Men Are From Mars

During our date Friday night, I mentioned a girl I knew.  I only had good things to say about her.  She’s very beautiful.  She takes great care of her physical appearance.

“I really admire her,” I said.

“Yeah?” My husband asked, trying to sound interested.

“Yeah, you deserve someone like that -someone gorgeous and skinny and gorgeous and skinny.”

“What?” He asked.

“The kids should have a mother who sets a better example.  I should be more like that.  I should take better care of myself.”

My husband, the poor guy, didn’t really know what to say.  The fact is: in a matter of three miles, I went from admiring a girl I knew to factually PROVING what a terrible wife and mother I was.  He eventually cut my pity-party short and called me back to reality.

I asked him how he did it.

“Men don’t do that,” I said.

“Do what?”

“Go from thinking well of one man to completely hating themselves.”

“Nope,” he said.

“Why not?” I asked.  “What’s the secret?”


(I love the ability men have to form answers in one solitary word, often times an echo of what they’ve just heard.)

“Yeah.  What’s the secret?  Please tell me.  I’ll write a book and we’ll make millions.”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged.

“Try and think…” I pleaded, dollar signs blinging in my eyes.

“Just…” He started -I held my breath.

“Get over it,” he finished.

So there you have it.  The secret.  The know-how.  The key to confidence.  I pried his deepest feelings from his heart and THAT’S what I got.

Treasure it, ladies.  Treasure it.


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.  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.

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.)

Goin’ Courtin’

A few months ago, I uncharacteristically nagged my husband about the simple fact that we didn’t do much together.  I wanted to broaden our common interests, spend more time getting to really know one another, and consequently create a more solid foundation.  Solidify our relationship.

Solid, solid, solid.

Solid is the key word.

I see it as not only enriching but PREVENTATIVE as well.  At first he thought I was crazy.  I didn’t blame him because, frankly, he’s got a point.  I let the issue slide, but it nagged at me.  I didn’t really mean to, but I ended up nagging my husband about it.  It all came to nothing, as nagging usually does, and I became distracted with other things: self-improvement, self-growth, blah, blah, blah.

And then something happened.

I got a text from my husband.  He told me he’d taken some time and read through all of the emails we’d sent one another when we were dating and living 4 hours from each other.

“I have to say I’m a very lucky guy,” he texted.  Naturally, I pried open his mind and absolutely fished for compliments, as any woman would.  This is what came of it.

“You’re just an awesome girl!  You love me more than anyone ever has and I think I’ve taken that for granted…I’ve just realized I need to do a better job of nurturing the good thing we have.”

And… melt.  Right there.  On the spot.  But wait.  There’s more!  He proceeded to ask me out on a date, and I proceeded to accept.  Through no fault of my own or his, I ended up completely planning the date.  Okay, so maybe it was my fault.  But what it comes down to is this: I got an idea.  If you know me at all, you know what happens when I get an idea.  Nothing stops me.  My husband didn’t mind because, as he later confessed, he had “planned” to take me to dinner.  Somewhere.

Through a little Internet browsing, I decided it would be really fun to pick a recipe we could cook together.  I found a recipe for Shrimp and Artichoke Pasta, something that just SCREAMED my husband’s name, and I copy/pasted it to Microsoft Word where I could bend the font to my heart’s desire.  I then made a shopping list and printed it out along with the recipe.  I cleaned the house from top to bottom.

Seriously.  I MOPPED.  You must understand how serious this made things.

Then I washed our aprons.  Truth: I bought my husband a discarded Olive Garden apron at Savers a few years ago.  It’s black and manly.  It’s a beaut.  And the apron’s pretty sleek, too.

Getting the ingredients for this particular recipe turned out to be pretty expensive, and I even omitted the proper cheese on account of it’s costing $10 for a little slice.  I’m country, okay.  Cheese shouldn’t be that hard or that expensive.

We perused the aisles of the dingy Safeway and bought marinated artichokes, red pepper flakes, FRESH basil (which nearly killed me with sheer happiness), shrimp, sparkling cider… and the list went on.  Once home, we made the most beautiful mess in my newly-cleaned kitchen.  My husband put on Norah Jones Pandora Station, and we cooked.

