Papa Roach

This weekend, we were able to skip town and visit family down in the warm, sunny valley.  It was a quick trip, but we’re always SO excited to go when we can!  Saturday night, my husband went out looking for a sturdy pair of shoes, and he took his little sister with him.  I stayed home with the kids.  I was in a Sunday dress on account of just having come home from the Young Women General Broadcast.

My in-laws, my children and I were all camped in front of the TV watching Bobby Flay throwdown.  As I watched, my daughter came toward me with her hands cupped together.

“This,” she said, holding her hands out so I could see them, “was under Trent’s pillow.”

I peaked into her softly cupped sweet little hands to find… a roach.  I yelped a great yelp, causing my daughter to jump and THROW the roach out of her hands and ONTO my skirt.  I started yelping and yelping and yelping some more and jumping and swiping… in short, I freaked out.  My poor daughter burst into tears, and in the middle of it all my mother-in-law, who had dozed off on the couch, shot up and wondered if the house was burning down.

It took more than a few minutes to settle my daughter down.

All my fault.

If I had handled the situation like a grown up instead of a wimpy little girl, we would all be better off.  As it is, my daughter is scarred.  Thinking about the incident on our drive home, I was reminded of Carson Daly.  Is that how you spell his name?  Anyway, I used to LIVE for his top ten countdown on MTV.  One of my all-time favorite music videos was Papa Roach’s “Last Resort.”

I went to youtube and watched it this morning.

Oh. My.  I think we can all pin point THAT video as the spark that flamed into the movement now known as EMO.  I’ll post the video, if you want to watch it.  I’ll also recap here:

punk singer dressed in black.

Offensive lyrics about how awful life is.

Zoom in on depressed, tatted teen.

Lather, rinse, repeat.  Over and over and over and over until the video ends in one screaming mess of depression, piercings, and black clothing. Immediately after watching it, I watched an old music video, “Cruel To Be Kind.”  It was like walking from Baltic Avenue to Boardwalk.




If you find yourself alone with your child’s candy and rationalize taking a piece…

you WILL end up with the coffee flavored jelly bean.

Lesson learned.

Founder’s Day

It’s that time of year again!  We kicked our Founder’s Day off by attending a town Talent Show and today we’re off to a pancake breakfast, a parade, and then a BBQ.

I don’t really care what happens after that.

I’m really all about those pancakes.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go get in line.

When You’ve Only Got Weeks To Live

First things first: Happy St. Patrick’s Day!
(This was our breakfast. When Trent blessed it, he said “…thank thee for shamwoks, ask thee to bless it…”)

Second things second: A few nights ago, the kids were stock FULL of energy and I was not. At 8:30 pm, I stared at the clock at thought, ‘No way is it only 8:30. It HAS to be 10 at least!’ But it wasn’t. And the kids were running laps around me. After trying my hardest to get the kids ready for bed, I collapsed on the couch and started a movie. My husband wasn’t home, and when he’s not home I take advantage of the full control I have over our media players. I love classic movies, and while my husband will endure them like a champ from time to time, in general he’d rather not bother with them. I turned one on and settled in.

“Send Me No Flowers” is a movie about a married man who is a hopeless hypochondriac. Through a fluke, he happens to overhear his doctor discussing a patient’s condition with a heart specialist. He thinks they are discussing him, but they aren’t. The diagnosis? A failing heart and only weeks to live. He leaves the doctor’s office reeling, and spends the rest of the day getting his affairs in order. He buys three cemetery plots (one for him, one for his wife, and one for his wife’s second husband) and then he goes home and encourages his wife to take some night classes about accounting and such. He figures she won’t be able to fend for herself once he’s gone.
As the movie unfolds, the conflicts that arise are pretty much hilarious. I really liked the movie so much that I’d rather watch it than “Pillow Talk” any day.

Last night, right before we went to bed, I told my husband about the movie and then I asked him what he would do if he only had weeks to live.
“Get my affairs in order,” he said, “And then take you to every Bed and Breakfast I could.”
The sweetness of his answer sort of took me off guard. I expected him to say something like, “Go to HAWAII!”
And if anyone knows us at all, they know how we feel about Bed and Breakfasts.
“What about the kids?” I asked. “Wouldn’t you want to spend time with them?”
“It’s not like we’d constantly be in the Bed and Breakfasts,” he replied.
He talks sense.

I started asking myself what I’d do if I only had weeks to live.
I’d gather up my family: husband, kids, mom, dad, siblings, their spouses… and go to Nauvoo. I’d take a church history tour and make a point of stopping off at an Amish community.
Yes, yes I would!
I’d go through the Nauvoo Temple:

I’d run rampant in the pioneer-esque establishment! I’d even go so far as to make myself a fancy-pants petticoat and frock. And bonnet! And APRON!
Then I’d ask my husband to please bury them with me. I’m materialistic like that.

