Frosting with the Kids

Whenever Nicole and Grant hear bowls clanking or a mixer mixing, they come running. Since we've been practicing, they've gotten quite good at cooking.

They measured, poured and mixed this frosting all on their own.
They even did it cheerfully together. I haven't figured out why it's fun to share a hand mixer, but not other things like stickers, crayons, remote control cars, bath toys ... OK, I'll stop. But the point is that they share when they cook!
The most delicious part of the process was the final product -- it truly was the best frosting I've never made. They liked it, too. Besides, what's the point in helping Mom in the kitchen if you can't be the taste-testers?

Poor little Scotty missed out on all the fun. This is what he was doing while we were giggling and eating in the kitchen.
One day he'll be big enough to join in. But, like my mom always says, I didn't hear him complaining (probably only because he didn't know chocolate was involved).

No Resemblance Whatsoever

... despite all of the names we call him (Piggy, Porky ...).

Veterans Affairs

Welcome to the Utah Chapter of the Veterans Hospital, affectionately referred to as the VA, where mass amounts of co-morbidity occur daily.
I'd like to say that I've spent countless hours there, but the truth is, Clint has spent countless hours there. (In fact, he holds the record for the highest number of consecutive weeks working at the VA as a third year medical student -- 19, in case you were wondering.) I, on the other hand, have spent countless hours where this van is ... waiting for Clint. OK, maybe not countless hours, but certainly countless minutes. I always parked next to the sign that read "Fifteen minute parking only." We exceeded that every time. I think the policeman that was parked 20 yards away took his evening nap about the time I showed up. (But you won't hear me complaining.)

Most often, we (the kids and I) were waiting to give Clint his dinner and as many hugs and kisses as we could squeeze into sixty seconds. Sometimes Usually that was Clint's first meal of the day, even though he had been up since 4:00 a.m. That's no typo. I don't know what everyone else was doing while Clint was slaving away. They say that if you're going to get sick, and you're going to be treated at the VA, make sure it's during the weekday between the hours of 9:00 a.m. and 5:00 p.m. Rumor has it that George E. Wahlen, the famous Utah veteran whose name is posted at the entrance of the VA in supersize letters, doesn't even go to the VA. I bet it's because their hours are so bad. Or because he's snobby. Just kidding. I don't even know Mr. Wahlen, but if I did meet him, I wouldn't ask him where he seeks medical care. I would give him a hug and tell him thank you for serving our country. Maybe I'd omit the hug -- we'd just barely be acquaintances.

Back to the waiting time ... sometimes the kids and I would get restless and want to wait inside. But we never got very far. The VA's most distinguishable characteristic is its forever-long hallways. (Sorry, no picture -- you're just going to have to trust me on this one.)

I never knew which way to go. So many, many hallways. Dark hallways, too. They have windows, but they don't work. I think the building contractor ordered a black tint on the windows so that the furniture wouldn't fade. OK, I don't actually know why the windows are so dark that they filter 90% of the light out, but if I met the contractor one day, I think I'd ask him what the heck he was thinking. They should have clear windows, and fresh flowers in vases on the window sills (the window sills are huge -- you could fit five vases with flowers). It should be a cheery place. Not dreary. OK, no more rhymes. And enough about the windows.

Back to the waiting. I just have to tell you that one lovely summer day, the kids and I dressed in our swimsuits and hopped in the car to go to Lagoon-A-Beach. After I buckled our seat belts, I realized that Clint had our season passes in his wallet. Uh-oh. So I very reluctantly paged him. I say reluctantly because when your husband possesses the lowest seniority in the operating room (yes, lower than the technicians, nurses, and surgical tools), then you shouldn't page him incessantly. Or ever, really. Unless you're dying and you need to say goodbye. Plus, when the doctors (and doctors-to-be) enter surgery, they all place their pagers on a shelf. Whenever a pager beeps, a nurse picks it up and reads the page to the room. Imagine if your honey's pager was read aloud to the room and you had said, "Hi sweetie, just wondering if you'll be home in time for dinner tonight." That would look bad for your husband. And then ten minutes later, "Not done yet?" Getting worse. Ten more minutes go by, "I've paged you twice, but you haven't called back. Is that *@#! resident keeping you late again?" His goose is cooked.

