Sometimes I Go Through Clint's Doctor Things ...

... and find something to share.

I don't know where this came from, and maybe I'm the last person on the planet to read it, but seeing as I have already reread it three times since I found it an hour ago, perhaps you'll get a laugh if this is your second go around.

Medical Definitions for Rednecks
Barium: What the undertaker does to 'em once the doctors are through with 'em.

Benign: What a child be after they be eight.

Cauterize: To have gotten noticed by a woman.

Cyst: To give someone in need a helpin' hand.

Dilate: It sure beats dyin' early.

Impotent: Significant and distinguished.

Node: To have been acquainted with someone in the past.

Pap Smear: To insult of belittle your own father.

Pathology: The study of trails.

Rectum: Crashed 'em and totaled 'em.

Tumor: Not just one more.

X-Rayed: For adult audiences only.

Guess this is why doctor's have to use layman's terms when talking to their patients.

I Should Have Known

If I had been paying attention when I made a dentist appointment a few weeks ago, I never would have made the mistake of scheduling it on a Tuesday.

And if I had happened to notice that when I said, "Yes, the 29th will be fine," by the 29th, it meant Tuesday the 29th, then I would have realized that such a dentist appointment was doomed before it began.

And, at a last ditch effort, had I had my wits about me yesterday, I would have canceled this appointment and run for cover until dentists or Tuesdays (whichever comes first) no longer exist.

But I wasn't paying attention, and I didn't notice -- until it was too late -- and by that time, I had lost all of my wits, which being translated means, "At the time I realized I would be forced to take Nicole and Grant to the dentist on a Tuesday, my face went pale, my body went into shock and my brain went into cranial failure, leaving me unable to protect my family or me from our impending dreadful day." Drat.

So it was that I awoke on this unlovely morning at 5:00 a.m. so I could awake all three kids and leave by 7:00 a.m. for our -- I can hardly bring myself to write the words -- for our ... well, you know very well where we were going, and in the back of my fried brain, and deep in the pit of my stomach, I knew, too. And I wanted to get there on time. (Figured it might be a luck charm of sorts. For future reference, it doesn't do anyone any favors to arrive on time to the ... well, you know.)

I'm going to spare you the details of the office visit, mainly because it's too painful to relive it, but secondly because it's futile -- no matter how many times I recount it, I will unavoidably reach the same conclusion. I don't like dentists; I don't like Tuesdays; and going to the dentist on a Tuesday is a very bad idea.

Now for the conclusion (drum roll, please): Grant is too little for the dentist. The staff suggested we "skip this appointment." By "skip this appointment," I hope they mean "pretend it never happened and we won't charge you an arm, a leg and your right eyeball for that toothbrush and toy car your little boy is holding." Nicole cooperated enough for us to learn that she has X cavities (that part is confidential health information, and is protected by a series of useless laws) that will need to be fixed immediately (their word, not mine) or else we may face additional punishment, I mean dental work and fines -- never mind, it all means the same thing. Oh, and they want to sedate her with an oral solution that may or may not work on two separate occasions to get the work done. But if we're one of the unlucky few who have a kid that won't sedate properly, they'll be happy to do the work at the hospital. This is where the smile wiped off my face (oh, who am I kidding, we all know the smile wasn't ever there), and I took a serious tone with the nurse and informed her that I have absolutely no intention of having my child put under general anesthesia to get a cavity (or two, or more) filled.

Before leaving, they cheerfully handed me a sheet with calculations of how much this would all cost "approximately" (again, their word, not mine). I am very displeased to report that I learned something new about myself today. It's another reason I don't like to go to the dentist. You see, apart from having a man with large hands shove his hands down my throat and lecture me about the importance of flossing better, it's knowing that each time I (or any one I happen to know) go to the dentist, I am going to receive an inordinate and unfair share of bad news, for which I will be given the option to donate my first child to the family of the dentist or shoot myself, whichever one I prefer.

To add insult to injury, just before leaving, the dentist looked at his watch, and said with a huge smile, "Well, look on the bright side, it's only 8:30 in the morning and look how much you've accomplished already."

Thanks. You have a great rest of the Tuesday also.

Crazy Dad and Kids on Bikes

Since we moved to Spokane, Clint's been taking the kids on tons of bike rides. This phenomenon is nothing short of miraculous in Nicole's eyes since she had been asking Clint for a ride in the bike trailer for years. That's no typo. Years. When we were packing up our belongings to move here, Nicole saw the bike trailer and with a sigh of desperation she said, "Maybe Dad could take me for my birthday." When Clint heard that, the bike trailer activity moved up on his to-do list.

Well, Nicole's nearly outgrown the darn thing now, but that doesn't stop her from going anyway. I've tried to get some cute pictures of them, and have ended up with this (just look at the surrounding scenery -- nature at its finest):
And then there was this time -- no bike trailer, but equally as fun (and equally as lame a photo):
But this trip trumps them all:
This is the Hiawatha trail in Montana/Idaho, which is a converted pathway from an old railway. It is labeled as one of the most scenic rail-to-trails in America. Their total trip was almost 17 miles (including a 1 1/2 mile long tunnel twice) and twelve hours (including driving time to and fro). I was worried that the kids wouldn't be able to make so a long trek, but they took care of themselves, even putting themselves down for a nap when they got tired. Even though they slept for half of it, the kids loved time with their daddy and said they want to go back for Round 2 next spring, and they want Little Scotty (who will be Big Scotty by then) and me to tag along.

I'll go, as long as I can ride in a trailer, too. Oh yeah, and as long as I don't have to ride in a tunnel for four miles.

An Odd or an End

I've seen some interesting road signs here, but the oddest one to date read, "Litter and it will hurt."

Hurt? Seriously? Now by that, do they mean it will hurt the environment? Hurt my pocketbook? Is someone going to punch me in the face? All of the above?

So weird. Whoever wrote that sign, and approved it for print, I want that job.

PS: I don't litter.

I've Been Thinking About This ...