I’d also spend some time getting all of my blogs made into books for my kiddos.
I’d also probably write a list of qualities I want in the woman who would raise my children. Then I’d feel guilty for writing the list and burn it (but still feel better for having actually wrote it).
One thing is for sure: I’d eat like a queen and not give a rat’s about my waistline.

What would YOU do? Be brutally honest.

What’s My Deal?

The title of this post makes it sound like some kind of game show.  I do wish I had some HUGE cash prizes for those of you (if any) who can answer the following questions:

#1) Why do I keep confusing my BLEACH SPRAY with my CARPET CLEANER? Their spray bottles are similar, yes.  But the bleach spray bottle is dark yellow and the carpet cleaner bottle is dark red.  Through some miracle, you can’t tell where I’ve sprayed bleach on my carpet, but this HAS TO STOP before it gets ugly.

#2) Why do I cut and collect coupons and then always forget to use them -whether it’s because I left them at home or because I simply forget they’re in my pocket/wallet (despite the fact that I’ve thought about using them while I was shopping)?

He Putteth Away His Wife

My husband done kicked me out of the house.

I don’t like leaving -really.  There’s a million and two things I need to get done, and aside from that I’ve got a week’s worth of preschooling to make up and I’ve got to get ready for the CUTE hair flowers we’re going to be making for mutual and I’ve got to make up for a missing a week’s worth of playing piano at the high school and OH my poor piano students who have had to miss so much on account of my sick kids and then I’d like to get a few meals in the freezer for later and the kitchen counter need  CPR and then there’s the mending and the sewing and the laundry.

And I can’t forget to give Lucifer his bath.

But away I went.  Alone.  I’m not going to lie, I’ve had a total of THREE mini panic attacks about being alone.  I feel downright vulnerable, but I also feel like it’s a good thing to have gotten away from that.  When I was in college, I was PRO at being alone.  I walked myself to my car.  I ate alone.  I was able to spend twenty solid minutes alone in the bathroom.

But now?  Heh.

I depend on my husband and children so much.  They are my shields, my excuses, my reason-for-not-growing.

Okay, that last one is The Truest One of All.  Only I didn’t know it.

The things is: I never had TIME to know it.  Really.  As I’ve taken a giant step back, I discovered something grisly.  It’s my soul.

Have you seen it lately?  It’s shriveled and curled up inside of me, begging for attention.  I haven’t listened to it because frankly, I didn’t have time for it’s needy attitude. I was too busy nourishing the souls of my children and the Sunday School kids I sub for and the Young Women I adore to no end.  It’s as if I’ve been passing the turkey around the table, making sure everyone got a BIG helping at the expense of myself.  Seems dignified, doesn’t it?  Well it’s not.  Because we’re not talking about turkey.  We’re talking about my soul.  The WORST part about it (as if having a malnourished soul isn’t sobering enough) is that I’ve been physically feeding my body all sorts of junk to make up for the hungry-like-the-wolf signals my SOUL was sending out.  I somehow found myself feeding my body and starving my soul.  The more I ate, the more my spiritual insides withered.

I realize that now.

I also realize that though I hate it, I NEED to be alone at least once a week to reconnect my body with my soul and make sure they’re in harmony and not duking it out.  Anyway, that’s what they do when they want attention.  Juvenile, I know.  But I can’t point fingers.  They learned it all from me, after all.

After coming to the GREAT and GLORIOUS and HARROWING knowledge that I’ve been starving myself, I opened up my scriptures, not knowing where I’d end up.  I turned to the index of the Book of Mormon and the word “Feast” stood out to me.  I thought it was a little strange since I was trying to do the opposite BUT I found 2 Nephi 9:51 to be spot on.  “Feast upon that which perisheth not… Let your soul delight in fatness.”  Fatness?  Feast?  HEY!  I can totally get on board with this!  That is WHAT I DO!  After scribbling a few lines in my journal, I got up off the floor I’d been sitting and pondering on.  It looks like this.  I’ll be danged if these floors aren’t everything a girl could ever want out of life.Photobucket

I walked out of the door and went for a very short walk during which I took in some local culture. Then I quickly went back to my truck because the cold was literally BITING my nose off (though it could do with a minor trim. Not gonna lie). I got in it and drove to a book store.
Then I bought a book.
I never NEVER buy books. Because I never read books. Because I don’t have time!
After buying a book -a very insightful one, at that -I walked across the street to indulge my inner-hippie at a small organic cafe.
I plunked myself down in a corner table and ate squash/potato soup.Photobucket
And I read.
And read.
I didn’t bother looking at the time because I knew it was just FLYING BY. I did bother to take the picture for my friend, Tia. It turns out I was the only person who ate organic today. Why? “That crap is for rich people who hate themselves.”Photobucket
Anyway, I’m not going to pretend that I didn’t enjoy the empty cafe 100%.
Because I did.