So, yes, I paged Clint under very tense circumstances. And then we waited. For a half hour. And then fifteen minutes more. In the car. With the kids buckled in their seat belts -- just hoping Clint would be out any minute. I gathered the courage to page him again. Thirty more minutes passed by, but still no daddy. (This is the unglamorous part about being married to a doctor.) I finally drove home with the disappointed babies. It was lunchtime and nap time and sad time. Clint eventually brought the passes down to us, but we had left the parking lot something like 10 seconds prior. Some things just aren't meant to be. The kids and I found something else that was fun to do later that day. It was so fun that I can't remember what it is now, but trust me, the kids had fun.

The VA patients are the most gracious and humble and sweet that you'll collectively find anywhere. They would never dream of suing their doctor, even if the doctor amputated the wrong leg. Technically, however, they can't sue the VA because it's owned by the federal government. But still, the veterans wouldn't dream of initiating such horrific acts. It's simply un-American.

Oh, I have to tell you my favorite part about the VA. Every patient loves babies. They stare at them, squeeze their cheeks, and then look at the mommy and say something like, "God has greatly blessed you."

Today marks the first day of Clint's last rotation at a VA -- ever -- unless he decides to take a job there. (The hours are fantabulous, the pay is reasonable, and the patients are unparalleled.) Maybe Clint would consider it if he found one with better windows.

PS: Remember how I told you about old men and their Corvettes? I found this one in the patient parking lot. And while I was taking pictures of it to show you, the guy in the car in the background was glaring at me. I think he thought I was a terrorist. He tried to get my license plate number (I think), but I was too fast. I sped off in my getaway car (that's what he'll tell his friends) before he could focus his binoculars.
But, hey, about that car ... Looking good, if I do say so myself.

Papa's Sidekick

Papa must be so lonely when Grant isn't around. Together, they're tackling the mirror project for Grandma. Last week, Papa taught Grant how to use the power drill, which is currently the coolest thing Grant has ever personally touched.
With that bribe under his belt, Papa can get Grant to do anything -- even vacuum up the sawdust from the cuts they made. (Not that it took much persuasion. Actually, I think Grant didn't want to give the man-vacuum back.)
Other of Papa's traits are starting to wear off on Grant now, I've noticed. For example, last night, instead of taking his FAVORITE book (Hooray for Fish, by Lucy Cousins -- as Nicole reads it) to bed, Grant took this:

AOPA PILOT

50 Years: The Voice of General Aviation

Papa's magazine mistakenly made it to our place in the mail pile, and it has been Grant's companion ever since. I think we might have another pilot on our hands (because our family doesn't have enough already).

I was contemplating decorating the boys' new room in Spokane with sailboats, but now I'm convinced that it's going to have to be airplanes. I think it's time we take Grant and Scotty (can never be too young for airplanes, you know) to the Air Force Museum. Grant will think he's died and gone to heaven. And then he'll want to abandon his family, move into the museum, and call it his lair.

Maybe Papa will move in, too.

Dirty Little Secret

I yell at my kids. Well, I used to ... up until 48 hours ago. I hate yelling. It's ugly and it makes people feel bad. I hate listening to people yell, and I especially hate it when I yell. Sometimes people need to be yelled at, though. And I think that's OK, as long as they don't hear you. For example, earlier this week, a lady ran through a stop sign and nearly broad-sided me. Then she gave me a scuzzy and drove off. So I said loudly in her direction (after she sped away of course -- because I'm passive-aggressive), "You idiot. You had a stop sign!" Then Nicole yelled, "Yeah, you stupid idiot JERK." That kind of yelling is going to take a little more time to phase out. But yelling at my kids is different, and it was also my least desirable quality. (And, truth be told, I bet it's the characteristic my kids despised the most about me.) I've tried quitting before, but it's like smoking. (I've never smoked, but I hear it's hard to quit.)

