I’ve always told my husband that one day when we’re rich (*snort*) I’m going to commission an artist to paint us.
Him with his feet so far in the ground that he’s making a good dent in the concrete beneath him and me so far up in the air that I’m about to float away…
except that we’re holding hands.  I’ve got a red umbrella (Mary Poppins style) and he’s got a crisp suit on (all biznass).

And he’s keeping me from losing myself in la-la land and I’m lifting him up and keeping him from sinking in reality.
It’s the perfect dynamic.

I mentioned this to some friends last night, and one of them recommended this video.

To which I say: YES! That’s us. And my kids would love me so much if I put those wings on…
So here’s to the man who keeps me from naming my children as if they were 90 year olds. Thank you.
And here’s to the me who keeps my husband from getting too many worry wrinkles on his forehead. You’re welcome.

The County Fair is in town.
When you live in a small town, the county fair is a pretty big deal. Everyone turns out for the Elvis impersonator and the funnel cakes. Last night was opening night, we went as a family to watch my daughter’s best friend perform in the pageant.
While we weren’t able to stay for the entire pageant, we were able to watch all of the littlest girls perform their talents, and we were almost killed by the cuteness of it all. Seriously -a teensy cheerleader dressed in Mickey Mouse colors shaking her pom-poms and little bum to “Hey Mickey”? It nearly did me in.
Adorableness oozed from the stage… adorableness and rain water.

After we left the pageant, we went to look at exhibits in the exhibit building. It’s one of my favorites. I love to see crochet goodies, canned goods, fresh bread, sewn crafts, photography (I think they should have a “cell phone photography” category), and even cupie doll collections.
“Look at dis pumpkin!” My son called out, “It’s fat like Mom!”
Aaaand we’re still stuck on the Fat Mom stage.

I did see that someone entered a craft under the name …

I’m not sure if someone really HAS this name or if they were joking. But I will tell you that I was once told of a man named Justin. Last name? Case.
We stopped by to see some of the livestock, and I did my best to keep the kids from feeding their glow stick to the lambies and goats.

After snapping a picture, of course.
We found some pigs that snuggled so close we almost had to avert our eyes. Scandalous!

Speaking of names, I should tell you that a few pigs away from the naked cuddling pigs, we ran into Bacon and Pork Chop.

It reminded me of the pig my brother once had. His name was Jimmy. Last name? Dean.

We left the fair around 9:30 pm, and all of us were happy to get home. I wasn’t feeling very well, and I had been hit in the middle of the exhibition building with some REALLY painful Braxton Hicks contractions. It wasn’t cute.
The boy must not have been feeling very well either because he woke up sick last night. I cleaned everything up and sent him to bed with a bowl.
That was at 3 am. Sometime after 4, I finally fell back asleep. I still wasn’t feeling all that great. I had nausea and insomnia bouncing around me… no matter how much I tossed or turned I was out of luck. I finally went to the couch with a book and thirty minutes later: I was asleep.
My husband came in the living room this morning and asked if everything went all right last night (the man is not exactly the one to rely on when it comes to cleaning up sickness… because he’ll just make a bigger mess -if you know what I mean).
“Yeah,” I said.
“Why is Trenton asleep on the floor in the bathroom?” He asked.
“He is? I have no idea… I put him back in bed.”
But I had to smile.
My daughter and husband have a special bond. He just GETS her and she just GETS him. They even sleep in the same position -the same one my husband has been sleeping in since he was just a baby.
I would sometimes scold my daughter for something and my husband would pull me aside and say, “She wasn’t meaning to do that, she’s just feeling…”
It was like the two of them spoke this silent language of understanding and I was left in the fog. Their relationship has always been special.
When my son was placed in my arms, I suddenly SPOKE the language of understanding. From the moment he was born, I GOT that child. And he got me. When my husband scolds him for something, I can pull him aside and say “He wasn’t meaning to do that, he’s just feeling…”
And there’s times when my son senses my feelings and gives me a well-timed kiss or compliment. It’s really neat.
But he was asleep on the bathroom floor. I didn’t teach him that. I never told him, “Trenton, when you’re not feeling good you should curl up on the cold hard bathroom floor because it will make you feel better.”
My mom STILL wonders why on earth she found me on the bathroom floor so many times. Even I don’t know. The cold hard tile made my tummy feel better? I don’t know.
All I know is when I saw this, I melted a little. He GETS it.

