rochester shirt to life.
And thank goodness for Laurie, who put her own spin on it AND wore it to a Twilight marathon.

Demmed adorable.

Do you remember Steve’s?

I love the both of them! It makes me want to be able to make t-shirts! For months now, I’ve wanted to have a t-shirt making date with my husband, but I don’t really know how to go about it.

As it turns out, I can’t bring about any of my ideas without help. I’m hopeless.
So… group date, anyone?

Yesterday, I was talking with some friends and we remarked on how we try to emulate certain women. We talked about how as teenagers we would go through entire phases trying to be exactly like someone else because we honestly didn’t know who we were. Of course we all come out of those phases with a few bits of that person attached to us. As we merrily roll along, we continue to pick up bits and pieces.
It was Tennyson who once said, “I am a part of all I have met.”

After my friends left, I pulled out some paper and made a list of the women I try to be like. I don’t try to be exactly like them (thank goodness for growing out of 16), but I pull from the best parts of them.
At the top of my list is my sainted mother who I can’t help but emulate on account of the fact that -first of all -I look like her.
In the past month, I’ve heard more people tell me how much I look like my mother than I have in my entire life.

What do I try to pull from my mother? Her ability to do things -all things -neatly. I can’t seem to pull it off like she does, but I try. I clean my trash can every other week because I’d hate for her to see gunk in the bottom of it. My microwave gets a weekly deep cleaning because I shudder at the thought of mom seeing tomato and butter splashed and caked onto the white insides.

She prays every night with her door open where her children can see her.

She listens, really listens. I genuinely believe that when I’m with her I’m undoubtedly the most interesting person in the world. What’s more: she never tries to fix me. I wonder how much a million other children would pay to spend an hour with a mother who refrained from fixing them. My children would love that above anything -this I know. But at this point, my “fixing” simply involves getting pants on front-wards and shoes on the right feet… SOCKS included.

She MAKES the holidays. From decorations to gingerbread houses, she brought the spirit of every holiday into our home. And isn’t that what really makes HOME for us?

Her list is the longest -the most detailed. Following her is my grandmothers -both blessed women are still living, and I’ll be DANGED if I don’t pick their tired brains for all they are worth.
How do you can peaches, Grandma?
How do you quell morning sickness, Granny?
Show me how to be a lady. Show me how to laugh. No matter how old I get, see me as the little granddaughter who can do everything she puts her mind to the very best you’ve ever seen it done (foot rubs and messy cooking experiments included).

I study the lives of my great-grandmother and learn more about myself between the pages of her journal than I do through the pages of my own.

I watch my aunts around me -the way they live, the way the interact with those around them, the way they overcome what’s placed before them. I’ve watched them turn a conversation away from gossip effortlessly. I’ve watched them run households, serve, follow promptings, and care.

I TAKE from that, even if they don’t know they’re giving, I TAKE.
I hope reading this doesn’t give the women in my life the feeling that I’m hunkering behind the front bushes in their yards, chanting…
Every breath you take
Every move you make…
I’ll be watching you.

I don’t stop with family. Why should I when there’s so much good to TAKE TAKE TAKE from the ENTIRE WORLD -YEA EVEN the ENTIRE HISTORY of the WORLD?!

I reach out and try to touch the wit of Dorothy Parker but leave behind most of her attitude.
I want to write like Norah Ephron, but I don’t want her life.
I want to love, laugh, live, and reach out exactly like Marjorie Pay Hinckley.
I want to have the courage of Esther to tell my Father in Heaven that YES I WILL do WHATEVER YOU SAY even if what you say is “Go forth and obtain the donations of the world.”
Oi.

I delve into fiction and my heart thumps wildly as I read about Jo March of “Little Women.” I want her wild spirit -her imagination.
My heart sings happiness as I watch “Thoroughly Modern Millie” for the millionth time. I want Millie’s bright attitude -her optimistic view of humanity. Her spunk! The easiness about her that simply attract friendship… even her flaws are downright attractive.

I want to have the grace of Julie Andrews.
I want Loretta Lynn’s spit-fire.

BUT MOST OF ALL: I want it my own way… unfortunately, in order to make Julie Andrew’s grace my own, I may have to nix it entirely. Grace has never found a home with me, and I’ve got the scars, broken nails, bumped head, twisted tongue, twisted ankle, and clumsy legs to prove it. That doesn’t mean I’ll ever stop trying by any means.

Is this list complete? No it is not. It’s constantly building. The more I live life -the more women I meet -the more stories I hear… my list grows and grows and grows.

There’s inspiration fairly woven into the air of the earth… and I’m constantly inhaling. We all are.

Who is on your list? Be they fiction or fact, living or alive in you, cinematic or scriptoric… who are they?
Yes, I just made “scriptoric” up. It means “of or having to do with scriptures.”

Please excuse the lack of pictures in today’s post. It deserves pictures. A better woman would ADD pictures, but an even better woman would know the value between getting pictures put by names on a blog post OR getting a shower.
Toodles.