The Most Memorable Bathroom

During my younger years, we lived in a split-level entry home, about which my mother nagged constantly that we keep the half-bath door closed at all times, since it sat at the top of the stairs, in direct view from the front door. I, however, loved this bathroom. This was the bathroom that the family used to get ready in the morning. It's a bad habit of ours.

Even now, with five large bathrooms from which to choose in my parents' current home, all of the women cram into the half-bath simultaneously to comb our hair, wash our hands, change and dress the babies, or just chat. It's not uncommon to find four women in there at once. And, gee, it's crowded.

But back to the original half-bath. This is the bathroom where my mother combed my hair each morning. I remember all of the lights in the house were off, with the exception of this bathroom, one Christmas morning. Even though it was dark, several large white sheets concealed the unwrapped gifts from Santa, so that no accidental peeking would occur while Mom carefully prepared all of us in our best dress for the Christmas morning pictures. It must have been 6 a.m. My poor mom! The pressure of getting five little kids (I'm hoping by this time, the two older ones could take care of their own hygiene) picture-ready so early in the morning. Christmas at our house was always a big production. My dad set up flood lights, positioned the video camera (or equivalent) on a tripod, loaded his professional flash onto the still camera, and got ready to sit backstage filming the whole affair. And it all began in the small half-bath.

My second memory of this bathroom isn't quite as charming. Since I was born in the slow economy of the '80s, my mom, for the first time in married life, was forced to take employment. It broke her heart to leave us. All of the kids were in school, except me, which meant I had to go to daycare. I always hated the babysitting days. I put myself into such hysterics over it (wasn't I a dream child?) that my mom quit telling me in advance when I would have to go to the babysitter. One morning, my mom woke me up early, got me ready and then proceeded to get herself ready for work. I stood silently next to the bathroom watching her coif her hair, and knowing that as soon as we walked out the door, we would be on our way to Eloise's, and there was nothing I could do about it.

Eloise was my babysitter. She must have seemed like a nice woman on the surface, or else my mom would have never left me in her care. Nevertheless, going to Eloise's was my least favorite thing to do.

To ease the pain, my mom bought me a bag of my favorite cookies to share with the other children. (This must be the reason I always leave my children with their favorite treat when the babysitter comes over.) When my mom poised to walk out Eloise's front door, I grabbed her leg with one arm, my butter cookies in their sealed white bag still clutched in my other hand, and began sobbing. It felt like she was going away forever. I don't know who broke my grasp, but as soon as my mom had left, Eloise sent me to a room in the basement with the other children. It seemed like there were a lot of children in that room. A lot of children and a piano. And no cookies. Eloise handed me a couple before shutting the door behind her, and took my bag with her. That was the last I saw of those cookies.

Not long after this horrifying experience, my mom quit her job and began to watch kids in her house, so that she would never have to leave me again. The moral of the story, as my mom has been heard to say, is that no one will love your children as much as you do -- so don't leave them anywhere!

Nothing Better To Do

Before I grew old and acquired responsibilities, I used to dread Sunday. Oh, is it Sunday? Again?! The day we respect by not doing anything fun? Didn't we just get Sunday over with, like, yesterday? Ugghhhh!

My mom always replied in a really chipper voice, "Well, I just love Sunday. Sunday is my favorite day of the week." I thought she was nuts -- until I got old. Now I understand (and appreciate) what she was touting all those years.

I love to hear the hymns play on Sunday (and often, I'm the one doing the playing). I love to hold a sleeping Scotty at church. I love to spend the day NOT doing housework. I especially love it when the whole family falls asleep at the same time on the same king-size bed on a lazy Sunday afternoon. And I love having nothing better to do than take the kids to the park to feed the ducks; or play Dominoes; or photograph children who have convinced Daddy to play jump rope.
That's right. Daddy is twirling the rope while the girls chant the jump rope songs. Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack ... All dressed in black, black, black ...
And Daddy looks like he's having a good time twirling that rope. Round and round and ... wait! Is that Daddy jumping?
Must be nothing else better to do. I love Sundays.

