Awkward

When Clint took Grant to the doctor yesterday, the resident asked Clint what he did for a living. For the past four years, he's responded, "I'm a medical student." Yesterday, he was caught off guard and left standing there thinking to himself, "Yeah, what do I do for a living?"

Since he technically doesn't have a job right now, he fell back on his crutch, "I just graduated medical school last week."

"Oh! So you're an MD," the resident blurted out. It was akin to saying, "Welcome to the fold, Baby Doctor." (My brother-in-law took a geography course from a really old professor who claimed he came up with the Daylight Savings concept. That aside, this same professor affectionately referred to all of his students as Baby Geographers. Now isn't that adorable?)

Thanks to this resident, Clint's profession has been clarified. But I can tell this is going to take some getting used to.

Stay Away; Stay Very Far Away

If we're not sick or ornery from sleep deprivation, then we're bored.

Last thing I did before going to bed last night was pray for a good night's sleep. Now, I haven't lost my faith, but I am a *little* disappointed in the way the night unfolded.

Scotty just got his shots, so I thought I might be getting up with him. Sure enough, at 1:30, not too long after I went to bed, Scotty woke up. I entered the room with the intention of giving him a binkie, but I could smell a bad diaper, so I had to get him up. Unfortunately, Scotty, in his sweet request for Mommy, woke up Grant -- who immediately started coughing, which led to vomit all over his crib. Yuck!

Scotty got tossed to Daddy; and Grant and his crib got a good scrub down. Meanwhile, Scott drank his bottle, choked on it, and spit up all over our King size bed. I packed our second set of sheets a long time ago, so I put our sheets in the wash with Grant's, and Clint and I finished the night sleeping on the mattress. Except there wasn't much more sleeping after this point, so it's not like it really mattered.

After Scotty got a new diaper, clothes and a second round of food, he got put back in bed just in time to see Grant throw up again -- all over his clean bed, sheet and jammies. About this time, I groaned and thought, "Why me?" Then Nicole woke up. You know, all three kids are sharing a room until we move. I'm actually surprised that all of the commotion didn't wake Nicole earlier. She rolled over, looked at me and said, "Mom, I'm bored."

That's such a shame. Would you like to start scrubbing the crib or switching the laundry?

Nicole fell back asleep immediately. (In fact, she may have just been talking in her sleep.) As for Scotty, Grant and me ... repeat, repeat, repeat.

Last Times

With only thirteen days left to go until the big move, we're finally reaching our "last" stage.

The last time Nicole and Grant will share this fence to feed aggressive geese.
The last time Clint will lure a goose in close enough to touch it.

The last time Grant will fit in this jacket.

The last hay ride on a red wagon with no hay.

The last time Nicole and Clint will have the same weekday morning off.

And the last time we'll visit Wheeler Farm.

In Memoriam

Among other significant dates throughout the year, we always visit the graves on Memorial Day. So it's odd that even though Grant is 2 1/2 years old, this was his first time visiting Brooke's grave awake.
Nicole was the keeper of the flowers, which were freshly cut from a neighbor's yard. Our neighbor had so many beautiful flowers, and when I asked her if we could take just a few, she said, "You can take as many as you'd like, and I recommend the irises. We planted them specifically to place on the grave of my husband's mother every year." How sweet of her to share their special flowers with us. For a fleeting second, I wondered if she secretly hoped we would take all of her irises, thus making it impossible for her to pay proper respects to her mother-in-law this year. But then I counted how many irises she had, and I realized we'd have to bring a long bed truck over to haul them all out. So maybe she really did just want to share with us. Besides, who isn't itching to spend more time with her mother-in-law, especially even when she's dead? Just kidding; only a little mother-in-law humor. (I know, I know, one day the jokes will be about me ... but until then ... we'll just think of the irises.)
Grant wasn't quite sure what to do with the flower (besides smell it and every other flower within a one mile radius). So Nicole placed her flower first. This mini "sunflower" also came from the neighbor's yard, except it was just a weed. Nicole loved it, though, even after I told her what it was, so I let her bring it. It is for her sister, after all.
Then Grant took a turn. This was the last moment we witnessed Grant in good behavior.

Take, for example, this little fit for a picture. Grant, this is your first time visiting Sister Brooke's grave. Won't you please smile? Nicole's smiling ...