(since we were so recently on the subject of clones and all)

If you've seen Matilda (as I recommended earlier), please continue reading. If you haven't, please watch Matilda and then read the rest of this post; otherwise, you may face what could seem like a menacing insult. But in actuality, it's just one of the best lines from the movie. Danny DeVito plays Harry Wormwood (Matilda's father) and tells Matilda, who is quite bright, "I'm smart, you're dumb. I'm big, you're small. I'm right, you're wrong. And there's nothing you can do about it. "

Now even though I seek to promote this movie whenever I get a chance, the real reason I'm telling you about it now is because Scotty does NOT look like Grant (like everyone says). He looks like Nicole. Hence the I'm right, you're wrong. Sorry about the rest of the quote. Harry Wormwood is not a very nice guy.

But about Scotty and Nicole ... just see for yourself:
Same smile, same nose; sheesh, they even have the same ears! Not so sure about the eyes, but they're not identical twins, you know. I'm guessing they're both about the same age in these photos: approximately sitting up, no teeth yet. Has to be around 7 months.

I'm right, you're ... (man, I could say this all day).

You Asked, I Listened

1133. That's how many emails I've received requesting reader comments.

Maybe not exactly 1133. I have a tendency to exaggerate at times. Especially when it's about something important ... like reader comments! But the exact number of emails isn't what's important right now. What's important is that comments are finally here!

To commemorate my new look (and the beginning of your opinion appearing on my site), I've posted new photos to my other blog (after a rather embarrassing four month hiatus). Check it out; you will not be disappointed. It's a whole post containing never-before-seen-by-non-family-member photos of our wedding, which took place approximately seven and one-half years ago. Yep, that's it. Three graduations, four kids, two dogs, eight moves, and thousands of moments of happiness -- all in only seven and one-half short years! I can scarcely believe it myself. (Except I have photos to document it, so I guess I'm going to have to.)

All of this excitement has made me lose focus of this post, which is to invite all of you to comment. Welcome friends, neighbors and newcomers!

PS: My blog has the curse of not being able to post comments on the main page, so if you'd like to write a tidbit, click on the title of the post first. If any of you readers double as a computer hacker, leave your phone number in the comments section so I can work this bug out!

Never Enough

This baby could double in weight -- which would make him 39 lbs. and unable to move, but that's beside the point -- and clone himself into triplets, and there still wouldn't be enough Scotty.

What If?

It's a curious thing, family. Take for instance two girls who were born only one month apart but separated by more than 800 miles. It's not likely that these two would ever meet, even though they might be perfectly good friends if they did.

And if, perchance, one girl traveled the 800 miles to vacation near the home of the other, and in the store one day the two found themselves sitting in the shopping carts (while behaving themselves as they should) of their respective mothers, they silently thought, "There's a girl my age; I think we should be friends," it's highly unlikely that their mothers would stop to exchange phone numbers. And it would be statistically impossible that their paths would ever cross again. But just say, that during said vacation, these girls happen to meet at the beach one day and spend a lovely afternoon together; it would probably be their only play date.

Tragic, but these two girls would arguably be destined to live out their lives -- which could have been replete with fun memories of dressing like twins, playing Barbies in bedrooms, or playing Rock Band (with their brothers, of course) after dinner -- with other children who may or may not have turned out to be as good a friend.

But what if their grandmothers were sisters? Would there be hope for these two girls? I'd like to think that just maybe ...
only maybe ...... there would.

Oh, Happy [Indoor] Day!

It's a perfect day to stay inside. Our windows are open, and there's a gentle breeze blowing through the house at 71 degrees. Oh, and my camera came. And it's so delightful to have a camera around the house again. So delightful, in fact, that I took indoor pictures of the kids.

You won't believe Scotty -- he's nearly crawling.
Even Grant was delightful and gave me a huge grin. He's not so delightful at this exact moment, however, as he won't take an afternoon nap. No, not delightful in the slightest. But let's look at his smile again. Yes, that will do now.

Grant also has something new to share (to compare with Scotty's mobility). Grant now calls his sister "Cole." Actually, it's more like this "K-k-k-Cole!" You see, he was just saying, "Ole." So I emphasized the "k" part, and well, now it's too late -- that's just going to have to be part of her name for a while. But it's better than the alternative, which was absolutely nothing at all. Now he just needs to learn his own name, which might be easier than it sounds, since he perfectly says the word ant on a regular basis. Well, off we go to practice. It's a suitable activity for an indoor day (although not quite as suitable as a long nap).

There's None of Me in Nicole

Nicole has great compassion for people (that part came straight from her daddy). She's constantly aware of people's feelings, and how to protect them. Even if someone is mean to her (Grant excluded), she doesn't say anything to them for fear of hurting them. We're going to have to work on this, though, because I don't want any bullies at school taking advantage of her just because she's too sweet to stick up for herself (that part was supposed to come from me, so I suppose we'll have to work on nurturing that in, since nature failed us).

Anyway, Clint mentioned to Nicole that she needed to be grateful for (read: eat) all of her food -- the "yucky" stuff, too -- since there are kids who don't have any food at all, and who have to eat dirt. (True story -- a community in Africa was so hungry that they started making dirt cakes [dirt+water baked] and got some scary disease from eating dirt. I can't remember what it did to their bodies, but listen, if you ever run out of food, eat bugs, not dirt. That's all I have to say about that.)

A few days after this scare tactic was implemented, Nicole sat at the counter eating lunch and asked ...

Nicole: "Mom, where do those people live who don't have any food?
Mom: "Everywhere, sweetheart. Africa, Russia, South America ... all over the world."
Nicole: "Well, we better not go visit any of those places then."
Mom: (wondering why Nicole has a prejudice against starving people) "Why not?"
Nicole: "Because if we went there, then we wouldn't have any food either."
Mom: (oh, I get it) "Well, we'd take money with us, and then we'd buy food with our money. Those people don't have any food because they don't have enough money to buy it."
Nicole: (new concept -- some people don't have enough money for food) "Well, then we should visit those places and take lots of extra money with us and buy those people some food."
Mom: (Where'd this little girl come from?)

Maybe she'll work for the Peace Corps one day. She's full of goodness, that kid. (That part is from her daddy, too.)