The Mean Mom

Remember when you were little and in your anger you said something to the effect of, "When I'm a mom, I'll never _______." While I don't remember specific promises I made, I'm pretty sure I thought I would be the coolest mom ever ... let my kids play instead of do homework ... let them eat as much candy as they would like ... never put them in time-out.

As it turns out, I'm not exactly the mom I envisioned twenty years ago. Not even close. In fact, I'm barely recognizable to imaginary prototype. And I'm starting to feel bad about it.

As you all know, Nicole and I fight constantly about her diet. She will eat very healthy food, but only a few different kinds. I fix those foods as much as I can stand to eat them, and then I get bored and want a meal that's a bit more delectable. More saucy. Less kid-friendly. Like Asian Lettuce Wraps. Or Pasta Carbonara.

Last night we had a beautiful dinner. Jumbo shells, salad, sliced strawberries, a baguette and Swiss cheese. Nicole usually eats a snack after school because she's famished and too hungry to wait until dinner. But last night, we were eating dinner early, so I made her wait. She tends to eat better when there's not a trace of a crumb in her stomach. Not the case last night.

She ate the inside portion of her baguette slice and asked at least 100 times, "'Cause why I have to eat this food?!" I quit answering after the first time because I hate repeating myself. I was so annoyed at her wasting her food without even trying it. How could she know she doesn't like it unless she tastes it? Just try it!!!

I've tried to come up with all sorts of bribes, tricks, punishments -- you name it -- to get Nicole to try new food or just eat whatever is on her plate whether she likes it or not (like in the good old days when we were kids). Nothing whatsoever has worked. Last night, I reached the end of my patience and I said, "You sit there until you try everything on your plate."

She cried at first. Then she stared off into space. Then she announced, "I'm tired and I want to go to bed." So she did. At 6:30 p.m., Nicole dressed herself in her jammies, brushed her teeth, and climbed into bed. With no dinner. And I was sad.

Children should never have hungry tummies. Moms should never be mean.

We've got a lot of work to do.

Les Cuisses de Grenouille

First things first. Grenouille is tricky for non-native Frenchies to pronounce properly. Secondly, I should probably tell you that it means frog.

When I was a young and impressionable 16-year-old, my parents lost their minds and let me travel to France alone to stay with a family they had never met. Luckily for everyone, this was a very kind family who wanted me to experience all of the great marvels of France. The bread. (Oh, the bread! I dream about the bread.) The chocolate. And the frog legs?!?

Frog legs are considered a delicacy in Southern France. So the aunt of my good friend Claire took us to a fancy shmancy restaurant in downtown Lyon so that I could try them out. (Looking back, I was the only one who ordered the frog leg platter. How did that one get past me?) I reluctantly agreed to order the frog legs because the aunt claimed this dish was a specialty in her region and that this restaurant had the best frogs in town. Besides, I was a teenager. And teenagers aren't afraid of anything. Even if it's stupid. Or gross. Or harmful to their health. Moreover, I didn't travel all the way to France to eat at McDonald's. So, cuisses de grenouille it was.

It was summertime, so we ate outdoors, in the dark, with only a small lantern hanging next to our table. Odd as it may seem, I remember the dish to have been "pretty," but probably because I couldn't see it very well. It was well-adorned, though, like something you'd see on Food Network. They have to present it that way so people don't vomit and scare all of the other restaurant patrons. Along with the frog plate, the server also brought a little bucket for the bones. (That was the most disgusting part, besides the thought of it. It's like eating a dog or a horse. It just isn't right. But those Frenchies consume all sorts of things that ought not be consumed.)

All in all, I ate the frog legs -- every single one of them -- and thought they tasted ... well, quite good, all things considered, of course. If you're dying to experience France the way I did, I've compiled a short list to facilitate your meal going down (and staying down!):

1. Eat your frog legs deep fried.
2. In France.
3. In a restaurant.
4. That has low lighting.
5. With your eyes closed.

Let's review.

oui

non
oui non

Now it's your turn. Bon Appetit!

Typical Utah

There are four days left in March, and when I woke up this morning and saw *snow* out my window, I wasn't surprised. If this weren't my last Utah winter EVER, I would have pouted. And whined. And said, "I hate this weather! I can't take it any longer!"

