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: , , , , , , ,

When Was It?

February 5, 2011 by · 1 Comment

Throughout our marriage, my husband has always pin-pointed the “moment” he fell in love with me.

“When I took you home to meet my family,” he said.  He took me home A WEEK after we’d started dating.  I was a wreck.  Seriously.  Coming from a small town, I already knew the parents of everyone I had dated.  I’d never had to meet any before.  But I did.  I put on my John Deere shirt, my overalls, my lucky red shoes, and I DID IT.

As we spent the weekend with his family, my husband never said one word about love.  He didn’t say one word about love the next weekend either, when I took revenge and drove him home to meet MY family (it wasn’t really revenge though.  With steaks like my dad makes?  Oh, boy).  He didn’t say a word about love anytime that month.

Finally, right when I was cleaning out my college house to move home, he sat me down on the couch and he told me he thought he might be falling in love with me.

The truth was, he was already gone.  Done fallen.  But he wanted to tread the waters of love on the safe shallow end instead of jumping off the high dive into the deep end (on account of other women treatin’ him bad.  It’s all very vintage country music, minus the whiskey).

Finally, on June 1st 2004 (happy birthday, Tia!) I told him that I loved him.  And he said it back.  And 26 days later we got engaged.  And six 1/2 years later, we stayed up after the kids had gone to bed and engaged in a heated game of Pirates Battleship.  What can I say?  We’re too cheap to pay a babysitter for our hot Friday night date.  I’m happy to report that I beat him, fair and square.  I’m also happy to report that he made a hot chocolate run and added french vanilla creamer to both of our cups, just like we used to do when we were dating and he lived next to a Circle K.  So delicious.

After we were done playing, we started talking.  I’m going to confess to you right now that we actually talked until 3:15.  As in: AM.  Why do we do that to ourselves?  Why, oh why?  Because there’s so much to talk about, I guess.  There’s so much to laugh about.  Apparently, there’s still a few things to reveal.  For example, I finally confessed that I hate belly buttons.  They really gross me out, and I refuse to touch mine unless I’m pregnant and it’s flat.  He confessed something as well.  He told me that the weekend he took me home to meet his family, there was a particular kiss.  He described it.  I remembered it.

He confessed that THAT kiss… THAT moment… was it.  The exact moment that he fell in love and knew he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me.  The rest is history in the making.

Filed Under: Family, The Husband ·

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 ·

In the Case of Mom v. Trent

February 3, 2011 by · 2 Comments

First of all, he flatly refused to obey.

All I asked of him was to find and put his boots on.  He refused, and he gave me attitude.

“NO!” He cried, stomping his socked foot.

I told him behavior like that was unacceptable, and then I warned him that if he persisted he would be spanked.  I asked him one more time to find and put his boots on.

“NO!” He cried, shaking his head and stomping his socked foot.  I made my way toward him, firmly let him know that his behavior wasn’t going to be tolerated, and then I spanked his bottom.

He burst into tears.  His bottom lip began resembling a diving board.  He fled from my presence into his bedroom where I heard him wailing and bawling.

“Once you get your boots on, we’ll go to great-grandmas,” I called after him.  It was Sunday evening, and we always visit Grandma on Sunday evenings -just like everyone in our family does who lives in town.

Minutes later, he emerged from his room.  His eyes were red from crying, but his boots were on.  I praised him for his obedience, gave him a hug, and off we went.

Family members were gathered throughout grandma’s house.  Trenton went to any ear who would listen…

and TATTLED on me.

“I got… trouble,” he’d say.

“Mama… MAD,” he’d say.  Then -now this is crucial -he’d drop his shoulder, lift one hand up to his head to support it, cast his eyes down, and sadly complete his story.

“Mama… spank.”

The tale never varied.  He took it to anyone who would listen.  Woe to him.

Last night, he acted up again.  This time, it was to his Daddy.  His Daddy acted just like his Mommy, and after Trent gave Daddy attitude, Daddy spanked him -just as he had warned him he would.

When he was done, I pointed at my husband.

“Now you’re in trouble.  Now he’ll tattle on YOU,” I said.

“Trent, did you get in trouble?” I asked, prompting him.

“Yeah,” he said, sadly, “Daddy spank.”  But his voice didn’t change.  His hand didn’t go up.  He didn’t look down…

“Trent,” my husband said, “Did mom get mad?”

IMMEDIATELY, his hand went up, his eyes went down, his shoulders dropped…

“Yes,” he said, “Mommy spank…  Mama’s mad…”  And so his tale began all over again.

I’m in the dog house.  Come on over -he’ll tell you ALL about it.  I just wanted you to hear my side first.

Filed Under: Family, The Boy ·

Old Pictures

February 2, 2011 by · Leave a Comment

My mother scanned a bunch of old family pictures and saved them to discs.  She then gave them out as Christmas gifts, and we all treasure them.  There’s a few of my dad’s baby pictures that I just love.  There’s a few pictures from my parent’s wedding.  There’s some of my grandparents as young parents.  There’s also newer pictures.  When we were growing up, my mom made collages and used them to make (I believe it was) a calendar.  Here’s my page.There’s a couple pictures of my larger-than-life glasses.  If you look at the one on the far right, you’ll notice a crater of a pimple on my chin.

Truth: I practiced my flute so much that the pimple really never had a chance to heal.  Ever.  It once got so big that one of my sixth grade classmates asked me what happened to my face and I lied, “I fell down.”