The first thing we did was chop.  I taught my husband how to chop by leaving the tip of the fat knife on the cutting board and only lifting the back of the knife.  He was prodigious good at it.  I taught him how to SLAM a cup down on top of a clove of garlic to get the waxy crap off.  He really took to that.

I asked him to sautee the olive oil and garlic.  He did.  And then, on account of my not thawing the shrimp in time, we burned it. Here’s a picture of him burning the garlic.  See how forced that smile is?  He really did have fun.  Don’t let that face fool you.

We tossed out the burned mess and started anew.  Afresh.  All over again.

The smells that came from the range-top were OH-HO so GOOD.

I have the cutest apron that my mother-in-law gave me for my birthday. I’ve used it SO much! I feel bad using something so beautiful. Really, I ought to just hang it on the wall and look at it. But as you can see, I use the heck out of it.

The dinner turned out really well. My husband put our sparkling cider on ice. I cleaned and vigorously dusted our fancy glasses (we literally haven’t used them in years. How sad). Don’t mind that this picture isn’t very pretty. We’re not photographers. We’re chefs. Obviously.
I might also add that the Parmesan that you sprinkle on is light years cheaper than that other stuff. Oh, and the Sunflower plates were a wedding gift from my aunts and uncles.  Sunflowers are my very favorite and were the flowers of choice at our wedding reception.  I LOVE that set!

This picture doesn’t do this dish justice.  Holy stinkin’ heck, it was divine.Yes, there’s leftovers.

Yes, I’m thinking of eating them for breakfast.

Yes, I haven’t eaten breakfast yet.

My husband held me close last night after we ate and danced with me to our favorite song.  As we danced, he apologized for not planning the date he asked me on and then confessed that he had a date planned -a surprise date -for Valentine’s Day.  I was so happy I took him out for ice cream.  Right then and there.

Can’t wait. Can not wait!

Looking For Advice

We are a pretty tight family.  I don’t mean “tight” like “cool” or “totes awesome.”  I mean “tight” like “we spend a lot of time together.”  I sense it won’t always be this way.  The children will inevitably grow up and have a say in what we do together.  Maybe they’ll grow up a little and realize that I’m a weirdy, but until they do, I’m obliged to make them spend time with each other and with me and with their Daddy.

The problem I’m having is this: we watch too many movies.  I can’t say that we watch too much TV because we don’t have cable or satellite or anything like unto it.  But DVDs?  We have so many of those that it doesn’t matter.  Basically, that’s how we spend the majority of our time together.  We watch DVDs.

I want to branch out more.  I mean, I do more than just watch TV with my kids.  I teach preschool to my kids from home and we do ALL sorts of fun stuff together!  We mix play dough colored red and yellow together and make orange.  We make slime out of cornstarch, water, and baking soda.  We make recycled crayons and we stretch and we read books!  Yesterday we didn’t have preschool, but we raked leaves and played with the neighbor’s dog and made cookies and took a trip to the gas station for a treat.

BUT Dad’s not here for those things.  And by the time Dad IS here, Mom’s too exhausted to do anything but cook dinner for us to eat together and then pick a movie for us all to watch after family prayers.

I want ideas.  I want your ideas.

What do you do as an entire family unit?  My husband wants us all to spend the day together tomorrow, bonding.

He has his own ideas for us. He wants me to make a picnic lunch, which I’m happy to do.  But then what?

Hit me with your best shot.  My creativity is tired.

Son Rise

He’s getting older.Photobucket Why is it that as young mothers, we feel like time is FLYING by but we also feel that it isn’t moving at all?  And not only “not moving” but actually standing STONE STILL?  I’m talking about those days when they won’t nap, when they scream all through the shopping aisles/church/street, when they argue with you… you get the point.  Days like that, I wonder if the day is ever going to end.  I wonder how my pillow is.  I look up in the sky and hope the sun is setting, which it never is.  A watched pot never boils, mama says.

