Opposition in All Things

Clint has finally thrown his opinion into the ring. "It's a boy!" he exclaimed under much pressure (don't look at me!) to guess.

I don't suppose he really has a strong premonition that the baby's a boy, but rather theorizes the baby will feel more welcome if at least one parent knew the correct gender, and hence more happily anticipated its arrival.

Me? I'm sticking to my original assertion: It's a girl, it's a girl, it's definitely a girl!

And should I be proven wrong, I will eat my words and still love my baby just as much!

Girl's Best Friend

I'll give you a hint: it's not a cat!

Nicole loves to visit Rhino (a real dog); she gives him her meat scraps for simple tricks (although he's recently picked up singing) and now she totes him around the yard in her car.

He's such a good sport about it all; deep down I think he loves Nicole as much as she loves him even though he hasn't quite formulated the words yet.

The Perfect Backpack

One might call me a controlling, overpowering and meddling mother, but it's all for Nicole's own good (that's what I keep telling myself). In an effort to teach style and fashion to my four-year-old, I set out in search of the perfect backpack: one that would match each of her outfits every day of her Kindergarten year. I had an idea of what I wanted to buy, and although I thought it impossible, I vowed not to concede until I had looked high and low.

Here's the backpack Nicole selected:
Here's the backpack we actually purchased:
Isn't it perfect?!

In the future, I am certain that I will have to endure many years of backpacks that I would rather not buy, but while I have the capacity to do so, Nicole will be given backpacks based on their fashion, not emotional, appeal.

Meet the Family

L to R: Hopo, Nicole, Sally, Elephant, Monkey, Boo Bear, Buster, Grant (not pictured: Ralphy and Randy the dogs)

La Benjamine

I am the youngest of seven children. As a child, I remember my parents calling me "the caboose" (which is such a silly word to a kid). When I grew up, I learned French and they affectionately refer to the youngest as "le benjamin," or "la benjamine" for girls. Since I like to study languages and break words down to their roots, I was curious about this term. It's actually a name (Benjamin for those who have trouble reading French) and is from the Bible.

If it's been a while since you opened the good book, I'll refresh your memory. Benjamin was the youngest of Jacob's (later to be renamed Israel) children and also the youngest of his most beloved Rachel (you know the one he had to work 14 years to get -- crazy how times have changed). And thus it is that Je suis la benjamine.

So the other day, as I stood pondering the meaning of life while taking a shower (it sounds strange, but when else is it quiet enough in our tiny place to actually think), I thought to myself, "Self, what if Mom and Dad had stopped having children after Shari (my older sister)?" It makes sense, really. After five boys, my parents finally had a baby girl, and to top it off, she had blue eyes! Why would they ever need one MORE? (I have verified with my mom several times that I was a planned, not "surprise" baby -- a distinction that is very important to kids during sibling rivalry battles -- and also proves the point that my parents consciously decided that I should really be their last child. Well, not me specifically, because they couldn't just pick me, but you know what I mean!)

Now even though times have changed, as my mom reminds me often, I still think that the question, "Hey hon', do you think we should have six kids or seven?" would have an obvious answer (it should have been "six," in case it isn't so obvious to you). But my mom, who often endures things difficult for mortals to comprehend, and my dad, who faithfully watches her carry them out, somehow defied logic and came up with the magical number "seven" instead.

Many called them crazy (and I think my grandma's words were "glutton for punishment"), but I call them inspired. I think you could actually trace the blame back to my great-grandfather. Near as I can tell, he was one of those "Do as I say, not as I do" kinda people. For example, he had but three children himself; yet frequently told my mom that her babies were so beautiful that she ought to have a dozen. Oh, how he loved babies!

One of his favorite pastimes was to stop by my parents' place on his lunch break, wake up the babies from their naps to play and then leave (such was the case in this photo). Surely no one could have enjoyed that as much as he did (certainly not my mom who had to coo crying children back to sleep afterwards).

But in the end, my parents, who had originally planned to stop at two children, had seven. I've always loved my spot as the caboose -- and not because I've been more favored (spoiled is the word that pops into my siblings' minds), or because I have been privileged to spend a lot of one-on-one time with my parents (although that was a perk!), but because I made it. I very fortunately made it.

