Smatterings

February 25, 2011 by · 4 Comments

This post has no point.

There.  I warned you.  Read on if you dare.  It’s simple a smattering of thoughts, pictures, and what nots.    I believe all of these items deserve mentioning, but none of them can form a post all their own.  They’re not strong enough, so I’ve banded them together.  A conglomeration of smatterings that have no point and no purpose… but they have each other.

First:
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Every boy should be so lucky as to holster his squirt gun in his cowboy boots.

Here’s the girl.  Apparently, she’s been eavesdropping on my piano lessons.PhotobucketShe told me they were Middle Cs.  I was so stomping proud that I didn’t dare correct or refute.  They look like Middle C’s to me!

If you’re looking to take a gander at some clever craftiness, please click

HERE

and take a look at the cards my cousin made.  I’m in love, I’m in love, I’m in love (with a wonderful guy) (props to the one who can name that quote) and I ordered some from her.  I get giddy just thinking about getting original tweets in the mail.  Squealing giddy.

While driving the other day, I snapped a picture with my camera phone.  Camera phones, as we know aren’t all that amazing.  Keep that in mind when you look at this picture.  Try and see what I saw.  The sun was beginning to set, and just as I came over a hill, the sun hit that PERFECT place on the horizon where it illuminates everything with gold in what feels like an instant.

Nothing gold can stay. That’s why I snapped a crappy picture.Photobucket

Isn’t that NICE?   Look at all that! Miles and miles and MILES of just… fresh air.  I love the feeling of being able to breathe.  It’s all very Dixie Chick.

I wanna be the only one, for miles and miles.  ‘cept for MAY-BAY you and that… simple smile.

I love where I live.  Desert? yes.  Ugly? absolutely not.  The only downfall in having miles and miles all around is that I can’t take a fencing class or live out my whacky dream of playing Miss Hannigan in a stage production of “Annie.”  But I’ll live.  The fresh air is rather a great comfort.

Here’s another to add to the “She Posed Like That” pile:Photobucket

Here’s them by a mural that I love on account of my obsession with history.Photobucket

Please note the way my son is clutching his behind.  He lives with his hand attached to the back of his pants to hold them up.  You should see him run sometime.

Next to the mural were some tiny purple flowers (weeds) and Lacy put some in her hair. Not to be outdone, my son asked if I might put one in his hair. He gave me the flower he wanted in his hair, and like a good mother… I obliged. I mean, as best I could, I obliged.Photobucket
Yesterday, I sat down at my computer for just a few minutes and ended up running into a thousand great things. Two hours later, I emerged a changed woman.
I wanted to share part of it with you. I already did, if you clicked the link to my cousin’s cards above. Here’s a little something more in the form of my friend’s labor story. If you’ve ever had a child, you’ve got to read it. If you’ve ever been bothered by a dirty shower, you’ve got to read it. If you’ve ever done squats, you’ve got to read it. If you’ve ever seen “Oklahoma!” you’ve got to read it.

CLICK HERE

And the last of all the smatterings is a couple pictures of my Beehives. We had a little out-of-the-box talent show on Wednesday with all of the young women. A few examples of talents include: toe popping, back bending, baton twirling, and pogo stick hopping. Our beehives did a “magic” show where they performed obviously not-magic magic tricks. They wore matching pink capes and they looked adorable.Photobucket
One of the girls sang along with Miley Cyrus to that party in the USA song (my finger slipped just now and typed “USD” I laughed for a good thirty seconds over that). Because I forgot my camera (like a FOOL) I was forced to use my delaying camera phone, but I did get this picture:Photobucket
And it makes me happy every time I see it.

Filed Under: Family, The Boy, The Girl ·

Foodies

February 24, 2011 by · 2 Comments

Over the holiday weekend, the weather was blustery and unkind.  We had planned to spend Saturday in the city getting some much-needed shopping done, but after looking out of the windows and looking at the online weather warnings, we decided to bunk it at home.  It was an experience unlike any other.  We all had NO PLANS, and so we sat at home doing whatever came to mind.  Thanks to the overcast weather and falling snow, I was compelled to break out my Pioneer Woman cookbook and try my hand at her cinnamon rolls -something I’d been dying to do for over a year but had never been brave enough.

I don’t care for cinnamon rolls.  They always look so inviting and wonderful, but when you bite into them? dry.  All anticipation comes crashing down, no matter how much you microwave it (the roll.  not the anticipation).