Then I blink and my son has gone from nursing to speaking in full sentences.  So what the heck? I feel this overwhelming urge to treasure every minute, and YET I find every time I wrap my arms around him and go in for kiss, he inevitably screams in my ear!  Treasures aren’t supposed to do that!

But what can you do?  Kiss them anyway, says I.  Kiss them anyway.

Today as I was raking up leaves (interjection: how about this warmish weather?!  I literally begged the kids to play outside with me and I just soaked in the fresh air while a raked for an hour), Trenton ran over to me and asked for a hug.  Then he asked for a kiss.  Then he looked into my eyes and said, “Happy Birthday, Mom.”

Uh, thanks?

“Happy Birthday, Trent,” I said.

“Banks!” He said, running away.  Neither one of us will celebrate a birthday until fall, but it was still nice to hear it.  Never hesitate to tell someone you love happy birthday.  You never know when it will be too late.

Saturday night, I was craving enchiladas.  I felt bad asking my husband if we could go out.  The fridge was full of food -I was just too lazy to cook it.  He agreed to take us all out if I could get the Christmas tree back in the box.  He had undecorated it and pulled it apart while I was on a youth trip, and it was just sitting out by the box with all of it’s branches sticking out in every direction.  I set to work, and I defeated that tree.

I won.

What did I win?  Enchiladas.  We called up my folks -my sister was in town -and we made a family ordeal of it.  Restaurants in these parts are all very charmingly Southwest.  In the gift shop of this restaurant, there is a wooden Indian Chief.  He’s a good 3 1/2″ tall, at least, and the feathers in his headdress aren’t feathers at all.  They’re suckers made to look like feather.  You can pluck them out.  My kids have been enamored with those suckers since they first saw them.  I’ve always told them they can’t have one on account of the fact that I just bought them a lunch they didn’t eat, but Saturday night was different.

The fact that they didn’t eat remained, but the fact that GRANDPA was with us was something mighty different.  Needless to say, each child plucked their own feather and went home with it.  My husband opened Lacy’s up effortlessly and handed it to her.  Trent handed his to Dad.

“Ope’ it, pees!” he cried.  My husband tried and tried, but he couldn’t get the wrapping off.

“Sorry, son,” he said, handing it back, “I can’t open it, you’re just going to have to throw it away.”  To our surprise, he didn’t argue.

“Okay,” he said, taking it back, hanging his head and walking toward the trash.  A few steps into his walk, he turned back and looked at his dad, “Are ‘oo kidding me?” He asked, honestly wanting to know.

We wanted to answer, but we were laughing so hard we couldn’t.  You can imagine his relief.  The sucker stayed.

He took a late, late nap on Monday.  He woke up grouchy and clingy.  He didn’t want anything, and he let me know it.  He only wanted to be a grouch.  Lacy had been watching “A Christmas Story” -a movie both of the kids have seen over and over, especially in the last three months.  I tried to get him interested in the movie, but he wasn’t having it.

As The Old Man started opening his wooden box, marked “FRAGILE,” I started poking my son.

“What is he doing?” I asked, my enthusiasm exaggerated, “He’s opening that!  Look at that!  He’s doing it!  He’s opening it!  What’s inside?  What’s inside?!”

My son wasn’t having it.  He looked at me and very factually said, “A shoe.”

Well, you can’t argue his point. Nevermind the sensual leg or the whole “lamp” idea. That there’s a SHOE.

Mothering, mothering.  Mothering boys.

My life is so full.  Of what?  We’ll talk about it later.

Um, hi.

So I’v been cleaning for the past four years.  It’s TRUE.  It’s TRUE.  I’m not good at it.  I’m inclined to think that if I WERE good at it, I wouldn’t have to do it as much.  I mean, I spend all morning cleaning one area of the house and by the early evening, it looks just as bad as it did before I cleaned it.  It’s moments like that I think one of two things.

#1) What did I do wrong?

#2) What in the blazes am I DOING with my life?

