29 February 2008

Nicole Is Such A Junk Collector

Sometimes, when Nicole goes to school, I empty the contents of her messy desk and throw away all of the items I consider of little or no value. I call it dejunking. Sometimes it makes me feel bad throwing away all of these things she has so carefully selected as keepsakes; but only for a minute. And then I'm over it. Unless I get caught. Then I feel like a traitor, and it takes me several minutes to get over that.

But I rarely get caught. You see, a long time ago, I cleaned out Nicole's window seat, which was replete with hair ribbons, Polly Pocket strays, CDs, books, bookmarks, mini stuffed animals, used staples (true story) and on and on. While Nicole was taking a bath, I ran into her room and quickly made her bed, stashed the toys away in their proper spots, and generally speaking, spiffied the place up. When Nicole got out of the bath, she walked into her room and said, "Wow! How did my room get so clean?!"

We had just read a story about some elves who secretly made shoes in the middle of the night for an old shoemaker, and so this idea popped into my head: "The elves did it," I blurted out before I had time to think of the consequences of this sentence. I intended it to be a joke and fully expected that she'd retort with, "No, Mom! There's no such thing as elves!" But instead ...

Her eyes got big and she exclaimed, "What?! The elves were here?! What did they look like? Will they come back and clean my room whenever it gets dirty?"

I couldn't bring myself to burst her imaginary bubble, and I have never found the right time to tell her the truth about the little elves and her window seat. (Slap my hands now.) Every now and again, when she finds one of her areas has been cleaned for her, she'll ask me if the elves came again. This is a good way for me to avoid the fiery darts when really important items turn up missing. (I wish this worked on husbands, too.)

Now before you go labeling me with the sorts of labels that such moms deserve, let me offer this one line in defense: If I don't dispose of these "collectibles," our entire place would be overrun with piles of sorted junk.

Can't you see? It's my ongoing ethical dilemma. What to toss; what to store (temporarily, of course). Here's what I found during my most recent raid:Lest you think ill of me, I must tell you that some of these things were not thrown away, but replaced in Nicole's desk, where they will likely remain indefinitely. Because as I said before, my daughter is a junk collector.

This Child Needs a Larger Bed

Grant's crib is a mini size, with the same dimensions as a pack 'n' play. That doesn't stop him from inviting all of the animals, toys and books that he wants into his crib each night. When he runs out of room, he sleeps on top of them. It's my job, as mommy, to ensure every one receives a good night's sleep. As such, every night, after kissing Scotty, I walk into Nicole and Grant's room to rearrange Grant and company. We go from this ...
(Side note: these are Grant's favorite jammies because they have a dog on the front;
he always points to the dog and then says, "Woof, woof!")


... to this.It seems like he adds a new item to his bedtime routine every night. Like the dinosaur -- he's new. While these particular books are also new, the book concept itself has been around a while. It used to be pocket size books about numbers. He actually likes to "read" in bed. I've seen him flip through pages.

As for the stuffed animals, they're just decoration. He doesn't play with them unless he needs an excuse to get out of bed. If he unzips Puppy's fishing vest, Grant thinks that is grounds to beckon me to his room.

The cutest part of it all is Grant waking up. He climbs out of his crib and onto the dresser, then gathers all of the items that his arms can carry and brings them to me (because there's nothing I want more than a stuffed puppy). I put the belongings away, and we start over twelve hours later. Same bat time. Same bat place. New bat items.

28 February 2008

Willing Participant

We're talking about my dentist appointment again. But this time, in a good way -- only because this part of the story doesn't really involve the dentist (or me in a dentist's chair).

And before I can go on, there's one thing you have to know about me. I'm the most impatient person I know. When I decide I want my hair cut, I want it done RIGHT NOW. And when I finally get around to scheduling a dental appointment, I want to get into the clinic right away. So I called the dentist's office and, to my good fortune, they had a cancellation for the very next day. The only problem was, I have three kids, and I was short one babysitter.