These rolls were different.  They were moist and soft and absolutely delicious.  The only problem was: the recipe made exactly 51 cinnamon rolls.  It used up every single pan in my house that was somewhat cinnamon-roll friendly.Photobucket

Now let me take you back…

Last week, we had a Valentine’s Party for preschool.  The kids wanted a pink butterfly cake, and I was going to bake sugar cookies for them to decorate.  But I got sick the weekend before the party.  I bagged the sugar cookie idea.  I bagged the butterfly cake idea.  Instead, we had cake mix cookies (made out of strawberry cake mix) and we decorated them as if they were sugar cookies.  I made a batch of frosting, and the kids had a blast.

I made the frosting in my favorite stainless-steel bowl.  My husband’s grandmother gave it to me as a bridal shower gift, and I treasure it.  It has a ring on the side of the bowl, and no matter where I’ve lived, I’ve always kept that beautiful bowl hanging on my wall in very close range to my cooking area.  My husband used to use it for popcorn.  It didn’t bode well with me.

“Are you telling me I’m not allowed to use that bowl for popcorn?” He asked.

“Yes,” I replied, “It’s mine.”

“You mean it’s … ours,” he said.

“No.” I shook my head, “It’s mine.  Your grandma gave it to me as a bridal shower gift and I use it all the time and when it’s not hanging in it’s spot I get cranky.”

It’s not characteristic of me to impose rules on my husband, so when I do he generally takes the hint that I’m not to be trifled with.  Besides, the rules I do give generally have to do with kitchen duties and really there’s only two rules.

#1) Don’t use my mixing bowl.

#2) If you’re going to interfere while I cook by telling me I need to measure ingredients, I will unkindly escort you out of my kitchen.

Anyway, the kids didn’t use all of the frosting.  I covered it tightly with Cling-Wrap (material of the gods!) and put it in the fridge.  The next night, I was exhausted.  We did scriptures and prayers with the kids, and Trent went right to sleep.  Lacy did not.  I put “The Princess Bride” on her TV to help her drift off, about 2 hours later, she woke me up.  Her movie was over.

I stumbled out of bed and started it again, mumbling at her to go to sleep.  I should’ve just turned the dang movie off, but who thinks straight in the middle of the night?  Later on in the night (I’m not sure how much later because I’m too blind to see the clock and too tired to put my glasses on), she was by my bedside again.

“Can I have some juice?” She asked.

“Yeah,” I mumbled and promptly fell back asleep.  I was awakened again by a noise coming from the kitchen.

clink, clink, clink…

I’d heard that sound before.  My foggy middle-of-the-night brain registered that it was the sound of my prized mixing bowl -the ring it hangs from hitting the side of the bowl.

clink, clink, clink…. SLAM

My eyes popped open.  My brain began registering facts more quickly: mixing bowl, frosting, fridge door slamming… LACY.  I squinted in the darkness to see the silhouette of my daughter, clinking as she went, pat-pat-pattering into her room with a big bowl of frosting.

“Lacy!” I hissed, so as not to wake up her dad, “NO!  What are you doing?”

“Can I have some juice?” She asked, innocently handing over the bowl of frosting.

She got her juice.

Now back to the cinnamon rolls: what do you do with 51 cinnamon rolls?  A few days before, my husband had expressed a sincere concern for my health -er, lack of health, I should say.  Something’s amiss with my blood sugar, I think.  In any case, my 25 year-old body acts more like a 55 year old body at times.  Given that we’d both like for me to bear children again someday, I need to take better care of my body.  Read: I need to give away cinnamon rolls so I won’t eat them.

We took a pan to grandma.  We took a pan to my folks.  We took a pan to my brother.  We divided up individual rolls to this person and that person, saving only 2 pans for ourselves: one small pan and one larger pan for our Sunday breakfast and after-church snack.

Saturday night, I covered the big pan in tin foil and I nestled up to watch “My Girlfriend’s Boyfriend” with my husband (a good movie, by the way, or I wouldn’t have mentioned it.  Word to the wise: only watch it once.  If you watch it more than that, Alyssa Milano’s mouth may start to grate on your nerves).  From the kitchen, I heard the rusting of tin foil.  I ignored it, hoping it would go away.  I didn’t.  It got worse.  Soon the rustling sound gave way to a tearing sound.  At that point, I sat up to go stop the tearing but I was too late.  My son came bolting out of the kitchen, holding a big pan of cinnamon rolls at a 45 degree angle over his head.  He clutched the pan in a small space where the tin foil had been ripped away.