So, thank you granddaddy for supporting my cause in advance and thank you mom and dad for acting foolishly and illogically -- it means the world to me.

Back in Business

... the baby business, that is.

At twelve weeks along, I suppose it's time to announce this pregnancy to all of cyberspace so I can avoid the whispers and speculations that would inevitably follow as I leave a room. (Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about! "Do you think she's pregnant or just gaining weight? Why don't you ask? No, you!")

I've experienced more nausea with this baby than with all of the others combined, but I'm hopeful that will end soon. Fortunately, the sickness hasn't lessened my anticipation of our new arrival (due on Grant's birthday). I'm starting to get very excited for the new baby and have already come up with ideas for soft, new baby blankets (all white, of course) that I will be making soon.

If the baby is a girl, then Clint and I have already agreed on a first name, but not yet a middle name. Nicole has submitted her choices for girl names, and they all begin with the letter L (Leah is her favorite -- coincidentally the name she would also like to give a future fish). If we have a boy, then we're in trouble, seeing as Clint and I have no common ground in this territory.

Just for the record, I think it's a girl; Clint needs more time to deliberate. (If you're wondering who to bet your money on, I'd pick Clint, seeing as I have only correctly guessed the gender for one of our three children. But I think Clint cheats; he's probably waiting for a better ultrasound picture -- all the while pretending not to be able to decipher significant gender-identifying organs on the fuzzy monitor.)

Shoe Fettish

I really hate to remove my shoes, unless it's time for bed. In general, I avoid places where I am asked to slip them off. It makes me feel like I'm not completely dressed/ready for the day. It's just yucky and I hate feeling like that, especially in front of other people. Plus there's the other issue that feet are just ugly, so let's be happy looking at nice shoes instead.

Now Nicole likes to wear shoes, too (even in places where you wouldn't normally see kids in shoes), but she likes to follow the rules more than she likes her feet covered. Yesterday Nicole found a play place at the mall and before I could plead, "Don't ..." she handed me her sandals and ran barefoot into the jungle gym with the other shoe-less children. Yuck, was all I could think.

Moments later I heard a mom behind me reprimand her son for not taking his shoes off. "Look at all of the other kids! What were you thinking? Now give me your shoes..." she wailed.

If only my kid would practice blindness, oblivion, or blatant disregard for the rules once in a convenient while.

The Best Gift

I remember the first time I heard a Les Mis song. I was at a music sampler performance by BYU's music department. Various dances and songs were performed, but the most striking, by far, was "On My Own" sung by the character Eponine from Les Misérables. I liked it so much that I saved the program and took it home to show my roommate.

She was, of course, appalled, since we had spent the semester thus far listening to the likes of Pearl Jam and Nirvana. She ran to our room, grabbed a CD and bade me to sit on the bed for a feast for the ears. She turned the speakers up so loud that every apartment in the building could have listened along with us as I heard, to my great pleasure, more songs from Les Mis, all of which were just as stunning as the first.

I eventually purchased my own copy of the soundtrack from the international cast in London and proceeded to memorize each song. I took a French literature course a few semesters later and studied select passages from the original text by Victor Hugo, which deepened my interest.

So when Clint handed me tickets for the musical on Valentine's Day, I was so happy to finally be able to attend the live performance (which was later canceled) and with my sweet husband by my side. Last night, as Clint and I approached the theater for the make-up show, the anticipation heightened. We found our seats and clapped wildly when the artistic director introduced himself and stepped off stage for the cast to enter. The moment was here -- it was actually going to happen!

Then the unthinkable happened -- during Act I, Scene III, the entire theater lost power and we found ourselves sitting in a dark auditorium with a thousand other people and no air conditioning. I nearly cried. Nearly everyone around us quickly dialed numbers on their cell phones to relate the problem to relatives and babysitters alike. Through effortless eavesdropping, I discovered that many had been at the last canceled show and were blaming this evening's power outage on their own bad luck (glad it wasn't my bad luck).