Halfway through my lunch, I realized with a shocking amount of surprise that I was eating slowly. I’ve never eaten slowly! My husband has tried so nicely to get me to slow DOWN when I eat, and I never have! It’s been ingrained in me, as the younger sister of three strapping boys, to eat or starve.
Obviously, I chose to eat, and I’ve got the shoulders to prove it.

When I realized I had been eating slowly, I grabbed my cell phone in a panic. I must have been there for hours. JUST HOW LONG HAD I BEEN SITTING THERE?! I checked.
Twenty friggin’ minutes.
That’s it!

Usually when I go out to eat with my husband, it seems we only get twenty minutes together but when we check the time we realize it’s been closer to 2 hours. I have to say: today took forever.

Last time I got away for a weekend, I took my husband and it seemed like just when we got there we had to turn around and go home.
This time? Wow. I feel like I’ve been here for a month of Sundays.Photobucket
I haven’t bothered to “pamper” my body at all. No pedicures, no hair cuts, no massages, NOT even a heaping handful of cookies.
But my soul is slowly being babied back to health.

Balance is a crucial thing to keep and an easy thing to lose.
Remind me of that next Saturday when I come with eleventy billion excuses to stay home and NOT venture out into nature for some feasting and fatness.
Just typing that is SO satisfying.

Before I go: if I were chair, I’d look just like this green one. Really, I would.Photobucket
Know how I know? It’s gloriously chipped all over.
Mazel tov.

There’s a Maid Inside of Me Dying To Get Out



inside of me.

Could Have Fooled Me

Two days ago, my daughter was ultra sweet.  She spent the days showering me with (what she deemed as) compliments and kisses. (I just have to say: one of her compliments was, “Mom, yesterday you smelled like poop and I thought you were ugly at church, but… you weren’t!” *BIG HUG*)

While her brother took a very late nap, she was my pal.  She snuggled with me, talked with me, and finally decided to cook with me.  I had to laugh as she climbed onto the kitchen counter.  She was wearing a black and shimmery orange tutu with an orange shirt, glittery red shoes (“SLIPPERS!” she corrects me every time), and an apron.  Naturally.  She asked me for help.

“How do I do my slippers like just Dorothy?” she asked.  So I showed her how to click her heels together.  Then I grabbed the camera and took this video.  Sorry it’s sideways.  Turn your head, won’t you?

“There’s no place like home,” she says.

Weh-ell. She fooled me. You want to know what she did the next day?! DO YOU?! We’re talking massive amounts of mayhem, here. We’re talking I had flashbacks of her wrecking-ball-like abilities exhibited in her terrible twos. We’re talking I had to sit down at the end of the day and do a major brain reboot!
Just what is it I’m doing, exactly? I asked myself.
It looks like nothing at all. I answered myself.
It looks like your children are undoing your life’s work. I reasoned.
It looks like your children ARE your life’s work. I replied.
Just what is it I’m doing, exactly? I asked myself again, coming full circle. My thoughts literally RAN in CIRCLES around me.

Because when I finally got the energy to do the dishes, I turned the water on AND TURNED MY BACK while the children dumped out three drawers of toys on the carpet, WHICH by the by was already covered in bits ad scraps of the gingerbread house they’d demolished the day before that I can’t seem to ever clean up all of. Not only did they dump out the toys, my daughter ran into her bathroom, turned the sink on and started filling all of her kitchen toys with water. And then she put them on her dress up bin.
On the carpet.
When I turned to find a miniature flood in my living room, I sent them both to their room so I could cool down. I cleaned that mess up only to walk into their room where they were supposed to be resting and watching a movie to find…
And entire jar filled with buttons (both large ad very tiny) dumped out on the carpet. The carpet, remember, is still harboring bits and pieces of gingerbread and candy and frosting. And now buttons.

By the time the dishes were done, so was I.

Days like that are the ones I want to remember so that when my daughter calls me to complain about her disorderly children, I’ll have a deep sense of validation to go along with my sympathy.
I’ll click my heels together and say, as she did in days gone by, “There’s no place like home.”