The best part?  He didn’t take his eyes off of his parents as he b-lined it for the sanctuary of his bedroom.  Honestly, I’ve never seen the kid run so fast on his tip-toes.  Maybe he thought if he held the pan up high enough, we wouldn’t be able to reach it.  He was wrong.  And as I took the pan out of his hands, he WAILED loudly so as to let all nations, kindreds, tongues and people know that HE HAD BEEN WRONGED.

It probably wasn’t in the interest of good parenting to give him a roll, but I did.

It was in the interest of my sanity, and that counts for something.

Now that you’ve read through the entirety of this post, I have to say: I feed my children.  I feed my children well.  I don’t know why they hoard sweets in their room, but I suspect it’s because they’re on the normal side.

Filed Under: Family, The Boy, The Girl · Tagged With: , , , , , , , , ,

Dating

February 21, 2011 by · 1 Comment

I sort of off-handedly made a remark a few days ago to my daughter about going on a date.  A GIRL date.  I didn’t think much of it.

“We need a girl date, huh Lace?” I said and then thought about what to make for dinner.

She set immediately to making plans.

“I needa change!” She said, running into her room and rooting through her drawers for JUST the right outfit.

I had to explain to her that we weren’t going out right then, and she accepted that under the condition that we fix an actual date and time.  So we did.

Denny’s.  Friday afternoon.  Pre-dinner cake.Photobucket
We split one piece. I had originally planned on splitting a milkshake with her, but when she saw the big picture of the moist slice of chocolate cake… it was all over. It’s always been like that with chocolate and Lacy.Photobucket
It’s hereditary, I think.Photobucket
The next day, I found her on another date. I mean, I didn’t know it was a date. She had to tell me. But after she did… it was totally obvious. I don’t know how I didn’t see it before.

She went all out. There’s even a BLANKET over the Lightening McQueen table.

Please don’t ask me to explain the tiny whisk in my son’s mouth.
I can’t.
But I can tell you this: that chocolate cake was delish.

Filed Under: Family, The Boy, The Girl ·

Blame Game

February 18, 2011 by · Leave a Comment

Two days ago I was resting on the couch when I heard a shattering sound.  I looked up to find a small table lamp knocked over with my daughter, stick horse in hand, standing next to it.  I couldn’t even get out a word before she hurriedly told me what happened.

“My horse just kicked it.”Photobucket

Needless to say, we had a little talk about owning up to our mistakes.
A kicking stick horse. Ha. What does she take me for, a fool?

Filed Under: The Girl ·

iPods, According to the Four Year Old

February 17, 2011 by · 2 Comments

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…and you thought they were expensive.

Filed Under: The Girl ·

Beautiful

February 9, 2011 by · 2 Comments

A while back, my husband and I went to the city with our kids, and it wasn’t a disaster.  Back then, the kids weren’t into fighting.  They were cherubims who shared and hugged and spread pixie dust everywhere they walked.  Right?  Whatever they were, they were easier to take to the city then than they are now.

On that particular day, my husband took us out to eat at The Olive Garden.  He used to work at an Olive Garden when he was growing up and he’s always been sort of attached to their Chicken con Broccoli (which I’m pretty sure isn’t even on the menu anymore but they make it if you ask for it).  As always, he ordered Chicken con Broccoli and I ordered soup, salad, and breadsticks (by far and away my favorite thing to get).  Our food came, and I leaned over to help the kids eat their maca-ernie (that’s what it’s called at our house) and cheese.  As I finished, I looked up to find my husband looking at me.

“You,” he said, as he speared a piece of chicken with his fork and then pointed it at me, “are a beautiful woman.”

I don’t mean to throw him under the bus by saying this, BUT: it had been so long since I’d heard that!  I was taken completely off guard and it shocked me.  I didn’t know what to do, and instead of doing something rational like THANKING him, I just…

cried.

Right into my minestrone.

How very feminine of me, I know.  Needless to say, after that he was a little more prone to voicing his positive thoughts about the way I looked.

A few days ago, he told me that I was beautiful and I blushed -a huge step up from blubbering over bread sticks.  I asked him (after thanking him) if he remembered the day I cried in The Olive Garden.  He said that he did, and I went on to tell him that above anything else, a woman just wants to hear that she’s beautiful.