The point is this: I love being a mom, and in my own, very biased opinion, I have the sweetest children that don't deserve to have a raging lunatic for a mother. Actually no child deserves that, but just look at the faces of these kids ... who could yell at such angel-babies? (Me, I guess ... but no longer -- I've repented of my errant ways.)
Before going to bed the night before last, I decided something had to change. I awoke as a new, calmer me. Did Grant still throw toys at Nicole's head? Five times? Even after I asked him not to? (Five times.) Of course! But I didn't yell. I took a deep breath, told myself to respond like a rational human being, and executed his punishment without raising my voice. (He sat in time out and screamed at the top of his lungs. I didn't say there wasn't any yelling at all going on -- it just wasn't coming from me.)

After Grant's early morning sister-attack, and as the day continued on, it seemed the children behaved better than usual. And I noticed that it was easier to react serenely to the little things that didn't go as they should have (like cleaning a gallon of water off the bathroom floor). By evening's end, I didn't even have to think about how to talk to my kids -- it was nearly instinctive.

I'm wrapping up Day #2 and I love my new self. I refuse to regress! Besides, I have the best inspiration. I don't have a single memory of my mom yelling. At anyone. Not ever. If only I could be just like her ... Someday, perhaps -- but probably only if I have seven kids, too, because that would teach me loads of patience that I haven't yet cultivated. On second thought, maybe I don't want to be exactly like her ... just close.

A Face Lift for Marriage

My mom's neighbor has brain cancer. He's a forty-something with a few kids (one or two approaching the difficult teen years), and a wife that he's been married to for at least fifteen years. They have a new home and they enjoy family history as much as Clint and I do.

After headaches so bad he couldn't go to work for two weeks, his wife took him to the doctor. Imagine their horror when an enormous (this is no exaggeration) tumor was found in his brain. They immediately scheduled him for surgery. It's been a couple of weeks now, and he seems to be recovering well from the surgery. But not the cancer. No, in the end, the cancer will win this battle.

I saw this man in church last Sunday. His head was bald from the surgery, and his scars were not yet completely healed. The rest of his face was swollen -- a side effect of his radiation therapy. He sat on a padded chair with his arm around his wife, and I started to wonder what life must be like in their home. Would his wife yell at him for stupid things, knowing they only had a year left together? Would the children defy their parents' rules? Would everyone be happy during this very scary period?

Then my thoughts drifted to my home. My husband doesn't have cancer, and it appears that we have an indefinite amount of time left to raise our children together. But shouldn't I treat him as if he's an indispensable resource to our family? To me? Does it take a death sentence to treat those we love most with respect and love at all times?

I sure hope not.

If Ever, But Never

If we ever move back to Utah (which we won't), then I would buy this house (which I can't because ... it's the Governor's Mansion).
This is one of the many mansions located along South Temple, and they are all stunning. I like the old look, as long as it's just a look, and not actually old. I read about a neighborhood in Sioux Falls that was permitting some home owners to tear down their very-old-and-beyond-repair historic homes and build brand new homes that mirrored the original. It's often cheaper to just start over. Case in point, it cost $7.8 million to renovate and upgrade (for safety measures) this home.

Noteworthy fact about this house: Pres. Teddy Roosevelt dined here with the original owner and friend Senator Thomas Kearns in 1903.

One more: The widow of Senator Kearns donated this house to the state in 1937, with the stipulation that it house the governors of Utah.

Oh, do forgive me -- one more: This house was nearly destroyed in 1993 when a fire was started inside (under the jurisdiction of the Leavitt family).

Friday Night Doesn't Even Begin to Compare

When I was little, I invented games for my family to play with me during family night. Looking back now, I can see how stupid they were, but my parents took pity on me and made everyone play. (Sometimes via threats.) I loved family night.

I still love family night. It's practically the only time during the week that Clint and I simultaneously set aside a couple of hours to spend directly with the kids. Nicole and Grant are both old enough now to choose a song, say the prayers (Grant gets coached; we whisper, "Dear Heavenly Father," and Grant repeats, "Yeh-uh..."), teach lessons (once again, Grant needs a little help, but believe me when I tell you his heart is in it), find a family-oriented activity (Crazy 8's, bowling, trips to the park), and assist Mom in making (or sometimes buying) a treat. We decided Scott's the weekly cheerleader -- smiling and making sure everyone's having a good time. That's about all he can handle for the time being.

