The Middle Man

My earliest recollection of dining at McDonald's was when I was ten years old and on my way to Disney on Ice with my best friend's family. I remember her mother ordering all of the cheeseburgers, fries and shakes and then turning to face us children and saying, "Let's just skip the middle man and eat a can of Crisco."

At the time, I had no idea what she meant. Since then, however, I have come to understand the phrase quite well and have subsequently been unable to eat Golden Arch anything. Conversely and quite hypocritically, today I baked a batch of chocolate chip cookies with butter flavored Crisco. As I scraped the sides of the container to remove the final fat molecules, the realization that I, along with family and friends, have managed to consume an entire jar of Crisco overcame me. I stared at the cup of Crisco in the bowl and felt sick. It actually reminded me of the time when I quit eating chicken because I thought eating animal flesh was repulsive; or the time I quit drinking milk by the glassful because I envisioned it emerging from the cow's udders. I briefly considered not eating the freshly baked cookies, but how could I? How could anyone? The aroma, the sugar, the chocolate!

Food for thought: One tub of Crisco contains 1356 grams of fat and 12, 430 calories. I think I quit the wrong food.

Hurricane Relief

I read an article to Nicole about humanitarian efforts the Church has exerted for victims of natural disasters. To give her a better idea of what the victims experienced, I showed her some pictures of post-Katrina New Orleans.

Then I asked her, "What do you think would help these people stay alive after this happened?"

I thought she'd say something like, "Food, water, clothes."

Instead, without hesitating, she answered, "Live somewhere else, like Arizona."

Amen, sister!

A Day at the Farm

I Choose My Fate

My life is not defined by the events that happen to me. My life is shaped by my responses to all of the experiences that have crossed my path. The most interesting point that can be made is that I have had relatively little control over most of the views, stones and encounters along this road of life. But I have been able to stop, move along or completely ignore any of them at will.

That's a long introduction to say that I started bleeding last night and don't know how any baby could survive that amount of blood loss. I immediately decided that I would not hesitate at this bump in the road, but would continue happily along life's journey with my husband and our two adorable passengers.

When I took one last look at the two sleeping children (who have already blessed me more than I deserve) last night, I offered a silent prayer of gratitude. Nicole is so grown up that she keeps near adult-like company when Daddy's gone and writes me daily love notes. Then there's Grant -- who I can convince to giggle just by flashing him a funny face or to give me a kiss every five minutes. What more could I ask for?

Moving on ...

My Little Shopper

From prudent saver to thrifty shopper!

Since she was old enough to hold money and not eat it, Nicole has been saving pennies, nickels, dimes, and recently quarters and dollars, too. Sometimes she'll toss a penny in a wish fountain or spend two quarters to ride a mechanical horse at the grocery store, but she's been saving the majority of her nest egg in an old wallet of mine. And today it paid off.

Nicole traded in her change for dollars at the bank (she finally grasped the concept that four quarters and a one dollar bill are the same amount of money) and took her purse containing her wallet and two puppies (like those movie stars) to Wal-Mart. She knew that a movie costs $15 and a Polly Pocket set costs $10. Since she had 15 one-dollar bills, she decided to buy the movie.

While waiting to pay in the checkout line, she found an impulse item and threw that in, too, after calculating that she would have enough to cover it. She looked so mature handing her bills to the cashier. I thought Nicole would be sad to see her money go, but instead she felt a sense of pride for having bought her own items all by herself. She's determined to save more money to buy additional must-haves.

She's already asked how much money she will earn by performing chores around the house. Let's see, when I was her age, I was paid $.10 to unload the dishwasher and $.25 to load it up (I conned my mom into paying me according to this schedule). So, prorated to today's currency, she could probably rack up a $15 house cleaning bill with one day's worth of work! I think I'll clean my own house and save my dollars for those high-stakes bargaining moments, like getting pre-K shots at Dr. Beus's office tomorrow. Perhaps she'll be just as brave, mature and proud of her little self then, too.