It’s nice to hear that dinner was good, that the house looks nice, that I’m funny or nice or cute.  But to be told that I’m beautiful?  It means the world to me.

“It means the world to any girl to hear that she’s beautiful,” I told him as we drove down the road to our (fated) trip to the city, “Watch… say it to your daughter.”

My husband adjusted the rear view mirror so he could see her better.

“Lacy,” he said, catching her eyes, “You’re a beautiful girl.”  Instantly, a smile spread across her face and she tucked her head down.  She looked out the window because she was embarrassed.  Later on that day, we heard her singing from her car seat.

“Daddy says I’m byoot-i-ful… Daddy says I’m byoot-i-ful…”

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(I made us some aprons from the same fabric and she’s beside herself with joy. When we wear them, she holds the matching fabrics up next to each other.)

Daddy speaks the truth.

Filed Under: Family, The Girl, The Husband · Tagged With: , ,

My Little Pretties

February 8, 2011 by · 2 Comments

On Saturday we spent the day in the city.  It seemed we had run out of nearly everything in our house, and I was feeling a little Mother Hubbardish.  I had been looking forward to our trip to the city for days.  I wasn’t excited about spending the amount of money I knew we were going to have to spend, but I was looking forward to GETTING OUT OF THE HOUSE.  The kids and I have a bad case of cabin fever.

Yesterday it got so bad that I had to clear out completely.  I packed up the kids, drove twenty four miles to the nearest Wal-Mart, breathed a sigh of relief, and then spent money, got after the kids for fighting, and came home completely exhausted.  Yes, it would have been better to have stayed at home.  My hindsight vision is so clear it’s maddening.

Our day in the city started off wonderfully.  My husband and children went with me into the newly remodeled Joanne’s Fabrics where I nearly fainted with enthusiasm.  I wasn’t able to browse like I would have liked to, but I found what I needed and we went to check out. (I picked up a book titled Apron-ology in the magazine section, fawned over it and then replaced it.  My husband picked it back up and bought it for me.  It has been my constant companion ever since.)  The computers at the registers weren’t functioning quite right, so the line was long.  People were impatient.  Quilters and crocheters alike were beginning to voice their annoyance.  My children were busy rummaging through the displays at the check-out line.

Wooden birdhouses?

Candy?

Books?

Their joy was complete.  My husband and I looked lovingly at each other.  Our eyes locked and spoke (though we never spoke out loud) saying, ‘What little DARLINGS!’

We scooped them up and read books to them.  A woman a few feet in front of us who spoke as business-like as she dressed said, “Your children and beautiful, and they are very well-behaved.”

We thanked her and our eyes locked again.  What little DARLINGS!

As we walked out of Joanne’s and into Bookman’s, my husband confessed that when the woman had complimented our children’s behavior, his chest had puffed out about three feet.  I wrapped one arm around him, told him he was a good dad, and then basked in the wonderfullnes of the day I had been looking forward to for so long.

After Bookman’s, we went to Sam’s Club.  We had to spend SO much money on food.  We went beyond the budget, which we both knew we would but there was no getting around it this time.  The kids had spent the entire shopping trip annoyed with the fact that the other breathed, touched things, and generally existed.  My husband and I walked out of the bulk shopping warehouse with absolutely no bounce in our step, which is ironic given that our pockets were lightyears lighter.  We unloaded the car, buckled the kids in, climbed into our seats and locked eyes.  They were both worn and wary.

“The little stinkers,” I said audibly.  My husband shook his head, and off we went to our last shopping destination.

Super Wal-Mart.  I had to finish our shopping list.

At this point, my once-bouncy hair was limp and frazzled.  My make-up had fallen.  My posture was laughable.  With both kids in tow, my husband and I ventured into the store.

The kids were still at each other’s throats.  They kicked, they touched, they fought, they fought over the food I put into the cart.  They fought over their coats.  They fought over EVER-EE-THING.  I tried to get through the store as quickly and efficiently as my energy would allow.  I didn’t realize that my son had gotten ahold of the Mac n’Cheese.  And can I just say?  We just FED them.  We took them out for “chicken dip its” which, as we all know, is chicken strips.Photobucket
I took it away from him and tried to keep it away from him, but his sister got it and tried EATING the dry macaroni that was escaping.
In frustration, I tried to increase my speed and efficiency. But by the time I’d made it to the cold cereal, my son had taken my glass bottle of red wine vinegar and dropped it over the side of the cart. It broke on the hard floor and the distinct odor of vinegar wafted through the store. I sent my husband for help and with marked embarrassment, I explained to a lady sporting a mop what had happened. She cheerfully sent me on my way, and I apologized my brains out, even after Mop Lady was out of ear shot.
Once at check out, the cashier gasped when she picked up the Macaroni and Cheese box.
“Do we have RODENTS?” She asked, horrified.
“You don’t,” I said, warily pointing to my son, “But I do.”