Please forgive me for breaking my own blogging rule which is “never post a picture with a hint of a toilet.” But the image of my son curled up on the robe I was wearing when I birthed him is just sweet to me. It’s one of those gross mom things.
But I do love and appreciate that boy who will be turning 4 on Sunday.
On that note, isn’t four years a little long to keep a robe that you gave birth in? I think I’d better buy a new one.

My son is very aware that his mom is fat. He tells me all the time.
“How do you do that if you’re fat?” He has asked so many times, looking up with his big, concerned, HONEST eyes.
While my husband was doing some painting, he moved some of my daughter’s Polly Pockets. Now: she has 2 storage bins FULL of Polly Pockets. They were given to her as hand-me-downs from my cousin, Leigh.
When my husband finished painting, I asked her to move her Polly Pockets back to their spot in in the living room.
“I can’t carry the big one,” my daughter said, pointing to the larger bin, “Will you get it for me, Mom?”
“Lace,” my son cut in before I could respond, “No. Mom is just too FAT.”
Then something -a light bulb, probably -came on in his head. He turned to me, again with his big, concerned, HONEST eyes.
“What would happen if Fat Mom fell on her liddle boy?”
Oh, he SERIOUSLY wanted an answer to that?! I didn’t know what was worse -the fact that he actually had a brief terror flash before his eyes of his mom falling on him OR the fact that I know have an official new name.
Not Mom.
Fat Mom.
Fat Mom.
Say it. It feels like a warm hug. Go ahead.

The kids went with me to my baby doctor appointment. As I sat on the table waiting for the good doctor to come in, my son handed me a magazine.
“It’s about babies being born!” He said, excitedly.

Well.
I did say he was honest. I just didn’t realize how much he actually understood the birthing process.

I came home from an early and quick trip into the city to find a three foot snake in my hallway.

Well, where would you be if you were a snake?  My hallway, or course.  That brown nearly-shag is so irresistible.  I called Dad who said he’d send my oldest brother over.

But after I hung up, something wild welled up inside of me.  I suddenly wanted to get rid of it myself… to conquer!  Fight!  WIN!  Armed with gardening gloves, a toy sword, and an orange kiddie bucket, I did just that.  And the girl snapped a picture for proof.

Thank ya kindly, older brother… but little sister’s got this one covered.
Between my canned goods and snake charming (or pissing off, whatever) skills, I now firmly believe that I could stare Satan dead in the eye on not flinch.
I.

Am.

Spartacuuuuuuuuuuus!

It’s one of my all-time favorite quotes.

When I was a teenager and right about everything (and completely unhappy -total coincidence, I’m sure), I had a very loving bishop tell me that my father would be happier behind a plow than under a car.
“I know,” I sighed, realizing the Tragedy that was My Life. Only as I sighed, I realized that my bishop wasn’t being critical of my dad… in fact, he was actually giving the man a COMPLIMENT.
I didn’t understand. Didn’t the bishop even HEAR his own WORDS? He said my dad would be happy behind a PLOW.
And just like that, I lumped my bishop into my Pile. Pile o’ Adults That Don’t Know Anything About Anything At All. Poor, poor ignorants.

Well, somewhere between 14 and 27 I grew up a very little.
And there’s a part of me that wants to go back in time and whisper in my own adolescent ear, “In 13 years, you’re going to listen primarily to music that was made before 1960. You’re going to spend your time obsessed with antiques stores and black and white movies, and for your 22nd birthday, you’re going to ask for a home canning kit. And you’re going to LOVE it more than the wide-leg jeans you’re wearing right now. Oh, and you should probably buy your Dad a plow for Christmas…”

My Pile o’ Adults is still there. It still has all the same people in it, but I changed the title up a bit. They’re now my Pile o’ Adults That Know Absolutely Everything About Anything -Call Them Daily.