Wow.  That felt good to get off my chest.  I’ve been harboring that sin for years.

I love the picture of me with the olives on my fingers.  I’ve convinced my own children that when you put olives on your fingers, it gives you “IRON MAN” fingers.  They’ll eat a can of olives all on their own and chant “Iron Man, Iron Man, Iron Man,” the entire time. Victory.

There’s a couple pictures of me sleeping.  I wonder why I didn’t enjoy that as much as I should have.  *yawn*

Please excuse the picture in which I am not wearing a shirt.  Please.

There’s one of me on the classic Jackrabbit that lives in, well, Jackrabbit.  Across the street from him in the classic “HERE IT IS” sign that was featured in the Disney movie, “Cars.”  Only this “HERE IT IS” sign has a Jackrabbit on it (not a tractor).

I’m really rather fond of the picture in the middle of the page of my Grandpa holding me on his lap.  Twenty years later, he gave me organ lessons.  I didn’t sit on his lap, though.

In one of the sleeping pictures, I’ve got a copy of the book “Sleeping Beauty” between my feet.  It always has been my favorite story.  Down with ee-vill.

There’s also a picture of me in one of my Easter dresses.  Every year until the I entered full-blown adolescence, my parents, AH-HEM, the Easter Bunny brought me an Easter Dress.  I looked forward to a brand new dress more than anything.  That year, the dress came with a matching straw hat.  I had my mother french braid my hair into two braids and I wore that outfit to my grandma’s famous annual Easter Egg Hunt.  While there, my aunts told me that I looked like my great-grandmother.

“When she was my age?” I asked, flattered.

“No,” they replied.As much as I love my Nunna (far right), I didn’t sport the straw hat anymore.  And look how little my sister was!  Age has not changed that brilliant red hair.  Love, love, love it.

And love love her.

Filed Under: Family ·

I Made a Couple Bodies

February 1, 2011 by · 3 Comments

Given that Lacy thought her angel cousin was residing in Heavenly Father’s belly, we decided that our Family Home Evening lesson last night should be about bodies and spirits.  When I was younger, my mom taught me the difference between a body and a spirit by using a glove and her hand.  Her hand represented a spirit.  The glove represented a body.

A few weeks ago, I explained the difference between the two to a Sunday School class of teenagers.  I told them a body is like a car -a spirit is like the driver of that car.  In general, the driver controls the car.  It guides it and directs it.  However, sometimes a driver relinquishes control of the car and lets the car take over.  Nothing good ever comes of that…

I knew that no matter what was taught, my daughter wouldn’t be able to grasp everything.  I knew my son wouldn’t either, but I knew it needed to be taught anyway.  I decided to go with my mother’s teaching plan, but instead of using a glove I used some homemade hand puppets.

Er, ahem… bodies.

These are bodies.  They have no spirits.  Also, no maker of puppets am I.  Give me props for trying.  And ignore the “hair” on the boy puppet.  Try as I might (and did) I couldn’t get it right.The kids loved them.

I held the puppets up and explained that they were bodies.  I told the kids that the bodies couldn’t do anything without their spirits -they were just empty shells.  Then I held my hand up in the air and wiggled it, telling them that my hand represented a spirit.  I then put the “spirit” into the “body” and showed them that the arms and head could now move.  I even made them talk, but we’ll not go into that.

After a while, I took the spirit out of the body.  I put the body down and tried to explain to them THAT’S what happened to Laynee Leigh.  Her spirit left her body.  Her body was put in a safe place in the ground and her spirit went up to live with Heavenly Father in Heaven.

Again, I don’t know if she learned anything.  I don’t know if my son learned anything.

My parents and little brother were here for Family Home Evening on account of Lacy requesting that grandpa play Candyland with her.  Grandpa gave Candyland to Lacy for her birthday, and yesterday we went and bought another Candyland to play with because Lacy loved her first Candyland so much that she played constantly with it and spilled juice on the board (warping it) and stuck playdough on it (never again to come off).

Candyland, it must be noted, is a special game in our family.  We played a lot of it growing up.  My Dad, when he gave it to Lacy, told her he would play it with her, remarking that he played it with his kids and how much he enjoyed it.

I’ve played Candyland with her many, many times since her birthday.  And you know what?  I love it!  It’s so much fun to see the way she reacts to every card she draws, even if it sets her back.  She doesn’t care a lick about winning -only playing.  That’s what makes it so fun.

There wasn’t enough gingerbread men for my husband and I to play, so we took pictures instead.  (Notice the body on the piano.  Gory.)

This picture is my favorite.  It showcases something I love most about my Dad.  He has an enthusiasm for childhood.Even when he’s completely worn out after a long day, he can still muster a game of Candyland and EVEN be EXCITED about it.  He’s always been that way.  As a kid, I remember waiting for him to come home from work.  I’d cabbage onto our copy of “Green Eggs and Ham” and wait for Dad to walk through the door. He always took time to read AND do all the voices.

That Sam I Am, that Sam I Am…

Which reminds me: don’t let me forget to buy this book.  My family needs it.  I’m pretty sure the world needs it, actually.

Filed Under: Family ·

Men Are From Mars

January 31, 2011 by · 5 Comments

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?”

“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.

Filed Under: The Husband ·

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: , , , ,

Goin’ Courtin’

January 29, 2011 by · 4 Comments

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!

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