Fortunately for me (and everyone around me), I don't have to take it any longer. So I shrugged my shoulders, laughed and said, "Grace."

The end.

Close Enough

I woke up at 4:00 this morning to silence. For a mom with a baby who still wakes up in the night, and who hasn't yet been up this night, it's a scary feeling. I jumped out of bed and hurriedly tiptoed to Scotty's crib, where I found a soundly sleeping baby. My heart leapt. Could it be?!

It has occurred, in rare instances past, that Clint has awoken and fed Scotty without my knowing. Sometimes I'm just so tired that I sleep through it all. I said that was rare. I couldn't sleep without knowing for sure, so I tiptoed (don't want to ruin a good thing) to the kitchen sink. Sure enough ... nothing. Little Scotty was going on eight hours!

I smiled and crawled back into bed. Scotty finally did wake up, but it was closer to five. He guzzled his four ounces and was back in bed ten minutes later. He's still sleeping now. Wonder what tonight will bring???

PS: Don't you love a newborn baby boy in a nightgown?
PPS: This is Scotty with Tina, Nicole's bunny. They're the same size.

Grant's a Naughty Bath-Taker

For weeks, Nicole has refused to take a bath with Grant.

He splashes water in her face.

He throws toys at her.

He kicks her. Stands up and jumps on her. And he pulls her hair, which everyone knows is a cheap shot.

Grant is very naughty in the tub.

One evening, bedtime was fast approaching and I insisted the kids take a bath together so we could get done faster, get to bed quicker, etc. Every 90 seconds, Nicole yelled, "Mom, Grant's [fill in the blank with something Grant could do to annoy his sister]!"

Finally I stormed down the hall, "Grant, quit it!" Except this time, instead of seeing Grant's evil eyes, Grant had his eyes closed completely. He was pretending that he wasn't there. That I couldn't see him. That he couldn't possibly get in trouble if he weren't in the tub, and if no one could see to where he had gone.

It was so funny that I ran to grab my camera. When I got back a millisecond later, I pushed the capture button down half-way, heard the beep for the auto focus, and missed my opportunity.

Grant has associated the beep with my camera. And he quite likes the camera these days. So each time Nicole beckoned me back to the bathroom to punish Grant, I sneaked in with my camera, only to find this.

He knew I was coming.

And he opened his eyes immediately to pose, like he was going to be on the cover of a magazine.

Sometimes he really showed his stuff.

It was all a big game. A big funny game. Except for Nicole, who sustained a great deal of injuries to obtain these photos. I can't blame her for wanting a private bath.

A Tough Egg to Crack

The best way to describe my dad is "a man of few words." Although some neighborhood kids might call him scary. (I think the word they're looking for is intimidating.) Around the family, we sometimes call him "Big D." That's D for Denny and Big because he's 6'2" and it distinguishes him from the Little D (my oldest brother). No matter what you call him, it is indisputable that very few people actually know my dad. In fact, sometimes I wonder if the only person who really knows him is my mom. They have their own little language -- the kind you develop after being married to the same person for more than forty years. (Sheesh! Is my math correct?! Well, yes, but my parents really aren't that old; they married young.)

Let's try to crack this egg whose shell seems impenetrable at times.

*****

One myth about my dad is that he doesn't talk much. (It's founded on a small element of truth. For example, your birthday email is likely to read, "HBD. Love, Dad.") But I like to think of him this way: he is an exceptional listener who will talk non-stop under certain circumstances. You just have to sit in the right spot -- like on the couch in the computer room while he "works" on the computer. Or you need to ask the right questions (airplanes, medicine, home repairs). And above all, you must be patient.

Case in point. My dad is really good at math, so when I was younger and needed help with my math homework, I asked my dad. It would go something like this:

Me: Hi Dad.
Dad: (No response.)
Me: I have a question about this math problem. (Gesture toward the book.)
Dad: (No response.)
Me: It says the answer is x, but I got y. Can you help me?
Dad: (Five minutes of silence.)
Me: (Five minutes of silence while Dad's favorite cowboy scene wraps up on the TV.)
Dad: Alright, let's take a look at it.