Concussion Aversion

A concussion can be caused by any significant blunt force trauma to the head such as a fall, a car accident or being struck over the head with an object (source: webmd; emphasis added).

Grant pulled a TV on top of his head last night. A 19" CRT monitor television. He has been branded with a gash in his forehead, a scrape across his right eye and two small bruises. Fortunately he didn't require stitches, and Clint looked him over for neurological quirks and came up empty. I thought maybe we should take him to the ER for a scan (you know, sometimes when I read webmd, it makes my mind wander into the panic what-if zone...), but I thought we'd spend the next six hours there while they ran every test in the book and conclude by telling us, "Just take him home and watch him."

Turns out, we took their presupposed advice and monitored Grant's activity over the next few hours. He ran around the house, giggled for Papa, ate food, and generally appeared back to his usual self -- apart from the ugly wounds covering his face. Take a good look at his picture because it's the last one you'll see with these markings. Future photos will be subjected to Photoshop manipulation throughout the remainder of their stay on Grant's face (probably until 2009). By the way, this photo doesn't do the damage proper justice. I swear it looked twice as bad last night ...

At least it wasn't a concussion!

Losing a Doctor

We love our doctors. We always visit the same ones -- no matter what.

So when I learned that the OB who delivered all three of our babies will no longer be offering OB services, effective in July, I was saddened.

I suppose I expected him to be around as long as we needed him, even though he had dropped hints during previous visits that he wanted to cut back his hours.

On the bright side of things, medical school has taught me that doctors need to look out for themselves. And if he has had enough of high malpractice rates; or doesn't want to fear liability from complicated pregnancies; or simply if he wants to spend more time with his family riding horses at their Idaho ranch, then he should reduce his work duties.

And we will respect his decision and be grateful for his service rendered in times past. But we'll still miss him.

Thank you, Dr. Starley!

Growing Pains

Never wanting my baby girl to grow up, I have frequently, over the course of her life, told Nicole, "Don't ever grow up!"

Recently Nicole said to me, "Mom, I don't want to grow old. I just want to stay four forever."

Great idea, I thought!

Then she expressed concern about growing older, "Mom, what does it feel like to be old? How does your body grow? Will my bones push my skin bigger? Does it hurt?"

Poor thing. I had no idea such an innocent statement could torment this child. I won't be telling her to stay little anymore. Not that it did much good anyway.

Everything I Need to Know, I Learned by Being a Mom

This morning, Nicole and Grant were the subjects of observation for a group of second year medical students studying pediatrics. The two pediatricians pointed out motor skills specific for the children's ages, demonstrated how to approach the children and finally showed how to conduct a limited physical exam.

The students paid keen attention and leered to look as one doctor noted, "Look how he picks up a Cheerio with only two fingers ..." Oooh. Aaaahhh. Amazing.

Toward the end, the physicians answered questions from the curious students. After the first question was posed ("How do you know when to be concerned about a child's development -- or lack of?"), I reflected on my experience with my kids. As a parent, you intuitively know when there's a problem with your kids. Then I began to think about all of the other things I know about kids -- simply because I interact with them all day long.

If comparing my knowledge to my mother's, you'd see that I'm still in the infantile stages of mommyhood, but I've always said that my mom is way smarter than most college graduates; and it's because she is a mom.

Sick? She knows the medication you should take. She also knows the correct dosage and amount of days it should be taken. Rash? She knows what kind it is. Rules of basketball? She can name them all. Need a paper edited? She has thousands of hours of experience. Need a haircut? Visit her home salon. Trying to work out a communication problem in your relationship? She can tell you the best words to use. Are you concerned about a problem and wondering if it will be a big deal in the eternal scheme of things? Ask my mom.

Someday I hope I will know as much as she does!

Get Out of Jail Free Pass

Each morning as Grant wakes, he speaks his happy jibberish and starts to rock his crib back and forth so that it knocks against the wall. I enter his room to find him standing up, facing the door and flashing a huge grin.