My Dad, who endured many-an-adolescent eye roll from me, taught me very well about labor.
I didn’t realize that when he was teaching me about labor, he was also teaching me how to get every good thing from God. I just thought I had it pretty rough.
Right now, I’m pregnant. I want to keep up my pace. I like to play pretend… Pretend I’m NOT Pregnant. So I do. So I DID this weekend, and then on Sunday I was an absolute waste. A day of rest? How about a day of comatose?
My Stake President once said there was TWO parts to the 4th Commandment: Six days shalt thou LABOR, and on the 7th day… rest.
“Some people forget that we’re supposed to be laboring,” he said.
Thou, O God dost sell unto us all good things at the price of labour.”
I canned. I realized that isn’t saying much, but it always makes me feel SUPER human. A few years ago, I walked into my Grandmother’s house and said, “I just canned 11 quarts of peaches!”
And she was proud. She really was. Then she said, “I remember when I used to can 100.”
“One. Hundred. Quarts?” I asked. I couldn’t believe it.
“Oh yes. We didn’t have a choice then though. We had to can because that’s what we had to eat.”
Suddenly my 11 quarts seemed pretty sad… and Grandma wouldn’t purposefully make me feel that way, but it put everything into perspective for me.
This weekend, I squared off with 10 dozen ears of corn, 2 1/2 quarts of homemade v8 juice, a few pounds of homegrown sliced jalapenos, and a storage tub full of crab apples.
Friday, it was corn.

My kids helped. This corn was not our corn. Someone else grew it, and they didn’t get a chance to spray for bugs. The corn -although DELICIOUS -was riddled with worms. They didn’t bother me a bit. Having grown up raising sweet corn, I knew all about worms in corn. I also knew about choke weed and gnats and farmer’s tans and how to use choke weed to stand up a corn plant that you’ve accidentally chopped down in the middle of early-morning hoeing.
But my KIDS.
They’re too young to know about worms in corn. We sprayed for bugs in our corn and the worms were scarce. The kids love husking corn, so when they saw the 10 dozen ears on the counter… they were pumped.
“We can help!” They cried. After all, I have them convinced that THEY ARE the best corn huskers in the entire world. I think they feel they owe it to corn husking to help out.
And so! They did.
They each started peeling away the layers on one ear of corn and were HORRIFIED at what they found. My daughter was so startled she threw her entire ear into the giant black trash bag I’d hung on the back of a chair.
“MOM! There’s WORMS in THERE! We can’t DO THIS!” She cried out.
My son isn’t one of those boys who loves creepy things. In fact, he HATES them. He handed me his ear of corn with big, pleading eyes.
“I don’t want to do this,” he said.
I changed their tune -not in a sweet way, mind you because I’m pregnant and tired and had approximately 3 gashes in my hands from removing corn kernels.
“Be BRAVE,” I told them, “Be BRAVE and you will feel so great inside knowing that you did something that scared you. If you’re afraid of the worms, learn how to BEAT them.”
And so! They did.
They would husk and beat their ears of corn against the trash bag with a vengeance.
“Get OFF, worm! Get OFF!” They’d jump up and down, worried the worm might actually touch their skin. Each time they “beat” a worm, I would praise them and ask them how they felt.
“GREAT!”
“I DID IT!”
And then, in my daughter’s case, “I FEEL THE SPIRIT THROUGH MY WHOLE BODY!”
Well.
I thought to myself, ‘Oh, how can she feel the spirit in this kitchen? I’m grouchy, sweaty, impatient, and nagging at them.’ And then I realized that when we fear something, we can’t feel the Spirit. When there’s no fear, we can.
She had overcome her fear. She was right. Despite me impatient nagging, she DID feel the Spirit. And it was evident as the night went on. Each ear became a conquest… and she sent me into stitches when she thrust a big ear as far into the sky as she could and sing-songed, “NOOOOOOOOOO WOOOOOORRRRRRMMMMS!!!!!!!”
And you haven’t really heard a sing-song until you’ve heard the girl sing-song.

We didn’t HAVE to do that corn, you know. We could have snuggled together on the couch and watched a movie. I could have sat at my computer and surfed the net while the kids played in the living room.
But:
We teamed up together and conquered fears in the kitchen. Conquering fears is definitely a GOOD THING that comes at the price of labour.

Saturday morning, I pulled out The Champ -my parent’s old juicer. I made homemade v8 juice (because I never have, that’s why):

I used a quart of it to make crockpot beef stew yesterday and it turned out amazing!
After the v8 was made, I washed the juicer and started on the apples. My kids love The Champ. It makes them feel like champs to juice things… plus they get a big kick out of watching the “poop” come out the end.
Pulp? Poop? What’s the difference?
We made juice (sweetened) and jelly (with and without pectin) and cider (our favorite. I made up a recipe).