We rarely skip family night. When we have to miss, we make it up on a different night of the week. Nicole sees to that! I think she's following in my footsteps.

This week, Grant was in charge of the activity portion, and he's been begging to go to a new park that belongs to a nearby elementary school. (We drive by it on our way in and out of town, i.e., to and fro G&G's house.) Grant could hardly believe his eyes when we pulled up to the park.
We played hopscotch.
And soccer ... (I had no idea we were a soccer-type family. See what interesting things you learn during family night?)
And who knew little Nicole could be so competitive? Look at her hustle!
Oh, that's right. She gets that competition-by-nature from her daddy. He didn't feel bad at all about stealing the ball from his five-year-old baby girl.
Maybe because she stole it right back. Way to go, Nicole!There was a time when Nicole was signed up for city sports. They ended after two practices because Nicole said she didn't like running. Go figure.

Oh, hey, there's Baby Scott. We didn't forget you, sweetheart. We just let you sit and watch the non-stop entertainment all around you. Uh, yeah, that's it.

Can you see why family night is my favorite night of the week?

PS: Nicole wanted the blogging community to be made aware of her fascinating ability to hop on one foot. You can tell she's really hopping, and not doing the bathroom dance, because her hair is flying in the wind. We strive for excellence around here.

Initiation to the Family

Scotty let out a little cough last night, which earned him a lung exam.Prognosis: He's going to make it.

Mount Olivet Cemetery

Mount Olivet Cemetery is beautiful. If you drive by in the morning, a low mist hovers the ground. Sometimes you can spot the family of deer that live there, along with the other animals (including tons of squirrels, and probably mice, too -- but we'll gloss over that rumor).

I'm fairly new to the cemetery scene, but there's something special about this cemetery. Every time I drive by, I stare. And sometimes I pull in, just to look around. Since we've been living in Salt Lake, I have been taking photographs of headstones in Mount Olivet and emailing the pictures to out-of-state family members. I receive a lot of requests, and I have tried to fulfill them as best as possible. When I first started this project, Grant was about Scotty's age, so I pushed him around in the stroller (sometimes the headstones are hard to find -- even with a map -- and you have to walk up and down the rows for a while). Nicole walked along side us pushing her baby doll in the stroller. I think Nicole likes Mount Olivet, too. In fact, I'm pretty sure Nicole likes all cemeteries. She frequently asks to visit them (even if we don't personally know anyone who is buried therein). If we had black hair, we could replace the Addams family -- goth-type people who take their children to cemeteries instead of parks for cheap family entertainment.

Since Mount Olivet is so old, you never know the interesting monuments you'll find. For example, this looks like a tomb.
And this statue reminds me of the ones you see in city centers in Europe. They have Saints everywhere. Often, like in this case, they're holding a rod, a book, a cross, or something biblical. (Although I couldn't quite make out what this guy is holding.)
Far away from the old-world style of the tomb, I found this modern sculpture. Must be an artist buried here.
This is a sweet tribute to children. The contrast of the red rock makes it impossible to ignore this monument.
I love this bench. I think I would like a bench next to my grave, too. People could use it to relax and ponder and imagine all sorts of things about the kind of person I was. Or they could just use it to take a nap. A really hard, uneven nap. But a nap, nonetheless.
Home is not the last name of this person. His last name is McGraw.
I've interpreted home to mean where he is now. I hope he didn't intend home to mean this spot in the ground. Instead, I hope he imagined a glorious mansion full of all of the people he loved most.

Maybe we'll find a cemetery just as charming in all of our future cities (which I hope will be only two more).

Anxiety is Setting In

Nicole stapled together a colorful paper chain tonight. When she reached chain number 45, she brought it to me for applause.

"Forty-five? Wow! Are you counting the number of days until we move?" I asked.

"Yes!" She exclaimed, even though I don't truly believe that was her original intent. Then she asked, "Mom, is it 45 days until me move?"

She begged me to count and the number isn't too far off: 52.

Fifty-two? 52? Cinquante-deux?