Our routine is always the same. "Good morning, Baby!" I begin. Then I pick him up, he gives me an unsolicited kiss, and I set him on the floor to roam at will.

Just like a dog, this repetition has taught him that a kiss will cause me to set him down. So anytime he's in my arms, and would not like to be, he gives me a kiss, twists his body and heads for the floor. If I don't release him, he fusses a bit and gives me another kiss. Sometimes I hold him tight just to see how many kisses I'll get ...

Our Bermuda Triangle

A host of items have recently disappeared into the imaginary recesses of our living quarters. A coat. A pair of pants. The remote control. A DVD. Gone. Vanished into thin air.

If you've seen our space, you know it's not that big. You also know that I keep it fairly organized. If it's in our apartment, I probably know and I likely know where it's located. There's only one thing I can't find and that's the hideout of our Lost and Found box.

An Element of Doubt

I'm certain that each expectant mother must ride the emotional roller coaster for nine straight months. I am also of the belief that the ups and downs are more extreme in the first few weeks of the pregnancy.

One minute I'm overjoyed and can't wait for the baby to come and the next I'm terrified wondering, "What have we done?!" During these moments of self-doubt, I find it reassuring to remind myself that overall, I'm a good mom. Simply because I lose patience once in a while with the two kids that I already have, or because I can't seem to cook a dinner that pleases the tastes buds of Nicole on a regular basis, or perhaps because I crave a break every now and then, or any other shortcoming I may possess as a mother, that doesn't mean that my children aren't loved and cared for every minute of their lives.

I've learned, through observation and interaction with other moms, that we all have difficult phases to endure. And all moms have occasional hard days. And none of us know all of the answers (no matter how many kids we have). But we're giving our kids the best we have to offer. And we are great moms.

Start Spreading the News

I hate disseminating news. Good news. Bad news. I don't like to be the bearer.

So if you didn't previously know, consider yourself informed: we're expecting another baby.

It's an early announcement, since I'm only four weeks into the pregnancy, but we've never done it this way before. Normally Clint and I wait until I'm at least 12 weeks along and then friends are surprised to see me sport a maternity shirt one day. No surprises this time. No one will have to wonder when I gain the first few pounds, "Is she pregnant or has she been eating too much chocolate?"

We've been cautious in our approach before, and some have consequently felt offended at not hearing sooner. Our logic has been that if I miscarry, then we won't have to spread that along, too; we can just deal with it quietly by ourselves.

But this time is different. We want to celebrate now and have our friends and family rejoice with us. And if there's a problem, we know that all of you will be there to mourn with us and help us through.

So, here's to the new baby!

Continuing with Tradition

Nicole lost her shoe within the first 20 seconds of the hunt, but wouldn't stop to get it back on until all of the eggs were found.With cheese puff in one hand and Easter egg in the other, Grant participated in his first hunt.
When Clint was little, his mom hid their baskets around the house. In our family, Clint is the basket-hider. Nicole found hers in the fridge and Grant's was behind the bedroom door (although Dad suggested hiding it in the toilet so it would be easier for him to find).

Best Big Sister West of Texas

When Polishing Your Shoes ...

Always wear gloves.

Never attempt to soften your polish by adding water and microwaving it.

A Tale of Two Lies

Nicole refused to allow either Clint or me to remove a sliver from her foot. Every time she saw the tweezers, she started kicking and screaming into hysteria. This continued for nearly two hours until Clint claimed he could pull it out with his bare fingers.

Somehow he convinced Nicole to close her eyes, while his "fingers" worked their magic. As soon as the sliver was out, she jumped up, "Dad didn't have to use the tweezers!"

He smiled and asked, "See, that didn't hurt, did it?"

"Nope!" she answered. Certainly fooled me.

Later he divulged the truth to me that he had used the tweezers and the next day, when Nicole and I were alone, she also revealed her secret: "Mom, yesterday when Dad pulled out my sliver, it really did hurt, but when he asked me if it hurt, I just smiled and said no because I didn't want to hurt his feelings."