Somewhere in there, I candied some jalapenos and was depressed YET AGAIN that no matter how many jalapenos I grow and slice I only ever get 4 pints of that candied goodness and 4 pints is not near enough.
Friday night, I completely cleaned my kitchen. I gave it the works. There was NO SIGN of cornage (ha) anywhere in sight. Saturday night, I sort of kind of cleaned my kitchen. I cleaned it enough to work in on Sunday.
But by the end of Saturday night, I was a complete zombie. My kids quickly fell fast asleep, and even though we were all worn out… it was the most fulfilling weekend we’d had in a long time!
There’s so many things to be learned from something as “mundane” as canning and preserving and freezing.
Not the least of which is that worms always pick at the sweetest corn.
I’m pretty sure I’m going to whip that baby out when my daughter comes home from school, crying over some silly bully teasing her because her backpack isn’t cool (which is totally is, but anyway).
Today I’m off to the dentist to get a nasty cavity fixed.
I love my dentist, but I hate dentistry work in general. So pray for me.
I’d rather be canning.

Yesterday, I tried to do something nice. And I came away having had something nice done for me.
I’m starting to get suspicious because the SAME thing happened a few weeks ago. And a few weeks before that. AND a few weeks before that.
I once took a plate of brownies to a pregnant woman. They weren’t just any brownies. They were MINT brownies. FANCY MINT brownies. She was at the end of her pregnancy, and she wasn’t feeling well at all. Surely, the brownies would help! I knocked on the door, handed her the plate, she thanked me and then said, “The doctor said I can’t eat food like this until the baby comes, but my husband will love them. Have you had lunch?”
I told her I was fine. I’d be going home soon. And all the while I talked, she nodded, led me into the kitchen…
Then SHE fed ME, though I did protest.

I’m starting to wonder if I’m cut out for being nice.
I’m starting to wonder if this town is just too fattly full of nice people, or something.
I’m also starting to wonder if trying to do nice things is a skill beyond my reach.

It reminds me of the “Friends” episode where Joey and Phoebe argue about how there’s no such thing as a good deed.
I can’t embed this video, but please WATCH THIS edited clip from the entire episode.
You’ll see what I mean. You can’t WIN in this world, folks. Not with all the bee stings in the park.

via

On Sunday evening when I was out at Granny’s along with a bunch of my relatives, my pretty Aunt Krista asked me if I was getting uncomfortable.
I told her no, I wasn’t. I was actually okay. Not too big.
It was like my belly heard, or something.
“She’s comfortable?! Well, I’m obviously not doing my job!” The past few nights have been riddled with my waking up because my back hurt so bad I couldn’t sleep through it anymore. I took my regular walk this morning -the one I usually take when I’m not pregnant, and by the end of it I was HUFFING and PUFFING.  My poor neighbor down the road couldn’t understand me when I walked by and asked if maybe he’d like some cherry tomatoes.  When he finally made out what I was trying to say, he said, “You just walked quite a while, didn’t you?  Well, thank the Lord you feel well enough.”

Yes, yes.  But also: no?  Because I didn’t feel well about it at all. Ha!
And so, Home Stretch, you officially have me in your clutches. I still have 15 weeks left, but that just doesn’t seem like long at all, does it?
FYI: 15 weeks until my life changes also happens to mean 15 weeks until Christmas. Not to panic you, or anything.

Speaking of panic, I watched an innocent video yesterday that detailed relaxation techniques that can be used during labor, and THEN I was blindsided by the end of video showing a woman giving birth.
The camera… was BEHIND the doctor.
Did you know that women throughout the world are… DOING that?!?! I mean, I just about fainted watching a human HEAD come out of a woman… but then the REST of the body came out! It was horrifying! HORRIFYING! I wanted to look away, but I. just. couldn’t!

And on that note, I want out.

PS: I later found a picture online of a pregnant 5 year old Peruvian. It made me cry. I need to break up with the Internet.

Because yesterday was our actual anniversary DAY, we thought it would be fun to send the kids to bed early and stay up to watch a movie together.
We’re hard core, I know.
My husband picked the movie. I protested. He assured me it would be fine.