I Lovey My Baby Grant

It has been called to my attention that Grant's reputation has been somewhat tarnished by recent blog entries. None in particular, but more collectively over the past, oh, year or so. Now, it's not to say that such writings aren't warranted (because they certainly are), but perhaps his more sensitive and positive sides have been inadvertently glossed over because the (sometimes) funny and naughty sides are so much more ... oh, I don't know ... apparent?

That being said, I wanted to tell you how much I love my Grant. I was so excited for Grant to be born. Clint and I had wanted a new baby in our home for a long time before Grant came. Plus, we'd never had a baby boy before ...

(hospital photo)

Grant was born three weeks early (hooray!), and was such a skinny newborn in January. Nicole and I liked to turn the heat up high and look at Grant's cute little body. In the picture below, he was only a few days old and was lying on a cloth diaper and wearing a preemie size disposable diaper. Skinny babies make me nervous, so I was really excited when Grant turned all chunky only a few weeks later.

When Grant was 6 months old, and I hadn't yet started Family Life Unraveled, I hand-wrote my first notes about Grant in my personal journal (which, by the way, doesn't get a lot of use these days): "I'd like to write a few words about Grant. If I could only use one word to describe him, it'd be 'happy.' He is so complacent and he'll smile at anyone, any time of day (even if we wake him up). He's such a porky (18 lbs. at 5 months, and he was a preemie). We've nicknamed him 'Chubbs.' Nicole likes to hug him and say, 'Hi, Chubbo!'" Reading this now actually makes me think of Scotty. But anyway, I'll always remember Grant as the happiest baby I ever did see.
Grant's still an overall happy boy (even though I'm constantly recording his ornery moments). He LOVES to play games. Any game. With anyone. In fact, life is a giant game to Grant. Play with him, and he'll never give you trouble again. Hold him tight, too; he loves that. He also likes to dance. Our latest game is to push Grant's belly button and ask him if it works. If it's in good repair, he'll do a jig, if not, you have to tickle him to get him going.

My mom has always maintained that baby boys are much more lovey than baby girls. True, true, true. Even to this day, whenever I ask Grant for a "squeezy tight" or a "kissy-goo," I am immediately granted my wish. And very often I get "loves" unrequested (my favorite). When I tuck Grant in bed at night, he holds me tight and I whisper in his ear (with his arms still wrapped around me), "I lovey my baby Grant." And then he squeezes tighter. And then I melt and say sorry for ever getting mad at him. And then I kiss him 100 times more and squeeze him again before leaving his room. It's the sweetest (or maybe just a really good stall tactic, but I won't hold that against him).

Grant also uses hugs and kisses, instead of words, to say sorry. He'll even hug playground kids that he hurts (usually accidentally). Oh, and a kiss makes everything feel all better -- on him (which happens approximately once every three and a half minutes because he's a hypochondriac -- every body parts "hurts"), and on other people. He will kiss anyone's owie -- you just have to let him know.

Grant and I stayed up late tonight (due to a late nap), and we danced to a country song in the living room. He giggled the whole time, and I thought to myself, "This must be how Heaven sounds -- children laughing all the time." Even his eyes sparkled. I wanted to take a picture of him to show you how beautiful he was -- not just because he's my kid and I think he's just the handsomest, but because kids are beautiful; and if you look closely, you can see a glimpse of eternity in their faces. I asked Grant if I could take his picture, and he looked at me, smiled, and matter-of-factly replied, "Nope." And so it was. But that's my precious two-year-old baby Grant.PS: Unbeknownst to Grant, I have a stockpile of photos to post any time I please. This one was taken at Manito Park a couple of weeks ago. The kids wanted to take their bikes/Nicole's brand new "big girl" scooter, but Manito Park really ought to post a large sign recommending no bikes due to mostly dirt trails or poorly paved paths that were very steep (oh, and tons of stairs). Next time we'll all walk.

What You Don't Want Your Fortune Cookie to Tell You

A solid challenge will bring forth your finest abilities.

I'm satisfied with the current status of my abilities, thanks. No need for any "bringing forth." Nope, we're doing great. Let's just keep the good times rolling.

More Thoughts on My Mom

Have I ever told you about my mom? Well, I suppose I have mentioned her once or twice. But today as I was cleaning the toilet (charming, I know), I thought of my mom (she'd be so flattered).

You see, it's like this. I really hate cleaning toilets. But I like my toilets clean, so I clean them. But it wasn't always so. Once upon a time, I lived in a very clean house that was cleaned by none other than my mom. And let me tell you, this house was clean! Then one sad day, I moved out and far away, and instead of mom cleaning the apartment, the chores were divvied out among the six roommates, me being one of the unfortunate six. That meant that every six weeks, it was my turn to clean the bathroom, which (go figure) included the toilet. When my turn came up (it was inevitable), I called my mom and asked her how to do it. By phone and from 70 miles away, she asked what cleaning supplies I had on hand. Deeming it not to be good enough for her baby, my mom drove the 70 miles and cleaned the bathroom for me -- toilet and all. I think she must have done that every six weeks because I don't remember ever cleaning a toilet until I got married (my mom had to draw the line somewhere).

I've missed those luxury days, but when we moved to Spokane, and our house had supposedly been cleaned by a professional crew, my mom did her inspection and was not satisfied. So she gloved up and went to work -- all three bathrooms.

Boy, I love my mom. Not only because she cleans my bathrooms, of course. But because of the reason she does it. The way I see it, you have to really, really love someone to clean their bathroom. Although, I think my mom would clean anyone's bathroom. On second thought, though, I don't think there's anyone she doesn't love, so it still holds true that you have to really, really love someone to clean their bathroom.

If my mom ever gets too old to clean her bathroom (I know, that's never going to happen, but just what if?), I will clean her bathroom to show her that I really, really love her, too.

The Heart of the Matter

I had a bad day for a stupid reason.

We've invited a large sum of people over for a gathering of sorts this weekend, and after I extended all of the invites, and received yes from 100% of invitees, the thought popped into my head that we were going to need more than our four dining chairs to seat everyone. I started counting other options (couch, piano bench, camping chairs, etc.) and still came up short. I finally bought some folding chairs from Wal-mart, which were not as expensive as I had thought they were. However, I thought the whole musical chair dilemma would be solved if only I had a set of barstools. So all day today, I have been fretting over barstools. I have let my kids cry and whine and beg for attention while I search for barstools online. At one point today, I thought, "We cannot possibly have company over without barstools." (Yes, I was full of all sorts of logical ideas today, that being the most logical of them all.)