*****

My dad works at a really boring job (that's my assessment) for the government, but he's a pilot at heart. Actually he's a CFI, which is a certified flight instructor. Dad flies every day that the weather is favorable, usually with his students. It's very unfortunate that I don't appreciate flying as much as my dad. I have tried. When I was six, he let me fly the plane so I wouldn't get airsick, but as soon as I returned to the backseat ... blah! In elementary school, I did a report on the Wright brothers, who are still heroes of mine. The last time I flew in a small plane with my dad was when I was in college. I lived about 70 miles away and had no car. So when I wanted to visit home for a weekend, I took the bus. I love taking the bus. I will take ten buses over one airplane. This bus took three hours to drive from my school's campus to a mall near my parents' place, where my mom would pick me up in the car. Often, instead of taking the bus back to school on Sunday evening, my mom would drive me home. This particular weekend, my dad and brother were on their way to the airport and insisted they drop me off at school "on their way" to their destination. I had no say in the matter at all. They carefully flew me to the local airport where another brother picked me up and drove me back to my apartment. It seemed like it was no trouble at all until I later learned that my school wasn't "on their way." It was 100 miles out of their way. While I haven't been up in a Cessna since, Dad's taken Clint and Nicole several times.

*****

My dad loves babies big:
and babies small:
He even loves screaming babies that no one else wants to hold (Papa rescued this poor boy and held him until he quit crying):
He must have learned this from his grandfather:

*****

Famous quotes by Dad:
1. Sounds like a personal problem to me.
2. Looks like a ------ (racial slur) did it. (Give him a break; he grew up in the 50s. Imagine what he had to listen to his dad say!)
3. (When he sees anyone jogging.) They need to go ten times faster and ten times further.
4. The only way to make a million dollars in the aviation industry is to start with two.
5. (This one is a bit archaic. It's from my childhood when corporal punishment wasn't only acceptable, it was expected; although it never applied to me, of course.) Go pick out your two by four.

*****

My dad likes to talk about his upbringing. Yesterday he told me a story I had never heard before. When he was four or five, he had a dog that he loved very much (but whose name has been regrettably forgotten). He remembers this dog as "the dog we had to get rid of."

"Why?!" everyone asked with anticipation. We once had a dog that we had to get rid of, too, but it was because she bit a neighbor kid that threw a rock at her. Served the kid right.

Back to Dad's story. He said that whenever his mom got mad at him, this awesome dog would start to attack his mom. That's every kid's dream dog!

*****

One of thousands of reasons my dad is special to me: he dedicated Brooke's grave. Out of all I've tried to block out of my mind from that day, I vividly remember my dad saying that "one day we will see Brooke running in the fields and smelling the flowers." Oh, how I cried. It was because of that phrase that we designed her headstone with flowers all around it.

*****

Dad's just a big kid. He loves to get his picture taken and he likes to play jokes, especially if they annoy my mom. I think he likes to her to say, "Ho-ney! Quit it!" We took these pictures in their living room a couple of years ago, and none of these made it to the frame shop, but they should have. They're my favorites.

*****

He's one of those people that is lucky enough to be married to his best friend.

*****

Happy Birthday, Daddy! We love you!

Salt Lake City's Most Recognizable Landmark

My sister asked me to take some pictures of the Salt Lake LDS Temple. I don't know why she didn't just go to the store and buy one. I know that many professionals have taken similar shots. But nevertheless, I can't say no to my sister. So after lots of editing and many versions, this one turned out to be my favorite. I'm so glad she called.

On our trip home from Florida, Frontier Airlines had a picture of this temple on the screen next to the gate where Clint and Grant were boarding. We only live ten minutes away from this beautiful building, and just seeing the picture made me feel like I was almost home. I wonder if this picture will always have the same effect on me.

The Undecorator

All of the holiday cheer decorations I own (with the exception of our very small fake tree) fit in this box.
Clint calls me Scrooge. And justifiably. The less significant and not-kid-oriented holidays have no representation in our house whatsoever. New Year's. No way. Valentine's. Nope. St. Patrick's. Nothing. Fourth of July. Empty-handed. Thanksgiving. Nada.