“It looks like a good movie,” he said.
“It looks like she dies,” I argued.

via imdb.com

And of course she does. Pregnancy aside, there’s a writer in me that gets so attached to characters. I made a rule three years ago after watching PS: I Love You.
I would NEVER watch a movie where a movie centers around the death of a character.
I thought I was being generous by breaking that rule last night… I thought I was being kind and caring and thoughtful of my husband’s feelings.
NEVER AGAIN will I break My Movie Rule. NEVER!
I’m still devastated over the whole thing, and I’m walking around my house this morning feeling like one of my close friends died of colon cancer last night around 11:30 pm.
I had to leave while the movie was playing because I literally couldn’t breath properly. I had to run to the bathroom and clear my head of a variety of mucus (muci?) and begged my husband NOT to pause it while I was gone.
“This needs to get over with,” I said.
A Walk to Remember.
PS: I Love You.
A Little Bit of Heaven.

You’re ALL blacklisted.
Does anyone out there have a list of any more movies I ought to blacklist on account of death? I really don’t mind Little Women because the movie doesn’t center around Beth dying.

I don’t think it’s wrong to want to spend your “relax time” watching something that lifts rather than depresses or scares or haunts or confuses.
I just want to laugh and smile and clap and get flutters. And if I’m going to cry, it’s going to be because Meg Ryan gets me every time.

Each year I relate the past year of marriage to a movie.

To view the last 7 years, click HERE.
This last year of marriage has, like all the other years before it, been unlike any other. In truth, I’ve told my husband “I love you” probably a million or so times. As a lover of the written word, and words in general, it’s a little unsettling that I can say the same thing time and time again and have it mean something entirely different as the days go by.

Last year, I set a quote from Oklahoma! as our 7 year anniversary quote. It was about toughing out the hard times. Our 7th year was the hardest thus far. Our eighth year was a year of rebuilding, of learning, of leaning more on the Lord on less on each other. After the dust settled, we found ourselves -surprisingly -closer together than we had been when we were LEANING on each other. Ironic, isn’t it?
In the last few months, I’ve been able to rediscover certain characteristics that my husband has -certain things I LOVE about him. Do you know how fiercely loyal he is to me? Have you seen the fight in his eye when someone scarcely HINTS in the vicinity of a criticism about me? Have you been present when someone cuts me off in traffic? Would you care to trade places with the doctor who ignored my completely validated complaints about an infection I was sure I had?

Last week, my husband dreamed that I died. He woke up sick.
“I’ve had dreams where you’ve died before,” he said (it felt like a big hug, I’m tellin’ ya), “But I could actually FEEL it this time. It was awful. I was completely alone.”
I sort of laughed it off, “Oh, my dying wouldn’t be so bad… at least you’d get some peace and silence.”
He didn’t think it was funny.
“I don’t want peace and silence. What would I do without you?” He said, and I couldn’t laugh it off anymore because the emotion in his voice was too… tangible.
He loves me.
He loves what makes me me. He likes how much I talk, he loves my jokes and my laughter and he bursts out laughing when I eek in a swear word when he least expects it. He loves to take me to places that make my eyes light up. He loves how happy I am -how I cry in movies that don’t deserve a hint of tears. He loves taking me by surprise with a dirty remark and seeing the shock factor take effect.
You know what he loved most about our weekend together?
“Hanging out with you,” he said.
After EIGHT years, he still prefers hanging out with me to anyone else in the whole wide world. And why? I would be so sick of myself by now. In truth, I DO get sick of myself at least once a week.
I have a theory: it’s an angel theory. I have some idea that there’s a guardian angel up above that flies down periodically and saves my marriage by way of blinders. She flutters down and places the FATTEST blinders heaven has to offer on my husband’s eyes, and then we go flitting along, side by side, ignorantly happy. Or maybe just happy. Either way, we’re still together.
And there’s no one else I’d rather be blinding than him.
I love what’s inside his body, and if you’ll momentarily take the blinders and put them on your own eyes while I say…
I love his soul.
Not that he isn’t easily the best looking thing I ever did date.

But today as I woke up, I was reminded of a scene in The Philadelphia Story. CK Dexter Haven and Tracy Samantha Lord are ex-spouses. They spend the movie having little tiffs as Tracy prepares to remarry. In the end, she throws off her fiance and is trying to figure out what to do with the wedding party waiting in the chapel… naturally CK proposes. He wants to marry her again. Of course they should be married again -we’ve all known it since the beginning of the movie when she busts his golf club over her knee.
And he “slugs” her.