But how could this be? I mean, I have known it was approaching, but it now seems to be nearly upon me. And a strange feeling has entered my heart now that I'll be leaving the only place I've ever called home. I'll be losing part of my identity (even though it's what I've thought I wanted). This past week, I started thinking of all the places that I may never see again. Places that I see on a regular basis, and that make me happy when I see them. Or nostalgic. Or reminiscent.

I want to photograph them all with a real camera, so that when the images fade from my mind, and are replaced with new mountains and buildings and memories, that I'll still be able to remember. And I've started to panic that I may not have time to visit all of the places that I've been thinking about just one last time.

But I am going to try.

My First Time Plagiarizing -- Honest!

I saw the cutest painting a couple of weeks ago. It was reasonably priced, but the size was small and, I thought to myself, Why pay money for a painting I can do myself? So here's the inspiration piece. Emphasis on inspiration. (Pardon the white vertical lines -- I had to take the picture through a window.)

I didn't know if I really could replicate the picture, but I like painting, so I thought it was worth a shot. I sketched trial runs for about a week before gathering enough courage to draw on my white canvas.

The sketch itself took about 15 minutes. It wasn't as difficult as I had been anticipating. Then, onto the painting ... What I didn't know when I started was that I wouldn't be able to quit until the painting was complete because I had mixed colors, and if they dried, I wouldn't be able to match them. Three hours later, this is what I got.

You can't tell here, but it's a 16x20 picture and it has little beads and a button glued onto it for a 3-D effect. So, it's not exactly the same, but I really love it anyway and now Nicole has a picture for her new room that was painted by her mama. In fact, I almost signed "mom" at the bottom instead of "lh," but then I thought, Hey, what if this painting makes it to the Smithsonian one day? Everyone will wonder who "mom" was and then they'll have to print a little metal plaque next to it that says "Artist: Unknown." Now I'll have my place in history. Smart thinking, eh?

1001 Reasons to Be Happy

It Really Should Not Snow After Tax Day

Unless you live in Utah -- in which case, I traipsed the wet parking lot in my cute leather heels, and scraped ice and snow off the windshield of my car this morning. And, to add injury to insult, I opened the car door on the driver's side (because I am the driver, of course -- this will make more sense later) to fetch the ice scraper, and a huge chunk of snow landed in my freshly blown-dry and flat-ironed hair. Ugh!

Since the ice scraper had been removed from the car door (probably when Clint detailed the car yesterday -- inside and out -- he's a steady predictor, by the way, of any precipitation that may fall within the next 48 hours), I had to climb in the trunk (it's an SUV -- so don't get worried about me) to look for the ice scraper, which I concluded was in Clint's truck, and then I got locked in the trunk because the door shut just enough to catch the lock when the wind blew on it. So to get back to the driver's seat, I had to climb over the back seat, sit in Nicole's carseat (trust me, it was the only way out) and open her door. That's when another chunk of snow landed on my hair. If I were a cursing woman, this would have been the prime time for such words. Instead, I said aloud (even though I was alone) my mantra for good mental health, "Good thing we're moving to Arizona."

Want to see the cigarette lighter at the end of this long, dark, seemingly-never ending tunnel?

It snowed yesterday, too. But my sweet neighbor sent me strawberries to trick me into thinking it really is spring. Her son, the messenger, told me that the weather will be warmer this weekend.

They're from Arizona.

My New Favorite Movie

When it comes to cinema, I'm as picky as they come. It's hard to find something funny, clean, cute, non-violent or scary, and that parents and kids can watch together ... over and over and over ... and still find just as charming.

So you know how when people purchase an item second-hand, they say, "It's new to me." Well, just like that, this movie is new to me, even though it was released in theaters twelve years ago. It's Matilda and it's about the most adorable little girl with the most awful parents. Oh, and she has magical powers which she uses to teach mean people pertinent lessons.

Danny DeVito stars as Mr. Wormwood (Matilda's father) and Rhea Perlman (from Cheers, one of the best sitcoms to grace the color television) plays the role of Matilda's mother. Together these two form the epitome of low-class whites who would love nothing more than for their "weird" daughter to grow up, get married, and idolize the TV just as much as they do.