What to do? What to do?!

I ran through my list of babysitting options:
  1. Beg my mom to make the one hour drive to my miniature apartment and fold my laundry while she's here.
  2. Check if my niece Quincy is out of school. Since she's 13, this doesn't work out very often. Plus, she also lives an hour away and would need a ride here and back.
  3. Call a neighbor. But like I said before, these apartments are small! Imagine one woman and six kids under the age of six in 800 sq. ft. of living space. I did the math and it equaled a trip to the loony bin. Double check my figures, will ya?
  4. Take the kids with me. Never mind, that's not really an option. That's stupidity. I think we would get kicked out of the office.
  5. Force Clint to miss work (but I'm so not that type).
  6. Convince Nicole that she's old enough to care for her brothers without any adult supervision.
After mentally reviewing my list, I decided to test the waters with #6. I tracked Nicole down in her room. She was playing My Little Pony.

Mom: "Hey, Nicole, how's it going?"
Nicole: "Fine."
Mom
: "Listen. Tomorrow I have to go to the dentist. (Yuck.) And Daddy has to work. Do you think you could take care of your brothers while I'm gone?"
Nicole: "Ummm ... Yeah, I think so."
I'm stunned. Are you kidding me? Grant beats her up all the time. How does she really ...
Nicole: "But ..."
I knew it was too good to be true!
Nicole: "What if Scotty gets hungry? I don't know how to make his bottles."
That's it? We can solve this problem in a hurry.
Mom: "Well, if I make a bottle for him before I leave, and put it in the fridge, you could warm it in the microwave. Do you think that would work?"
Nicole: "OK. I can do it."
Mom: "Thanks, Runt. I knew I could count on you."

I would have paid her good money, you know. But Clint ended up with a surprise day off and landed the babysitting gig instead. Just as well, I guess. Maybe Nicole is a tad bit young to stay home alone (and in charge of her two baby brothers). We'll try again in ten years.

My Ice Cream Scooper Is Special

Growing up we had numerous ice cream scoopers. I’m one of those people that always uses an ice cream scooper. No silver soup spoon here. I hate it when the silverware bends (perhaps that’s a sign of cheapness). But through the thick and the thin, the fancy heated ones that can’t go in the dishwasher, and the plastic ones that peel, my favorite was a heavy duty metal one that had somehow begun to corrode. For as long as I could remember, we had always possessed this particular scooper. Other scoopers came and went, but this scooper could always be found in a reserved spot in the main kitchen drawer.

Before I got married, my sister-in-law-to-be threw a Pampered Chef bridal shower for me, which resulted in my basement apartment kitchen being stocked with more gadgets than I had cupboard space. My maternal grandma bought me beautiful serving spoons, spatulas, giant forks, and all of the cutlery that you would need to entertain a nice gathering. And my mom bought my silverware. Somehow, though, through all of these purchases, everyone (yours truly included) neglected one of the most beloved, used, and important items in every kitchen: a reliable ice cream scooper.

One weekend Clint and I went home to visit (actually it was every weekend for a few months), and I opened the large drawer in the kitchen to find my mom’s perfect ice cream scooper. She had two others, so I asked her if I could take her oldest and most ratty looking one (the heavy duty and slightly corroded metal one). I thought I was doing her a favor to take the thing off her hands. After all, some very thoughtful person had bought her newer, nicer looking ones.

She stared at me in disbelief and after a few seconds replied, “Sure, I guess you can have that one.”

I was startled at her reluctance to give it to me. “It’s OK, Mom, I don’t have to take it.”

Then she told me the story of the ice cream scooper. It had roots in my dad’s household when he was a child. When my grandparents passed away, my dad won the ice cream scooper in the divvying of heirlooms. I don’t know that he really wanted it; perhaps it just turned out that no one else really wanted it. Maybe I should ask him someday. (But I’m slightly concerned he might ask for it back.)