I have two, in fact. Two “well behaved” little rodents. One of which came home, grabbed his Iron Man fleece blanket and blue pillow, and mad a bed on my piano bench.
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We all slept REALLY hard that night.
The moral to the story: next time we need to go to Sam’s Club, WE ARE GETTING A SITTER FOR THE DAY.

Filed Under: Family, The Boy, The Girl, The Husband · Tagged With: , , , , , , ,

Playing Pretend

February 4, 2011 by · 2 Comments

Lately, Trenton has decided that nap time is optional.  His attitude is suffering, and so is my patience.  Yesterday, he threw such a big fit that I put him in his soon-to-be-taken-down crib.

“I don’ wanna gake a map!” He cried (translation: I don’t want to take a nap.)

I had just gotten out of the tub and was tired.  I knew I needed to fold laundry and do dishes, but it was COLD.  Instead of going to the sink or to the clean laundry on the loveseat, I curled up on the couch.  My daughter made her way toward me and started asking for things.  I didn’t want to get up, so I turned my laying down into a game.

“I want to take a nap,” I told her, “Can you help me?  I need a blanket.  Will you get me a blanket?”

I didn’t really want to take a nap, but I knew she likes to pretend.

“Sure!” She said, running out of the room.  Second later, she appeared with her fleece princess throw in tote.  She tried throwing it over me once.  It didn’t work.  Twice!  It didn’t work.  The third time was a charm.  Once the blanket was thrown over me, she went to her toy box and brought out a stuffed puppy for me to snuggle with.

“Now will you read a story to me?” I asked her, snuggling my puppy.

“Oh, sure!” she said.  She pulled up a little Lightning McQueen chair and her favorite book.

She sat down, spread “Little Bitty Mousie” across her lap and flipped through the pages.

“I just don’t know about these words,” she said, “I can’t read them.”

“Just try,” I encouraged, grateful for every moment of rest time I could muster.

She turned the the first page, and she READ that book!  Apparently, she has most of it memorized.  The parts that she didn’t know, she made up.   I watched in fascination as she flipped through each page and softly “read” to me.  Her little voice was so sweet and soothing…

Pretty soon, I fell FAST ASLEEP.  I love having a girl.

Filed Under: Family, The Girl ·

Cemetery

January 30, 2011 by · 2 Comments

I’ve always been drawn to the cemetery in my hometown.  As a teenager, I used to jog to the cemetery and walk around it for awhile, studying the names and dates on the headstones.  I always lingered around the family headstones, and I soaked in the quiet solitude that surrounded the area.  It was never creepy or eerie.  It has always just been very peaceful.

Two days ago, I was driving in the general area of the cemetery.  My kids were in the car with me.  They’d been fighting all day long (they’re going through a lovely stage), and the thought struck me that we might stop for a few minutes and walk the cemetery grounds.

The first headstone we saw was the one dearest to our heart -Laynee Leigh, my brother’s daughter, who had to leave us much too early.  Lacy had questions about Laynee.  Where was she?

“Her body is under the dirt right there,” I said, pointing, “But her spirit is with Heavenly Father.”  Lacy couldn’t understand that, but she wasn’t actually all that interested anyway.  After reading her name and admiring the glittery pink headstone, we continued to walk.

“There’s great-great grandma,” I would tell them.

“There’s great-great grandpa,” I would tell them, “He was in the army.”

“She lived in Seth’s house.”

“She was best friends with Daddy’s great-grandma.”

“He was a pioneer.”

“She is grandma’s grandma!”

And I talked on and on.  At the end of the cemetery there’s a plot of graves that has always mystified me.  In fact, every time I’ve gone to the cemetery I’ve never walked away without stopping to look at the graves.  I took pictures to share with you.  I also took pictures so I could go home and google the names on the headstones.