But this odd little girl wasn't content with ludicrous game shows and slimy car sales. And as fate would have it, she found a something so much better. So grab a bag of popcorn and get ready to laugh yourself silly, reminisce about elementary school, and cheer Matilda on as she overcomes the evils that life handed her.

A Recent and Rather Embarrassing Thirty Minutes

Please don't read this if ...

• you are an unmarried male
• you are less than twelve years old
• you don't like embarrassing moments
• you love me at all

I go to great lengths to avoid embarrassing myself, and when some unfortunate event befalls me, I go to even greater lengths to keep it secret. That's how I maintain my superwoman image. Thus, what you are about to read (if you don't fall into one of the above-mentioned categories) is a rare opportunity to see me succumb to the depths of humility and humiliation.

Here we go.

A couple of months ago, our family stayed the night at a nice hotel -- coincidentally one of those hotels that keeps extra toothbrushes and toothpaste on hand at the front desk, in case you forget your own or, more likely, in case the airport security confiscates your explosive Pantene Pro-V.

The concierge on-call was a big, burly, black man. He looked like a football player by day and a hotel front-deskman by night. He was very kind and gave me all sorts of useful information, like who to call for a good pizza and the phone number of said pizzeria. He also gave me quarters for my dollars so I could do some laundry -- ooh, my favorite chore; I love it so much, I even do it on vacation (true story).

So after we ate our pizza, bathed the babies, folded the clothes and put everyone in bed, I went to bed myself, unaware that anything embarrassing could possibly occur in the middle of the night. Oh-ho, was I wrong! And naive. And soon to be humbled.

When Scotty awoke at 2:00 a.m. for his bottle, I found an unexpected (red) visitor. Let me be discreet. When I was in junior high, my friends and I had a code phrase to describe such a recurring week: My cousins are in town, we used to say.

Mortified and unprepared, I fretted. I fretted to the point that Clint awoke and asked what was so fretful.

When I explained my plight, Clint asked me what my plan was. Perhaps the lack of sufficient sleep was tweaking with my brain because the best idea I had was to stand in the bathroom (or sit on the toilet) until morning when I could go to the store for some ... uh ... supplies.

My sweet husband offered to get dressed and drive to the closest convenience store for me, and all I could think of was the headlines that would bombard the front page of the next morning's local newspaper, "Husband Trying to Save Wife From Humiliation Shot Dead at 7-11 While Buying Tampons." Yeah, I couldn't let him go.

Trying to be helpful, Clint then suggested I wear a diaper. Excuse me? Doth mine ears deceive me? (Favorite line from Aladdin.) A DIAPER?! Maybe if I didn't have kids who would see me wear a diaper, and be scarred for life by the image of it, then I would have considered that. But if I didn't have kids, then I probably wouldn't have any diapers on hand either. Next brilliant idea, please.

Since I was in the bathroom already, I glanced around for inspiration. That's when I saw the sign! (Literal, not figurative like that song from Ace of Bass -- remember them?) "If you are in need of any items, please call our front desk and we would be happy to supply them to you at no charge." Do you suppose??? Then the image of the big, burly, black man came fore-front in my mind and I couldn't bring myself to call. But I had to. I just had no other option. So I picked up the receiver, dialed "0," and I heard this low voice say, "Front desk. How may I help you?"

Mortified, and knowing that he already knew who I was since my room number appeared on caller ID and since I had only stopped at the front desk 182 times before retiring in my room for the night, I whispered (the kids were sleeping, remember), "You don't happen to have any ... uh," I stalled. Just spit it out, I thought to myself. "Any feminine supplies, do you?"

I was so hoping that I wouldn't have to repeat myself, or, even worse, clarify. To my utter relief and disappointment, he caught my drift and responded with a sympathetic, "No, ma'am." I don't know what I would have done had he actually said yes anyway. Ask him to leave them by the door in an unmarked bag and knock twice?

As nice as the concierge was, I was hoping that his shift would have ended prior to morning check-out. No luck. I pretended not to be the basket case who had called in the middle of the night. And bless his heart, he pretended not to recognize me as the basket case ... you get the idea.

The moral of the story: humiliate yourself instead of your husband. It'll make you a better person. Trust me.