I never knew my paternal grandparents, but I always wish I had. And it’s so silly how such an insignificant item as an ice cream scooper can make me think of them so often. I’m not really much of a sentimental person. I don’t tend to establish emotional ties with tangible objects, but this scooper will always have a special place in our kitchen … and in my heart.

PS: This photo was taken of my dad's parents around the time they were married, circa 1944. It's one of my favorites. They took lots of pictures when they were younger. They loved to travel and they always stood in front of their car when the camera surfaced. I think that's a generational habit because I have pictures of other relatives who are not related to these grandparents who also stood in front of their car. It's sort of like when people didn't used to smile for pictures. What was the point of that?

27 February 2008

We Let Our Five-Year-Old Decide

It’s official. Our rank list is submitted. And some of you may be surprised to know that we made a few last minute adjustments – and we let Nicole have the final say. She's a very bright girl, you know.

Where will it be? Milwaukee, Denver, or San Antonio? Hmm?!? If you want to know, you'll have to suffer through the wait-and-see game right along with us. Are you ready? Only five hundred seventeen hours until the big reveal. Let the countdown begin!

You Ought to See This Baby Smile!

Over ...

and over ...

and over ...
and over ...

again.

Love Taps

I realize that in a still photo, it kinda looks like Grant is trying to smother Scotty.

But not so. When Grant hears Scott begin to fuss, he is usually the second responder. (No one can beat Nicole – it’s just that she wasn’t home this time.) Grant stops what he is doing, no matter how important it is, and rushes to Scott’s side.

Grant doesn’t like to see people cry. He tries to kiss them better. Seeing as he can’t reach Scotty’s face through the bars and since he can’t exactly extract Scotty from the crib like Nicole can, Grant tries to soothe Scott by rubbing his head ever so s.o.f.t.l.y.

26 February 2008

My Day at the Dentist

I hate going to the dentist. This is no secret.

Since I went to a new dentist today, they asked me to fill out the usual introductory forms before beginning my “dental work” (read torture). The last question in my series of forms asked, “Have you ever had a negative experience in a dentist’s office?”

I wrote, “Every time.” Then, because I wanted to convey that I am a mature, educated adult, I drew a frowny face next to my answer. It’s always important, my college English teacher taught me, to add images to your text that reflect your writing level.

I didn’t figure they’d actually read the form, but they must have because every time the assistant and the dentist picked up a new tool, their gaze darted toward my face, looking for my reaction, and they quickly blurted, “Are you OK?!” Bless their little hearts.

Finally I told them I trusted them to carry out their job without difficulty and I would try my hardest to do my job, which consisted mainly of closing my eyes and pretending I was somewhere more pleasant (namely, anywhere else).

Imagine their shock when the Novocain didn’t take quite like they were hoping. What I meant to say was, not at all like they were hoping. Ouch. The dentist kept saying, “I’m so sorry. I can’t figure out why this isn’t working.” That’s always reassuring: Your dentist doesn’t know why your pain medication isn’t working. And just so you know, in case this ever happens to you, it also helps the pain go away if he apologizes incessantly.

One and a half hours later, I finally limped out of their office. My mouth truly felt like a war veteran. The worst part of it all, though, was paying money to be there. You know, the dental insurance they give you in medical school is the best. They cover no procedures and you have a 100% deductible.

I’m so taking happy medicine before going to the dentist again (that is, if I go again). Did I mention it’s Tuesday?!

25 February 2008

What Are Little Boys Made Of?

Look closely …

Inside my sink, on top of my garbage disposal, is a can of green chilies.

After Grant shoved the can through the small hole, he sprinkled leftover stuffing from the fridge all around, for aesthetic reasons, of course. Good thing he didn’t flip the switch on the wall to top it all off. That would have warranted a call to the maintenance crew for sure!