It’s a family… a husband, a wife, and six children -not one of which lived to be any older than 8.  Her husband died in 1933.  Then she died in 1936.  I’ve always ached for her.  To have so many children die and then to outlive your husband!  It seems too awful to think about, let alone bear.

Before logging on to blog, I googled the name of the father.

“Sanford M. Porter”

The M, it turns out, stands for “Marius.”  His wife was named Nina Malinda Porter.  They moved to a Mormon Settlement nearby (Sunset) in 1880.  Four years later, they moved here.  I found all of this out by reading a short history on a website.  Most of the information, I was SO HAPPY to find out, was taken from their son’s journal.

THEIR SON!  I can’t tell you how glad it made me to read that they had a child live beyond childhood.

His name was Rulon Ensign Porter.  He was born two years after they arrived in Sunset.  That said, here’s who we’re talking about:Photobucket

Here’s some of their children, not in any order:PhotobucketFive years old.PhotobucketEight years old.

Myron died the same year as his sister, only he was 6. Was it an accident?  Epidemic?  Two separate incidents altogether?Photobucket

PhotobucketInfant.
PhotobucketInfant.  Only two years apart.PhotobucketI can’t be sure whether this says 1901-1901 OR 1901-1904.

Can you imagine the kind of faith these people had to have?  The strength?  The fortitude?  Determination?

It makes me so grateful for modern medicine and running water and sunrises and sunsets.  I walked away from the cemetery feeling much like I ever do when I leave the cemetery: I feel a sense of commitment to try harder, to be better, to live up to the standard of faith my ancestors set for me.  Next to the Porter family plot, there’s another plot I always stop by.

My great-great grandfather’s plot.  He was a Mormon Pioneer.

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Looking to the past has never ceased to intrigue me. My house is decorated with sentimental family artifacts that I’ve picked up along the way -things that remind me of where I came from and who I am.
Grandpa’s old milk bottles from the dairy he ran. My great-grandmother’s unused copper tea kettle. The bouquet of flowers my Dad gave me for Valentine’s Day years ago. The bouquet of flowers my husband bought me in the hospital after I birthed his daughter. And old photograph of my grandparents when they were about my age.

All of these items fill me with immense gratitude.

I want to teach my children about where they come from. I want them to know how our town came to be and the people who brought it about. I want them to know where our spirits go when we die and why our bodies go “in da dirt.”
I want them to feel safe -to know who they are. They are both children of God. He loves them. He wants them to return to his presence.

I love them, too. But sometimes I have to send them away from my presence. After we drove away from the cemetery, my darlings proceeded to FIGHT the rest of the day. In a fit of desperation, I called Laynee’s mom.
“I know it’s last minute, but is there anyway I could leave my kids with you for two hours tonight?” I asked. She took them for not just two hours, but 2 1/2! When I picked the kids up, they were much happier. I was much happier.
As we drove home, Lacy spoke up.
“Mom, Laynee is dead,” she said.
“Yes,” I replied.
“And she is just in da dirt,” she said.
“Her BODY is in the dirt, yes,” I said, “But her spirit is not in the dirt. Where is her spirit?” I asked.
“In Heavenly Father’s belly?” She asked.

My husband and I laughed so hard we could barely drive straight. Well! Babies go in bellies! Laynee is with Heavenly Father. Laynee is a baby. Naturally, she’s in Heavenly Father’s belly. Naturally.


(That shirt was much nicer before she spit her cough medicine all over it, by the way.)

(Through more research, I found the Porter’s had 14 children in all. Rulon himself had two wives [not all at once, mind you], one daughter, and three grandchildren. A list of the Porter’s children can be found here in case you’re curious.)

Filed Under: Family, The Girl · Tagged With: , , , ,

Conversations: Part II

January 20, 2011 by · Leave a Comment

I have to add one more conversation to the list before I forget.  My brother, Steve, left a comment on the “Conversations” post about how Lacy asked him draw a giraffe, telling him that her Daddy didn’t know how to.  It reminded me…

Well, the kids just got new curtains.  About time, too.  The ones they had were thin and constantly fluttered from the draft that came through the winder.  My husband bought some of those energy efficient curtains.  He’s 100% sold on them, by the way.  Good bye fashion.

I will admit, though, that there is a noticeable difference in the way our house holds heat since we’ve changed out the curtains.  I held Lacy last night and asked her how she liked her new curtains.

“Good,” she said, “They just keep the giraffe away.”

Giraffe = draft.

Oh, the things they hear.

Filed Under: The Girl ·