Once again, we found ourselves listening to the artistic director on stage. Only this time he had a flashlight pointed at his head and we all had to lean forward to hear him yell the announcement that the whole campus was experiencing a black out (could it be because it was more than 100 degrees outside?!) and that he would let us know when he had more information. Several additional announcements and forty-five hot and humid minutes later, a distraught artistic director postulated his poor self on stage to announce that he still had no further news and that if we would like to leave, he would be happy to issue a refund. However, the cast and crew (including the orchestra who was still waiting in the pitch black pit) were willing to wait 20 minutes longer before giving up. At this point, many frustrated theater-goers hit the street and headed for their cars. But not us. It was nearly 9:00 and we still had two and half hours to go, if the show were to continue, but we knew that if we left, there would be no chance for another make-up evening. It would simply be the lousiest $30 ever returned to our credit card.

I told Clint that if we didn't see this show this night, then I would ... I looked around for something dramatic ... thrust myself over the balcony. And my dear husband -- you'll never guess -- he found me a balcony. Fortunately, for the sake of my children, the power miraculously reappeared in full force within five minutes of the great exodus. So not only was my life spared, but we finally enjoy the best show I've ever seen (I really, truly mean EVER), and found better seats from which to enjoy it! If I may say, I don't think Broadway in New York could have turned a better performance. The singers were amazing, even when compared to my old CD.

As Clint and I left the theater hand in hand, I glanced his way and saw how tired he was. After all, he had put in 12 hours in the emergency room that day, it was nearly midnight, and this was his second time taking me to see this show that he didn't really even want to see in the first place. Not only did my thoughtful husband stay awake through the end, but when I asked him what he thought of it, he had the politeness to respond that he enjoyed it. I don't know if that was the truth or a lie, but either way, it was the correct answer to finish off the best gift he's ever given me.

Lizzie the Beetle

How pathetic are we?

I've told you before how we tried our luck at dogs and failed miserably. And since I'm not much of a cat, bird, fish, guinea pig or lizard mom, we have no pets. (Not to mention it's against the housing policy. Darn those rules!)

All of this is most unfortunate for Nicole, who loves pets (rather real or pretend) nearly as much as humans. Nicole has even resorted to playing with bugs when no other normal pets are available. She plays with potato bugs and we recently had a ladybug with a damaged wing named Lacy (she didn't last very long). Today Nicole found a very large and unusual flying beetle, which her Papa helped her catch. I told her she could keep it for the day, but she would have to release it before going home. (Seriously, would you want to look at this thing while eating dinner?) When her face gave way to an inkling of disappointment, I decided that it wouldn't hurt us to keep it.

She jumped in the air and yelled, "Yea! I get to have my own pet!" (Then I felt really guilty. My sheltered and animal-deprived child is happy to call a stray beetle her pet.) She immediately named her Lizzie and built her a home. For the rest of the day, wherever Nicole went, Lizzie went also. She took Lizzie on a walk around Grandma and Papa's yard, they watched cartoons together (which Nicole said Lizzie enjoyed), they jumped on the bean bag with cousin Travis, and Nicole even took Lizzie to her "treehouse" in Papa's office (Grant's not even allowed!).

Papa told Nicole to keep Lizzie out of the sun or else she would bake. So when I asked Nicole to step outside for a brief photo shoot, she nervously agreed, but insisted I only take one picture and that I make it quick -- she couldn't take any chances on Lizzie overheating outside. When we got back in the air conditioned house, Nicole softly tapped Lizzie's "cage" and said, "That was a good girl, Lizzie."

Nicole's asleep now, and Lizzie will be spending the night in her cage in the kitchen. I heard her rustling around a few minutes ago, so I stepped away from the computer to check on her (I know, the story is getting more pathetic by the minute!) and concluded that Lizzie was trying to escape. I think she probably likes her house fine, but would like to find some food. I'll tell Nicole in the morning and I think she'll be excited to attend to Lizzie's needs immediately.

Now I'm going to have to research what beetles eat (apparently it's not grass) -- boy, the jobs I get roped into.

No more pets, no more pets, NO MORE PETS!

(But doesn't Nicole look happy?!)

Known Sighting #2

I vow to lay this subject to rest as long as I don't see another rattlesnake before moving away from this venomous haven.

On our way home from the garden tonight, we watched the campus police catch another rattler that had been slithering across the sidewalk in front of the apartments. I glanced behind me at the hiking trail which was only about two hundred yards away, and wondered how many more snakes were hiding in the brush, yet to be discovered.