24 February 2008

The Most Important Things in Life Are NOT Free

Take these watches, which appeared in our cereal boxes, for example. Some might argue that they were free. But we still had to purchase the cereal. The kids adore these watches (which we can't manage to program to the correct time of day), and they never go a day without them.
Some might also argue that looking at the smiles on my kids' faces is free. O contraire! I'm here to tell you that getting these two miniature human beings to this point in life is the opposite of free. In addition to all of the expenses we've incurred since these two darlings stepped into our lives (buying necessities, like wall hangings, movies, and lipgloss), I have endured pain and temper tantrums and WORK. Don't forget the WORK. You know, someone has to follow these orphans all over town taking pictures, editing the pictures, posting the pictures -- it really is hard to be me. Oh, and then there's the time factor (you know, following them around town). Oh, these kids were NOT free. They're priceless!

Just like their watches.

23 February 2008

As American as a Rodeo

Grandma and Papa took us to the rodeo, where we saw the biggest tractors we didn't know existed. (You can't tell, but if I had a photographer follow me around everywhere, you would have seen that the hind wheel is taller than I am by at least a foot. Maybe two. OK, one. And a half.)
We also saw cowboys doing insane tricks, like riding a wild horse without a saddle. Made me grateful my husband's going into a safe line of work, such as medicine, where his greatest risk is as benign as accidentally contracting HIV. Pff! No sprained ankles or broken collar bones here!

As could be expected, the cowboys are very chivalrous and will take children they don't even know for rides on their horses, provided you wait until the show is over.
Grant loved watching the grown men fall off the horses and bulls, but methought I saw a glimmer of envy when the little kids mounted the lambs for the ride of their lives.

But only when he wasn't busy eating his Teddy Grahams.

I think Grant and Papa spent more time walking than sitting.
They were able to get so close to the animals that they learned their names ...

and became life-long friends (with a little help from Papa's coworker).

(Maybe squatting technically falls into the category of sitting, but they weren't in their assigned seats. Nah, these were much better than any seat you could buy.)
Nicole wasn't in her assigned seat either, but this is also better than any seat you can buy. After all, have you ever seen a ticket that read, "Row Three, Seat Papa's Lap"? Honestly.

And what did little Scotty do while all of us were having so much fun? Never mind you him -- that boy is fully capable of finding his own entertainment. Just ask Grandma.

22 February 2008

Page Six

A long time ago, I worked as a radio talk show producer for a very reputable 24-hour news station. My job was to supply the host with ample topics to maintain four hours of interesting talk. Every morning, I read (this term used loosely) six printed newspapers, skimmed the latest online news sources, checked our live wires, and scanned the major television networks' morning news shows. Despite all of this, I occasionally came up short on material.

On one such event, I flipped through a catalog that had been handed down to me by my predecessor. It contained names and numbers of people around the country who were willing to come on your show (with very little or no notice at all) and discuss the topic next to their name -- free of charge (that should have tipped us off). The host and I decided to go on air with an ex-convict and burglar, whose name I will never forget and which I will not reprint here because I don't want to give him any additional free publicity than he has already robbed from me (he should have never been let out of jail). The host was excited to hear which houses are more likely to be targeted by burglars and what people can do to prevent their house from being robbed. Instead, for one full hour, every time he was given a chance at the mic, he scared our audience into thinking that their houses would be burglarized if they didn't purchase his home protection kit (I'm not telling you what this is called either). His system called for one kit per entry to your home -- that is, every door and window -- for the "reduced price of $50 each!" (If I had a nickel for every time I heard that ...)

"What a load of malarkey!" I remember thinking. As I sat stunned in my producer's chair, I tried to brainstorm ways to get him off our show early. This guy was a true con artist. I seriously thought he had the stupidest product ever and that there was no way he was going to make it rich with this invention. I don't know how much money he eventually made, but throughout his entire infomercial (free of charge, thanks to us), listeners kept calling me to get the phone number to order his pile of bologna. At the end of that segment, I was relieved to have survived and never wanted to hear about him or his home protection devices again. As fate would have it, however, that one hour haunted me for months. Every time I checked my office voice mail, another listener had left a message trying to figure out how to get this product. I rationalized that I was doing them a great service to not return their calls.