Basically it boils down to this:

• Easter: two baskets, a gallon size bag of plastic eggs, two bags of fake grass.
• Halloween: two Halloween buckets, one fake pumpkin that lights up and says "Happy Halloween," a witch, three candles with Halloween candle holders
• Christmas: three sets of white lights, three boxes of neutral color glass balls (pearl, clear, silver), less than 10 homemade ornaments, 12 bows, a tree skirt, and two stockings.

It's not that I think the decorations aren't cute, it's that I don't want to store them in my house when they're not in use. So, if it doesn't fit in the box, it's not staying in the house.

No matter how festive.

More Match Day Photos

All of the letters were sitting perfectly alphabetized on a table behind a giant red ribbon. Once the ribbon was cut, the students retrieved their fate from the little white envelopes. Nicole was so proud to be in charge of the envelope. Clint's friend Jeremy is right behind them.


Jeremy opened his envelope first and was happy to be get his top pick. We were so happy for them and laughing and smiling, until Nicole started to open our envelope. That's when the situation turned very calm and sober and serious.

Our trusty babysitter Kalia kept trading off between Scott and Grant, so Clint and I could focus on the festivities, like announcing to the class where we're going.

The map behind Clint shows where everyone ended up. We were surprised by how many future doctors are heading to the east coast. We'll be all by our lonesomes in Phoenix, as far as the class is concerned, but we'll be rich with family. We're trying to get our family doctor, who is originally from Arizona, to relocate with us, but so far, he's not budging.

It is sad to make such good friends during medical school, such as Jeremy, and then all of a sudden be separated by an entire country. Fortunately, Jeremy and his wife will be moving to Spokane with us for our first year. We're not so lucky to live by our other friends, though. Clint's little grouping will be living in Colorado, Minnesota, New Hampshire, and Nevada.


Besides eating breakfast together, this was the only time all of our little family was in the same place at the same time during the ceremony.


It usually looked like this -- Grandma and Kalia man-handling the kidlets, whilst Clint and I mingled with colleagues and old friends.

That is, only when Grandma wasn't on the phone. Always the messenger.

Clint and me after I took a chill pill. Doesn't mean I wasn't still screaming on the inside, though.

One of the Greatest Days of Our Lives

(Next to our wedding, of course.)

I had been planning to tell you where we matched (I even had the post half-written), but I'm going to give you so much more: a fly-on-the-wall view of our Match.

Beware: there's clapping, screaming, kissing, laughing and crying. (But no hugging strangers -- there just weren't any to be found.)

Filming courtesy of my niece Kalia.

And the verdict is ...

The folks are happy:
Nicole is happy:
Grant is happy:
And little Scotty is happiest of all:
What a match!

Time for a Diversion

The kids and I attended the best Easter egg hunt ever! There were tons of kids, candy and fun. (And don't forget the cheesy grins. Plenty of those to go around.)

Nicole always cleans up at these sorts of events since she's one of the older kids in the group. I told her she had to quit when her bag was full. Good thing I didn't bring her Easter basket.
Grant loves candy as much as the next kid, it's just that he stops to eat it while he's collecting, so his final tally is significantly smaller than Nicole's. I asked him to show me his candy, and this is what I got:
Happy Early Easter!

In Anticipation

I want the BIG announcement tomorrow to be disseminated as quickly as possible. As such, I have already written a few general statements, such as, "We're going to live in [insert city/state here]."

I have also loaded several emoticons, so that we can show you how happy, sad, excited, shocked we were when we opened our letter and discovered our fate.
Which one will it be??? One. Day. More.

Dreams are Fickle Things

I've been awake since 3:30 a.m. You know when you're little, and you're so excited for Christmas morning that you wake up before the roosters crow? It was something like that. Except it's not Christmas. It's the Match. And for someone who's 27 years old, that's so much better than Christmas.