When all of my options turned up dead-ends, I admitted defeat. And then I thought about Nicole upstairs watching a movie, and how she had asked me to watch it with her (but I was really busy doing incredibly important things, like calling Target to see if they had any barstools in stock). And I thought about little Grantigrew who was so ornery (what else is new?), but who would have benefited from a good tickle, or a game with the Crazy 8's cards that he threw all over the floor hours earlier. At the end of my self-evaluation, I concluded that I failed in the mommy department today. I could have had so much fun playing with the kids, and instead I was short on patience and mentally obsessed with something that won't even matter three days from now.

Kids never do stupid things like this. They always have their priorities straight. Just the other night, Nicole prayed, "Please bless that Grant will fall asleep in my bed, and that he will stay sleeping in my room the whole night and be here when I wake up in the morning." (She prayed for this because Grant usually falls asleep during the before-bed-movie, but I move him to his own bed.) Nicole frequently asks if Scott can sleep in there, too. She thinks the boys will protect her from the bad guys/ghosts/monsters (she's seen too many PG-13 movies). But more than that, I think she's lonely, and that she misses the good old days when we lived in a two bedroom apartment, and all three kids shared one 9x11 foot space. Cozy.

Anyway, I was just thinking how kids don't care about fancy barstools to impress their friends, or designer bedding to sleep in. They care about the most important thing in life: Relationships with their favorite people.

I swear Nicole would trade all of the barstools in the world for a fun day with her family. And when that day was gone, she'd trade this whole house for another day just like it.

It's nice to know someone who's got it all figured out.

Kid Prayers

My dad and I (mostly my dad) built Nicole a new bookshelf, of which I hope to be able to take a picture shortly. It's a replica of a shelf I saw on Pottery Barn's website many months ago, but which wasn't for sale. (Good thing, too, because about half-way through the project, my dad asked, "So how much money are you saving by building this?" Read: "Why didn't you just spend the money and buy the thing, you cheapskate?")

Well, I'm finally getting around to hanging the shelf. Only problem is, as my mom would say, it's a man's job. And my man was at work, so I took it upon myself to get it done. But it didn't get done because when it comes to hanging shelves, I'm a complete idiot (that's what my dad will think -- and hopefully keep to his quiet little self -- when he sees the mess I made). Fortunately, I can recognize when to cut my losses. So instead of making the problem worse, I told Nicole we'd have to wait for Clint to get home so he could hang it. When it comes to these types of projects, Clint's like my dad -- he wants it done right. So I said to Nicole, "I hope Daddy doesn't get mad when I ask him to fix this tomorrow."

Later that evening, just before bed, the kids and I knelt down for prayer. Clint was still gone, and Nicole offered to say the prayer. In it, she included a plea for me and a plea for her shelf: "... and please bless that Dad won't get mad when he sees the shelf, and please bless that he won't do what we did ..."

PS: Clint didn't get mad, nor did he fix it. He thought my dad might like to do it next time he comes by. At least if the shelf had been available through Pottery Barn, it wouldn't have included installation -- so I hope he'll let me off the hook in that department.

PPS: Thanks, Daddy. Love you, Daddy. XOXO

PPPS: See you real soon, Daddy. (Hint, hint.)

Hand Foot Mouth Disease

Weekend without Fruits

Also known by Clint as "the last weekend before my life is over." (Clint was a little melodramatic before beginning his first official shift as an intern. But as it turns out, resident life isn't too shabby. This past month, he's only been working about 40-hour weeks. Almost as good as a government job, I'd say.) So, not knowing if he'd ever see his kids again, Clint wanted to go somewhere fun. So we took them on a long drive to Green Bluff Growers, which is a community of farmers with a variety of crops. It's kind of a giant U-Pick lot. Unbeknownst to us, however, the strawberry harvest was late due to Spokane's unusually cold and long winter, and no other fruit would be in season for a couple of weeks. So the farms were desolate. There was nothing to pick (except lettuce, but how much lettuce can one family with three picky kids eat?), and nothing to do (all of the kiddy crafts and rides were closed due to lack of crowds).

The kids were a little disappointed in the way the day had unfolded. And gee, I'll own up to it -- I was a little disappointed, too. Just before leaving, though, we found a small playground area -- and suddenly the forty-five minute drive was all worth it. The kids loved this ... this ... (look closely)OK, there's a close-up of Nicole, but look at what's surrounding her. It's not a sandbox, but a box full of dried peas. These must have been the rejects for the split pea soup. Either that or this is their year supply for the on-site restaurant. (Eew, gross; but you know, it's not half as bad as those Chinese restaurants that breed their own rats in the basement and serve them up as cheap chicken. Ugh, now that's disgusting. Uh, I think I've lost sight of the goal. Back to the pea box -- which, by the way, is not to be confused with the pe* box, although I'm sure there's no shortage of that in there either. But now that we're on the subject, the concept kind of reminds me of those plastic ball arenas that McDonald's used to have. Must have gotten rid of them for a reason other than the balls kept disappearing. Just something to think about when you're not thinking about how cool of an idea this dried pea box is!) The kids played in here for at least an hour. OK, not so sure about the exact amount of time, but suffice it to say that it was a long time.

So long that, at one point, Nicole's entire body (minus the head, of course -- a kid has to breathe, you know) was buried and resurrected. (Just keep your head up, Honey.)

In this photo, Nicole was trying to split the pea open. She wants to know what's inside of everything and how everything works. Recently, she also asked me to split open a popcorn kernel. We did that with a hammer, and to my astonishment, I found the experiment just as cool as Nicole did. As for the split pea, not near as interesting as the split kernel.