Hand Puppets, Princess-Style

“Hand Puppets” was misleading. It’s actually “Hand Puppet.” As in… one. I made one. I need to make quite a few more, but I’ve had to change my course. When I started out, I planned on making hand puppets that somewhat resembled Disney Princesses. I decided to start with Jasmine. This is what I came up with.
Please keep in mind that I’m terrible at stuff like this. I don’t know WHY I think I’m capable of attempting crap like this. As I hot glued the second gogglie eye on, I looked at the puppet and laughed.
She looked a little less like Jasmine and a little more like Potiphar’s wife.

So I picked her up and tried to force her to be Jasmine.

But I really REALLY just wasn’t feeling it. I was a little depressed that I had just created a rather less-than-admirable Bible character for my daughter. I guess I COULD teach her a few new stories with puppets.
“Mommy, what does ‘lie with me’ mean?”
Nothing baby. Go play with your Barbies…

In the end, I decided to simply rename her but keep with the whole Bible theme.

Queen Esther. THAT’S someone we can all get on board with, right? Who should I make next? The King? Her Uncle? The man who is hung by his own gallows? How would one make gallows for a toddler’s puppet theater? Pipe cleaners and yarn?
Anyway, as soon as I’m done with Esther’s story, I’ll probably start on Ruth and Naomi. I COULD go with Moses or Jonah, but the idea of making any sort of animal hand puppet is daunting.
I’ve tossed around the idea of making a few Book of Mormon hand puppets, but they’re a little harsh. For example: is it in good taste to make a puppet sword out of pipe cleaners for Nephi to smite Laban’s head off?
What about Ammon and the arms?
Just how WOULD that work in a puppet theater?

Maybe I ought to stick to less-than-worthy princess puppets.
Maybe I ought to bag the idea entirely…


I’m a quote nut. I love them. When I was about 10, I discovered a beautiful red quote book on my mother’s shelves. I read it every chance I got. I even snagged a quote from it to cross stitch, “A light heart lives long.” I loved alliteration before I even knew what it was. The word gods smiled kindly on me one day, and my mother gave the book to me. I keep it always at the ready. I rely on it. I’ve given it a spot in the lately added Reading Corner of our bedroom. The Reading Corner, it must be noted, is sacred. It is my pacification for my lack of a library. The Reading Corner is wonderful. The only thing its missing is a chair. Rather important, I know… and just as soon as I have the cash-o-la, there WILL be a chair. And when I fully assemble The Reading Corner, readers will come. Mainly me, but STILL.

As I adjust back to my pre-holiday schedule, I’m struggling to find my pace again. My life is too full, and after May I’ll be making some radical schedule changes. Until then, I’ve got to keep muddling through. Until then, my quote book won’t be far away.

There’s one quote I keep always at the forefront of my mind. It’s by Benjamin Franklin, who I truly believe would have been my dearest friend had I lived in his time.
“Either write something worth reading, or do something worth writing.” That’s what he said. Why did he say it? Because he knew I would need to hear it, for though we can’t be bosom friends in real life, he certainly can’t shy away from being my guardian mentor. Oh, he can try… but his words are immortal. I will find them. I will use them. I will write something worth reading.

In fact, when I’m not writing something worth reading, I’m usually doing something I end up writing about. I write about everything -hence, this blog.
And now I will admit something to you. Last night, I nearly bid adieu to you and you and you. My domain was about to expire, and I seriously considered letting it. I didn’t WANT to, mind you, but I brought it up to my husband in the form of “Perhaps I ought to be focusing my writing elsewhere. Perhaps I ought to be with my children. HEY perhaps we ought to get rid of the internet and make our own soap and live off the land! I’ll make bonnets for myself and the children! Let’s buy wool! Let’s make you wool pants! LET’S MAKE OUR OWN WOOL!”
At this point, he jerked me back down to earth, handed me my debit card and begged me to renew my domain name. So I had a passing fancy. So I want to rewind time and live in a land without technology. So what?

I thought about Benjamin Franklin as I woke up this morning. I long for a greater measure of simplicity. I long for many more days exactly like I had over the holiday. I long for The Reading Corner. I long for a bonnet.
Well, there’s always the reading corner, anyway. And there’s always Benjamin Franklin. Do you think he’d mind showing up a little bit more? I mean, he doesn’t have to actually come around. He could just send a few green papers with his picture in the middle of them. I’d be happy with that -and what guardian would do less? I ask you.
In the meantime, I’m logging off. I’m going to make hand puppets that hopefully resemble Disney Princesses as a birthday gift for my soon-to-be FOUR year old.
I’ll be back tomorrow telling you all about it. It may not be worth reading, but it will certainly be worth writing if for no other reason than to serve as a reminder to never attempt it again. I’ll see you the other side of a few felt catastrophes.