The Apprentice

I do not intend to brag -- and technically it's not bragging if it's truthful -- but, OK, twist my rubber arm ... My dad is a master carpenter. He can build anything. Wait, that sentence should read: He can build anything. The trick is getting him to build it. Usually it has to be his idea. And it has to be done his way: the perfect way. He's always saying, "If you're going to do something, do it right." Not a bad motto for life, if you ask me. But no one's asking. I'm just volunteering.

My dad has ambitions to build a new computer desk; and I don't doubt that one day he'll do it. He's gathering plans right now. In fact, he's been gathering plans for the past seven and half years. He watches This Old House most Saturdays and The New Yankee Workshop, too, on occasion. They give him tips. But between you and me, he heard those tips years ago. Yep, it's outdated information. My dad is current and he has the tools to prove it. Just ask my mom. He practically owns stock in Home Depot. Let's put it this way. If Home Depot has it, and my dad doesn't, then it isn't worth having. That's gospel.

Now, as for my dad's recent real-life projects (as opposed to aspirations), he built a three-way mirror for my mom -- the kind you see in the dressing rooms at the mall -- except smaller and nicer. That way she wouldn't have to *&^%$#! (that's code for crane her neck -- you have to see my dad's demonstration -- there really aren't words for such explanations) when she combs the back of her hair in the morning.

He also built the house that he and my mom currently live in (the same house that you'll see in the pictures below). Actually Dad's built loads of houses -- some for a living and some for ... well, pleasure isn't exactly the right word ... but for, um, well, familial reasons, if you catch my drift. That's when Dad's carpenter role turned to slave, I mean, mentor.

With such an extensive resume in his holster, I'm glad that Grant picked Dad to give him his first lesson in building cool things that cost just as much to build as it does to buy them already made. (The difference, however, between the store-bought and the home-crafted, according to my dad, is that the store versions aren't worth two bits. Two bits was a common phrase in my childhood home, and if you were wondering, it means twenty-five cents. Go figure. As I recall, two bits was most often used to describe a scantily clad woman. I quite like the two bits term. I like it so much that I think I'll introduce it in my home. It's very useful and can describe all sorts of thingamajigs that really aren't worth a hoot; but it makes you stand apart from all the other people who describe poor workmanship with words such as cheap, garbage, junk. In summary, just by saying two bits, you sound diverse, educated ... and like a hillbilly.)

Or at least his first lesson in pushing a tape measure around the counter top.

I'm confident these tutorials will pay off someday. You see, Grant's going to learn essential, lifelong skills that will guide him through life ... Well, maybe that's an exaggeration. He's only two, after all. (That's two years, not two bits.) But even if Grant doesn't become the next Bob Villa, he still will have gained something very valuable from these lessons: a friendship with his papa.

Cooped Up

Since the beginning of this month (it's APRIL, in case you weren't aware), it has already snowed three four five make that six times. Seeing as snow and I don't get along very well, the kids and I have been hiding out in the apartment, which is not fun at all. And I just have to say that there's nothing like a sunny day after the longest winter of your life.

King of the Hill

Boo!

Nicole with the boys

Look, Ma, no feet!

Look, Ma, no training wheels!

Hey, Mom, I found a rock. Want to eat it?

Fine, then, I will.

You were right (like always) -- that was yucky.

At least we're outside!

The Tie Breaker

Nicole was a thumb-sucker (until the dentist told her she had to quit -- she was four years old).
Grant was a binkie baby (until I took it away from him at four months old because I was sick of retrieving it when he lost it in the night).
So, Scotty, which one will it be? The digits ...
... or the device?

Louder than Words

One of my favorite adages, and one which Grant has apparently taken to heart, goes like this: "Your actions speak so loudly that I can't hear what you're saying."

And thus it is that what Grant lacks in intelligible utterances, he makes up for in expressions.

This one says, "Uh-oh, I'm in trouble."

This one says, "If my eyes were daggers, you'd be dead."

Yep, "Mad again."

I hate it when my kids reach this point: "I give up, and Mom, will you quit with the camera already?!"
I am pleased to report that Grant is actually making progress on his words, though. Today he said two words together: "No, Mommy!" Isn't it beautiful when your kids are able to verbally express themselves?