Eventually the kids moved on from the pea box and found a homemade train that's pulled by a tractor. There were plenty of farmers around, but none of them like kids (or something like that), so the kids had to find their own entertainment. No problem for Grant. That kid is a walking circus. Ah, I just had an epiphany: when Grant grows up, he can make a living by doing a street show in Europe. The Dick van Dyke from Mary Poppins. (I love that opening scene where he's singing his rhymes and simultaneously playing instruments with different body parts; makes me feel like taking a long plane ride to London, and there aren't many things that make me want to do that. For example, if I think about my plane trip to Florida with the kids last March, that makes me NOT want to fly to London.) Europe still has those guys, but I think they're mostly homeless. Or maybe they want you to think they're homeless so you'll give them bigger tips. Scandalous. Maybe that career won't work after all, but for a fleeting moment, it wasn't a bad idea. Think of the places he could see ... But then again, I suppose if you're homeless, the places would less likely include the inside of Le Louvre and more likely the inside of a hostel where your jewelry gets stolen while you sleep (think Curly Sue). So, here's Grant inventing fun on the farm in Washington, not Europe.

Nicole found this toy, and Grant jealously watched while Nicole swung with a stranger girl. Grant was too shy to yell at the girl to get off, but as soon as she left, Grant willingly took her spot. One day Scotty will get to join in the fun -- really join, not just observe from the sidelines (although that's what I do and I think it's every bit as fun as playing). Scotty misses out on all sorts of things. Just today I overheard Nicole tell him, "Scotty, pretty soon you'll be big enough to have candy, too. But right now, it's just for Sister. Hey, Scotty, want your bottle?"And thus ended the last weekend with Clint unemployed.

Some Problems Have a Way of Fixing Themselves

Grant has reverted back to his baby days of surviving solely on milk. I haven't complained terribly since I was heartbroken when Nicole decided, at the ripe old age of 11 1/2 months (I took the bottle away early), that she wasn't going to be a milk drinker in any fashion -- not hot, cold, chocolate, strawberry or plain. So, to have a milk baby is a dream-come-true. However, all things in moderation. And a thirty pound boy drinking a half-gallon of milk per day is beyond moderate.

So today, after guzzling (no joke -- 8 ounces in 30 seconds -- this kid could win contests, like the one college freshmen do where they drink a gallon of milk in five minutes and see who can keep it down. Grant could beat them all, and he's not even in preschool!) two sippy cups in a row, I refused to give him another refill. In retaliation, he did this:
He showed me, didn't he?! Although I think he regretted his action immediately upon assessing the damage. He understood the sippy cup was broken, and that it was entirely his fault, so he didn't cry when I threw it in the garbage. I didn't cry either. I'm looking forward to seeing Grant eat solid food again. Maybe he and Scotty can start together. Two years apart in age, same diet -- some things will never make sense, but at least I know they'll usually, eventually, somehow get better.

Don't Cry, Grandma

Little Scotty's too fat for his one-piece jammies, and had to move up to the twelve month size. This is his first time wearing a t-shirt (versus a onesie).
Don't you just want to pick him right up out of that picture and squeeze him?!

It's the Best I've Got

Wo is me.

I very reluctantly and tearfully said goodbye to my camera six days ago. No doctors or nurses have called to inform me of her status, but I'm fairly certain she's still in the operating room. So, until she returns in better health, we're looking at photos taken with my once-upon-a-time cool camera, and believe me when I tell you that I'm offering you the best I've got ...

This is my best family photo. We're sitting in a dirt driveway in a small town watching a really lame parade (which explains the red, white and blue coordinates). You can't see my legs, but I'm wearing blue jeans, if that tells you anything about the climate. Seriously, the middle of July (the parade was held late), and I'm in pants -- and I wasn't even hot. Weather notwithstanding, this is the new family photo that I really might consider framing on our wall, since it will probably be two more years before we get another family photo opportunity. I was really hoping for a coastal picture last weekend, but Grant fell asleep in the car on the way to the rainy beach. So instead of the gentle waves in the background and the sand beneath our feet, we're in Beverly Hillbilly Town kneeling on dirty gravel and candy wrappers. But it's the best I've got. (At least we're all there.)

While at the parade, we saw this cool invention. I never saw the kid pull anything out of the cooler (I would have thought he'd be selling popsicles), so I'm not quite sure what the point was. The gadget reminded me of something my oldest brother would build. I had to zoom in as far as my old, sorry digital camera would go, hence graininess and fuzziness. But it's the best I've got.

Grant waved at every float/car/horse/passerby. And since my rinky dink camera doesn't have a backflash, we see Grant in silhouette, but ... (you want to finish this one?)

It was about this point in the parade where Grant became more interested in the camera than the floats, probably because most of the floats ran out of candy before they reached us -- we were at the end of the parade route, which answers the time-old question of where to sit at a parade. I always wondered if you'd get gobs of candy at the end because the throwers would toss all of the leftovers. Turns out, there's nothing left over. And I bet they're all stingy at the beginning because they're afraid they won't have enough. So, next year we'll aim for a seat about half-way through. But back to Grant and the camera. He threw the biggest fit, so I let him have it (couldn't get any worse, could it?). He took this picture:
... and five more just like it before I took the camera away. That explains why he wouldn't smile for this shot:I almost didn't post this picture because Grant wasn't exactly cooperating (oh, you couldn't tell?). But then I thought, Hey Self, you're always the one taking pictures, so pictures of you with the kids are rare. Post it, even if Grant has his mad face on. After all, it's the best you've got.

Anecdotes along the Order of Nicole

Who's the Nanny?
A recent viewing of Mary Poppins prompted the following conversation:

Nicole: "Mom what's a nanny?"
Mom: "A nanny is like a babysitter, except she lives with you."
Nicole: "Oh, like Quince."
Mom: (chuckle) "Sort of ..."
Nicole: "Oh, I get it. You're the nanny!"
Mom: (more chuckling)
Nicole: "And Dad's the man-nanny!"
Mom: "I guess you could say that." (But for the record, we get paid a whole lot less than Mary Poppins.)

Breaking Up Is NOT Hard to Do
Nicole started watching tween shows on Disney Channel with her cousins, like Hannah Montana, That's So Raven, Zack and Cody -- and I could go on, but it wouldn't be any more helpful -- where the main characters date and have significant others (sometimes only at age 14). Nicole has had many questions about boyfriend/girlfriend relationships. (Can I marry Grant? Can I marry Dad? Can I marry my cousin?) Now she knows family is off-limits, so she's wondering about a little more. We had this little chat at the beach last weekend.