Immediately after this rather embarrassing episode, I disposed of the catalog so that such a mistake would not occur on my watch again. But I digress.

Without the catalog available, and during the dog days of summer (seriously slow news after June, when many significant Supreme Court decisions are usually made), I occasionally had to search for topics in other places besides traditional news. Enter Page Six. Remember what I said about working at a reputable station? That goes out the window when you read Page Six. In essence, Page Six, which is also delivered with the New York Post (not to be confused with the New York Times, although easily classified as equally liberal), is where you find the juicy gossip of the day. I have always considered Page Six to contain material that other brave newspapers might print, but never on the cover (that would be scandalous).

So when I tell you I'm giving you Page Six information, just think of yourself as getting an inside scoop on the details that no one should ever hear about my family. And remember, you didn't hear it from me.

My Kindergartener

Three and a half moons ago, Nicole got her picture taken at school. Today the picture was finally delivered.

How grown up is this little girl?!

Be Honest

"Does this picture make me look fat?"

21 February 2008

I Come in Peace

And bearing good gifts.

The last time Grant tried to share with Scott, it resulted in bodily injury. There's no picture because I was so flabbergasted that I forgot to grab my camera; but Page Six gossip reveals a baby Scott trying to sleep soundly in his crib whilst his older brother is bombarding him with toys. Toys of all colors, sizes, and weights. Toys landing on soft blankets, baby fat or wispy baby hair. Even though Scotty was a good sport, Grant still received a strict reprimand to never put anything else in Scott's crib.

He doesn't listen to me, that kid.These are dirty -- from the dishwasher. I'm pretty sure I remember scolding him about staying out of the dishwasher, too. Told you he doesn't listen.

At least he loves his brother enough to ignore Mom's laws and get in trouble all over again.

20 February 2008

No!

As of today, Grant is two years and nearly one month old. He speaks six words: Mommy, Hot, Uh-Oh, Ouch, Mine and Boo. But that's not all he can do. When he's mad, he looks at me with his evil eyes and bellows an ear-piercing scream. When he's excited, he chirps out repeated high-pitched squeals. (Kinda like an ape.) He also shakes his head for no, and reaches his hand out for yes. Speech delay? Perhaps slightly.

The Today Show featured a segment on why some children talk late, such as my little Grantigrew. And apparently, it's all my fault. Naturally, it's my fault because every problem that children may encounter at any phase of their lives can be attributed to their awful upbringing and rotten parents ... and too much negativity. (Note sarcasm. Psychologists make me crazy. Isn't that ironic? Must be a technique for stirring up business.)

So, according to their "childhood expert," who may or may not actually have any children of her own (you be the judge), the reason Grant doesn't speak more is because I tell him no too often, and I don't take the proper time to explain to him the logic behind the no.

For example, when Grant grabs the carton of eggs out of the fridge and is poising to throw them to their doom, I yell, "No, Grant!" (Actually, it's more like, "Grant, Noooooooo!" and my voice trails off slowly as my arms flail wildly and I dart towards him and land face first on the kitchen floor to catch the carton. Grant giggles. No wonder he likes the eggs so much. It's like watching a freak show -- or a circus clown, but what's the difference?) The point is, I missed a very important opportunity to inform him of how the existence of those precious little chicken fetuses will no longer be useful, and mommy will have to mop the floor -- again.

Or when Grant grabs the scissors and starts to cut a hole in my favorite shirt, I likewise yell, "No, Grant!" And, oops, I forgot to tell him that I spent hard-earned money on that item and it is completely irreplaceable. (But, hey, it could be worse. At least I don't add, "Now look what you've done, kid!")

One more, just for kicks. When it's time to go and Grant doesn't want to (hence the kicking, screaming, throwing himself on the ground), I say, "No, Grant!" and I pick him up and carry him to the car (however hard it may be). And while we're walking so closely together, I never whisper in his ear, "Darling, if you kick mommy, I'll get hurt. Please hold still and be a happy child. It will make the whole world shine." I just don't take the time. Probably because a whisper wouldn't do it and I can't yell louder than he can. First, I don't possess it in my lungs and secondly, what would the passersby think?