Then there was this fit. Or should I say melt down? You know, Grant, we're moving far away, and there won't be many more opportunities like this. Look, Grant, Nicole's still smiling!
But wait, there's more! Oh, Grant, you're making such a scene. You're going to be so embarrassed when you grow up and see this picture of yourself. (By this time, Nicole's arms were ready to fall off from holding that big, fat baby for so long.)
Oh, I nearly forgot about this moment. Grant got all giddy when he started stealing flowers (only from Brooke, though, and only temporarily). At a different cemetery we visited later in the day, we saw a sign that read: Stealing flowers from graves is punishable by jail time. We don't want any of that now, do we?
We let Grant roam around (and ooh and ahh and dote over every pinwheel) for a while, then tried another picture. No more screaming, but definitely not on task. He spotted an airplane -- his most recent fetish. He's becoming more and more like his papa every day.
Scotty slept most of the time, but we managed to catch this smile just before leaving.
It's difficult to say whether Scotty's good example or Papa's bribe (a ride in the truck with ultra cool sunglasses) straightened Grant out.
But who cares? At least we finally captured a decent photograph. Mostly.

Just Me and My Girl

I always thought my first baby would be a boy. I could just picture myself at little league soccer games, and him running around in miniature Nike's. But Nicole came first, and I'm so glad she did. Nicole was my buddy/companion/shadow all the while Clint was studying like a maniac to get into medical school. Nicole was also my saving grace when we lost Brooke.

About the time Brooke was born, Nicole was nearly two and starting to perform not-so-cute two-year-old tricks that tried my patience. Instead of going home after having Brooke, I went to my parents' place, where Nicole was being cared for by Aunt Ann. Everyone else had gone to Clint's white coat ceremony (at my insistence). I often think of that afternoon with Ann, and I wonder how it was that she got stuck with the grieving mom while everyone else went to a celebration of sorts. It must have been a terrible job. What do you say to someone who has just lost a baby? I remember that I was really tired, so I took a nap on my parents' bed. That must have been a huge relief.

The next day was the funeral. Clint and I drove to the mortuary before everyone else, and Nicole went with ... forgive me if I can't remember ... probably my parents. I know my brother Tom and his wife Sarah took care of Nicole while we were at the cemetery. They fed her Lucky Charms from a Ziploc bag, and life was good for Nicole. It's amazing to me how little children don't view death the same way that adults do. To them, it's all just matter-of-fact. Factual, as in, Daddy's at work today. Except that it's Sister Brooke's in Heaven. It's just that simple. But it wasn't simple to me. Clint opened my door in the mortuary parking lot, we held hands as we walked down the sidewalk, and I nearly couldn't bring myself to enter through the front doors. Even with Clint's arms around me, I couldn't stop crying.
After the funeral, some family members went out to eat. I couldn't imagine eating at a time like this. How could I be hungry? How could anyone be hungry? Why wasn't everyone as exhausted as I was? Instead of a restaurant, Clint and I went to my parents', where Nicole had already been for at least an hour. I saw her almost immediately upon entering the kitchen. She was outside jumping on the trampoline in her beautiful white dress. I will never forget how she looked -- she looked like an angel, and all I wanted to do was hold her. I approached the trampoline, and she reached her arms out to give me a tight hug. She knew something was wrong, even though she didn't possess the vocabulary to articulate her concerns. She appeared so happy, and when I looked at her, my grief dissipated. As I held her outside on that summer day, I promised myself that I would never take for granted the time we have together. In my moment of weakness, I even told myself to overlook those naughty two-year-old bouts (which I actually did -- for a while).

I don't think I could have survived losing Brooke if I didn't have Nicole. Oh, how I love my Nicole!

I Pester My Husband by Blogging His Every Move

My sis-in-law sent me a link to a website that sells shirts for kids. The ones she thought were appropriate for me (and which I fully intend to purchase one of these days) read, "My mom is blogging this." And "My whole life is being blogged." I wonder if the shirts come in adult sizes.

Me: Hey Clint, you're a doctor. What are you going to do now?Picture: Wash the trailer.
Clint's expression: I can't believe you're taking a picture of me washing the trailer.

I just want to remember what my husband did after his graduation. No fancy restaurants. No extravagant vacations or crazy sky diving trips. Yes, siree, even after all the work is done and accounted for, Clint just can't relax.

It's actually kinda cute because he's getting it ready to take Nicole on a camping trip next week. Then when he gets back, I'll bet you ten bucks he washes the trailer again. Make that one hundred.

We're Crazy and We're Done

The day we thought might never come ... came. I realize that it may seem unreasonable to the average on-looker that we might envision ourselves as eternal students. But consider that we've been in this student-phase of medicine for so long that this way of living started to feel normal to us ... and permanent.
We (well, not really me so much as my parents because I moved to a closer seat to get better pictures) took three children ages five and under to a graduation ceremony. That constitutes the crazy part. (Or maybe, according to some very misinformed people, the crazy part was actually having three kids during the medical school years. Yes -- misinformed, indeed.)
It took all of Grant's energy to sit on Papa's lap in a dark auditorium for an hour and a half.