Usually I think #2 because, let’s face it, it’s the easiest conclusion to draw from the situation.  Anyway, I’ve been walking around all day hampered by thought #2, and I’m really pretty overwhelmed in housework.  And when I say “really pretty overwhelmed” I mean “My house is trying to eat me -starting with my mush-for-brains.”

I read a quote by an upstanding housekeeper once.  She said that it is important to remember when you visit mothers of young children that, in general, the mother used to be a good housekeeper, and someday she WOULD BE again.  I have always believed that to be true for myself.  Not for anyone else, though, because I never go into other people’s houses and think something like, “Geez, lady.  Nice mess.”  In fact, I never really notice there is a mess unless the woman points it out.

Anyway, there once was this ecstatic, brief period when my husband was gone all of the time for work training and my daughter was a newborn (read: completely immobile) when my house was nice and clean.  I spend a lot of time thinking about that because when I do, I convince myself that YES I WAS a good housekeeper once and YES I WILL be one again.


Well, today has been one of those days where I solidly disbelieve it.

Today has been one of those days where I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that someday someone will make a bad example of me.

Naughty, naughty woman.  She took time to blog, but she didn’t take time to clean.  And then there’s the loooooonnnnng list of “if’s”

If I had the money to just go out and buy everything little organizational thing I need…

If I just had a bookcase…

If I just had a somewhere to keep my linens…

If I just had access to a housekeeper…

If I just had access to a professional organizer…

If I only had a brain…

I believe in every one of those “if’s.”  I really, really believe in them.  And yes, it is one of my vain dreams to hire a professional organizer.  I’m hoping that he or she turns out to be like a dentist -the kind of person that has ALWAYS seen worse than what you’re showing (which is doing a pretty good job of being horribly bad).  I hope they’ll just “tsk, tsk” and ask me if I clean (much like the hygienist asks me if I floss) and then start teaching me just how certain things are done.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to brave my kitchen.  I’ve been working tirelessly on it but it doesn’t show and I’m still frightened of it.

But I’m more hungry than scared at this point.

Also, I need a thicker, uglier apron.


What is it about seeing Generations that makes us all happy?Photobucket
I get happy over “Generation” pictures even when they aren’t mine. There’s something golden about them, and I’m not talking about the grandparents in them.
Sometimes, the grandparents don’t have to physically BE in the them to be in them. Take this, for instance:Photobucket
My son has his pants tucked in his boot -his great-grandpa’s trademark. Whenever I see my son walking around with his pants in his boot, I automatically think of my grandpa and it makes me smile.
Of course, I’m not trying to say that I PREFER grandpa NOT to be in the picture. Heavens, no!
No, no!
Generation pictures are ALWAYS better with them. Always, always, and without fail. And constantly. Photobucket
There’s Granny. And Mommy. And Lacy. And Me.
Here we are together in our family.

Where’s My Stationery?

Before logging into my blog today, I half-read/half-skimmed an article.  It was written by a Sports writer, and he addressed the matter of internet rudeness.  I loved it.

First of all, I hate whiners.  I didn’t read his article to listen to him whine about the hate mail he gets.  I didn’t read his article to hear him moan about how it hurts his heart when someone disagrees with something he says.

Thankfully, he didn’t say anything like that at all.

He just told a couple of stories to illustrate his point.  We all know how I feel about stories… It turns out someone disagreed with something he’d said, so they tweeted him something hateful. They exchanged a few messages, and finally the offended man apologized for how rude he’d been, citing the anonymity of the Internet making easy to be so (rude, that is), and included a link with his apology.  A link, he said, that went to an article where he’d written out his criticism.  The link, it turned out, led to hard core porn.  The offender was trying to be funny.


I’m disconcerted.  Before the Internet, offended media-readers would write and mail their complaints in.  I’m inclined to think the porn stayed under the mattress.

This just bothers me.  It BOTHERS me.

The most I can do about it is try to close my eyes between coughs and losing games of Candyland and softly chant “Be the change you want to see in the world.  Be the CHANGE you want to see the world.  BE the change you want to see in the world.”