The ultimate was when we saw Clint again. Nicole jumped in his lap, faced him and point-blank asked, "Dad, are you sure that you didn't use tweezers yesterday?"

He stuck to his original story before asking one final time, "And it didn't even hurt?"

She likewise hid the truth and shook her head.

I watched in disbelief from the sidelines as father and daughter told little, white lies to protect the ones they love.

I guess the moral of the story is that ... it's acceptable to lie if it's for a good reason. I might have to rethink the values we're teaching at home.

Facing My Fears

I have two primal phobias in life:

1. Agoraphobia: fear of physically tight places, such as inside a helmet; or fear of extremely open and desolate spaces, such as Death Valley or other wilderness areas.
2. Narciphobia: fear of looking ugly, even when nobody cares and no one is looking at me. (I coined this term, but I can't believe someone else didn't think of it first.)

It's not everyday a girl gets to confront her fears; but try doing two simultaneously (and without medication)!

My husband asked me what I would like to do for our impending date. Since I planned the last one (which was really cool, by the way), I asked him to plan this one. He began with, "Well, let's see, what do we like to do together?"

We gave each other a you've-got-to-be-kidding look when both of us drew a blank. I mean, seriously, are we so uncreative as to only suggest dining out? That's when Clint came up with the idea to go four wheeling. I hadn't been in about fifteen years, and I had never gone in the mountains before. Feeling somewhat adventurous and spontaneous, I found myself saying, "Sure, why not?!"

But as the necessary preparations unfolded, I saw my fears jump out at me -- right before my very eyes.

"I have to wear a helmet? Seriously?"

Clint laughed, "Duh!"

Then he asked me to pack up our clothes. Now that's something I can do.

Me: "So, what kind of clothes should I take?"

Clint: "Hiking clothes."

Me: "I don't have hiking clothes." (Doesn't he know me at all?!)

Clint: "Well, then, just take something that you don't mind getting ruined."

Me: No response, just wide open eyes that said, "So will that be the cashmere or the silk?" Blink. Blink. "Ruined?"

I finally rested upon a workout shirt (which was very clean and nice) and a pair of jeans that were new, but not my favorite. Of all jeans, I thought, these would be the least sad to lose. But still sad. And what a waste of money! As for the shoes, black leather flats. I refused to compromise completely.

When my mom saw what I was planning on wearing, she thought I was nuts, too. At her house, I found an old pair of jeans I wore when I painted her upstairs last fall. Then she made me wear the marshmallow coat because we live in Utah where you will encounter snow at 9000 feet -- in April. The marshmallow coat is exactly the color of a toasted marshmallow and makes my upper body look like it weighs 100 pounds and like my lower body weighs 25. Very disproportionate and unflattering, if I might say. But I digress ...

So we arrived at the bottom of the mountain trail, Clint in a long-sleeved tee with jeans and Nikes; me in a fluffy cream coat, my hair in a pony tail (freakishly uncharacteristic for me), paint splattered on my pants and my black flats. And don't forget the helmets. (Weren't we the odd couple?)

Then he took me miles high up the mountain where there were no people. Apart from worrying about the four wheeler breaking down and stranding us on the top of the mountain and leaving us for the bears to eat, it was quite romantic. When we reached deep snow and could continue no longer, we dismounted the ATV for a break. We gazed over the valley and spotted the Bountiful temple, where we were married.

Then it all clicked. It didn't matter what I was wearing or that I had helmet hair. I love my husband and just being alone with him was the best part of my day, week, month.

Now, back to the fears. I shouldn't be the only one having fun. Perhaps I could squeeze in an arachnophobia therapy session for Clint that is also fun for our next date.

... On second thought, maybe we'll just stick with the batting cages and ice cream!