The Boys' Club. My paternal grandfather was a doctor, and my dad totally should have been (he goes to all of the medical-related workshops Clint can get him into). My dad was so proud of Clint. Of course, we all were. But my dad ... he couldn't have been happier.
Our colleague's father, who is a renowned orthopedic surgeon in northern Utah, said that when he graduated medical school, one of the speakers asked all of the wives in the room to stand. All of the husbands (this was obviously during an era devoid of female physicians) applauded their wives for their support. This didn't happen in today's ceremony, but it didn't need to because I already know that there's no way in heck Clint could have done it without me. Just kidding -- he could have, but it wouldn't have been nearly as fun.
Clint graduated today. (You didn't guess?) That's the done part.

The Statistics

Four doctors
Four years
Four friends for life
Left to right: Chris, Jeremy, Bren, Clint

Resourceful, Busy, Inventive ...

... or just too much like her mama.

I asked Nicole to take care of Scotty while I took a shower. When I got out, this is what I found:

Excuse Me, Why Is a Finger in Your Mouth?!

A Sense of Accomplishment

Have you ever wanted a redo? You know, like you wish you could go back in time and change something in your past? Or do something differently?

Me, I always wanted to learn ASL, and I kinda thought one day (like when I went to college) I would take a class and become proficient. I've always regretted not doing that.

When Nicole was born, I thought about doing the "baby signing," but I never got into it. When she was such a late talker, I wished I had a better way of communicating with her. Grant's reliving history, except he's an even later talker than Nicole, and there are times when all of us are frustrated trying to figure out what Grant wants. It's getting better every day, but I'm thinking, chances are Scotty's going to have the same speech delay. (You never know, but the statistics aren't in his favor.) Besides, how cute would it be to see a little baby tell you that he wants more Cheerios? I constantly stare at babies and wonder what's going on inside their tiny little brains, and the thought of finding out is so exciting!

Fortunately for me, I have a friend who is fluent in ASL, and she came to my house and taught me a whole ASL session. I feel like I'm getting my second chance.

When I started doing some signs in front of Grant, he looked at me with an expression that said, "What the heck is wrong with my mom?" But within the first hour, he signed please, helicopter, and milk. I couldn't believe how happy that made me. It's a small deal, yet it's also huge. Grant smiled, and I felt like we connected. Since then, he has also signed more, eat/food, and ball. And think, it's only our first day! We watched the beginning Signing Time video together, and Grant loved copying the kids' signs.

I've heard some skeptics say that signing will slow down the speech skills, but anecdotally, I just have to say that of the children I know, the ones who sign tend to be better speakers.

I've been practicing ever since my friend left and I'm surprised (although I wouldn't be if I had thought about it) that my arm is sore. It feels like it did when I had my first tennis lesson. So, if nothing else comes of this (which is highly unlikely), at least my arms will get buff. Not to mention, I'm making good on a something I should have done a long, long time ago.

We Often Go to the Park

Nicole found a sidewalk that went through a waterfall. The water was too cold for a full-body dunk, so Nicole settled with a little toe dip.
Scotty has fun, even if he doesn't go down the slide. Seriously, just pick this kid up, and he thinks he's at a party.
Oooh, look who wants Sister's help now.
Nicole took this picture of us.
Not too shabby for a five-year-old. I told her that when she grows up, she can be a photographer. She added, "And a teacher."

Clint added, "And a nurse."

And then I said (wondering when Nicole was going to tell us to stop), "And a mommy."

Nicole chimed in, "Duh, Mom, all girls grow up to be mommies."

Doing What Men Do

Grant's quickly learning to be a man.

Papa's taught him how to work with wood, admire airplanes, and waste time watch cowboys on TV (and sometimes in real life).

Uncle Denny's got the speed machines covered.
And his own daddy is working on the gun department. Grant's too little to hold a gun steady, but he's not too small to make bullets.
Melting lead, with a blow torch, in a garage -- yep, that's what men do.

Three Weeks and Counting

Twenty-one days until the big move.

And all I have left to do is sew two bedskirts, learn to cut Clint's hair with no assistance from my mom, make curtains for ten windows, attend Clint's graduation, organize a pool party with Nicole's Utah cousins so she doesn't forget who they are (that's the excuse), co-op three times at Nicole's school, attend Nicole's graduation, and pack up the apartment. In that order.

What I don't have to do is ... find a house (whew!) or find more boxes. Do you think I have enough?
If I'm going to get done in time, I'd better get to work!

A Magical, British-Inspired Work of Art

Nicole bought a card set with her own money, and asked her daddy to help her assemble a Hogwarts castle. I didn't count, but it seemed like it took them around six hours to prepare each piece (break apart and sort) and then build this very liberal model of the school pictured in the movies. (It even came with a Harry Potter figurine -- probably to serve as incentive to get the project done!)
Grant stopped by every now and again to help, but Nicole stuck by Clint's side all the way until the end. Or maybe I should have worded it this way: Clint stuck by Nicole's side all the way until the end. Nicole is so proud of their castle. I think we're going to have to find a moving box that will allow it to be transported without tearing it down.