When you accent different words every time you say them, the quotes sound way cooler.

How this story ended was really great.  The sports writer looked the man up.  It turns out… the Internet?  Not so anonymous.  He called him and talked to him about what had happened. The guy apologized for it, but felt strangely honored that a great sports writer had actually tracked him down and called him.

I found that to be also disconcerting.

“Oh, you clicked on that?  Oh, you tracked me down?  Me?  Little me?  Well, how ’bout that?”

Don’t you think the reaction should be more like, “Oh!  This is… who?  Oh…. ahem… wrong number.  Sorry.  This isn’t he.  I lied.  I’m sorry.  I’m hanging up now.”

Stories like these are the very reasons I make sock monkeys, you know.  There’s something so safe about them.  Something innocent -something simple.  When you look at a sock monkey you feel like maybe the world is going to turn out alright.  When you flick their button eyes, you can almost imagine a world connected only by radio, telephone, and The Hand-Written Letter.  It makes you feel safe and warm and at home with yourself.

Oh I can’t tell you enough how much I long to simplify my life down to the dang wire.  Harboring sickness in my home for the last three weeks had made me have to cancel everything, stay home, and “just” be a mom.  I mean, I thought I already was “just” a mom, but I haven’t been.  I’ve been bopping around all of tarnation, leaving bits and pieces of my mind’s clarity along the way.  After three weeks of staying home and one weekend of solitude, I’m coming to realize that playing Candyland is really fun.  I mean, I’d rather play Candyland with my daughter than “chat” with “friends” on facebook.

I don’t really feel like I’m chatting, though.  I don’t.  Because they’re just words on a screen next to a picture.  But when I play Candyland with my daughter, she’s actually here.  She’s not halfway across the country clicking her little red gingerbread man up candy mountain.  She’s flesh and blood, sitting next to me, giggling, laughing, asking if she can draw the star card, even if she’s all the way to the chocolate space.

There’s more than something to be said for human contact. Internet “anonymity” is definitely worth forsaking in the interest of flesh and blood.  How I wish I knew exactly who read my site, and how much I appreciate the friends I’ve made because of it.  I’ll have you know, though, that there’s NOTHING I say here that I wouldn’t say if you weren’t sitting on my couch next to me right now.  I only wish that you really were.

I hope postcards come back into fashion.

I hope daily tea with friends comes into modern fashion.

I hope we can put down our phones and close our computers and GET BACK TO REALITY (and not the “reality” we see on TV).

In reality, it does not do to send sickening images around as a joke.  In reality, it does not do to let down our guard and show our worst just because we can and no one is looking directly at us when we do.  Social networking is somehow uprooting everything our mother’s taught us about being, well, sociable.

“Be sociable,” she’d tell us, and we’d reluctantly get off the wall and head toward the crowd and engage in conversation.

“Be sociable,” the Internet tells us, and we open five different accounts with cool usernames and start typing all sorts of oddities at the crowd, be they nice or mean or sugary-coated in green.

Last year, I made a goal to spend a week writing letters instead of sending emails and I never did it.  Today, though, I’m making that goal again.  I’ve HAD it.  HAD IT.

Don’t you want a letter?  Don’t you sort of get a little blue when you go to your mail box and find junk mail on top of a few bills?  Don’t you pacify yourself with a few facebook comments, but still wish you had a letter to read -a hand-written letter?

I want a letter.  I want to delete my facebook account.  I want to have my friends over for tea, even though my house is dirty.  Know why?  Because they don’t care.  And if they do, they’ll have manners enough not to say anything.  Being face-to-face with someone does that to you.  It enriches you.  It teaches you patience.  It teaches you how to find humor.  It teaches you to have joy.  It teaches you temperance.  It teaches you how to hold your dang-blasted tongue (sometimes the hard way).  It teaches you how to be polite.

Be the change, says I.  Be the change.

Letter writing starts the minute I log off.  I’ve got stamps at the ready, and I’m excited to use them.  Send me your addresses.  Send me your sister’s address.  Send me the Senator’s address!