[Dexter has just proposed]
Tracy Lord: Oh Dexter you’re not doing it just to soften the blow?
C. K. Dexter Haven: No.
Tracy Lord: Nor to save my face?
C. K. Dexter Haven: Oh, it’s a nice little face.
Tracy Lord: Oh Dexter, I’ll be yar now, I promise to be yar.
C. K. Dexter Haven: Be whatever you like, you’re my redhead.

After eight years, we can honestly look each other in the face and say, “Be whatever you like.”
Be whatever you like, darling. And I’ll be whatever I like. And we’ll both like each other best that way.
We might even love each other best.

Let’s not make each other promises to make the other happy.  Let’s not promise to be yar now.  Let’s just be.  And let’s just leave each other to be.  You be whatever you like.  I’ll be whatever I like.

I’m fatter. You’ve got a little less hair.
I’m getting to be a pretty good cook. You’re getting to be a pretty good gardener.
We’re both learning that the more we say “I’m sorry” the easier it is, and the quicker we say it… the better everything is.
Let’s keep laughing, love.
Let’s laugh ourselves into the grave and beyond.
I said it once 8 1/2 years ago, and I’ll say it again, “I think I’m jonesin’ you.”

Getting married on Labor Day weekend was the greatest marital decision we ever made. Well, that and the whole “let’s have a gaggle of kids” thing.
My biggest reason for hiring a housekeeper was so the house would be in smart working order when my brother in law and his new gorgeous wife came to stay overnight and watch our wee ones. My husband whisked me an hour away to The England House, of which I’ve gushed about before. Lots of times before.
We stayed in a different room this time, and it was equally as amazing. My husband is so sweet and understand and indulging when it comes to whisking me away. Sure, we only went an hour from home. But where I’m at now, I can look out my window and see desert, brown, and desert. From my window in The England House I can see pine trees, mountains, and pine trees. It’s like being a world away. Isn’t that one of the greatest things about living in Arizona? There’s forest, desert, palm trees, The Grand Canyon… it’s awesome!
Our room was half part of the original house and half part of an addition. The original balcony was made into a room -so we actually had two rooms all to ourselves.
There’s no TV, so we spent an hour of Friday night sitting in the Balcony Room just visiting.
The Balcony Room (I loved the extra day bed!):

We talked about the last 8 years, our kids, our respective jobs, cracked jokes, and listened.
Our phones didn’t ring. No one knocked on our door. There was no Netflix streaming in the background -it was just us.
Danny took me to eat at The Outback Steakhouse. I’d never been before, and so it was a new experience for me. All I want is seafood, and neither of us actually ordered steak from The Steakhouse… mostly because we have steak at home that we love and steak from steakhouses never seems to satisfy us the way our homegrown steak does.
I ordered crab filling topped tilapia. He ordered chicken.
But the best part of the meal was my husband’s clam chowder. It was like eating Venus -the Roman goddess of Love and Beauty.
My husband took me shopping and bought me a new outfit!
We went to the tiny mall in the city, and we just walked around… wandered in and out of stores, pretended not to hear the people standing at the kiosks wondering if we had enough time to evaluate our current beauty routines. My husband’s legs were sore from a work out he’d done a few days prior, so I found him a comfy chair to sit it.
It was total coincidence that it just happened to be plunked down in the middle of Motherhood Maternity.
“You sit here, poor baby,” I cooed and rubbed his back, “And I guess I’ll just… shop around.”
I honestly didn’t plan on buying anything, but much to my delight I discovered that Motherhood now makes and sells LONG maternity jeans for only $30! I’ve spent years scouring the Internet for long maternity jeans! Old Navy carries some, but they’re barely long enough and the belly band sits right on my bladder. Not only that, but the jeans are constantly slipping down because I have no butt to pick them up.
My poor husband, marrying a long-legged lady with no torso or butt, but man shoulders to beat the band!
I tried their jeans on, and it was all over. For $30, I couldn’t resist! Other long maternity jeans I’d found online were $300! I’m going to be pregnant in the middle of winter, so buying new pants was a no brainer for me.
But then he also bought me the cutest new shirt… and some ginger massage oil for my growing belly. I was completely spoiled!
Clam chowder AND a new outfit? It was like a Pregnant Dream Come True.