Nicole: "Mom, what does it mean to have a boyfriend?"
Mom: (Yikes!) "Well, it's when you really like a boy, and he likes you, too, and you do fun things together -- like go to dinner, or the movies, or the beach -- and decide if you like each other enough to get married."
Nicole: "So what if we don't like each other enough to get married?"
Mom: "Well, it doesn't always work out with everyone. That's why you can date a whole bunch of people before you decide."
Nicole: "So it's like this: if I don't want to date him anymore, then I just go to his house and tell him, 'Hey, this isn't working out.'"
Mom: (Yep, it's that easy. Now go collect some more sea shells, and we'll talk about this again in 20 years.)

Please Be My Witness

You've probably heard of parents taking their kids into the E.R. with a broken bone or other acute ailment, and the parents get questioned separately under several watchful eyes and video surveillance while the doctors try to determine if the child was hurt purposefully or accidentally.

Well, if we end up in the hospital with a bad case of shaken baby syndrome, I'm going to show this video to the judge:

Verdict: Self-inflicted shaken baby syndrome. (Did you notice he had to pause half-way through to check himself out in the mirror? I hope he doesn't grow up to be one of those guys that keeps a comb in his back pocket. That would be so embarrassing.)

My cousin gave us this cute little car, and Scotty wears himself out jumping in it. Shortly after this video was shot, I found Scotty zonked off. Completely. I don't know how Scotty ever fell asleep without this car. Oh, wait, I remember ... it was like this.

Unprepared

After we lost Brooke, one of Clint's cousins pulled me aside and told me about her experience losing her six-month old baby to SIDS. She warned me that one day, when I thought I had recovered from the loss, I would be caught off-guard, and the loss would feel real all over again. She said that she was always prepared to cry on Mother's Day, the anniversary of birth and death dates, Memorial Day, etc., but every once in a while, something happened that she wasn't expecting.

Today was my day.

I don't know why, but ever since we moved here, Nicole has become obsessed with Brooke. She talks about her many times a day, every day. (She's even gone as far as to say that she wishes she were in Heaven so she could play with her sister.) When we meet new people, and they ask how many kids we have, I always say tell them three, but only for the sake of saving me from the huge headache of an explanation to a stranger who probably couldn't care less. However, Miss Factual Nicole corrects me in front of them and says, "Actually, we have four kids in our family: two girls and two boys." The strangers cock their heads to the side, and look at me puzzled, wondering which one of us is telling the truth. I finally told Nicole to quit telling people that, and that everyone we meet doesn't need to/want to know about Brooke. That made no sense to her at all, but she followed orders, which resulted in the situation below.

While waiting in the return line at Wal-mart, a young girl behind me started talking to Scotty. Like always, Scotty got all giddy and put on a smiling show. Normally it ends there, but this girl wanted to know the names of the kids, and she kept talking to them. After a few minutes, she said, "Wow, these boys are going to look like twins when they get older. And then there's your daughter. Poor thing doesn't have a sister."

Nicole looked at me, as if to ask permission to tell this uninformed girl all about her baby sister. I wanted to tell the girl myself, "Well, actually she does have a sister ..." but then I thought it would get too complicated. So I went home and cried instead.

At Scotty's Expense

Our family doctor (who we no longer see because we live too far away -- poor us --but who we still talk to because he loves us; he really, really does) has the sweetest girl at his front desk to greet patients and get all of the legal stuff out of the way. Well, one thing I didn't know until I had kids was that kids have to go to the doctor all of the time. If not for an illness, it's for a well-baby check, or shots, or both. So we saw this sweet gal many, many times, and she and Nicole grew to be good friends. And I don't think many other young patients caught on, but a fringe benefit to befriending the girl at the counter was that she'll give you "as many stickers as you would like," as she's been known to say to Nicole.

So whenever anyone in the family needed to go the doctor, Nicole wanted to go also, so she could see Stephanie and collect more stickers. If Nicole couldn't make the appointment (darn school schedule started getting in the way), then she would ask that the patient bring stickers home for her.

Pretty soon, Grant caught wind of the scheme, and wanted his share, too. So when Scotty had one final check-up before move-out, Daddy brought home a load of stickers for both of the big kids. Nicole always hoards hers and puts them on special notes, only using one a day until they're gone.

But not Grant. He plunked himself down on the floor immediately upon receipt of the stickers and got to work. He didn't quit until every sticker was in place ... on his tummy.
And all poor Scotty had to do to provide Grant and Nicole with such pleasure was get four shots, two in each leg. So sweet, already learning to sacrifice for those he loves.

I'm Not Even Kidding -- The Elves Came

A long time ago, I told Nicole this tale about elves cleaning her room. (Please don't lecture me on inventing stories about elves, but not Santa/Tooth Fairy/Easter Bunny/Barney/other figments of kids' imaginations. I just don't even have an explanation for that sort of hypocrisy. Nope, none at all. Well, except that you could say I've been known to be fickle on occasion -- I guess that's sort of an explanation. Oh, and sometimes I'm flaky, but I think that's unrelated.)

So after the truth came out about the elves (I had to tell her -- she was starting to think she could create messes all over the place and that the elves would take care of it while she slept; it was really getting quite out of control), Nicole asked me to write a sentence in her journal, and I wrote, "I wish the elves would clean the house while I sleep. For real."

But what I got was so much better than a clean house. Grant woke up in the middle of the night and said he wanted milk. Well, I'm one of those hard-nosed mamas who doesn't put up with such shenanigans unless the kid has a really good excuse (like puppy eyes or sick eyes or some other kind of look that makes me have pity on them). So I told Grant no, and to go back to bed. He ended up falling asleep on my floor (and I moved him later when I woke up with Nicole, who said her nose was all stuffy -- urgent matter, could NOT wait until morning). So that's up two times already before three a.m. Ugh! Around 4:00 a.m., I heard Scotty rolling over in bed, back and forth, to and fro, and making little baby squeaks, like he was going to be expecting a bottle in the near future. I closed my eyes and pretended that none of this was happening. When I got up with Nicole again at 6:00, I checked on the boys and found Grant asleep in bed with his sippy cup of milk on the floor. Then when I went downstairs, I saw an empty baby bottle on the coffee table.