I’ve got a world to change.

I’ve got stamps, herbal tea, a dirty house, and a world to change.

Thank goodness I’ve got my “bathing suit” on.

Conversations: Part II

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.


The kids and I are pathetic.

My fever went down yesterday, so LIKE A DANG FOOL I got up and slowly cleaned.  I thought the whole “slowly” thing justified it.

“I am taking it easy,” I told myself, “By doing it slowly.”  And then I thought how nice it would be for my husband -who has been running himself ragged trying to take care of us and work -to come home to some corn chowder, one of his favorite dishes.

I even took plenty of time to lie down between picking-up jobs and dish washings.

Right before the chowder finished cooking, my fever returned and I had to run to the bathroom for the first of what turned out to be three terrible bloody noses.  Okay, did I phrase that right?  It makes it sound like I have three noses.

Anyway, last night turned out to be really bad.  The poor kids’ bodies have HAD it, and though mine has too, I hate that I can’t get up and get back to life as I know it.  But I know if I don’t take it easy today, I’ll have another night like last night and I really think I’d rather slit my wrists and do a handstand in saltwater at this point.

BUT during the times that I actually did rest yesterday, I was able to snap a few pictures that I wanted to share.  The first is of my legs.  Have I ever told you how much I hate them?  Well, I USED to.  They were the bane of my existence.  They were awkward and long, and I was just sure that my life would never achieve it’s true measure of happiness until someone came along with a miracle medical procedure that would shave off a good 5 inches from both sides.

I blamed them for my utter lack of grace.

I blamed my utter lack of grace for my lack of popularity.

I blamed my lack of popularity on my acne.

I blamed my acne for never having any boys interested in me.

So really, my legs were at the root of all these rather radical evils.  Somewhere between living with a roommate with long legs like mine and being six years into marriage, I quit worrying about my legs.

I stopped hating them.

Remarkably, I made more friends, experienced significantly less acne problems, developed a serious relationship with a seriously hot boy (I thought he was a man until I looked at those pictures we developed a couple weeks ago.  Shoot, he was just a kid!), and became magnificently graceful!

Okay, that last one was a lie wishful thinking.

Yesterday as my son slept on the floor next to the couch, I had to snap a picture.  This angle isn’t the best to see it, but my son is SO tiny!  He has the littlest bones and the tiniest frame.  The best part about his body is his big rolly-polly head.  I love to watch him walk around.  I’ve got my very own LIVE little bobble-head.Photobucket
As I sat and watching him sleep, I looked over his thin little body and I couldn’t help but think of “My Big, Fat, Greek Wedding” when Toula’s aunt pinched someone’s (can’t remember whose) collar bone and says, “I could snap you like a chicken!”

I love my little guy. I love that he is sleeping less (though he is sleeping now) and I love that he woke up throwing punches about thirty minutes ago. Must’ve been SOME dream.
While he took the nap you see in the picture above, Lacy crawled on my lap. I let her, and we watched a movie together. Soon enough I looked down and noticed something.
My legs.
Guess what? I LOVE them! I LOVE my legs. I love my long, covered-in-black-hair-but-glaringly-white-underneath LEGS! They’re still long. They’re still awkward. But guess what else they are?Photobucket
Best dang recliner on the block, by jingo!Photobucket
They aren’t sexy, but they’re able.
That sentence might just be the theme for my entire body. I’ll have a shirt made, shall I? Have those words emblazoned across the chest?Photobucket

The last picture I have to share with you is revealing. I’m not talking about my chest anymore, so don’t get any ideas.
I’m talking about my housekeeping.
Keep in mind, I’ve been playing nurse since Jan.1, breaking only to be sick myself.
Yes, my tree is still up. I haven’t had a second to take it down, and that’s the gospel truth. But look past that, if you can, to see my daughter with my lap apron tied across her chest. She’s washing the windows with a baby wipe.
They’re so “clean” now!Photobucket
Doesn’t that picture make you happy?

Well, SOMEONE has got to pick up the slack since mom’s literally fallen down on the job -might as well be Lace.