My Loyalties Are to Jane Austen

For many years, I resisted the pressure to join the Jane Austen club. I foolishly thought the plots were slow to develop, the drama overrated and the crying that ensued ridiculous -- until I watched Sense & Sensibility. I now rank it among my all-time favorites. I found the subtlety of the budding love endearing; the way they longed for each other, but suppressed much emotion brave; the dialogue of extreme politeness, even in times of anger or distress, modest.

This first experience lured me into watching the original, nearly six-hour PBS version of Pride and Prejudice. It took me a month to watch it in its entirety, but it was worth it. As Tom Hanks states (loosely quoted) in You've Got Mail, "I bet your little heart beats wildly, wondering if Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy will ever get together." Well, yes it does, actually.

So if you haven't yet dispensed the time, I recommend you invest it in a Jane Austen movie instead of taking a gamble on finding a wholesome and entertaining new release at Blockbuster.

Movies I've recently seen, yet can't recommend include ...
Nacho Libre: Clean, but stupid
Jack Black is hilarious, even impersonating a Mexican monk. But I got WWF out of my system when I was five, so this movie ranked incredibly beneath entertainment value in my book.


Casino Royale: Dirty, but intriguing
The beginning of James Bond, supposedly justifies why he treats women as flippant toys in subsequent series. Lots of action, not lots of women. I will give it this, if you're a James Bond aficionado, this is by far the best one.

The Holiday: Dirty and stupid
Two romances develop over the span of two weeks. For the record, that's two WEEKS. For one it's all about s*x, for the other, it's more of a friendship. But the end result is practically the same: both couples evolve into the status of "we're together, but probably won't get married at any point during the next ten years." Whatever happened to virtue and the sanctity of marriage?

No one portrays love, romance and marriage like Jane Austen.

The Milk Man Baby

My neighbor educated me in appropriate milk intake levels for babies. With a few calculations, I concluded that Grant consumes nearly three times the recommended dose of calcium products each day.

This has resulted in bi-weekly trips to the grocery store to replenish our supply. Today, after resolving to reduce my milk runs, I set three gallons of milk in my cart and thought to myself, "Holy COW (pun intended)! I have never bought this much milk in a single shopping trip before."

I have no doubt that Grant will be in lactose haven this week.

Freaky Friday

There was a time, before we were married, when I wanted to attend medical school and Clint didn't.

I have always had a fascination of medicine. My grandfather was a doctor and I had supposed that I might follow in his footsteps. When I was in graduate school, I strongly considered leaving my program to follow the pre-med track. I was reminded by many loving family members, friends and professors that female physicians have a difficult time also balancing children in their lives.

Every now and again, such as when Clint mentions a female doctor with whom he works or when I visit him at the hospital, I feel a slight tinge of envy thinking, "That could have been me."

But I don't need a time-travel machine to help me remember how I felt before I had kids. I looked upon stay-at-home moms and thought, "That's the life. Spend your day with the children, cook up fun meals (because you have time to experiment), and socialize with your best friends -- all of that while I work."

Last night, after eating dinner with Clint and the kids in the hospital cafeteria, the kids and I walked home past the brand new health sciences building where medical students spend two entire years of their lives. As I pushed the children in the stroller, my mind wandered for a moment into the What If? realm. I snapped back to reality when my eyes saw a group of women in one of the glass study rooms with their laptops. I instantly remembered the long hours, staring at a computer screen, wishing I had more free time for the enjoyable things in life.

In whimsical moments, I sometimes think, "Maybe if I had started college at age 10, then I could have gone to medical school, residency and practice before getting married. Then I could have experienced both worlds." But there's no way I would trade my position for theirs. The single, workaholic life is an empty one where your fulfillment comes from your job because there is no family to greet you when you come home. The romantic comedy movies are painful to endure when you have no one by your side. If this isn't enough to persuade you, I direct you to Antique Mommy, who regrettably "did it all" and wishes she didn't. Read about how she (and her friend) finally became a mom at the age of 44, and you'll never again wistfully wonder What If?

Yes, I am living the best life available to me: two adorable kids to play with, great friends to make it fun, and a handsome husband -- who decided to go to medical school.