I thought, "Clint is so sweet to get up with the boys in the night. But he shouldn't have done that; now he's going to be so tired for work! I'll let him sleep in." At 7:30, Clint got up and I ran to ask him what time he got up with the boys. He swears he did NOT get up with either one of them. And Scotty didn't wake up until 8:00 a.m. So strange. My only explanation is that the elves came ... for real.

One Month Anniversary

No one adjusts more poorly to change than I do (except maybe my Dad, and now we know who to blame for my plight). It's true. I hate change. Yes, I know, hate is a strong word (my mom taught me that). But, for some reason, it takes me a very long time (like a year or more) to feel comfortable with and open to change. Even when it's a good change.

I'm one of those people that you dread taking to a new restaurant. So many choices ... how could I possibly pick something from a menu without first reading about all of my options, which also includes asking the waiter/waitress (server, if you want to go PC on me) what they're serving for soup of the day, which you should never order if it's clam chowder. Clam chowder at a semi-fast food restaurant is not worth the calories. And we all know that calories are not to be wasted. They can be perfectly expended on something very worthwhile, like orange and green creme pumpkins. But why are we talking about candy when I was about to divulge an update on our move to Spokane? (Oh yeah, it's because I had that tasty dream about them the other night ... Mmmm! Succulent, caramel-flavored ... sorry.)

So, as I was saying, it's been a month and I really love our house. I mean love. I mean, I didn't know someone could love an object as much as I love this house. I mean, I finally grasp the logic behind the second commandment (thou shalt have no idols ... in case you forgot). Or maybe it was the seventh commandment because I could almost marry this house, except I would never trade it for my husband, so let's stick to the second commandment. Yeah, no worshiping this house. I should get that painted all fancy on a carved piece of wood and hang it above our mantle -- just to keep me on the straight and narrow.

I like my street, too. And my neighbors are friendly, albeit somewhat sparse. And we've been to church a few times here already, and they're all real nice folk, too. But it's still not home. Not home like Home Sweet Home kinda home.

But I've got the kids, and they're the best company I could ask for. (Even though I get sick of hearing myself say, "Put that down." "Don't hit your sister." "Quit fighting." "Eat your food." "I said, 'Eat your food!'") Because amidst all of the typical parenting stuff, there's the tickling fests, and the Uno games, and the story times, and Scotty spitting bubbles (so cute!). And, for some odd reason that should never be allowed during intern year, we have Clint more than we ever have before, which is significant to note because, believe it or not, I'm quite a homebody. Yep, given the choice to pack up and go to Disneyland or stay home and make brownies, I choose brownies (I swear, the sugar has no influence on this decision). Or say I could go to the Celine Dion concert in Vegas or watch You've Got Mail for the 77th time on my own TV, guess which one it would be? Crazy, but I'd pick to stay home (partly because I can't remember if Celine's show is still playing; however I might be persuaded to venture across our friendly northern border to catch Celine singing in French). Now, you may not have known any of this about me, and that would only be because my adorable, opposite of homebody-type husband shuttles me (and the kids, of course!) all over town (and the country, too, come to think of it).

But it's the times that Clint's at work, and the boys are asleep, and Nicole's playing Polly Pocket in her treehouse (I'm totally invited to play, too, it's just that Polly Pocket isn't my thing), that I think to myself, Living here is so much lonelier than I imagined. I haven't yet established a shopping buddy (can't imagine why ... me plus three ... hmm). Or found a friend that I can call and not have to chit-chat with about nothing first. You know, some people (like your mom), you can call and get down to business without asking how their day is going, and how they are liking their summer vacation so far ... You can just call and when they answer you ask, "How do you get a blood stain out?" And when they tell you the answer, you can hang up. And if you forget thirty seconds later, you can call back and ask again.

I suppose that since this is the first time that Clint and I have lived so far away from family that we can't visit on one tank of gas, it's normal to have these feelings. Before we moved here, a friend told me that when she and her family had to move far away, they became closer. She said that would happen to us, too, and she was right. Nicole doesn't have any steady friends in our neighborhood yet (although she did meet a really cute boy who's the son of one of Clint's colleagues ... more on him later), so she and Grant have become great playmates -- even amongst the daily bickering. And I'm hoping that when Nicole and Grant grow up, they'll remember how they used to swim together in our dinky, little pool (more on this later, too), or share Nicole's queen bed at night to watch movies and happen to both fall asleep there, or water the garden with their water guns, or color pictures together. Or any of the cute things that they do together. I hope they remember this time when all they/we had was each other. (Although I don't see how remembering any part of their childhood could be difficult, given the amount of pictures I take.) And then when they remember how much they loved to be with each other as children, I hope they long to maintain their relationship as adults. And I hope they want their kids to play together, and giggle together. (And if they don't want any of this, I hope get a dusty book off their shelves that contains this blog entry; and when they read it, I hope they'll be best friends again, like when they were kids, if only for the sake that it was their mother's dying wish.)

And then, as my niece Quincy might add, I hope they want to build a mansion and move all of their families in together. And then no one would ever have to live without any of their family. Now that's a change I might be able to make smoothly.

Visions of Sugar Plums

Or at least sugar pumpkins.

Plums. Pumpkins. To-ma-to. To-matto. It's all produce-related.

The other night, I dreamed that I walked into Dan's (the Dan's in Foothill Village because I haven't seen any Dan's here), and an employee was stocking a plastic bin with candy pumpkins. A huge smile spread across my face because I couldn't believe that candy pumpkins were here so early. And then I enthusiastically told the man, "Wow, candy pumpkins already!"

And he replied all cheerfully, "You're the first customer to buy them this year."

I woke up in such a good mood. A fabulous, honey-sweet, lovey-dovey mood ... until I realized that it was only a dream and that back on Planet Reality, I would have to wait three more months until the orange and green confection would appear on store shelves. Ugh, the agony! Such dreary days ahead.