It was our neighbor who found this one, as he nearly stepped on it while walking home. He's seen lots of them because he rides the trails, so he handled himself most calmly. But I'm sure that I would have panicked had I seen the hissing monster first. The chills crawled up my spine as I watched the police officer hold the snake's head in one hand and tail in the other. Just like the last one, they placed this snake in a pillowcase, and drove away to find a cozy relocation spot. I think it's a hobby for them. Perhaps they like receiving calls to catch snakes -- you know, it makes the job more exciting. After all, four policemen responded to the call.

I am only aware of two rattlesnake sightings and subsequent detainments, but I'm sure there have been more. This warning sign is posted on every door of our building. I feel sorry for the new people moving in who don't know what they're in for! This poster surely makes them feel welcome in their new place.

If we didn't have such a short time left here, I would consider moving. But seeing as we're stuck, and this is really the only drawback to living here (even though it's major!), I'm on the countdown. I figure we have approximately 90 days left of the rattlesnake season for this year and maybe 30 days for 2008. I thought of making a chain calendar (you know, like in elementary school), but the structure in and of itself actually mimics a snake and would probably lead to more paranoia. So, I'll have to stick to my mental reminders each time I hear about another snake in the vicinity. Here's to 120 days and counting down ...

Tillamook

Tillamook is a small coastal town in northern Oregon. You may know Tillamook for its dairy farms or cheese. But if you were to pay it a visit, you would find something of much more value.

Tillmook is home to good people, good food and good times. While it's true that Tillamook is a small place, you will not find small-town mentalities. The people are friendly and welcoming.

If you visit in the summertime, you can buy local strawberries from two women to whom everyone affectionately refers as "The Strawberry Ladies." They bring the berries from a bigger town for the locals to enjoy. If you're lucky, they'll bring raspberries along with them -- but don't dawdle because they sell out by early afternoon. If you're looking for more posh treatment, you could visit La Tea Da (http://www.lateada-tearoom.com/), where you will be served in an English tea room complete with fancy hats to wear while you dine. The food is delectable; I recommend the scones (which is British for biscuits) and the strawberry lemonade. (Yum!)

And for entertainment, who can beat the beach? Granted we dressed in pants and jackets, but it's still sand and salt water all the same. But don't take my word for it -- ask the kids, who didn't get even half as much sandy, seashelly, watery time as a child deserves. Maybe next year ...





Thank you for a lovely time, Tillamook!

Cousins Make the Best Friends

... I've said it before, and it still holds true.

While Nicole and Shelby live in different states and have had very different experiences in life, they hold many common characteristics:






They share great-grandparents.
They were born in 2002.
They have one little brother each.
They like to jump rope and drink strawberry lemonade.
They like to dress up in fancy hats and fake pearls.
They are exceptional cleaner-uppers.
They want to star in a rock band (see for yourself).

I don't know about you, but I think these girls have a future. Maybe not in the music business, but definitely in the friend business.

What's in a Home?

Since it's on the tip of my tongue, I'll just finish the famous phrase with my add-ins: That which we call a home, by any other name would taste as sweet.

Nicole's most recent visit to the dentist proved most painful for both of us. Her first cavity (eek!) was discovered and (double eek!) filled. My mom suggested I more carefully monitor her sugar intake, which is a tricky thing since I like to indulge right along with her.

I related the bad news to my friend who replied, "I can't even imagine my house without a bag of candy in it!" Indeed, back in the good old days, our parents never had such tasty temptations lying around the house. I remember vividly shopping with my mom at Harmon's each week. If I was lucky, she would slip me $.11, just enough money (including tax) to buy a 1 3/4 oz. box of Lemon Heads, which I would carefully ration out over the next couple of days.

But let's face it -- hardly anything is the same as it used to be. Even my mom's house has a regular stash of sweets, which Nicole can ably find on her own.

So, I ask, what is a home without a bag of candy? Not my home!

Scrubs

One of these people is not like the other ... unless you ask Nicole.

This morning, as Clint dressed for work, Nicole looked at him as though she had never seen scrubs before and asked, "What are those ... doctor jammies?"