Ultimately, I suppose, Grant is exposed to much less vocabulary because I only use one word, instead of twenty, to prevent (or die trying) negative behavior. Funny how Grant doesn't repeat that one word back to me -- I always thought it'd be his first. That must be my fault, too.

19 February 2008

Our Afternoons Are Numbered

There won't be enough more days like this ...

18 February 2008

Nicole's Treehouse

Subtitle: Don't take my picture.

Nicole's dedicated corner at Grandma's is located behind the massage chair in the computer room. My mom calls it a mess and Nicole affectionately calls it her treehouse. The floor is covered in crayons, paper, tape, and everything you would need to make an original paper creation. There is barely room to stand, but lucky guests are occasionally invited to squeeze in (even destructive Grant). Visitors also have the option of leaving their work on her wall as a memento.
I told Nicole to smile while I took her picture, and she replied, "No, Mom, I don't like having my picture taken." Oh yeah, since when? (Just so you know, most days she poses like she's a model and begs me to take her picture. Can't believe the teen years have already set in!) She was even willing to go to time-out to elude smiling for me. I acted with an incredible amount of maturity when I threw this back at her, "Well, that's really a shame, Nicole, because I'm going to be taking your picture hundreds of times for the rest of your life. Better get used to it." Actually, it's more like billions of times, but I didn't want to make her cry.

17 February 2008

My Little Butterball

Pseudo Summer Baby

When I was living in student housing at BYU, our electricity was included in our rent. For this reason, we turned the heat up fairly high, and whoever couldn't tolerate it could open a window in her room. One very cold winter evening, my roommates decided to host a beach party. They cranked up the heat to 90 degrees and invited everyone to come over for food and dancing in their shorts or swimsuits.

I think about that experience often when I'm stuck here in this cold weather with my little baby so bundled up that I can't watch his fat accumulate. It's the most unfortunate situation.

If I didn't have to pay for heat (and if my husband didn't mind wearing a bathing suit around the house), I could turn the dial on the thermostat all the way to the hottest setting and let my baby relax in his onesie, all day, day after fat day. I would watch him flap his arms wildly as a newborn, grow a second chin, and kick his legs when trying to crawl.This day wasn't warm at all. And the thermostat was set at a balmy 75 degrees (I'm cold-blooded), but Scotty was about to take his bath and I couldn't resist a picture. If you look closely, you can see his blue veins protruding out of his legs, but for two minutes, we pretended that he was really born in June (or in Arizona).

For several more months, we'll tolerate this cold weather and keep Scott wrapped in his layers of shirts and blankets until it's warm enough outside to bare his chubby skin.

More Cuddle Time

Scotty is truly anyone's baby. Everyone who walks through the door plucks him up like a baby chick.
Cousin Tyler loves babies more than any kid I know. If there's a baby in the room, he's holding it, or playing with it, or teaching it to walk, or laying down by it -- anything to spend time with the baby.

16 February 2008

He's Mine!

Nicole has grown up hearing me say, "You're my baby!"

Now she packs Scotty around the house and whispers in his ear, while giving him an extra squeeze, "You're MY baby!"

She takes care to ensure that I overhear so that I can retort, "No, Scotty's my baby." And we go back and forth for a few minutes until we start laughing so hard we can't talk.

Apparently Nicole wants Grant to be her baby, too.

A Stroll with Rhino

Rhino is so small that if Uncle Denny doesn't plow a path for him in the backyard, he'll get trapped in a snow bank. The same holds true for Nicole.

You Never Know the Trouble You'll Encounter

This is almost as bad as Grant confusing a tube of diaper rash cream for toothpaste:Nicole had intended to douse her ice cream with Hershey's chocolate syrup, but couldn't find it. Don't knock it 'til you try it, right? Come on, Titebond II -- it's the next best thing!