Meanwhile, in an attempt to appease my taste buds, I opened my pantry door (that's our new spot for the candy, but only because it doesn't fit anywhere else), and to my horror, found nothing that would do the trick. When I don't have any candy in the house -- wait, that never happens -- when I don't have any candy in the house that sounds good at the moment, then I resort to marshmallow creme. A couple of spoonfuls, and I'm good for a few hours. Mmm, almost as good as the pumpkins. Almost.

I have a feeling that I might be going through quite a few jars of marshmallow creme before the Fall Harvest season hits.

Rules Were Made to Be Broken

You might could say that I'm kinda, sorta, mostly opposed to televisions in children's rooms. However, when we happened upon a good-looking, high-functioning *free* TV, I had no choice but to give it a home in Nicole's armoire, seeing as her room now serves a dual purpose as a part-time guest room. (Although, minus the cable TV, our guests are limited to movies only, ranging anywhere from Barbie and the 12 Dancing Princesses to Zorro #1 or #2.)

Anyway, methought it might be OK to place a TV in her room, so long as she didn't become accustomed to watching it every night as she falls asleep (like she loves to do at Grandma's). Little did I know that a new night-time movie ritual was about to begin and that it would include all three children! (Yikes!)Which is precisely why I have given up on making any more rules for the kids ... until tomorrow.

These People Know How to Party

Our cousins took us to a 4th of July bash that their friends put on every year. They invite everyone they know, and then they set up the property for a big crowd.

Neon-colored poster signs greeted the guests at the property line to direct them to the roped-off parking area (big field next to their house), and everyone lined their cars up in rows, like at Disneyland. Each family brought a side dish/dessert/whatever they wanted to share with the crowd, and the hosts provided meat, drinks and utensils. All of the food was set out buffet-style on tables lined up in the garage (again, labled with the neon-colored signs).

They had games (three-legged race, potato sac hop, four wheelers) for the kids (and also for some fun-loving and adventurous adults, such as my husband and me). Some guests brought their own intermediate entertainment, like one lady who was sitting behind us. She had a large bucket and a couple gallons of bubbles. She gave fly swatters to the kids to dip in the bubbles and run around (so much easier, and impressive, than the bubble wands kids normally use).

I knew these people were professional party-throwers when I spotted the out-house in the driveway. Smart thinking. (Fifty adults, possibly as many children, unlimited drinks -- you do the math.)

When it got dark enough, the guests moved their lawn chairs to the back of the house, which sat atop a hill and overlooked a large creek and a table set up for discharging fireworks. The guy in charge gets a permit to launch professional-grade fireworks in the sky, takes his company trailer to pick up the goods, and then puts on a spectacular show for his friends. It was a truly amazing party!

I've Ruined Nicole's Childhood

There's no Santa Claus. That was established at birth. But the whole tooth fairy episode -- yeah, that's not my fault.

Nicole heard about the tooth fairy at school (near as I can tell), and let it simmer in her brain for a while before she said at dinner, "Mom, I wish I had a loose tooth."

I knew she was after the money. Of course, it's always about the money. But I listened anyway as she said, "Because then I could put it under my pillow and the tooth fairy could come and take it and leave me a dollar."

She paused and looked at me for a reaction. When I didn't respond, she continued, "There's no tooth fairy, is there, Mom?"

I'll be known for always telling the truth, so of course I said, "No, Nicole, there's no tooth fairy."

Clint couldn't take it anymore and piped in, "Look what you've done to her. You've taken away all of her childhood ... [rant, rant, rave, rave]."

See, the way I look at it, it's not so much about childhood as it is about reality. And laziness. I couldn't be one of those parents who has to invent an on-the-spot algorithm to explain exactly how Santa and his reindeer make it around the entire world in one night. Too much work. Besides, I swear Nicole doesn't care. And it has made no difference whatsoever to her childhood.

Nicole finished the conversation by asking, "So, if I lose a tooth, can I still get the money?" (Told you it was all about the money.)

Bad, Sad, Not Good News

It's not tragic. But it's oh-so-sad.

A couple of months ago, the part on my camera where my USB cord plugs in broke. (Get that? I mean, with all of my technical jargon and all, I just wanted to make sure I didn't lose anybody. OK, looks like we're on the same page.) So instead of calling the manufacturer and sending my camera in to be fixed (because I absolutely cannot bear to be without my new, fun and lovely camera, even though I still have my old, very capable and not-so-lovely former camera), I found a way around fixing the camera (my family is famous for these sorts of stunts). I plug my SD card into a card reader to extract my photos. It's a pain, but it works.

Tonight, while my useful card reader was plugged into the computer, Grant came along and discovered it. (Insert creepy background music here.) The card reader is now missing (ooh, shocker -- didn't see that coming), and so is my ability to get any photos off my camera. *Panic.* Breathe. *Attack.* Breathe. Aaagghh!

Every time I asked Grant if he knew where the "cool computer toy thing" was, he smiled and said, "Uh huh!"

"Go find it, Grant! Come on, show me where it is." I think we went on fifteen, nope sixteen, wild goose hunts -- which, by the way, Grant thought was so much fun -- and turned up empty-handed every time.

I knew in my heart that the card reader was only a temporary solution, but couldn't it have just lasted a few more years? I guess I'm going to have to get my camera fixed after all.

Nicole's New Favorite Thing To Do

Whenever I have spare fabric, Nicole begs me to make her a purse. In this case, the fabric was left over from Nicole's curtains, and instead of making them myself, I decided to go about things the long way.

As you know, Nicole is nearly six years old, and hence, mature enough to sew her own purse, methought. As predicted, Nicole took the matter most seriously, but still managed to have enough fun to mutter, "Mom, sewing is my new favorite thing to do!"She's very conscientious about keeping the fabric straight, and can finagle the whole operation solo, even the pedal (which rests on a gun case to boost the height).

Today she took it upon herself to sew curtains for her Polly Pocket doll house (we made it out of cardboard boxes -- if it lasts, you might be treated to a photo or two), and didn't need my help at all. She remembered all of the steps (even the backstitching), and looked like an old pro sitting at the machine.

I hope she always enjoys sewing as much as she does right now.

When You Grow Up with a Big Sister ...

... you might get caught with Barbie in your hands.
And you might even get caught having fun.But at least you won't get beat up for playing with Barbie ... yet.