Saturday morning, we had breakfast… I was hoping it would be ham, cheese, and apple croissants…

…and it was! Also, I’m pretty sure we ate breakfast with the guy who plays Creed from “The Office.” See the man behind my lover?

After breakfast, we walked around an art fair:

Took a quick stroll downtown to snag a picture of me in front of The Hotel Monte Vista which is the hotel that both frightens and excites me all at once. It’s HAUNTED. It’s REALLY haunted. John Wayne met a bell man ghost there once, and I know it’s true because John Wayne never, ever, ever lies.
I want to stay there someday. Also: I never want to stay there.

We love downtown Flagstaff -we never get bored with it, and if we ever do we can always book a room at The Hotel Monte Vista.

My husband is so nice about my love of Old Things and The Past. He so sweetly books us a room at the historic England House once a year, and I just love soaking up the old furniture, the old bricks… everything! The England House is RIGHT next to downtown (but are enough away that we miss all the noise), and downtown is full of Old Things and The Past as well! It makes me all smiley and giddy and fluttery to read see all the old paintings and bask in the atmosphere of What Once Was.
I love that about my husband. What I love even more than that is that he actually enjoys it. It isn’t a huge sacrifice on his part. We enjoy it together.
On our walk back to The England House, we stopped to look at a Trading Post and saw a huge display of cast off wedding rings.
It was like sad, deep art. Look. Look at this entire display of individual stories of lost hopes, dreams… the rings were once so happy on so many fingers. And then, one day, they weren’t so happy and they ended up in a trading post.

I also snapped a picture of some cuff bracelets. My Dad used to buy me turquoise cuff bracelets when I was a little girl. I loved them.

We walked back to The England House to pack up:

Said, “See ya soon,” to the owners… they’ll never be rid of us… and then we went grocery shopping by ourselves. If you have kids, you know how exciting it actually was to walk inside Sam’s Club with just a cart and another adult.
Weeeee!!!!
It also rained on us. It rains on us every Labor Day weekend, and I LOVE it! It rained on our wedding day, so when I saw drops on my dirty jeep windshield, it made me so stinking happy.

We came home to our lovely kiddos, and after a few hours rest were able to spend a few hours with some cousins we don’t get to see very often.

Sunday morning, we made it church… my son embarrassed me at the podium by bossing me around when I tried to pull him away from the microphone because he was so close it was giving loud obnoxious feedback…
“MOM… STOP IT…”
We left church and went straight to Grandpa Click’s 80th birthday party!

Is it just me, or do those two look alike?
A quick collage:

After his birthday bash, we dropped Danny off at home and the kids and I took off with Grandpa Hansen to play with horses. My Uncle Marlin and Aunt Jennifer (Mom’s brother and his wife) were here visiting and I wanted to see them!
When we were little kids, we couldn’t wait for Uncle Marlin and Aunt Jennifer to come and visit. They always were the most fun. Sometimes they brought floating coins with them. Sometimes they made chocolate pies… and once they even brought “Beauty and The Beast” on VHS, when it FIRST came out.
Blinding fun for kids, they are.

Dad’s horse, Ribbon (? right, mom?) decided Aunt Jennifer needed a back rub. Or maybe the mare just liked Aunt Jennifer’s conditioner.
And forgive me father, for I have posted a picture of your behind:

But I just love how well it illustrates my long legs/man shoulders point. My Uncle Marlin is a little taller than my Dad, but look how much longer Dad’s legs are! I love it!
Now. Dad. I challenge you to find maternity pants that fit you! It’s not an easy ball game.
Oh, and I get my shoulders from my Dad. Or maybe from hoeing corn. Either way, shoulder pads are no friend of mine.
After spending some time getting cozy with the horses (thank you, Smokette, for letting me scratch your neck and pat the dust from your back), we headed out to Woodruff for the tail end of the Smith/Gardner Family reunion.

We ate watermelon fresh from Grandpa Max’s garden and then we indulged in homemade ice cream. A dust storm eventually chased all of us inside where Grandpa Max told me that between all of the children and grandchildren and great grandchildren… there was nearly 100 of us.
That’s a lot of ice cream.
And diapers.

Good job, Granny and Grandpa.
A quick collage:

We came home and just… crashed. Thank GOODNESS for Labor Day! We’re all still rambling around this morning in our PJs. Today we’ll muck up the mess from this weekend, and then we’ll head out for some fishing.

Hope you’re having a great day!