When Papa Is In Charge

Your kid might learn to talk on a cell phone:
And he will probably make it back alive:
But there's no way he'll come back clean:

14 February 2008

Look What We Found

This family lives right outside the kids' window.

We wanted a closer look, so the kids and I hiked up to their house. They let us get within ten feet of them before bolting. Since I was carrying Grant, and Nicole was running ahead, sometimes through a foot of snow, we couldn't exactly keep pace.

So Nicole and Grant spotted their tracks and we finally caught up with them about a mile from our house. We had so much fun.

By this time, however, Grant was so cold he began to cry. I ended up taking my coat off and wrapping it around him, hood and all. He put his hand in his pockets and buried his face into my shoulder the whole way home. Nicole was worried about me and said, "But, Mom, now you'll get cold." I told her I hope she'll do the same thing for her babies one day. I don't think she grasped the concept. It reminded me of when I was little, my mom used to tell me that she loved me more than I loved her. That's impossible, I thought. When Nicole was born, I finally understood what she was talking about.

100 Things I Know and Love about My Husband

1. It takes him 30 minutes to get ready (including shower).
2. He watches TV less than one hour per month.
3. When he does watch TV, it's the History Channel.
4. Or Discovery Channel.
5. Or FOX News.
6. He likes to go to bed before 10:00 p.m.
7. He always tells the truth, even when it gets him in trouble.
8. His favorite pastime is target shooting.
9. His next favorite is reloading shotgun shells/making bullets.
10. A close third is changing the oil on the car.
11. Or pretty much changing anything on the car.
12. He spends the majority of his money at Auto Zone.
13. He secretly would like to earn his private pilot's license.
14. He doesn't ski, snowboard or build snowmen.
15. In fact, he might just hate the snow as much as I do.
16. He gives his employer a hard day's work.
17. He loves to check his email.
18. His favorite book is our world atlas.
19. Speaking of which, he can tell you the location of any country.
20. And he might also be able to name its capital.
21. He knows the distance (in miles and hours) from Salt Lake City to anywhere cooler than here.
22. He prefers to drive on family vacations so we can see all of the sights on the way.
23. He always drives the entire distance of our vacations (even the ones that are greater than 3000 miles round trip).
24. I make him nervous when I drive.
25. He would never complain about wearing a tie everyday.
26. He would complain about wearing a suit once a year.
27. Vital stats: He's 5'11" and 28 years old.
28. He would like to buy horses one day.
29. And keep them on our 1000 acre lot.
30. In Yuma.
31. He also wants a hunting dog.
32. That can point and scare the birds.
33. And retrieve ducks.
34. He likes camping in a trailer, not so much in a tent.
35. He always packs up the car when we go somewhere.
36. There's not enough time in Clint's life to visit all of the places on his "to go" list.
37. If we had a million dollars, the first place he would go is Cape Verde.
38. He always refills our ink cartridges, without me asking.
39. The past 20 times that he has washed our Tahoe, it has rained within 48 hours.
40. He washes the dishes before putting them in the dishwasher.
41. This results in the cleanest dishes I have ever seen!
42. He also has a way of cleaning the whole sink and faucet that makes it look like it's never been used.
43. He hates clothes shopping.
44. Even when it's for him.
45. In our seven years of marriage, he has joined me at the mall less than five times.
46. He would rather pull off his toenails one by one than go to the mall.
47. He never forgets important dates, such as anniversaries, birthdays, Valentine's ...
48. He doesn't care what I buy or how much money it costs.
49. He likes sunny days.
50. He likes his eggs scrambled with cheese.
51. He catches up on my blog once per week.
52. Since he read it two days ago, he won't read this post until five days from now.
53. His favorite cheese is Gouda.
54. His second favorite is extra sharp cheddar.
55. He would trade all of the candy in the world for a bar of good chocolate. (Milka is the best we've found so far.)
56. Clint in one word: Peacemaker.
57. He wants to live in Europe for a year.
58. He says it would be good for the kids.
59. Plus, imagine all of the historic sights he could see in that time!
60. Clint can remember historic facts better than anyone I know.
61. If we went to Hawaii on vacation, he would rather see the sights than sit on the beach and watch the ocean.
62. He never complains when I make soup for dinner. Or salad.
63. Clint doesn't yell. Ever.
64. He hates being cold.
65. But it's rare that he's cold.
66. In the winter, when we are together in the car, he takes his coat off and I put on two, plus a blanket.
67. He prefers to drive with the radio off.
68. He will do undesirable chores, such as killing spiders, shoveling snow off the car, fixing the computer and taking sick kids to the doctor.
69. He and Nicole go on dates to the dollar theater.
70. He always lets her pick the movie.
71. Even when it's lame.
72. He lets me pick the movies we watch, too.
73. Even when they're lame.
74. Even if he'd rather be watching James Bond.
75. He frequently drinks a cup of hot cocoa before going to bed.
76. Even in the summer.
77. But only when we're out of ice cream.
78. In his eyes, no ice cream is better than Farr's Chocolate Peanut Butter.
79. Most of his relatives are buried in the Ogden City Cemetery.
80. Including his mom and our daughter.
81. He probably wouldn't tell you that.
82. We visit the cemetery several times each year, and always on Memorial Day.
83. Clint cleans the edges and the face of the headstones while the kids and I place flowers.
84. Clint likes to research his family history.
85. He doesn't like to watch sports. He says it's a waste of time.
86. And the athletes are overpaid.
87. The last time he played basketball, he threw out his back.
88. He speaks four languages. That makes him a polyglot.
89. He can build or fix anything for the house.
90. He doesn't get mad when I rearrange the furniture twice a week.
91. He is subscribed to two medical journals that he never reads.
92. He gives one of them to me each week.
93. He lets me pick out his clothes.
94. Everyday.
95. But he combs his own hair (as opposed to my dad, who has whichever woman is home at the time comb his).
96. If you ask him about politics, be sure you have an hour to spare.
97. Clint will do anything for his friends.
98. And his wife.
99. Because he loves us.
100. And he has a heart of gold.