Last night, during Scotty's and my nightly meeting, I had a little vision. As we sat on the couch together, I began to imagine what tomorrow morning might look like from an outsider's view. I saw Clint and myself together opening the letter. We skipped all the small talk and quickly scanned for our locations. And to our great astonishment, we were granted our number one choice, which is the Mayo Clinic in Scottsdale, Arizona.

Still sitting on the couch, my heart started to beat wildly, because of course all dreams must come true (that's what they preach at Disneyland, therefore it must be so).

In my vision I started screaming and jumping and hugging everyone I saw. I looked like a complete idiot. A happy idiot. But it was so cute in its own I-just-won-the-million-dollar-lottery kinda way that if we really do get the big #1 tomorrow, don't be surprised to see me reenact my dream. (Clint will be so embarrassed and that will be funny, too.)

After all that imaginary excitement, I just couldn't possibly go back to sleep. I'm going to need some serious sleep medication tonight or I'm going to be a zombie at the celebration tomorrow and there won't be any screaming or jumping or hugging strangers.

Aaaaaggghhh!!! (I just had to let out one last scream of excitement. If I hold it all in, I'll go crazy.)

I Got My Old Body Back

I hate scales. But I hate extra weight even more. So every morning (plus or minus a few) for the past year, I have stood on the scale, closed my eyes, and then opened one for a peek. If it was good, I opened the other one. If it was bad, I jumped off the scale immediately.

Today, I finally got my old body back. Although not entirely, of course. Any woman who has had a baby knows that you never get your true pre-pregnancy self back. Just look at your pictures for proof. Never mind, don't do that, it's depressing. But nonetheless, I got my pre-baby weight back to normal.

I hate to admit I had to try to get it off. In four pregnancies, I've never had to try. But there's a first frustrating time for everything, and this one was mine.

Since I don't make time for exercise, I had no choice but to focus on the food. In order of easiest to hardest, here's what I did to rid myself of the last few pounds that were hanging on for dear life.

1. Eat all meals on top of a bed of plain lettuce.
I haven't found a food yet that didn't work with this. Chili, tacos, lemon chicken, sloppy joes, steak, lasagna, pizza. The theory is that the lettuce serves as a filler and you still get some of the yummy entrée that everyone else at the table is eating. Skip the wrappings, like buns, tortillas, chips, etc. and you've got yourself a delicious, low-cal meal. You can add veggies to the lettuce if you wish, just don't add the dressing or it's all for naught.

2. Don't eat past 7:30 p.m.
No matter what. I once heard that this was part of Oprah's diet. I also heard a commentator say, "If Oprah doesn't eat past 7:30, then she must go to bed at 7:31." Ha, ha. Who cares? It works because it stops all of those evening snacks that rake up your calorie total for the day, like a "small" bowl of ice cream, one brownie, hot cocoa with a slice of toast. Over the course of one week, think of how many calories you have cut just by not eating at night.

3. Cut out the sweets.
I hate this one. I really loathe this tip. But desperate times call for desperate measures. And when nothing else works, this one is sure fire. Every time. I don't know if it would work for everyone because there's something you have to know about me. I could eat candy ALL DAY LONG and not feel sick in the slightest. The consolation is that the longer you go without candy (to a certain point), the easier it is to pass it up. And the more repulsive it becomes -- again to a certain point. There will eventually be a day when candy's appeal is more alluring than ever and you wind up eating cheesecake for breakfast, candy corn for a mid-morning snack, brownies a la mode for lunch and lemon bars for dinner. When such a day arrives, enjoy it. Then get back on the wagon and finish your diet.

That's the long and short of it all. Phew! Glad that's over.

The Jury's Still Out

The doctor said to play the wait-and-see game as far as this tingling is concerned. If it's not gone in a couple of weeks, then we'll get some tests run. For some reason (possibly denial), I really think it's just a bunch of nothing except something to annoy me.

Now time for some uninterrupted sleep! (If only I could get Scotty to go along with this plan ...)

Tell Me It's Not MS

I have been having the most bizarre tingling/numbness in my hands for a week now. I mentioned it to Clint the other day just as he was walking out the door and he asked, "Are you seeing double, too?"