The Story of Grant's Name (and resulting insignificant family feud)

Many moons ago, before Nicole was born, Clint and I selected two names for our first baby: Nicole for a girl; Grant for a boy. I heard the name Nicole somewhere, Clint gave the nod of approval, and that's why we picked it. (It didn't have anything to do with the fact that Clint had vetoed all of the other names that I supplied, or with the fact that the names on his list were along the order of Gertrude, Bertha, Mildred ... Yeah, it didn't have anything to do with that at all.)

Grant's name, however, has family ties. For starts, Grant is Clint's middle name. Grant is also the first name of Clint's grandfather. We really liked this name, and everybody knew it.

By the time we conceived a boy, Clint's sister was also expecting a boy (except three months ahead of us -- warning drama ahead). One night she approached me and said, "Lorena, we've picked a name for our baby, and I hope you won't get mad." I knew what she was going to say, but I let her squirm and tell me anyway. "We're going to name him Grant."

To which I very sincerely replied, "That's great! Then we'll have two Grant's in the family."

Her mouth dropped open and she gave me a not-so-pleasing look, and then said, "You can't name your baby Grant, too."

I found this whole conversation so incredibly funny. Duplicate names in families honestly, truly don't bother me in the slightest. "Of course we can. Besides, the boys will have different last names, and we'll live in different states. It won't even be an issue."

"But, but, but ... " she stammered.

I continued (amusing at the time, but kind of cruel in retrospect), "We picked this name out a long time ago, and we're going to stick with it. If you want to name your baby Grant also, that's OK with us."

A few months later they had a baby boy and named him Gage.

Have You Forgotten What My Baby Looks Like?

He's practically unrecognizable to me in past photographs, and I see him everyday!
Scotty is a boy, and therefore incapable of multi-tasking on any level. He's sitting up, but not smiling. We're just taking what we get, here.
Scotty isn't teething, but this is one of three infant toys that isn't already packed. I don't see him complaining.
In fact, it's quite the contrary. This toy is Mmm! Mmm! Scrumptious!
Hey, Mom, look at my blue eyes!

Let Me Be Your Big Sister, Please, Please, Please

Uh-oh, Mommy spots a problem. But she's holding a Baby Scotty in one hand and a camera in the other. Never fear, it's Big Sister to the rescue!

Hold on, Grant, I'm coming!

There, caught it for you, Little Brother.

Here we go, let's get this thing turned around, then we can push it up the mountain together.

Wait, Grant, let me help.

Grant! I said together. Grant! Grant! Grant!

I just wanted to be your best-big-sister-friend.

I Hate to Complain, But I Just Gotta

Every time gas prices rise two cents, people start whining. And I really don't like it -- not the increase or the whining, but the whining is nearly unbearable. But when I had to fill up at $3.69 last week, I joined the ranks of the whiners.

I don't follow the politics of gasoline, so I haven't heard the excuses the oil execs are giving (not that I care to hear their euphemisms/propaganda/lies), but I just have to say that I can see gas prices heading toward $4 a gallon for the summer. Now it's true that Europeans have been paying outrageous rates for years. But pardon me if I live in America where we expect special treatment, especially when it comes to the price of gas. Indulge me when I tell you that I remember sitting in the backseat of the car, watching my mom fill up the tank at $.88 a gallon. She got in the car and remarked how expensive gas had recently become. Did you hear me correctly? That's less than $1 per gallon. What we wouldn't give to fill up our cars at that rate! (Guess it had to be cheap when our monster Ford truck only got 6 miles to the gallon.)

I'm starting to feel imprisoned by the gas station. I can't hop in my car without checking the gas gauge and the trip odometer (to see how many miles I've driven since I last filled up). Before going anywhere in the car, I run a quick mental algorithm to determine how much it's going to cost me to get to my destination and back. Nicole's school? $1.50 Parents' place? $15. The mall? Don't even ask -- it hurts. It hurts real bad.

I'm now being forced to consolidate my trips to town, and to rethink my entire shopping strategy altogether. Shopping is a large part of my life, which makes this gasoline issue a huge deal. For example, do we really need yogurt today, or can it wait until Wednesday? Which is the better deal -- buying expensive diapers at Dan's because it's nearby or the same diapers for less money at a far away Wal-Mart (which I'm currently boycotting -- long story)? Is it cheaper to shop online and pay shipping or drive to the store downtown? All of these decisions ... Oh, I'm getting a headache. And a heartache. I just want to go to the store. Whenever I want. For less than $10 worth of gas. Is that too much to ask???

I'm Not Alone in the World

I just knew I couldn't be the lone ranger out there who has unorthodox methods of feeding infants.

This calf belongs to my aunt and uncle in Spokane, and with any luck, it will still be hanging onto that bottle when we get there. What a sweetie!