13 February 2008

Desperate Measures

Sometimes I feel like a mule. We live on the second floor of our building and when I have to carry our belongings (groceries, backpacks, snow clothes, diaper bags -- do you really want me to go on?) inside, I usually try to haul it all in one load. This is stupid, for lack of a better word, but when I have the kids with me, I don't want to leave them alone inside while I make repeated trips to the car.

However, when the kids fall asleep in the car, this complicates my routine a bit. I have been spotted (undoubtedly) carrying Grant over one shoulder, Scotty's car seat through the opposite arm (with my purse covering his face because it fell off my shoulder), groceries hanging from my fingertips and Nicole stumbling behind me and moaning that she's too tired to walk. (I'll spare you the lecture she gets on the way in.) By the time we reach our front door, I drop everything except the kids (although that has happened, too) since there is no feeling left in any of my limbs. As you can imagine, this is such an awful sight to be seen.

Now when we move into a house with an attached garage (I'm not picky), there will be no more of these shenanigans. But until these ever so long, I mean, short four months pass, my current system will need to be overhauled. And I may have just found the solution today.

With relatively few glitches and heartache, I managed to transport the sleeping giant (weighing in at 28 pounds), the newborn, my purse, the diaper bag and 22 library books into the house via this method:Can't believe your eyes? Me neither. Let's take a closer look:
This is a single stroller and the goods are stashed in the basket under the seat. I had my doubts about pulling this off successfully, but as I've said before, "There is a God and He loves me." Grant and Scotty both transferred to their beds and have been asleep ever since (going on two hours now).

It's a good day. But I still want that house!

Humane Society

I can't keep Nicole from befriending and adopting bugs.

She takes such good care of them ... naming them, walking them around the house, getting them fresh air and drinks of water, giving them friends ...