"No," I laughed wondering why he would ask such an odd question.

Then he kinda smiled, too, and asked, "Well, are going to the bathroom in your pants?"

"What?! You're just making fun of me now," I chided. And then I knew, or thought I knew, that he couldn't be serious.

Then his face sobered a bit, and I realized that he had been giving me the doctor work-up.

"What do you think is wrong with me?!" Sheesh, I was nervous!

"Well, tingling in your limbs can be a sign of MS, but you don't seem to have any of the other symptoms, so it's probably not that," he responded.

Eek! I can't imagine the look that came over my face, but Clint said, "Don't lose sleep over it."

But of course I have! I finally visited webmd.com to read medicine for dummies and saw all of the same signs/symptoms that Clint mentioned, and I don't appear to have any of the others. Today I'm taking the boys into the most intelligent doctor I know (besides my husband, duh!) to get their vaccines, and I'm going to ask him about my tingling (although I really don't want to hear any bad news). His wife has MS, so he'll have an insider's perspective. If he tells me it's nothing, then I'll accept this second opinion and get some sleep.

Fingers crossed.

Revenge of the Backpack

I love to sew. I really do. Unfortunately, my recreational sewing days are virtually over. I barely have time to hem my pants, sew on buttons, and replace broken zippers, like the one for Nicole's emergency backpack. Let alone quilt matching blankets for the boys or make me an apron.

I don't know if we just didn't notice it when we bought it from the second-hand store, or if it was mistakenly broken by "no one" at home, but the fact still remained: the Hello Kitty backpack was not operational with its defective zipper. Nicole was devastated at the prospect of having an ordinary backpack for her kit. "You're not going to throw it away, are you?" she pleaded. "Can't you fix it, Mom? Pleeeease?!"

Well, I suppose I could. That is, if I wanted to. And so it was that I was coerced into another sewing-out-of-necessity project.
The backpack cost $2 (I told you it was used). The new zipper cost $3.88 at Wal-mart. (They only had black in the size I needed, so Nicole consented that it would be OK if we didn't buy pink, if it meant she could keep the backpack.) And it took me 30 minutes to take out the broken zipper and replace it with a new one. So for the cost of three used backpacks, we have one Hello Kitty backpack and one happy little girl.

With the new zipper in place, we finally completed our emergency kits for the entire family.
Scotty's wins the award for cutest because it's full of formula, baby food and diapers. It was also the least complicated to assemble. Lucky duck.

I like the idea of an emergency kit, but I've always had such a poor attitude towards them. And last night I discovered why. All of the kits that I have assembled in the past have contained the most disgusting food that I would eat under starvation circumstances only, and food which my children would never eat, even if it meant dying. Boxed milk, cans of Vienna sausage (like anyone even knows what that is!), plain tuna, "breakfast drink" mixes. Yuck!

So when these unpalatable and unfit for consumption items need to be replaced, I feel like I have wasted so much money buying the products because instead of eating them before they expire, I throw them in the garbage.

To make our potential disaster experience (and emergency kit replacement experience as well) more pleasant, I changed the menu. Here's the new food in our bags:

• Maple and brown sugar oatmeal
• Cheerios
• Orange/Pineapple juice blend
• Hot cocoa
• Water
• Beef jerky
• Chili
• Canned soup (the yummy kind by Campbell's)
• Ritz cracker sandwiches with cheese
• Trail mix
• Granola bars
• Canned peaches
• Lifesavers, Reese's PB cups, suckers (Just because it's an emergency, doesn't mean you won't crave candy.)

Almost makes me want a chance to use them. Just kidding. I hope we never have to use them. But if we do, it's going to be a delicious affair.

Next Time I Need a Break ...

... I'll give Grant a marker. Maybe.

He didn't bother me at all or call my name once while he did this:
After he was caught, he was placed in his high chair to finish his picture. That's where he spent 10 silent minutes doing this:
Boy, this kid loves markers. And he loves getting his picture taken when he's been naughty. I think it makes him feel like his behavior is acceptable.I'm still trying to decide if the clean-up is worth the fifteen minutes of peace I got out of the ordeal.